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11179	----	SEEING EUROPE WITH FAMOUS AUTHORS EDITED BY FRANCIS W. HALSEY CONTENTS OF VOLUME VI Germany, Austria-Hungary and Switzerland Part Two VI. HUNGARY--(_Continued_) HUNGARIAN BATHS AND RESORTS--By H. Tornai de Kövër THE GIPSIES--By H. Tornai de Kövër VII. AUSTRIA'S ADRIATIC PORTS TRIESTE AND POLA--By Edward A. Freeman SPALATO--By Edward A. Freeman RAGUSA--By Harry De Windt CATTARO--By Edward A. Freeman VIII. OTHER AUSTRIAN SCENES CRACOW--By Mènie Muriel Dowie ON THE ROAD TO PRAGUE--By Bayard Taylor THE CAVE OF ADELSBERG--By George Stillman Hillard THE MONASTERY OF MÖLK--By Thomas Frognall Dibdin THROUGH THE TYROL--By William Cullen Bryant IN THE DOLOMITES--By Archibald Campbell Knowles CORTINA--By Amelia B. Edwards IX. ALPINE RESORTS THE CALL OF THE MOUNTAINS--By Frederick Harrison INTERLAKEN AND THE JUNGFRAU--By Archibald Campbell Knowles THE ALTDORF OF WILLIAM TELL--By W.D. M'Crackan LUCERNE--By Victor Tissot ZURICH--By W.D. M'Crackan THE RIGI--By W.D. M'Crackan CHAMOUNI--AN AVALANCHE--By Percy Bysshe Shelley ZERMATT--By Archibald Campbell Knowles PONTRESINA AND ST. MORITZ--By Victor Tissot GENEVA--By Francis H. Gribble THE CASTLE OF CHILLON--By Harriet Beecher Stowe BY RAIL UP THE GORNER-GRAT--By Archibald Campbell Knowles THROUGH THE ST. GOTHARD INTO ITALY--By Victor Tissot X. ALPINE MOUNTAIN CLIMBING FIRST ATTEMPTS HALF A CENTURY AGO--By Edward Whymper FIRST TO THE TOP O THE MATTERHORN--By Edward Whymper THE LORD FRANCIS DOUGLAS TRAGEDY--By Edward Whymper AN ASCENT OF MONTE ROSA (1858)--By John Tyndall MONT BLANC ASCENDED, HUXLEY GOING PART WAY--By John Tyndall THE JUNGFRAU-JOCH--By Sir Leslie Stephen XI. OTHER ALPINE TOPICS THE GREAT ST. BERNARD HOSPICE--By Archibald Campbell Knowles AVALANCHES--By Victor Tissot HUNTING THE CHAMOIS--By Victor Tissot THE CELEBRITIES OF GENEVA--By Francis H. Gribble LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS VOLUME VI Frontispiece THE MATTERHORN KURSAAL AT MARIENBAD MARIENBAD, AUSTRIA MONASTERY OF ST. ULRIC AND AFRA, AUGSBURG MONASTERY OF MÖLK ON THE DANUBE ABOVE VIENNA MEMORIAL TABLET AND ROAD IN THE IRON GATE OF THE DANUBE QUAY AT FIUME ROYAL PALACE IN BUDAPEST HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT, BUDAPEST SUSPENSION BRIDGE OVER THE DANUBE AT BUDAPEST STREET IN BUDAPEST CATHEDRAL OF SPALATO REGUSA, DALMATIA MIRAMAR GENEVA REGATTA DAY ON LAKE GENEVA VITZNAU, THE LAKE TERMINUS OF THE RIGI RAILROAD RHINE FALLS NEAR SCHAFFHAUSEN PONTRESINA IN THE ENGADINE ST. MORITZ IN THE ENGADINE FRIBOURG BERNE VIVEY, LAKE GENEVA THE TURNHALLE, ZURICH INTERLAKEN LUCERNE VIADUCTS ON AN ALPINE RAILWAY THE WOLFORT VIADUCT BALMAT--SAUSSURE MONUMENT IN CHAMONIX ROOFED WOODEN BRIDGE AT LUCERNE THE CASTLE OF CHILLON CLOUD EFFECT ABOVE INTERLAKEN DAVOS IN WINTER [Illustration: THE KURSAL AT MARIENBAD] [Illustration: MARIENBAD, AUSTRIA] [Illustration: THE MONASTERY OF ST. ULRIC AND AFRA, AT AUGSBURG IN BAVARIA] [Illustration: THE MONASTERY OF MÖLK ON THE DANUBE ABOVE VIENNA] [Illustration: MEMORIAL TABLET AND ROAD IN THE IRON GATE OF THE DANUBE] [Illustration: THE QUAY OF THE FIUME AT THE HEAD OF THE ADRIATIC] [Illustration: THE ROYAL PALACE AT BUDAPEST] [Illustration: THE HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT AT BUDAPEST] [Illustration: THE SUSPENSION BRIDGE OVER THE DANUBE AT BUDAPEST] [Illustration: STREET IN BUDAPEST] [Illustration: THE CATHEDRAL OF SPALATO Burial-place of the Emperor Diocletian] [Illustration: REGUSA, DALMATIA] [Illustration: MIRAMAR Long the home of the ex-Empress Carlotta of Mexico] [Illustration: GENEVA] [Illustration: REGATTA DAY ON LAKE GENEVA] [Illustration: VITZNAU, THE LAKE TERMINUS OF THE RIGI RAILROAD] [Illustration: THE RHINE FALLS NEAR SCHAFFHAUSEN] VI HUNGARY (_Continued_) HUNGARIAN BATHS AND RESORTS[1] BY H. TORNAI DE KÖVËR In Hungary there are great quantities of unearthed riches, and not only in the form of gold. These riches are the mineral waters that abound in the country and have been the natural medicine of the people for many years. Water in itself was always worshiped by the Hungarians in the earliest ages, and they have found out through experience for which ailment the different waters may be used. There are numbers of small watering-places in the most primitive state, which are visited by the peasants from far and wide, more especially those that are good for rheumatism. Like all people that work much in the open, the Hungarian in old age feels the aching of his limbs. The Carpathians are full of such baths, some of them quite primitive; others are used more as summer resorts, where the well-to-do town people build their villas; others, again, like Tátra Füred, Tátra Lomnicz, Csorba, and many others, have every accommodation and are visited by people from all over Europe. In former times Germans and Poles were the chief visitors, but now people come from all parts to look at the wonderful ice-caves (where one can skate in the hottest summer), the waterfalls, and the great pine forests, and make walking, driving, and riding tours right up to the snow-capped mountains, preferring the comparative quiet of this Alpine district to that of Switzerland. Almost every place has some special mineral water, and among the greatest wonders of Hungary are the hot mud-baths of Pöstyén. This place is situated at the foot of the lesser Carpathians, and is easily reached from the main line of the railway. The scenery is lovely and the air healthy, but this is nothing compared to the wondrous waters and hot mire which oozes out of the earth in the vicinity of the river Vág. Hot sulfuric water, which contains radium, bubbles up in all parts of Pöstyén, and even the bed of the cold river is full of steaming hot mud. As far back as 1551 we know of the existence of Pöstyén as a natural cure, and Sir Spencer Wells, the great English doctor, wrote about these waters in 1888. They are chiefly good for rheumatism, gout, neuralgia, the strengthening of broken bones, strains, and also for scrofula. On the premises there is a quaint museum with crutches and all sort of sticks and invalid chairs left there by their former owners in grateful acknowledgment of the wonderful waters and mire that had healed them. Of late there has been much comfort added; great new baths have been built, villas and new hotels added, so that there is accommodation for rich and poor alike. The natural heat of the mire is 140 degrees Fahrenheit. Plenty of amusements are supplied for those who are not great sufferers--tennis, shooting, fishing, boating, and swimming being all obtainable. The bathing-place and all the adjoining land belongs to Count Erdödy. Another place of the greatest importance is the little bath "Parád," hardly three hours from Budapest, situated in the heart of the mountains of the "Mátra." It is the private property of Count Kárólyi. The place is primitive and has not even electric light. Its waters are a wonderful combination of iron and alkaline, but this is not the most important feature. Besides the baths there is a strong spring of arsenic water which, through a fortunate combination, is stronger and more digestible than Roncegno and all the other first-rate waters of that kind in the world. Not only in northern Hungary does one find wondrous cures, it is the same in Transylvania. There are healing and splendid mineral waters for common use all over the country lying idle and awaiting the days when its owners will be possest by the spirit of enterprise. Borszek, Szováta, and many others are all wonders in their way, waters that would bring in millions to their owners if only worked properly. Szováta, boasts of a lake containing such an enormous proportion of salt that not even the human body can sink into its depths. In the south there is Herkulesfürdö, renowned as much for the beauty of its scenery as for its waters. Besides those mentioned there are all the summer pleasure resorts; the best of these are situated along Lake Balaton. The tepid water, long sandbanks, and splendid air from the forests make them specially healthy for delicate children. But not only have the bathing-places beautiful scenery from north to south and from east to west, in general the country abounds in Alpine districts, waterfalls, caves, and other wonders of nature. The most beautiful tour is along the river Vág, starting from the most northerly point in Hungary near the beautiful old stronghold of Árva in the county of Árva. All those that care to see a country as it really is, and do not mind going out of the usual beaten track of the globe-trotter, should go down the river Vág. It can not be done by steamer, or any other comfortable contrivance, one must do it on a raft, as the rapids of the river are not to be passed by any other means. The wood is transported in this way from the mountain regions to the south, and for two days one passes through the most beautiful scenery. Fantastic castles loom at the top of mountain peaks, and to each castle is attached a page of the history of the Middle Ages, when the great noblemen were also the greatest robbers of the land, and the people were miserable serfs, who did all the work and were taxed and robbed by their masters. Castles, wild mountain districts, rugged passes, villages, and ruins are passed like a beautiful panorama. The river rushes along, foaming and dashing over sharp rocks. The people are reliable and very clever in handling the raft, which requires great skill, especially when conducted over the falls at low water. Sometimes there is only one little spot where the raft can pass, and to conduct it over those rapids requires absolute knowledge of every rock hidden under the shallow falls. If notice is given in time, a rude hut will be built on the raft to give shelter and make it possible to have meals cooked, altho in the simplest way (consisting of baked potatoes and stew), by the Slavs who are in charge of the raft. If anything better is wanted it must be ordered by stopping at the larger towns; but to have it done in the simple way is entering into the true spirit of the voyage. THE GIPSIES[2] BY H. TORNAI DE KÖVËR Gipsies! Music! Dancing! These are words of magic to the rich and poor, noblemen and peasant alike, if he be a true Hungarian. There are two kinds of gipsies. The wandering thief, who can not be made to take up any occupation. These are a terribly lawless and immoral people, and there seems to be no way of altering their life and habits, altho much has been written on the subject to improve matters; but the Government has shown itself to be helpless as yet. These people live here and there, in fact everywhere, leading a wandering life in carts, and camp wherever night overtakes them. After some special evil-doing they will wander into Rumania or Russia and come back after some years when the deed of crime has been forgotten. Their movements are so quick and silent that they outwit the best detectives of the police force. They speak the gipsy language, but often a half-dozen other languages besides, in their peculiar chanting voice. Their only occupation is stealing, drinking, smoking, and being a nuisance to the country in every way. The other sort of gipsies consist of those that have squatted down in the villages some hundreds of years ago. They live in a separate part of the village, usually at the end, are dirty and untidy and even an unruly people, but for the most part have taken up some honest occupation. They make the rough, unbaked earth bricks that the peasant cottages are mostly made of, are tinkers and blacksmiths, but they do the lowest kind of work too. Besides these, however, there are the talented ones. The musical gipsy begins to handle his fiddle as soon as he can toddle. The Hungarians brought their love of music with them from Asia. Old parchments have been found which denote that they had their songs and war-chants at the time of the "home-making," and church and folk-songs from their earliest Christian period. Peasant and nobleman are musical alike--it runs in the race. The gipsies that have settled among them caught up the love of music and are now the best interpreters of the Hungarian songs. The people have got so used to their "blackies," as they call them, that no lesser or greater fête day can pass without the gipsy band having ample work to do in the form of playing for the people. Their instruments are the fiddle, 'cello, viola, clarinet, tárogato (a Hungarian specialty), and, above all, the cymbal. The tárogato looks like a grand piano with the top off. It stands on four legs like a table and has wires drawn across it; on these wires the player performs with two little sticks, that are padded at the ends with cotton-wool. The sound is wild and weird, but if well played very beautiful indeed. The gipsies seldom compose music. The songs come into life mostly on the spur of the moment. In the olden days war-songs and long ballads were the most usual form of music. The seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were specially rich in the production of songs that live even now. At that time the greatest gipsy musician was a woman: her name was "Czinka Panna," and she was called the Gipsy Queen. With the change of times the songs are altered too, and now they are mostly lyric. Csárdás is the quick form of music, and tho' of different melodies it must always be kept to the same rhythm. This is not much sung to, but is the music for the national dance. The peasants play on a little wooden flute which is called the "Tilinko," or "Furulya," and they know hundreds of sad folk-songs and lively Csárdás. While living their isolated lives in the great plains they compose many a beautiful song. It is generally from the peasants and the musical country gentry that the gipsy gets his music. He learns the songs after a single hearing, and plays them exactly according to the singer's wish. The Hungarian noble when singing with the gipsies is capable of giving the dark-faced boys every penny he has. In this manner many a young nobleman has been ruined, and the gipsies make nothing of it, because they are just like their masters and "spend easily earned money easily," as the saying goes. Where there is much music there is much dancing. Every Sunday afternoon after church the villages are lively with the sound of the gipsy band, and the young peasant boys and girls dance. The Slovaks of the north play a kind of bagpipe, which reminds one of the Scotch ones; but the songs of the Slovak have got very much mixed with the Hungarian. The Rumanian music is of a distinct type, but the dances all resemble the Csárdás, with the difference that the quick figures in the Slav and Rumanian dances are much more grotesque and verging on acrobatism. VII AUSTRIA'S ADRIATIC PORTS TRIESTE AND POLA[3] BY EDWARD A. FREEMAN Trieste stands forth as a rival of Venice, which has, in a low practical view of things, outstript her. Italian zeal naturally cries for the recovery of a great city, once part of the old Italian kingdom, and whose speech is largely, perhaps chiefly, Italian to this day. But, a cry of "Italia Irredenta," however far it may go, must not go so far as this. Trieste, a cosmopolitan city on a Slavonic shore, can not be called Italian in the same sense as the lands and towns so near Verona which yearn to be as Verona is. Let Trieste be the rival, even the eyesore, of Venice, still Southern Germany must have a mouth. We might, indeed, be better pleased to see Trieste a free city, the southern fellow of Lübeck, Bremen and Hamburg; but it must not be forgotten that the Archduke of Austria and Lord of Trieste reigns at Trieste by a far better right than that by which he reigns at Cattaro and Spizza. The present people of Trieste did not choose him, but the people of Trieste five hundred years back did choose the forefather of his great-grandmother. Compared with the grounds of which kingdoms, duchies, counties, and lordships, are commonly held in that neighborhood, such a claim as this must be allowed to be respectable indeed. The great haven of Trieste may almost at pleasure be quoted as either confirming or contradicting the rule that it is not in the great commercial cities of Europe that we are to look for the choicest or the most plentiful remains of antiquity. Sometimes the cities themselves are of modern foundation; in other cases the cities themselves, as habitations of men and seats of commerce, are of the hoariest antiquity, but the remains of their early days have perished through their very prosperity. Massalia,[4] with her long history, with her double wreath of freedom, the city which withstood Cæsar and which withstood Charles of Anjou, is bare of monuments of her early days. She has been the victim of her abiding good fortune. We can look down from the height on the Phôkaian harbor; but for actual memorials of the men who fled from the Persian, of the men who defied the Roman and the Angevin, we might look as well at Liverpool or at Havre. Genoa, Venice herself, are hardly real exceptions; they were indeed commercial cities, but they were ruling cities also, and, as ruling cities, they reared monuments which could hardly pass away. What are we to say to the modern rival of Venice, the upstart rebel, one is tempted to say, against the supremacy of the Hadriatic Queen? Trieste, at the head of her gulf, with the hills looking down to her haven, with the snowy mountains which seem to guard the approach from the other side of her inland sea, with her harbor full of the ships of every nation, her streets echoing with every tongue, is she to be reckoned as an example of the rule or an exception to it? No city at first sight seems more thoroughly modern; old town and new, wide streets and narrow, we search them in vain for any of those vestiges of past times which in some cities meet us at every step. Compare Trieste with Ancona;[5] we miss the arch of Trajan on the haven; we miss the cupola of Saint Cyriacus soaring in triumph above the triumphal monument of the heathen. We pass through the stately streets of the newer town, we thread the steep ascents which lead us to the older town above, and we nowhere light on any of those little scraps of ornamental architecture, a window, a doorway, a column, which meet us at every step in so many of the cities of Italy. Yet the monumental wealth of Trieste is all but equal to the monumental wealth of Ancona. At Ancona we have the cathedral church and the triumphal arch; so we have at Trieste; tho' at Trieste we have nothing to set against the grand front of the lower and smaller church of Ancona. But at Ancona arch and duomo both stand out before all eyes; at Trieste both have to be looked for. The church of Saint Justus at Trieste crowns the hill as well as the church of Saint Cyriacus at Ancona; but it does not in the same way proclaim its presence. The castle, with its ugly modern fortifications, rises again above the church; and the duomo of Trieste, with its shapeless outline and its low, heavy, unsightly campanile, does not catch the eyes like the Greek cross and cupola of Ancona. Again at Trieste the arch could never, in its best days, have been a rival to the arch at Ancona; and now either we have to hunt it out by an effort, or else it comes upon us suddenly, standing, as it does, at the head of a mean street on the ascent to the upper town. Of a truth it can not compete with Ancona or with Rimini, with Orange[6] or with Aosta. But the duomo, utterly unsightly as it is in a general view, puts on quite a new character when we first see the remains of pagan times imprisoned in the lower stage of the heavy campanile, still more so when we take our first glance of its wonderful interior. At the first glimpse we see that here there is a mystery to be unraveled; and as we gradually find the clue to the marvelous changes which it has undergone, we feel that outside show is not everything, and that, in point both of antiquity and of interest, tho' not of actual beauty, the double basilica of Trieste may claim no mean place among buildings of its own type. Even after the glories of Rome and Ravenna, the Tergestine church may be studied with no small pleasure and profit, as an example of a kind of transformation of which neither Rome nor Ravenna can supply another example.... The other ancient relic at Trieste is the small triumphal arch. On one side it keeps its Corinthian pilasters; on the other they are imbedded in a house. The arch is in a certain sense double; but the two are close together, and touch in the keystone. The Roman date of this arch can not be doubted; but legends connect it both with Charles the Great and with Richard of Poitou and of England, a prince about whom Tergestine fancy has been very busy. The popular name of the arch is Arco Riccardo. Such, beside some fragments in the museum, are all the remains that the antiquary will find in Trieste; not much in point of number, but, in the case of the duomo at least, of surpassing interest in their own way. But the true merit of Trieste is not in anything that it has itself, its church, its arch, its noble site. Placed there at the head of the gulf, on the borders of two great portions of the Empire, it leads to the land which produced that line of famous Illyrian Emperors who for a while checked the advance of our own race in the world's history, and it leads specially to the chosen home of the greatest among them.[7] The chief glory of Trieste, after all, is that it is the way to Spalato.... At Pola the monuments of Pietas Julia claim the first place; the basilica, tho' not without a certain special interest, comes long after them. The character of the place is fixt by the first sight of it; we see the present and we see the more distant past; the Austrian navy is to be seen, and the amphitheater is to be seen. But intermediate times have little to show; if the duomo strikes the eye at all, it strikes it only by the extreme ugliness of its outside, nor is there anything very taking, nothing like the picturesque castle of Pirano, in the works which occupy the site of the colonial capitol. The duomo should not be forgotten; even the church of Saint Francis is worth a glance; but it is in the remains of the Roman colony, in the amphitheater, the arches, the temples, the fragments preserved in that temple which serves, as at Nîmes,[8] for a museum, that the real antiquarian wealth of Pola lies.... The known history of Pola begins with the Roman conquest of Istria in 178 B.C. The town became a Roman colony and a flourishing seat of commerce. Its action on the republican side in the civil war brought on it the vengeance of the second Cæsar. But the destroyer became the restorer, and Pietas Julia, in the height of its greatness, far surpassed the extent either of the elder or the younger Pola. Like all cities of this region, Pola kept up its importance down to the days of the Carlovingian Empire, the specially flourishing time of the whole district being that of Gothic and Byzantine dominion at Ravenna. A barbarian king, the Roxolan Rasparasanus, is said to have withdrawn to Pola after the submission of his nation to Hadrian; and the panegyrists of the Flavian house rank Pola along with Trier and Autun among the cities which the princes of that house had adorned or strengthened. But in the history of their dynasty the name of the city chiefly stands out as the chosen place for the execution of princes whom it was convenient to put out of the way. Here Crispus died at the bidding of Constantine, and Gallus at the bidding of Constantius. Under Theodoric, Pola doubtless shared that general prosperity of the Istrian land on which Cassiodorus grows eloquent when writing to its inhabitants. In the next generation Pola appears in somewhat of the same character which has come back to it in our own times; it was there that Belisarius gathered the Imperial fleet for his second and less prosperous expedition against the Gothic lords of Italy. But, after the break up of the Frankish Empire, the history of medieval Pola is but a history of decline. It was, in the geography of Dante, the furthest city of Italy; but, like most of the other cities of its own neighborhood, its day of greatness had passed away when Dante sang. Tossed to and fro between the temporal and spiritual lords who claimed to be marquesses of Istria, torn by the dissensions of aristocratic and popular parties among its own citizens, Pola found rest, the rest of bondage, in submission to the dominion of Saint Mark in 1331.[9] Since then, till its new birth in our own times, Pola has been a failing city. Like the other Istrian and Dalmatian towns, modern revolutions have handed it over from Venice to Austria, from Austria to France, from France to Austria again. It is under its newest masters that Pola has at last begun to live a fresh life, and the haven whence Belisarius[10] sailed forth has again become a haven in more than name, the cradle of the rising navy of the united Austrian and Hungarian realm. That haven is indeed a noble one. Few sights are more striking than to see the huge mass of the amphitheater at Pola seeming to rise at once out of the land-locked sea. As Pola is seen now, the amphitheater is the one monument of its older days, which strikes the eye in the general view, and which divides attention with signs that show how heartily the once forsaken city has entered on its new career. But in the old time Pola could show all the buildings which befitted its rank as a colony of Rome. The amphitheater, of course, stood without the walls; the city itself stood at the foot and on the slope of the hill which was crowned by the capitol of the colony, where the modern fortress rises above the Franciscan church. Parts of the Roman wall still stand; one of its gates is left; another has left a neighbor and a memory.... Travelers are sometimes apt to complain, and that not wholly without reason, that all amphitheaters are very like one another. At Pola this remark is less true than elsewhere, as the amphitheater there has several marked peculiarities of its own. We do not pretend to expound all its details scientifically; but this we may say, that those who dispute--if the dispute still goes on--about various points as regards the Coliseum at Rome will do well to go and look for some further light in the amphitheater of Pola. The outer range, which is wonderfully perfect, while the inner arrangements are fearfully ruined, consists, on the side toward the town, of two rows of arches, with a third story with square-headed openings above them. But the main peculiarity in the outside is to be found in four tower-like projections, not, as at Arles and Nîmes, signs of Saracenic occupation, but clearly parts of the original design. Many conjectures have been made about them; they look as if they were means of approach to the upper part of the building; but it is wisest not to be positive. But the main peculiarity of this amphitheater is that it lies on the slope of a hill, which thus supplied a natural basement for the seats on one side only. But this same position swallowed up the lower arcade on this side, and it hindered the usual works underneath the seats from being carried into this part of the building. SPALATO[11] BY EDWARD A. FREEMAN The main object and center of all historical and architectural inquiries on the Dalmatian coast is, of course, the home of Diocletian, the still abiding palace of Spalato. From a local point of view, it is the spot which the greatest of the long line of renowned Illyrian Emperors chose as his resting-place from the toils of warfare and government, and where he reared the vastest and noblest dwelling that ever arose at the bidding of a single man. From an ecumenical point of view, Spalato is yet more. If it does not rank with Rome, Old and New, with Ravenna and with Trier, it is because it never was, like them, an actual seat of empire. But it not the less marks a stage, and one of the greatest stages, in the history of the Empire. On his own Dalmatian soil, Docles of Salone, Diocletian of Rome, was the man who had won fame for his own land, and who, on the throne of the world, did not forget his provincial birthplace. In the sight of Rome and of the world Jovius Augustus was more than this. Alike in the history of politics and in the history of art, he has left his mark on all time that has come after him, and it is on his own Spalato that his mark has been most deeply stamped. The polity of Rome and the architecture of Rome alike received a new life at his hands. In each alike he cast away shams and pretenses, and made the true construction of the fabric stand out before men's eyes. Master of the Rome world, if not King, yet more than King, he let the true nature of his power be seen, and, first among the Cæsars, arrayed himself with the outward pomp of sovereignty. In a smaller man we might have deemed the change a mark of weakness, a sign of childish delight in gewgaws, titles, and trappings. Such could hardly have been the motive in the man who, when he deemed that his work was done, could cast away both the form and the substance of power, and could so steadily withstand all temptations to take them up again. It was simply that the change was fully wrought; that the chief magistrate of the commonwealth had gradually changed into the sovereign of the Empire; that Imperator, Cæsar, and Augustus, once titles lowlier than that of King, had now become, as they have ever since remained, titles far loftier. The change was wrought, and all that Diocletian did was to announce the fact of the change to the world. Nor did the organizing hand of Jovius confine its sphere to the polity of the Empire only. He built himself a house, and, above all builders, he might boast himself of the house that he had builded. Fast by his own birthplace--a meaner soul might have chosen some distant spot--Diocletian reared the palace which marks a still greater epoch in Roman art than his political changes mark in Roman polity. On the inmost shore of one of the lake-like inlets of the Hadriatic, an inlet guarded almost from sight by the great island of Bua at its mouth, lay his own Salona, now desolate, then one of the great cities of the Roman world. But it was not in the city, it was not close under its walls, that Diocletian fixt his home. An isthmus between the bay of Salona and the outer sea cuts off a peninsula, which again throws out two horns into the water to form the harbor which has for ages supplanted Salona. There, not on any hill-top, but on a level spot by the coast, with the sea in front, with a background of more distant mountains, and with one peaked hill rising between the two seas like a watch-tower, did Diocletian build the house to which he withdrew when he deemed that his work of empire was over. And in building that house, he won for himself, or for the nameless genius whom he set at work, a place in the history of art worthy to rank alongside of Iktinos of Athens and Anthemios of Byzantium, of William of Durham and of Hugh of Lincoln. And now the birthplace of Jovius is forsaken, but his house still abides, and abides in a shape marvelously little shorn of its ancient greatness. The name which it still bears comes straight from the name of the elder home of the Cæsars. The fates of the two spots have been in a strange way the converse of one another. By the banks of the Tiber the city of Romulus became the house of a single man: by the shores of the Hadriatic the house of a single man became a city. The Palatine hill became the Palatium of the Cæsars, and Palatium was the name which was borne by the house of Cæsar by the Dalmatian shore. The house became a city; but its name still clave to it, and the house of Jovius still, at least in the mouths of its own inhabitants, keeps its name in the slightly altered form of Spalato.... We land with the moon lighting up the water, with the stars above us, the northern wain shining on the Hadriatic, as if, while Diocletian was seeking rest by Salona, the star of Constantine was rising over York and Trier. Dimly rising above us we see, disfigured indeed, but not destroyed, the pillared front of the palace, reminding us of the Tabularium of Rome's own capitol. We pass under gloomy arches, through dark passages and presently we find ourselves in the center of palace and city, between those two renowned rows of arches which mark the greatest of all epochs in the history of the building art. We think how the man who reorganized the Empire of Rome was also the man who first put harmony and consistency into the architecture of Rome. We think that, if it was in truth the crown of Diocletian which passed to every Cæsar from the first Constantius to the last Francis, it was no less in the pile which rose into being at his word that the germ was planted which grew into Pisa and Durham, into Westminster and Saint Ouen. There is light enough to mark the columns put for the first time to their true Roman use, and to think how strange was the fate which called up on this spot the happy arrangement which had entered the brain of no earlier artist--the arrangement which, but a few years later, was to be applied to another use in the basilica of the Lateran and in Saint Paul Without the Walls. Yes, it is in the court of the persecutor, the man who boasted that he had wiped out the Christian superstition from the world, that we see the noblest forestalling of the long arcades of the Christian basilica. It is with thoughts like these, thoughts pressing all the more upon us where every outline is clear and every detail is visible, that we tread for the first time the Court of Jovius--the columns with their arches on either side of us, the vast bell-tower rising to the sky, as if to mock the art of those whose mightiest works might still seem only to grovel upon earth. Nowhere within the compass of the Roman world do we find ourselves more distinctly in the presence of one of the great minds of the world's history; we see that, alike in politics and in art, Diocletian breathed a living soul into a lifeless body. In the bitter irony of the triumphant faith, his mausoleum has become a church, his temple has become a baptistery, the great bell-tower rises proudly over his own work; his immediate dwelling-place is broken down and crowded with paltry houses; but the sea-front and the Golden Gate are still there amid all disfigurements, and the great peristyle stands almost unhurt, to remind us of the greatest advance that a single mind ever made in the progress of the building art. At the present time the city into which the house of Diocletian has grown is the largest and most growing town of the Dalmatian coast. It has had to yield both spiritual and temporal precedence to Zara, but, both in actual population and all that forms the life of a city, Spalato greatly surpasses Zara and all its other neighbors. The youngest Dalmatian towns, which could boast neither of any mythical origin nor of any Imperial foundation, the city which, as it were, became a city by mere chance, has outstript the colonies of Epidauros, of Corinth, and of Rome. The palace of Diocletian had but one occupant; after the founder no Emperor had dwelled in it, unless we hold that this was the villa near Salona where the deposed Emperor Nepos was slain, during the patriciate of Odoacer. The forsaken palace seems, while still almost new, to have become a cloth factory, where women worked, and which therefore appears in the "Notitia" as a Gynæcium. But when Salona was overthrown, the palace stood ready to afford shelter to those who were driven from their homes. The palace, in the widest sense of the word--for of course its vast circuit took in quarters for soldiers and officials of various kinds, as well as the rooms actually occupied by the Emperor--stood ready to become a city. It was a chester ready made, with its four streets, its four gates, all but that toward the sea flanked with octagonal towers, and with four greater square towers at the corners. To this day the circuit of the walls is nearly perfect; and the space contained within them must be as large as that contained within some of the oldest chesters in our own island. The walls, the towers, the gates, are those of a city rather than of a house. Two of the gates, tho' their towers are gone, are nearly perfect; the "porta aurea," with its graceful ornaments; the "porta ferrea" in its stern plainness, strangely crowned with its small campanile of later days perched on its top. Within the walls, besides the splendid buildings which still remain, besides the broken-down walls and chambers which formed the immediate dwelling-place of the founder, the main streets were lined with massive arcades, large parts of which still remain. Diocletian, in short, in building a house, had built a city. In the days of Constantine Porphyrogenitus it was a "Káotpov"--Greek and English had by his day alike borrowed the Latin name; but it was a "Káotpov" which Diocletian had built as his own house, and within which was his hall and palace. In his day the city bore the name of Aspalathon, which he explains to mean "little palace." When the palace had thus become a common habitation of men, it is not wonderful that all the more private buildings whose use had passed away were broken down, disfigured, and put to mean uses. The work of building over the site must have gone on from that day to this. The view in Wheeler shows several parts of the enclosure occupied by ruins which are now covered with houses. The real wonder is that so much has been spared and has survived to our own days. And we are rather surprised to find Constantine saying that in his time the greater part had been destroyed. For the parts which must always have been the stateliest remain still. The great open court, the peristyle, with its arcades, have become the public plaza of the town; the mausoleum on one side of it and the temple on the other were preserved and put to Christian uses. We say the mausoleum, for we fully accept the suggestion made by Professor Glavinich, the curator of the museum of Spalato, that the present duomo, traditionally called the Temple of Jupiter, was not a temple, but a mausoleum. These must have been the great public buildings of the palace, and, with the addition of the bell-tower, they remain the chief public buildings of the modern city. But, tho' the ancient square of the palace remains wonderfully perfect, the modern city, with its Venetian defenses, its Venetian and later buildings, has spread itself far beyond the walls of Diocletian. But those walls have made the history of Spalato, and it is the great buildings which stand within them that give Spalato its special place in the history of architecture. RAGUSA[12] BY HARRY DE WINDT Viewed from the sea, and at first sight, the place somewhat resembles Monte Carlo with its white villas, palms, and background of rugged, gray hills. But this is the modern portion of the town, outside the fortifications, erected many centuries ago. Within them lies the real Ragusa--a wonderful old city which teems with interest, for its time-worn buildings and picturesque streets recall, at every turn, the faded glories of this "South Slavonic Athens." A bridge across the moat which protects the old city is the link between the present and past. In new Ragusa you may sit on the crowded esplanade of a fashionable watering place; but pass through a frowning archway into the old town, and, save in the main street, which has modern shops and other up-to-date surroundings, you might be living in the dark ages. For as far back as in the ninth century Ragusa was the capital of Dalmatia and an independent republic, and since that period her literary and commercial triumphs, and the tragedies she has survived in the shape of sieges, earthquakes, and pestilence, render the records of this little-known state almost as engrossing as those of ancient Rome. Until I came here I had pictured a squalid Eastern place, devoid of ancient or modern interest; most of my fellow-countrymen probably do likewise, notwithstanding the fact that when London was a small and obscure town Ragusa was already an important center of commerce and civilization. The republic was always a peaceful one, and its people excelled in trade and the fine arts. Thus, as early as the fourteenth century the Ragusan fleet was the envy of the world; its vessels were then known as Argusas to British mariners, and the English word "Argosy" is probably derived from the name. These tiny ships went far afield--to the Levant and Northern Europe, and even to the Indies--a voyage frought, in those days, with much peril. At this epoch Ragusa had achieved a mercantile prosperity unequalled throughout Europe, but in later years the greater part of the fleet joined and perished with the Spanish Armada. And this catastrophe was the precursor of a series of national disasters. In 1667 the city was laid waste by an earthquake which killed over twenty thousand people, and this was followed by a terrible visitation of the plague, which further decimated the population. Ragusa, however, was never a large city, and even at its zenith, in the sixteenth century, it numbered under forty thousand souls, and now contains only about a third of that number. In 1814 the Vienna Congress finally deprived the republic of its independence, and it became (with Dalmatia) an Austrian possession. Trade has not increased here of recent years, as in Herzegovina and Bosnia. The harbor, at one time one of the most important ports in Europe, is too small and shallow for modern shipping, and the oil industry, once the backbone of the place, has sadly dwindled of late years. Ragusa itself now having no harbor worthy of the name, the traveler by sea must land at Gravosa about a mile north of the old city. Gravosa is merely a suburb of warehouses, shipping, and sailor-men, as unattractive as the London Docks, and the Hotel Petko swarmed with mosquitoes and an animal which seems to thrive and flourish throughout the Balkan States--the rat. The old Custom House is perhaps the most beautiful building in Ragusa, and is one of the few which survived the terrible earthquake of 1667. The structure bears the letters "I.H.S." over the principal entrance in commemoration of this fact. Its courtyard is a dream of beauty, and the stone galleries around it are surrounded with inscriptions of great age. Ragusa is a Slav town, but altho' the name of streets appear in Slavonic characters, Italian is also spoken on every side and the "Stradone," with its arcades and narrow precipitous alleys at right angles, is not unlike a street in Naples. The houses are built in small blocks, as a protection against earthquakes--the terror of every Ragusan (only mention the word and he will cross himself)--and here on a fine Sunday morning you may see Dalmatians, Albanians, and Herzegovinians in their gaudiest finery, while here and there a wild-eyed Montenegrin, armed to the teeth, surveys the gay scene with a scowl, of shyness rather than ill-humor. Outside the café, on the Square (where flocks of pigeons whirl around as at St. Mark's in Venice), every little table is occupied; but here the women are gowned in the latest Vienna fashions, and Austrian uniforms predominate. And the sun shines as warmly as in June (on this 25th day of March), and the cathedral bells chime a merry accompaniment to a military band; a sky of the brightest blue gladdens the eye, fragrant flowers the senses, and the traveler sips his bock or mazagran, and thanks his stars he is not spending the winter in cold, foggy England. Refreshments are served by a white-aproned garçon, and street boys are selling the "Daily Mail" and "Gil Blas," just as they are on the far-away boulevards of Paris. CATTARO[13] BY EDWARD A. FREEMAN The end of a purely Dalmatian pilgrimage will be Cattaro. He who goes further along the coast will pass into lands that have a history, past and present, which is wholly distinct from that of the coast which he has hitherto traced from Zara--we might say from Capo d'Istria--onward. We have not reached the end of the old Venetian dominion--for that we must carry our voyage to Crete and Cyprus. But we have reached the end of the nearly continuous Venetian dominion--the end of the coast which, save at two small points, was either Venetian or Regusan--the end of that territory of the two maritime commonwealths which they kept down to their fall in modern times, and in which they have been succeeded by the modern Dalmatian kingdom.... The city stands at the end of an inlet of the sea fifteen or twenty miles long, and it has mountains around it so high that it is only in fair summer weather that the sun can be seen; in winter Cattaro never enjoys his presence. There certainly is no place where it is harder to believe that the smooth waters of the narrow, lake-like inlet, with mountains on each side which it seems as if one could put out one's hand and touch, are really part of the same sea which dashes against the rocks of Ragusa. They end in a meadow-like coast which makes one think of Bourget or Trasimenus rather than of Hadria. The Dalmatian voyage is well ended by the sail along the Bocche, the loveliest piece of inland sea which can be conceived, and whose shores are as rich in curious bits of political history as they are in scenes of surpassing natural beauty. The general history of the district consists in the usual tossing to and fro between the various powers which have at different times been strong in the neighborhood. Cattaro was in the reign of Basil the Macedonian besieged and taken by Saracens, who presently went on unsuccessfully to besiege Ragusa. And, as under Byzantine rule it was taken by Saracens, so under Venetian rule it was more than once besieged by Turks. In the intermediate stages we get the usual alternations of independence and of subjection to all the neighboring powers in turn, till in 1419 Cattaro finally became Venetian. At the fall of the republic it became part of the Austrian share of the spoil. When the spoilers quarreled, it fell to France. When England, Russia, and Montenegro were allies, the city joined the land of which it naturally forms the head, and Cattaro became the Montenegrin haven and capital. When France was no longer dangerous, and the powers of Europe came together to parcel out other men's goods, Austria calmly asked for Cattaro back again, and easily got it. In the city of Cattaro the Orthodox Church is still in a minority, but it is a minority not far short of a majority. Outside its walls, the Orthodox outnumber the Catholics. In short, when we reach Cattaro, we have very little temptation to fancy ourselves in Italy or in any part of Western Christendom. We not only know, but feel, that we are on the Byzantine side of the Hadriatic; that we have, in fact, made our way into Eastern Europe. And East and West, Slav and Italian, New Rome and Old, might well struggle for the possession of the land and of the water through which we pass from Ragusa to our final goal at Cattaro. The strait leads us into a gulf; another narrow strait leads us into an inner gulf; and on an inlet again branching out of that inner gulf lies the furthest of Dalmatian cities. The lower city, Cattaro itself, seems to lie so quietly, so peacefully, as if in a world of its own from which nothing beyond the shores of its own Bocche could enter, that we are tempted to forget, not only that the spot has been the scene of so many revolutions through so many ages, but that it is even now a border city, a city on the marchland of contending powers, creeds, and races.... The city of Cattaro itself is small, standing on a narrow ledge between the gulf and the base of the mountain. It carries the features of the Dalmatian cities to what any one who has not seen Traü will call their extreme point. But, tho' the streets of Cattaro are narrow, yet they are civilized and airy-looking compared with those of Traü, and the little paved squares, as so often along this coast, suggest the memory of the ruling city. The memory of Venice is again called up by the graceful little scraps of its characteristic architecture which catch the eye ever and anon among the houses of Cattaro. The landing-place, the marina, the space between the coast and the Venetian wall, where we pass for the last time under the winged lion over the gate, has put on the air of a boulevard. But the forms and costume of Bocchesi and Montenegrins, the men of the gulf, with their arms in their girdles, no less than the men of the black mountain, banish all thought that we are anywhere but where we really are, at one of the border points of Christian and civilized Europe. If in the sons of the mountains we see the men who have in all ages held out against the invading Turk, we see in their brethren of the coast the men who, but a few years back, brought Imperial, Royal, and Apostolic Majesty to its knees ... At Cattaro the Orthodox Church is on its own ground, standing side by side on equal terms with its Latin rival, pointing to lands where the Filioque[14] is unknown and where the Bishop of the Old Rome has even been deemed an intruder. The building itself is a small Byzantine church, less Byzantine in fact in its outline than the small churches of the Byzantine type at Zara, Spalato, and Traü. The single dome rises, not from the intersection of a Greek cross, but from the middle of a single body, and, resting as it does on pointed arches, it suggests the thought of Périgueux and Angoulême. But this arrangement, which is shared by a neighboring Latin church, is well known throughout the East. The Latin duomo, which has been minutely described by Mr. Neale,[15] is of quite another type, and is by no means Dalmatian in its general look. A modern west front with two western towers does not go for much; but it reminds us that a design of the same kind was begun at Traü in better times. The inside is quite unlike anything of later Italian work. The traveler whose objects are of a more general kind turns away from this border church of Christendom as the last stage of a pilgrimage unsurpassed either for natural beauty or for historic interest. And, as he looks up at the mountain which rises almost close above the east end of the duomo of Cattaro, and thinks of the land[16] and the men to which the path over that mountain leads, he feels that, on this frontier at least, the spirit still lives which led English warriors to the side of Manuel Komnênos, and which steeled the heart of the last Constantine to die in the breach for the Roman name and the faith of Christendom. VIII OTHER AUSTRIAN SCENES CRACOW[17] BY MÉNIE MURIEL DOWIE Cracow, old, tired and dispirited, speaks and thinks only of the ruinous past. When you drive into Cracow from the station for the first time, you are breathless, smiling, and tearful all at once; in the great Ring-platz--a mass of old buildings--Cracow seems to hold out her arms to you--those long sides that open from the corner where the cab drives in. You do not have time to notice separately the row of small trees down on one side, beneath which bright-colored women-figures control their weekly market; you do not notice the sort of court-house in the middle with its red roof, cream-colored galleries and shops beneath; you do not notice the great tall church at one side of brick and stone most perfectly time-reconciled, or the houses, or the crazed paving, or the innocent little groups of cabs--you only see Cracow holding out her arms to you, and you may lean down your head and weep from pure instinctive sympathy. Suddenly a choir of trumpets breaks out into a chorale from the big church tower; the melancholy of it I shall never forget--the very melody seemed so old and tired, so worn and sweet and patient, like Cracow. Those trumpet notes have mourned in that tower for hundreds of years. It is the Hymn of Timeless Sorrow that they play, and the key to which they are attuned in Cracow's long despair. Hush! That is her voice, the old town's voice, high and sad--she is speaking to you. Dear Cracow! Never again it seems to me, shall I come so near to the deathless hidden sentiment of Poland as in those first moments. It would be no use to tell her to take heart, that there may be brighter days coming, and so forth. Lemberg may feel so, Lemberg that has the feelings of any other big new town, the strength and the determination; but Cracow's day was in the long ago, as a gay capital, a brilliant university town full of princes, of daring, of culture, of wit. She has outlived her day, and can only mourn over what has been and the times that she has seen; she may be always proud of her character, of the brave blood that has made scarlet her streets, but she can never be happy remodeled as an Austrian garrison town, and in the new Poland--the Poland whose foundation stones are laid in the hearts of her people, and that may yet be built some day--in that new Poland there will be no place for aristocratic, high-bred Cracow. During my stay in the beautiful butter-colored palace that is now a hotel, I went round the museums, galleries, and universities, most if not all of which are free to the public. It would be unfair to give the idea that Cracow has completely fallen to decay. This is not the case. Austria has erected some very handsome buildings; and a town with such fine pictures, good museums, and two universities, can not be complained of as moribund. At the same time, I can only record faithfully my impression, and that was that everything new, everything modern, was hopelessly out of tone in Cracow; progress, which, tho' desirable, may be a vulgar thing, would not suit her, and does not seem at home in her streets. About the Florian's Thor, with its round towers of old, sorrel-colored brick, and the Czartoryski Museum, there is nothing to say that the guide-book would not say better. In the museum, a tattered Polish flag of red silk, with the white eagle, a cheerful bird with curled tail, opened mouth, chirping defiantly to the left, imprest me, and a portrait of Szopen (Chopin) in fine profile when laid out dead. For amusement, there was a Paul Potter bull beside a Paul Potter willow, delightfully unconscious of a coming Paul Potter thunderstorm, and a miniature of Shakespeare which did not resemble any of the portraits of him that I am familiar with. Any amount of Turkish trappings and reminiscences of Potocki and Kosciuszko, of course. As I had no guide-book, I am quite prepared to learn that I overlooked the most important relics. In the cathedral, away up on the hill of Wawel, above the river Vistula (Wisla) I prowled about among the crypts with a curious specimen of beadledom who ran off long unintelligible histories in atrocious Viennese patois about every solemn tomb by which we stood. So far as I was concerned it might just as well have been the functionary who herds small droves of visitors in Westminster Abbey. I never listen to these people, because (i) I do not care to be informed; and (ii) since I should never remember what they said, it is useless my even letting it in at one ear. The kindly, cobwebby old person who piloted me among those wonderful kings' graves in Cracow was personally not uninteresting, indeed a fine study, and his rigmaroles brought up infallibly upon three words which I could not fail to notice: these were "silberner Sarg vergoldet" (silver coffin, gilded). It had an odd fascination for me this phrase, as I stood always waiting for it; why, I wondered, should anybody want to gild a good solid silver coffin? At the time of my first visit, the excavation necessary to form the crypt for the resting-place of Mickiewicz[18] was in progress, and I went in among the limey, dusty workmen, with their tallow candles, and looked round. In return for my gulden, the beadle gave me a few immortelles from Sobieski's tomb, and some laurel leaves from Kosciuszko's; and remembering friends at home of refinedly ghoulish tastes, I determined to preserve those poor moldering fragments for them. Most of my days and evenings I spent wandering by the Vistula and in and out of the hundred churches. My plan was to sight a spire, and then walk to the root of it, so to speak. In this manner I saw the town very well. The houses were of brick and plaster, the rich carmine-red brick that has made Cracow so beautiful. On each was a beautiful façade, and pediments in renaissance, bas-relief work of cupids, and classic figures with ribands and roses tying among them, seeming to speak, somehow, of the dead princes and the mighty aristocracy which had cost Cracow so dear. In the Jews' quarter that loud lifelong market of theirs was going forward, which required seemingly only some small basinfuls of sour Gurken and a few spoonfuls of beans of its stock-in-trade. Mingling among the Jews were the peasants, of course; the men in tightly fitting trousers of white blanket cloth, rich embroidered on the upper part and down the seams in blue and red; the women wearing pink printed muslin skirts, often with a pale blue muslin apron and a lemon-colored fine wool cloth, spotted in pink, upon the head. They manifested a great appreciation of color, but none of form, and after the free dress of the Hucal women, these people, mummied in their red tartan shawls--all hybrid Stewarts, they seemed to me--were merely bright bundles in the sunshine. In the shops in Cracow, French was nearly always the language of attack, and a good deal was spoken in the hotel. I had occasion to buy a great many things, but, according to my custom, not a photograph was among them; therefore, when I go back, I shall receive perfectly new and fresh impressions of the place, and can cherish no vague memories, encouraged by an album at home, in which the nameless cathedrals of many countries confuse themselves, and only the Coliseum at Rome stands forth, not to be contradicted or misnamed. But it became necessary to put a period to my wandering, unless I wished to find myself stranded in Vienna with "neither cross nor pile." The references to money-matters have been designedly slight throughout these pages. It is not my habit to keep accounts. I have never found that you get any money back by knowing just how you have spent it, and a conscience-pricking record of expenses is very ungrateful reading. So, when a certain beautiful evening came, I felt that I had to look upon it as my last. Being too early for the train, I bid the man drive about in the early summer dark for three-quarters of an hour. To such as do not care for precise information and statistics in foreign places, but appreciate rather atmosphere and impression, I can recommend this course. In and out among the pretty garden woods, outside the town, we drove. Buildings loomed majestically out of the night; sometimes it was the tower of an unknown church, sometimes it was the house of some forgotten family that sprang suggestively to the eye, and I was grateful that I was left to suppose the indefinite type of Austrian bureau, which occupied, in all probability, the first floor. Then we came to the river, and later, Wawel stood massed out black upon the blue, the glorious gravestone of a fallen Power. All the stars were shining, and little red-yellow lights in the castle windows were not much bigger. Above the whisper of the willows on its bank came the deep, quiet murmur of the Vistula, and every now and then, over the several towers of the solemn old palaces and the spires of the church where Poland has laid her kings, and so recently the king of the poets, the stars were dropping from their places, like sudden spiders, letting themselves down into the vast by faint yellow threads that showed a moment after the star itself was gone. Later, as I looked from the open gallery of the train that was taking me away, I could not help thinking that, just a hundred years ago, Wawel's star was shining with a light bright enough for all Europe to see; but even as the stars fell that night and left their places empty, so Wawel's star has fallen and Poland's star has fallen too. ON THE ROAD TO PRAGUE[19] BY BAYARD TAYLOR I was pleasantly disappointed on entering Bohemia. Instead of a dull, uninteresting country, as I expected, it is a land full of the most lovely scenery. There is everything which can gratify the eye--high blue mountains, valleys of the sweetest pastoral look and romantic old ruins. The very name of Bohemia is associated with wild and wonderful legends of the rude barbaric ages. Even the chivalric tales of the feudal times of Germany grow tame beside these earlier and darker histories. The fallen fortresses of the Rhine or the robber-castles of the Odenwald had not for me so exciting an interest as the shapeless ruins cumbering these lonely mountains. The civilized Saxon race was left behind; I saw around me the features and heard the language of one of those rude Slavonic tribes whose original home was on the vast steppes of Central Asia. I have rarely enjoyed traveling more than our first two days' journey toward Prague. The range of the Erzgebirge ran along on our right; the snow still lay in patches upon it, but the valleys between, with their little clusters of white cottages, were green and beautiful. About six miles before reaching Teplitz we passed Kulm, the great battlefield which in a measure decided the fate of Napoleon. He sent Vandamme with forty thousand men to attack the allies before they could unite their forces, and thus effect their complete destruction. Only the almost despairing bravery of the Russian guards under Ostermann, who held him in check till the allied troops united, prevented Napoleon's design. At the junction of the roads, where the fighting was hottest, the Austrians have erected a monument to one of their generals. Not far from it is that of Prussia, simple and tasteful. A woody hill near, with the little village of Kulm at its foot, was the station occupied by Vandamme at the commencement of the battle. There is now a beautiful chapel on its summit which can be seen far and wide. A little distance farther the Czar of Russia has erected a third monument, to the memory of the Russians who fell. Four lions rest on the base of the pedestal, and on the top of the shaft, forty-five feet high, Victory is represented as engraving the date, "Aug. 30, 1813," on a shield. The dark pine-covered mountains on the right overlook the whole field and the valley of Torlitz; Napoleon rode along their crests several days after the battle to witness the scene of his defeat. Teplitz lies in a lovely valley, several miles wide, bounded by the Bohemian mountains on one side and the Erzgebirge on the other. One straggling peak near is crowned with a picturesque ruin, at whose foot the spacious bath-buildings lie half hidden in foliage. As we went down the principal street I noticed nearly every house was a hotel; we learned afterward that in summer the usual average of visitors is five thousand.[20] The waters resemble those of the celebrated Carlsbad; they are warm and practically efficacious in rheumatism and diseases of like character. After leaving Teplitz the road turned to the east, toward a lofty mountain which we had seen the morning before. The peasants, as they passed by, saluted us with "Christ greet you!" We stopt for the night at the foot of the peak called the Milleschauer, and must have ascended nearly two thousand feet, for we had a wide view the next morning, altho' the mists and clouds hid the half of it. The weather being so unfavorable, we concluded not to ascend, and descended through green fields and orchards snowy with blossoms to Lobositz, on the Elbe. Here we reached the plains again, where everything wore the luxuriance of summer; it was a pleasant change from the dark and rough scenery we left. The road passed through Theresienstadt, the fortress of Northern Bohemia. The little city is surrounded by a double wall and moat which can be filled with water, rendering it almost impossible to be taken. In the morning we were ferried over the Moldau, and after journeying nearly all day across barren, elevated plains saw, late in the afternoon, the sixty-seven spires of Prague below. I feel out of the world in this strange, fantastic, yet beautiful, old city. We have been rambling all morning through its winding streets, stopping sometimes at a church to see the dusty tombs and shrines or to hear the fine music which accompanies the morning mass. I have seen no city yet that so forcibly reminds one of the past and makes him forget everything but the associates connected with the scenes around him. The language adds to the illusion. Three-fourths of the people in the streets speak Bohemian and many of the signs are written in the same tongue. The palace of the Bohemian kings still looks down on the city from the western heights, and their tombs stand in the cathedral of St. John. When one has climbed up the stone steps leading to the fortress, there is a glorious prospect before him. Prague with its spires and towers lies in the valleys below, through which curves the Moldau with its green islands, disappearing among the hills which enclose the city on every side. The fantastic Byzantine architecture of many of the churches and towers gives the city a peculiar Oriental appearance; it seems to have been transported from the hills of Syria.... Having found out first a few of the locations, we haunted our way with difficulty through its labyrinths, seeking out every place of note or interest. Reaching the bridge at last, we concluded to cross over and ascend to the Hradschin, the palace of the Bohemian kings. The bridge was commenced in 1357, and was one hundred and fifty years in building. That was the way the old Germans did their work, and they made a structure which will last a thousand years longer. Every pier is surmounted with groups of saints and martyrs, all so worn and timebeaten that there is little left of their beauty, if they ever had any. The most important of them--at least to Bohemians--is that of St. John Nepomuk, now considered as the patron-saint of the land. He was a priest many centuries ago [1340-1393] whom one of the kings threw from the bridge into the Moldau because he refused to reveal to him what the queen confest. The legend says the body swam for some time on the river with five stars around its head. Ascending the broad flight of steps to the Hradschin, I paused a moment to look at the scene below. A slight blue haze hung over the clustering towers, and the city looked dim through it, like a city seen in a dream. It was well that it should so appear, for not less dim and misty are the memories that haunt its walls. There was no need of a magician's wand to bid that light cloud shadow forth the forms of other times. They came uncalled for even by Fancy. Far, far back in the past I saw the warrior-princess who founded the kingly city--the renowned Libussa, whose prowess and talent inspired the women of Bohemia to rise at her death and storm the land that their sex might rule where it obeyed before. On the mountain opposite once stood the palace of the bloody Wlaska, who reigned with her Amazon band for seven years over half Bohemia. Those streets below had echoed with the fiery words of Huss, and the castle of his follower--the blind Ziska, who met and defeated the armies of the German Empire--molders on the mountains above. Many a year of war and tempest has passed over the scene. The hills around have borne the armies of Wallenstein and Frederick the Great; the war-cry of Bavaria, Sweden and Poland has echoed in the valley, and the red glare of the midnight cannon or the flames of burning palaces have often gleamed along the "blood-dyed waters" of the Moldau... On the way down again we stept into the St. Nicholas Church, which was built by the Jesuits. The interior has a rich effect, being all of brown and gold. The massive pillars are made to resemble reddish-brown marble, with gilded capitals, and the statues at the base are profusely ornamented in the same style. The music chained me there a long time. There was a grand organ, assisted by a full orchestra and large choir of singers. It was placed above, and at every sound of the priest's bell the flourish of trumpets and deep roll of the drums filled the dome with a burst of quivering sound, while the giant pipes of the organ breathed out their full harmony and the very air shook under the peal. It was like a triumphal strain. The soul became filled with thoughts of power and glory; every sense was changed into one dim, indistinct emotion of rapture which held the spirit as if spellbound. Not far from this place is the palace of Wallenstein, in the same condition as when he inhabited it. It is a plain, large building having beautiful gardens attached to it, which are open to the public. We went through the courtyard, threaded a passage with a roof of rough stalactitic rock and entered the garden, where a revolving fountain was casting up its glittering arches. THE CAVE OF ADELSBERG[21] BY GEORGE STILLMAN HILLARD The night had been passed at Adelsberg, and the morning had been agreeably occupied in exploring the wonders of its celebrated cavern. The entrance is through an opening in the side of a hill. In a few moments, after walking down a gentle descent, a sound of flowing water is heard, and the light of the torches borne by the guides gleams faintly upon a river which runs through these sunless chasms, and revisits the glimpses of day at Planina, some ten miles distant. The visitor now finds himself in a vast hall, walled and roofed by impenetrable darkness of the stream, which is crossed by a wooden bridge; and the ascent on the other side is made by a similar flight of steps. The bridge and steps are marked by a double row of lights, which present a most striking appearance as their tremulous luster struggles through the night that broods over them. Such a scene recalls Milton's sublime pictures of Pandemonium, and shows directly to the eye what effects a great imaginative painter may produce with no other colors than light and darkness. Here are the "stately height," the "ample spaces," the "arched roof," the rows of "starry lamps and blazing cressets" of Satan's hall of council; and by the excited fancy the dim distance is easily peopled with gigantic forms and filled with the "rushing of congregated wings." After this, one is led through a variety of chambers, differing in size and form, but essentially similar in character, and the attention is invited to the innumerable multitude of striking and fantastic objects which have been formed in the lapse of ages, by the mere dropping of water. Pendants hang from the roof, stalagmites grow from the floor like petrified stumps, and pillars and buttresses are disposed as oddly as in the architecture of a dream. Here, we are told to admire a bell, and there, a throne; here, a pulpit, and there, a butcher's shop; here, "the two hearts," and there, a fountain frozen into alabaster; and in every case we assent to the resemblance in the unquestioning mood of Polonius. One of the chambers, or halls, is used every year as a ball-room, for which purpose it has every requisite except an elastic floor, even to a natural dais for the orchestra. Here, with the sort of pride with which a book collector shows a Mazarin Bible or a folio Shakespeare, the guides point out a beautiful piece of limestone which hangs from the roof in folds as delicate as a Cashmere shawl, to which the resemblance is made more exact by a well-defined border of deeper color than the web. Through this translucent curtain the light shines as through a picture in porcelain, and one must be very unimpressible not to bestow the tribute of admiration which is claimed. These are the trivial details which may be remembered and described, but the general effect produced by the darkness, the silence, the vast spaces, the innumerable forms, the vaulted roofs, the pillars and galleries melting away in the gloom like the long-drawn aisles of a cathedral, may be recalled but not communicated. To see all these marvels requires much time, and I remained under ground long enough to have a new sense of the blessing of light. The first glimpse of returning day seen through the distant entrance brought with it an exhilarating sense of release, and the blue sky and cheerful sunshine were welcomed like the faces of long absent friends. A cave like that of Adelsberg--for all limestone caves are, doubtless, essentially similar in character--ought by all means to be seen if it comes in one's way, because it leaves impressions upon the mind unlike those derived from any other object. Nature stamps upon most of her operations a certain character of gravity and majesty. Order and symmetry attend upon her steps, and unity in variety is the law by which her movements are guided. But, beneath the surface of the earth, she seems a frolicsome child, or a sportive undine, who wreaths the unmanageable stone into weird and quaint forms, seemingly from no other motive than pure delight in the exercise of overflowing power. Everything is playful, airy, and fantastic; there is no spirit of soberness; no reference to any ulterior end; nothing from which food, fuel, or raiment can be extracted. These chasms have been scooped out, and these pillars have been reared, in the spirit in which the bird sings, or the kitten plays with the falling leaves. From such scenes we may safely infer that the plan of the Creator comprehends something more than material utility, that beauty is its own vindictator and interpreter, that sawmills were not the ultimate cause of mountain streams, nor wine-bottles of cork-trees. THE MONASTERY OF MÖLK[22] BY THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN We had determined upon dining at Mölk the next day. The early morning was somewhat inauspicious; but as the day advanced, it grew bright and cheerful. Some delightful glimpses of the Danube, to the left, from the more elevated parts of the road, accompanied us the whole way, till we caught the first view, beneath a bright blue sky, of the towering church and Monastery of Mölk. Conceive what you please, and yet you shall not conceive the situation of this monastery. Less elevated above the road than Chremsminster, but of a more commanding style of architecture, and of considerably greater extent, it strikes you--as the Danube winds round and washes its rocky base--as one of the noblest edifices in the world. The wooded heights of the opposite side of the Danube crown the view of this magnificent edifice, in a manner hardly to be surpassed. There is also a beautiful play of architectural lines and ornament in the front of the building, indicative of a pure Italian taste, and giving to the edifice, if not the air of towering grandeur, at least of dignified splendor.... As usual, I ordered a late dinner, intending to pay my respects to the Principal, and obtain permission to inspect the library. My late monastic visits had inspired me with confidence; and I marched up the steep sides of the hill, upon which the monastery is built, quite assured of the success of the visit I was about to pay. You must now accompany the bibliographer to the monastery. In five minutes from entering the outer gate of the first quadrangle--looking toward Vienna, and which is the more ancient part of the building--I was in conversation with the Vice-Principal and Librarian, each of us speaking Latin. I delivered the letter which I had received at Salzburg, and proceeded to the library. The view from this library is really enchanting, and put everything seen from a similar situation at Landshut and almost even at Chremsminster, out of my recollection. You look down upon the Danube, catching a fine sweep of the river, as it widens in its course toward Vienna. A man might sit, read, and gaze--in such a situation--till he fancied he had scarcely one earthly want! I now descended a small staircase, which brought me directly into the large library--forming the right wing of the building, looking up the Danube toward Lintz. I had scarcely uttered three notes of admiration, when the Abbé Strattman entered; and to my surprise and satisfaction, addrest me by name. We immediately commenced an ardent unintermitting conversation in the French language, which the Abbé speaks fluently and correctly. I now took a leisurely survey of the library; which is, beyond all doubt, the finest room of its kind which I have seen upon the Continent--not for its size, but for its style of architecture, and the materials of which it is composed. I was told that it was "the Imperial Library in miniature,"--but with this difference, let me here add, in favor of Mölk--that it looks over a magnificently wooded country, with the Danube rolling its rapid course at its base. The wainscot and shelves are walnut tree, of different shades, inlaid, or dovetailed, surmounted by gilt ornaments. The pilasters have Corinthian capitals of gilt; and the bolder or projecting parts of a gallery, which surrounds the room, are covered with the same metal. Everything is in harmony. This library may be about a hundred feet in length, by forty in width. It is sufficiently well furnished with books, of the ordinary useful class, and was once, I suspect, much richer in the bibliographical lore of the fifteenth century. On reaching the last descending step, just before entering the church, the Vice-Principal bade me look upward and view the corkscrew staircase. I did so; and to view and admire was one and the same operation of the mind. It was the most perfect and extraordinary thing of the kind which I had ever seen--the consummation, as I was told, of that particular species of art. The church is the very perfection of ecclesiastical Roman architecture; that of Chremsminster, altho' fine, being much inferior to it in loftiness and richness of decoration. The windows are fixt so as to throw their concentrated light beneath a dome, of no ordinary height, and of no ordinary elegance of decoration; but this dome is suffering from damp, and the paintings upon the ceiling will, unless repaired, be effaced in the course of a few years. The church is in the shape of a cross; and at the end of each of the transepts, is a rich altar, with statuary, in the style of art usual about a century ago. The pews--made of dark mahogany or walnut tree, much after the English fashion, but lower and more tasteful--are placed on each side of the nave, or entering; with ample space between them. They are exclusively appropriated to the tenants of the monastery. At the end of the nave, you look to the left, opposite--and observe, placed in a recess--a pulpit, which, from top to bottom, is completely covered with gold. And yet, there is nothing gaudy or tasteless, or glaringly obtrusive, in this extraordinary clerical rostrum. The whole is in the most perfect taste; and perhaps more judgment was required to manage such an ornament, or appendage--consistently with the splendid style of decoration exacted by the founder, for it was expressly the Prelate Dietmayr's wish that it should be so adorned,--than may on first consideration be supposed. In fact, the whole church is in a blaze of gold; and I was told that the gilding alone cost upward of ninety thousand florins. Upon the whole, I understood that the church of this monastery was considered as the most beautiful in Austria; and I can easily believe it to be so. THROUGH THE TYROL[23] BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT I left this most pleasing of the Italian cities (Venice), and took the road for the Tyrol. We passed through a level fertile country, formerly the territory of Venice, watered by the Piave, which ran blood in one of Bonaparte's battles. At evening we arrived at Ceneda, where our Italian poet Da Ponte[24] was born, situated just at the base of the Alps, the rocky peaks and irregular spires of which, beautifully green with the showery season, rose in the background. Ceneda seems to have something of German cleanliness about it, and the floors of a very comfortable inn at which we stopt were of wood, the first we had seen in Italy, tho' common throughout Tyrol and the rest of Germany. A troop of barelegged boys, just broke loose from school, whooping and swinging their books and slates in the air, passed under my window. On leaving Ceneda, we entered a pass in the mountains, the gorge of which was occupied by the ancient town of Serravalle, resting on arcades, the architecture of which denoted that it was built during the Middle Ages. Near it I remarked an old castle, which formerly commanded the pass, one of the finest ruins of the kind I had ever seen. It had a considerable extent of battlemented wall in perfect preservation, and both that and its circular tower were so luxuriantly loaded with ivy that they seemed almost to have been cut out of the living verdure. As we proceeded we became aware how worthy this region was to be the birthplace of a poet. A rapid stream, a branch of the Piave, tinged of a light and somewhat turbid blue by the soil of the mountains, came tumbling and roaring down the narrow valley; perpendicular precipices rose on each side; and beyond, the gigantic brotherhood of the Alps, in two long files of steep pointed summits, divided by deep ravines, stretched away in the sunshine to the northeast. In the face of one of the precipices by the way-side, a marble slab is fixt, informing the traveler that the road was opened by the late Emperor of Germany in the year of 1830. We followed this romantic valley for a considerable distance, passing several little blue lakes lying in their granite basins, one of which is called the "Lago Morto" or Dead Lake, from having no outlet for its waters. At length we began to ascend, by a winding road, the steep sides of the Alps--the prospect enlarging as we went, the mountain summits rising to sight around us, one behind another, some of them white with snow, over which the wind blew with a wintry keenness--deep valleys opening below us, and gulfs yawning between rocks over which old bridges were thrown--and solemn fir forests clothing the broad declivities. The farm-houses placed on these heights, instead of being of brick or stone, as in the plains and valleys below, were principally built of wood; the second story, which served for a barn, being encircled by a long gallery, and covered with a projecting roof of plank held down with large stones. We stopt at Venas, a wretched place with a wretched inn, the hostess of which showed us a chin swollen with the goitre, and ushered us into dirty comfortless rooms where we passed the night. When we awoke the rain was beating against the windows, and, on looking out, the forest and sides of the neighboring mountains, at a little height above us, appeared hoary with snow. We set out in the rain, but had not proceeded far before we heard the sleet striking against the windows of the carriage, and soon came to where the snow covered the ground to the depth of one or two inches. Continuing to ascend, we passed out of Italy and entered the Tyrol. The storm had ceased before we went through the first Tyrolese village, and we could not help being struck with the change in the appearance of the inhabitants--the different costume, the less erect figures, the awkward gait, the lighter complexions, the neatly-kept inhabitations, and the absence of beggars. As we advanced, the clouds began to roll off from the landscape, disclosing here and there, through openings in their broad skirts as they swept along, glimpses of the profound valleys below us, and of the white sides and summits of mountains in the mid-sky above. At length the sun appeared, and revealed a prospect of such wildness, grandeur, and splendor as I have never before seen. Lofty peaks of the most fantastic shapes, with deep clefts between, sharp needles of rock, and overhanging crags, infinite in multitude, shot up everywhere around us, glistening in the new-fallen snow, with thin wreaths of mist creeping along their sides. At intervals, swollen torrents, looking at a distance like long trains of foam, came thundering down the mountains, and crossing the road, plunged into the verdant valleys which winded beneath. Beside the highway were fields of young grain, prest to the ground with the snow; and in the meadows, ranunculuses of the size of roses, large yellow violets, and a thousand other Alpine flowers of the most brilliant hues, were peeping through their white covering. We stopt to breakfast at a place called Landro, a solitary inn, in the midst of this grand scenery, with a little chapel beside it. The water from the dissolving snow was dropping merrily from the roof in a bright June sun. We needed not to be told that we were in Germany, for we saw it plainly enough in the nicely-washed floor of the apartment into which we were shown, in the neat cupboard with the old prayer-book lying upon it, and in the general appearance of housewifery; to say nothing of the evidence we had in the beer and tobacco-smoke of the travelers' room, and the guttural dialect and quiet tones of the guests. From Landro we descended gradually into the beautiful valleys of the Tyrol, leaving the snow behind, tho' the white peaks of the mountains were continually in sight. At Bruneck, in an inn resplendent with neatness--we had the first specimen of a German bed. It is narrow and short, and made so high at the head, by a number of huge square bolsters and pillows, that you rather sit than lie. The principal covering is a bag of down, very properly denominated the upper bed, and between this and the feather-bed below, the traveler is expected to pass a night. An asthmatic patient on a cold winter night might perhaps find such a couch tolerably comfortable, if he could prevent the narrow covering from slipping off on one side or the other. The next day we were afforded an opportunity of observing more closely the inhabitants of this singular region, by a festival, or holiday of some sort, which brought them into the roads in great numbers, arrayed in their best dresses--the men in short jackets and small-clothes, with broad gay-colored suspenders over their waistcoats, and leathern belts ornamented with gold or silver leaf--the women in short petticoats composed of horizontal bands of different colors--and both sexes, for the most part, wearing broad-brimmed hats with hemispherical crowns, tho' there was a sugar-loaf variety much affected by the men, adorned with a band of lace and sometimes a knot of flowers. They are a robust, healthy-looking race, tho' they have an awkward stoop in the shoulders. But what struck me most forcibly was the devotional habits of the people. The Tyrolese might be cited as an illustration of the remark, that mountaineers are more habitually and profoundly religious than others. Persons of all sexes, young and old, whom we meet in the road, were repeating their prayers audibly. We passed a troop of old women, all in broad-brimmed hats and short gray petticoats, carrying long staves, one of whom held a bead-roll and gave out the prayers, to which the others made the responses in chorus. They looked at us so solemnly from under their broad brims, and marched along with so grave and deliberate a pace, that I could hardly help fancying that the wicked Austrians had caught a dozen elders of the respectable Society of Friends, and put them in petticoats to punish them for their heresy. We afterward saw persons going to the labors of the day, or returning, telling their rosaries and saying their prayers as they went, as if their devotions had been their favorite amusement. At regular intervals of about half a mile, we saw wooden crucifixes erected by the way-side, covered from the weather with little sheds, bearing the image of the Savior, crowned with thorns and frightfully dashed with streaks and drops of red paint, to represent the blood that flowed from his wounds. The outer walls of the better kind of houses were ornamented with paintings in fresco, and the subjects of these were mostly sacred, such as the Virgin and Child, the Crucifixion, and the Ascension. The number of houses of worship was surprising; I do not mean spacious or stately churches such as we meet with in Italy, but most commonly little chapels dispersed so as best to accommodate the population. Of these the smallest neighborhood has one for the morning devotions of its inhabitants, and even the solitary inn has its little consecrated building with its miniature spire, for the convenience of pious wayfarers. At Sterzing, a little village beautifully situated at the base of the mountain called the Brenner, and containing, as I should judge, not more than two or three thousand inhabitants, we counted seven churches and chapels within the compass of a square mile. The observances of the Roman Catholic church are nowhere more rigidly complied with than in the Tyrol. When we stopt at Bruneck on Friday evening, I happened to drop a word about a little meat for dinner in a conversation with the spruce-looking landlady, who appeared so shocked that I gave up the point, on the promise of some excellent and remarkably well-flavored trout from the stream that flowed through the village--a promise that was literally fulfilled.... We descended the Brenner on the 28th of June in a snow-storm, the wind whirling the light flakes in the air as it does with us in winter. It changed to rain, however, as we approached the beautiful and picturesque valley watered by the river Inn, on the banks of which stands the fine old town of Innsbruck, the capital of the Tyrol. Here we visited the Church of the Holy Cross, in which is the bronze tomb of Maxmilian I. and twenty or thirty bronze statues ranged on each side of the nave, representing fierce warrior-chiefs, and gowned prelates, and stately damsels of the middle ages. These are all curious for the costume; the warriors are cased in various kinds of ancient armor, and brandish various ancient weapons, and the robes of the females are flowing and by no means ungraceful. Almost every one of the statues has its hands and fingers in some constrained and awkward position; as if the artist knew as little what to do with them as some awkward and bashful people know what to do with their own. Such a crowd of figures in that ancient garb, occupying the floor in the midst of the living worshipers of the present day, has an effect which at first is startling. From Innsbruck we climbed and crossed another mountain-ridge, scarcely less wild and majestic in its scenery than those we had left behind. On descending, we observed that the crucifixes had disappeared from the roads, and the broad-brimmed and sugar-loaf hats from the heads of the peasantry; the men wore hats contracted in the middle of the crown like an hour-glass, and the women caps edged with a broad band of black fur, the frescoes on the outside of the houses became less frequent; in short it was apparent that we had entered a different region, even if the custom-house and police officers on the frontier had not signified to us that we were now in the kingdom of Bavaria. We passed through extensive forests of fir, here and there checkered with farms, and finally came to the broad elevated plain bathed by the Isar, in which Munich is situated. IN THE DOLOMITES[25] BY ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL KNOWLES The Dolomites are part of the Southern Tyrol. One portion is Italian, one portion is Austrian, and the rivalry of the two nations is keen. Under a warm summer sun, the quaint little villages seem half asleep, and the inhabitants appear to drift dreamily through life. Yet this is more apparent than real for, in many respects, the people here are busy in their own way. Crossing this region are many mountain ranges of limestone structure, which by water, weather and other causes have been worn away into the most fantastic fissures and clefts and the most picturesque peaks and pinnacles. A very great charm is their curious coloring, often of great beauty. The region of the Dolomites is a great contrast to the rest of the Alps. Its characteristics do not make the same appeal to all. This is largely not only a matter of individual taste and temperament but also of one's mental or spiritual constitution, for the picture with its setting depends as much upon what it suggests as upon its constituent parts. The Dolomites suggest Italy in the contour of the country, in the grace of the inhabitants and in the colors which make the scene one of rich magnificence. The great artist Titian was born here[26] and he probably learned much from his observation of his native place. Many of the mountain ranges are of the usual gray but such is the atmospheric condition that they seem to reflect the rosy rays of the setting sun or the purplish haze that often is found. The peaks are not great peaks in the sense that we speak of Mont Blanc, the Jungfrau, the Matterhorn or Monte Rosa. They impress one more as pictures with wonderful lights and strange grouping.... If the reader intends some day to visit the Dolomites he is advised to enter from the north. Salzburg and the Salzkammergut, so much frequented by the Emperor Francis Joseph and the Austrian nobility, make a good introduction. Then by way of Innsbruck, one of the gems of the Tyrol, Toblach is reached, where the driving tour may properly begin. Toblach is a lovely place, if one stops long enough to see it and enjoy it! It is not very far to Cortina, the center of this beautiful region. The way there is very lovely. And driving is in keeping with the spirit of the place. It almost seems profane to rush through in a motor, as some do, for not only is it impossible to appreciate the scenery, but also it is out of harmony with the peace and quiet which reign. For a while there is traversed a little valley quite embowered in green, but presently this abruptly leads into a wild gorge, with jagged peaks on every side. Soon Monte Cristallo appears. This is the most striking of all the Dolomite peaks. At a tiny village, called Schluderbach, the road forks, that to the right going directly to Cortina, the other to the left proceeding by way of Lake Misurina. Lake Misurina is a pretty stretch of water, pale green in color and at an altitude of about 5,800 feet. On its shores are two very attractive and well-kept hotels, with charming walks, from which one looks on a splendid panorama, picturesque in extreme. From Misurina, the road again ascends, becoming very narrow and very steep. The top is called "Passo Tre Croci," the Pass of the Three Crosses. The outlook is very lovely, with the three serrated peaks Monte Cristallo, Monte Piano and Monte Tofana, standing as guardian sentinels over the little valley of Ampezzo far below, where lies Cortina sleeping in the sun, while in the distance shine the snow fields of the Marmolata. Just as steeply as it climbed up one side, the road descends on the other side, to Cortina. This place is the capital of the valley and altogether lovely; beautiful in its woods and meadows, beautiful in its mountain views, beautiful in the town itself and beautiful in its people. Cortina has much to boast of--an ancient church and some old houses; an industrial school in which the villagers are taught the most delicate and artistic (and withal comparatively cheap) filigree mosaic work; and a community of people, handsome in face and figure and possessing a carriage and refinement superior to any seen elsewhere among the mountaineers or peasantry. In the neighborhood of Cortina are many excursions and also extended rock climbs, but those who go there in the summer will be more apt to linger lazily amid the cool shade of the trees than to brave the hot Italian sun on the peaks! After a few days' stay at Cortina, the drive is continued. There are many ways out. You can return by a new route to Toblach and the Upper Tyrol. Or you can go south to Belluno and thence to northern Italy. Or a third way and perhaps the finest tour of all is that over a series of magnificent mountain passes to Botzen. This last crosses the Ampezzo Valley and then begins the ascent of Monte Tofana, which here is beautifully wooded. Steepness seems characteristic of this region! It is hard to imagine a carriage climbing a road any steeper than that one on the slopes of Monte Tofana! If narrow and steep is the way and hard and toilsome the climb this Monte Tofana route most certainly repays one when it reaches the Falzarego Pass (6,945 feet high) which is certainly an earthly Paradise! One can not aptly describe a view like that! It is all a picture; as if every part was purposely what it is, here rocky, here green, here snowy, with summits, valleys, ravines and villages and even a partly ruined castle to form a whole such as an artist or poet would revel in. After a pause on the summit of the Pass, again comes a steep descent, as the drive is resumed, which continues to Andraz, where déjeuner is taken. One can not live on air or scenery and even the most indefatigable sightseer sometimes turns with longing to luncheon! Then one returns with added zest to the feast of eye and soul. And at Andraz, as one lingers awhile after luncheon on that high mountain terrace, a lovelier scene than that spread before the eye could scarcely be imagined. Indeed it is a "dream-scene," and as seen in the sleepy stillness of the early afternoon, when the shadows are already playing with the lights and gradually overcoming them, it seems like fancy, not reality. Again the carriage is taken and soon the road is climbing once more, this time giving fine views of the Sella group of peaks and going through a series of picturesque valleys. At Arabba (5,255 feet), a pretty little village, the final ascent to Pordoi begins. The scenery undergoes a change. It becomes more wild and barren and the characteristics of the high Alps appear. The hour begins to be late and it becomes cold, but the light still lingers as the carriage reaches the summit of the pass and stops at the new Hôtel Pordoi (7,020 feet high) facing the weird, fantastic shapes of the Rosengarten and the Langkofel, on the one side and on the other the snowy Marmolata and the summits about Cortina.... The following morning the start is made for Botzen. The way steadily descends for hours, past the pretty hamlets of Canazei, Campitello and Vigo di Fassa, surrounded by an imposing array of Dolomite peaks. After crossing the Karer Pass the scenery becomes much more soft and pastoral. Below the pass, most beautifully situated is a little green lake called the Karer-See.... At Botzen the drive through the Dolomites ends. At best it gives but a glimpse of this delightful region! That glimpse leaves a lasting impression, not of snowy summits and glistening glaciers, but of wonderful rocks and more wonderful coloring and of great peaks of fantastic form, set in a garden spot of green. And Botzen is a fitting terminus. It dates far back to the Middle Ages. It boasts of churches, houses and public buildings of artistic merit and architectural beauty and over all there lingers an atmosphere of rest and refinement, refreshing to see, where there might have been the noisy bustle and hopeless vulgarity of so many places similarly situated. There is plenty going on, nevertheless, for Botzen is quite a little commercial center in its own way, but with it there is this charm of dignified repose. One wanders through the town under the cool colonnades, strolls into some ancient cloisters, kneels for a moment in some finely carved church and then goes out again to the open, to see far above the little city that beautiful background of the Dolomite peaks, dominated by the wonderfully impressive and fantastic Rosengarten range, golden red in the western sun. With such a view experience may well lapse into memory, to linger on so long as the mind possesses the power of recalling the past. CORTINA[27] BY AMELIA B. EDWARDS Situate on the left bank of the Boita, which here runs nearly due north and south, with the Tre Croci pass opening away behind the town to the east, and the Tre Sassi Pass widening before it to the west, Cortina lies in a comparatively open space between four great mountains, and is therefore less liable to danger from bergfalls than any other village not only in the Val d'Ampezo but in the whole adjacent district. For the same reason, it is cooler in summer than either Caprile, Agordo, Primiero, or Predazzo; all of which, tho' more central as stopping places, and in many respects more convenient, are yet somewhat too closely hemmed in by surrounding heights. The climate of Cortina is temperate throughout the year. Ball gives the village an elevation of 4,048 feet above the level of the sea; and one of the parish priests--an intelligent old man who has devoted many years of his life to collecting the flora of the Ampezzo--assured me that he had never known the thermometer drop so low as fifteen degrees[28] of frost in even the coldest winters. The soil, for all this, has a bleak and barren look; the maize (here called "grano Turco") is cultivated, but does not flourish; and the vine is unknown. But then agriculture is not a specialty of the Ampezzo Thal, and the wealth of Cortina is derived essentially from its pasture-lands and forests. These last, in consequence of the increased and increasing value of timber, have been lavishly cut down of late years by the Commune--too probably at the expense of the future interests of Cortina. For the present, however, every inn, homestead, and public building bespeaks prosperity. The inhabitants are well-fed and well-drest. Their fairs and festivals are the most considerable in all the South Eastern Tyrol; their principal church is the largest this side of St. Ulrich; and their new Gothic Campanile, 250 feet high, might suitably adorn the piazza of such cities as Bergamo or Belluno. The village contains about 700 souls, but the population of the Commune numbers over 2,500. Of these, the greater part, old and young, rich and poor, men, women, and children, are engaged in the timber trade. Some cut the wood; some transport it. The wealthy convey it on trucks drawn by fine horses which, however, are cruelly overworked. The poor harness themselves six or eight in a team, men, women, and boys together, and so, under the burning summer sun, drag loads that look as if they might be too much for an elephant.... To ascend the Campanile and get the near view over the village, was obviously one of the first duties of a visitor; so, finding the door open and the old bellringer inside, we mounted laboriously to the top--nearly a hundred feet higher than the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Standing here upon the outer gallery above the level of the great bells, we had the village and valley at our feet. The panorama, tho' it included little which we had not seen already, was fine all around, and served to impress the mainland marks upon our memory. The Ampezzo Thal opened away to north and south, and the twin passes of the Tre Croci and Tre Sassi intersected it to east and west. When we had fixt in our minds the fact that Landro and Bruneck lay out to the north, and Perarolo to the south; that Auronzo was to be found somewhere on the other side of the Tre Croci; and that to arrive at Caprile it was necessary to go over the Tre Sassi, we had gained something in the way of definite topography. The Marmolata and Civetta, as we knew by our maps, were on the side of Caprile; and the Marmarole on the side of Auronzo. The Pelmo, left behind yesterday, was peeping even now above the ridge of the Rochetta; and a group of fantastic rocks, so like the towers and bastions of a ruined castle that we took them at first sight for the remains of some medieval stronghold, marked the summit of the Tre Sassi to the west. "But what mountain is that far away to the south?" we asked, pointing in the direction of Perarolo. "Which mountain, Signora?" "That one yonder, like a cathedral front with two towers." The old bellringer shaded his eyes with one trembling hand, and peered down the valley. "Eh," he said, "it is some mountain on the Italian side." "But what is it called?" "Eh," he repeated, with a puzzled look, "who knows? I don't know that I ever noticed it before." Now it was a very singular mountain--one of the most singular and the most striking that we saw throughout the tour. It was exactly like the front of Notre Dame, with one slender aiguille, like a flagstaff, shooting up from the top of one of its battlemented towers. It was conspicuous from most points on the left bank of the Boita; but the best view, as I soon after discovered, was from the rising ground behind Cortina, going up through the fields in the direction of the Begontina torrent. To this spot we returned again and again, fascinated as much, perhaps, by the mystery in which it was enveloped, as by the majestic outline of this unknown mountain, to which, for want of a better, we gave the name of Notre Dame. For the old bellringer was not alone in his ignorance. Ask whom we would, we invariably received the same vague reply--it was a mountain "on the Italian side." They knew no more; and some, like our friend of the Campanile, had evidently "not noticed it before." IX ALPINE RESORTS THE CALL OF THE MOUNTAINS[29] BY FREDERIC HARRISON Once more--perhaps for the last time--I listen to the unnumbered tinkling of the cow-bells on the slopes--"the sweet bells of the sauntering herd"--to the music of the cicadas in the sunshine, and the shouts of the neat herdlads, echoing back from Alp to Alp. I hear the bubbling of the mountain rill, I watch the emerald moss of the pastures gleaming in the light, and now and then the soft white mist creeping along the glen, as our poet says, "puts forth an arm and creeps from pine to pine." And see, the wild flowers, even in this waning season of the year, the delicate lilac of the dear autumn crocus, which seems to start up elf-like out of the lush grass, the coral beads of the rowan, and the beech-trees just begun to wear their autumn jewelry of old gold. As I stroll about these hills, more leisurely, more thoughtfully than I used to do of old in my hot mountaineering days, I have tried to think out what it is that makes the Alpine landscape so marvelous a tonic to the spirit--what is the special charm of it to those who have once felt all its inexhaustible magic. Other lands have rare beauties, wonders of their own, sights to live in the memory for ever. In France, in Italy, in Spain, in Greece and in Turkey, I hold in memory many a superb landscape. From boyhood upward I thirsted for all kinds of Nature's gifts, whether by sea, or by river, lake, mountain, or forest. For sixty years at least I have roved about the white cliffs, the moors, the riversides, lakes, and pastures of our own islands from Penzance to Cape Wrath, from Beachy Head to the Shetlands. I love them all. But they can not touch me, as do the Alps, with the sense at once of inexhaustible loveliness and of a sort of conscious sympathy with every fiber of man's heart and brain. Why then is this so? I find it in the immense range of the moods in which Nature is seen in the Alps, as least by those who have fully absorbed all the forms, sights, sounds, wonders, and adventures they offer. An hour's walk will show them all in profound contrast and yet in exquisite harmony. The Alps form a book of Nature as wide and as mysterious as Life. Earth has no scenes of placid fruitfulness more balmy than the banks of one of the larger lakes, crowded with vineyards, orchards, groves and pastures, down to the edge of its watery mirror, wherein, beside a semi-tropical vegetation, we see the image of some medieval castle, of some historic tower, and thence the eye strays up to sunless gorges, swept with avalanches, and steaming with feathery cascades; and higher yet one sees against the skyline ranges of terrific crags, girt with glaciers, and so often wreathed in storm clouds. All that Earth has of most sweet, softest, easiest, most suggestive of langor and love, of fertility and abundance--here is seen in one vision beside all that Nature has most hard, most cruel, most unkind to Man--where life is one long weary battle with a frost bitten soil, and every peasant's hut has been built up stone by stone, and log by log, with sweat and groans, and wrecked hopes. In a few hours one may pass from an enchanted garden, where every sense is satiated, and every flower and leaf and gleam of light is intoxication, up into a wilderness of difficult crags and yawning glaciers, which men can reach only by hard-earned skill, tough muscle and iron nerves.... The Alps are international, European, Humanitarian. Four written languages are spoken in their valleys, and ten times as many local dialects. The Alps are not especially Swiss--I used to think they were English--they belong equally to four nations of Europe; they are the sanatorium and the diversorium of the civilized world, the refuge, the asylum, the second home of men and women famous throughout the centuries for arts, literature, thought, religion. The poet, the philosopher, the dreamer, the patriot, the exile, the bereaved, the reformer, the prophet, the hero--have all found in the Alps a haven of rest, a new home where the wicked cease from troubling, where men need neither fear nor suffer. The happy and the thoughtless, the thinker and the sick--are alike at home here. The patriot exile inscribed on his house on Lake Leman--"Every land is fatherland to the brave man." What he might have written is--"This land is fatherland to all men." To young and old, to strong and weak, to wise and foolish alike, the Alps are a second fatherland. INTERLAKEN AND THE JUNGFRAU[30] B.T. ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL KNOWLES It is hard to find a prettier spot than Interlaken. Situated between two lovely lakes, surrounded by wooded heights, and lying but a few miles from the snowy Jungfrau, it is like a jewel richly set. From Lucerne over the Brunig, from Meiringen over the Grimsel come the travelers, passing on their way the Lake of Brienz, with the waterfall of the Giessbach, on its southern side. From Berne over Lake Thun, from the Rhône Valley over the Gemmi or through the Simmenthal come the tourists, seeing as they come the white peaks of the Oberland. And Interlaken welcomes them all, and rests them for their closer relations with the High Alps by trips to the region of the Lauterbrunnen, Grindelwald, and Mürren, and the great mountain plateaux looking down upon them. Interlaken is not a climbing center. Consequently mountaineering is little in evidence, conversation about ascents is seldom heard, and ice-axes, ropes, and nailed boots are seen more often in shop windows than in the streets. Interlaken is not like some other Swiss towns. Berne, Geneva, Zurich, and Lucerne are places possessing notable churches, museums, and monuments of the past, having a social life of their own and being distinguished in some special way, as centers of culture and education. Interlaken, however, has little life apart from that made by the throngs of visitors who gather here in the summer. There is little to see except a group of old monastic buildings, and in Unterseen and elsewhere some fine old carved chalets, but none of these receives much attention. The attraction, on what one may call the natural side, centers in the softly beautiful panorama of woods and meadows, green hills and snow peaks which opens to the eye, and on the social side in the busy little promenade and park of the Höheweg, bordered with hotels, shops, and gardens. Here is ever a changing picture in the height of the season, in fact, quite kaleidoscopic as railways and steamboats at each end of Interlaken send their passengers to mingle in the passing crowd. All "sorts and conditions of men" are here, and representatives of antagonistic nations meet in friendly intercourse. On the hotel terraces and in the little cafés and tea rooms, one hears a babel of voices, every nation of Europe seeming to speak in its own native tongue. Life goes easily. There is a gaiety in the little town that is infectious. It is a sort of busy idleness. "To trip or not to trip" is the question. If the affirmative, then a rush to the mountain trains and comfortable cabs. If the negative, then a turning to the shops, where pretty things worthy of Paris or London are seen side by side with Swiss carvings and Swiss embroidery and many little superficial souvenirs. As the contents of the shops are exhibited in the windows, so the character of the visitors is shown by the crowds, and the life of the place is seen in the constant ebb and flow of the people on the Höheweg. Interlaken is undoubtedly a tourist center, for few trips to Switzerland overlook or omit this delightful spot. Thousands come here, who never go any nearer the High Alps. They are quite content to sit on the benches of the Höheweg, listening to the music and enjoying the view. There is a casino, most artistically planned, with plashing fountains, shady paths, and wonderful flowerbeds. Here many persons pass the day, and, contrary to what one might expect, it is quiet and restful, lounging in that parklike garden. For, notwithstanding "the madding crowd," Interlaken is a little gem of a mountain town, with an undertone of repose and nobility, as if the spirit of the Alps asserted herself, reigning, as one might say, for all not ruling. And always smiling at the people, as it were, is the majestic Jungfrau, ever seeming close at hand, altho' eight miles away.... The pleasures of this little Swiss resort are exhaustless. The wooded hills of the Rugen give innumerable walks amid beautiful forests, with all their wealth of pine and larch and hardwood, their moss-clad rocks and waving ferns. In that pleasant shade hours may be passed close to nature. The lakes not only offer delightful water trips, but also charming excursions along the wooded shores, sometimes high above the lakes, giving varying views of great beauty. While, ever as with beckoning fingers, the great peaks, snow-capped or rock-summitted, call one across the verdant meadows into the higher valleys of Kienthal, Lauterbrunnen, Grindelwaid, and Kandersteg, to the terraced heights above or up amid the great wild passes. Interlaken is, above all, a garden of green. Perhaps the unusual amount of rain which falls to the lot of this valley accounts for its verdure. In any event, park, woods, meadow, garden, even the mountain sides are green, a vari-colored green, and interspersed with an abundance of flowers. Nowhere is the eye offended by anything inartistic or unpicturesque, but, on the contrary, the charm is so comprehensive that the visitor looks from place to place, from this bit to that bit, and ever sees new beauty. To complete all, to accentuate in the minds of some this impression of green, is the majestic Jungfrau. Other views may be grander and more magnificent, but no view of the Jungfrau can compare in loveliness to that from Interlaken. A great white glistening mass, far up above green meadows, green forests, and green mountains, rises this peak, a shining summit of white. Fitly named the Virgin, the Jungfrau gives her benediction to Interlaken, serenely smiling at the valley and at the town lying so quietly at her feet--the Jungfrau crowned with snow, Interlaken drest in green! In the golden glory of the sun, in the silver shimmer of the moon, the Jungfrau beckons, the Jungfrau calls! "Come," she seems to say, "come nearer! Come up to the heights! Come close to the running waters! Come." And that invitation falls on no unwilling ears, but in to the Grindelwald and to the Lauterbrunnen and up to Mürren go those who love the majestic Jungfrau! What a wonderful trip this is! It may shatter some ideals in being taken to such a height in a railway train, but even against one's convictions as to the proper way of seeing a mountain, when all has been said, the fact remains that this trip is wonderful beyond words. There is a strangeness in taking a train which leaves a garden of green in the early morning and in a few hours later, after valley and pass and tunnel, puts one out on snow fields over 11,000 feet above the sea, where are seen vast stretches of white, almost level with the summit of the Jungfrau close at hand, and below, stretching for miles, on the one side the great Aletsch Glacier, and on the other side the green valleys enclosed by the everlasting hills! The route is by way of Lauterbrunnen, Wengen, and the Scheidegg, and after skirting the Eiger Glacier going by tunnel into the very bowels of the mountain. At Eigerwand, Rotstock, and Eismeer are stations, great galleries blasted out of the rock, with corridors leading to openings from which one has marvelous views.[31] Eismeer looks directly upon the huge sea of snow and ice, with immense masses of dazzling white so close as to make one reel with awe and astonishment. In fact, this view is really oppressive in its wild magnificence, so near and so grand is it. The Jungfraujoch is different. One is out in the open, so to speak; one walks over that vast plateau of snow over 11,000 feet high in the glorious sunlight, above most of the nearer peaks and looking down at a beautiful panorama. On one side of this plateau is the Jungfrau, on the other the Mönch, either of which can be climbed from here in about three hours. Yet the eye lingers longer in the direction of the Aletsch Glacier than anywhere else, this frozen river running for miles and turning to the right at the little green basin of water full of pieces of floating ice, called the Marjelen Lake, or See, at the foot of the Eggishorn, which is unique and lovely. Long ago it was formed in this corner of the glacier, and its blue waters are really melted snow, over which float icebergs shining in the sun. In such a position the lake underlaps the glacier for quite a distance, forming a low vaulted cavern in the ice. Every now and then one of these little bergs overbalances itself and turns over, the upper side then being a deep blue, and the lower side, which was formerly above, being a pure white. Again turning toward the green valleys, one with the eye of an artist, who can perceive and differentiate varying shades of color, can not but admit that the Bernese Oberland is "par excellence" first. Even south of the Alps the verdure does not excel or even equal that to be seen here. There is something incomparably lovely about the Oberland valleys. It is indescribable, indefinable, for when one has exhausted the most extravagant terms of description, he feels that he has failed to picture the scene as he desired. Yet if one word should be chosen to convey the impression which the Oberland makes, the word would be "color." For whether one regards the snow summits as setting off the valleys, or the green meadows as setting off the peaks, it matters not, for the secret of their beauty lies in the richness and variety of the exquisite coloring wherein many wonderful shades of green predominate. THE ALTDORF OF WILLIAM TELL[32] BY W.D. M'CRACKAN Let it be said at once that, altho' the name of Altdorf is indissolubly linked with that of William Tell, the place arouses an interest which does not at all depend upon its associations with the famous archer. From the very first it gives one the impression of possessing a distinct personality, of ringing, as it were, to a note never heard before, and thus challenging attention to its peculiarities. As you approach Altdorf from Flüelen, on the Lake of Lucerne, by the long white road, the first houses you reach are large structures of the conventional village type, plain, but evidently the homes of well-to-do people, and some even adorned with family coats-of-arms. In fact, this street is dedicated to the aristocracy, and formerly went by the name of the Herrengasse, the "Lane of the Lords." Beyond these fashionable houses is an open square, upon which faces a cosy inn--named, of course, after William Tell; and off on one side the large parish church, built in cheap baroco style, but containing a few objects of interest.... There is a good deal of sight-seeing to be done in Altdorf, for so small a place. In the town hall are shown the tattered flags carried by the warriors of Uri in the early battles of the Confederation, the mace and sword of state which are borne by the beadles to the Landsgemeinde. In a somewhat inaccessible corner, a few houses off, the beginnings of a museum have been made. Here is another portrait of interest--that of the giant Püntener, a mercenary whose valor made him the terror of the enemy in the battle of Marignano, in 1515; so that when he was finally killed, they avenged themselves, according to a writing beneath the picture, by using his fat to smear their weapons, and by feeding their horses with oats from his carcass. Just outside the village stands the arsenal, whence, they say, old armor was taken and turned into shovels, when the St. Gothard Railroad was building, so poor and ignorant were the people. If you are of the sterner sex, you can also penetrate into the Capuchin Monastery, and enter the gardens, where the terraces that rise behind the buildings are almost Italian in appearance, festooned with vines and radiant with roses. Not that the fame of this institution rests on such trivial matters, however. The brothers boast of two things: theirs is the oldest branch of the order in Switzerland, dating from 1581, and they carry on in it the somewhat unappetizing industry of cultivating snails for the gourmands of foreign countries. Above the Capuchins is the famous Bannwald, mentioned by Schiller--a tract of forest on the mountain-slope, in which no one is allowed to fell trees, because it protects the village from avalanches and rolling stones. Nothing could be fairer than the outskirts of Altdorf on a May morning. The valley of the Reuss lies bathed from end to end in a flood of golden light, shining through an atmosphere of crystal purity. Daisies, cowslips, and buttercups, the flowers of rural well-being, show through the rising grass of the fields; along the hedges and crumbling walls of the lanes peep timid primroses and violets, and in wilder spots the Alpine gentian, intensely blue. High up, upon the mountains, glows the indescribable velvet of the slopes, while, higher still, ragged and vanishing patches of snow proclaim the rapid approach of summer. After all, the best part of Altdorf, to make an Irish bull, lies outside of the village. No adequate idea of this strange little community can be given without referring to the Almend, or village common. Indeed, as time goes on, one learns to regard this Almend as the complete expression and final summing up of all that is best in Altdorf, the reconciliation of all its inconsistencies. How fine that great pasture beside the River Reus, with its short, juicy, Alpine grass, in sight of the snow-capped Bristenstock, at one end of the valley, and of the waters of Lake Lucerne at the other! In May, the full-grown cattle have already departed for the higher summer pastures, leaving only the feeble young behind, who are to follow as soon as they have grown strong enough to bear the fatigues of the journey. At this time, therefore, the Almend becomes a sort of vision of youth--of calves, lambs, and foals, guarded by little boys, all gamboling in the exuberance of early life. LUCERNE[33] BY VICTOR TISSOT A height crowned with embattled ramparts that bristle with loop-holed turrets; church towers mingling their graceful spires and peaceful crosses with those warlike edifices; dazzling white villas, planted like tents under curtains of verdure; tall houses with old red skylights on the roofs--this is our first glimpse of the Catholic and warlike city of Lucerne. We seem to be approaching some town of old feudal times that has been left solitary and forgotten on the mountain side, outside of the current of modern life. But when we pass through the station we find ourselves suddenly transported to the side of the lake, where whole flotillas of large and small boats lie moored on the blue waters of a large harbor. And along the banks of this wonderful lake is a whole town of hotels, gay with many colored flags, their terraces and balconies rising tier above tier, like the galleries of a grand theater whose scenery is the mighty Alps.... In summer Lucerne is the Hyde Park of Switzerland. Its quays are thronged by people of every nation. There you meet pale women from the lands of snow, and dark women from the lands of the sun; tall, six-foot English women, and lively, alert, trim Parisian women, with the light and graceful carriage of a bird on the bough. At certain hours this promenade on the quays is like a charity fair or a rustic ball--bright colors and airy draperies everywhere. Nowhere can the least calm and repose be found but in the old town. There the gabled houses, with wooden galleries hanging over the waters of the Reuss, make a charming ancient picture, like a bit of Venice set down amid the verdant landscape of the valley. I also discovered on the heights beyond the ramparts a pretty and peaceful convent of Capuchins, the way to which winds among wild plants, starry with flowers. It is delicious to go right away, far from the town swarming and running over with Londoners, Germans, and Americans, and to find yourself among fragrant hedges, peopled by warblers whom it has not yet occurred to the hotel-keepers to teach to sing in English. This sweet path leads without fatigue to the convent of the good fathers. In a garden flooded with sunshine and balmy with the fragrance of mignonette and vervain, where broad sunflowers erect their black discs fringed with gold, two brothers with fan-shaped beards, their brass-mounted spectacles astride on their flat noses, and arrayed in green gardening aprons, are plying enormous watering-cans; while, in the green and cool half-twilight under the shadowy trees, big, rubicund brothers walk up and down, reading their red-edged breviaries in black leather bindings. Happy monks! Not a fraction of a pessimist among them! How well they understand life! A beautiful convent, beautiful nature, good wine and good cheer, neither disturbance nor care; neither wife nor children; and when they leave the world, heaven specially created for them, seraphim waiting for them with harps of gold, and angels with urns of rose-water to wash their feet! Lucerne began as a nest of monks, hidden in an orchard like a nest of sparrows. The first house of the town was a monastery, erected by the side of the lake. The nest grew, became a village, then a town, then a city. The monks of Murbach, to whom the monastery of St. Leger belonged, had got into debt; this sometimes does happen even to monks. They sold to King Rudolf all the property they possest at Lucerne and in Unterwalden; and thus the town passed into the hands of the Hapsburgs. When the first Cantons, after expelling the Austrian bailiffs, had declared their independence, Lucerne was still one of Austria's advanced posts. But its people were daily brought into contact with the shepherds of the Forest Cantons, who came into the town to supply themselves with provisions; and they were not long in beginning to ask themselves if there was any reason why they should not be, as well as their neighbors, absolutely free. The position of the partizans of Austria soon became so precarious that they found it safe to leave the town.... The opening of the St. Gothard Railway has given a new impulse to this cosmopolitan city, which has a great future before it. Already it has supplanted Interlaken in the estimation of the furbelowed, fashionable world--the women who come to Switzerland not to see but to be seen. Lucerne is now the chief summer station of the twenty-two Cantons. And yet it does not possess many objects of interest. There is the old bridge on the Reuss, with its ancient paintings; the Church of St. Leger, with its lateral altars and its Campo Santo, reminding us of Italian cemeteries; the museum at the Town Hall, with its fine collection of stained glass; the blood-stained standards from the Burgundian wars, and the flag in which noble old Gundolfingen, after charging his fellow-citizens never to elect their magistrates for more than a year, wrapt himself as in a shroud of glory to die in the fight; finally, there is the Lion of Lucerne; and that is all. The most wonderful thing of all is that you are allowed to see this lion for nothing; for close beside it you are charged a franc for permission to cast an indifferent glance on some uninteresting excavations, which date, it is said, from the glacial period. We do not care if they do.... The great quay of Lucerne is delightful; as good as the seashore at Dieppe or Trouville. Before you, limpid and blue, lies the lake, which from the character of its shores, at once stern and graceful, is the finest in Switzerland. In front rises the snow-clad peaks of Uri, to the left the Rigi, to the right the austere Pilatus, almost always wearing his high cap of clouds. This beautiful walk on the quay, long and shady like the avenue of a gentleman's park, is the daily resort, toward four o'clock, of all the foreigners who are crowded in the hotels or packed in the boarding-houses. Here are Russian and Polish counts with long mustaches, and pins set with false brilliants; Englishmen with fishes' or horses' heads; Englishwomen with the figures of angels or of giraffes; Parisian women, daintily attired, sprightly, and coquettish; American women, free in their bearing, and eccentric in their dress, and their men as stiff as the smoke-pipes of steamboats; German women, with languishing voices, drooping and pale like willow branches, fair-haired and blue-eyed, talking in the same breath of Goethe and the price of sausages, of the moon and their glass of beer, of stars and black radishes. And here and there are a few little Swiss girls, fresh and rosy as wood strawberries, smiling darlings like Dresden shepherdesses, dreaming of scenes of platonic love in a great garden adorned with the statue of William Tell or General Dufour. ZURICH[34] BY W.D. M'CRACKAN If you arrive in Zurich after dark, and pass along the river-front, you will think yourself for a moment in Venice. The street lamps glow responsively across the dark Limmat, or trail their light from the bridges. In the uncertain darkness, the bare house walls of the farther side put on the dignity of palaces. There are unsuspected architectural glories in the Wasserkirche and the Rathhaus, as they stand partly in the water of the river. And if, at such times, one of the long, narrow barges of the place passes up stream, the illusion is complete; for, as the boat cuts at intervals through the glare of gaslight it looks for all the world like a gondola.... Zurich need not rely upon any fancied resemblance of this sort for a distinct charm of its own. The situation of the city is essentially beautiful, reminding one, in a general way, of that of Geneva, Lucerne, or Thun--at the outlet of a lake, and at the point of issue of a swift river. Approaching from the lakeside, the twin towers of the Grossmünster loom upon the right, capped by ugly rounded tops, like miters; upon the left, the simple spires of the Fraumünster and St. Peter's. A conglomeration of roofs denotes the city houses. On the water-front, extensive promenades stretch, crescent shaped, from end to end, cleverly laid out, tho' as yet too new to quite fulfil their mission of beauty. Some large white buildings form the front line on the lake--notably the theater, and a few hotels and apartment houses. Finally, there where the River Limmat leaves the lake, a vista of bridges open into the heart of the city--a succession of arches and lines that invite inspection. Like most progressive cities of Europe, Zurich has outgrown its feudal accouterments within the last fifty years. It has razed its walls, converted its bastions into playgrounds, and, pushing out on every side, has incorporated many neighboring villages, until to-day it contains more than ninety thousand inhabitants.[35] The pride of modern Zurich is the Bahnhof-strasse, a long street which leads from the railroad station to the lake. It is planted with trees, and counts as the one and only boulevard of the city. Unfortunately, a good view of the distant snow mountains is very rare from the lake promenade, altho' they appear with distinctness upon the photographs sold in the shops. Early every Saturday the peasant women come trooping in, with their vegetables, fruits, and flowers, to line the Bahnhof-strasse with carts and baskets. The ladies and kitchen-maids of the city come to buy; but by noon the market is over. In a jiffy, the street is swept as clean as a kitchen floor, and the women have turned their backs on Zurich. But the real center of attraction in Zurich will be found by the traveler in that quarter where stands the Grossmünster, the church of which Zwingli was incumbent for twelve years. It may well be called the Wittenberg church of Switzerland. The present building dates from the eleventh and twelfth centuries; but tradition has it that the first minster was founded by Charlemagne. That ubiquitous emperor certainly manifested great interest in Zurich. He has been represented no less than three times in various parts of the building. About midway up one of the towers, his statue appears in a niche, where pigeons strut and prink their feathers, undisturbed. Charlemagne is sitting with a mighty two-edged sword upon his knees, and a gilded crown upon his head; but the figure is badly proportioned, and the statue is a good-natured, stumpy affair, that makes one smile rather than admire. The outside of the minster still shows traces of the image breakers of Zwingli's time, and yet the crumbling north portal remains beautiful, even in decay. As for the interior, it has an exceedingly bare and stript appearance; for, altho' there is good, solid stonework in the walls, the whole has been washed a foolish, Philistine white. The Romanesque of the architectural is said to be of particular interest to connoisseurs, and the queer archaic capitals must certainly attract the notice even of ordinary tourists.... It is also worth while to go to the Helmhaus, and examine the collection of lake-dwelling remains. In fact, there is a delightful little model of a lake-dwelling itself, and an appliance to show you how those primitive people could make holes in their stone implements, before they knew the use of metals. The ancient guild houses of Zurich are worth a special study. Take, for instance, that of the "Zimmerleute," or carpenter with its supporting arches and little peaked tower; or the so-called "Waag," with frescoed front; then the great wainscoated and paneled hall of the "schmieden" (smiths); and the rich Renaissance stonework of the "Maurer" (masons). These buildings, alas, with the decay of the system which produced them, have been obliged to put up big signs of Café Restaurant upon their historic façades, like so many vulgar, modern eating-houses. The Rathhaus, or Town Hall, too, is charming. It stands, like the Wasserkirche, with one side in the water and the other against the quay. The style is a sort of reposeful Italian Renaissance, that is florid only in the best artistic sense. Nor must you miss the so-called "Rüden," nearby, for its sloping roof and painted walls give it a very captivating look of alert picturesqueness, and it contains a large collection of Pestalozzi souvenirs. Zurich has more than one claim to the world's recognition; but no department of its active life, perhaps, merits such unstinted praise as its educational facilities. First and foremost, the University, with four faculties, modeled upon the German system, but retaining certain distinctive traits that are essentially Swiss--for instance, the broad and liberal treatment accorded to women students, who are admitted as freely as men, and receive the same instruction. A great number of Russian girls are always to be seen in Zurich, as at other Swiss universities, working unremittingly to acquire the degrees which they are denied at home. Not a few American women also have availed themselves of these facilities, especially for the study of medicine.... Zurich is, at the present time, undoubtedly the most important commercial city in Switzerland, having distanced both Basel and Geneva in this direction. The manufacturing of silk, woolen, and linen fabrics has flourished here since the end of the thirteenth century. In modern times, however, cotton and machinery have been added as staple articles of manufacture. Much of the actual weaving is still done in outlying parts of the Canton, in the very cottages of the peasants, so that the click of the loom is heard from open windows in every village and hamlet. But modern industrial processes are tending continually to drive the weavers from their homes into great centralized factories, and every year this inevitable change becomes more apparent. It is certainly remarkable that Zurich should succeed in turning out cheap and good machinery, when we remember that every ton of coal and iron has to be imported, since Switzerland possesses not a single mine, either of the one or the other. THE RIGI[36] BY W.D. M'CRACKAN If you really want to know how the Swiss Confederation came to be, you can not do better than take the train to the top of the Rigi. You might stumble through many a volume, and not learn so thoroughly the essential causes of this national birth. Of course, the eye rests first upon the phalanx of snow-crests to the south, then down upon the lake, lying outstretched like some wriggling monster, switching its tail, and finally off to the many places where early Swiss history was made. In point of fact, you are looking at quite a large slice of Switzerland. Victor Hugo seized the meaning of this view when he wrote: "It is a serious hour, and full of meditations, when one has Switzerland thus under the eyes." ... The physical features of a country have their counterparts in its political institutions. In Switzerland the great mountain ranges divide the territory into deep valleys, each of which naturally forms a political unit--the Commune. Here is a miniature world, concentrated into a small space, and representing the sum total of life to its inhabitants. Self-government becomes second nature under these conditions. A sort of patriarchal democracy is evolved: that is, certain men and certain families are apt to maintain themselves at the head of public affairs, but with the consent and cooperation of the whole population. There is hardly a spot associated with the rise of the Swiss Confederation whose position can not be determined from the Rigi. The two Tell's chapels; the Rütli; the villages of Schwiz, Altdorf, Brunnen, Beckenried, Stans, and Sarnen; the battlefields of Morgarten and Sempach; and on a clear day the ruined castle of Hapsburg itself, lie within a mighty circle at one's feet. It was preordained that the three lands of Uri, Schwiz, and Unterwalden should unite for protection of common interests against the encroachment of a common enemy--the ambitious house of Hapsburg. The lake formed at once a bond and a highway between them. On the first day of August, 1291, more than six hundred years ago, a group of unpretentious patriots, ignored by the great world, signed a document which formed these lands into a loose Confederation. By this act they laid the foundation upon which the Swiss state was afterward reared. In their naïve, but prophetic, faith, the contracting parties called this agreement a perpetual pact; and they set forth, in the Latin, legal phraseology of the day, that, seeing the malice of the times, they found it necessary to take an oath to defend one another against outsiders, and to keep order within their boundaries; at the same time carefully stating that the object of the league was to maintain lawfully established conditions. From small beginnings, the Confederation of Uri, Schwiz, and Unterwalden grew, by the addition of other communities, until it reached its present proportions, of twenty-two Cantons, in 1815. Lucerne was the first to join; then came Zurich, Glarus, Zug, Bern, etc. The early Swiss did not set up a sovereign republic, in our acceptation of the word, either in internal or external policy. The class distinctions of the feudal age continued to exist; and they by no means disputed the supreme rule of the head of the German Empire over them, but rather gloried in the protection which this direct dependence afforded them against a multitude of intermediate, preying nobles. CHAMOUNI--AN AVALANCHE[37] BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY From Servoz three leagues remain to Chamouni--Mont Blanc was before us--the Alps, with their innumerable glaciers on high all around, closing in the complicated windings of the single vale--forests inexpressibly beautiful, but majestic in their beauty--intermingled beech and pine, and oak, overshadowed our road, or receded, while lawns of such verdure as I have never seen before occupied these openings, and gradually became darker in their recesses. Mont Blanc was before us, but it was covered with cloud; its base, furrowed with dreadful gaps, was seen above. Pinnacles of snow intolerably bright, part of the chain connected with Mont Blanc, shone through the clouds at intervals on high. I never knew--I never imagined--what mountains were before. The immensity of these aerial summits excited, when they suddenly burst upon the sight, a sentiment of ecstatic wonder, not unallied to madness. And, remember, this was all one scene, it all prest home to our regard and our imagination. Tho' it embraced a vast extent of space, the snowy pyramids which shot into the bright blue sky seemed to overhang our path; the ravine, clothed with gigantic pines, and black with its depth below, so deep that the very roaring of the untameable Arve, which rolled through it, could not be heard above--all was as much our own, as if we had been the creators of such impressions in the minds of others as now occupied our own. Nature was the poet, whose harmony held our spirits more breathless than that of the divinest. As we entered the valley of the Chamouni (which, in fact, may be considered as a continuation of those which we have followed from Bonneville and Cluses), clouds hung upon the mountains at the distance perhaps of 6,000 feet from the earth, but so as effectually to conceal not only Mont Blanc, but the other "aiguilles," as they call them here, attached and subordinate to it. We were traveling along the valley, when suddenly we heard a sound as the burst of smothered thunder rolling above; yet there was something in the sound that told us it could not be thunder. Our guide hastily pointed out to us a part of the mountain opposite, from whence the sound came. It was an avalanche. We saw the smoke of its path among the rocks, and continued to hear at intervals the bursting of its fall. It fell on the bed of a torrent, which it displaced, and presently we saw its tawny-colored waters also spread themselves over the ravine, which was their couch. We did not, as we intended, visit the Glacier des Bossons to-day, altho it descends within a few minutes' walk of the road, wishing to survey it at least when unfatigued. We saw this glacier, which comes close to the fertile plain, as we passed. Its surface was broken into a thousand unaccountable figures; conical and pyramidical crystallizations, more than fifty feet in height, rise from its surface, and precipices of ice, of dazzling splendor, overhang the woods and meadows of the vale. This glacier winds upward from the valley, until it joins the masses of frost from which it was produced above, winding through its own ravine like a bright belt flung over the black region of pines. There is more in all these scenes than mere magnitude of proportion; there is a majesty of outline; there is an awful grace in the very colors which invest these wonderful shapes--a charm which is peculiar to them, quite distinct even from the reality of their unutterable greatness. ZERMATT[38] BY ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL KNOWLES Those who would reach the very heart of the Alps and look upon a scene of unparalleled grandeur must go into the Valais to Zermatt. [Illustration: PONTRESINA IN THE ENGADINE] [Illustration: ST. MORITZ IN THE ENGADINE] [Illustration: FRIBOURG] [Illustration: BERNE] [Illustration: VIVEY ON LAKE GENEVA] [Illustration: THE TURNHALLE IN ZURICH Courtesy Swiss Federal Railway] [Illustration: INTERLAKEN] [Illustration: LUCERNE] [Illustration: VIADUCTS On the new Lötschberg route to the Simplon tunnel] [Illustration: WOLFORT VIADUCT On the Pilatus Railroad, Switzerland] [Illustration: THE BALMAT-SAUSSURE MONUMENT IN CHAMONIX (Mont Blanc in the distance)] [Illustration: ROOFED WOODEN BRIDGE AT LUCERNE] [Illustration: THE CASTLE OF CHILLON] [Illustration: CLOUD EFFECT ABOVE INTERLAKEN Courtesy Swiss Federal Railway] [Illustration: DAVOS IN WINTER] The way up the valley is that which follows the River Visp. It is a delightful journey. The little stream is never still. It will scarcely keep confined to the banks or within the stone walls which in many places protect the shores. The river dances along as if seeking to be free. For the most part it is a torrent, sweeping swiftly past the solid masonry and descending the steep bed in a series of wild leaps or artificial waterfalls, with wonderful effects of sunlight seen in the showers of spray. Fed as it is by many mountain streams, the Visp is always full, and the more so, when in summer the melting ice adds to its volume. Then it is a sight long remembered, as roaring, rollicking, rushing along it is a brawling mass of waters, often working havoc with banks, road, village, and pastures. If one never saw a mountain, the sight of the Visp would more than repay, but, as it is, one's attention is taxed to the uttermost not to miss anything of this little rushing river and at the same time get the charming views of the Weisshorn, the Breithorn, and the other snow summits which appear over the mountain spurs surrounding the head of the valley. The first impression on reaching the Zermatt is one of disappointment. Maps and pictures generally lead the traveler to think that from the village he will see the great semicircle of snow peaks which surround the valley, but upon arrival he finds that he must go further up to see them, for all of them are hidden from view except the Matterhorn. This mountain, however, is seen in all its grandeur, fierce and frowning, and to an imaginative mind bending forward as if threatening and trying to shake off the little snow that appears here and there on its side. It dominates the whole scene and leaves an indelible impress on the mind, so that one can never picture Zermatt without the Matterhorn. Zermatt as a place is a curious combination; a line of hotels in juxtaposition with a village of chalets, unsophisticated peasants shoulder to shoulder with people of fashion! There are funny little shops, here showing only such simple things as are needed by the dwellers in the Valais, there exhibiting really beautiful articles in dress and jewelry to attract the summer visitors, while at convenient spots are the inevitable tea-rooms, where "Thé, Café, Limonade, Confiserie" minister to the coming crowds of an afternoon.... Guides galore wait in front of all the large hotels; ice-axes, ropes, nailed boots, rucksacks, and all the paraphernalia of the mountains are seen on every side, and a walk along the one main thoroughfare introduces one into the life of a climbing center, interesting to a degree and often very amusing from the miscellaneous collection of people there. Perhaps the first thing one cares to see at Zermatt is the village church, with the adjoining churchyard. The church, dedicated to Saint Maurice, a favorite saint in the Valais and Rhône district, is plain but interesting and in parts is quite old. Near it is a little mortuary chapel. In most parts of Switzerland, it is the custom, after the bodies of the dead have been buried a certain length of time, to remove the remains to the "charnel house," allowing the graves to be used again and thus not encroaching upon the space reserved and consecrated in the churchyard, but we do not think this custom obtains at Zermatt. In the churchyard is a monument to Michel Auguste Croz, the guide, and near by are the graves of the Reverend Charles Hudson and Mr. Hadow. These three, with Lord Francis Douglas were killed in Mr. Whymper's first ascent of the Matterhorn.[39] The body of Lord Francis Douglas has never been found. It is probably deep in some crevasse or under the snows which surround the base of the Matterhorn.... For the more extended climbs or for excursions in the direction of the Schwarzsee, the Staffel Alp or the Trift, Zermatt is the starting point. The place abounds in walks, most of them being the first part of the routes to the high mountains, so that those who are fond of tramping but not of climbing can reach high elevations with a little hard work, but no great difficulty. Some of these "midway" places may be visited on muleback, and with the railway now up to the Gorner-Grat there are few persons who may not see this wonderful region of snow peaks. The trip to the Schwarzsee is the first stage on the Matterhorn route. It leads through the village, past the Gorner Gorges (which one may visit by a slight détour) and then enters some very pretty woods, from which one issues on to the bare green meadows which clothe the upper part of the steep slope of the mountain. As one mounts this zigzag path, it sometimes seems as if it would never end, and for all the magnificent views which it affords, one is always glad that it is over, as it exactly fulfils the conditions of a "grind." From the Schwarzsee (8,495 feet, where there is an excellent hotel), there is a fine survey of the Matterhorn, and also a splendid panorama, on three sides, one view up the glaciers toward the Monte Rosa, another over the valley to the Dent Blanche and other great peaks, and still another to the far distant Bernese Oberland. Near the hotel is a little lake and a tiny chapel, where mass is sometimes said. The reflection in the still waters of the lake is very lovely. From the Schwarzsee, trips are made to the Hörnli (another stage on the way to the Matterhorn), to the Gandegg Hut, across moraine and glacier and to the Staffel Alp, over the green meadows. The Hörnli (9,490 feet high) is the ridge running out from the Matterhorn. It is reached by a stiff climb over rocks and a huge heap of fallen stones and debris. From it the view is similar to that from the Schwarzsee, but much finer, the Théodule Glacier being seen to great advantage. Above the Hörnli towers the Matterhorn, huge, fierce, frowning, threatening. Every few moments comes a heavy, muffled sound, as new showers of falling stones come down. This is one of the main dangers in climbing the peak itself, for from base to summit, the Matterhorn is really a decaying mountain, the stones rolling away through the action of the storms, the frosts, and the sun. PONTRÉSINA AND ST. MORITZ[40] BY VICTOR TISSOT The night was falling fine as dust, as a black sifted snow-shower, a snow made of shadow; and the melancholy of the landscape, the grand nocturnal solitude of these lofty, unknown regions, had a charm profound and disquieting. I do not know why I fancied myself no longer in Switzerland, but in some country near the pole, in Sweden or Norway. At the foot of these bare mountains I looked for wild fjords, lit up by the moon. Nothing can express the profound somberness of these landscapes at nightfall; the long desert road, gray from the reflections of the starry sky, unrolls in an interminable ribbon along the depth of the valley; the treeless mountains, hollowed out like ancient craters, lift their overhanging precipices; lakes sleeping in the midst of the pastures, behind curtains of pines and larches, glitter like drops of quicksilver; and on the horizon the immense glaciers crowd together and overflow like sheets of foam on a frozen sea. The road ascends. From the distance comes a dull noise, the roaring of a torrent. We cross a little cluster of trees, and on issuing from it the superb amphitheater of glaciers shows itself anew, overlooked by one white point glittering like an opal. On the hill a thousand little lights show me that I am at last at Pontrésina. I thought I should never have arrived there; nowhere does night deceive more than in the mountains; in proportion as you advance toward a point, it seems to retreat from you. Soon the black fantastic lines of the houses show through the darkness. I enter a narrow street, formed of great gloomy buildings, their fronts like a convent or prison. The hamlet is transformed into a little town of hotels, very comfortable, very elegant, very dear, but very stupid and very vulgar, with their laced porter in an admiral's hat, and their whiskered waiters, who have the air of Anglican ministers. Oh! how I detest them, and flee them, those hotels where the painter, or the tourist who arrives on foot, knapsack on his back and staff in hand, his trousers tucked into his leggings, his flask slung over his shoulder, and his hat awry, is received with less courtesy than a lackey. Besides those hotels, some of which are veritable palaces, and where the ladies are almost bound to change their dress three times a day, there is a hotel of the second and third class; and there is the old inn; the comfortable, hospitable, patriarchal inn, with its Gothic signboard.... On leaving the village I was again in the open mountain. In the distance the road penetrated into the valley, rising always. The moon had risen. She stood out sharply cut in a cloudless sky, and stars sparkling everywhere in profusion; not like nails of gold, but sown broadcast like a flying dust, a dust of carbuncles and diamonds. To the right, in the depths of the amphitheater of the mountains, an immense glacier looked like a frozen cascade; and above, a perfectly white peak rose draped in snow, like some legendary king in his mantle of silver. Bending under my knapsack, and dragging my feet, I arrive at last at the hotel, where I am received, in the kindest manner in the world, by the two mistresses of the establishment, two sisters of open, benevolent countenance and of sweet expression. And the poor little traveler who arrives, his bag on his back and without bustle, who has sent neither letter nor telegram to announce his arrival, is the object of the kindest and most delicate attentions; his clothes are brushed, he gets water for his refreshment, and is then conducted to a table bountifully spread, in a dining-room fragrant with good cookery and bouquets of flowers.... Beyond Campfer, its houses surrounding a third little lake, we come suddenly on a scene of extraordinary animation. All the cosmopolitan society of St. Moritz is there, sauntering, walking, running, in mountain parties, on afternoon excursions. The favorite one is the walk to the pretty lake of Campfer, with its shady margin, its resting places hidden among the branches, its châlet-restaurant, from the terrace of which one overlooks the whole valley; and it would be difficult to find near St. Moritz a more interesting spot. We meet at every step parties of English ladies, looking like plantations of umbrellas with their covers on and surmounted by immense straw hats; then there are German ladies, massive as citadels, but not impregnable, asking nothing better than to surrender to the young exquisites, with the figure of cuirassiers, who accompany them; further on, lively Italian ladies parade themselves in dresses of the carnival, the colors outrageously striking and dazzling to the eyes; with up-turned skirts they cross the Inn on great mossy stones, leaping with the grace of birds, and smiling, to show, into the bargain, the whiteness of their teeth. All this crowd passing in procession before us is composed of men and women of every age and condition; some with the grave face of a waxen saint, others beaming with the satisfied smile of rich people; there are also invalids, who go along hobbling and limping, or who are drawn, in little carriages. Soon handsome façades, pierced with hundreds of windows, show themselves in the grand and severe setting of mountains and glaciers. It is St. Moritz-les-Bains. Here every house is a hotel, and, as every hotel is a little palace, we do not alight from the diligence; we go a little farther and a little higher, to St. Moritz-le-Village, which has a much more beautiful situation. It is at the top of a little hill, whose sides slope down to a pretty lake, fresh and green as a lawn. The eye reaches beyond Sils, the whole length of the valley, with its mountains like embattled ramparts, its lakes like a great row of pearls, and its glaciers showing their piles of snowy white against the azure depths of the horizon. St. Moritz is the center of the valley of the Upper Engadine, which extends to the length of eighteen or nineteen leagues, and which scarcely possesses a thousand inhabitants. Almost all the men emigrate to work for strangers, like their brothers, the mountaineers of Savoy and Auvergne, and do not return till they have amassed a sufficient fortune to allow them to build a little white house, with gilded window frames, and to die quietly in the spot where they were born.... Historians tell us that the first inhabitants of the Upper Engadine were Etruscans and Latins chased from Italy by the Gauls and Carthaginians, and taking refuge in these hidden altitudes. After the fall of the Empire, the inhabitants of the Engadine fell under the dominion of the Franks and Lombards, then the Dukes of Swabia; but the blood never mingled--the type remained Italian; black hair, the quick eye, the mobile countenance, the expressive features, and the supple figure. GENEVA[41] BY FRANCIS H. GRIBBLE Straddling the Rhone, where it issues from the bluest lake in the world, looking out upon green meadows and wooded hills, backed by the dark ridge of the Salève, with the "great white mountain" visible in the distance, Geneva has the advantage of an incomparable site; and it is, from a town surveyor's point of view, well built. It has wide thoroughfares, quays, and bridges; gorgeous public monuments and well-kept public gardens; handsome theaters and museums; long rows of palatial hotels; flourishing suburbs; two railway-stations, and a casino. But all this is merely the façade--all of it quite modern; hardly any of it more than half a century old. The real historical Geneva--the little of it that remains--is hidden away in the background, where not every tourist troubles to look for it. It is disappearing fast. Italian stonemasons are constantly engaged in driving lines through it. They have rebuilt, for instance, the old Corraterie, which is now the Regent Street of Geneva, famous for its confectioners' and booksellers' shops; they have destroyed, and are still destroying, other ancient slums, setting up white buildings of uniform ugliness in place of the picturesque but insanitary dwellings of the past. It is, no doubt, a very necessary reform, tho' one may think that it is being executed in too utilitarian a spirit. The old Geneva was malodorous, and its death-rate was high. They had more than one Great Plague there, and their Great Fires have always left some of the worst of their slums untouched. These could not be allowed to stand in an age which studies the science and practises the art of hygiene. Yet the traveler who wants to know what the old Geneva was really like must spend a morning or two rambling among them before they are pulled down. The old Geneva, like Jerusalem, was set upon a hill, and it is toward the top of the hill that the few buildings of historical interest are to be found. There is the cathedral--a striking object from a distance, tho' the interior is hideously bare. There is the Town Hall, in which, for the convenience of notables carried in litters, the upper stories were reached by an inclined plane instead of a staircase. There is Calvin's old Academy, bearing more than a slight resemblance to certain of the smaller colleges at Oxford and Cambridge. There, too, are to be seen a few mural tablets, indicating the residences of past celebrities. In such a house Rousseau was born; in such another house or in an older house, now demolished, on the same site--Calvin died. And toward these central points the steep and narrow, mean streets--in many cases streets of stairs--converge. As one plunges into these streets one seems to pass back from the twentieth century to the fifteenth, and need not exercise one's imagination very severely in order to picture the town as it appeared in the old days before the Reformation. The present writer may claim permission to borrow his own description from the pages of "Lake Geneva and its Literary Landmarks:" "Narrow streets predominated, tho' there were also a certain number of open spaces--notably at the markets, and in front of the Cathedral, where there was a traffic in those relics and rosaries which Geneva was presently to repudiate with virtuous indignation. One can form an idea of the appearance of the narrow streets by imagining the oldest houses that one has seen in Switzerland all closely packed together--houses at the most three stories high, with gabled roofs, ground-floors a step or two below the level of the roadway, and huge arched doors studded with great iron nails, and looking strong enough to resist a battering-ram. Above the doors, in the case of the better houses, were the painted escutcheons of the residents, and crests were also often blazoned on the window-panes. The shops, too, and more especially the inns, flaunted gaudy signboards with ingenious devices. The Good Vinegar, the Hot Knife, the Crowned Ox, were the names of some of these; their tariff is said to have been fivepence a day for man and beast.".... In the first half of the sixteenth century occurred the two events which shaped the future of Geneva; Reformation theology was accepted; political independence was achieved. Geneva it should be explained, was the fief of the duchy of Savoy; or so, at all events, the Dukes of Savoy maintained, tho' the citizens were of the contrary opinion. Their view was that they owed allegiance only to their Bishops, who were the Viceroys of the Holy Roman Emperor; and even that allegiance was limited by the terms of a Charter granted in the Holy Roman Emperor's name by Bishop Adhémar de Fabri. All went fairly well until the Bishops began to play into the hands of the Dukes; but then there was friction, which rapidly became acute. A revolutionary party--the Eidgenossen, or Confederates--was formed. There was a Declaration of Independence and a civil war. So long as the Genevans stood alone, the Duke was too strong for them. He marched into the town in the style of a conqueror, and wreaked his vengeance on as many of his enemies as he could catch. He cut off the head of Philibert Berthelier, to whom there stands a memorial on the island in the Rhone; he caused Jean Pecolat to be hung up in an absurd posture in his banqueting-hall, in order that he might mock at his discomfort while he dined; he executed, with or without preliminary torture, several less conspicuous patriots. Happily, however, some of the patriots--notably Besançon Hugues--got safely away, and succeeded in concluding treaties of alliance between Geneva and the cantons of Berne and Fribourg. The men of Fribourg marched to Geneva, and the Duke retired. The citizens passed a resolution that he should never be allowed to enter the town again, seeing that he "never came there without playing the citizens some dirty trick or other;" and, the more effectually to prevent him from coming, they pulled down their suburbs and repaired their ramparts, one member of every household being required to lend a hand for the purpose. Presently, owing to religious dissensions, Fribourg withdrew from the alliance. Berne, however, adhered to it, and, in due course, responded to the appeal for help by setting an army of seven thousand men in motion. The route of the seven thousand lay through the canton of Vaud, then a portion of the Duke's dominions, governed from the Castle of Chillon. Meeting with no resistance save at Yverdon, they annexed the territory, placing governors of their own in its various strongholds. The Governor of Chillon fled, leaving his garrison to surrender; and in its deepest dungeon was found the famous prisoner of Chillon, François de Bonivard. From that time forward Geneva was a free republic, owing allegiance to no higher power. THE CASTLE OF CHILLON[42] BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE Here I am, sitting at my window, overlooking Lake Leman. Castle Chillon, with its old conical towers, is silently pictured in the still waters. It has been a day of a thousand. We took a boat, with two oarsmen, and passed leisurely along the shores, under the cool, drooping branches of trees, to the castle, which is scarce a stone's throw from the hotel. We rowed along, close under the walls, to the ancient moat and drawbridge. There I picked a bunch of blue bells, "les clochettes," which were hanging their aerial pendants from every crevice--some blue, some white.... We rowed along, almost touching the castle rock, where the wall ascends perpendicularly, and the water is said to be a thousand feet deep. We passed the loopholes that illuminate the dungeon vaults, and an old arch, now walled up, where prisoners, after having been strangled, were thrown into the lake. Last evening we walked through the castle. An interesting Swiss woman, who has taught herself English for the benefit of her visitors, was our "cicerone." She seemed to have all the old Swiss vivacity of attachment for "liberté et patrie." She took us first into the dungeon, with the seven pillars, described by Byron. There was the pillar to which, for protecting the liberty of Geneva, Bonivard was chained. There the Duke of Savoy kept him for six years, confined by a chain four feet long. He could take only three steps, and the stone floor is deeply worn by the prints of those weary steps. Six years is so easily said; but to live them, alone, helpless, a man burning with all the fires of manhood, chained to that pillar of stone, and those three unvarying steps! Two thousand one hundred and ninety days rose and set the sun, while seed time and harvest, winter and summer, and the whole living world went on over his grave. For him no sun, no moon, no stars, no business, no friendship, no plans--nothing! The great millstone of life emptily grinding itself away! What a power of vitality was there in Bonivard, that he did not sink in lethargy, and forget himself to stone! But he did not; it is said that when the victorious Swiss army broke in to liberate him, they cried, "Bonivard, you are free!" "And Geneva?" "Geneva is free also!" You ought to have heard the enthusiasm with which our guide told this story! Near by are the relics of the cell of a companion of Bonivard, who made an ineffectual attempt to liberate him. On the wall are still seen sketches of saints and inscriptions by his hand. This man one day overcame his jailer, locked him in his cell, ran into the hall above, and threw himself from a window into the lake, struck a rock, and was killed instantly. One of the pillars in this vault is covered with names. I think it is Bonivard's pillar. There are the names of Byron, Hunt, Schiller, and many other celebrities. After we left the dungeons we went up into the judgment hall, where prisoners were tried, and then into the torture chamber. Here are the pulleys by which limbs are broken; the beam, all scorched with the irons by which feet were burned; the oven where the irons were heated; and there was the stone where they were sometimes laid to be strangled, after the torture. On that stone, our guide told us, two thousand Jews, men, women, and children, had been put to death. There was also, high up, a strong beam across, where criminals were hung; and a door, now walled up, by which they were thrown into the lake. I shivered. "'Twas cruel," she said; "'twas almost as cruel as your slavery in America."[43] Then she took us into a tower where was the "oubliette." Here the unfortunate prisoner was made to kneel before an image of the Virgin, while the treacherous floor, falling beneath him, precipitated him into a well forty feet deep, where he was left to die of broken limbs and starvation. Below this well was still another pit, filled with knives, into which, when they were disposed to a merciful hastening of the torture, they let him fall. The woman has been herself to the bottom of the first dungeon, and found there bones of victims. The second pit is now walled up.... To-night, after sunset, we rowed to Byron's "little isle," the only one in the lake. O, the unutterable beauty of these mountains--great, purple waves, as if they had been dashed up by a mighty tempest, crested with snow-like foam! this purple sky, and crescent moon, and the lake gleaming and shimmering, and twinkling stars, while far off up the sides of a snow-topped mountain a light shines like a star--some mountaineer's candle, I suppose. In the dark stillness we rode again over to Chillon, and paused under its walls. The frogs were croaking in the moat, and we lay rocking on the wave, and watching the dusky outlines of the towers and turrets. Then the spirit of the scene seemed to wrap me round like a cloak. Back to Geneva again. This lovely place will ever leave its image on my heart. Mountains embrace it. BY RAIL UP THE GORNER-GRAT[44] BY ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL KNOWLES To see the splendid array of snow peaks and glaciers which makes the sky line above Zermatt, one must leave the valley and walk or climb to a higher level. An ideal spot for this is the Hôtel Riffel Alp. Both the situation and the Hôtel outrival and surpass any similar places in the Alps. "Far from the madding crowd," on a little plateau bounded by pines and pastures stands the Hôtel, some two thousand feet above Zermatt and at an altitude of over 7,000 feet. The outlook is superb, the air splendid, the quiet most restful. Two little churches, the one for Roman Catholics, the other for members of the Church of England minister to the spiritual needs of the visitors and stamp religion upon a situation grand and sublime. Those who come here are lovers of the mountains who enjoy the open life. It is a place not so much for "les grands excursions" as for long walks, easy climbs and the beginnings of mountaineering. Many persons spend the entire day out, preferring to eat their déjeuner "informally," perched above some safe precipice, or on a glacier-bordered rock or in the shade of the cool woods, but there are always some who linger both morning and afternoon on the terrace with its far expanse of view, with the bright sunshine streaming down upon them. One great charm of the Riffel Alp is the proximity to the snow. An hour will bring one either to the Gorner Glacier or to the Findelen Glacier, while a somewhat longer time will lead to other stretches of snow and ice, where the climber may sit and survey the séracs and crevasses or walk about on the great frozen rivers. This is said to be beneficial to the nervous system as many physicians maintain that the glaciers contain a large amount of radium. Before essaying any of the longer or harder trips however, the traveler first of all generally goes to the Gorner-Grat, the rocky ridge that runs up from Zermatt to a point 10,290 feet high. Many people still walk up, but since the railroad was built, even those who feel it to be a matter of conscience to inveigh against any kind of progress which ministers to the pleasures of the masses, are found among those who prefer to ascend by electricity. The trip up is often made very amusing as among the crowds are always some, who knowing really nothing of the place, feel it incumbent upon themselves to point out all of the peaks, in a way quite discomposing to anybody familiar with the locality or versed in geography! Quite a luxurious little hôtel now surmounts the top of the Gorner-Grat. In it, about it and above it, on the walled terrace assembles a motley crowd every clear day in summer, clad in every variety of costume, conventional and unconventional.... An ordinary scene would be ruined by such a crowd, but not so the Gorner-Grat. The very majesty and magnificence of the view make one forget the vaporings of mere man, and the Glory of God, so overpoweringly revealed in those regions of perpetual snow, drives other impressions away. And if one wishes to be alone, it is easily possible by walking a little further along the ridge where some rock will shut out all sight of man and the wind will drive away the sound of voices. It is doubtful if there is any view comparable with that of the Gorner-Grat. There is what is called a "near view," and there is also what is known as a "distant view," for completely surrounded by snow peak and glacier, the eye passes from valley to summit, resting on that wonderful stretch of shining white which forms the skyline. To say that one can count dozens of glaciers, that he can see fifty summits, that Monte Rosa, the Lyskamm, the Twins, the Breithorn, the Matterhorn, the Dent Blanche, the Weisshorn, with many other mountains of the Valais and Oberland form a complete circle of snow peaks, may establish the geography of the place but it does not convey any but the faintest picture of the sublime grandeur of the scene.... An exciting experience for novices is to go with a guide from the Gorner-Grat to the Hohtäligrat and thence down to the Findelen Glacier. It looks dangerous but it is not really so, if the climber is careful, for altho there is a sheer descent on either side of the arête or ridge which leads from the one point to the other, the way is never narrow and only over easy rocks and snow. The Hohtäligrat is almost 11,000 feet in altitude and has a splendid survey of the sky line. One looks up at snow, one looks down at snow, one looks around at snow! From the beautiful summits of Monte Rosa, the eye passes in a complete circle, up and down, seeing in succession the white snow peaks, with their great glistening glaciers below, showing in strong contrast the occasional rock pyramids like the Matterhorn and the group around the Rothhorn. THROUGH THE ST. GOTHARD INTO ITALY[45] BY VICTOR TISSOT This is Geschenen, at the entrance of the great tunnel, the meeting place of the upper gorges of the Reuss, the valley of Urseren, of the Oberalp, and of the Furka. Geschenen has now the calm tranquility of old age. But during the nine years that it took to bore the great tunnel, what juvenile activity there was here, what feverish eagerness in this village, crowded, inundated, overflowed by workmen from Italy, from Tessin, from Germany and France! One would have thought that out of that dark hole, dug out in the mountain, they were bringing nuggets of gold. On all the roads nothing was to be seen but bands of workmen arriving, with miners' lamps hung to their old soldier's knapsacks. Nobody could tell how they were all to be lodged. One double bed was occupied in succession by twenty-four men in twenty-four hours. Some of the workmen set up their establishments in barns; in all directions movable canteens sprung up, built all awry and hardly holding together, and in mean sheds, doubtful, bad-looking places, the dishonest merchant hastened to sell his adulterated brandy.... The St. Gothard tunnel is about one and two-third miles longer than that of Mount Cenis, and more than three miles longer than that of Arlberg. While the train is passing with a dull rumbling sound under these gloomy vaults, let us explain how the great work of boring the Alps was accomplished. The mechanical work of perforation was begun simultaneously on the north and south sides of the mountain, working toward the same point, so as to meet toward the middle of the boring. The waters of the Reuss and the Tessin supplied the necessary motive power for working the screws attached to machinery for compressing the air. The borers applied to the rock the piston of a cylinder made to rotate with great rapidity by the pressure of air reduced to one-twentieth of its ordinary volume; then when they had made holes sufficiently deep, they withdrew the machines and charged the mines with dynamite. Immediately after the explosion, streams of wholesome air were liberated which dissipated the smoke; then the débris was cleared away, and the borers returned to their place. The same work was thus carried on day and night, for nine years. On the Geschenen side all went well; but on the other side, on the Italian slope, unforseen obstacles and difficulties had to be overcome. Instead of having to encounter the solid rock, they found themselves among a moving soil formed by the deposit of glaciers and broken by streams of water. Springs burst out, like the jet of a fountain, under the stroke of the pick, flooding and driving away the workmen. For twelve months they seemed to be in the midst of a lake. But nothing could damp the ardor of the contractor, Favre. His troubles were greater still when the undertaking had almost been suspended for want of money, when the workmen struck in 1875, and, when, two years later, the village of Arola was destroyed by fire. And how many times, again and again, the mason-work of the vaulted roof gave way and fell! Certain "bad places," as they were called, cost more than nine hundred pounds per yard. In the interior of the mountain the thermometer marked 86 degrees (Fahr.), but so long as the tunnel was still not completely bored, the workmen were sustained by a kind of fever, and made redoubled efforts. Discouragement and desertion did not appear among them till the goal was almost reached. The great tunnel passed, we find ourselves fairly in Italy. The mulberry trees, with silky white bark and delicate, transparent leaves; the chestnuts, with enormous trunks like cathedral columns; the vine, hanging to high trellises supported by granite pillars, its festoons as capricious as the feats of those who partake too freely of its fruits; the white tufty heads of the maize tossing in the breeze; all that strong and luxuriant vegetation through which waves of moist air are passing; those flowers of rare beauty, of a grace and brilliancy that belong only to privileged zones;--all this indicates a more robust and fertile soil, and a more fervid sky than those of the upper villages which we have just left. X ALPINE MOUNTAIN CLIMBING FIRST ATTEMPTS HALF A CENTURY AGO[46] BY EDWARD WHYMPER On the 23d of July, 1860, I started for my first tour of the Alps. At Zermatt I wandered in many directions, but the weather was bad and my work was much retarded. One day, after spending a long time in attempts to sketch near the Hörnli, and in futile endeavors to seize the forms of the peaks as they for a few seconds peered out from above the dense banks of woolly clouds, I determined not to return to Zermatt by the usual path, but to cross the Görner glacier to the Riffel hotel. After a rapid scramble over the polished rocks and snow-beds which skirt the base of the Theodule glacier, and wading through some of the streams which flow from it, at that time much swollen by the late rains, the first difficulty was arrived at, in the shape of a precipice about three hundred feet high. It seemed that there would be no difficulty in crossing the glacier if the cliff could be descended, but higher up and lower down the ice appeared, to my inexperienced eyes, to be impassable for a single person. The general contour of the cliff was nearly perpendicular, but it was a good deal broken up, and there was little difficulty in descending by zigzagging from one mass to another. At length there was a long slab, nearly smooth, fixt at an angle of about forty degrees between two wall-sided pieces of rock; nothing, except the glacier, could be seen below. It was a very awkward place, but being doubtful if return were possible, as I had been dropping from one ledge to another, I passed at length by lying across the slab, putting the shoulder stiffly against one side and the feet against the other, and gradually wriggling down, by first moving the legs and then the back. When the bottom of the slab was gained a friendly crack was seen, into which the point of the bâton could be stuck, and I dropt down to the next piece. It took a long time coming down that little bit of cliff, and for a few seconds it was satisfactory to see the ice close at hand. In another moment a second difficulty presented itself. The glacier swept round an angle of the cliff, and as the ice was not of the nature of treacle or thin putty, it kept away from the little bay on the edge of which I stood. We were not widely separated, but the edge of the ice was higher than the opposite edge of rock; and worse, the rock was covered with loose earth and stones which had fallen from above. All along the side of the cliff, as far as could be seen in both directions, the ice did not touch it, but there was this marginal crevasse seven feet wide and of unknown depth. All this was seen at a glance, and almost at once I concluded that I could not jump the crevass and began to try along the cliff lower down, but without success, for the ice rose higher and higher until at last farther progress was stopt by the cliffs becoming perfectly smooth. With an ax it would have been possible to cut up the side of the ice--without one, I saw there was no alternative but to return and face the jump. It was getting toward evening, and the solemn stillness of the High Alps was broken only by the sound of rushing water or of falling rocks. If the jump should be successful, well; if not, I fell into the horrible chasm, to be frozen in, or drowned in that gurgling, rushing water. Everything depended on that jump. Again I asked myself "Can it be done?" It must be. So, finding my stick was useless, I threw it and the sketch-book to the ice, and first retreating as far as possible, ran forward with all my might, took the leap, barely reached the other side, and fell awkwardly on my knees. At the same moment a shower of stones fell on the spot from which I had jumped. The glacier was crossed without further trouble, but the Riffel, which was then a very small building, was crammed with tourists, and could not take me in. As the way down was unknown to me, some of the people obligingly suggested getting a man at the chalets, otherwise the path would be certainly lost in the forest. On arriving at the chalets no man could be found, and the lights of Zermatt, shining through the trees, seemed to say, "Never mind a guide, but come along down; we'll show you the way"; so off I went through the forest, going straight toward them. The path was lost in a moment, and was never recovered. I was tript up by pine roots, I tumbled over rhododendron bushes, I fell over rocks. The night was pitch-dark, and after a time the lights of Zermatt became obscure or went out altogether. By a series of slides or falls, or evolutions more or less disagreeable, the descent through the forest was at length accomplished, but torrents of a formidable character had still to be passed before one could arrive at Zermatt. I felt my way about for hours, almost hopelessly, by an exhaustive process at last discovering a bridge, and about midnight, covered with dirt and scratches, reentered the inn which I had quitted in the morning.... I descended the valley, diverging from the path at Randa to mount the slopes of the Dom (the highest of the Mischabelhörner), in order to see the Weisshorn face to face. The latter mountain is the noblest in Switzerland, and from this direction it looks especially magnificent. On its north there is a large snowy plateau that feeds the glacier of which a portion is seen from Randa, and which on more than one occasion has destroyed that village. From the direction of the Dom--that is, immediately opposite--this Bies glacier seems to descend nearly vertically; it does not do so, altho it is very steep. Its size is much less than formerly and the lower portion, now divided into three tails, clings in a strange, weird-like manner to the cliffs, to which it seems scarcely possible that it can remain attached. Unwillingly I parted from the sight of this glorious mountain, and went down to Visp. Arriving once more in the Rhone valley, I proceeded to Viesch, and from thence ascended the Aeggischhorn, on which unpleasant eminence I lost my way in a fog, and my temper shortly afterward. Then, after crossing the Grimsel in a severe thunderstorm, I passed on to Brienz, Interlachen and Berne, and thence to Fribourg and Morat, Neuchâtel, Martigny and the St. Bernard. The massive walls of the convent were a welcome sight as I waded through the snow-beds near the summit of the pass, and pleasant also was the courteous salutation of the brother who bade me enter. Instead of descending to Aosta, I turned into the Val Pelline, in order to obtain views of the Dent d'Erin. The night had come on before Biona was gained, and I had to knock long and loud upon the door of the curé's house before it was opened. An old woman with querulous voice and with a large goître answered the summons, and demanded rather sharply what was wanted, but became pacific, almost good-natured, when a five-franc piece was held in her face and she heard that lodging and supper were required in exchange. My directions asserted that a passage existed from Prerayen, at the head of this valley, to Breuil, in the Val Tournanche, and the old woman, now convinced of my respectability, busied herself to find a guide. Presently she introduced a native picturesquely attired in high-peaked hat, braided jacket, scarlet waistcoat and indigo pantaloons, who agreed to take me to the village of Val Tournanche. We set off early on the next morning, and got to the summit of the pass without difficulty. It gave me my first experience of considerable slopes of hard, steep snow, and, like all beginners, I endeavored to prop myself up with my stick, and kept it outside, instead of holding it between myself and the slope, and leaning upon it, as should have been done. The man enlightened me, but he had, properly, a very small opinion of his employer, and it is probably on that account that, a few minutes after we had passed the summit, he said he would not go any farther and would return to Biona. All argument was useless; he stood still, and to everything that was said answered nothing but that he would go back. Being rather nervous about descending some long snow-slopes which still intervened between us and the head of the valley, I offered more pay, and he went on a little way. Presently there were some cliffs, down which we had to scramble. He called to me to stop, then shouted that he would go back, and beckoned to me to come up. On the contrary, I waited for him to come down, but instead of doing so, in a second or two he turned round, clambered deliberately up the cliff and vanished. I supposed it was only a ruse to extort offers of more money, and waited for half an hour, but he did not appear again. This was rather embarrassing, for he carried off my knapsack. The choice of action lay between chasing him and going on to Breuil, risking the loss of my knapsack. I chose the latter course, and got to Breuil the same evening. The landlord of the inn, suspicious of a person entirely innocent of luggage, was doubtful if he could admit me, and eventually thrust me into a kind of loft, which was already occupied by guides and by hay. In later years we became good friends, and he did not hesitate to give credit and even to advance considerable sums. My sketches from Breuil were made under difficulties; my materials had been carried off, nothing better than fine sugar-paper could be obtained, and the pencils seemed to contain more silica than plumbago. However, they were made, and the pass was again crossed, this time alone. By the following evening the old woman of Biona again produced the faithless guide. The knapsack was recovered after the lapse of several hours, and then I poured forth all the terms of abuse and reproach of which I was master. The man smiled when I called him a liar, and shrugged his shoulders when referred to as a thief, but drew his knife when spoken of as a pig. The following night was spent at Cormayeur, and the day after I crossed the Col Ferrex to Orsières, and on the next the Tête Noir to Chamounix. The Emperor Napoleon arrived the same day, and access to the Mer de Glace was refused to tourists; but, by scrambling along the Plan des Aiguilles, I managed to outwit the guards, and to arrive at the Montanvert as the imperial party was leaving, failing to get to the Jardin the same afternoon, but very nearly succeeding in breaking a leg by dislodging great rocks on the moraine of the glacier. From Chamounix I went to Geneva, and thence by the Mont Cenis to Turin and to the Vaudois valleys. A long and weary day had ended when Paesana was reached. The next morning I passed the little lakes which are the sources of the Po, on my way into France. The weather was stormy, and misinterpreting the dialect of some natives--who in reality pointed out the right way--I missed the track, and found myself under the cliffs of Monte Viso. A gap that was occasionally seen in the ridge connecting it with the mountains to the east tempted me up, and after a battle with a snow-slope of excessive steepness, I reached the summit. The scene was extraordinary, and, in my experience, unique. To the north there was not a particle of mist, and the violent wind coming from that direction blew one back staggering. But on the side of Italy the valleys were completely filled with dense masses of cloud to a certain level; and here--where they felt the influence of the wind--they were cut off as level as the top of a table, the ridges appearing above them. I raced down to Abries, and went on through the gorge of the Guil to Mont Dauphin. The next day found me at La Bessée, at the junction of the Val Louise with the valley of the Durance, in full view of Mont Pelvoux. The same night I slept at Briançon, intending to take the courier on the following day to Grenoble, but all places had been secured several days beforehand, so I set out at two P.M. on the next day for a seventy-mile walk. The weather was again bad, and on the summit of the Col de Lautaret I was forced to seek shelter in the wretched little hospice. It was filled with workmen who were employed on the road, and with noxious vapors which proceeded from them. The inclemency of the weather was preferable to the inhospitality of the interior. Outside, it was disagreeable, but grand--inside, it was disagreeable and mean. The walk was continued under a deluge of rain, and I felt the way down, so intense was the darkness, to the village of La Grave, where the people of the inn detained me forcibly. It was perhaps fortunate that they did so, for during that night blocks of rock fell at several places from the cliffs on to the road with such force that they made large holes in the macadam, which looked as if there had been explosions of gunpowder. I resumed the walk at half-past five next morning, and proceeded, under steady rain, through Bourg d'Oysans to Grenoble, arriving at the latter place soon after seven P.M., having accomplished the entire distance from Briançon in about eighteen hours of actual walking. This was the end of the Alpine portion of my tour of 1860, on which I was introduced to the great peaks, and acquired the passion for mountain-scrambling. FIRST TO THE TOP OF THE MATTERHORN[47] BY EDWARD WHYMPER We started from Zermatt on the 13th of July at half-past five, on a brilliant and perfectly cloudless morning. We were eight in number--Croz, old Peter and his two sons, Lord Francis Douglas, Hadow, Hudson and I. To ensure steady motion, one tourist and one native walked together. The youngest Taugwalder fell to my share, and the lad marched well, proud to be on the expedition and happy to show his powers. The wine-bags also fell to my lot to carry, and throughout the day, after each drink, I replenished them secretly with water, so that at the next halt they were found fuller than before! This was considered a good omen, and little short of miraculous. On the first day we did not intend to ascend to any great height, and we mounted, accordingly, very leisurely, picked up the things which were left in the chapel at the Schwarzsee at 8:20, and proceeded thence along the ridge connecting the Hörnli with the Matterhorn. At half-past eleven we arrived at the base of the actual peak, then quitted the ridge and clambered round some ledges on to the eastern face. We were now fairly upon the mountain, and were astonished to find that places which from the Riffel, or even from the Furggengletscher, looked entirely impracticable, were so easy that we could run about. Before twelve o'clock we had found a good position for the tent, at a height of eleven thousand feet. Croz and young Peter went on to see what was above, in order to save time on the following morning. They cut across the heads of the snow-slopes which descended toward the Furggengletscher, and disappeared round a corner, but shortly afterward we saw them high up on the face, moving quickly. We others made a solid platform for the tent in a well-protected spot, and then watched eagerly for the return of the men. The stones which they upset told that they were very high, and we supposed that the way must be easy. At length, just before 3 P.M., we saw them coming down, evidently much excited. "What are they saying, Peter?" "Gentlemen, they say it is no good." But when they came near we heard a different story: "Nothing but what was good--not a difficulty, not a single difficulty! We could have gone to the summit and returned to-day easily!" We passed the remaining hours of daylight--some basking in the sunshine, some sketching or collecting--and when the sun went down, giving, as it departed, a glorious promise for the morrow, we returned to the tent to arrange for the night. Hudson made tea, I coffee, and we then retired each one to his blanket-bag, the Taugwalders, Lord Francis Douglas and myself occupying the tent, the others remaining, by preference, outside. Long after dusk the cliffs above echoed with our laughter and with the songs of the guides, for we were happy that night in camp, and feared no evil. We assembled together outside the tent before dawn on the morning of the 14th, and started directly it was light enough to move. Young Peter came on with us as a guide, and his brother returned to Zermatt. We followed the route which had been taken on the previous day, and in a few minutes turned the rib which had intercepted the view of the eastern face from our tent platform. The whole of this great slope was now revealed, rising for three thousand feet like a huge natural staircase. Some parts were more and others were less easy, but we were not once brought to a halt by any serious impediment, for when an obstruction was met in front it could always be turned to the right or to the left. For the greater part of the way there was indeed no occasion for the rope, and sometimes Hudson led, sometimes myself. At 6:20 we had attained a height of twelve thousand eight hundred feet, and halted for half an hour; we then continued the ascent without a break until 9:55, when we stopt for fifty minutes at a height of fourteen thousand feet. Twice we struck the northeastern ridge, and followed it for some little distance--to no advantage, for it was usually more rotten and steep, and always more difficult, than the face. Still, we kept near to it, lest stones perchance might fall. We had now arrived at the foot of that part which, from the Riffelberg or from Zermatt, seems perpendicular or overhanging, and could no longer continue upon the eastern side. For a little distance we ascended by snow upon the arête--that is, the ridge--descending toward Zermatt, and then by common consent turned over to the right, or to the northern side. Before doing so we made a change in the order of ascent. Croz went first, I followed, Hudson came third; Hadow and old Peter were last. "Now," said Croz as he led off--"now for something altogether different." The work became difficult, and required caution. In some places there was little to hold, and it was desirable that those should be in front who were least likely to slip. The general slope of the mountain at this part was less than forty degrees, and snow had accumulated in, and had filled up, the interstices of the rock-face, leaving only occasional fragments projecting here and there. These were at times covered with a thin film of ice, produced from the melting and refreezing of the snow. It was the counterpart, on a small scale, of the upper seven hundred feet of the Pointe des Écrins; only there was this material difference--the face of the Écrins was about, or exceeded, an angle of fifty degrees, and the Matterhorn face was less than forty degrees. It was a place over which any fair mountaineers might pass in safety, and Mr. Hudson ascended this part, and, as far as I know, the entire mountain, without having the slightest assistance rendered to him upon any occasion. Sometimes, after I had taken a hand from Croz or received a pull, I turned to offer the same to Hudson, but he invariably declined, saying it was not necessary. Mr. Hadow, however, was not accustomed to this kind of work, and required continual assistance. It is only fair to say that the difficulty which he found at this part arose simply and entirely from want of experience. This solitary difficult part was of no great extent. We bore away over it at first nearly horizontally, for a distance of about four hundred feet, then ascended directly toward the summit for about sixty feet, and then doubled back to the ridge which descends toward Zermatt. A long stride round a rather awkward corner brought us to snow once more. The last doubt vanished! The Matterhorn was ours! Nothing but two hundred feet of easy snow remained to be surmounted!.... The summit of the Matterhorn was formed of a rudely level ridge, about three hundred and fifty feet long. The day was one of those superlatively calm and clear ones which usually precede bad weather. The atmosphere was perfectly still and free from clouds or vapors. Mountains fifty--nay, a hundred--miles off looked sharp and near. All their details--ridge and crag, snow and glacier--stood out with faultless definition. Pleasant thoughts of happy days in bygone years came up unbidden as we recognized the old, familiar forms. All were revealed--not one of the principal peaks of the Alps was hidden. I see them clearly now--the great inner circles of giants, backed by the ranges, chains and "massifs." First came the Dent Blanche, hoary and grand; the Gabelhorn and pointed Rothborn, and then the peerless Weisshorn; the towering Mischabelhörner flanked by the Allaleinhorn, Strahlhorn and Rimpfischhorn; then Monte Rosa--with its many Spitzen--the Lyskamm and the Breithorn. Behind were the Bernese Oberland, governed by the Finsteraarhorn, the Simplon and St. Gothard groups, the Disgrazia and the Orteler. Toward the south we looked down to Chivasso on the plain of Piedmont, and far beyond. The Viso--one hundred miles away--seemed close upon us; the Maritime Alps--one hundred and thirty miles distant--were free from haze. Then came into view my first love--the Pelvoux; the Écrins and the Meije; the clusters of the Graians; and lastly, in the west, gorgeous in the full sunlight, rose the monarch of all--Mont Blanc. Ten thousand feet beneath us were the green fields of Zermatt, dotted with chalets, from which blue smoke rose lazily. Eight thousand feet below, on the other side, were the pastures of Breuil. There were forests black and gloomy, and meadows bright and lively; bounding waterfalls and tranquil lakes; fertile lands and savage wastes: sunny plains and frigid plateaux. There were the most rugged forms and the most graceful outlines--bold, perpendicular cliffs and gentle, undulating slopes; rocky mountains and snowy mountains, somber and solemn or glittering and white, with walls, turrets, pinnacles, pyramids, domes, cones and spires! There was every combination that the world can give, and every contrast that the heart could desire. We remained on the summit for one hour-- One crowded hour of glorious life. THE LORD FRANCIS DOUGLAS TRAGEDY[48] BY EDWARD WHYMPER We began to prepare for the descent. Hudson and I again consulted as to the best and safest arrangement of the party. We agreed that it would be best for Croz to go first, and Hadow second; Hudson, who was almost equal to a guide in sureness of foot, wished to be third; Lord Francis Douglas was placed next, and old Peter, the strongest of the remainder, after him. I suggested to Hudson that we should attach a rope to the rocks on our arrival at the difficult bit, and hold it as we descended, as an additional protection. He approved the idea, but it was not definitely settled that it should be done. The party was being arranged in the above order while I was sketching the summit, and they had finished, and were waiting for me to be tied in line, when some one remembered that our names had not been left in a bottle. They requested me to write them down, and moved off while it was being done. A few minutes afterward I tied myself to young Peter, ran down after the others, and caught them just as they were commencing the descent of the difficult part. Great care was being taken. Only one man was moving at a time; when he was firmly planted, the next advanced, and so on. They had not, however, attached the additional rope to rocks, and nothing was said about it. The suggestion was not made for my own sake, and I am not sure that it even occurred to me again. For some little distance we followed the others, detached from them, and should have continued so had not Lord Francis Douglas asked me, about 3 P.M., to tie on to old Peter, as he feared, he said, that Taugwalder would not be able to hold his ground if a slip occurred. A few minutes later a sharp-eyed lad ran into the Monte Rosa hotel to Seiler,[49] saying that he had seen an avalanche fall from the summit of the Matterhorn on to the Matterhorngletscher. The boy was reproved for telling such idle stories; he was right, nevertheless, and this was what he saw. Michael Croz had laid aside his ax, and in order to give Mr. Hadow greater security was absolutely taking hold of his legs and putting his feet, one by one, into their proper positions. As far as I know, no one was actually descending. I can not speak with certainty, because the two leading men were partially hidden from my sight by an intervening mass of rock, but it is my belief, from the movements of their shoulders, that Croz, having done as I have said, was in the act of turning round to go down a step or two himself; at the moment Mr. Hadow slipt, fell against him and knocked him over. I heard one startled exclamation from Croz, then saw him and Mr. Hadow flying downward; in another moment Hudson was dragged from his steps, and Lord Francis Douglas immediately after him. All this was the work of a moment. Immediately we heard Croz's exclamation, old Peter and I planted ourselves as firmly as the rocks would permit; the rope was taut between us, and the jerk came on us both as one man. We held, but the rope broke midway between Taugwalder and Lord Francis Douglas. For a few seconds we saw our unfortunate companions sliding downward on their backs, and spreading out their hands, endeavoring to save themselves. They passed from our sight uninjured, disappeared one by one, and fell from precipice to precipice on to the Matterhorngletscher below, a distance of nearly four thousand feet in height. From the moment the rope broke it was impossible to help them. So perished our comrades! For the space of half an hour we remained on the spot without moving a single step. The two men, paralyzed by terror, cried like infants, and trembled in such a manner as to threaten us with the fate of the others. Old Peter rent the air with exclamations of "Chamounix!--oh, what will Chamounix say?" He meant, who would believe that Croz could fall? The young man did nothing but scream or sob, "We are lost! we are lost!" Fixt between the two, I could move neither up nor down. I begged young Peter to descend, but he dared not. Unless he did, we could not advance. Old Peter became alive to the danger, and swelled the cry, "We are lost! we are lost!" The father's fear was natural--he trembled for his son; the young man's fear was cowardly--he thought of self alone. At last old Peter summoned up courage, and changed his position to a rock to which he could fix the rope; the young man then descended, and we all stood together. Immediately we did so, I asked for the rope which had given way, and found, to my surprise--indeed, to my horror--that it was the weakest of the three ropes. It was not brought, and should not have been employed, for the purpose for which it was used. It was old rope, and, compared with the others, was feeble. It was intended as a reserve, in case we had to leave much rope behind attached to rocks. I saw at once that a serious question was involved, and made them give me the end. It had broken in mid-air, and it did not appear to have sustained previous injury. For more than two hours afterward I thought almost every moment that the next would be my last, for the Taugwalders, utterly unnerved, were not only incapable of giving assistance, but were in such a state that a slip might have been expected from them at any moment. After a time we were able to do that which should have been done at first, and fixt rope to firm rocks, in addition to being tied together. These ropes were cut from time to time, and were left behind. Even with their assurance the men were afraid to proceed, and several times old Peter turned with ashy face and faltering limbs, and said with terrible emphasis, "I can not!" About 6 P.M. we arrived at the snow upon, the ridge descending toward Zermatt, and all peril was over. We frequently looked, but in vain, for traces of our unfortunate companions; we bent over the ridge and cried to them, but no sound returned. Convinced at last that they were within neither sight nor hearing, we ceased from our useless efforts, and, too cast down for speech, silently gathered up our things, preparatory to continuing the descent. When lo! a mighty arch appeared, rising above the Lyskamm high into the sky. Pale, colorless and noiseless, but perfectly sharp and defined, except where it was lost in the clouds, this unearthly apparition seemed like a vision from another world, and almost appalled we watched with amazement the gradual development of two vast crosses, one on either side. If the Taugwalders had not been the first to perceive it, I should have doubted my senses. They thought it had some connection with the accident, and I, after a while, that it might bear some relations to ourselves. But our movements had no effect upon it. The spectral forms remained motionless. It was a fearful and wonderful sight, unique in my experience, and impressive beyond description, at such a moment.... Night fell, and for an hour the descent was continued in the darkness. At half-past nine a resting-place was found, and upon a wretched slab, barely large enough to hold three, we passed six miserable hours. At daybreak the descent was resumed, and from the Hornli ridge we ran down to the chalets of Buhl and on to Zermatt. Seiler met me at his door, and followed in silence to my room: "What is the matter?" "The Taugwalders and I have returned." He did not need more, and burst into tears, but lost no time in lamentations, and set to work to arouse the village. Ere long a score of men had started to ascend the Hohlicht heights, above Kalbermatt and Z'Mutt, which commanded the plateau of the Matterhorngletscher. They returned after six hours, and reported that they had seen the bodies lying motionless on the snow. This was on Saturday, and they proposed that we should leave on Sunday evening, so as to arrive upon the plateau at daybreak on Monday. We started at 2 A.M. on Sunday, the 16th, and followed the route that we had taken on the previous Thursday as far as the Hornli. From thence we went down to the right of the ridge, and mounted through the "séracs" of the Matterhorngletscher. By 8:30 we had got to the plateau at the top of the glacier, and within sight of the corner in which we knew my companions must be. As we saw one weather-beaten man after another raise the telescope, turn deadly pale and pass it on without a word to the next, we knew that all hope was gone. We approached. They had fallen below as they had fallen above--Croz a little in advance, Hadow near him, and Hudson behind, but of Lord Francis Douglas we could see nothing.[50] We left them where they fell, buried in snow at the base of the grandest cliff of the most majestic mountain of the Alps. AN ASCENT OF MONTE ROSA[51] BY JOHN TYNDALL On Monday, the 9th of August, we reached the Riffel, and, by good fortune on the evening of the same day, my guide's brother, the well-known Ulrich Lauener, also arrived at the hotel on his return from Monte Rosa. From him we obtained all the information possible respecting the ascent, and he kindly agreed to accompany us a little way the next morning, to put us on the right track. At three A.M. the door of my bedroom opened, and Christian Lauener announced to me that the weather was sufficiently good to justify an attempt. The stars were shining overhead; but Ulrich afterward drew our attention to some heavy clouds which clung to the mountains on the other side of the valley of the Visp; remarking that the weather might continue fair throughout the day, but that these clouds were ominous. At four o'clock we were on our way, by which time a gray stratus cloud had drawn itself across the neck of the Matterhorn, and soon afterward another of the same nature encircled his waist. We proceeded past the Riffelhorn to the ridge above the Görner Glacier, from which Monte Rosa was visible from top to bottom, and where an animated conversation in Swiss dialect commenced. Ulrich described the slopes, passes, and precipices, which were to guide us; and Christian demanded explanations, until he was finally able to declare to me that his knowledge was sufficient. We then bade Ulrich good-by, and went forward. All was clear about Monte Rosa, and the yellow morning light shone brightly upon its uppermost snows. Beside the Queen of the Alps was the huge mass of the Lyskamm, with a saddle stretching from the one to the other; next to the Lyskamm came two white, rounded mounds, smooth and pure, the Twins Castor and Pollux, and further to the right again the broad, brown flank of the Breithorn. Behind us Mont Cervin[52] gathered the clouds more thickly round him, until finally his grand obelisk was totally hidden. We went along the mountain side for a time, and then descended to the glacier. The surface was hard frozen, and the ice crunched loudly under our feet. There was a hollowness and volume in the sound which require explanation; and this, I think, is furnished by the remarks of Sir John Herschel on those hollow sounds at the Solfaterra, near Naples, from which travelers have inferred the existence of cavities within the mountain. At the place where these sounds are heard the earth is friable, and, when struck, the concussion is reinforced and lengthened by the partial echoes from the surfaces of the fragments. The conditions for a similar effect exist upon the glacier, for the ice is disintegrated to a certain depth, and from the innumerable places of rupture little reverberations are sent, which give a length and hollowness to the sound produced by the crushing of the fragments on the surface. We looked to the sky at intervals, and once a meteor slid across it, leaving a train of sparks behind. The blue firmament, from which the stars shone down so brightly when we rose, was more and more invaded by clouds, which advanced upon us from our rear, while before us the solemn heights of Monte Rosa were bathed in rich yellow sunlight. As the day advanced the radiance crept down toward the valleys; but still those stealthy clouds advanced like a besieging army, taking deliberate possession of the summits, one after another, while gray skirmishers moved through the air above us. The play of light and shadow upon Monte Rosa was at times beautiful, bars of gloom and zones of glory shifting and alternating from top to bottom of the mountain. At five o'clock a gray cloud alighted on the shoulder of the Lyskamm, which had hitherto been warmed by the lovely yellow light. Soon afterward we reached the foot of Monte Rosa, and passed from the glacier to a slope of rocks, whose rounded forms and furrowed surfaces showed that the ice of former ages had moved over them; the granite was now coated with lichens, and between the bosses where mold could rest were patches of tender moss. As we ascended a peal to the right announced the descent of an avalanche from the Twins; it came heralded by clouds of ice-dust, which resembled the sphered masses of condensed vapor which issue from a locomotive. A gentle snow-slope brought us to the base of a precipice of brown rocks, round which we wound; the snow was in excellent order, and the chasms were so firmly bridged by the frozen mass that no caution was necessary in crossing them. Surmounting a weathered cliff to our left, we paused upon the summit to look upon the scene around us. The snow gliding insensibly from the mountains, or discharged in avalanches from the precipices which it overhung, filled the higher valleys with pure white glaciers, which were rifted and broken here and there, exposing chasms and precipices from which gleamed the delicate blue of the half-formed ice. Sometimes, however, the "névés" spread over wide spaces without a rupture or wrinkle to break the smoothness of the superficial snow. The sky was now, for the most part, overcast, but through the residual blue spaces the sun at intervals poured light over the rounded bosses of the mountain. At half-past seven o'clock we reached another precipice of rock, to the left of which our route lay, and here Lauener proposed to have some refreshment; after which we went on again. The clouds spread more and more, leaving at length mere specks and patches of blue between them. Passing some high peaks, formed by the dislocation of the ice, we came to a place where the "névé" was rent by crevasses, on the walls of which the stratification, due to successive snowfalls, was thrown with great beauty and definition. Between two of these fissures our way now lay; the wall of one of them was hollowed out longitudinally midway down, thus forming a roof above and a ledge below, and from roof to ledge stretched a railing of cylindrical icicles, as if intended to bolt them together. A cloud now for the first time touched the summit of Monte Rosa, and sought to cling to it, but in a minute it dispersed in shattered fragments, as if dashed to pieces for its presumption. The mountain remained for a time clear and triumphant, but the triumph was shortlived; like suitors that will not be repelled, the dusky vapors came; repulse after repulse took place, and the sunlight gushed down upon the heights, but it was manifest that the clouds gained ground in the conflict. Until about a quarter-past nine o'clock our work was mere child's play, a pleasant morning stroll along the flanks of the mountain; but steeper slopes now rose above us, which called for more energy, and more care in the fixing of the feet. Looked at from below, some of these slopes appeared precipitous; but we were too well acquainted with the effect of fore-shortening to let this daunt us. At each step we dug our batons into the deep snow. When first driven in, the batons [53] "dipt" from us, but were brought, as we walked forward, to the vertical, and finally beyond it at the other side. The snow was thus forced aside, a rubbing of the staff against it, and of the snow-particles against each other, being the consequence. We had thus perpetual rupture and regelation; while the little sounds consequent upon rupture reinforced by the partial echoes from the surfaces of the granules, were blended together to a note resembling the lowing of cows. Hitherto I had paused at intervals to make notes, or to take an angle; but these operations now ceased, not from want of time, but from pure dislike; for when the eye has to act the part of a sentinel who feels that at any moment the enemy may be upon him; when the body must be balanced with precision, and legs and arms, besides performing actual labor, must be kept in readiness for possible contingencies; above all, when you feel that your safety depends upon yourself alone, and that, if your footing gives way, there is no strong arm behind ready to be thrown between you and destruction; under such circumstances the relish for writing ceases, and you are willing to hand over your impressions to the safekeeping of memory. Prom the vast boss which constitutes the lower portion of Monte Rosa cliffy edges run upward to the summit. Were the snow removed from these we should, I doubt not, see them as toothed or serrated crags, justifying the term "kamm," or "comb," applied to such edges by the Germans. Our way now lay along such a "kamm," the cliffs of which had, however, caught the snow, and been completely covered by it, forming an edge like the ridge of a house-roof, which sloped steeply upward. On the Lyskamm side of the edge there was no footing, and if a human body fell over here, it would probably pass through a vertical space of some thousands of feet, falling or rolling, before coming to rest. On the other side the snow-slope was less steep, but excessively perilous-looking, and intersected by precipices of ice. Dense clouds now enveloped us, and made our position far uglier than if it had been fairly illuminated. The valley below us was one vast cauldron, filled with precipitated vapor, which came seething at times up the sides of the mountain. Sometimes this fog would clear away, and the light would gleam from the dislocated glaciers. My guide continually admonished me to make my footing sure, and to fix at each step my staff firmly in the consolidated snow. At one place, for a short steep ascent, the slope became hard ice, and our position a very ticklish one. We hewed our steps as we moved upward, but were soon glad to deviate from the ice to a position scarcely less awkward. The wind had so acted upon the snow as to fold it over the edge of the kamm, thus causing it to form a kind of cornice, which overhung the precipice on the Lyskamm side of the mountain. This cornice now bore our weight; its snow had become somewhat firm, but it was yielding enough to permit the feet to sink in it a little way, and thus secure us at least against the danger of slipping. Here, also, at each step we drove our batons firmly into the snow, availing ourselves of whatever help they could render. Once, while thus securing my anchorage, the handle of my hatchet went right through the cornice on which we stood, and, on withdrawing it, I could see through the aperture into the cloud-crammed gulf below. We continued ascending until we reached a rock protruding from the snow, and here we halted for a few minutes. Lauener looked upward through the fog. "According to all description," he observed, "this ought to be the last kamm of the mountain; but in this obscurity we can see nothing." Snow began to fall, and we recommenced our journey, quitting the rocks and climbing again along the edge. Another hour brought us to a crest of cliffs, at which, to our comfort, the kamm appeared to cease, and other climbing qualities were demanded of us. On the Lyskamm side, as I have said, rescue would be out of the question, should the climber go over the edge. On the other side of the edge rescue seemed possible, tho' the slope, as stated already, was most dangerously steep. I now asked Lauener what he would have done, supposing my footing to have failed on the latter slope. He did not seem to like the question, but said that he should have considered well for a moment and then have sprung after me; but he exhorted me to drive all such thoughts away. I laughed at him, and this did more to set his mind at rest than any formal profession of courage could have done. We were now among rocks; we climbed cliffs and descended them, and advanced sometimes with our feet on narrow ledges, holding tightly on to other ledges by our fingers; sometimes, cautiously balanced, we moved along edges of rock with precipices on both sides. Once, in getting round a crag, Lauener shook a book from his pocket; it was arrested by a rock about sixty or eighty feet below us. He wished to regain it, but I offered to supply its place, if he thought the descent too dangerous. He said he would make the trial, and parted from me. I thought it useless to remain idle. A cleft was before me, through which I must pass; so pressing my knees and back against its opposite sides, I gradually worked myself to the top. I descended the other face of the rock, and then, through a second ragged fissure, to the summit of another pinnacle. The highest point of the mountain was now at hand, separated from me merely by a short saddle, carved by weathering out the crest of the mountain. I could hear Lauener clattering after me, through the rocks behind. I dropt down upon the saddle, crossed it, climbed the opposite cliff, and "die höchste Spitze" of Monte Rosa was won. Lauener joined me immediately, and we mutually congratulated each other on the success of the ascent. The residue of the bread and meat was produced, and a bottle of tea was also appealed to. Mixed with a little cognac, Lauener declared that he had never tasted anything like it. Snow fell thickly at intervals, and the obscurity was very great; occasionally this would lighten and permit the sun to shed a ghastly dilute light upon us through the gleaming vapor. I put my boiling-water apparatus in order, and fixt it in a corner behind a ledge; the shelter was, however, insufficient, so I placed my hat above the vessel. The boiling-point was 184.92 deg. Fahr., the ledge on which the instrument stood being five feet below the highest point of the mountain. The ascent from the Riffel Hotel occupied us about seven hours, nearly two of which were spent upon the kämm and crest. Neither of us felt in the least degree fatigued; I, indeed, felt so fresh, that had another Monte Rosa been planted on the first, I should have continued the climb without hesitation, and with strong hopes of reaching the top. I experienced no trace of mountain sickness, lassitude, shortness of breath, heart-beat, or headache; nevertheless the summit of Monte Rosa is 15,284 feet high, being less than 500 feet lower than Mont Blanc. It is, I think, perfectly certain, that the rarefaction of the air at this height is not sufficient of itself to produce the symptoms referred to; physical exertion must be superadded. MONT BLANC ASCENDED, HUXLEY GOING PART WAY[54] BY JOHN TYNDALL The way for a time was excessively rough,[55] our route being overspread with the fragments of peaks which had once reared themselves to our left, but which frost and lightning had shaken to pieces, and poured in granite avalanches down the mountain. We were sometimes among huge, angular boulders, and sometimes amid lighter shingle, which gave way at every step, thus forcing us to shift our footing incessantly. Escaping from these we crossed the succession of secondary glaciers which lie at the feet of the Aiguilles, and, having secured firewood, found ourselves, after some hours of hard work, at the Pierre l'Echelle. Here we were furnished with leggings of coarse woolen cloth to keep out the snow; they were tied under the knees and quite tightly again over the insteps, so that the legs were effectually protected. We had some refreshment, possest ourselves of the ladder, and entered upon the glacier. The ice was excessively fissured; we crossed crevasses and crept round slippery ridges, cutting steps in the ice wherever climbing was necessary. This rendered our progress very slow. Once, with the intention of lending a helping hand, I stept forward upon a block of granite which happened to be poised like a rocking stone upon the ice, tho' I did not know it; it treacherously turned under me; I fell, but my hands were in instant requisition, and I escaped with a bruise, from which, however, the blood oozed angrily. We found the ladder necessary in crossing some of the chasms, the iron spikes at its end being firmly driven into the ice at one side, while the other end rested on the opposite side of the fissure. The middle portion of the glacier was not difficult. Mounds of ice rose beside us right and left, which were sometimes split into high towers and gaunt-looking pyramids, while the space between was unbroken. Twenty minutes' walking brought us again to a fissured portion of the glacier, and here our porter left the ladder on the ice behind him. For some time I was not aware of this, but we were soon fronted by a chasm to pass which we were in consequence compelled to make a long and dangerous circuit amid crests of crumbling ice. This accomplished, we hoped that no repetition of the process would occur, but we speedily came to a second fissure, where it was necessary to step from a projecting end of ice to a mass of soft snow which overhung the opposite side. Simond could reach this snow with his long-handled ax; he beat it down to give it rigidity, but it was exceedingly tender, and as he worked at it he continued to express his fears that it would not bear us. I was the lightest of the party, and therefore tested the passage first; being partially lifted by Simond on the end of his ax, I crossed the fissure, obtained some anchorage at the other side, and helped the others over. We afterward ascended until another chasm, deeper and wider than any we had hitherto encountered, arrested us. We walked alongside of it in search of a snow-bridge, which we at length found, but the keystone of the arch had, unfortunately, given way, leaving projecting eaves of snow at both sides, between which we could look into the gulf, till the gloom of its deeper portions cut the vision short. Both sides of the crevasse were sounded, but no sure footing was obtained; the snow was beaten and carefully trodden down as near to the edge as possible, but it finally broke away from the foot and fell into the chasm. One of our porters was short-legged and a bad iceman; the other was a daring fellow, and he now threw the knapsack from his shoulders, came to the edge of the crevasse, looked into it, but drew back again. After a pause he repeated the act, testing the snow with his feet and staff. I looked at the man as he stood beside the chasm manifestly undecided as to whether he should take the step upon which his life would hang, and thought it advisable to put a stop to such perilous play. I accordingly interposed, the man withdrew from the crevasse, and he and Simond descended to fetch the ladder. While they were away Huxley sat down upon the ice, with an expression of fatigue stamped upon his countenance; the spirit and the muscles were evidently at war, and the resolute will mixed itself strangely with the sense of peril and feeling of exhaustion. He had been only two days with us, and, tho' his strength is great, he had had no opportunity of hardening himself by previous exercise upon the ice for the task which he had undertaken. The ladder now arrived, and we crossed the crevasse. I was intentionally the last of the party, Huxley being immediately in front of me. The determination of the man disguised his real condition from everybody but himself, but I saw that the exhausting journey over the boulders and débris had been too much for his London limbs. Converting my waterproof haversack into a cushion, I made him sit down upon it at intervals, and by thus breaking the steep ascent into short stages we reached the cabin of the Grands Mulets together. Here I spread a rug on the boards, and, placing my bag for a pillow, he lay down, and after an hour's profound sleep he rose refreshed and well; but still he thought it wise not to attempt the ascent farther. Our porters left us; a baton was stretched across the room over the stove, and our wet socks and leggings were thrown across it to dry; our boots were placed around the fire, and we set about preparing our evening meal. A pan was placed upon the fire, and filled with snow, which in due time melted and boiled; I ground some chocolate and placed it in the pan, and afterward ladled the beverage into the vessels we possest, which consisted of two earthen dishes and the metal cases of our brandy flasks. After supper Simond went out to inspect the glacier, and was observed by Huxley, as twilight fell, in a state of deep contemplation beside a crevasse. Gradually the stars appeared, but as yet no moon. Before lying down we went out to look at the firmament, and noticed, what I supposed has been observed to some extent by everybody, that the stars near the horizon twinkled busily, while those near the zenith shone with a steady light. One large star, in particular, excited our admiration; it flashed intensely, and changed color incessantly, sometimes blushing like a ruby, and again gleaming like an emerald. A determinate color would sometimes remain constant for a sensible time, but usually the flashes followed each other in very quick succession. Three planks were now placed across the room near the stove, and upon these, with their rugs folded round them, Huxley and Hirst stretched themselves, while I nestled on the boards at the most distant end of the room. We rose at eleven o'clock, renewed the fire and warmed ourselves, after which we lay down again. I, at length, observed a patch of pale light upon the wooden wall of the cabin, which had entered through a hole in the end of the edifice, and rising found that it was past one o'clock. The cloudless moon was shining over the wastes of snow, and the scene outside was at once wild, grand, and beautiful. Breakfast was soon prepared, tho' not without difficulty; we had no candles, they had been forgotten; but I fortunately possest a box of wax matches, of which Huxley took charge, patiently igniting them in succession, and thus giving us a tolerably continuous light. We had some tea, which had been made at the Montanvert,[56] and carried to the Grands Mulets in a bottle. My memory of that tea is not pleasant; it had been left a whole night in contact with its leaves, and smacked strongly of tannin. The snow-water, moreover, with which we diluted it was not pure, but left a black residuum at the bottom of the dishes in which the beverage was served. The few provisions deemed necessary being placed in Simond's knapsack, at twenty minutes past two o'clock we scrambled down the rocks, leaving Huxley behind us. The snow was hardened by the night's frost, and we were cheered by the hope of being able to accomplish the ascent with comparatively little labor. We were environed by an atmosphere of perfect purity; the larger stars hung like gems above us, and the moon, about half full, shone with wondrous radiance in the dark firmament. One star in particular, which lay eastward from the moon, suddenly made its appearance above one of the Aiguilles, and burned there with unspeakable splendor. We turned once toward the Mulets, and saw Huxley's form projected against the sky as he stood upon a pinnacle of rock; he gave us a last wave of the hand and descended, while we receded from him into the solitudes. The evening previous our guide had examined the glacier for some distance, his progress having been arrested by a crevasse. Beside this we soon halted: it was spanned at one place by a bridge of snow, which was of too light a structure to permit of Simond's testing it alone; we therefore paused while our guide uncoiled a rope and tied us all together. The moment was to me a peculiarly solemn one. Our little party seemed so lonely and so small amid the silence and the vastness of the surrounding scene. We were about to try our strength under unknown conditions, and as the various possibilities of the enterprise crowded on the imagination, a sense of responsibility for a moment opprest me. But as I looked aloft and saw the glory of the heavens, my heart lightened, and I remarked cheerily to Hirst that Nature seemed to smile upon our work. "Yes," he replied, in a calm and earnest voice, "and, God willing, we shall accomplish it." A pale light now overspread the eastern sky, which increased, as we ascended, to a daffodil tinge; this afterward heightened to orange, deepening at one extremity into red, and fading at the other into a pure, ethereal hue to which it would be difficult to assign a special name. Higher up the sky was violet, and this changed by insensible degrees into the darkling blue of the zenith, which had to thank the light of moon and stars alone for its existence. We wound steadily for a time through valleys of ice, climbed white and slippery slopes, crossed a number of crevasses, and after some time found ourselves beside a chasm of great depth and width, which extended right and left as far as we could see. We turned to the left, and marched along its edge in search of a "pont"; but matters became gradually worse; other crevasses joined on to the first one, and the further we proceeded the more riven and dislocated the ice became. At length we reached a place where further advance was impossible. Simond, in his difficulty complained of the want of light, and wished us to wait for the advancing day; I, on the contrary, thought that we had light enough and ought to make use of it. Here the thought occurred to me that Simond, having been only once before to the top of the mountain, might not be quite clear about the route; the glacier, however, changes within certain limits from year to year, so that a general knowledge was all that could be expected, and we trusted to our own muscles to make good any mistake in the way of guidance. We now turned and retraced our steps along the edges of chasms where the ice was disintegrated and insecure, and succeeded at length in finding a bridge which bore us across the crevasse. This error caused us the loss of an hour, and after walking for this time we could cast a stone from the point we had attained to the place whence we had been compelled to return. Our way now lay along the face of a steep incline of snow, which was cut by the fissure we had just passed, in a direction parallel to our route. On the heights to our right, loose ice-crags seemed to totter, and we passed two tracks over which the frozen blocks had rushed some short time previously. We were glad to get out of the range of these terrible projectiles, and still more so to escape the vicinity of that ugly crevasse. To be killed in the open air would be a luxury, compared with having the life squeezed out of one in the horrible gloom of these chasms. The blush of the coming day became more and more intense; still the sun himself did not appear, being hidden from us by the peaks of the Aiguille du Midi, which were drawn clear and sharp against the brightening sky. Right under this Aiguille were heaps of snow smoothly rounded and constituting a portion of the sources whence the Glacier du Géant is fed; these, as the day advanced, bloomed with a rosy light. We reached the Petit Plateau, which we found covered with the remains of ice avalanches; above us upon the crest of the mountain rose three mighty bastions, divided from each other by deep, vertical rents, with clean smooth walls, across which the lines of annual bedding were drawn like courses of masonry. From these, which incessantly renew themselves, and from the loose and broken ice-crags near them, the boulders amid which we now threaded our way had been discharged. When they fall their descent must be sublime. The snow had been gradually getting deeper, and the ascent more wearisome, but superadded to this at the Petit Plateau was the uncertainty of the footing between the blocks of ice. In many places the space was merely covered by a thin crust, which, when trod upon, instantly yielded and we sank with a shock sometimes to the hips. Our way next lay up a steep incline to the Grand Plateau, the depth and tenderness of the snow augmenting as we ascended. We had not yet seen the sun, but as we attained the brow which forms the entrance to the Grand Plateau, he hung his disk upon a spike of rock to our left, and, surrounded by a glory of interference spectra of the most gorgeous colors, blazed down upon us. On the Grand Plateau we halted and had our frugal refreshment. At some distance to our left was the crevasse into which Dr. Hamel's three guides were precipitated by an avalanche in 1820; they are still entombed in the ice, and some future explorer may, perhaps, see them disgorged lower down, fresh and undecayed. They can hardly reach the surface until they pass the snow-line of the glacier, for above this line the quantity of snow that annually falls being in excess of the quantity melted, the tendency would be to make the ice-covering above them thicker. But it is also possible that the waste of the ice underneath may have brought the bodies to the bed of the glacier, where their very bones may have been ground to mud by an agency which the hardest rocks can not withstand. As the sun poured his light upon the Plateau the little snow-facets sparkled brilliantly, sometimes with a pure white light, and at others with prismatic colors. Contrasted with the white spaces above and around us were the dark mountains on the opposite side of the valley of Chamouni, around which fantastic masses of cloud were beginning to build themselves. Mont Buet, with its cone of snow, looked small, and the Brevent altogether mean; the limestone bastions of the Fys, however, still presented a front of gloom and grandeur. We traversed the Grand Plateau, and at length reached the base of an extremely steep incline which stretched upward toward the Corridor. Here, as if produced by a fault, consequent upon the sinking of the ice in front, rose a vertical precipice, from the coping of which vast stalactites of ice depended. Previous to reaching this place I had noticed a haggard expression upon the countenance of our guide, which was now intensified by the prospect of the ascent before him. Hitherto he had always been in front, which was certainly the most fatiguing position. I felt that I must now take the lead, so I spoke cheerily to the man and placed him behind me. Marking a number of points upon the slope as resting places, I went swiftly from one to the other. The surface of the snow had been partially melted by the sun and then refrozen, thus forming a superficial crust, which bore the weight up to a certain point, and then suddenly gave way, permitting the leg to sink to above the knee. The shock consequent on this, and the subsequent effort necessary to extricate the leg, were extremely fatiguing. My motion was complained of as too quick, and my tracks as imperfect; I moderated the former, and to render my footholes broad and sure, I stamped upon the frozen crust, and twisted my legs in the soft mass underneath,--a terribly exhausting process. I thus led the way to the base of the Rochers Bouges, up to which the fault already referred to had prolonged itself as a crevasse, which was roofed at one place by a most dangerous-looking snow-bridge. Simond came to the front; I drew his attention to the state of the snow, and proposed climbing the Rochers Rouges; but, with a promptness unusual with him, he replied that this was impossible; the bridge was our only means of passing, and we must try it. We grasped our ropes, and dug our feet firmly into the snow to check the man's descent if the "pont" gave way, but to our astonishment it bore him, and bore us safely after him. The slope which we had now to ascend had the snow swept from its surface, and was therefore firm ice. It was most dangerously steep, and, its termination being the fretted coping of the precipice to which I have referred, if we slid downward we should shoot over this and be dashed to pieces upon the ice below.[57] Simond, who had come to the front to cross the crevasse, was now engaged in cutting steps, which he made deep and large, so that they might serve us on our return. But the listless strokes of his ax proclaimed his exhaustion; so I took the implement out of his hands, and changed places with him. Step after step was hewn, but the top of the Corridor appeared ever to recede from us. Hirst was behind, unoccupied, and could thus turn his thoughts to the peril of our position; he "felt" the angle on which we hung, and saw the edge of the precipice, to which less than a quarter of a minute's slide would carry us, and for the first time during the journey he grew giddy. A cigar which he lighted for the purpose tranquilized him. I hewed sixty steps upon this slope, and each step had cost a minute, by Hirst's watch. The Mur de la Côte was still before us, and on this the guide-books informed us two or three hundred steps were sometimes found necessary. If sixty steps cost an hour, what would be the cost of two hundred? The question was disheartening in the extreme, for the time at which we had calculated on reaching the summit was already passed, while the chief difficulties remained unconquered. Having hewn our way along the harder ice we reached snow. I again resorted to stamping to secure a footing, and while thus engaged became, for the first time, aware of the drain of force to which I was subjecting myself. The thought of being absolutely exhausted had never occurred to me, and from first to last I had taken no care to husband my strength. I always calculated that the "will" would serve me even should the muscles fail, but I now found that mechanical laws rule man in the long run; that no effort of will, no power of spirit, can draw beyond a certain limit upon muscular force. The soul, it is true, can stir the body to action, but its function is to excite and apply force, and not to create it. While stamping forward through the frozen crust I was compelled to pause at short intervals; then would set out again apparently fresh, to find, however, in a few minutes, that my strength was gone, and that I required to rest once more. In this way I gained the summit of the Corridor, when Hirst came to the front, and I felt some relief in stepping slowly after him, making use of the holes into which his feet had sunk. He thus led the way to the base of the Mur de la Côte, the thought of which had so long cast a gloom upon us; here we left our rope behind us, and while pausing I asked Simond whether he did not feel a desire to go to the summit. "Surely," was his reply, "but!--" Our guide's mind was so constituted that the "but" seemed essential to its peace. I stretched my hands toward him, and said: "Simond, we must do it." One thing alone I felt could defeat us: the usual time of the ascent had been more than doubled, the day was already far spent, and if the ascent would throw our subsequent descent into night it could not be contemplated. We now faced the Mur, which was by no means so bad as we had expected. Driving the iron claws of our boots into the scars made by the ax, and the spikes of our batons into the slope above our feet, we ascended steadily until the summit was attained, and the top of the mountain rose clearly above us. We congratulated ourselves upon this; but Simond, probably fearing that our joy might become too full, remarked: "But the summit is still far off!" It was, alas! too true. The snow became soft again, and our weary limbs sank in it as before. Our guide went on in front, audibly muttering his doubts as to our ability to reach the top, and at length he threw himself upon the snow, and exclaimed, "I give up!" Hirst now undertook the task of rekindling the guide's enthusiasm, after which Simond rose, exclaiming: "Oh, but this makes my knees ache!" and went forward. Two rocks break through the snow between the summit of the Mur and the top of the mountain; the first is called the Petits Mulets, and the highest the Derniers Rochers. At the former of these we paused to rest, and finished our scanty store of wine and provisions. We had not a bit of bread nor a drop of wine left; our brandy flasks were also nearly exhausted, and thus we had to contemplate the journey to the summit, and the subsequent descent to the Grands Mulets, with out the slightest prospect of physical refreshment. The almost total loss of two nights' sleep, with two days' toil superadded, made me long for a few minutes' doze, so I stretched myself upon a composite couch of snow and granite, and immediately fell asleep. My friend, however, soon aroused me. "You quite frighten me," he said; "I have listened for some minutes, and have not heard you breathe once." I had, in reality, been taking deep draughts of the mountain air, but so silently as not to be heard. I now filled our empty wine-bottle with snow and placed it in the sunshine, that we might have a little water on our return. We then rose; it was half-past two o'clock; we had been upward of twelve hours climbing, and I calculated that, whether we reached the summit or not, we could at all events work "toward" it for another hour. To the sense of fatigue previously experienced, a new phenomenon was now added--the beating of the heart. We were incessantly pulled up by this, which sometimes became so intense as to suggest danger. I counted the number of paces which we were able to accomplish without resting, and found that at the end of every twenty, sometimes at the end of fifteen, we were compelled to pause. At each pause my heart throbbed audibly, as I leaned upon my staff, and the subsidence of this action was always the signal for further advance. My breathing was quick, but light and unimpeded. I endeavored to ascertain whether the hip-joint, on account of the diminished atmospheric pressure, became loosened, so as to throw the weight of the leg upon the surrounding ligaments, but could not be certain about it. I also sought a little aid and encouragement from philosophy, endeavoring to remember what great things had been done by the accumulation of small quantities, and I urged upon myself that the present was a case in point, and that the summation of distances twenty paces each must finally place us at the top. Still the question of time left the matter long in doubt, and until we had passed the Derniers Rochers we worked on with the stern indifference of men who were doing their duty, and did not look to consequences. Here, however, a gleam of hope began to brighten our souls: the summit became visible nearer, Simond showed more alacrity; at length success became certain, and at half-past three P.M. my friend and I clasped hands upon the top. The summit of the mountain is an elongated ridge, which has been compared to the back of an ass. It was perfectly manifest that we were dominant over all other mountains; as far as the eye could range Mont Blanc had no competitor. The summits which had looked down upon us in the morning were now far beneath us. The Dôme du Goûté, which had held its threatening "séracs" above us so long, was now at our feet. The Aiguille du Midi, Mont Blanc du Tacul, and the Monts Maudits, the Talèfre, with its surrounding peaks, the Grand Jorasse, Mont Mallet, and the Aiguille du Géant, with our own familiar glaciers, were all below us. And as our eye ranged over the broad shoulders of the mountain, over ice hills and valleys, plateaux and far-stretching slopes of snow, the conception of its magnitude grew upon us, and imprest us more and more. The clouds were very grand--grander, indeed, than anything I had ever before seen. Some of them seemed to hold thunder in their breasts, they were so dense and dark; others, with their faces turned sunward, shone with the dazzling whiteness of the mountain snow; while others again built themselves into forms resembling gigantic elm trees, loaded with foliage. Toward the horizon the luxury of color added itself to the magnificent alternation of light and shade. Clear spaces of amber and ethereal green embraced the red and purple cumuli, and seemed to form the cradle in which they swung. Closer at hand squally mists, suddenly engendered, were driven hither and thither by local winds; while the clouds at a distance lay "like angels sleeping on the wing," with scarcely visibly motion. Mingling with the clouds, and sometimes rising above them, were the highest mountain heads, and as our eyes wandered from peak to peak, onward to the remote horizon, space itself seemed more vast from the manner in which the objects which it held were distributed.... The day was waning, and, urged by the warnings of our ever-prudent guide, we at length began the descent. Gravity was in our favor, but gravity could not entirely spare our wearied limbs, and where we sank in the snow we found our downward progress very trying. I suffered from thirst, but after we had divided the liquefied snow at the Petits Mulets among us we had nothing to drink. I crammed the clean snow into my mouth, but the process of melting was slow and tantalizing to a parched throat, while the chill was painful to the teeth. THE JUNGFRAU-JOCH[58] BY SIR LESLIE STEPHEN I was once more standing upon the Wengern Alp, and gazing longingly at the Jungfrau-Joch. Surely the Wengern Alp must be precisely the loveliest place in this world. To hurry past it, and listen to the roar of the avalanches, is a very unsatisfactory mode of enjoyment; it reminds one too much of letting off crackers in a cathedral. The mountains seem to be accomplices of the people who charge fifty centimes for an echo. But it does one's moral nature good to linger there at sunset or in the early morning, when tourists have ceased from traveling; and the jaded cockney may enjoy a kind of spiritual bath in the soothing calmness of scenery.... We, that is a little party of six Englishmen with six Oberland guides, who left the inn at 3 A.M. on July 20, 1862, were not, perhaps, in a specially poetical mood. Yet as the sun rose while we were climbing the huge buttress of the Mönch, the dullest of us--I refer, of course, to myself--felt something of the spirit of the scenery. The day was cloudless, and a vast inverted cone of dazzling rays suddenly struck upward into the sky through the gap between the Mönch and the Eiger, which, as some effect of perspective shifted its apparent position, looked like a glory streaming from the very summit of the Eiger. It was a good omen, if not in any more remote sense, yet as promising a fine day. After a short climb we descended upon the Gugg, glacier, most lamentably unpoetical of names, and mounted by it to the great plateau which lies below the cliffs immediately under the col. We reached this at about seven, and, after a short meal, carefully examined the route above us. Half way between us and the col lay a small and apparently level plateau of snow. Once upon it we felt confident that we could get to the top.... We plunged at once into the maze of crevasses, finding our passage much facilitated by the previous efforts of our guides. We were constantly walking over ground strewed with crumbling blocks of ice, the recent fall of which was proved by their sharp white fractures, and with a thing like an infirm toad stool twenty feet high, towering above our heads. Once we passed under a natural arch of ice, built in evident disregard of all principles of architectural stability. Hurrying judiciously at such critical points, and creeping slowly round those where the footing was difficult, we manage to thread the labyrinth safely, whilst Rubi appeared to think it rather pleasant than otherwise in such places to have his head fixt in a kind of pillory between two rungs of a ladder, with twelve feet of it sticking out behind and twelve feet before him. We reached the gigantic crevasse at 7.35. We passed along it to a point where its two lips nearly joined, and the side furthest from us was considerably higher than that upon which we stood. Fixing the foot of the ladder upon this ledge, we swung the top over, and found that it rested satisfactorily against the opposite bank. Almer crept up it, and made the top firmer by driving his ax into the snow underneath the highest step. The rest of us followed, carefully roped, and with the caution to rest our knees on the sides of the ladder, as several of the steps were extremely weak--a remark which was equally applicable to one, at least, of the sides. We crept up the rickety old machine, however, looking down between our legs into the blue depths of the crevasse, and at 8.15 the whole party found itself satisfactorily perched on the edge of the nearly level snow plateau, looking up at the long slopes of broken névé that led to the col.... When the man behind was also engaged in hauling himself up by the rope attached to your waist, when the two portions of the rope formed an acute angle, when your footing was confined to the insecure grip of one toe on a slippery bit of ice, and when a great hummock of hard sérac was pressing against the pit of your stomach and reducing you to a position of neutral equilibrium, the result was a feeling of qualified acquiescence in Michel or Almer's lively suggestion of "Vorwärts! vorwärts!" Somehow or other we did ascend. The excitement made the time seem short; and after what seemed to me to be half an hour, which was in fact nearly two hours, we had crept, crawled, climbed and wormed our way through various obstacles, till we found ourselves brought up by a huge overhanging wall of blue ice. This wall was no doubt the upper side of a crevasse, the lower part of which had been filled by snow-drift. Its face was honeycombed by the usual hemispherical chippings, which somehow always reminds me of the fretted walls of the Alhambra; and it was actually hollowed out so that its upper edge overhung our heads at a height of some twenty or thirty feet; the long fringe of icicles which adorned it had made a slippery pathway of ice at two or three feet distance from the foot of the wall by the freezing water which dripped from them; and along this we crept, in hopes that none of the icicles would come down bodily. The wall seemed to thin out and become much lower toward our left, and we moved cautiously toward its lowest point. The edge upon which we walked was itself very narrow, and ran down at a steep angle to the top of a lower icefall which repeated the form of the upper. It almost thinned out at the point where the upper wall was lowest. Upon this inclined ledge, however, we fixt the foot of our ladder. The difficulty of doing so conveniently was increased by a transverse crevasse which here intersected the other system. The foot, however, was fixt and rendered tolerably safe by driving in firmly several of our alpenstocks and axes under the lowest step. Almer, then, amidst great excitement, went forward to mount it. Should we still find an impassable system of crevasses above us, or were we close to the top? A gentle breeze which had been playing along the last ledge gave me hope that we were really not far off. As Almer reached the top about twelve o'clock, a loud yodel gave notice to all the party that our prospects were good. I soon followed, and saw, to my great delight, a stretch of smooth, white snow, without a single crevasse, rising in a gentle curve from our feet to the top of the col. The people who had been watching us from the Wengern Alp had been firing salutes all day, whenever the idea struck them, and whenever we surmounted a difficulty, such as the first great crevasse. We heard the faint sound of two or three guns as we reached the final plateau. We should, properly speaking, have been uproariously triumphant over our victory. To say the truth, our party of that summer was only too apt to break out into undignified explosions of animal spirits, bordering at times upon horseplay.... The top of the Jungfrau-Joch comes rather like a bathos in poetry. It rises so gently above the steep ice wall, and it is so difficult to determine the precise culminating point, that our enthusiasm oozed out gradually instead of producing a sudden explosion; and that instead of giving three cheers, singing "God Save the Queen," or observing any of the traditional ceremonial of a simpler generation of travelers, we calmly walked forward as tho' we had been crossing Westminster Bridge, and on catching sight of a small patch of rocks near the foot of the Mönch, rushed precipitately down to it and partook of our third breakfast. Which things, like most others, might easily be made into an allegory. The great dramatic moments of life are very apt to fall singularly flat. We manage to discount all their interest beforehand; and are amazed to find that the day to which we have looked forward so long--the day, it may be, of our marriage, or ordination, or election to be Lord Mayor--finds us curiously unconscious of any sudden transformation and as strongly inclined to prosaic eating and drinking as usual. At a later period we may become conscious of its true significance, and perhaps the satisfactory conquest of this new pass has given us more pleasure in later years than it did at the moment. However that may be, we got under way again after a meal and a chat, our friends Messrs. George and Moore descending the Aletsch glacier to the Aeggischhorn, whose summit was already in sight, and deceptively near in appearance. The remainder of the party soon turned off to the left, and ascended the snow slopes to the gap between the Mönch and Trugberg. As we passed these huge masses, rising in solitary grandeur from the center of one of the noblest snowy wastes of the Alps, Morgan reluctantly confest for the first time that he knew nothing exactly like it in Wales. XI OTHER ALPINE TOPICS THE GREAT ST. BERNARD HOSPICE[59] BY ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL KNOWLES The Pass of the Great St. Bernard was a well-known one long before the hospice was built. Before the Christian era, the Romans used it as a highway across the Alps, constantly improving the road as travel over it increased. Many lives were lost, however, as no material safeguards could obviate the danger from the elements, and no one will ever know the number of souls who met their end in the blinding snows and chilling blasts of those Alpine heights. To Bernard de Menthon is due the credit of the mountain hospice. He was the originator of the idea and the founder of the institution. He has since been canonized as a saint and he well deserved the honor, if it be a virtue to sacrifice oneself, as we believe, and to try and save the lives of one's fellows! It is no easy existence which St. Bernard chose for himself and followers. The very aspect of the pass is grand but gloomy. None of the softness of nature is seen. There is no verdure, no beauty of coloring, nothing but bleak, bare rock, great piles of stones, and occasional patches of fallen snow. It is thoroughly exposed, the winds always moaning mournfully around the buildings.... The trip begins at Martigny. First there is a level stretch, then a long, steady climb, after which begins the real road to the pass. The views are very lovely, and while quite different in some ways excel all passes except the famous Simplon. The scenery is very varied, the mountains are far enough off to give a good perspective, and the villages are most picturesque. The absence of snow peaks in any great number will be felt by some, but even a lover of such soon forgets the lack in the exceeding beauty and loveliness of the valleys. Toward the top of the pass there is quite a transformation. Both the road and the scenery change, the first becoming more and more steep and stony, the latter showing more and more of savage grandeur, as the green, smiling valleys are no longer seen, but in their place appear barren and rugged rocks and slopes, with the marks of the ravages wrought by storm, landslide and avalanche. The wind has fuller play and seems to moan in a mournful, dirge-like manner, accentuating the characteristics of bleakness and desolation which obtain at the top of the pass, all the more noticeable if the traveler arrives at dusk, just as the sun has disappeared behind the mountains. In this dreary place stands the hospice. The present buildings are not very old, the hospice only dating from the sixteenth century and the church from the seventeenth century, while the other structures, which have been built for the accommodation of strangers are comparatively new. Twelve monks of the Augustinian Order are regularly in residence here. They come when about twenty years of age; but so severe is the climate, so hard the life and so stern the rule that, after a service of about fifteen years, they generally have to seek a lower altitude, often ruined in health, with their powers completely sapped by the rigors and privations which they have endured. Altho the hospice and the adjoining hostelry for the travelers are cheerless in the extreme, there is always a warm welcome from the monks. No one, however poor, is refused bed and board for the night, and there is no "distinction of persons." The hospitality is extended to all, free of charge, this being the invariable rule of the institution, but it is expected, and rightly so, that those who can do so will deposit a liberal offering in the box provided for the purpose. The small receipts, however, show what a great abuse there is of this hospitality, for a large number of those who come in the summer could well afford to give and to give largely. We hear much of the courage and perseverance of Hannibal and Cæsar in leading their armies over the Alps! We see pictures of Napoleon and his soldiers as they toiled up the pass, dragging along their frozen guns, and perhaps falling into a fatal sleep about their dying camp fires at night! And we rightly admire such bravery, and thrill with admiration at the tale. Yet those armies which crossed the Alps failed to equal the heroic self-sacrifice of those soldiers of the cross, the Monks of the Grand St. Bernard, who remain for years at their post, unknown and unsung by the wide, wide world, simply to save and shelter the humble travelers who come to grief in their winter journey across the pass, in search of work. AVALANCHES[60] BY VICTOR TISSOT Beside this dazzling, magnificent snow, covering the chain of lofty peaks like an immaculate altar cloth, what a gloomy, dull look there is in the snow of the plains! One might think it was made of sugar or confectionery, that it was false like all the rest. To know what snow really is--to get quit of this feeling of artificial snow that we have when we see the stunted shrubs in our Parisian gardens wrapt, as it were, in silk paper like bits of Christmas trees--it must be seen here in these far-off, high valleys of the Engandine, that lie for eight months dead under their shroud of snow, and often, even in the height of summer, have to shiver anew under some wintry flakes. It is here that snow is truly beautiful! It shines in the sun with a dazzling whiteness; it sparkles with a thousand fires like diamond dust; it shows gleams like the plumage of a white dove, and it is as firm under the foot as a marble pavement. It is so fine-grained, so compact, that it clings like dust to every crevice and bend, to every projecting edge and point, and follows every outline of the mountain, the form of which it leaves as clearly defined as if it were a covering of thin gauze. It sports in the most charming decorations, carves alabaster facings and cornices on the cliffs, wreathes them in delicate lace, covers them with vast canopies of white satin spangled with stars and fringed with silver. And yet this dry, hard snow is extremely susceptible to the slightest shock, and may be set in motion by a very trifling disturbance of the air. The flight of a bird, the cracking of a whip, the tinkling of bells, even the conversation of persons going along sometimes suffices to shake and loosen it from the vertical face of the cliffs to which it is clinging; and it runs down like grains of sand, growing as it falls, by drawing down with it other beds of snow. It is like a torrent, a snowy waterfall, bursting out suddenly from the side of the mountain; it rushes down with a terrible noise, swollen with the snows that it carries down in its furious course; it breaks against the rocks, divides and joins again like an overflowing stream, and with a wild tempest blast resumes its desolating course, filling the echoes with the deafening thunder of battle. You think for a moment that a storm has begun, but looking at the sky you see it serenely blue, smiling, cloudless. The rush becomes more and more violent; it comes nearer, the ground trembles, the trees bend and break with a sharp crack; enormous stones and blocks of ice are carried away like gravel; and the mighty avalanche, with a crash like a train running off the rails over a precipice, drops to the foot of the mountain, destroying, crushing down everything before it, and covering the ground with a bed of snow from thirty to fifty feet deep. When a stream of water wears a passage for itself under this compact mass, it is sometimes hollowed out into an arched way, and the snow becomes so solid that carriages and horses can go through without danger, even in the middle of summer. But often the water does not find a course by which to flow away; and then, when the snow begins to melt, the water seeps into the fissures, loosens the mass that chokes up the valley, and carries it down, rending its banks as it goes, carrying away bridges, mills, and trees, and overthrowing houses. The avalanche has become an inundation. The mountaineers make a distinction between summer and winter avalanches. The former are solid avalanches, formed of old snow that has almost acquired the consistency of ice. The warm breath of spring softens it, loosens it from the rocks on which it hangs, and it slides down into the valleys. These are called "melting avalanches." They regularly follow certain tracks, and these are embanked, like the course of a river, with wood or bundles of branches. It is in order to protect the alpine roads from these avalanches that those long open galleries have been built on the face of the precipice. The most dreaded and most terrible avalanches, those of dry, powdery snow, occur only in winter, when sudden squalls and hurricanes of snow throw the whole atmosphere into chaos. They come down in sudden whirlwinds, with the violence of a waterspout, and in a few minutes whole villages are buried.... Here, in the Grisons, the whole village of Selva was buried under an avalanche. Nothing remained visible but the top of the church steeple, looking like a pole planted in the snow. Baron Munchausen might have tied his horse there without inventing any lie about it. The Val Verzasca was covered for several months by an avalanche of nearly 1,000 feet in length and 50 in depth. All communication through the valley was stopt; it was impossible to organize help; and the alarm-bell was incessantly sounding over the immense white desolation like a knell for the dead. In the narrow defile in which we now are, there are many remains of avalanches that neither the water of the torrent nor the heat of the sun has had power to melt. The bed of the river is strewn with displaced and broken rocks, and great stones bound together by the snow as if with cement; the surges dash against these rocky obstacles, foaming angrily, with the blind fury of a wild beast. And the moan of the powerless water flows on into the depth of the valley, and is lost far off in a hollow murmur. HUNTING THE CHAMOIS[61] BY VICTOR TISSOT Schmidt swept with his cap the snow which covered the stones on which we were to seat ourselves for breakfast, then unpacked the provisions; slices of veal and ham, hard-boiled eggs, wine of the Valtelline. His knapsack, covered with a napkin, served for our table. While we sat, we devoured the landscape, the twelve glaciers spreading around us their carpet of swansdown and ermine, sinking into crevasses of a magical transparency, and raising their blocks, shaped into needles, or into Gothic steeples with pierced arches. The architecture of the glacier is marvelous. Its decorations are the decorations of fairyland. Quite near us marks of animals in the snow attracted our attention. Schmidt said to us: "Chamois have been here this morning; the traces are quite fresh. They must have seen us and made off; the chamois are as distrustful, you see, as the marmots, and as wary. At this season they keep on the glaciers by preference. They live on so little! A few herbs, a few mosses, such as grow on isolated rocks like this. I assure you it is very amusing to see a herd of twenty or thirty chamois cross at a headlong pace a vast field of snow, or glacier, where they bound over the crevasses in play. "One would say they were reindeers in a Lapland scene. It is only at night that they come down into the valleys. In the moonlight they come out of the moraines, and go to pasture on the grassy slopes or in the forest adjoining the glaciers. During the day they go up again into the snow, for which they have an extraordinary love, and in which they skip and play, amusing themselves like a band of scholars in play hours. They tease one another, butt with their horns in fun, run off, return, pretend new attacks and new flights with charming agility and frolicsomeness. "While the young ones give themselves up to their sports, an old female, posted as sentinel at some yards distance, watches the valley and scents the air. At the slightest indication of danger, she utters a sharp cry; the games cease instantly, and the whole anxious troop assembles round the guardian, then the whole herd sets off at a gallop and disappears in the twinkling of an eye.... "Hunting on the névés and the glaciers is very dangerous. When the snow is fresh it is with difficulty one can advance. The hunters use wooden snowshoes, like those of the Esquimaux. "One of my comrades, in hunting on the Roseg, disappeared in the bottom of a crevasse. It was over thirty feet deep. Imagine two perfectly smooth sides; two walls of crystal. To reascend was impossible. It was certain death, either from cold or hunger; for it was known that when he went chamois-hunting he was often absent for several days. He could not therefore count on help being sent; he must resign himself to death. "One thing, however, astonished him; it was to find so little water in the bottom of the crevasse. Could there be then an opening at the bottom of the funnel into which he had fallen? He stooped, examined this grave in which he had been buried alive, discovered that the heat of the sun had caused the base of the glacier to melt. A canal drainage had been formed. Laying himself flat, he slid into this dark passage, and after a thousand efforts he arrived at the end of the glacier in the moraine, safe and sound." We had finished breakfast. We wanted something warm, a little coffee. Schmidt set up our spirit-lamp behind two great stones that protected it from the wind. And while we waited for the water to boil, he related to us the story of Colani, the legendary hunter of the upper Engandine. "Colani, in forty years, killed two thousand seven hundred chamois. This strange man had carved out for himself a little kingdom in the mountain. He claimed to reign there alone, to be absolute master. When a stranger penetrated into his residence, within the domain of 'his reserved hunting-ground,' as he called the regions of the Bernina, he treated him as a poacher, and chased him with a gun.... "Colani was feared and dreaded as a diabolical and supernatural being; and indeed he took no pains to undeceive the public, for the superstitious terrors inspired by his person served to keep away all the chamois-hunters from his chamois, which he cared for and managed as a great lord cares for the deer in his forests. Round the little house which he had built for himself on the Col de Bernina, and where he passed the summer and autumn, two hundred chamois, almost tame, might be seen wandering about and browsing. Every year he killed about fifty old males." THE CELEBRITIES OF GENEVA[62] BY FRANCIS H. GRIBBLE It has been remarked as curious that the Age of Revolution at Geneva was also the Golden Age--if not of Genevan literature, which has never really had any Golden Age, at least of Genevan science, which was of world-wide renown. The period is one in which notable names meet us at every turn. There were exiled Genevans, like de Lolme, holding their own in foreign political and intellectual circles; there were emigrant Genevan pastors holding aloft the lamps of culture and piety in many cities of England, France, Russia, Germany, and Denmark; there were Genevans, like François Lefort, holding the highest offices in the service of foreign rulers; and there were numbers of Genevans at Geneva of whom the cultivated grand tourist wrote in the tone of a disciple writing of his master. One can not glance at the history of the period without lighting upon names of note in almost all departments of endeavor. The period is that of de Saussure, Bourrit, the de Lucs, the two Hubers, great authorities respectively on bees and birds; Le Sage, who was one of Gibbon's rivals for the heart of Mademoiselle Suzanne Curchod; Senebier, the librarian who wrote the first literary history of Geneva; St. Ours and Arlaud, the painters; Charles Bonnet, the entomologist; Bérenger and Picot, the historians; Tronchin, the physician; Trembley and Jallabert, the mathematicians; Dentan, minister and Alpine explorer; Pictet, the editor of the "Bibliothèque Universelle," still the leading Swiss literary review; and Odier, who taught Geneva the virtue of vaccination. It is obviously impossible to dwell at length upon the careers of all these eminent men. As well might one attempt, in a survey on the same scale of English literature, to discuss in detail the careers of all the celebrities of the age of Anne. One can do little more than remark that the list is marvelously strong for a town of some 30,000 inhabitants, and that many of the names included in it are not only eminent, but interesting. Jean André de Luc, for example, has a double claim upon our attention as the inventor of the hygrometer and as the pioneer of the snow-peaks. He climbed the Buet as early as 1770, and wrote an account of his adventures on its summit and its slopes which has the true charm of Arcadian simplicity. He came to England, was appointed reader to Queen Charlotte, and lived in the enjoyment of that office, and in the gratifying knowledge that Her Majesty kept his presentation hygrometer in her private apartments, to the venerable age of ninety. Bourrit is another interesting character--being, in fact, the spiritual ancestor of the modern Alpine Clubman. By profession he was Precentor of the Cathedral; but his heart was in the mountains. In the summer he climbed them, and in the winter he wrote books about them. One of his books was translated into English; and the list of subscribers, published with the translation, shows that the public which Bourrit addrest included Edmund Burke, Sir Joseph Banks, Bartolozzi, Fanny Burney, Angelica Kauffman, David Garrick, Sir Joshua Reynolds, George Augustus Selwyn, Jonas Hanway and Dr. Johnson. His writings earned him the honorable title of Historian (or Historiographer) of the Alps. Men of science wrote him letters; princes engaged upon the grand tour called to see him; princesses sent him presents as tokens of their admiration and regard for the man who had taught them how the contemplation of mountain scenery might exalt the sentiments of the human mind. Tronchin, too, is interesting; he was the first physician who recognized the therapeutic use of fresh air and exercise, hygienic boots, and open windows. So is Charle Bonnet, who was not afraid to stand up for orthodoxy against Voltaire; so is Mallet, who traveled as far as Lapland; and so is that man of whom his contemporaries always spoke, with the reverence of hero-worshipers, as "the illustrious de Saussure."... The name of which the Genevans are proudest is probably that of Rousseau, who has sometimes been spoken of as "the austere citizen of Geneva." But "austere" is a strange epithet to apply to the philosopher who endowed the Foundling Hospital with five illegitimate children; and Geneva can not claim a great share in a citizen who ran away from the town of his boyhood to avoid being thrashed for stealing apples. It was, indeed, at Geneva that Jean Jacques received from his aunt the disciplinary chastisement of which he gives such an exciting account in his "Confessions"; and he once returned to the city and received the Holy Communion there in later life. But that is all. Jean Jacques was not educated at Geneva, but in Savoy--at Annecy, at Turin, and at Chambéry; his books were not printed at Geneva, tho' one of them was publicly burned there, but in Paris and Amsterdam; it is not to Genevan but to French literature that he belongs. We must visit Voltaire at Ferney, and Madame de Staël at Coppet. Let the patriarch come first. Voltaire was sixty years of age when he settled on the shores of the lake, where he was to remain for another four-and-twenty years; and he did not go there for his pleasure. He would have preferred to live in Paris, but was afraid of being locked up in the Bastille. As the great majority of the men of letters of the reign of Louis XV. were, at one time or another, locked up in the Bastille, his fears were probably well founded. Moreover, notes of warning had reached his ears. "I dare not ask you to dine," a relative said to him, "because you are in bad odor at Court." So he betook himself to Geneva, as so many Frenchmen, illustrious and otherwise, had done before, and acquired various properties--at Prangins, at Lausanne, at Saint-Jean (near Geneva), at Ferney, at Tournay, and elsewhere. He was welcomed cordially. Dr. Tronchin, the eminent physician, cooperated in the legal fictions necessary to enable him to become a landowner in the republic. Cramer, the publisher, made a proposal for the issue of a complete and authorized edition of his works. All the best people called. "It is very pleasant," he was able to write, "to live in a country where rulers borrow your carriage to come to dinner with you." Voltaire corresponded regularly with at least four reigning sovereigns, to say nothing of men of letters, Cardinals, and Marshals of France; and he kept open house for travelers of mark from every country in the world. Those of the travelers who wrote books never failed to devote a chapter to an account of a visit to Ferney; and from the mass of such descriptions we may select for quotation that written, in the stately style of the period, by Dr. John Moore, author of "Zeluco," then making the grand tour as tutor to the Duke of Hamilton. "The most piercing eyes I ever beheld," the doctor writes, "are those of Voltaire, now in his eightieth year. His whole countenance is expressive of genius, observation, and extreme sensibility. In the morning he has a look of anxiety and discontent; but this gradually wears off, and after dinner he seems cheerful; yet an air of irony never entirely forsakes his face, but may always be observed lurking in his features whether he frowns or smiles. Composition is his principal amusement. No author who writes for daily bread, no young poet ardent for distinction, is more assiduous with his pen, or more anxious for fresh fame, than the wealthy and applauded Seigneur of Ferney. He lives in a very hospitable manner, and takes care always to have a good cook. He generally has two or three visitors from Paris, who stay with him a month or six weeks at a time. When they go, their places are soon supplied, so that there is a constant rotation of society at Ferney. These, with Voltaire's own family and his visitors from Geneva, compose a company of twelve or fourteen people, who dine daily at his table, whether he appears or not. All who bring recommendations from his friends may depend upon being received, if he be not really indisposed. He often presents himself to the strangers who assemble every afternoon in his ante-chamber, altho they bring no particular recommendation." It might have been added that when an interesting stranger who carried no introduction was passing through the town, Voltaire sometimes sent for him; but this experiment was not always a success, and failed most ludicrously in the case of Claude Gay, the Philadelphian Quaker, author of some theological works now forgotten, but then of note. The meeting was only arranged with difficulty on the philosopher's undertaking to put a bridle on his tongue, and say nothing flippant about holy things. He tried to keep his promise, but the temptation was too strong for him. After a while he entangled his guest in a controversy concerning the proceedings of the patriarchs and the evidences of Christianity, and lost his temper on finding that his sarcasms failed to make their usual impression. The member of the Society of Friends, however, was not disconcerted. He rose from his place at the dinner-table, and replied: "Friend Voltaire! perhaps thou mayst come to understand these matters rightly; in the meantime, finding I can do thee no good, I leave thee, and so fare thee well." And so saying, he walked out and walked back to Geneva, while Voltaire retired in dudgeon to his room, and the company sat expecting something terrible to happen. A word, in conclusion, about Coppet! Necker[63] bought the property from his old banking partner, Thelusson, for 500,000 livres in French money, and retired to live there when the French Revolution drove him out of politics. His daughter, Madame de Staël, inherited it from him, and made it famous. Not that she loved Switzerland; it would be more true to say that she detested Switzerland. Swiss scenery meant nothing to her. When she was taken for an excursion to the glaciers, she asked what the crime was that she had to expiate by such a punishment; and she could look out on the blue waters of Lake Leman, and sigh for "the gutter of the Rue du Bac." Even to this day, the Swiss have hardly forgiven her for that, or for speaking of the Canton of Vaud as the country in which she had been "so intensely bored for such a number of years." What she wanted was to live in Paris, to be a leader--or, rather, to be "the" leader--of Parisian society, to sit in a salon, the admired of all admirers, and to pull the wires of politics to the advantage of her friends. For a while she succeeded in doing this. It was she who persuaded Barras to give Talleyrand his political start in life. But whereas Barras was willing to act on her advice, Napoleon was by no means equally amenable to her influence. Almost from the first he regarded her as a mischief-maker; and when a spy brought him an intercepted letter in which Madame de Staël exprest her hope that none of the old aristocracy of France would condescend to accept appointments in the household of "the bourgeois of Corsica," he became her personal enemy, and, refusing her permission to live either in the capital or near it, practically compelled her to take refuge in her country seat. Her pleasance in that way became her gilded cage. Perhaps she was not quite so unhappy there as she sometimes represented. If she could not go to Paris, many distinguished and brilliant Parisians came to Coppet, and met there many brilliant and distinguished Germans, Genevans, Italians, and Danes. The Parisian salon, reconstituted, flourished on Swiss soil. There visited there, at one time or another, Madame Récamier and Madame Krüdner; Benjamin Constant, who was so long Madame de Staël's lover; Bonstetten, the Voltairean philosopher; Frederika Brun, the Danish artist; Sismondi, the historian; Werner, the German poet; Karl Ritter, the German geographer; Baron de Voght; Monti, the Italian poet: Madame Vigée Le Brun; Cuvier; and Oelenschlaeger. From almost every one of them we have some pen-and-ink sketch of the life there. This, for instance, is the scene as it appeared to Madame Le Brun, who came to paint the hostess's portrait: "I paint her in antique costume. She is not beautiful, but the animation of her visage takes the place of beauty. To aid the expression I wished to give her, I entreated her to recite tragic verses while I painted. She declaimed passages from Corneille and Racine. I find many persons established at Coppet: the beautiful Madame Récamier, the Comte de Sabran, a young English woman, Benjamin Constant, etc. Its society is continually renewed. They come to visit the illustrious exile who is pursued by the rancor of the Emperor. Her two sons are now with her, under the instruction of the German scholar Schlegel; her daughter is very beautiful, and has a passionate love of study; she leaves her company free all the morning, but they unite in the evening. It is only after dinner that they can converse with her. She then walks in her salon, holding in her hand a little green branch; and her words have an ardor quite peculiar to her; it is impossible to interrupt her. At these times she produces on one the effect of an improvisation." And here is a still more graphic description, taken from a letter written to Madame Récamier by Baron de Voght: "It is to you that I owe my most amiable reception at Coppet. It is no doubt to the favorable expectations aroused by your friendship that I owe my intimate acquaintance with this remarkable woman. I might have met her without your assistance--some casual acquaintance would no doubt have introduced me--but I should never have penetrated to the intimacy of this sublime and beautiful soul, and should never have known how much better she is than her reputation. She is an angel sent from heaven to reveal the divine goodness upon earth. To make her irresistible, a pure ray of celestial light embellishes her spirit and makes her amiable from every point of view. "At once profound and light, whether she is discovering a mysterious secret of the soul or grasping the lightest shadow of a sentiment, her genius shines without dazzling, and when the orb of light has disappeared, it leaves a pleasant twilight to follow it.... No doubt a few faults, a few weaknesses, occasionally veil this celestial apparition; even the initiated must sometimes be troubled by these eclipses, which the Genevan astronomers in vain endeavor to predict. "My travels so far have been limited to journeys to Lausanne and Coppet, where I often stay three or four days. The life there suits me perfectly; the company is even more to my taste. I like Constant's wit, Schlegel's learning, Sabran's amiability, Sismondi's talent and character, the simple truthful disposition and just intellectual perceptions of Auguste,[64] the wit and sweetness of Albertine[65]--I was forgetting Bonstetten, an excellent fellow, full of knowledge of all sorts, ready in wit, adaptable in character--in every way inspiring one's respect and confidence. "Your sublime friend looks and gives life to everything. She imparts intelligence to those around her. In every corner of the house some one is engaged in composing a great work.... Corinne is writing her delightful letters about Germany, which will, no doubt, prove to be the best thing she has ever done. "The 'Shunamitish Widow,' an Oriental melodrama which she has just finished, will be played in October; it is charming. Coppet will be flooded with tears. Constant and Auguste are both composing tragedies; Sabran is writing a comic opera, and Sismondi a history; Schlegel is translating something; Bonstetten is busy with philosophy, and I am busy with my letter to Juliette." Then, a month later: "Since my last letter, Madame de Staël has read us several chapters of her work. Everywhere it bears the marks of her talent. I wish I could persuade her to cut out everything in it connected with politics, and all the metaphors which interfere with its clarity, simplicity, and accuracy. What she needs to demonstrate is not her republicanism, but her wisdom. Mlle. Jenner played in one of Werner's tragedies which was given, last Friday, before an audience of twenty. She, Werner, and Schlegel played perfectly.... "The arrival in Switzerland of M. Cuvier has been a happy distraction for Madame de Staël; they spent two days together at Geneva, and were well pleased with each other. On her return to Coppet she found Middleton there, and in receiving his confidences forgot her troubles. Yesterday she resumed her work. "The poet whose mystical and somber genius has caused us such profound emotions starts, in a few days' time, for Italy. "I accompanied Corinne to Massot's. To alleviate the tedium of the sitting, a Mlle. Romilly played pleasantly on the harp, and the studio was a veritable temple of the Muses.... "Bonstetten gave us two readings of a Memoir on the Northern Alps. It began very well, but afterward it bored us. Madame de Staël resumed her reading, and there was no longer any question of being bored. It is marvelous how much she must have read and thought over to be able to find the opportunity of saying so many good things. One may differ from her, but one can not help delighting in her talent.... "And now here we are at Geneva, trying to reproduce Coppet at the Hôtel des Balances. I am delightfully situated with a wide view over the Valley of Savoy, between the Alps and the Jura. "Yesterday evening the illusion of Coppet was complete. I had been with Madame de Staël to call on Madame Rilliet, who is so charming at her own fireside. On my return I played chess with Sismondi. Madame de Staël, Mlle. Randall, and Mlle. Jenner sat on the sofa chatting with Bonstetten and young Barante. We were as we had always been--as we were in the days that I shall never cease regretting." Other descriptions exist in great abundance, but these suffice to serve our purpose. They show us the Coppet salon as it was pleasant, brilliant, unconventional; something like Holland House, but more Bohemian; something like Harley Street, but more select; something like Gad's Hill--which it resembled in the fact that the members of the house-parties were expected to spend their mornings at their desks--but on a higher social plane; a center at once of high thinking and frivolous behavior; of hard work and desperate love-making, which sometimes paved the way to trouble. Footnotes: [Footnote 1: From "Hungary." Published by the Macmillan Co.] [Footnote 2: From "Hungary." Published by the Macmillan Co.] [Footnote 3: From "Sketches from the Subject and Neighbour Lands of Venice." Published by the Macmillan Co.] [Footnote 4: The modern Marseilles.] [Footnote 5: An ancient Italian town on the Adriatic, founded by Syracusans about 300 B.C. and still an important seaport.] [Footnote 6: The city in Provence where have survived a beautiful Roman arch and a stupendous Roman theater in which classical plays are still given each year by actors from the Theatre Français.] [Footnote 7: Diocletian.] [Footnote 8: A reference to the exquisite Maison Carrée of Nîmes.] [Footnote 9: That is, of Venice.] [Footnote 10: The famous general of the Emperor Justinian, reputed to have become blind and been neglected in his old age.] [Footnote 11: From "Sketches from the Subject and Neighbour Lands of Venice." Published by the Macmillan Co.] [Footnote 12: From "Through Savage Europe." Published by J.B. Lippincott Co.] [Footnote 13: From "Sketches from the Subject and Neighbour Lands of Venice." Published by the Macmillan Co.] [Footnote 14: That is, lands where the Greek Church prevails.] [Footnote 15: John Mason Neale, author of "An Introduction to the History of the Holy Eastern Church."] [Footnote 16: Montenegro.] [Footnote 17: From "A Girl in the Karpathians." After publishing this book. Miss Dowie became the wife of Henry Norman, the author and traveler.] [Footnote 18: One of Poland's greatest poets.] [Footnote 19: From "Views Afoot." Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons.] [Footnote 20: The population now (1914) is 24,000.] [Footnote 21: From "Six Months in Italy." Published by Houghton, Mifflin Co.] [Footnote 22: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour," published in 1821.] [Footnote 23: From "Letters of a Traveller." The Tyrol and the Dolomites being mainly Austrian territory, are here included under "Other Austrian Scenes." Resorts in the Swiss Alps, including Chamouni (which, however, is in France), will be found further on in this volume.] [Footnote 24: An Italian poet (1749-1838), who, banished from Venice, settled in New York and became Professor of Italian at Columbia College.] [Footnote 25: From "Adventures in the Alps." Published by George W. Jacobs & Co.] [Footnote 26: In the village of Cadore--hence the name, Titian da Cadore.] [Footnote 27: From "Untrodden Peaks and Unfrequented Valleys: A Midsummer Ramble in the Dolomites." Published by E.P. Dutton & Co.] [Footnote 28: Reaumur.--Author's note.] [Footnote 29: From "My Alpine Jubilee." Published In 1908.] [Footnote 30: From "Adventures in the Alps." Published by George W. Jacobs Company, Philadelphia.] [Footnote 31: Since the above was written, the railway has been extended up the Jungfrau itself.] [Footnote 32: From "Teutonic Switzerland." By special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, L.C. Page & Co. Copyright, 1894.] [Footnote 33: From "Unknown Switzerland." Published by James Pott & Co.] [Footnote 34: From "Teutonic Switzerland." By special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, L.C. Page & Co. Copyright, 1894.] [Footnote 35: The population in 1902 had risen to 152,000.] [Footnote 36: From "Teutonic Switzerland." By special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, L.C. Page & Co. Copyright, 1894.] [Footnote 37: From "The Letters of Percy Bysshe Shelley." Politically, Chamouni is in France, but the aim here has been to bring into one volume all the more popular Alpine resorts. Articles on the Tyrol and the Dolomites will also be found in this volume--under "Other Austrian Scenes."] [Footnote 38: From "Adventures in the Alps." Published by George W. Jacobs & Co.] [Footnote 39: For Mr. Whymper's own account of this famous ascent, see page 127 of this volume.] [Footnote 40: From "Unknown Switzerland." Published by James Pott & Co.] [Footnote 41: From "Geneva."] [Footnote 42: From "Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands."] [Footnote 43: Mrs. Stowe's "Uncle Tom's Cabin" had been published about a year when this remark was made to her.] [Footnote 44: From "Adventures in the Alps." Published by George W. Jacobs & Co.] [Footnote 45: From "Unknown Switzerland." Published by James Pott & Co.] [Footnote 46: From "Scrambles Amongst the Alps." Mr. Whymper's later achievements in the Alps are now integral parts of the written history of notable mountain climbing feats the world over.] [Footnote 47: From "Scrambles Amongst the Alps." Mr. Whymper's ascent of the Matterhorn was made in 1865. It was the first ascent ever made so far as known. Whymper died at Chamouni in 1911.] [Footnote 48: From "Scrambles Amongst the Alps." The loss of Douglas and three other men, as here described, occurred during the descent of the Matterhorn following the ascent described by Mr. Whymper in the preceding article.] [Footnote 49: That is, down in the village of Zermatt. Seiler was a well-known innkeeper of that time. Other Seilers still keep inns at Zermatt.] [Footnote 50: The body of Douglas has never been recovered. It is believed to lie buried deep in some crevasse in one of the great glaciers that emerge from the base of the Matterhorn.] [Footnote 51: From "The Glaciers of the Alps." Prof. Tyndall made this ascent in 1858. Monte Rosa stands quite near the Matterhorn. Each is reached from Zermatt by the Gorner-Grat.] [Footnote 52: Another name for the Matterhorn.] [Footnote 53: My staff was always the handle of an ax an inch or two longer than an ordinary walking-stick.--Author's note.] [Footnote 54: From "The Glaciers of the Alps."] [Footnote 55: That is, after having ascended the mountain to a point some distance beyond the Mer de Glace, to which the party had ascended from Chamouni, Huxley and Tyndall were both engaged in a study of the causes of the movement of glaciers, but Tyndall gave it most attention. One of Tyndall's feats in the Alps was to make the first recorded ascent of the Weisshorn. It is said that "traces of his influence remain in Switzerland to this day."] [Footnote 56: A hotel overlooking the Mer de Glace and a headquarters for mountaineers now as then.] [Footnote 57: Those acquainted with the mountain will at once recognize the grave error here committed. In fact, on starting from the Grands Mulets we had crossed the glacier too far, and throughout were much too close to the Dôme du Goûté.--Author's note.] [Footnote 58: From "The Playground of Europe." Published by Longmans, Green & Co.] [Footnote 59: From "Adventures in the Alps." Published by the George W. Jacob Co.] [Footnote 60: From "Unknown Switzerland." Published by James Pott & Co.] [Footnote 61: From "Unknown Switzerland." Published by James Pott & Co.] [Footnote 62: From "Geneva."] [Footnote 63: The French financier and minister of Louis XVI., father of Madame de Staël.] [Footnote 64: Madame de Staël's son, who afterward edited the works of Madame de Staël and Madame Necker.--Author's note.] [Footnote 65: Madame de Staël's daughter, afterward Duchesse de Broglie.] 
2024	----	Transcribed from the 1919 J. W. Arrowsmith Ltd. edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org. Proofed by Andrew Wallace, email andy@linxit.demon.co.uk. DIARY OF A PILGRIMAGE BY JEROME K. JEROME AUTHOR OF "THE IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW," "STAGELAND" "THREE MEN IN A BOAT," ETC. Illustrations by G. G. FRASER BRISTOL J. W. ARROWSMITH LTD., QUAY STREET LONDON SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO. LIMITED _First Edition_, _April_, 1891. _Reprinted_, _June_, 1891. _Reprinted_, _December_, 1891. _Reprinted_, _February_, 1892. _Reprinted_, _February_, 1895. _Reprinted_, _September_, 1896. _Reprinted_, _December_, 1897. _Reprinted_, _January_, 1899. _Reprinted_, _September_, 1900. _Reprinted_, _October_, 1902. _Reprinted_, _October_, 1903. _Reprinted_, _January_, 1904. _Reprinted_, _October_, 1905. _Reprinted_, _March_, 1907. _Reprinted_, _February_, 1909. _Reprinted_, _February_, 1910. _Reprinted_, _November_, 1911. _Reprinted_, _February_, 1914. _Reprinted_, _December_, 1916. _Second Edition_, _December_, 1919. PREFACE Said a friend of mine to me some months ago: "Well now, why don't you write a _sensible_ book? I should like to see you make people think." "Do you believe it can be done, then?" I asked. "Well, try," he replied. Accordingly, I have tried. This is a sensible book. I want you to understand that. This is a book to improve your mind. In this book I tell you all about Germany--at all events, all I know about Germany--and the Ober-Ammergau Passion Play. I also tell you about other things. I do not tell you all I know about all these other things, because I do not want to swamp you with knowledge. I wish to lead you gradually. When you have learnt this book, you can come again, and I will tell you some more. I should only be defeating my own object did I, by making you think too much at first, give you a perhaps, lasting dislike to the exercise. I have purposely put the matter in a light and attractive form, so that I may secure the attention of the young and the frivolous. I do not want them to notice, as they go on, that they are being instructed; and I have, therefore, endeavoured to disguise from them, so far as is practicable, that this is either an exceptionally clever or an exceptionally useful work. I want to do them good without their knowing it. I want to do you all good--to improve your minds and to make you think, if I can. _What_ you will think after you have read the book, I do not want to know; indeed, I would rather not know. It will be sufficient reward for me to feel that I have done my duty, and to receive a percentage on the gross sales. LONDON, _March_, 1891. MONDAY, 19TH My Friend B.--Invitation to the Theatre.--A Most Unpleasant Regulation.--Yearnings of the Embryo Traveller.--How to Make the Most of One's Own Country.--Friday, a Lucky Day.--The Pilgrimage Decided On. My friend B. called on me this morning and asked me if I would go to a theatre with him on Monday next. "Oh, yes! certainly, old man," I replied. "Have you got an order, then?" He said: "No; they don't give orders. We shall have to pay." "Pay! Pay to go into a theatre!" I answered, in astonishment. "Oh, nonsense! You are joking." "My dear fellow," he rejoined, "do you think I should suggest paying if it were possible to get in by any other means? But the people who run this theatre would not even understand what was meant by a 'free list,' the uncivilised barbarians! It is of no use pretending to them that you are on the Press, because they don't want the Press; they don't think anything of the Press. It is no good writing to the acting manager, because there is no acting manager. It would be a waste of time offering to exhibit bills, because they don't have any bills--not of that sort. If you want to go in to see the show, you've got to pay. If you don't pay, you stop outside; that's their brutal rule." "Dear me," I said, "what a very unpleasant arrangement! And whereabouts is this extraordinary theatre? I don't think I can ever have been inside it." "I don't think you have," he replied; "it is at Ober-Ammergau--first turning on the left after you leave Ober railway-station, fifty miles from Munich." "Um! rather out of the way for a theatre," I said. "I should not have thought an outlying house like that could have afforded to give itself airs." "The house holds seven thousand people," answered my friend B., "and money is turned away at each performance. The first production is on Monday next. Will you come?" I pondered for a moment, looked at my diary, and saw that Aunt Emma was coming to spend Saturday to Wednesday next with us, calculated that if I went I should miss her, and might not see her again for years, and decided that I would go. To tell the truth, it was the journey more than the play that tempted me. To be a great traveller has always been one of my cherished ambitions. I yearn to be able to write in this sort of strain:-- "I have smoked my fragrant Havana in the sunny streets of old Madrid, and I have puffed the rude and not sweet-smelling calumet of peace in the draughty wigwam of the Wild West; I have sipped my evening coffee in the silent tent, while the tethered camel browsed without upon the desert grass, and I have quaffed the fiery brandy of the North while the reindeer munched his fodder beside me in the hut, and the pale light of the midnight sun threw the shadows of the pines across the snow; I have felt the stab of lustrous eyes that, ghostlike, looked at me from out veil-covered faces in Byzantium's narrow ways, and I have laughed back (though it was wrong of me to do so) at the saucy, wanton glances of the black-eyed girls of Jedo; I have wandered where 'good'--but not too good--Haroun Alraschid crept disguised at nightfall, with his faithful Mesrour by his side; I have stood upon the bridge where Dante watched the sainted Beatrice pass by; I have floated on the waters that once bore the barge of Cleopatra; I have stood where Caesar fell; I have heard the soft rustle of rich, rare robes in the drawing-rooms of Mayfair, and I have heard the teeth-necklaces rattle around the ebony throats of the belles of Tongataboo; I have panted beneath the sun's fierce rays in India, and frozen under the icy blasts of Greenland; I have mingled with the teeming hordes of old Cathay, and, deep in the great pine forests of the Western World, I have lain, wrapped in my blanket, a thousand miles beyond the shores of human life." B., to whom I explained my leaning towards this style of diction, said that exactly the same effect could be produced by writing about places quite handy. He said:-- "I could go on like that without having been outside England at all. I should say: "I have smoked my fourpenny shag in the sanded bars of Fleet Street, and I have puffed my twopenny Manilla in the gilded balls of the Criterion; I have quaffed my foaming beer of Burton where Islington's famed Angel gathers the little thirsty ones beneath her shadowing wings, and I have sipped my tenpenny _ordinaire_ in many a garlic-scented salon of Soho. On the back of the strangely-moving ass I have urged--or, to speak more correctly, the proprietor of the ass, or his agent, from behind has urged--my wild career across the sandy heaths of Hampstead, and my canoe has startled the screaming wild-fowl from their lonely haunts amid the sub-tropical regions of Battersea. Adown the long, steep slope of One Tree Hill have I rolled from top to foot, while laughing maidens of the East stood round and clapped their hands and yelled; and, in the old-world garden of that pleasant Court, where played the fair-haired children of the ill-starred Stuarts, have I wandered long through many paths, my arm entwined about the waist of one of Eve's sweet daughters, while her mother raged around indignantly on the other side of the hedge, and never seemed to get any nearer to us. I have chased the lodging-house Norfolk Howard to his watery death by the pale lamp's light; I have, shivering, followed the leaping flea o'er many a mile of pillow and sheet, by the great Atlantic's margin. Round and round, till the heart--and not only the heart--grows sick, and the mad brain whirls and reels, have I ridden the small, but extremely hard, horse, that may, for a penny, be mounted amid the plains of Peckham Rye; and high above the heads of the giddy throngs of Barnet (though it is doubtful if anyone among them was half so giddy as was I) have I swung in highly-coloured car, worked by a man with a rope. I have trod in stately measure the floor of Kensington's Town Hall (the tickets were a guinea each, and included refreshments--when you could get to them through the crowd), and on the green sward of the forest that borders eastern Anglia by the oft-sung town of Epping I have performed quaint ceremonies in a ring; I have mingled with the teeming hordes of Drury Lane on Boxing Night, and, during the run of a high-class piece, I have sat in lonely grandeur in the front row of the gallery, and wished that I had spent my shilling instead in the Oriental halls of the Alhambra." "There you are," said B., "that is just as good as yours; and you can write like that without going more than a few hours' journey from London." "We will discuss the matter no further," I replied. "You cannot, I see, enter into my feelings. The wild heart of the traveller does not throb within your breast; you cannot understand his longings. No matter! Suffice it that I will come this journey with you. I will buy a German conversation book, and a check-suit, and a blue veil, and a white umbrella, and suchlike necessities of the English tourist in Germany, this very afternoon. When do you start?" "Well," he said, "it is a good two days' journey. I propose to start on Friday." "Is not Friday rather an unlucky day to start on?" I suggested. "Oh, good gracious!" he retorted quite sharply, "what rubbish next? As if the affairs of Europe were going to be arranged by Providence according to whether you and I start for an excursion on a Thursday or a Friday!" He said he was surprised that a man who could be so sensible, occasionally, as myself, could have patience to even think of such old-womanish nonsense. He said that years ago, when he was a silly boy, he used to pay attention to this foolish superstition himself, and would never upon any consideration start for a trip upon a Friday. But, one year, he was compelled to do so. It was a case of either starting on a Friday or not going at all, and he determined to chance it. He went, prepared for and expecting a series of accidents and misfortunes. To return home alive was the only bit of pleasure he hoped for from that trip. As it turned out, however, he had never had a more enjoyable holiday in his life before. The whole event was a tremendous success. And after that, he had made up his mind to _always_ start on a Friday; and he always did, and always had a good time. He said that he would never, upon any consideration, start for a trip upon any other day but a Friday now. It was so absurd, this superstition about Friday. So we agreed to start on the Friday, and I am to meet him at Victoria Station at a quarter to eight in the evening. THURSDAY, 22ND The Question of Luggage.--First Friend's Suggestion.--Second Friend's Suggestion.--Third Friend's Suggestion.--Mrs. Briggs' Advice.--Our Vicar's Advice.--His Wife's Advice.--Medical Advice.--Literary Advice.--George's Recommendation.--My Sister-in-Law's Help.--Young Smith's Counsel.--My Own Ideas.--B.'s Idea. I have been a good deal worried to-day about the question of what luggage to take with me. I met a man this morning, and he said: "Oh, if you are going to Ober-Ammergau, mind you take plenty of warm clothing with you. You'll need all your winter things up there." He said that a friend of his had gone up there some years ago, and had not taken enough warm things with him, and had caught a chill there, and had come home and died. He said: "You be guided by me, and take plenty of warm things with you." I met another man later on, and he said: "I hear you are going abroad. Now, tell me, what part of Europe are you going to?" I replied that I thought it was somewhere about the middle. He said: "Well, now, you take my advice, and get a calico suit and a sunshade. Never mind the look of the thing. You be comfortable. You've no idea of the heat on the Continent at this time of the year. English people will persist in travelling about the Continent in the same stuffy clothes that they wear at home. That's how so many of them get sunstrokes, and are ruined for life." I went into the club, and there I met a friend of mine--a newspaper correspondent--who has travelled a good deal, and knows Europe pretty well. I told him what my two other friends had said, and asked him which I was to believe. He said: "Well, as a matter of fact, they are both right. You see, up in those hilly districts, the weather changes very quickly. In the morning it may be blazing hot, and you will be melting, and in the evening you may be very glad of a flannel shirt and a fur coat." "Why, that is exactly the sort of weather we have in England!" I exclaimed. "If that's all these foreigners can manage in their own country, what right have they to come over here, as they do, and grumble about our weather?" "Well, as a matter of fact," he replied, "they haven't any right; but you can't stop them--they will do it. No, you take my advice, and be prepared for everything. Take a cool suit and some thin things, for if it's hot, and plenty of warm things in case it is cold." When I got home I found Mrs. Briggs there, she having looked in to see how the baby was. She said:-- "Oh! if you're going anywhere near Germany, you take a bit of soap with you." She said that Mr. Briggs had been called over to Germany once in a hurry, on business, and had forgotten to take a piece of soap with him, and didn't know enough German to ask for any when he got over there, and didn't see any to ask for even if he had known, and was away for three weeks, and wasn't able to wash himself all the time, and came home so dirty that they didn't know him, and mistook him for the man that was to come to see what was the matter with the kitchen boiler. Mrs. Briggs also advised me to take some towels with me, as they give you such small towels to wipe on. I went out after lunch, and met our Vicar. He said: "Take a blanket with you." He said that not only did the German hotel-keepers never give you sufficient bedclothes to keep you warm of a night, but they never properly aired their sheets. He said that a young friend of his had gone for a tour through Germany once, and had slept in a damp bed, and had caught rheumatic fever, and had come home and died. His wife joined us at this point. (He was waiting for her outside a draper's shop when I met him.) He explained to her that I was going to Germany, and she said: "Oh! take a pillow with you. They don't give you any pillows--not like our pillows--and it's _so_ wretched, you'll never get a decent night's rest if you don't take a pillow." She said: "You can have a little bag made for it, and it doesn't look anything." I met our doctor a few yards further on. He said: "Don't forget to take a bottle of brandy with you. It doesn't take up much room, and, if you're not used to German cooking, you'll find it handy in the night." He added that the brandy you get at foreign hotels was mere poison, and that it was really unsafe to travel abroad without a bottle of brandy. He said that a simple thing like a bottle of brandy in your bag might often save your life. Coming home, I ran against a literary friend of mine. He said: "You'll have a goodish time in the train old fellow. Are you used to long railway journeys?" I said: "Well, I've travelled down from London into the very heart of Surrey by a South Eastern express." "Oh! that's a mere nothing, compared with what you've got before you now," he answered. "Look here, I'll tell you a very good idea of how to pass the time. You take a chessboard with you and a set of men. You'll thank me for telling you that!" George dropped in during the evening. He said: "I'll tell you one thing you'll have to take with you, old man, and that's a box of cigars and some tobacco." He said that the German cigar--the better class of German cigar--was of the brand that is technically known over here as the "Penny Pickwick--Spring Crop;" and he thought that I should not have time, during the short stay I contemplated making in the country, to acquire a taste for its flavour. My sister-in-law came in later on in the evening (she is a thoughtful girl), and brought a box with her about the size of a tea-chest. She said: "Now, you slip that in your bag; you'll be glad of that. There's everything there for making yourself a cup of tea." She said that they did not understand tea in Germany, but that with that I should be independent of them. She opened the case, and explained its contents to me. It certainly was a wonderfully complete arrangement. It contained a little caddy full of tea, a little bottle of milk, a box of sugar, a bottle of methylated spirit, a box of butter, and a tin of biscuits: also, a stove, a kettle, a teapot, two cups, two saucers, two plates, two knives, and two spoons. If there had only been a bed in it, one need not have bothered about hotels at all. Young Smith, the Secretary of our Photographic Club, called at nine to ask me to take him a negative of the statue of the dying Gladiator in the Munich Sculpture Gallery. I told him that I should be delighted to oblige him, but that I did not intend to take my camera with me. "Not take your camera!" he said. "You are going to Germany--to Rhineland! You are going to pass through some of the most picturesque scenery, and stay at some of the most ancient and famous towns of Europe, and are going to leave your photographic apparatus behind you, and you call yourself an artist!" He said I should never regret a thing more in my life than going without that camera. I think it is always right to take other people's advice in matters where they know more than you do. It is the experience of those who have gone before that makes the way smooth for those who follow. So, after supper, I got together the things I had been advised to take with me, and arranged them on the bed, adding a few articles I had thought of all by myself. I put up plenty of writing paper and a bottle of ink, along with a dictionary and a few other books of reference, in case I should feel inclined to do any work while I was away. I always like to be prepared for work; one never knows when one may feel inclined for it. Sometimes, when I have been away, and have forgotten to bring any paper and pens and ink with me, I have felt so inclined for writing; and it has quite upset me that, in consequence of not having brought any paper and pens and ink with me, I have been unable to sit down and do a lot of work, but have been compelled, instead, to lounge about all day with my hands in my pockets. Accordingly, I always take plenty of paper and pens and ink with me now, wherever I go, so that when the desire for work comes to me I need not check it. That this craving for work should have troubled me so often, when I had no paper, pens, and ink by me, and that it never, by any chance, visits me now, when I am careful to be in a position to gratify it, is a matter over which I have often puzzled. But when it does come I shall be ready for it. I also put on the bed a few volumes of Goethe, because I thought it would be so pleasant to read him in his own country. And I decided to take a sponge, together with a small portable bath, because a cold bath is so refreshing the first thing in the morning. B. came in just as I had got everything into a pile. He stared at the bed, and asked me what I was doing. I told him I was packing. "Great Heavens!" he exclaimed. "I thought you were moving! What do you think we are going to do--camp out?" "No!" I replied. "But these are the things I have been advised to take with me. What is the use of people giving you advice if you don't take it?" He said: "Oh! take as much advice as you like; that always comes in useful to give away. But, for goodness sake, don't get carrying all that stuff about with you. People will take us for Gipsies." I said: "Now, it's no use your talking nonsense. Half the things on this bed are life-preserving things. If people go into Germany without these things, they come home and die." And I related to him what the doctor and the vicar and the other people had told me, and explained to him how my life depended upon my taking brandy and blankets and sunshades and plenty of warm clothing with me. He is a man utterly indifferent to danger and risk--incurred by other people--is B. He said: "Oh, rubbish! You're not the sort that catches a cold and dies young. You leave that co-operative stores of yours at home, and pack up a tooth-brush, a comb, a pair of socks, and a shirt. That's all you'll want." * * * * * I have packed more than that, but not much. At all events, I have got everything into one small bag. I should like to have taken that tea arrangement--it would have done so nicely to play at shop with in the train!--but B. would not hear of it. I hope the weather does not change. FRIDAY, 23RD Early Rising.--Ballast should be Stowed Away in the Hold before Putting to Sea.--Annoying Interference of Providence in Matters that it Does Not Understand.--A Socialistic Society.--B. Misjudges Me.--An Uninteresting Anecdote.--We Lay in Ballast.--A Moderate Sailor.--A Playful Boat. I got up very early this morning. I do not know why I got up early. We do not start till eight o'clock this evening. But I don't regret it--the getting up early I mean. It is a change. I got everybody else up too, and we all had breakfast at seven. I made a very good lunch. One of those seafaring men said to me once: "Now, if ever you are going a short passage, and are at all nervous, you lay in a good load. It's a good load in the hold what steadies the ship. It's them half-empty cruisers as goes a-rollin' and a-pitchin' and a-heavin' all over the place, with their stern up'ards half the time. You lay in ballast." It seemed very reasonable advice. Aunt Emma came in the afternoon. She said she was so glad she had caught me. Something told her to change her mind and come on Friday instead of Saturday. It was Providence, she said. I wish Providence would mind its own business, and not interfere in my affairs: it does not understand them. She says she shall stop till I come back, as she wants to see me again before she goes. I told her I might not be back for a month. She said it didn't matter; she had plenty of time, and would wait for me. The family entreat me to hurry home. I ate a very fair dinner--"laid in a good stock of ballast," as my seafaring friend would have said; wished "Good-bye!" to everybody, and kissed Aunt Emma; promised to take care of myself--a promise which, please Heaven, I will faithfully keep, cost me what it may--hailed a cab and started. I reached Victoria some time before B. I secured two corner seats in a smoking-carriage, and then paced up and down the platform waiting for him. When men have nothing else to occupy their minds, they take to thinking. Having nothing better to do until B. arrived, I fell to musing. What a wonderful piece of Socialism modern civilisation has become!--not the Socialism of the so-called Socialists--a system modelled apparently upon the methods of the convict prison--a system under which each miserable sinner is to be compelled to labour, like a beast of burden, for no personal benefit to himself, but only for the good of the community--a world where there are to be no men, but only numbers--where there is to be no ambition and no hope and no fear,--but the Socialism of free men, working side by side in the common workshop, each one for the wage to which his skill and energy entitle him; the Socialism of responsible, thinking individuals, not of State-directed automata. Here was I, in exchange for the result of some of my labour, going to be taken by Society for a treat, to the middle of Europe and back. Railway lines had been laid over the whole 700 or 800 miles to facilitate my progress; bridges had been built, and tunnels made; an army of engineers, and guards, and signal-men, and porters, and clerks were waiting to take charge of me, and to see to my comfort and safety. All I had to do was to tell Society (here represented by a railway booking-clerk) where I wanted to go, and to step into a carriage; all the rest would be done for me. Books and papers had been written and printed; so that if I wished to beguile the journey by reading, I could do so. At various places on the route, thoughtful Society had taken care to be ready for me with all kinds of refreshment (her sandwiches might be a little fresher, but maybe she thinks new bread injurious for me). When I am tired of travelling and want to rest, I find Society waiting for me with dinner and a comfortable bed, with hot and cold water to wash in and towels to wipe upon. Wherever I go, whatever I need, Society, like the enslaved genii of some Eastern tale, is ready and anxious to help me, to serve me, to do my bidding, to give me enjoyment and pleasure. Society will take me to Ober-Ammergau, will provide for all my wants on the way, and, when I am there, will show me the Passion Play, which she has arranged and rehearsed and will play for my instruction; will bring me back any way I like to come, explaining, by means of her guide-books and histories, everything upon the way that she thinks can interest me; will, while I am absent, carry my messages to those I have left behind me in England, and will bring me theirs in return; will look after me and take care of me and protect me like a mother--as no mother ever could. All that she asks in return is, that I shall do the work she has given me to do. As a man works, so Society deals by him. To me Society says: "You sit at your desk and write, that is all I want you to do. You are not good for much, but you can spin out yards of what you and your friends, I suppose, call literature; and some people seem to enjoy reading it. Very well: you sit there and write this literature, or whatever it is, and keep your mind fixed on that. I will see to everything else for you. I will provide you with writing materials, and books of wit and humour, and paste and scissors, and everything else that may be necessary to you in your trade; and I will feed you and clothe you and lodge you, and I will take you about to places that you wish to go to; and I will see that you have plenty of tobacco and all other things practicable that you may desire--provided that you work well. The more work you do, and the better work you do, the better I shall look after you. You write--that is all I want you to do." "But," I say to Society, "I don't like work; I don't want to work. Why should I be a slave and work?" "All right," answers Society, "don't work. I'm not forcing you. All I say is, that if you don't work for me, I shall not work for you. No work from you, no dinner from me--no holidays, no tobacco." And I decide to be a slave, and work. Society has no notion of paying all men equally. Her great object is to encourage brain. The man who merely works by his muscles she regards as very little superior to the horse or the ox, and provides for him just a little better. But the moment he begins to use his head, and from the labourer rises to the artisan, she begins to raise his wages. Of course hers is a very imperfect method of encouraging thought. She is of the world, and takes a worldly standard of cleverness. To the shallow, showy writer, I fear, she generally pays far more than to the deep and brilliant thinker; and clever roguery seems often more to her liking than honest worth. But her scheme is a right and sound one; her aims and intentions are clear; her methods, on the whole, work fairly well; and every year she grows in judgment. One day she will arrive at perfect wisdom, and will pay each man according to his deserts. But do not be alarmed. This will not happen in our time. Turning round, while still musing about Society, I ran against B. (literally). He thought I was a clumsy ass at first, and said so; but, on recognising me, apologised for his mistake. He had been there for some time also, waiting for me. I told him that I had secured two corner seats in a smoking-carriage, and he replied that he had done so too. By a curious coincidence, we had both fixed upon the same carriage. I had taken the corner seats near the platform, and he had booked the two opposite corners. Four other passengers sat huddled up in the middle. We kept the seats near the door, and gave the other two away. One should always practise generosity. There was a very talkative man in our carriage. I never came across a man with such a fund of utterly uninteresting anecdotes. He had a friend with him--at all events, the man was his friend when they started--and he talked to this friend incessantly, from the moment the train left Victoria until it arrived at Dover. First of all he told him a long story about a dog. There was no point in the story whatever. It was simply a bald narrative of the dog's daily doings. The dog got up in the morning and barked at the door, and when they came down and opened the door there he was, and he stopped all day in the garden; and when his wife (not the dog's wife, the wife of the man who was telling the story) went out in the afternoon, he was asleep on the grass, and they brought him into the house, and he played with the children, and in the evening he slept in the coal-shed, and next morning there he was again. And so on, for about forty minutes. A very dear chum or near relative of the dog's might doubtless have found the account enthralling; but what possible interest a stranger--a man who evidently didn't even know the dog--could be expected to take in the report, it was difficult to conceive. The friend at first tried to feel excited, and murmured: "Wonderful!" "Very strange, indeed!" "How curious!" and helped the tale along by such ejaculations as, "No, did he though?" "And what did you do then?" or, "Was that on the Monday or the Tuesday, then?" But as the story progressed, he appeared to take a positive dislike to the dog, and only yawned each time that it was mentioned. Indeed, towards the end, I think, though I trust I am mistaken, I heard him mutter, "Oh, damn the dog!" After the dog story, we thought we were going to have a little quiet. But we were mistaken; for, with the same breath with which he finished the dog rigmarole, our talkative companion added: "But I can tell you a funnier thing than that--" We all felt we could believe that assertion. If he had boasted that he could tell a duller, more uninteresting story, we should have doubted him; but the possibility of his being able to relate something funnier, we could readily grasp. But it was not a bit funnier, after all. It was only longer and more involved. It was the history of a man who grew his own celery; and then, later on, it turned out that his wife was the niece, by the mother's side, of a man who had made an ottoman out of an old packing-case. The friend glanced round the carriage apologetically about the middle of this story, with an expression that said: "I'm awfully sorry, gentlemen; but it really is not my fault. You see the position I'm in. Don't blame me. Don't make it worse for me to bear than it is." And we each replied with pitying, sympathetic looks that implied: "That's all right, my dear sir; don't you fret about that. We see how it is. We only wish we could do something to help you." The poor fellow seemed happier and more resigned after that. B. and I hurried on board at Dover, and were just in time to secure the last two berths in the boat; and we were glad that we had managed to do this because our idea was that we should, after a good supper, turn in and go comfortably to sleep. B. said: "What I like to do, during a sea passage, is to go to sleep, and then wake up and find that I am there." We made a very creditable supper. I explained to B. the ballast principle held by my seafaring friend, and he agreed with me that the idea seemed reasonable; and, as there was a fixed price for supper, and you had as much as you liked, we determined to give the plan a fair trial. B. left me after supper somewhat abruptly, as it appeared to me, and I took a stroll on deck by myself. I did not feel very comfortable. I am what I call a moderate sailor. I do not go to excess in either direction. On ordinary occasions, I can swagger about and smoke my pipe, and lie about my Channel experiences with the best of them. But when there is what the captain calls "a bit of a sea on," I feel sad, and try to get away from the smell of the engines and the proximity of people who smoke green cigars. There was a man smoking a peculiarly mellow and unctuous cigar on deck when I got there. I don't believe he smoked it because he enjoyed it. He did not look as if he enjoyed it. I believe he smoked it merely to show how well he was feeling, and to irritate people who were not feeling very well. There is something very blatantly offensive about the man who feels well on board a boat. I am very objectionable myself, I know, when I am feeling all right. It is not enough for me that I am not ill. I want everybody to see that I am not ill. It seems to me that I am wasting myself if I don't let every human being in the vessel know that I am not ill. I cannot sit still and be thankful, like you'd imagine a sensible man would. I walk about the ship--smoking, of course--and look at people who are not well with mild but pitying surprise, as if I wondered what it was like and how they did it. It is very foolish of me, I know, but I cannot help it. I suppose it is the human nature that exists in even the best of us that makes us act like this. I could not get away from this man's cigar; or when I did, I came within range of the perfume from the engine-room, and felt I wanted to go back to the cigar. There seemed to be no neutral ground between the two. If it had not been that I had paid for saloon, I should have gone fore. It was much fresher there, and I should have been much happier there altogether. But I was not going to pay for first-class and then ride third--that was not business. No, I would stick to the swagger part of the ship, and feel aristocratic and sick. A mate, or a boatswain, or an admiral, or one of those sort of people--I could not be sure, in the darkness, which it was--came up to me as I was leaning with my head against the paddle-box, and asked me what I thought of the ship. He said she was a new boat, and that this was her first voyage. I said I hoped she would get a bit steadier as she grew older. He replied: "Yes, she is a bit skittish to-night." What it seemed to me was, that the ship would try to lie down and go to sleep on her right side; and then, before she had given that position a fair trial, would suddenly change her mind, and think she could do it better on her left. At the moment the man came up to me she was trying to stand on her head; and before he had finished speaking she had given up this attempt, in which, however, she had very nearly succeeded, and had, apparently, decided to now play at getting out of the water altogether. And this is what he called being a "bit skittish!" Seafaring people talk like this, because they are silly, and do not know any better. It is no use being angry with them. I got a little sleep at last. Not in the bunk I had been at such pains to secure: I would not have stopped down in that stuffy saloon, if anybody had offered me a hundred pounds for doing so. Not that anybody did; nor that anybody seemed to want me there at all. I gathered this from the fact that the first thing that met my eye, after I had succeeded in clawing my way down, was a boot. The air was full of boots. There were sixty men sleeping there--or, as regards the majority, I should say _trying_ to sleep there--some in bunks, some on tables, and some under tables. One man _was_ asleep, and was snoring like a hippopotamus--like a hippopotamus that had caught a cold, and was hoarse; and the other fifty-nine were sitting up, throwing their boots at him. It was a snore, very difficult to locate. From which particular berth, in that dimly-lighted, evil-smelling place, it proceeded nobody was quite sure. At one moment, it appeared to come, wailing and sobbing, from the larboard, and the next instant it thundered forth, seemingly from the starboard. So every man who could reach a boot picked it up, and threw it promiscuously, silently praying to Providence, as he did so, to guide it aright and bring it safe to its desired haven. I watched the weird scene for a minute or two, and then I hauled myself on deck again, and sat down--and went to sleep on a coil of rope; and was awakened, in the course of time, by a sailor who wanted that coil of rope to throw at the head of a man who was standing, doing no harm to anybody, on the quay at Ostend. SATURDAY, 24TH Arrival at Ostend.--Coffee and Rolls.--Difficulty of Making French Waiters understand German.--Advantages of Possessing a Conscience That Does Not Get Up Too Early.--Villainy Triumphant.--Virtue Ordered Outside.--A Homely English Row. When I say I was "awakened" at Ostend, I do not speak the strict truth. I was not awakened--not properly. I was only half-awakened. I never did get fairly awake until the afternoon. During the journey from Ostend to Cologne I was three-parts asleep and one-part partially awake. At Ostend, however, I was sufficiently aroused to grasp the idea that we had got somewhere, and that I must find my luggage and B., and do something or other; in addition to which, a strange, vague instinct, but one which I have never yet known deceive me, hovering about my mind, and telling me that I was in the neighbourhood of something to eat and drink, spurred me to vigour and action. I hurried down into the saloon and there found B. He excused himself for having left me alone all night--he need not have troubled himself. I had not pined for him in the least. If the only woman I had ever loved had been on board, I should have sat silent, and let any other fellow talk to her that wanted to, and that felt equal to it--by explaining that he had met a friend and that they had been talking. It appeared to have been a trying conversation. I also ran against the talkative man and his companion. Such a complete wreck of a once strong man as the latter looked I have never before seen. Mere sea-sickness, however severe, could never have accounted for the change in his appearance since, happy and hopeful, he entered the railway-carriage at Victoria six short hours ago. His friend, on the other hand, appeared fresh and cheerful, and was relating an anecdote about a cow. We took our bags into the Custom House and opened them, and I sat down on mine, and immediately went to sleep. When I awoke, somebody whom I mistook at first for a Field-Marshal, and from force of habit--I was once a volunteer--saluted, was standing over me, pointing melodramatically at my bag. I assured him in picturesque German that I had nothing to declare. He did not appear to comprehend me, which struck me as curious, and took the bag away from me, which left me nothing to sit upon but the floor. But I felt too sleepy to be indignant. After our luggage had been examined, we went into the buffet. My instinct had not misled me: there I found hot coffee, and rolls and butter. I ordered two coffees with milk, some bread, and some butter. I ordered them in the best German I knew. As nobody understood me, I went and got the things for myself. It saves a deal of argument, that method. People seem to know what you mean in a moment then. B. suggested that while we were in Belgium, where everybody spoke French, while very few indeed knew German, I should stand a better chance of being understood if I talked less German and more French. He said: "It will be easier for you, and less of a strain upon the natives. You stick to French," he continued, "as long as ever you can. You will get along much better with French. You will come across people now and then--smart, intelligent people--who will partially understand your French, but no human being, except a thought-reader, will ever obtain any glimmering of what you mean from your German." "Oh, are we in Belgium," I replied sleepily; "I thought we were in Germany. I didn't know." And then, in a burst of confidence, I added, feeling that further deceit was useless, "I don't know where I am, you know." "No, I thought you didn't," he replied. "That is exactly the idea you give anybody. I wish you'd wake up a bit." We waited about an hour at Ostend, while our train was made up. There was only one carriage labelled for Cologne, and four more passengers wanted to go there than the compartment would hold. Not being aware of this, B. and I made no haste to secure places, and, in consequence, when, having finished our coffee, we leisurely strolled up and opened the carriage door we saw that every seat was already booked. A bag was in one space and a rug in another, an umbrella booked a third, and so on. Nobody was there, but the seats were gone! It is the unwritten law among travellers that a man's luggage deposited upon a seat, shall secure that seat to him until he comes to sit upon it himself. This is a good law and a just law, and one that, in my normal state, I myself would die to uphold and maintain. But at three o'clock on a chilly morning one's moral sensibilities are not properly developed. The average man's conscience does not begin work till eight or nine o'clock--not till after breakfast, in fact. At three a.m. he will do things that at three in the afternoon his soul would revolt at. Under ordinary circumstances I should as soon have thought of shifting a man's bag and appropriating his seat as an ancient Hebrew squatter would have thought of removing his neighbour's landmark; but at this time in the morning my better nature was asleep. I have often read of a man's better nature being suddenly awakened. The business is generally accomplished by an organ-grinder or a little child (I would back the latter, at all events--give it a fair chance--to awaken anything in this world that was not stone deaf, or that had not been dead for more than twenty-four hours); and if an organ-grinder or a little child had been around Ostend station that morning, things might have been different. B. and I might have been saved from crime. Just as we were in the middle of our villainy, the organ-grinder or the child would have struck up, and we should have burst into tears, and have rushed from the carriage, and have fallen upon each other's necks outside on the platform, and have wept, and waited for the next train. As it was, after looking carefully round to see that nobody was watching us, we slipped quickly into the carriage, and, making room for ourselves among the luggage there, sat down and tried to look innocent and easy. B. said that the best thing we could do, when the other people came, would be to pretend to be dead asleep, and too stupid to understand anything. I replied that as far as I was concerned, I thought I could convey the desired impression without stooping to deceit at all, and prepared to make myself comfortable. A few seconds later another man got into the carriage. He also made room for himself among the luggage and sat down. "I am afraid that seat's taken, sir," said B. when he had recovered his surprise at the man's coolness. "In fact, all the seats in this carriage are taken." "I can't help that," replied the ruffian, cynically. "I've got to get to Cologne some time to-day, and there seems no other way of doing it that I can see." "Yes, but so has the gentleman whose seat you have taken got to get there," I remonstrated; "what about him? You are thinking only of yourself!" My sense of right and justice was beginning to assert itself, and I felt quite indignant with the fellow. Two minutes ago, as I have explained, I could contemplate the taking of another man's seat with equanimity. Now, such an act seemed to me shameful. The truth is that my better nature never sleeps for long. Leave it alone and it wakens of its own accord. Heaven help me! I am a sinful, worldly man, I know; but there is good at the bottom of me. It wants hauling up, but it's there. This man had aroused it. I now saw the sinfulness of taking another passenger's place in a railway-carriage. But I could not make the other man see it. I felt that some service was due from me to Justice, in compensation of the wrong I had done her a few moments ago, and I argued most eloquently. My rhetoric was, however, quite thrown away. "Oh! it's only a vice-consul," he said; "here's his name on the bag. There's plenty of room for him in with the guard." It was no use my defending the sacred cause of Right before a man who held sentiments like that; so, having lodged a protest against his behaviour, and thus eased my conscience, I leant back and dozed the doze of the just. Five minutes before the train started, the rightful owners of the carriage came up and crowded in. They seemed surprised at finding only five vacant seats available between seven of them, and commenced to quarrel vigorously among themselves. B. and I and the unjust man in the corner tried to calm them, but passion ran too high at first for the voice of Reason to be heard. Each combination of five, possible among them, accused each remaining two of endeavouring to obtain seats by fraud, and each one more than hinted that the other six were liars. What annoyed me was that they quarrelled in English. They all had languages of their own,--there were four Belgians, two Frenchmen, and a German,--but no language was good enough for them to insult each other in but English. Finding that there seemed to be no chance of their ever agreeing among themselves, they appealed to us. We unhesitatingly decided in favour of the five thinnest, who, thereupon, evidently regarding the matter as finally settled, sat down, and told the other two to get out. These two stout ones, however--the German and one of the Belgians--seemed inclined to dispute the award, and called up the station-master. The station-master did not wait to listen to what they had to say, but at once began abusing them for being in the carriage at all. He told them they ought to be ashamed of themselves for forcing their way into a compartment that was already more than full, and inconveniencing the people already there. He also used English to explain this to them, and they got out on the platform and answered him back in English. English seems to be the popular language for quarrelling in, among foreigners. I suppose they find it more expressive. We all watched the group from the window. We were amused and interested. In the middle of the argument an early gendarme arrived on the scene. The gendarme naturally supported the station-master. One man in uniform always supports another man in uniform, no matter what the row is about, or who may be in the right--that does not trouble him. It is a fixed tenet of belief among uniform circles that a uniform can do no wrong. If burglars wore uniform, the police would be instructed to render them every assistance in their power, and to take into custody any householder attempting to interfere with them in the execution of their business. The gendarme assisted the station-master to abuse the two stout passengers, and he also abused them in English. It was not good English in any sense of the word. The man would probably have been able to give his feelings much greater variety and play in French or Flemish, but that was not his object. His ambition, like every other foreigner's, was to become an accomplished English quarreller, and this was practice for him. A Customs House clerk came out and joined in the babel. He took the part of the passengers, and abused the station-master and the gendarme, and _he_ abused _them_ in English. B. said he thought it very pleasant here, far from our native shores, in the land of the stranger, to come across a little homely English row like this. SATURDAY, 24TH--CONTINUED A Man of Family.--An Eccentric Train.--Outrage on an Englishman.--Alone in Europe.--Difficulty of Making German Waiters Understand Scandinavian.--Danger of Knowing Too Many Languages.--A Wearisome Journey.--Cologne, Ahoy! There was a very well-informed Belgian in the carriage, and he told us something interesting about nearly every town through which we passed. I felt that if I could have kept awake, and have listened to that man, and remembered what he said, and not mixed things up, I should have learnt a good deal about the country between Ostend and Cologne. He had relations in nearly every town, had this man. I suppose there have been, and are, families as large and as extensive as his; but I never heard of any other family that made such a show. They seemed to have been planted out with great judgment, and were now all over the country. Every time I awoke, I caught some such scattered remark as: "Bruges--you can see the belfry from this side--plays a polka by Haydn every hour. My aunt lives here." "Ghent--Hotel de Ville, some say finest specimen of Gothic architecture in Europe--where my mother lives. You could see the house if that church wasn't there." "Just passed Alost--great hop centre. My grandfather used to live there; he's dead now." "There's the Royal chateau--here, just on this side. My sister is married to a man who lives there--not in the palace, I don't mean, but in Laeken." "That's the dome of the Palais de Justice--they call Brussels 'Paris in little'--I like it better than Paris, myself--not so crowded. I live in Brussels." "Louvain--there's Van de Weyer's statue, the 1830 revolutionist. My wife's mother lives in Louvain. She wants us to come and live there. She says we are too far away from her at Brussels, but I don't think so." "Leige--see the citadel? Got some cousins at Leige--only second ones. Most of my first ones live at Maestricht"; and so on all the way to Cologne. I do not believe we passed a single town or village that did not possess one or more specimens of this man's relatives. Our journey seemed, not so much like a tour through Belgium and part of Northern Germany, as a visit to the neighbourhood where this man's family resided. I was careful to take a seat facing the engine at Ostend. I prefer to travel that way. But when I awoke a little later on, I found myself going backwards. I naturally felt indignant. I said: "Who's put me over here? I was over there, you know. You've no right to do that!" They assured me, however, that nobody had shifted me, but that the train had turned round at Ghent. I was annoyed at this. It seemed to me a mean trick for a train to start off in one direction, and thus lure you into taking your seat (or somebody else's seat, as the case might be) under the impression that you were going to travel that way, and then, afterwards, turn round and go the other way. I felt very doubtful, in my own mind, as to whether the train knew where it was going at all. At Brussels we got out and had some more coffee and rolls. I forget what language I talked at Brussels, but nobody understood me. When I next awoke, after leaving Brussels, I found myself going forwards again. The engine had apparently changed its mind for the second time, and was pulling the carriages the other way now. I began to get thoroughly alarmed. This train was simply doing what it liked. There was no reliance to be placed upon it whatever. The next thing it would do would be to go sideways. It seemed to me that I ought to get up and see into this matter; but, while pondering the business, I fell asleep again. I was very sleepy indeed when they routed us out at Herbesthal, to examine our luggage for Germany. I had a vague idea that we were travelling in Turkey, and had been stopped by brigands. When they told me to open my bag, I said, "Never!" and remarked that I was an Englishman, and that they had better be careful. I also told them that they could dismiss any idea of ransom from their minds at once, unless they were prepared to take I.O.U.'s, as it was against the principles of our family to pay cash for anything--certainly not for relatives. They took no notice of my warning, and caught hold of my Gladstone. I resisted feebly, but was over-powered, and went to sleep again. On awakening, I discovered myself in the buffet. I have no recollection of going there. My instinct must have guided me there during my sleep. I ordered my usual repast of coffee and rolls. (I must have been full of coffee and rolls by this time.) I had got the idea into my head now that I was in Norway, and so I ordered them in broken Scandinavian, a few words of which I had picked up during a trip through the fiords last summer. Of course, the man did not understand; but I am accustomed to witnessing the confusion of foreigners when addressed in their native tongue, and so forgave him--especially as, the victuals being well within reach, language was a matter of secondary importance. I took two cups of coffee, as usual--one for B., and one for myself--and, bringing them to the table, looked round for B. I could not see him anywhere. What had become of him? I had not seen him, that I could recollect, for hours. I did not know where I was, or what I was doing. I had a hazy knowledge that B. and I had started off together--whether yesterday or six months ago, I could not have said to save my life--with the intention, if I was not mistaken, of going somewhere and seeing something. We were now somewhere abroad--somewhere in Norway was my idea; though why I had fixed on Norway is a mystery to me to this day--and I had lost him! How on earth were we ever to find each other again? A horrible picture presented itself to my mind of our both wandering distractedly up and down Europe, perhaps for years, vainly seeking each other. The touching story of Evangeline recurred to me with terrible vividness. Something must be done, and that immediately. Somehow or another I must find B. I roused myself, and summoned to my aid every word of Scandinavian that I knew. It was no good these people pretending that they did not understand their own language, and putting me off that way. They had got to understand it this time. This was no mere question of coffee and rolls; this was a serious business. I would make that waiter understand my Scandinavian, if I had to hammer it into his head with his own coffee-pot! I seized him by the arm, and, in Scandinavian that must have been quite pathetic in its tragic fervour, I asked him if he had seen my friend--my friend B. The man only stared. I grew desperate. I shook him. I said: "My friend--big, great, tall, large--is he where? Have you him to see where? Here?" (I had to put it that way because Scandinavian grammar is not a strong point with me, and my knowledge of the verbs is as yet limited to the present tense of the infinitive mood. Besides, this was no time to worry about grace of style.) A crowd gathered round us, attracted by the man's terrified expression. I appealed to them generally. I said: "My friend B.--head, red--boots, yellow, brown, gold--coat, little squares--nose, much, large! Is he where? Him to see--anybody--where?" Not a soul moved a hand to help me. There they stood and gaped! I repeated it all over again louder, in case anybody on the outskirts of the mob had not heard it; and I repeated it in an entirely new accent. I gave them every chance I could. They chatted excitedly among themselves, and, then a bright idea seemed to strike one of them, a little more intelligent-looking than the rest, and he rushed outside and began running up and down, calling out something very loudly, in which the word "Norwegian" kept on occurring. He returned in a few seconds, evidently exceedingly pleased with himself, accompanied by a kindly-looking old gentleman in a white hat. Way was made in the crowd, and the old gentleman pressed forward. When he got near, he smiled at me, and then proceeded to address to me a lengthy, but no doubt kindly meant, speech in Scandinavian. Of course, it was all utterly unintelligible to me from beginning to end, and my face clearly showed this. I can grasp a word or two of Scandinavian here and there, if pronounced slowly and distinctly; but that is all. The old gentleman regarded me with great surprise. He said (in Scandinavian, of course): "You speak Norwegian?" I replied, in the same tongue: "A little, a very little--_very_." He seemed not only disappointed, but indignant. He explained the matter to the crowd, and they all seemed indignant. _Why_ everybody should be indignant with me I could not comprehend. There are plenty of people who do not understand Scandinavian. It was absurd to be vexed with me because _I_ did not. I do know a little, and that is more than some people do. I inquired of the old gentleman about B. He did understand me. I must give him credit for that. But beyond understanding me, he was of no more use than the others; and why they had taken so much trouble to fetch him, I could not imagine. What would have happened if the difficulty had continued much longer (for I was getting thoroughly wild with the lot of them) I cannot say. Fortunately, at this moment I caught sight of B. himself, who had just entered the room. I could not have greeted him more heartily if I had wanted to borrow money of him. "Well, I _am_ glad to see you again!" I cried. "Well, this _is_ pleasant! I thought I had lost you!" "Why, you are English!" cried out the old gentleman in the white hat, in very good Saxon, on hearing me speak to B. "Well, I know that," I replied, "and I'm proud of it. Have you any objection to my being English?" "Not in the least," he answered, "if you'd only talk English instead of Norwegian. I'm English myself;" and he walked away, evidently much puzzled. B. said to me as we sat down: "I'll tell you what's the matter with you, J.--you know too many languages for this continent. Your linguistic powers will be the ruin of us if you don't hold them in a bit. You don't know any Sanscrit or Chaldean, do you?" I replied that I did not. "Any Hebrew or Chinese?" "Not a word." "Sure?" "Not so much as a full stop in any of them." "That's a blessing," said B., much relieved. "You would be trying to palm off one or other of them on some simple-minded peasant for German, if you did!" It is a wearisome journey, through the long, hot hours of the morning, to Cologne. The carriage is stifling. Railway travellers, I have always noticed, regard fresh air as poison. They like to live on the refuse of each other's breath, and close up every window and ventilator tight. The sun pours down through glass and blind and scorches our limbs. Our heads and our bodies ache. The dust and soot drift in and settle on our clothes, and grime our hands and face. We all doze and wake up with a start, and fall to sleep again upon each other. I wake, and find my neighbour with his head upon my shoulder. It seems a shame to cast him off; he looks so trustful. But he is heavy. I push him on to the man the other side. He is just as happy there. We roll about; and when the train jerks, we butt each other with our heads. Things fall from the rack upon us. We look up surprised, and go to sleep again. My bag tumbles down upon the head of the unjust man in the corner. (Is it retribution?) He starts up, begs my pardon, and sinks back into oblivion. I am too sleepy to pick up the bag. It lies there on the floor. The unjust man uses it for a footstool. We look out, through half-closed eyes, upon the parched, level, treeless land; upon the little patchwork farms of corn and beetroot, oats and fruit, growing undivided, side by side, each looking like a little garden dropped down into the plain; upon the little dull stone houses. A steeple appears far away upon the horizon. (The first thing that we ask of men is their faith: "What do you believe?" The first thing that they show us is their church: "_This_ we believe.") Then a tall chimney ranges itself alongside. (First faith, then works.) Then a confused jumble of roofs, out of which, at last, stand forth individual houses, factories, streets, and we draw up in a sleeping town. People open the carriage door, and look in upon us. They do not appear to think much of us, and close the door again quickly, with a bang, and we sleep once more. As we rumble on, the country slowly wakes. Rude V-shaped carts, drawn by yoked oxen, and even sometimes by cows, wait patiently while we cross the long, straight roads stretching bare for many a mile across the plain. Peasants trudge along the fields to work. Smoke rises from the villages and farm-houses. Passengers are waiting at the wayside stations. Towards mid-day, on looking out, we see two tiny spires standing side by side against the sky. They seem to be twins, and grow taller as we approach. I describe them to B., and he says they are the steeples of Cologne Cathedral; and we all begin to yawn and stretch, and to collect our bags and coats and umbrellas. HALF OF SATURDAY 24TH, AND SOME OF SUNDAY, 25TH Difficulty of Keeping this Diary.--A Big Wash.--The German Bed.--Its Goings On.--Manners and Customs of the German Army.--B.'s Besetting Sin.--Cologne Cathedral.--Thoughts Without Words.--A Curious Custom. This diary is getting mixed. The truth is, I am not living as a man who keeps a diary should live. I ought, of course, to sit down in front of this diary at eleven o'clock at night, and write down all that has occurred to me during the day. But at eleven o'clock at night, I am in the middle of a long railway journey, or have just got up, or am just going to bed for a couple of hours. We go to bed at odd moments, when we happen to come across a bed, and have a few minutes to spare. We have been to bed this afternoon, and are now having another breakfast; and I am not quite sure whether it is yesterday or to-morrow, or what day it is. I shall not attempt to write up this diary in the orthodox manner, therefore; but shall fix in a few lines whenever I have half-an-hour with nothing better to do. We washed ourselves in the Rhine at Cologne (we had not had a wash since we had left our happy home in England). We started with the idea of washing ourselves at the hotel; but on seeing the basin and water and towel provided, I decided not to waste my time playing with them. As well might Hercules have attempted to tidy up the Augean stables with a squirt. We appealed to the chambermaid. We explained to her that we wanted to wash--to clean ourselves--not to blow bubbles. Could we not have bigger basins and more water and more extensive towels? The chambermaid (a staid old lady of about fifty) did not think that anything better could be done for us by the hotel fraternity of Cologne, and seemed to think that the river was more what we wanted. I fancied that the old soul was speaking sarcastically, but B. said "No;" she was thinking of the baths alongside the river, and suggested that we should go there. I agreed. It seemed to me that the river--the Rhine--would, if anything could, meet the case. There ought to be plenty of water in it now, after the heavy spring rains. When I saw it, I felt satisfied. I said to B.: "That's all right, old man; that's the sort of thing we need. That is just the sized river I feel I can get myself clean in this afternoon." I have heard a good deal in praise of the Rhine, and I am glad to be able to speak well of it myself. I found it most refreshing. I was, however, sorry that we had washed in it afterwards. I have heard from friends who have travelled since in Germany that we completely spoiled that river for the rest of the season. Not for business purposes, I do not mean. The barge traffic has been, comparatively speaking, uninterfered with. But the tourist trade has suffered terribly. Parties who usually go up the Rhine by steamer have, after looking at the river, gone by train this year. The boat agents have tried to persuade them that the Rhine is always that colour: that it gets like that owing to the dirt and refuse washed down into it during its course among the mountains. But the tourists have refused to accept this explanation. They have said: "No. Mountains will account for a good deal, we admit, but not for all _that_. We are acquainted with the ordinary condition of the Rhine, and although muddy, and at times unpleasant, it is passable. As it is this summer, however, we would prefer not to travel upon it. We will wait until after next year's spring-floods." We went to bed after our wash. To the _blase_ English bed-goer, accustomed all his life to the same old hackneyed style of bed night after night, there is something very pleasantly piquant about the experience of trying to sleep in a German bed. He does not know it is a bed at first. He thinks that someone has been going round the room, collecting all the sacks and cushions and antimacassars and such articles that he has happened to find about, and has piled them up on a wooden tray ready for moving. He rings for the chambermaid, and explains to her that she has shown him into the wrong room. He wanted a bedroom. She says: "This _is_ a bedroom." He says: "Where's the bed?" "There!" she says, pointing to the box on which the sacks and antimacassars and cushions lie piled. "That!" he cries. "How am I going to sleep in that?" The chambermaid does not know how he is going to sleep there, never having seen a gentleman go to sleep anywhere, and not knowing how they set about it; but suggests that he might try lying down flat, and shutting his eyes. "But it is not long enough," he says. The chambermaid thinks he will be able to manage, if he tucks his legs up. He sees that he will not get anything better, and that he must put up with it. "Oh, very well!" he says. "Look sharp and get it made, then." She says: "It is made." He turns and regards the girl sternly. Is she taking advantage of his being a lonely stranger, far from home and friends, to mock him? He goes over to what she calls the bed, and snatching off the top-most sack from the pile and holding it up, says: "Perhaps you'll tell me what this is, then?" "That," says the girl, "that's the bed!" He is somewhat nonplussed at the unexpected reply. "Oh!" he says. "Oh! the bed, is it? I thought it was a pincushion! Well, if it is the bed, then what is it doing out here, on the top of everything else? You think that because I'm only a man, I don't understand a bed!" "That's the proper place for it," responds the chambermaid. "What! on top?" "Yes, sir." "Well, then where are the clothes?" "Underneath, sir." "Look here, my good girl," he says; "you don't understand me, or I don't understand you, one or the other. When I go to sleep, I lie on a bed and pull the clothes over me. I don't want to lie on the clothes, and cover myself with the bed. This isn't a comic ballet, you know!" The girl assures him that there is no mistake about the matter at all. There is the bed, made according to German notions of how a bed should be made. He can make the best of it and try to go to sleep upon it, or he can be sulky and go to sleep on the floor. He is very much surprised. It looks to him the sort of bed that a man would make for himself on coming home late from a party. But it is no use arguing the matter with the girl. "All right," he says; "bring me a pillow, and I'll risk it!" The chambermaid explains that there are two pillows on the bed already, indicating, as she does so, two flat cushions, each one a yard square, placed one on top of the other at one end of the mixture. "These!" exclaims the weary traveller, beginning to feel that he does not want to go to bed at all. "These are not pillows! I want something to put my head on; not a thing that comes down to the middle of my back! Don't tell me that I've got to sleep on these things!" But the girl does tell him so, and also implies that she has something else to do than to stand there all day talking bed-gossip with him. "Well, just show me how to start," he says, "which way you get into it, and then I won't keep you any longer; I'll puzzle out the rest for myself." She explains the trick to him and leaves, and he undresses and crawls in. The pillows give him a good deal of worry. He does not know whether he is meant to sit on them or merely to lean up against them. In experimenting upon this point, he bumps his head against the top board of the bedstead. At this, he says, "Oh!" and shoots himself down to the bottom of the bed. Here all his ten toes simultaneously come into sharp contact with the board at the bottom. Nothing irritates a man more than being rapped over the toes, especially if he feels that he has done nothing to deserve it. He says, "Oh, damn!" this time, and spasmodically doubles up his legs, thus giving his knees a violent blow against the board at the side of the bed. (The German bedstead, be it remembered, is built in the form of a shallow, open box, and the victim is thus completely surrounded by solid pieces of wood with sharp edges. I do not know what species of wood it is that is employed. It is extremely hard, and gives forth a curious musical sound when struck sharply with a bone.) After this he lies perfectly still for a while, wondering where he is going to be hit next. Finding that nothing happens, he begins to regain confidence, and ventures to gently feel around with his left leg and take stock of his position. For clothes, he has only a very thin blanket and sheet, and beneath these he feels decidedly chilly. The bed is warm enough, so far as it goes, but there is not enough of it. He draws it up round his chin, and then his feet begin to freeze. He pushes it down over his feet, and then all the top part of him shivers. He tries to roll up into a ball, so as to get the whole of himself underneath it, but does not succeed; there is always some of him left outside in the cold. He reflects that a "boneless wonder" or a "man serpent" would be comfortable enough in this bed, and wishes that he had been brought up as a contortionist. If he could only tie his legs round his neck, and tuck his head in under his arm, all would yet be well. Never having been taught to do any really useful tricks such as these, however, he has to be content to remain spread out, warming a bit of himself at a time. It is, perhaps, foolish of him, amid so many real troubles, to allow a mere aesthetical consideration to worry him, but as he lies there on his back, looking down at himself, the sight that he presents to himself considerably annoys him. The puffed-up bed, resting on the middle of him, gives him the appearance of a man suffering from some monstrous swelling, or else of some exceptionally well-developed frog that has been turned up the wrong way and does not know how to get on to its legs again. Another vexation that he has to contend with is, that every time he moves a limb or breathes extra hard, the bed (which is only of down) tumbles off on to the floor. You cannot lean out of a German bed to pick up anything off the floor, owing to its box-like formation; so he has to scramble out after it, and of course every time he does this he barks both his shins twice against the sides of the bed. When he has performed this feat for about the tenth time, he concludes that it was madness for him, a mere raw amateur at the business, to think that he could manage a complicated, tricky bed of this sort, that must take even an experienced man all he knows to sleep in it; and gets out and camps on the floor. At least, that is what I did. B. is accustomed to German beds, and doubled himself up and went off to sleep without the slightest difficulty. We slept for two hours, and then got up and went back to the railway-station, where we dined. The railway refreshment-room in German towns appears to be as much patronised by the inhabitants of the town as by the travellers passing through. It is regarded as an ordinary restaurant, and used as such by the citizens. We found the dining-room at Cologne station crowded with Cologneists. All classes of citizens were there, but especially soldiers. There were all sorts of soldiers--soldiers of rank, and soldiers of rank and file; attached soldiers (very much attached, apparently) and soldiers unattached; stout soldiers, thin soldiers; old soldiers, young soldiers. Four very young soldiers sat opposite us, drinking beer. I never saw such young soldiers out by themselves before. They each looked about twelve years old, but may have been thirteen; and they each looked, also, ready and willing to storm a battery, if the order were given to them to do it. There they sat, raising and lowering their huge mugs of beer, discussing military matters, and rising every now and again to gravely salute some officer as he passed, and to receive as gravely his grave salute in return. There seemed to be a deal of saluting to be gone through. Officers kept entering and passing through the room in an almost continual stream, and every time one came in sight all the military drinkers and eaters rose and saluted, and remained at the salute until the officer had passed. One young soldier, who was trying to eat a plate of soup near us, I felt quite sorry for. Every time he got the spoon near his mouth an officer invariably hove in view, and down would have to go the spoon, soup and all, and up he would have to rise. It never seemed to occur to the silly fellow to get under the table and finish his dinner there. We had half-an-hour to spare between dinner and the starting of our train, and B. suggested that we should go into the cathedral. That is B.'s one weakness, churches. I have the greatest difficulty in getting him past a church-door. We are walking along a street, arm in arm, talking as rationally and even as virtuously as need be, when all at once I find that B. has become silent and abstracted. I know what it is; he has caught sight of a church. I pretend not to notice any change in him, and endeavour to hurry him on. He lags more and more behind, however, and at last stops altogether. "Come, come," I say to him, encouragingly, "pull yourself together, and be a man. Don't think about it. Put it behind you, and determine that you _won't_ be conquered. Come, we shall be round the corner in another minute, where you won't be able to see it. Take my hand, and let's run!" He makes a few feeble steps forward with me, and then stops again. "It's no good, old man," he says, with a sickly smile, so full of pathos that it is impossible to find it in one's heart to feel anything but pity for him. "I can't help it. I have given way to this sort of thing too long. It is too late to reform now. You go on and get a drink somewhere; I'll join you again in a few minutes. Don't worry about me; it's no good." And back he goes with tottering steps, while I sadly pass on into the nearest cafe, and, over a glass of absinthe or cognac, thank Providence that I learnt to control my craving for churches in early youth, and so am not now like this poor B. In a little while he comes in, and sits down beside me. There is a wild, unhealthy excitement in his eye, and, under a defiant air of unnatural gaiety, he attempts to hide his consciousness of guilt. "It was a lovely altar-cloth," he whispers to me, with an enthusiasm that only makes one sorrow for him the more, so utterly impossible does it cause all hope of cure to seem. "And they've got a coffin in the north crypt that is simply a poem. I never enjoyed a sarcophagus more in all my life." I do not say much at the time; it would be useless. But after the day is done, and we are standing beside our little beds, and all around is as silent as one can expect it to be in an hotel where people seem to be arriving all night long with heavy luggage, and to be all, more or less, in trouble, I argue with him, and gently reprove him. To avoid the appearance of sermonising as much as possible, I put it on mere grounds of expediency. "How are we to find time," I say, "to go to all the places that we really ought to go to--to all the cafes and theatres and music-halls and beer-gardens and dancing-saloons that we want to visit--if you waste half the precious day loafing about churches and cathedrals?" He is deeply moved, and promises to swear off. He vows, with tears in his voice, that he will never enter a church-door again. But next morning, when the temptation comes, all his good resolutions are swept away, and again he yields. It is no good being angry with him, because he evidently does really try; but there is something about the mere odour of a church that he simply cannot withstand. Not knowing, then, that this weakness of his for churches was so strong, I made no objection to the proposed visit to Cologne Cathedral, and, accordingly, towards it we wended our way. B. has seen it before, and knows all about it. He tells me it was begun about the middle of the thirteenth century, and was only completed ten years ago. It seems to me that there must have been gross delay on the part of the builder. Why, a plumber would be ashamed to take as long as that over a job! B. also asserts that the two towers are the highest church towers in the world. I dispute this, and deprecate the towers generally. B. warmly defends them. He says they are higher than any building in Europe, except the Eiffel Tower. "Oh, dear no!" I say, "there are many buildings higher than they in Europe--to say nothing of Asia and America." I have no authority for making this assertion. As a matter of fact, I know nothing whatever about the matter. I merely say it to irritate B. He appears to take a sort of personal interest in the building, and enlarges upon its beauties and advantages with as much fervour as if he were an auctioneer trying to sell the place. He retorts that the towers are 512 feet high. I say: "Nonsense! Somebody has imposed upon you, because they see you are a foreigner." He becomes quite angry at this, and says he can show me the figures in the guide-book. "The guide-book!" I reply, scornfully. "You'll believe a newspaper next!" B. asks me, indignantly, what height I should say they are, then. I examine them critically for a few minutes, and then give it as my opinion that they do not exceed 510 feet at the very outside. B. seems annoyed with me, and we enter the church in silence. There is little to be said about a cathedral. Except to the professional sightseer, one is very much like another. Their beauty to me lies, not in the paintings and sculpture they give houseroom to, nor in the bones and bric-a-brac piled up in their cellars, but in themselves--their echoing vastness, their deep silence. Above the little homes of men, above the noisy teeming streets, they rise like some soft strain of perfect music, cleaving its way amid the jangle of discordant notes. Here, where the voices of the world sound faint; here, where the city's glamour comes not in, it is good to rest for a while--if only the pestering guides would leave one alone--and think. There is much help in Silence. From its touch we gain renewed life. Silence is to the Soul what his Mother Earth was to Briareus. From contact with it we rise healed of our hurts and strengthened for the fight. Amid the babel of the schools we stand bewildered and affrighted. Silence gives us peace and hope. Silence teaches us no creed, only that God's arms are around the universe. How small and unimportant seem all our fretful troubles and ambitions when we stand with them in our hand before the great calm face of Silence! We smile at them ourselves, and are ashamed. Silence teaches us how little we are--how great we are. In the world's market-places we are tinkers, tailors, apothecaries, thieves--respectable or otherwise, as the case may be--mere atoms of a mighty machine--mere insects in a vast hive. It is only in Silence that it comes home to us that we are something much greater than this--that we are _men_, with all the universe and all eternity before us. It is in Silence we hear the voice of Truth. The temples and the marts of men echo all night and day to the clamour of lies and shams and quackeries. But in Silence falsehood cannot live. You cannot float a lie on Silence. A lie has to be puffed aloft, and kept from falling by men's breath. Leave a lie on the bosom of Silence, and it sinks. A truth floats there fair and stately, like some stout ship upon a deep ocean. Silence buoys her up lovingly for all men to see. Not until she has grown worn-out and rotten, and is no longer a truth, will the waters of Silence close over her. Silence is the only real thing we can lay hold of in this world of passing dreams. Time is a shadow that will vanish with the twilight of humanity; but Silence is a part of the eternal. All things that are true and lasting have been taught to men's hearts by Silence. Among all nations, there should be vast temples raised where the people might worship Silence and listen to it, for it is the voice of God. These fair churches and cathedrals that men have reared around them throughout the world, have been built as homes for mere creeds--this one for Protestantism, that one for Romanism, another for Mahomedanism. But God's Silence dwells in all alike, only driven forth at times by the tinkling of bells and the mumbling of prayers; and, in them, it is good to sit awhile and have communion with her. We strolled round, before we came out. Just by the entrance to the choir an official stopped me, and asked me if I wanted to go and see a lot of fal-lal things he had got on show--relics and bones, and old masters, and such-like Wardour-street rubbish. I told him, "No"; and attempted to pass on, but he said: "No, no! You don't pay, you don't go in there," and shut the gate. He said this sentence in English; and the precision and fluency with which he delivered it rather suggested the idea that it was a phrase much in request, and one that he had had a good deal of practice in. It is very prevalent throughout Germany, this custom of not allowing you to go in to see a thing unless you pay. END OF SATURDAY, 24TH, AND BEGINNING OF SUNDAY, 25TH--CONTINUED The Rhine!--How History is Written.--Complicated Villages.--How a Peaceful Community Was Very Much Upset.--The German Railway Guard.--His Passion for Tickets.--We Diffuse Comfort and Joy Wherever We Go, Gladdening the Weary, and Bringing Smiles to Them that Weep.--"Tickets, Please."--Hunting Experiences.--A Natural Mistake.--Free Acrobatic Performance by the Guard.--The Railway Authorities' Little Joke.--Why We Should Think of the Sorrows of Others. We returned to the station just in time to secure comfortable seats, and at 5.10 steamed out upon our fifteen hours' run to Munich. From Bonn to Mayence the line keeps by the side of the Rhine nearly the whole of the way, and we had a splendid view of the river, with the old-world towns and villages that cluster round its bank, the misty mountains that make early twilight upon its swiftly rolling waves, the castled crags and precipices that rise up sheer and majestic from its margin, the wooded rocks that hang with threatening frown above its sombre depths, the ruined towers and turrets that cap each point along its shores, the pleasant isles that stud like gems its broad expanse of waters. Few things in this world come up to expectation, especially those things of which one has been led to expect much, and about which one has heard a good deal. With this philosophy running in my head, I was prepared to find the Rhine a much over-rated river. I was pleasantly disappointed. The panorama which unfolded itself before our eyes, as we sped along through the quiet twilight that was deepening into starry night, was wonderfully beautiful, entrancing and expressive. I do not intend to describe it to you. To do justice to the theme, I should have to be even a more brilliant and powerful writer than I am. To attempt the subject, without doing it justice, would be a waste of your time, sweet reader, and of mine--a still more important matter. I confess it was not my original intention to let you off so easily. I started with the idea of giving you a rapid but glowing and eloquent word-picture of the valley of the Rhine from Cologne to Mayence. For background, I thought I would sketch in the historical and legendary events connected with the district, and against this, for a foreground, I would draw, in vivid colours, the modern aspect of the scene, with remarks and observations thereon. Here are my rough notes, made for the purpose:-- Mems. for Chapter on Rhine: "Constantine the Great used to come here--so did Agrippa. (N.B.--Try and find out something about Agrippa.) Caesar had a good deal to do with the Rhine--also Nero's mother." (To the reader.--The brevity of these memoranda renders their import, at times, confusing. For instance, this means that Caesar and Nero's mother both had a good deal to do with the Rhine; not that Caesar had a good deal to do with Nero's mother. I explain this because I should be sorry to convey any false impression concerning either the lady or Caesar. Scandal is a thing abhorrent to my nature.) Notes continued: "The Ubii did something on the right bank of the Rhine at an early period, and afterwards were found on the other side. (Expect the Ubii were a tribe; but make sure of this, as they might be something in the fossil line.) Cologne was the cradle of German art. Talk about art and the old masters. Treat them in a kindly and gentle spirit. They are dead now. Saint Ursula was murdered at Cologne, with eleven thousand virgin attendants. There must have been quite a party of them. Draw powerful and pathetic imaginary picture of the slaughter. (N.B.--Find out who murdered them all.) Say something about the Emperor Maximilian. Call him 'the mighty Maximilian.' Mention Charlemagne (a good deal should be made out of Charlemagne) and the Franks. (Find out all about the Franks, and where they lived, and what has become of them.) Sketch the various contests between the Romans and the Goths. (Read up 'Gibbon' for this, unless you can get enough out of _Mangnall's Questions_.) Give picturesque account--with comments--of the battles between the citizens of Cologne and their haughty archbishops. (N.B.--Let them fight on a bridge over the Rhine, unless it is distinctly stated somewhere that they didn't.) Bring in the Minne-singers, especially Walter von Vogelweid; make him sing under a castle-wall somewhere, and let the girl die. Talk about Albert Durer. Criticise his style. Say it's flat. (If possible, find out if it _is_ flat.) "The rat tower on the Rhine," near Bingen. Describe the place and tell the whole story. Don't spin it out too long, because everybody knows it. "The Brothers of Bornhofen," story connected with the twin castles of Sterrenberg and Liebenstein, Conrad and Heinrich--brothers--both love Hildegarde. She was very beautiful. Heinrich generously refuses to marry the beautiful Hildegarde, and goes away to the Crusades, leaving her to his brother Conrad. Conrad considers over the matter for a year or two, and then _he_ decides that he won't marry her either, but will leave her for his brother Heinrich, and _he_ goes off to the Crusades, from whence he returns, a few years later on, with a Grecian bride. The beautiful H., muddled up between the pair of them, and the victim of too much generosity, gets sulky (don't blame her), and shuts herself up in a lonely part of the castle, and won't see anybody for years. Chivalrous Heinrich returns, and is wild that his brother C. has not married the beautiful H. It does not occur to him to marry the girl even then. The feverish yearning displayed by each of these two brothers, that the other one should marry the beloved Hildegarde, is very touching. Heinrich draws his sword, and throws himself upon his brother C. to kill him. The beautiful Hildegarde, however, throws herself between them and reconciliates them, and then, convinced that neither of them means business, and naturally disgusted with the whole affair, retires into a nunnery. Conrad's Grecian bride subsequently throws herself away on another man, upon which Conrad throws himself on his brother H.'s breast, and they swear eternal friendship. (Make it pathetic. Pretend you have sat amid the ruins in the moonlight, and give the scene--with ghosts.) "Rolandseck," near Bonn. Tell the story of Roland and Hildegunde (see _Baedeker_, p. 66). Don't make it too long, because it is so much like the other. Describe the funeral? The "Watch Tower on the Rhine" below Audernach. Query, isn't there a song about this? If so, put it in. Coblentz and Ehrenbreitstein. Great fortresses. Call them "the Frowning Sentinels of the State." Make reflections on the German army, also on war generally. Chat about Frederick the Great. (Read Carlyle's history of him, and pick out the interesting bits.) The Drachenfels. Quote Byron. Moralise about ruined castles generally, and describe the middle ages, with your views and opinions on same." There is much more of it, but that is sufficient to let you see the scheme I had in my head. I have not carried out my scheme, because, when I came to reflect upon the matter, it seemed to me that the idea would develop into something that would be more in the nature of a history of Europe than a chapter in a tourist's diary, and I determined not to waste my time upon it, until there arose a greater public demand for a new History of Europe than there appears to exist at present. "Besides," I argued to myself, "such a work would be just the very thing with which to beguile the tedium of a long imprisonment. At some future time I may be glad of a labour of this magnitude to occupy a period of involuntary inaction." "This is the sort of thing," I said to myself, "to save up for Holloway or Pentonville." It would have been a very enjoyable ride altogether, that evening's spin along the banks of the Rhine, if I had not been haunted at the time by the idea that I should have to write an account of it next day in my diary. As it was, I enjoyed it as a man enjoys a dinner when he has got to make a speech after it, or as a critic enjoys a play. We passed such odd little villages every here and there. Little places so crowded up between the railway and the river that there was no room in them for any streets. All the houses were jumbled up together just anyhow, and how any man who lived in the middle could get home without climbing over half the other houses in the place I could not make out. They were the sort of villages where a man's mother-in-law, coming to pay him a visit, might wander around all day, hearing him, and even now and then seeing him, yet never being able to get at him in consequence of not knowing the way in. A drunken man, living in one of these villages, could never hope to get home. He would have to sit down outside, and wait till his head was clear. We witnessed the opening scenes of a very amusing little comedy at one of the towns where the train drew up. The chief characters were played by an active young goat, a small boy, an elderly man and a woman, parents of the small boy and owners of the goat, and a dog. First we heard a yell, and then, from out a cottage opposite the station, bounded an innocent and happy goat, and gambolled around. A long rope, one end of which was fastened to his neck, trailed behind him. After the goat (in the double sense of the phrase) came a child. The child tried to catch the goat by means of the rope, caught itself in the rope instead, and went down with a bump and a screech. Whereupon a stout woman, the boy's mother apparently, ran out from the cottage, and also made for the goat. The goat flew down the road, and the woman flew after it. At the first corner, the woman trod on the rope, and then _she_ went down with a bump and a screech. Then the goat turned and ran up the street, and, as it passed the cottage, the father ran out and tried to stop it. He was an old man, but still seemed to have plenty of vigour in him. He evidently guessed how his wife and child had gone down, and he endeavoured to avoid the rope and to skip over it when it came near him. But the goat's movements were too erratic for him. His turn came, and he trod on the rope, and went down in the middle of the road, opposite his own door, with a thud that shook us all up against each other as we stood looking out of the carriage-window, and sat there and cursed the goat. Then out ran a dog, barking furiously, and he went for the goat, and got the end of the rope in his teeth and held on to it like grim death. Away went the goat, at his end of the rope, and, with him, the dog at the other end. Between them, they kept the rope about six inches above the ground, and with it they remorselessly mowed down every living thing they came across in that once peaceful village. In the course of less than half a minute we counted fourteen persons sitting down in the middle of the road. Eight of them were cursing the goat, four were cursing the dog, and two of them were cursing the old man for keeping the goat, one of these two, and the more violent one, being the man's own wife. The train left at this juncture. We entreated the railway officials to let us stop and see the show out. The play was becoming quite interesting. It was so full of movement. But they said that we were half-an-hour late as it was, and that they dared not. We leaned out of the window, and watched for as long as we could; and after the village was lost to view in the distance, we could still, by listening carefully, hear the thuds, as one after another of the inhabitants sat down and began to swear. At about eleven o'clock we had some beer--you can generally obtain such light refreshment as bottled beer and coffee and rolls from the guard on a through long-distance train in Germany--took off our boots, and saying "Good-night" to each other, made a great show of going to sleep. But we never succeeded in getting there. They wanted to see one's ticket too often for one to get fairly off. Every few minutes, so it seemed to me, though in reality the intervals may perhaps have been longer, a ghostly face would appear at the carriage-window, and ask to see our tickets. Whenever a German railway-guard feels lonesome, and does not know what else to do with himself, he takes a walk round the train, and gets the passengers to show him their tickets, after which he returns to his box cheered and refreshed. Some people rave about sunsets and mountains and old masters; but to the German railway-guard the world can show nothing more satisfying, more inspiring, than the sight of a railway-ticket. Nearly all the German railway officials have this same craving for tickets. If only they get somebody to show them a railway-ticket, they are happy. It seemed a harmless weakness of theirs, and B. and I decided that it would be only kind to humour them in it during our stay. Accordingly, whenever we saw a German railway official standing about, looking sad and weary, we went up to him and showed him our tickets. The sight was like a ray of sunshine to him; and all his care was immediately forgotten. If we had not a ticket with us at the time, we went and bought one. A mere single third to the next station would gladden him sufficiently in most cases; but if the poor fellow appeared very woe-begone, and as if he wanted more than ordinary cheering up, we got him a second-class return. For the purpose of our journey to Ober-Ammergau and back, we each carried with us a folio containing some ten or twelve first-class tickets between different towns, covering in all a distance of some thousand miles; and one afternoon, at Munich, seeing a railway official, a cloak-room keeper, who they told us had lately lost his aunt, and who looked exceptionally dejected, I proposed to B. that we should take this man into a quiet corner, and both of us show him all our tickets at once--the whole twenty or twenty-four of them--and let him take them in his hand and look at them for as long as he liked. I wanted to comfort him. B., however, advised against the suggestion. He said that even if it did not turn the man's head (and it was more than probable that it would), so much jealousy would be created against him among the other railway people throughout Germany, that his life would be made a misery to him. So we bought and showed him a first-class return to the next station but one; and it was quite pathetic to watch the poor fellow's face brighten up at the sight, and to see the faint smile creep back to the lips from which it had so long been absent. But at times, one wishes that the German railway official would control his passion for tickets--or, at least, keep it within due bounds. Even the most kindly-hearted man grows tired of showing his ticket all day and night long, and the middle of a wearisome journey is not the proper time for a man to come to the carriage-window and clamour to see your "billet." You are weary and sleepy. You do not know where your ticket is. You are not quite sure that you have got a ticket; or if you ever had one, somebody has taken it away from you. You have put it by very carefully, thinking that it would not be wanted for hours, and have forgotten where. There are eleven pockets in the suit you have on, and five more in the overcoat on the rack. Maybe, it is in one of those pockets. If not, it is possibly in one of the bags--somewhere, or in your pocket-book, if you only knew where that was, or your purse. You begin a search. You stand up and shake yourself. Then you have another feel all over. You look round in the course of the proceedings; and the sight of the crowd of curious faces watching you, and of the man in uniform waiting with his eye fixed severely upon you, convey to you, in your then state of confusion, the momentary idea that this is a police-court scene, and that if the ticket is found upon you, you will probably get five years. Upon this you vehemently protest your innocence. "I tell you I haven't got it!" you exclaim;--"never seen the gentleman's ticket. You let me go! I--" Here the surprise of your fellow-passengers recalls you to yourself, and you proceed on your exploration. You overhaul the bags, turning everything out on to the floor, muttering curses on the whole railway system of Germany as you do so. Then you feel in your boots. You make everybody near you stand up to see if they are sitting upon it, and you go down on your knees and grovel for it under the seat. "You didn't throw it out of the window with your sandwiches, did you?" asks your friend. "No! Do you think I'm a fool?" you answer, irritably. "What should I want to do that for?" On going systematically over yourself for about the twentieth time, you discover it in your waistcoat pocket, and for the next half-hour you sit and wonder how you came to miss it on the previous nineteen occasions. Meanwhile, during this trying scene, the conduct of the guard has certainly not tended to allay your anxiety and nervousness. All the time that you have been looking for your ticket, he has been doing silly tricks on the step outside, imperilling his life by every means that experience and ingenuity can suggest. The train is going at the rate of thirty miles an hour, the express speed in Germany, and a bridge comes in sight crossing over the line. On seeing this bridge, the guard, holding on by the window, leans his body as far back as ever it will go. You look at him, and then at the rapidly-nearing bridge, and calculate that the arch will just take his head off without injuring any other part of him whatever, and you wonder whether the head will be jerked into the carriage or will fall outside. When he is three inches off the bridge, he pulls himself up straight, and the brickwork, as the train dashes through, kills a fly that was trespassing on the upper part of his right ear. Then, when the bridge is passed, and the train is skirting the very edge of a precipice, so that a stone dropped just outside the window would tumble straight down 300 feet, he suddenly lets go, and, balancing himself on the foot-board without holding on to anything, commences to dance a sort of Teutonic cellar-flap, and to warm his body by flinging his arms about in the manner of cabmen on a cold day. The first essential to comfortable railway travelling in Germany is to make up your mind not to care a rap whether the guard gets killed in the course of the journey or not. Any tender feeling towards the guard makes railway travelling in the Fatherland a simple torture. At five a.m. (how fair and sweet and fresh the earth looks in the early morning! Those lazy people who lie in bed till eight or nine miss half the beauty of the day, if they but knew it. It is only we who rise early that really enjoy Nature properly) I gave up trying to get to sleep, and made my way to the dressing-room at the end of the car, and had a wash. It is difficult to wash in these little places, because the cars shake so; and when you have got both your hands and half your head in the basin, and are unable to protect yourself, the sides of the room, and the water-tap and the soap-dish, and other cowardly things, take a mean advantage of your helplessness to punch you as hard as ever they can; and when you back away from these, the door swings open and slaps you from behind. I succeeded, however, in getting myself fairly wet all over, even if I did nothing else, and then I looked about for a towel. Of course, there was no towel. That is the trick. The idea of the railway authorities is to lure the passenger, by providing him with soap and water and a basin, into getting himself thoroughly soaked, and then to let it dawn upon him that there is no towel. That is their notion of fun! I thought of the handkerchiefs in my bag, but to get to them I should have to pass compartments containing ladies, and I was only in early morning dress. So I had to wipe myself with a newspaper which I happened to have in my pocket, and a more unsatisfactory thing to dry oneself upon I cannot conceive. I woke up B. when I got back to the carriage, and persuaded him to go and have a wash; and in listening to the distant sound of his remarks when he likewise discovered that there was no towel, the recollection of my own discomfiture passed gently away. Ah! how true it is, as good people tell us, that in thinking of the sorrows of others, we learn to forget our own! For fifty miles before one reaches Munich, the land is flat, stale, and apparently very unprofitable, and there is little to interest the looker-out. He sits straining his eyes towards the horizon, eagerly longing for some sign of the city to come in sight. It lies very low, however, and does all it can to escape observation; and it is not until he is almost within its streets that he discovers it. THE REST OF SUNDAY, THE 25TH We Seek Breakfast.--I Air My German.--The Art of Gesture.--The Intelligence of the Premiere Danseuse.--Performance of English Pantomime in the Pyrenees.--Sad Result Therefrom.--The "German Conversation" Book.--Its Narrow-minded View of Human Wants and Aspirations.--Sunday in Munich.--Hans and Gretchen.--High Life v. Low Life.--"A Beer-Cellar." At Munich we left our luggage at the station, and went in search of breakfast. Of course, at eight o'clock in the morning none of the big cafes were open; but at length, beside some gardens, we found an old-fashioned looking restaurant, from which came a pleasant odour of coffee and hot onions; and walking through and seating ourselves at one of the little tables, placed out under the trees, we took the bill of fare in our hands, and summoned the waiter to our side. I ordered the breakfast. I thought it would be a good opportunity for me to try my German. I ordered coffee and rolls as a groundwork. I got over that part of my task very easily. With the practice I had had during the last two days, I could have ordered coffee and rolls for forty. Then I foraged round for luxuries, and ordered a green salad. I had some difficulty at first in convincing the man that it was not a boiled cabbage that I wanted, but succeeded eventually in getting that silly notion out of his head. I still had a little German left, even after that. So I ordered an omelette also. "Tell him a savoury one," said B., "or he will be bringing us something full of hot jam and chocolate-creams. You know their style." "Oh, yes," I answered. "Of course. Yes. Let me see. What is the German for savoury?" "Savoury?" mused B. "Oh! ah! hum! Bothered if I know! Confound the thing--I can't think of it!" I could not think of it either. As a matter of fact, I never knew it. We tried the man with French. We said: "_Une omelette aux fines herbes_." As he did not appear to understand that, we gave it him in bad English. We twisted and turned the unfortunate word "savoury" into sounds so quaint, so sad, so unearthly, that you would have thought they might have touched the heart of a savage. This stoical Teuton, however, remained unmoved. Then we tried pantomime. Pantomime is to language what marmalade, according to the label on the pot, is to butter, "an excellent (occasional) substitute." But its powers as an interpreter of thought are limited. At least, in real life they are so. As regards a ballet, it is difficult to say what is not explainable by pantomime. I have seen the bad man in a ballet convey to the _premiere danseuse_ by a subtle movement of the left leg, together with some slight assistance from the drum, the heartrending intelligence that the lady she had been brought up to believe was her mother was in reality only her aunt by marriage. But then it must be borne in mind that the _premiere danseuse_ is a lady whose quickness of perception is altogether unique. The _premiere danseuse_ knows precisely what a gentleman means when he twirls round forty-seven times on one leg, and then stands on his head. The average foreigner would, in all probability, completely misunderstand the man. A friend of mine once, during a tour in the Pyrenees, tried to express gratitude by means of pantomime. He arrived late one evening at a little mountain inn, where the people made him very welcome, and set before him their best; and he, being hungry, appreciated their kindness, and ate a most excellent supper. Indeed, so excellent a meal did he make, and so kind and attentive were his hosts to him, that, after supper, he felt he wanted to thank them, and to convey to them some idea of how pleased and satisfied he was. He could not explain himself in language. He only knew enough Spanish to just ask for what he wanted--and even to do that he had to be careful not to want much. He had not got as far as sentiment and emotion at that time. Accordingly he started to express himself in action. He stood up and pointed to the empty table where the supper had been, then opened his mouth and pointed down his throat. Then he patted that region of his anatomy where, so scientific people tell us, supper goes to, and smiled. He has a rather curious smile, has my friend. He himself is under the impression that there is something very winning in it, though, also, as he admits, a touch of sadness. They use it in his family for keeping the children in order. The people of the inn seemed rather astonished at his behaviour. They regarded him, with troubled looks, and then gathered together among themselves and consulted in whispers. "I evidently have not made myself sufficiently clear to these simple peasants," said my friend to himself. "I must put more vigour into this show." Accordingly he rubbed and patted that part of himself to which I have previously alluded--and which, being a modest and properly brought-up young man, nothing on earth shall induce me to mention more explicitly--with greater energy than ever, and added another inch or two of smile; and he also made various graceful movements indicative, as he thought, of friendly feeling and contentment. At length a ray of intelligence burst upon the faces of his hosts, and they rushed to a cupboard and brought out a small black bottle. "Ah! that's done it," thought my friend. "Now they have grasped my meaning. And they are pleased that I am pleased, and are going to insist on my drinking a final friendly bumper of wine with them, the good old souls!" They brought the bottle over, and poured out a wineglassful, and handed it to him, making signs that he should drink it off quickly. "Ah!" said my friend to himself, as he took the glass and raised it to the light, and winked at it wickedly, "this is some rare old spirit peculiar to the district--some old heirloom kept specially for the favoured guest." And he held the glass aloft and made a speech, in which he wished long life and many grand-children to the old couple, and a handsome husband to the daughter, and prosperity to the whole village. They could not understand him, he knew; but he thought there might be that in his tones and gestures from which they would gather the sense of what he was saying, and understand how kindly he felt towards them all. When he had finished, he put his hand upon his heart and smiled some more, and then tossed the liquor off at a gulp. Three seconds later he discovered that it was a stringent and trustworthy emetic that he had swallowed. His audience had mistaken his signs of gratitude for efforts on his part to explain to them that he was poisoned, or, at all events, was suffering from acute and agonising indigestion, and had done what they could to comfort him. The drug that they had given him was not one of those common, cheap medicines that lose their effect before they have been in the system half-an-hour. He felt that it would be useless to begin another supper then, even if he could get one, and so he went to bed a good deal hungrier and a good deal less refreshed than when he arrived at the inn. Gratitude is undoubtedly a thing that should not be attempted by the amateur pantomimist. "Savoury" is another. B. and I very nearly did ourselves a serious internal injury, trying to express it. We slaved like cab-horses at it--for about five minutes, and succeeded in conveying to the mind of the waiter that we wanted to have a game at dominoes. Then, like a beam of sunlight to a man lost in some dark, winding cave, came to me the reflection that I had in my pocket a German conversation book. How stupid of me not to have thought of it before. Here had we been racking our brains and our bodies, trying to explain our wants to an uneducated German, while, all the time, there lay to our hands a book specially written and prepared to assist people out of the very difficulty into which we had fallen--a book carefully compiled with the express object of enabling English travellers who, like ourselves, only spoke German in a dilettante fashion, to make their modest requirements known throughout the Fatherland, and to get out of the country alive and uninjured. I hastily snatched the book from my pocket, and commenced to search for dialogues dealing with the great food question. There were none! There were lengthy and passionate "Conversations with a laundress" about articles that I blush to remember. Some twenty pages of the volume were devoted to silly dialogues between an extraordinarily patient shoemaker and one of the most irritating and constitutionally dissatisfied customers that an unfortunate shop-keeper could possibly be cursed with; a customer who, after twaddling for about forty minutes, and trying on, apparently, every pair of boots in the place, calmly walks out with: "Ah! well, I shall not purchase anything to-day. Good-morning!" The shopkeeper's reply, by-the-by, is not given. It probably took the form of a boot-jack, accompanied by phrases deemed useless for the purposes of the Christian tourist. There was really something remarkable about the exhaustiveness of this "conversation at the shoemaker's." I should think the book must have been written by someone who suffered from corns. I could have gone to a German shoemaker with this book and have talked the man's head off. Then there were two pages of watery chatter "on meeting a friend in the street"--"Good-morning, sir (or madam)." "I wish you a merry Christmas." "How is your mother?" As if a man who hardly knew enough German to keep body and soul together, would want to go about asking after the health of a foreign person's mother. There were also "conversations in the railway carriage," conversations between travelling lunatics, apparently, and dialogues "during the passage." "How do you feel now?" "Pretty well as yet; but I cannot say how long it will last." "Oh, what waves! I now feel very unwell and shall go below. Ask for a basin for me." Imagine a person who felt like that wanting to know the German for it. At the end of the book were German proverbs and "Idiomatic Phrases," by which latter would appear to be meant in all languages, "phrases for the use of idiots":--"A sparrow in the hand is better than a pigeon on the roof."--"Time brings roses."--"The eagle does not catch flies."--"One should not buy a cat in a sack,"--as if there were a large class of consumers who habitually did purchase their cats in that way, thus enabling unscrupulous dealers to palm off upon them an inferior cat, and whom it was accordingly necessary to advise against the custom. I skimmed through all this nonsense, but not a word could I discover anywhere about a savoury omelette. Under the head of "Eating and Drinking," I found a short vocabulary; but it was mainly concerned with "raspberries" and "figs" and "medlars" (whatever they may be; I never heard of them myself), and "chestnuts," and such like things that a man hardly ever wants, even when he is in his own country. There was plenty of oil and vinegar, and pepper and salt and mustard in the list, but nothing to put them on. I could have had a hard-boiled egg, or a slice of ham; but I did not want a hard-boiled egg, or a slice of ham. I wanted a savoury omelette; and that was an article of diet that the authors of this "Handy Little Guide," as they termed it in their preface, had evidently never heard of. Since my return home, I have, out of curiosity, obtained three or four "English-German Dialogues" and "Conversation Books," intended to assist the English traveller in his efforts to make himself understood by the German people, and I have come to the conclusion that the work I took out with me was the most sensible and practical of the lot. Finding it utterly hopeless to explain ourselves to the waiter, we let the thing go, and trusted to Providence; and in about ten minutes the man brought us a steaming omelette, with about a pound of strawberry jam inside, and powdered sugar all over the outside. We put a deal of pepper and salt on it to try and counteract the flavour of the sweets, but we did not really enjoy it even then. After breakfast we got a time-table, and looked out for a train to Ober-Ammergau. I found one which started at 3.10. It seemed a very nice train indeed; it did not stop anywhere. The railway authorities themselves were evidently very proud of it, and had printed particulars of it in extra thick type. We decided to patronise it. To pass away the time, we strolled about the city. Munich is a fine, handsome, open town, full of noble streets and splendid buildings; but in spite of this and of its hundred and seventy thousand inhabitants, an atmosphere of quiet and provincialism hovers over it. There is but little traffic on ordinary occasions along its broad ways, and customers in its well-stocked shops are few and far between. This day being Sunday, it was busier than usual, and its promenades were thronged with citizens and country folk in holiday attire, among whom the Southern peasants, wearing their quaint, centuries-old costume, stood out in picturesque relief. Fashion, in its world-wide crusade against variety and its bitter contest with form and colour, has recoiled, defeated for the present from the mountain fastnesses of Bavaria. Still, as Sunday or gala-day comes round, the broad-shouldered, sunburnt shepherd of the Oberland dons his gay green-embroidered jacket over his snowy shirt, fastens his short knee-breeches with a girdle round his waist, claps his high, feather-crowned hat upon his waving curls, and with bare legs, shod in mighty boots, strides over the hill-sides to his Gretchen's door. She is waiting for him, you may be sure, ready dressed; and a very sweet, old-world picture she makes, standing beneath the great overhanging gables of the wooden chalet. She, too, favours the national green; but, as relief, there is no lack of bonny red ribbons, to flutter in the wind, and, underneath the ornamented skirt, peeps out a bright-hued petticoat. Around her ample breast she wears a dark tight-fitting bodice, laced down the front. (I think this garment is called a stomacher, but I am not sure, as I have never liked to ask.) Her square shoulders are covered with the whitest of white linen. Her sleeves are also white; and being very full, and of some soft lawnlike material, suggest the idea of folded wings. Upon her flaxen hair is perched a saucy round green hat. The buckles of her dainty shoes, the big eyes in her pretty face, are all four very bright. One feels one would like much to change places for the day with Hans. Arm-in-arm, looking like some china, but exceedingly substantial china, shepherd and shepherdess, they descend upon the town. One rubs one's eyes and stares after them as they pass. They seem to have stepped from the pictured pages of one of those old story-books that we learnt to love, sitting beside the high brass guard that kept ourselves and the nursery-fire from doing each other any serious injury, in the days when the world was much bigger than it is now, and much more real and interesting. Munich and the country round about it make a great exchange of peoples every Sunday. In the morning, trainload after trainload of villagers and mountaineers pour into the town, and trainload after trainload of good and other citizens steam out to spend the day in wood and valley, and upon lake and mountain-side. We went into one or two of the beer-halls--not into the swell cafes, crowded with tourists and Munich masherdom, but into the low-ceilinged, smoke-grimed cellars where the life of the people is to be seen. The ungenteel people in a country are so much more interesting than the gentlefolks. One lady or gentleman is painfully like every other lady or gentleman. There is so little individuality, so little character, among the upper circles of the world. They talk like each other, they think and act like each other, they dress like each other, and look very much like each other. We gentlefolks only play at living. We have our rules and regulations for the game, which must not be infringed. Our unwritten guide-books direct us what to do and what to say at each turn of the meaningless sport. To those at the bottom of the social pyramid, however, who stand with their feet upon the earth, Nature is not a curious phenomenon to be looked down at and studied, but a living force to be obeyed. They front grim, naked Life, face to face, and wrestle with it through the darkness; and, as did the angel that strove with Jacob, it leaves its stamp upon them. There is only one type of a gentleman. There are five hundred types of men and women. That is why I always seek out and frequent the places where the common people congregate, in preference to the haunts of respectability. I have to be continually explaining all this to my friends, to account to them for what they call my love of low life. With a mug of beer before me, and a pipe in my mouth, I could sit for hours contentedly, and watch the life that ebbs and flows into and out of these old ale-kitchens. The brawny peasant lads bring in their lasses to treat them to the beloved nectar of Munich, together with a huge onion. How they enjoy themselves! What splendid jokes they have! How they laugh and roar and sing! At one table sit four old fellows, playing cards. How full of character is each gnarled face. One is eager, quick, vehement. How his eyes dance! You can read his every thought upon his face. You know when he is going to dash down the king with a shout of triumph on the queen. His neighbour looks calm, slow, and dogged, but wears a confident expression. The game proceeds, and you watch and wait for him to play the winning cards that you feel sure he holds. He must intend to win. Victory is written in his face. No! he loses. A seven was the highest card in his hand. Everyone turns to him, surprised. He laughs--A difficult man to deal with, that, in other matters besides cards. A man whose thoughts lie a good deal below his skin. Opposite, a cross-looking old woman clamours for sausages, gets them, and seems crosser than ever. She scowls round on everyone, with a malignant expression that is quite terrifying. A small dog comes and sits down in front of her, and grins at her. Still, with the same savage expression of hatred towards all living things, she feeds him with sausage at the end of a fork, regarding him all the while with an aspect of such concentrated dislike, that one wonders it does not interfere with his digestion. In a corner, a stout old woman talks incessantly to a solemn-looking man, who sits silent and drinks steadily. It is evident that he can stand her conversation just so long as he has a mug of beer in front of him. He has brought her in here to give her a treat. He will let her have her talk out while he drinks. Heavens! how she does talk! She talks without movement, without expression; her voice never varies, it flows on, and on, and on, like a great resistless river. Four young artisans come clamping along in their hob-nailed boots, and seating themselves at one of the rude wooden tables, call for beer. With their arms round the waist of the utterly indifferent Fraulein, they shout and laugh and sing. Nearly all the young folks here are laughing--looking forward to life. All the old folks are talking, remembering it. What grand pictures some of these old, seared faces round us would make, if a man could only paint them--paint all that is in them, all the tragedy--and comedy that the great playwright, Life, has written upon the withered skins! Joys and sorrows, sordid hopes and fears, child-like strivings to be good, mean selfishness and grand unselfishness, have helped to fashion these old wrinkled faces. The curves of cunning and kindliness lurk round these fading eyes. The lines of greed hover about these bloodless lips, that have so often been tight-pressed in patient heroism. SUNDAY, 25TH--CONTINUED We Dine.--A Curious Dish.--"A Feeling of Sadness Comes O'er Me."--The German Cigar.--The Handsomest Match in Europe.--"How Easy 'tis for Friends to Drift Apart," especially in a place like Munich Railway Station.--The Victim of Fate.--A Faithful Bradshaw.--Among the Mountains.--Prince and Pauper.--A Modern Romance.--Arrival at Oberau.--Wise and Foolish Pilgrims.--An Interesting Drive.--Ettal and its Monastery.--We Reach the Goal of our Pilgrimage. At one o'clock we turned into a restaurant for dinner. The Germans themselves always dine in the middle of the day, and a very substantial meal they make of it. At the hotels frequented by tourists _table d'hote_ is, during the season, fixed for about six or seven, but this is only done to meet the views of foreign customers. I mention that we had dinner, not because I think that the information will prove exciting to the reader, but because I wish to warn my countrymen, travelling in Germany, against undue indulgence in Liptauer cheese. I am fond of cheese, and of trying new varieties of cheese; so that when I looked down the cheese department of the bill of fare, and came across "liptauer garnit," an article of diet I had never before heard of, I determined to sample it. It was not a tempting-looking cheese. It was an unhealthy, sad-looking cheese. It looked like a cheese that had seen trouble. In appearance it resembled putty more than anything else. It even tasted like putty--at least, like I should imagine putty would taste. To this hour I am not positive that it was not putty. The garnishing was even more remarkable than the cheese. All the way round the plate were piled articles that I had never before seen at a dinner, and that I do not ever want to see there again. There was a little heap of split-peas, three or four remarkably small potatoes--at least, I suppose they were potatoes; if not, they were pea-nuts boiled soft,--some caraway-seeds, a very young-looking fish, apparently of the stickleback breed, and some red paint. It was quite a little dinner all to itself. What the red paint was for, I could not understand. B. thought that it was put there for suicidal purposes. His idea was that the customer, after eating all the other things in the plate, would wish he were dead, and that the restaurant people, knowing this, had thoughtfully provided him with red paint for one, so that he could poison himself off and get out of his misery. I thought, after swallowing the first mouthful, that I would not eat any more of this cheese. Then it occurred to me that it was a pity to waste it after having ordered it, and, besides, I might get to like it before I had finished. The taste for most of the good things of this world has to be acquired. _I_ can remember the time when I did not like beer. So I mixed up everything on the plate all together--made a sort of salad of it, in fact--and ate it with a spoon. A more disagreeable dish I have never tasted since the days when I used to do Willie Evans's "dags," by walking twice through a sewer, and was subsequently, on returning home, promptly put to bed, and made to eat brimstone and treacle. I felt very sad after dinner. All the things I have done in my life that I should not have done recurred to me with painful vividness. (There seemed to be a goodish number of them, too.) I thought of all the disappointments and reverses I had experienced during my career; of all the injustice that I had suffered, and of all the unkind things that had been said and done to me. I thought of all the people I had known who were now dead, and whom I should never see again, of all the girls that I had loved, who were now married to other fellows, while I did not even know their present addresses. I pondered upon our earthly existence, upon how hollow, false, and transient it is, and how full of sorrow. I mused upon the wickedness of the world and of everybody in it, and the general cussedness of all things. I thought how foolish it was for B. and myself to be wasting our time, gadding about Europe in this silly way. What earthly enjoyment was there in travelling--being jolted about in stuffy trains, and overcharged at uncomfortable hotels? B. was cheerful and frivolously inclined at the beginning of our walk (we were strolling down the Maximilian Strasse, after dinner); but as I talked to him, I was glad to notice that he gradually grew more serious and subdued. He is not really bad, you know, only thoughtless. B. bought some cigars and offered me one. I did not want to smoke. Smoking seemed to me, just then, a foolish waste of time and money. As I said to B.: "In a few more years, perhaps before this very month is gone, we shall be lying in the silent tomb, with the worms feeding on us. Of what advantage will it be to us then that we smoked these cigars to-day?" B. said: "Well, the advantage it will be to me now is, that if you have a cigar in your mouth I shan't get quite so much of your chatty conversation. Take one, for my sake." To humour him, I lit up. I do not admire the German cigar. B. says that when you consider they only cost a penny, you cannot grumble. But what I say is, that when you consider they are dear at six a half-penny, you can grumble. Well boiled, they might serve for greens; but as smoking material they are not worth the match with which you light them, especially not if the match be a German one. The German match is quite a high art work. It has a yellow head and a magenta or green stem, and can certainly lay claim to being the handsomest match in Europe. We smoked a good many penny cigars during our stay in Germany, and that we were none the worse for doing so I consider as proof of our splendid physique and constitution. I think the German cigar test might, with reason, be adopted by life insurance offices.--Question: "Are you at present, and have you always been, of robust health?" Answer: "I have smoked a German cigar, and still live." Life accepted. Towards three o'clock we worked our way round to the station, and began looking for our train. We hunted all over the place, but could not find it anywhere. The central station at Munich is an enormous building, and a perfect maze of passages and halls and corridors. It is much easier to lose oneself in it, than to find anything in it one may happen to want. Together and separately B. and I lost ourselves and each other some twenty-four times. For about half an hour we seemed to be doing nothing else but rushing up and down the station looking for each other, suddenly finding each other, and saying, "Why, where the dickens have you been? I have been hunting for you everywhere. Don't go away like that," and then immediately losing each other again. And what was so extraordinary about the matter was that every time, after losing each other, we invariably met again--when we did meet--outside the door of the third-class refreshment room. We came at length to regard the door of the third-class refreshment room as "home," and to feel a thrill of joy when, in the course of our weary wanderings through far-off waiting-rooms and lost-luggage bureaus and lamp depots, we saw its old familiar handle shining in the distance, and knew that there, beside it, we should find our loved and lost one. When any very long time elapsed without our coming across it, we would go up to one of the officials, and ask to be directed to it. "Please can you tell me," we would say, "the nearest way to the door of the third-class refreshment room?" When three o'clock came, and still we had not found the 3.10 train, we became quite anxious about the poor thing, and made inquiries concerning it. "The 3.10 train to Ober-Ammergau," they said. "Oh, we've not thought about that yet." "Haven't thought about it!" we exclaimed indignantly. "Well, do for heaven's sake wake up a bit. It is 3.5 now!" "Yes," they answered, "3.5 in the afternoon; the 3.10 is a night train. Don't you see it's printed in thick type? All the trains between six in the evening and six in the morning are printed in fat figures, and the day trains in thin. You have got plenty of time. Look around after supper." I do believe I am the most unfortunate man at a time-table that ever was born. I do not think it can be stupidity; for if it were mere stupidity, I should occasionally, now and then when I was feeling well, not make a mistake. It must be fate. If there is one train out of forty that goes on "Saturdays only" to some place I want to get to, that is the train I select to travel by on a Friday. On Saturday morning I get up at six, swallow a hasty breakfast, and rush off to catch a return train that goes on every day in the week "except Saturdays." I go to London, Brighton and South Coast Railway-stations and clamour for South-Eastern trains. On Bank Holidays I forget it is Bank Holiday, and go and sit on draughty platforms for hours, waiting for trains that do not run on Bank Holidays. To add to my misfortunes, I am the miserable possessor of a demon time-table that I cannot get rid of, a Bradshaw for August, 1887. Regularly, on the first of each month, I buy and bring home with me a new Bradshaw and a new A.B.C. What becomes of them after the second of the month, I do not know. After the second of the month, I never see either of them again. What their fate is, I can only guess. In their place is left, to mislead me, this wretched old 1887 corpse. For three years I have been trying to escape from it, but it will not leave me. I have thrown it out of the window, and it has fallen on people's heads, and those people have picked it up and smoothed it out, and brought it back to the house, and members of my family--"friends" they call themselves--people of my own flesh and blood--have thanked them and taken it in again! I have kicked it into a dozen pieces, and kicked the pieces all the way downstairs and out into the garden, and persons--persons, mind you, who will not sew a button on the back of my shirt to save me from madness--have collected the pieces and stitched them carefully together, and made the book look as good as new, and put it back in my study! It has acquired the secret of perpetual youth, has this time-table. Other time-tables that I buy become dissipated-looking wrecks in about a week. This book looks as fresh and new and clean as it did on the day when it first lured me into purchasing it. There is nothing about its appearance to suggest to the casual observer that it is not this month's Bradshaw. Its evident aim and object in life is to deceive people into the idea that it is this month's Bradshaw. It is undermining my moral character, this book is. It is responsible for at least ten per cent. of the bad language that I use every year. It leads me into drink and gambling. I am continually finding myself with some three or four hours to wait at dismal provincial railway stations. I read all the advertisements on both platforms, and then I get wild and reckless, and plunge into the railway hotel and play billiards with the landlord for threes of Scotch. I intend to have that Bradshaw put into my coffin with me when I am buried, so that I can show it to the recording angel and explain matters. I expect to obtain a discount of at least five-and-twenty per cent. off my bill of crimes for that Bradshaw. The 3.10 train in the morning was, of course, too late for us. It would not get us to Ober-Ammergau until about 9 a.m. There was a train leaving at 7.30 (I let B. find out this) by which we might reach the village some time during the night, if only we could get a conveyance from Oberau, the nearest railway-station. Accordingly, we telegraphed to Cook's agent, who was at Ober-Ammergau (we all of us sneer at Mr. Cook and Mr. Gaze, and such-like gentlemen, who kindly conduct travellers that cannot conduct themselves properly, when we are at home; but I notice most of us appeal, on the quiet, to one or the other of them the moment we want to move abroad), to try and send a carriage to meet us by that train; and then went to an hotel, and turned into bed until it was time to start. We had another grand railway-ride from Munich to Oberau. We passed by the beautiful lake of Starnberg just as the sun was setting and gilding with gold the little villages and pleasant villas that lie around its shores. It was in the lake of Starnberg, near the lordly pleasure-house that he had built for himself in that fair vale, that poor mad Ludwig, the late King of Bavaria, drowned himself. Poor King! Fate gave him everything calculated to make a man happy, excepting one thing, and that was the power of being happy. Fate has a mania for striking balances. I knew a little shoeblack once who used to follow his profession at the corner of Westminster Bridge. Fate gave him an average of sixpence a day to live upon and provide himself with luxuries; but she also gave him a power of enjoying that kept him jolly all day long. He could buy as much enjoyment for a penny as the average man could for a ten-pound note--more, I almost think. He did not know he was badly off, any more than King Ludwig knew he was well off; and all day long he laughed and played, and worked a little--not more than he could help--and ate and drank, and gambled. The last time I saw him was in St. Thomas's Hospital, into which he had got himself owing to his fatal passion for walking along outside the stone coping of Westminster Bridge. He thought it was "prime," being in the hospital, and told me that he was living like a fighting-cock, and that he did not mean to go out sooner than he could help. I asked him if he were not in pain, and he said "Yes," when he "thought about it." Poor little chap! he only managed to live like a "fighting-cock" for three days more. Then he died, cheerful up to the last, so they told me, like the plucky little English game-cock he was. He could not have been more than twelve years old when he crowed his last. It had been a short life for him, but a very merry one. Now, if only this little beggar and poor old Ludwig could have gone into partnership, and so have shared between them the shoeblack's power of enjoying and the king's stock of enjoyments, what a good thing it would have been for both of them--especially for King Ludwig. He would never have thought of drowning himself then--life would have been too delightful. But that would not have suited Fate. She loves to laugh at men, and to make of life a paradox. To the one, she played ravishing strains, having first taken the precaution to make him stone-deaf. To the other, she piped a few poor notes on a cracked tin-whistle, and he thought it was music, and danced! A few years later on, at the very same spot where King Ludwig threw back to the gods their gift of life, a pair of somewhat foolish young lovers ended their disappointments, and, finding they could not be wedded together in life, wedded themselves together in death. The story, duly reported in the newspapers as an item of foreign intelligence, read more like some old Rhine-legend than the record of a real occurrence in this prosaic nineteenth century. He was a German Count, if I remember rightly, and, like most German Counts, had not much money; and her father, as fathers will when proposed to by impecunious would-be sons-in-law, refused his consent. The Count then went abroad to try and make, or at all events improve, his fortune. He went to America, and there he prospered. In a year or two he came back, tolerably rich--to find, however, that he was too late. His lady, persuaded of his death, had been urged into a marriage with a rich somebody else. In ordinary life, of course, the man would have contented himself with continuing to make love to the lady, leaving the rich somebody else to pay for her keep. This young couple, however, a little lighter headed, or a little deeper hearted than the most of us, whichever it may have been, and angry at the mocking laughter with which the air around them seemed filled, went down one stormy night together to the lake, and sobered droll Fate for an instant by turning her grim comedy into a somewhat grimmer tragedy. Soon after losing sight of Starnberg's placid waters, we plunged into the gloom of the mountains, and began a long, winding climb among their hidden recesses. At times, shrieking as if in terror, we passed some ghostly hamlet, standing out white and silent in the moonlight against the shadowy hills; and, now and then, a dark, still lake, or mountain torrent whose foaming waters fell in a long white streak across the blackness of the night. We passed by Murnau in the valley of the Dragon, a little town which possessed a Passion Play of its own in the olden times, and which, until a few years ago, when the railway-line was pushed forward to Partenkirchen, was the nearest station to Ober-Ammergau. It was a tolerably steep climb up the road from Murnau, over Mount Ettal, to Ammergau--so steep, indeed, that one stout pilgrim not many years ago, died from the exertion while walking up. Sturdy-legged mountaineer and pulpy citizen both had to clamber up side by side, for no horses could do more than drag behind them the empty vehicle. Every season, however, sees the European tourist more and more pampered, and the difficulties and consequent pleasure and interest of his journey more and more curtailed and spoilt. In a few years' time, he will be packed in cotton-wool in his own back-parlour, labelled for the place he wants to go to, and unpacked and taken out when he gets there. The railway now carries him round Mount Ettal to Oberau, from which little village a tolerably easy road, as mountain roadways go, of about four or five English miles takes him up to the valley of the Ammer. It was midnight when our train landed us at Oberau station; but the place was far more busy and stirring than on ordinary occasions it is at mid-day. Crowds of tourists and pilgrims thronged the little hotel, wondering, as also did the landlord, where they were all going to sleep; and wondering still more, though this latter consideration evidently did not trouble their host, how they were going to get up to Ober-Ammergau in the morning in time for the play, which always begins at 8 a.m. Some were engaging carriages at fabulous prices to call for them at five; and others, who could not secure carriages, and who had determined to walk, were instructing worried waiters to wake them at 2.30, and ordering breakfast for a quarter-past three sharp. (I had no idea there were such times in the morning!) We were fortunate enough to find our land-lord, a worthy farmer, waiting for us with a tumble-down conveyance, in appearance something between a circus-chariot and a bath-chair, drawn by a couple of powerful-looking horses; and in this, after a spirited skirmish between our driver and a mob of twenty or so tourists, who pretended to mistake the affair for an omnibus, and who would have clambered into it and swamped it, we drove away. Higher and higher we climbed, and grander and grander towered the frowning moon-bathed mountains round us, and chillier and chillier grew the air. For most of the way we crawled along, the horses tugging us from side to side of the steep road; but, wherever our coachman could vary the monotony of the pace by a stretch-gallop--as, for instance, down the precipitous descents that occasionally followed upon some extra long and toilsome ascent--he thoughtfully did so. At such times the drive became really quite exciting, and all our weariness was forgotten. The steeper the descent, the faster, of course, we could go. The rougher the road, the more anxious the horses seemed to be to get over it quickly. During the gallop, B. and I enjoyed, in a condensed form, all the advantages usually derived from crossing the Channel on a stormy day, riding on a switchback railway, and being tossed in a blanket--a hard, nobbly blanket, full of nasty corners and sharp edges. I should never have thought that so many different sensations could have been obtained from one machine! About half-way up we passed Ettal, at the entrance to the Valley of the Ammer. The great white temple, standing, surrounded by its little village, high up amid the mountain solitudes, is a famous place of pilgrimage among devout Catholics. Many hundreds of years ago, one of the early Bavarian kings built here a monastery as a shrine for a miraculous image of the Virgin that had been sent down to him from Heaven to help him when, in a foreign land, he had stood sore in need, encompassed by his enemies. Maybe the stout arms and hearts of his Bavarian friends were of some service in the crisis also; but the living helpers were forgotten. The old church and monastery, which latter was a sort of ancient Chelsea Hospital for decayed knights, was destroyed one terrible night some hundred and fifty years ago by a flash of lightning; but the wonder-working image was rescued unhurt, and may still be seen and worshipped beneath the dome of the present much less imposing church which has been reared upon the ruins of its ancestor. The monastery, which was also rebuilt at the same time, now serves the more useful purpose of a brewery. From Ettal the road is comparatively level, and, jolting swiftly over it, we soon reached Ober-Ammergau. Lights were passing to and fro behind the many windows of the square stone houses, and dark, strange-looking figures were moving about the streets, busy with preparations for the great business that would commence with the dawn. We rattled noisily through the village, our driver roaring out "Good Night!" to everyone he passed in a voice sufficient to wake up everybody who might be sleeping within a mile, charged light-heartedly round half-a-dozen corners, trotted down the centre path of somebody's front garden, squeezed our way through a gate, and drew up at an open door, through which the streaming light poured out upon two tall, comely lasses, our host's daughters, who were standing waiting for us in the porch. They led us into a large, comfortably furnished room, where a tempting supper of hot veal-chops (they seem to live on veal in Germany) and white wine was standing ready. Under ordinary circumstances I should have been afraid that such a supper would cause me to be more eager for change and movement during the ensuing six hours than for sleep; but I felt that to-night it would take a dozen half-baked firebricks to keep me awake five seconds after I had got my head on the pillow--or what they call a pillow in Germany; and so, without hesitation, I made a very satisfactory meal. After supper our host escorted us to our bedroom, an airy apartment adorned with various highly-coloured wood-carvings of a pious but somewhat ghastly character, calculated, I should say, to exercise a disturbing influence upon the night's rest of a nervous or sensitive person. "Mind that we are called at proper time in the morning," said B. to the man. "We don't want to wake up at four o'clock in the afternoon and find that we have missed the play, after coming all this way to see it." "Oh! that will be all right," answered the old fellow. "You won't get much chance of oversleeping yourself. We shall all be up and about, and the whole village stirring, before five; and besides, the band will be playing at six just beneath the window here, and the cannon on the Kofel goes off at--" "Look here," I interrupted, "that won't do for me, you know. Don't you think that I am going to be woke up by mere riots outside the window, and brass-band contests, and earthquakes, and explosions, and those sort of things, because it can't be done that way. Somebody's got to come into this room and haul me out of bed, and sit down on the bed and see that I don't get into it again, and that I don't go to sleep on the floor. That will be the way to get me up to-morrow morning. Don't let's have any nonsense about stirring villages and guns and German bands. I know what all that will end in, my going back to England without seeing the show. I want to be roused in the morning, not lulled off to sleep again." B. translated the essential portions of this speech to the man, and he laughed and promised upon his sacred word of honour that he would come up himself and have us both out; and as he was a stalwart and determined-looking man, I felt satisfied, and wished him "Good-night," and made haste to get off my boots before I fell asleep. TUESDAY, THE 27TH A Pleasant Morning.--What can one Say about the Passion Play?--B. Lectures.--Unreliable Description of Ober-Ammergau.--Exaggerated Description of its Weather.--Possibly Untruthful Account of how the Passion Play came to be Played.--A Good Face.--The Cultured Schoolboy and his Ignorant Relations. I am lying in bed, or, to speak more truthfully, I am sitting up on a green satin, lace-covered pillow, writing these notes. A green satin, lace-covered bed is on the floor beside me. It is about eleven o'clock in the morning. B. is sitting up in his bed a few feet off, smoking a pipe. We have just finished a light repast of--what do you think? you will never guess--coffee and rolls. We intend to put the week straight by stopping in bed all day, at all events until the evening. Two English ladies occupy the bedroom next to ours. They seem to have made up their minds to also stay upstairs all day. We can hear them walking about their room, muttering. They have been doing this for the last three-quarters of an hour. They seem troubled about something. It is very pleasant here. An overflow performance is being given in the theatre to-day for the benefit of those people who could not gain admittance yesterday, and, through the open windows, we can hear the rhythmic chant of the chorus. Mellowed by the distance, the wailing cadence of the plaintive songs, mingled with the shrill Haydnistic strains of the orchestra, falls with a mournful sweetness on our ears. We ourselves saw the play yesterday, and we are now discussing it. I am explaining to B. the difficulty I experience in writing an account of it for my diary. I tell him that I really do not know what to say about it. He smokes for a while in silence, and then, taking the pipe from his lips, he says: "Does it matter very much what you say about it?" I find much relief in that thought. It at once lifts from my shoulders the oppressive feeling of responsibility that was weighing me down. After all, what does it matter what I say? What does it matter what any of us says about anything? Nobody takes much notice of it, luckily for everybody. This reflection must be of great comfort to editors and critics. A conscientious man who really felt that his words would carry weight and influence with them would be almost afraid to speak at all. It is the man who knows that it will not make an ounce of difference to anyone what he says, that can grow eloquent and vehement and positive. It will not make any difference to anybody or anything what I say about the Ober-Ammergau Passion Play. So I shall just say what I want to. But what do I want to say? What can I say that has not been said, and said much better, already? (An author must always pretend to think that every other author writes better than he himself does. He does not really think so, you know, but it looks well to talk as though he did.) What can I say that the reader does not know, or that, not knowing, he cares to know? It is easy enough to talk about nothing, like I have been doing in this diary hitherto. It is when one is confronted with the task of writing about _some_thing, that one wishes one were a respectable well-to-do sweep--a sweep with a comfortable business of his own, and a pony--instead of an author. B. says: "Well, why not begin by describing Ober-Ammergau." I say it has been described so often. He says: "So has the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race and the Derby Day, but people go on describing them all the same, and apparently find other people to read their descriptions. Say that the little village, clustered round its mosque-domed church, nestles in the centre of a valley, surrounded by great fir-robed hills, which stand, with the cross-crowned Kofel for their chief, like stern, strong sentinels guarding its old-world peace from the din and clamour of the outer world. Describe how the square, whitewashed houses are sheltered beneath great overhanging gables, and are encircled by carved wooden balconies and verandahs, where, in the cool of the evening, peasant wood-carver and peasant farmer sit to smoke the long Bavarian pipe, and chat about the cattle and the Passion Play and village politics; and how, in gaudy colours above the porch, are painted glowing figures of saints and virgins and such-like good folk, which the rains have sadly mutilated, so that a legless angel on one side of the road looks dejectedly across at a headless Madonna on the other, while at an exposed corner some unfortunate saint, more cruelly dealt with by the weather than he ever was even by the heathen, has been deprived of everything that he could call his own, with the exception of half a head and a pair of extra-sized feet. "Explain how all the houses are numbered according to the date they were built, so that number sixteen comes next to number forty-seven, and there is no number one because it has been pulled down. Tell how unsophisticated visitors, informed that their lodgings are at number fifty-three, go wandering for days and days round fifty-two, under the not unreasonable impression that their house must be next door, though, as a matter of fact, it is half a mile off at the other end of the village, and are discovered one sunny morning, sitting on the doorstep of number eighteen, singing pathetic snatches of nursery rhymes, and trying to plat their toes into door-mats, and are taken up and carried away screaming, to end their lives in the madhouse at Munich. "Talk about the weather. People who have stayed here for any length of time tell me that it rains at Ober-Ammergau three days out of every four, the reason that it does not rain on the fourth day being that every fourth day is set apart for a deluge. They tell me, also, that while it will be pouring with rain just in the village the sun will be shining brightly all round about, and that the villagers, when the water begins to come in through their roofs, snatch up their children and hurry off to the nearest field, where they sit and wait until the storm is over." "Do you believe them--the persons that you say tell you these tales?" I ask. "Personally I do not," he replies. "I think people exaggerate to me because I look young and innocent, but no doubt there is a ground-work of truth in their statements. I have myself left Ober-Ammergau under a steady drenching rain, and found a cloudless sky the other side of the Kofel. "Then," he continues, "you can comment upon the hardihood of the Bavarian peasant. How he or she walks about bare-headed and bare-footed through the fiercest showers, and seems to find the rain only pleasantly cooling. How, during the performance of the Passion Play, they act and sing and stand about upon the uncovered stage without taking the slightest notice of the downpour of water that is soaking their robes and running from their streaming hair, to make great pools upon the boards; and how the audience, in the cheaper, unroofed portion of the theatre, sit with equal stoicism, watching them, no one ever dreaming even of putting up an umbrella--or, if he does dream of doing so, experiencing a very rude awakening from the sticks of those behind." B. stops to relight his pipe at this point, and I hear the two ladies in the next room fidgeting about and muttering worse than ever. It seems to me they are listening at the door (our room and theirs are connected by a door); I do wish that they would either get into bed again or else go downstairs. They worry me. "And what shall I say after I have said all that?" I ask B. when at last he has started his pipe again. "Oh! well, after that," he replies, "you can give the history of the Passion Play; how it came to be played." "Oh, but so many people have done that already," I say again. "So much the better for you," is his reply. Having previously heard precisely the same story from half a dozen other sources, the public will be tempted to believe you when you repeat the account. Tell them that during the thirty year's war a terrible plague (as if half a dozen different armies, marching up and down their country, fighting each other about the Lord only knows what, and living on them while doing it, was not plague enough) swept over Bavaria, devastating each town and hamlet. Of all the highland villages, Ober-Ammergau by means of a strictly enforced quarantine alone kept, for a while, the black foe at bay. No soul was allowed to leave the village; no living thing to enter it. "But one dark night Caspar Schuchler, an inhabitant of Ober-Ammergau, who had been working in the plague-stricken neighbouring village of Eschenlohe, creeping low on his belly, passed the drowsy sentinels, and gained his home, and saw what for many a day he had been hungering for--a sight of his wife and bairns. It was a selfish act to do, and he and his fellow-villagers paid dearly for it. Three days after he had entered his house he and all his family lay dead, and the plague was raging through the valley, and nothing seemed able to stay its course. "When human means fail, we feel it is only fair to give Heaven a chance. The good people who dwelt by the side of the Ammer vowed that, if the plague left them, they would, every ten years, perform a Passion Play. The celestial powers seem to have at once closed with this offer. The plague disappeared as if by magic, and every recurring tenth year since, the Ober-Ammergauites have kept their promise and played their Passion Play. They act it to this day as a pious observance. Before each performance all the characters gather together on the stage around their pastor, and, kneeling, pray for a blessing upon the work then about to commence. The profits that are made, after paying the performers a wage that just compensates them for their loss of time--wood-carver Maier, who plays the Christ, only receives about fifty pounds for the whole of the thirty or so performances given during the season, to say nothing of the winter's rehearsals--is put aside, part for the temporal benefit of the community, and the rest for the benefit of the Church. From burgomaster down to shepherd lad, from the Mary and the Jesus down to the meanest super, all work for the love of their religion, not for money. Each one feels that he is helping forward the cause of Christianity." "And I could also speak," I add, "of grand old Daisenberger, the gentle, simple old priest, 'the father of the valley,' who now lies in silence among his children that he loved so well. It was he, you know, that shaped the rude burlesque of a coarser age into the impressive reverential drama that we saw yesterday. That is a portrait of him over the bed. What a plain, homely, good face it is! How pleasant, how helpful it is to come across a good face now and then! I do not mean a sainted face, suggestive of stained glass and marble tombs, but a rugged human face that has had the grit, and rain, and sunshine of life rubbed into it, and that has gained its expression, not by looking up with longing at the stars, but by looking down with eyes full of laughter and love at the human things around it." "Yes," assented B. "You can put in that if you like. There is no harm in it. And then you can go on to speak of the play itself, and give your impressions concerning it. Never mind their being silly. They will be all the better for that. Silly remarks are generally more interesting than sensible ones." "But what is the use of saying anything about it at all?" I urge. "The merest school-boy must know all about the Ober-Ammergau Passion Play by this time." "What has that to do with you?" answers B. "You are not writing for cultured school-boys. You are writing for mere simple men and women. They will be glad of a little information on the subject, and then when the schoolboy comes home for his holiday they will be able, so far as this topic, at all events, is concerned, to converse with him on his own level and not appear stupid. "Come," he says, kindly, trying to lead me on, "what did you think about it?" "Well," I reply, after musing for a while, "I think that a play of eighteen acts and some forty scenes, which commences at eight o'clock in the morning, and continues, with an interval of an hour and a half for dinner, until six o'clock in the evening, is too long. I think the piece wants cutting. About a third of it is impressive and moving, and what the earnest student of the drama at home is for ever demanding that a play should be--namely, elevating; but I consider that the other two-thirds are tiresome." "Quite so," answers B. "But then we must remember that the performance is not intended as an entertainment, but as a religious service. To criticise any part of it as uninteresting, is like saying that half the Bible might very well have been omitted, and that the whole story could have been told in a third of the space." TUESDAY, THE 27TH--CONTINUED We talk on.--An Argument.--The Story that Transformed the World. "And now, as to the right or wrong of the performance as a whole. Do you see any objection to the play from a religious point of view?" "No," I reply, "I do not; nor do I understand how anybody else, and least of all a really believing Christian, can either. To argue as some do, that Christianity should be treated as a sacred mystery, is to argue against the whole scheme of Christianity. It was Christ himself that rent the veil of the Temple, and brought religion down into the streets and market-places of the world. Christ was a common man. He lived a common life, among common men and women. He died a common death. His own methods of teaching were what a Saturday reviewer, had he to deal with the case, would undoubtedly term vulgar. The roots of Christianity are planted deep down in the very soil of life, amid all that is commonplace, and mean, and petty, and everyday. Its strength lies in its simplicity, its homely humanness. It has spread itself through the world by speaking to the hearts, rather than to the heads of men. If it is still to live and grow, it must be helped along by such methods as these peasant players of Ober-Ammergau employ, not by high-class essays and the learned discussions of the cultured. "The crowded audience that sat beside us in the theatre yesterday saw Christ of Nazareth nearer than any book, however inspired, could bring him to them; clearer than any words, however eloquent, could show him. They saw the sorrow of his patient face. They heard his deep tones calling to them. They saw him in the hour of his so-called triumph, wending his way through the narrow streets of Jerusalem, the multitude that thronged round him waving their branches of green palms and shouting loud hosannas. "What a poor scene of triumph!--a poor-clad, pale-faced man, mounted upon the back of a shuffling, unwilling little grey donkey, passing slowly through the byways of a city, busy upon other things. Beside him, a little band of worn, anxious men, clad in thread-bare garments--fishermen, petty clerks, and the like; and, following, a noisy rabble, shouting, as crowds in all lands and in all times shout, and as dogs bark, they know not why--because others are shouting, or barking. And that scene marks the highest triumph won while he lived on earth by the village carpenter of Galilee, about whom the world has been fighting and thinking and talking so hard for the last eighteen hundred years. "They saw him, angry and indignant, driving out the desecrators from the temple. They saw the rabble, who a few brief moments before had followed him, shouting 'Hosanna,' slinking away from him to shout with his foes. "They saw the high priests in their robes of white, with the rabbis and doctors, all the great and learned in the land, sitting late into the night beneath the vaulted roof of the Sanhedrin's council-hall, plotting his death. "They saw him supping with his disciples in the house of Simon. They saw poor, loving Mary Magdalen wash his feet with costly ointment, that might have been sold for three hundred pence, and the money given to the poor--'and us.' Judas was so thoughtful for the poor, so eager that other people should sell all they had, and give the money to the poor--'and us.' Methinks that, even in this nineteenth century, one can still hear from many a tub and platform the voice of Judas, complaining of all waste, and pleading for the poor--'and us.' "They were present at the parting of Mary and Jesus by Bethany, and it will be many a day before the memory of that scene ceases to vibrate in their hearts. It is the scene that brings the humanness of the great tragedy most closely home to us. Jesus is going to face sorrow and death at Jerusalem. Mary's instinct tells her that this is so, and she pleads to him to stay. "Poor Mary! To others he is the Christ, the Saviour of mankind, setting forth upon his mighty mission to redeem the world. To loving Mary Mother, he is her son: the baby she has suckled at her breast, the little one she has crooned to sleep upon her lap, whose little cheek has lain against her heart, whose little feet have made sweet music through the poor home at Bethany: he is her boy, her child; she would wrap her mother's arms around him and hold him safe against all the world, against even heaven itself. "Never, in any human drama, have I witnessed a more moving scene than this. Never has the voice of any actress (and I have seen some of the greatest, if any great ones are living) stirred my heart as did the voice of Rosa Lang, the Burgomaster's daughter. It was not the voice of one woman, it was the voice of Motherdom, gathered together from all the world over. "Oliver Wendell Holmes, in _The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table_, I think, confesses to having been bewitched at different times by two women's voices, and adds that both these voices belonged to German women. I am not surprised at either statement of the good doctor's. I am sure if a man did fall in love with a voice, he would find, on tracing it to its source, that it was the voice of some homely-looking German woman. I have never heard such exquisite soul-drawing music in my life, as I have more than once heard float from the lips of some sweet-faced German Fraulein when she opened her mouth to speak. The voice has been so pure, so clear, so deep, so full of soft caressing tenderness, so strong to comfort, so gentle to soothe, it has seemed like one of those harmonies musicians tell us that they dream of, but can never chain to earth. "As I sat in the theatre, listening to the wondrous tones of this mountain peasant-woman, rising and falling like the murmur of a sea, filling the vast sky-covered building with their yearning notes, stirring like a great wind stirs AEolian strings, the thousands of trembling hearts around her, it seemed to me that I was indeed listening to the voice of the 'mother of the world,' of mother Nature herself. "They saw him, as they had often seen him in pictures, sitting for the last time with his disciples at supper. But yesterday they saw him, not a mute, moveless figure, posed in conventional, meaningless attitude, but a living, loving man, sitting in fellowship with the dear friends that against all the world had believed in him, and had followed his poor fortunes, talking with them for the last sweet time, comforting them. "They heard him bless the bread and wine that they themselves to this day take in remembrance of him. "They saw his agony in the Garden of Gethsemane, the human shrinking from the cup of pain. They saw the false friend, Judas, betray him with a kiss. (Alas! poor Judas! He loved Jesus, in a way, like the rest did. It was only his fear of poverty that made him betray his Master. He was so poor--he wanted the money so badly! We cry out in horror against Judas. Let us pray rather that we are never tempted to do a shameful action for a few pieces of silver. The fear of poverty ever did, and ever will, make scamps of men. We would like to be faithful, and noble, and just, only really times are so bad that we cannot afford it! As Becky Sharp says, it is so easy to be good and noble on five thousand a year, so very hard to be it on the mere five. If Judas had only been a well-to-do man, he might have been Saint Judas this day, instead of cursed Judas. He was not bad. He had only one failing--the failing that makes the difference between a saint and a villain, all the world over--he was a coward; he was afraid of being poor.) "They saw him, pale and silent, dragged now before the priests of his own countrymen, and now before the Roman Governor, while the voice of the people--the people who had cried 'Hosanna' to him--shouted 'Crucify him! crucify him!' They saw him bleeding from the crown of thorns. They saw him, still followed by the barking mob, sink beneath the burden of his cross. They saw the woman wipe the bloody sweat from off his face. They saw the last, long, silent look between the mother and the son, as, journeying upward to his death, he passed her in the narrow way through which he once had ridden in brief-lived triumph. They heard her low sob as she turned away, leaning on Mary Magdalen. They saw him nailed upon the cross between the thieves. They saw the blood start from his side. They heard his last cry to his God. They saw him rise victorious over death. "Few believing Christians among the vast audience but must have passed out from that strange playhouse with their belief and love strengthened. The God of the Christian, for his sake, became a man, and lived and suffered and died as a man; and, as a man, living, suffering, dying among other men, he had that day seen him. "The man of powerful imagination needs no aid from mimicry, however excellent, however reverent, to unroll before him in its simple grandeur the great tragedy on which the curtain fell at Calvary some eighteen and a half centuries ago. "A cultivated mind needs no story of human suffering to win or hold it to a faith. "But the imaginative and cultured are few and far between, and the peasants of Ober-Ammergau can plead, as their Master himself once pleaded, that they seek not to help the learned but the lowly. "The unbeliever, also, passes out into the village street full of food for thought. The rude sermon preached in this hillside temple has shown to him, clearer than he could have seen before, the secret wherein lies the strength of Christianity; the reason why, of all the faiths that Nature has taught to her children to help them in their need, to satisfy the hunger of their souls, this faith, born by the Sea of Galilee, has spread the farthest over the world, and struck its note the deepest into human life. Not by his doctrines, not even by his promises, has Christ laid hold upon the hearts of men, but by the story of his life." TUESDAY, THE 27TH--CONTINUED We Discuss the Performance.--A Marvellous Piece of Workmanship.--The Adam Family.--Some Living Groups.--The Chief Performers.--A Good Man, but a Bad Judas.--Where the Histrionic Artist Grows Wild.--An Alarm! "And what do you think of the performance _as_ a performance?" asks B. "Oh, as to that," I reply, "I think what everyone who has seen the play must think, that it is a marvellous piece of workmanship. "Experienced professional stage-managers, with all the tricks and methods of the theatre at their fingers' ends, find it impossible, out of a body of men and women born and bred in the atmosphere of the playhouse, to construct a crowd that looks like anything else except a nervous group of broken-down paupers waiting for soup. "At Ober-Ammergau a few village priests and representative householders, who have probably never, any one of them, been inside the walls of a theatre in their lives, dealing with peasants who have walked straight upon the stage from their carving benches and milking-stools, produce swaying multitudes and clamouring mobs and dignified assemblages, so natural and truthful, so realistic of the originals they represent, that you feel you want to leap upon the stage and strangle them. "It shows that earnestness and effort can very easily overtake and pass mere training and technical skill. The object of the Ober-Ammergau 'super' is, not to get outside and have a drink, but to help forward the success of the drama. "The groupings, both in the scenes of the play itself and in the various tableaux that precede each act, are such as I doubt if any artist could improve upon. The tableau showing the life of Adam and Eve after their expulsion from Eden makes a beautiful picture. Father Adam, stalwart and sunbrowned, clad in sheepskins, rests for a moment from his delving, to wipe the sweat from his brow. Eve, still looking fair and happy--though I suppose she ought not to,--sits spinning and watching the children playing at 'helping father.' The chorus from each side of the stage explained to us that this represented a scene of woe, the result of sin; but it seemed to me that the Adam family were very contented, and I found myself wondering, in my common, earthly way, whether, with a little trouble to draw them closer together, and some honest work to keep them from getting into mischief, Adam and Eve were not almost better off than they would have been mooning about Paradise with nothing to do but talk. "In the tableau representing the return of the spies from Canaan, some four or five hundred men, women and children are most effectively massed. The feature of the foreground is the sample bunch of grapes, borne on the shoulders of two men, which the spies have brought back with them from the promised land. The sight of this bunch of grapes, we are told, astonished the children of Israel. I can quite understand its doing so. The picture of it used to astonish me, too, when _I_ was a child. "The scene of Christ's entry into Jerusalem surrounded by the welcoming multitude, is a wonderful reproduction of life and movement, and so also is the scene, towards the end, showing his last journey up to Calvary. All Jerusalem seems to have turned out to see him pass and to follow him, the many laughing, the few sad. The people fill the narrow streets to overflowing, and press round the spears of the Roman Guard. "They throng the steps and balconies of every house, they strain to catch a sight of Christ above each other's heads. They leap up on each other's backs to gain a better vantage-ground from which to hurl their jeers at him. They jostle irreverently against their priests. Each individual man, woman, and child on the stage acts, and acts in perfect harmony with all the rest. "Of the chief members of the cast--Maier, the gentle and yet kingly Christ; Burgomaster Lang, the stern, revengeful High Priest; his daughter Rosa, the sweet-faced, sweet-voiced Virgin; Rendl, the dignified, statesman-like Pilate; Peter Rendl, the beloved John, with the purest and most beautiful face I have ever seen upon a man; old Peter Hett, the rugged, loving, weak friend, Peter; Rutz, the leader of the chorus (no sinecure, his post); and Amalie Deschler, the Magdalen--it would be difficult to speak in terms of too high praise. Themselves mere peasants--There are those two women again, spying round our door; I am sure of it!" I exclaim, breaking off, and listening to the sounds that come from the next room. "I wish they would go downstairs; I am beginning to get quite nervous." "Oh, I don't think we need worry," answers B. "They are quite old ladies, both of them. I met them on the stairs yesterday. I am sure they look harmless enough." "Well, I don't know," I reply. "We are all by ourselves, you know. Nearly everyone in the village is at the theatre, I wish we had got a dog." B. reassures me, however, and I continue: "Themselves mere peasants," I repeat, "they represent some of the greatest figures in the world's history with as simple a dignity and as grand a bearing as could ever have been expected from the originals themselves. There must be a natural inborn nobility in the character of these highlanders. They could never assume or act that manner _au grand seigneur_ with which they imbue their parts. "The only character poorly played was that of Judas. The part of Judas is really _the_ part of the piece, so far as acting is concerned; but the exemplary householder who essayed it seemed to have no knowledge or experience of the ways and methods of bad men. There seemed to be no side of his character sufficiently in sympathy with wickedness to enable him to understand and portray it. His amateur attempts at scoundrelism quite irritated me. It sounds conceited to say so, but I am convinced I could have given a much more truthful picture of the blackguard myself. "'Dear, dear me,' I kept on saying under my breath, 'he is doing it all wrong. A downright unmitigated villain would never go on like that; he would do so and so, he would look like this, and speak like that, and act like the other. I know he would. My instinct tells me so.' "This actor was evidently not acquainted with even the rudiments of knavery. I wanted to get up and instruct him in them. I felt that there were little subtleties of rascaldom, little touches of criminality, that I could have put that man up to, which would have transformed his Judas from woodenness into breathing life. As it was, with no one in the village apparently who was worth his salt as a felon to teach him, his performance was unconvincing, and Judas became a figure to laugh rather than to shudder at. "With that exception, the whole company, from Maier down to the donkey, seemed to be fitted to their places like notes into a master's melody. It would appear as though, on the banks of the Ammer, the histrionic artist grew wild." "They are real actors, all of them," murmurs B. enthusiastically, "the whole village full; and they all live happily together in one small valley, and never try to kill each other. It is marvellous!" At this point, we hear a sharp knock at the door that separates the before-mentioned ladies' room from our own. We both start and turn pale, and then look at each other. B. is the first to recover his presence of mind. Eliminating, by a strong effort, all traces of nervousness from his voice, he calls out in a tone of wonderful coolness: "Yes, what is it?" "Are you in bed?" comes a voice from the other side of the door. "Yes," answers B. "Why?" "Oh! Sorry to disturb you, but we shall be so glad when you get up. We can't go downstairs without coming through your room. This is the only door. We have been waiting here for two hours, and our train goes at three." Great Scott! So that is why the poor old souls have been hanging round the door, terrifying us out of our lives. "All right, we'll be out in five minutes. So sorry. Why didn't you call out before?" FRIDAY, 30TH, OR SATURDAY, I AM NOT SURE WHICH Troubles of a Tourist Agent.--His Views on Tourists.--The English Woman Abroad.--And at Home.--The Ugliest Cathedral in Europe.--Old Masters and New.--Victual-and-Drink-Scapes.--The German Band.--A "Beer Garden."--Not the Women to Turn a Man's Head.--Difficulty of Dining to Music.--Why one should Keep one's Mug Shut. I think myself it is Saturday. B. says it is only Friday; but I am positive I have had three cold baths since we left Ober-Ammergau, which we did on Wednesday morning. If it is only Friday, then I have had two morning baths in one day. Anyhow, we shall know to-morrow by the shops being open or shut. We travelled from Oberau with a tourist agent, and he told us all his troubles. It seems that a tourist agent is an ordinary human man, and has feelings just like we have. This had never occurred to me before. I told him so. "No," he replied, "it never does occur to you tourists. You treat us as if we were mere Providence, or even the Government itself. If all goes well, you say, what is the good of us, contemptuously; and if things go wrong, you say, what is the good of us, indignantly. I work sixteen hours a day to fix things comfortably for you, and you cannot even look satisfied; while if a train is late, or a hotel proprietor overcharges, you come and bully _me_ about it. If I see after you, you mutter that I am officious; and if I leave you alone, you grumble that I am neglectful. You swoop down in your hundreds upon a tiny village like Ober-Ammergau without ever letting us know even that you are coming, and then threaten to write to the _Times_ because there is not a suite of apartments and a hot dinner waiting ready for each of you. "You want the best lodgings in the place, and then, when at a tremendous cost of trouble, they have been obtained for you, you object to pay the price asked for them. You all try and palm yourselves off for dukes and duchesses, travelling in disguise. You have none of you ever heard of a second-class railway carriage--didn't know that such things were made. You want a first-class Pullman car reserved for each two of you. Some of you have seen an omnibus in the distance, and have wondered what it was used for. To suggest that you should travel in such a plebeian conveyance, is to give you a shock that takes you two days to recover from. You expect a private carriage, with a footman in livery, to take you through the mountains. You, all of you, must have the most expensive places in the theatre. The eight-mark and six-mark places are every bit as good as the ten-mark seats, of which there are only a very limited number; but you are grossly insulted if it is hinted that you should sit in anything but the dearest chairs. If the villagers would only be sensible and charge you ten marks for the eight-mark places you would be happy; but they won't." I must candidly confess that the English-speaking people one meets with on the Continent are, taken as a whole, a most disagreeable contingent. One hardly ever hears the English language spoken on the Continent, without hearing grumbling and sneering. The women are the most objectionable. Foreigners undoubtedly see the very poorest specimens of the female kind we Anglo-Saxons have to show. The average female English or American tourist is rude and self-assertive, while, at the same time, ridiculously helpless and awkward. She is intensely selfish, and utterly inconsiderate of others; everlastingly complaining, and, in herself, drearily uninteresting. We travelled down in the omnibus from Ober-Ammergau with three perfect specimens of the species, accompanied by the usual miserable-looking man, who has had all the life talked out of him. They were grumbling the whole of the way at having been put to ride in an omnibus. It seemed that they had never been so insulted in their lives before, and they took care to let everybody in the vehicle know that they had paid for first-class, and that at home they kept their own carriage. They were also very indignant because the people at the house where they had lodged had offered to shake hands with them at parting. They did not come to Ober-Ammergau to be treated on terms of familiarity by German peasants, they said. There are many women in the world who are in every way much better than angels. They are gentle and gracious, and generous and kind, and unselfish and good, in spite of temptations and trials to which mere angels are never subjected. And there are also many women in the world who, under the clothes, and not unfrequently under the title of a lady, wear the heart of an underbred snob. Having no natural dignity, they think to supply its place with arrogance. They mistake noisy bounce for self-possession, and supercilious rudeness as the sign of superiority. They encourage themselves in sleepy stupidity under the impression that they are acquiring aristocratic "repose." They would appear to have studied "attitude" from the pages of the _London Journal_, coquetry from barmaids--the commoner class of barmaids, I mean--wit from three-act farces, and manners from the servants'-hall. To be gushingly fawning to those above them, and vulgarly insolent to everyone they consider below them, is their idea of the way to hold and improve their position, whatever it may be, in society; and to be brutally indifferent to the rights and feelings of everybody else in the world is, in their opinion, the hall-mark of gentle birth. They are the women you see at private views, pushing themselves in front of everybody else, standing before the picture so that no one can get near it, and shouting out their silly opinions, which they evidently imagine to be brilliantly satirical remarks, in strident tones: the women who, in the stalls of the theatre, talk loudly all through the performance; and who, having arrived in the middle of the first act, and made as much disturbance as they know how, before settling down in their seats, ostentatiously get up and walk out before the piece is finished: the women who, at dinner-party and "At Home"--that cheapest and most deadly uninteresting of all deadly uninteresting social functions--(You know the receipt for a fashionable "At Home," don't you? Take five hundred people, two-thirds of whom do not know each other, and the other third of whom cordially dislike each other, pack them, on a hot day, into a room capable of accommodating forty, leave them there to bore one another to death for a couple of hours with drawing-room philosophy and second-hand scandal; then give them a cup of weak tea, and a piece of crumbly cake, without any plate to eat it on; or, if it is an evening affair, a glass of champagne of the you-don't-forget-you've-had-it-for-a-week brand, and a ham-sandwich, and put them out into the street again)--can do nothing but make spiteful remarks about everybody whose name and address they happen to know: the women who, in the penny 'bus (for, in her own country, the lady of the new school is wonderfully economical and business-like), spreads herself out over the seat, and, looking indignant when a tired little milliner gets in, would leave the poor girl standing with her bundle for an hour, rather than make room for her--the women who write to the papers to complain that chivalry is dead! B., who has been looking over my shoulder while I have been writing the foregoing, after the manner of a _Family Herald_ story-teller's wife in the last chapter (fancy a man having to write the story of his early life and adventures with his wife looking over his shoulder all the time! no wonder the tales lack incident), says that I have been living too much on sauerkraut and white wine; but I reply that if anything has tended to interfere for a space with the deep-seated love and admiration that, as a rule, I entertain for all man and woman-kind, it is his churches and picture-galleries. We have seen enough churches and pictures since our return to Munich to last me for a very long while. I shall not go to church, when I get home again, more than twice a Sunday, for months to come. The inhabitants of Munich boast that their Cathedral is the ugliest in Europe; and, judging from appearances, I am inclined to think that the claim must be admitted. Anyhow, if there be an uglier one, I hope I am feeling well and strong when I first catch sight of it. As for pictures and sculptures, I am thoroughly tired of them. The greatest art critic living could not dislike pictures and sculptures more than I do at this moment. We began by spending a whole morning in each gallery. We examined each picture critically, and argued with each other about its "form" and "colour" and "treatment" and "perspective" and "texture" and "atmosphere." I generally said it was flat, and B. that it was out of drawing. A stranger overhearing our discussions would have imagined that we knew something about painting. We would stand in front of a canvas for ten minutes, drinking it in. We would walk round it, so as to get the proper light upon it and to better realise the artist's aim. We would back away from it on to the toes of the people behind, until we reached the correct "distance," and then sit down and shade our eyes, and criticise it from there; and then we would go up and put our noses against it, and examine the workmanship in detail. This is how we used to look at pictures in the early stages of our Munich art studies. Now we use picture galleries to practise spurts in. I did a hundred yards this morning through the old Pantechnicon in twenty-two and a half seconds, which, for fair heel-and-toe walking, I consider very creditable. B. took five-eighths of a second longer for the same distance; but then he dawdled to look at a Raphael. The "Pantechnicon," I should explain, is the name we have, for our own purposes, given to what the Munichers prefer to call the Pinakothek. We could never pronounce Pinakothek properly. We called it "Pynniosec," "Pintactec," and the "Happy Tack." B. one day after dinner called it the "Penny Cock," and then we both got frightened, and agreed to fix up some sensible, practical name for it before any mischief was done. We finally decided on "Pantechnicon," which begins with a "P," and is a dignified, old-established name, and one that we can both pronounce. It is quite as long, and nearly as difficult to spell, before you know how, as the other, added to which it has a homely sound. It seemed to be the very word. The old Pantechnicon is devoted to the works of the old masters; I shall not say anything about these, as I do not wish to disturb in any way the critical opinion that Europe has already formed concerning them. I prefer that the art schools of the world should judge for themselves in the matter. I will merely remark here, for purposes of reference, that I thought some of the pictures very beautiful, and that others I did not care for. What struck me as most curious about the exhibition was the number of canvases dealing with food stuffs. Twenty-five per cent. of the pictures in the place seem to have been painted as advertisements for somebody's home-grown seeds, or as coloured supplements to be given away with the summer number of the leading gardening journal of the period. "What could have induced these old fellows," I said to B., "to choose such very uninteresting subjects? Who on earth cares to look at the life-sized portrait of a cabbage and a peck of peas, or at these no doubt masterly representations of a cut from the joint with bread and vegetables? Look at that 'View in a ham-and-beef shop,' No. 7063, size sixty feet by forty. It must have taken the artist a couple of years to paint. Who did he expect was going to buy it? And that Christmas-hamper scene over in the corner; was it painted, do you think, by some poor, half-starved devil, who thought he would have something to eat in the house, if it were only a picture of it?" B. said he thought that the explanation was that the ancient patrons of art were gentry with a very strong idea of the fitness of things. For "their churches and cathedrals," said B., "they had painted all those virgins and martyrs and over-fed angels that you see everywhere about Europe. For their bedrooms, they ordered those--well, those bedroom sort of pictures, that you may have noticed here and there; and then I expect they used these victual-and-drink-scapes for their banqueting halls. It must have been like a gin-and-bitters to them, the sight of all that food." In the new Pantechnicon is exhibited the modern art of Germany. This appeared to me to be exceedingly poor stuff. It seemed to belong to the illustrated Christmas number school of art. It was good, sound, respectable work enough. There was plenty of colour about it, and you could tell what everything was meant for. But there seemed no imagination, no individuality, no thought, anywhere. Each picture looked as though it could have been produced by anyone who had studied and practised art for the requisite number of years, and who was not a born fool. At all events, this is my opinion; and, as I know nothing whatever about art, I speak without prejudice. One thing I have enjoyed at Munich very much, and that has been the music. The German band that you hear in the square in London while you are trying to compose an essay on the civilising influence of music, is not the sort of band that you hear in Germany. The German bands that come to London are bands that have fled from Germany, in order to save their lives. In Germany, these bands would be slaughtered at the public expense and their bodies given to the poor for sausages. The bands that the Germans keep for themselves are magnificent bands. Munich of all places in the now united Fatherland, has, I suppose, the greatest reputation for its military bands, and the citizens are allowed, not only to pay for them, but to hear them. Two or three times a day in different parts of the city one or another of them will be playing _pro bono publico_, and, in the evening, they are loaned out by the authorities to the proprietors of the big beer-gardens. "Go" and dash are the chief characteristics of their method; but, when needed, they can produce from the battered, time-worn trumpets, which have been handed down from player to player since the regiment was first formed, notes as soft and full and clear as any that could start from the strings of some old violin. The German band in Germany has to know its business to be listened to by a German audience. The Bavarian artisan or shopkeeper understands and appreciates good music, as he understands and appreciates good beer. You cannot impose upon him with an inferior article. A music-hall audience in Munich are very particular as to how their beloved Wagner is rendered, and the trifles from Mozart and Haydn that they love to take in with their sausages and salad, and which, when performed to their satisfaction, they will thunderously applaud, must not be taken liberties with, or they will know the reason why. The German beer-garden should be visited by everyone who would see the German people as well as their churches and castles. It is here that the workers of all kinds congregate in the evening. Here, after the labours of the day, come the tradesman with his wife and family, the young clerk with his betrothed and--also her mother, alack and well-a-day!--the soldier with his sweetheart, the students in twos and threes, the little grisette with her cousin, the shop-boy and the workman. Here come grey-haired Darby and Joan, and, over the mug of beer they share between them, they sit thinking of the children--of little Lisa, married to clever Karl, who is pushing his way in the far-off land that lies across the great sea; of laughing Elsie, settled in Hamburg, who has grandchildren of her own now; of fair-haired Franz, his mother's pet, who fell in sunny France, fighting for the fatherland. At the next table sits a blushing, happy little maid, full of haughty airs and graces, such as may be excused to a little maid who has just saved a no doubt promising, but at present somewhat awkward-looking, youth from lifelong misery, if not madness and suicide (depend upon it, that is the alternative he put before her), by at last condescending to give him the plump little hand, that he, thinking nobody sees him, holds so tightly beneath the table-cloth. Opposite, a family group sit discussing omelettes and a bottle of white wine. The father contented, good-humoured, and laughing; the small child grave and solemn, eating and drinking in business-like fashion; the mother smiling at both, yet not forgetting to eat. I think one would learn to love these German women if one lived among them for long. There is something so sweet, so womanly, so genuine about them. They seem to shed around them, from their bright, good-tempered faces, a healthy atmosphere of all that is homely, and simple, and good. Looking into their quiet, steadfast eyes, one dreams of white household linen, folded in great presses; of sweet-smelling herbs; of savoury, appetising things being cooked for supper; of bright-polished furniture; of the patter of tiny feet; of little high-pitched voices, asking silly questions; of quiet talks in the lamp-lit parlour after the children are in bed, upon important questions of house management and home politics, while long stockings are being darned. They are not the sort of women to turn a man's head, but they are the sort of women to lay hold of a man's heart--very gently at first, so that he hardly knows that they have touched it, and then, with soft, clinging tendrils that wrap themselves tighter and tighter year by year around it, and draw him closer and closer--till, as, one by one, the false visions and hot passions of his youth fade away, the plain homely figure fills more and more his days--till it grows to mean for him all the better, more lasting, true part of life--till he feels that the strong, gentle mother-nature that has stood so long beside him has been welded firmly into his own, and that they twain are now at last one finished whole. We had our dinner at a beer-garden the day before yesterday. We thought it would be pleasant to eat and drink to the accompaniment of music, but we found that in practice this was not so. To dine successfully to music needs a very strong digestion--especially in Bavaria. The band that performs at a Munich beer-garden is not the sort of band that can be ignored. The members of a Munich military band are big, broad-chested fellows, and they are not afraid of work. They do not talk much, and they never whistle. They keep all their breath to do their duty with. They do not blow their very hardest, for fear of bursting their instruments; but whatever pressure to the square inch the trumpet, cornet, or trombone, as the case may be, is calculated to be capable of sustaining without permanent injury (and they are tolerably sound and well-seasoned utensils), that pressure the conscientious German bandsman puts upon each square inch of the trumpet, cornet, or trombone, as the case may be. If you are within a mile of a Munich military band, and are not stone deaf, you listen to it, and do not think of much else. It compels your attention by its mere noise; it dominates your whole being by its sheer strength. Your mind has to follow it as the feet of the little children followed the playing of the Pied Piper. Whatever you do, you have to do in unison with the band. All through our meal we had to keep time with the music. We ate our soup to slow waltz time, with the result that every spoonful was cold before we got it up to our mouth. Just as the fish came, the band started a quick polka, and the consequence of that was that we had not time to pick out the bones. We gulped down white wine to the "Blacksmith's Galop," and if the tune had lasted much longer we should both have been blind drunk. With the advent of our steaks, the band struck up a selection from Wagner. I know of no modern European composer so difficult to eat beefsteak to as Wagner. That we did not choke ourselves is a miracle. Wagner's orchestration is most trying to follow. We had to give up all idea of mustard. B. tried to eat a bit of bread with his steak, and got most hopelessly out of tune. I am afraid I was a little flat myself during the "Valkyries' Ride." My steak was rather underdone, and I could not work it quickly enough. After getting outside hard beefsteak to Wagner, putting away potato salad to the garden music out of _Faust_ was comparatively simple. Once or twice a slice of potato stuck in our throat during a very high note, but, on the whole, our rendering was fairly artistic. We rattled off a sweet omelette to a symphony in G--or F, or else K; I won't be positive as to the precise letter; but it was something in the alphabet, I know--and bolted our cheese to the ballet music from _Carmen_. After which we rolled about in agonies to all the national airs of Europe. If ever you visit a German beer-hall or garden--to study character or anything of that kind--be careful, when you have finished drinking your beer, to shut the cover of the mug down tight. If you leave it with the cover standing open, that is taken as a sign that you want more beer, and the girl snatches it away and brings it back refilled. B. and I very nearly had an accident one warm night, owing to our ignorance of this custom. Each time after we had swallowed the quart, we left the pot, standing before us with the cover up, and each time it was, in consequence, taken away, and brought back to us, brimming full again. After about the sixth time, we gently remonstrated. "This is very kind of you, my good girl," B. said, "but really I don't think we _can_. I don't think we ought to. You must not go on doing this sort of thing. We will drink this one now that you have brought it, but we really must insist on its being the last." After about the tenth time we expostulated still more strongly. "Now, you know what I told you four quarts ago!" remarked B., severely. "This can't go on for ever. Something serious will be happening. We are not used to your German school of drinking. We are only foreigners. In our own country we are considered rather swagger at this elbow-raising business, and for the credit of old England we have done our best. But now there must be an end to it. I simply decline to drink any more. No, do not press me. Not even another gallon!" "But you both sit there with both your mugs open," replies the girl in an injured tone. "What do you mean, 'we sit with our mugs open'?" asks B. "Can't we have our mugs open if we like?" "Ah, yes," she explains pathetically; "but then I think you want more beer. Gentlemen always open their mugs when they want them filled with beer." We kept our mugs shut after that. MONDAY, JUNE 9TH A Long Chapter, but happily the Last.--The Pilgrims' Return.--A Deserted Town.--Heidelberg.--The Common, or Bed, Sheet, Considered as a Towel.--B. Grapples with a Continental Time Table.--An Untractable Train.--A Quick Run.--Trains that Start from Nowhere.--Trains that Arrive at Nowhere.--Trains that Don't Do Anything.--B. Goes Mad.--Railway Travelling in Germany.--B. is Taken Prisoner.--His Fortitude.--Advantages of Ignorance.--First Impressions of Germany and of the Germans. We are at Ostend. Our pilgrimage has ended. We sail for Dover in three hours' time. The wind seems rather fresh, but they say that it will drop towards the evening. I hope they are not deceiving us. We are disappointed with Ostend. We thought that Ostend would be gay and crowded. We thought that there would be bands and theatres and concerts, and busy table-d'hotes, and lively sands, and thronged parades, and pretty girls at Ostend. I bought a stick and a new pair of boots at Brussels on purpose for Ostend. There does not seem to be a living visitor in the place besides ourselves--nor a dead one either, that we can find. The shops are shut up, the houses are deserted, the casino is closed. Notice-boards are exhibited outside the hotels to the effect that the police have strict orders to take into custody anybody found trespassing upon or damaging the premises. We found one restaurant which looked a little less like a morgue than did the other restaurants in the town, and rang the bell. After we had waited for about a quarter of an hour, an old woman answered the door, and asked us what we wanted. We said a steak and chipped potatoes for two, and a couple of lagers. She said would we call again in about a fortnight's time, when the family would be at home? She did not herself know where the things were kept. We went down on to the sands this morning. We had not been walking up and down for more than half an hour before we came across the distinct imprint of a human foot. Someone must have been there this very day! We were a good deal alarmed. We could not imagine how he came there. The weather is too fine for shipwrecks, and it was not a part of the coast where any passing trader would be likely to land. Besides, if anyone has landed, where is he? We have been able to find no trace of him whatever. To this hour, we have never discovered who our strange visitant was. It is a very mysterious affair, and I am glad we are going away. We have been travelling about a good deal since we left Munich. We went first to Heidelberg. We arrived early in the morning at Heidelberg, after an all-night journey, and the first thing that the proprietor of the Royal suggested, on seeing us, was that we should have a bath. We consented to the operation, and were each shown into a little marble bath-room, in which I felt like a bit out of a picture by Alma Tadema. The bath was very refreshing; but I should have enjoyed the whole thing much better if they had provided me with something more suitable to wipe upon than a thin linen sheet. The Germans hold very curious notions as to the needs and requirements of a wet man. I wish they would occasionally wash and bath themselves, and then they would, perhaps, obtain more practical ideas upon the subject. I have wiped upon a sheet in cases of emergency, and so I have upon a pair of socks; but there is no doubt that the proper thing is a towel. To dry oneself upon a sheet needs special training and unusual agility. A Nautch Girl or a Dancing Dervish would, no doubt, get through the performance with credit. They would twirl the sheet gracefully round their head, draw it lightly across their back, twist it in waving folds round their legs, wrap themselves for a moment in its whirling maze, and then lightly skip away from it, dry and smiling. But that is not the manner in which the dripping, untaught Briton attempts to wipe himself upon a sheet. The method he adopts is, to clutch the sheet with both hands, lean up against the wall, and rub himself with it. In trying to get the thing round to the back of him, he drops half of it into the water, and from that moment the bathroom is not big enough to enable him to get away for an instant from that wet half. When he is wiping the front of himself with the dry half, the wet half climbs round behind, and, in a spirit of offensive familiarity, slaps him on the back. While he is stooping down rubbing his feet, it throws itself with delirious joy around his head, and he is black in the face before he can struggle away from its embrace. When he is least expecting anything of the kind, it flies round and gives him a playful flick upon some particularly tender part of his body that sends him springing with a yell ten feet up into the air. The great delight of the sheet, as a whole, is to trip him up whenever he attempts to move, so as to hear what he says when he sits down suddenly on the stone floor; and if it can throw him into the bath again just as he has finished wiping himself, it feels that life is worth living after all. We spent two days at Heidelberg, climbing the wooded mountains that surround that pleasant little town, and that afford, from their restaurant or ruin-crowned summits, enchanting, far-stretching views, through which, with many a turn and twist, the distant Rhine and nearer Neckar wind; or strolling among the crumbling walls and arches of the grand, history-logged wreck that was once the noblest castle in all Germany. We stood in awed admiration before the "Great Tun," which is the chief object of interest in Heidelberg. What there is of interest in the sight of a big beer-barrel it is difficult, in one's calmer moments, to understand; but the guide book says that it is a thing to be seen, and so all we tourists go and stand in a row and gape at it. We are a sheep-headed lot. If, by a printer's error, no mention were made in the guide book of the Colosseum, we should spend a month in Rome, and not think it worth going across the road to look at. If the guide book says we must by no means omit to pay a visit to some famous pincushion that contains eleven million pins, we travel five hundred miles on purpose to see it! From Heidelberg we went to Darmstadt. We spent half-an-hour at Darmstadt. Why we ever thought of stopping longer there, I do not know. It is a pleasant enough town to live in, I should say; but utterly uninteresting to the stranger. After one walk round it, we made inquiries as to the next train out of it, and being informed that one was then on the point of starting, we tumbled into it and went to Bonn. From Bonn (whence we made one or two Rhine excursions, and where we ascended twenty-eight "blessed steps" on our knees--the chapel people called them "blessed steps;" _we_ didn't, after the first fourteen) we returned to Cologne. From Cologne we went to Brussels; from Brussels to Ghent (where we saw more famous pictures, and heard the mighty "Roland" ring "o'er lagoon and lake of sand"). From Ghent we went to Bruges (where I had the satisfaction of throwing a stone at the statue of Simon Stevin, who added to the miseries of my school-days, by inventing decimals), and from Bruges we came on here. Finding out and arranging our trains has been a fearful work. I have left the whole business with B., and he has lost two stone over it. I used to think at one time that my own dear native Bradshaw was a sufficiently hard nut for the human intellect to crack; or, to transpose the simile, that Bradshaw was sufficient to crack an ordinary human nut. But dear old Bradshaw is an axiom in Euclid for stone-wall obviousness, compared with a through Continental time-table. Every morning B. has sat down with the book before him, and, grasping his head between his hands, has tried to understand it without going mad. "Here we are," he has said. "This is the train that will do for us. Leaves Munich at 1.45; gets to Heidelberg at 4--just in time for a cup of tea." "Gets to Heidelberg at 4?" I exclaim. "Does the whole distance in two and a quarter hours? Why, we were all night coming down!" "Well, there you are," he says, pointing to the time-table. "Munich, depart 1.45; Heidelberg, arrive 4." "Yes," I say, looking over his shoulder; "but don't you see the 4 is in thick type? That means 4 in the morning." "Oh, ah, yes," he replies. "I never noticed that. Yes, of course. No! it can't be that either. Why, that would make the journey fourteen hours. It can't take fourteen hours. No, of course not. That's not meant for thick type, that 4. That's thin type got a little thick, that's all." "Well, it can't be 4 this afternoon," I argue. "It must be 4 to-morrow afternoon! That's just what a German express train would like to do--take a whole day over a six hours' job!" He puzzles for a while, and then breaks out with: "Oh! I see it now. How stupid of me! That train that gets to Heidelberg at 4 comes from Berlin." He seemed quite delighted with this discovery. "What's the good of it to us, then?" I ask. That depresses him. "No, it is not much good, I'm afraid," he agrees. "It seems to go straight from Berlin to Heidelberg without stopping at Munich at all. Well then, where does the 1.45 go to? It must go somewhere." Five minutes more elapse, and then he exclaims: "Drat this 1.45! It doesn't seem to go anywhere. Munich depart 1.45, and that's all. It must go somewhere!" Apparently, however, it does not. It seems to be a train that starts out from Munich at 1.45, and goes off on the loose. Possibly, it is a young, romantic train, fond of mystery. It won't say where it's going to. It probably does not even know itself. It goes off in search of adventure. "I shall start off," it says to itself, "at 1.45 punctually, and just go on anyhow, without thinking about it, and see where I get to." Or maybe it is a conceited, headstrong young train. It will not be guided or advised. The traffic superintendent wants it to go to St. Petersburg or to Paris. The old grey-headed station-master argues with it, and tries to persuade it to go to Constantinople, or even to Jerusalem if it likes that better--urges it to, at all events, make up its mind where it _is_ going--warns it of the danger to young trains of having no fixed aim or object in life. Other people, asked to use their influence with it, have talked to it like a father, and have begged it, for their sakes, to go to Kamskatka, or Timbuctoo, or Jericho, according as they have thought best for it; and then, finding that it takes no notice of them, have got wild with it, and have told it to go to still more distant places. But to all counsel and entreaty it has turned a deaf ear. "You leave me alone," it has replied; "I know where I'm going to. Don't you worry yourself about me. You mind your own business, all of you. I don't want a lot of old fools telling me what to do. I know what I'm about." What can be expected from such a train? The chances are that it comes to a bad end. I expect it is recognised afterwards, a broken-down, unloved, friendless, old train, wandering aimless and despised in some far-off country, musing with bitter regret upon the day when, full of foolish pride and ambition, it started from Munich, with its boiler nicely oiled, at 1.45. B. abandons this 1.45 as hopeless and incorrigible, and continues his search. "Hulloa! what's this?" he exclaims. "How will this do us? Leaves Munich at 4, gets to Heidelberg 4.15. That's quick work. Something wrong there. That won't do. You can't get from Munich to Heidelberg in a quarter of an hour. Oh! I see it. That 4 o'clock goes to Brussels, and then on to Heidelberg afterwards. Gets in there at 4.15 to-morrow, I suppose. I wonder why it goes round by Brussels, though? Then it seems to stop at Prague for ever so long. Oh, damn this timetable!" Then he finds another train that starts at 2.15, and seems to be an ideal train. He gets quite enthusiastic over this train. "This is the train for us, old man," he says. "This is a splendid train, really. It doesn't stop anywhere." "Does it _get_ anywhere?" I ask. "Of course it gets somewhere," he replies indignantly. "It's an express! Munich," he murmurs, tracing its course through the timetable, "depart 2.15. First and second class only. Nuremberg? No; it doesn't stop at Nuremberg. Wurtzburg? No. Frankfort for Strasburg? No. Cologne, Antwerp, Calais? Well, where does it stop? Confound it! it must stop somewhere. Berlin, Paris, Brussels, Copenhagen? No. Upon my soul, this is another train that does not go anywhere! It starts from Munich at 2.15, and that's all. It doesn't do anything else." It seems to be a habit of Munich trains to start off in this purposeless way. Apparently, their sole object is to get away from the town. They don't care where they go to; they don't care what becomes of them, so long as they escape from Munich. "For heaven's sake," they say to themselves, "let us get away from this place. Don't let us bother about where we shall go; we can decide that when we are once fairly outside. Let's get out of Munich; that's the great thing." B. begins to grow quite frightened. He says: "We shall never be able to leave this city. There are no trains out of Munich at all. It's a plot to keep us here, that's what it is. We shall never be able to get away. We shall never see dear old England again!" I try to cheer him up by suggesting that perhaps it is the custom in Bavaria to leave the destination of the train to the taste and fancy of the passengers. The railway authorities provide a train, and start it off at 2.15. It is immaterial to them where it goes to. That is a question for the passengers to decide among themselves. The passengers hire the train and take it away, and there is an end of the matter, so far as the railway people are concerned. If there is any difference of opinion between the passengers, owing to some of them wishing to go to Spain, while others want to get home to Russia, they, no doubt, settle the matter by tossing up. B., however, refuses to entertain this theory, and says he wishes I would not talk so much when I see how harassed he is. That's all the thanks I get for trying to help him. He worries along for another five minutes, and then he discovers a train that gets to Heidelberg all right, and appears to be in most respects a model train, the only thing that can be urged against it being that it does not start from anywhere. It seems to drop into Heidelberg casually and then to stop there. One expects its sudden advent alarms the people at Heidelberg station. They do not know what to make of it. The porter goes up to the station-master, and says: "Beg pardon, sir, but there's a strange train in the station." "Oh!" answers the station-master, surprised, "where did it come from?" "Don't know," replies the man; "it doesn't seem to know itself." "Dear me," says the station-master, "how very extraordinary! What does it want?" "Doesn't seem to want anything particular," replies the other. "It's a curious sort of train. Seems to be a bit dotty, if you ask me." "Um," muses the station-master, "it's a rum go. Well, I suppose we must let it stop here a bit now. We can hardly turn it out a night like this. Oh, let it make itself comfortable in the wood-shed till the morning, and then we will see if we can find its friends." At last B. makes the discovery that to get to Heidelberg we must go to Darmstadt and take another train from there. This knowledge gives him renewed hope and strength, and he sets to work afresh--this time, to find trains from Munich to Darmstadt, and from Darmstadt to Heidelberg. "Here we are," he cries, after a few minutes' hunting. "I've got it!" (He is of a buoyant disposition.) "This will be it. Leaves Munich 10, gets to Darmstadt 5.25. Leaves Darmstadt for Heidelberg 5.20, gets to--" "That doesn't allow us much time for changing, does it?" I remark. "No," he replies, growing thoughtful again. "No, that's awkward. If it were only the other way round, it would be all right, or it would do if our train got there five minutes before its time, and the other one was a little late in starting." "Hardly safe to reckon on that," I suggest; and he agrees with me, and proceeds to look for some more fitable trains. It would appear, however, that all the trains from Darmstadt to Heidelberg start just a few minutes before the trains from Munich arrive. It looks quite pointed, as though they tried to avoid us. B.'s intellect generally gives way about this point, and he becomes simply drivelling. He discovers trains that run from Munich to Heidelberg in fourteen minutes, by way of Venice and Geneva, with half-an-hour's interval for breakfast at Rome. He rushes up and down the book in pursuit of demon expresses that arrive at their destinations forty-seven minutes before they start, and leave again before they get there. He finds out, all by himself, that the only way to get from South Germany to Paris is to go to Calais, and then take the boat to Moscow. Before he has done with the timetable, he doesn't know whether he is in Europe, Asia, Africa, or America, nor where he wants to get to, nor why he wants to go there. Then I quietly, but firmly, take the book away from him, and dress him for going out; and we take our bags and walk to the station, and tell a porter that, "Please, we want to go to Heidelberg." And the porter takes us one by each hand, and leads us to a seat and tells us to sit there and be good, and that, when it is time, he will come and fetch us and put us in the train; and this he does. That is my method of finding out how to get from one place to another. It is not as dignified, perhaps, as B.'s, but it is simpler and more efficacious. It is slow work travelling in Germany. The German train does not hurry or excite itself over its work, and when it stops it likes to take a rest. When a German train draws up at a station, everybody gets out and has a walk. The engine-driver and the stoker cross over and knock at the station-master's door. The station-master comes out and greets them effusively, and then runs back into the house to tell his wife that they have come, and she bustles out and also welcomes them effusively, and the four stand chatting about old times and friends and the state of the crops. After a while, the engine-driver, during a pause in the conversation, looks at his watch, and says he is afraid he must be going, but the station-master's wife won't hear of it. "Oh, you must stop and see the children," she says. "They will be home from school soon, and they'll be so disappointed if they hear you have been here and gone away again. Lizzie will never forgive you." The engine-driver and the stoker laugh, and say that under those circumstances they suppose they must stop; and they do so. Meanwhile the booking-clerk has introduced the guard to his sister, and such a very promising flirtation has been taking place behind the ticket-office door that it would not be surprising if wedding-bells were heard in the neighbourhood before long. The second guard has gone down into the town to try and sell a dog, and the passengers stroll about the platform and smoke, or partake of a light meal in the refreshment-room--the poorer classes regaling themselves upon hot sausage, and the more dainty upon soup. When everybody appears to be sufficiently rested, a move onward is suggested by the engine-driver or the guard, and if all are agreeable to the proposal the train starts. Tremendous excitement was caused during our journey between Heidelberg and Darmstadt by the discovery that we were travelling in an express train (they called it an "express:" it jogged along at the rate of twenty miles an hour when it could be got to move at all; most of its time it seemed to be half asleep) with slow-train tickets. The train was stopped at the next station and B. was marched off between two stern-looking gold-laced officials to explain the matter to a stern-looking gold-laced station-master, surrounded by three stern-looking gold-laced followers. The scene suggested a drum-head court-martial, and I could see that B. was nervous, though outwardly calm and brave. He shouted back a light-hearted adieu to me as he passed down the platform, and asked me, if the worst happened, to break it gently to his mother. However, no harm came of it, and he returned to the carriage without a stain upon his character, he having made it clear to the satisfaction of the court--firstly, That he did not know that our tickets were only slow-train tickets; secondly, That he was not aware that we were not travelling by a slow train; and thirdly, That he was ready to pay the difference in the fares. He blamed himself for having done this last, however, afterwards. He seemed to think that he could have avoided this expense by assuming ignorance of the German language. He said that two years ago, when he was travelling in Germany with three other men, the authorities came down upon them in much the same way for travelling first-class with second-class tickets. Why they were doing this B. did not seem able to explain very clearly. He said that, if he recollected rightly, the guard had told them to get into a first-class, or else they had not had time to get into a second-class, or else they did not know they were not in a second-class. I must confess his explanation appeared to me to be somewhat lame. Anyhow, there they were in a first-class carriage; and there was the collector at the door, looking indignantly at their second-class tickets, and waiting to hear what they had to say for themselves. One of their party did not know much German, but what little he did know he was very proud of and liked to air; and this one argued the matter with the collector, and expressed himself in German so well that the collector understood and disbelieved every word he said. He was also, on his part, able, with a little trouble, to understand what the collector said, which was that he must pay eighteen marks. And he had to. As for the other three, two at all events of whom were excellent German scholars, they did not understand anything, and nobody could make them understand anything. The collector roared at them for about ten minutes, and they smiled pleasantly and said they wanted to go to Hanover. He went and fetched the station-master, and the station-master explained to them for another ten minutes that, if they did not pay eighteen shillings each, he should do the German equivalent for summonsing them; and they smiled and nodded, and told him that they wanted to go to Hanover. Then a very important-looking personage in a cocked-hat came up, and was very angry; and he and the station-master and the collector took it in turns to explain to B. and his two friends the state of the law on the matter. They stormed and raged, and threatened and pleaded for a quarter of an hour or so, and then they got sick, and slammed the door, and went off, leaving the Government to lose the fifty-four marks. We passed the German frontier on Wednesday, and have been in Belgium since. I like the Germans. B. says I ought not to let them know this, because it will make them conceited; but I have no fear of such a result. I am sure they possess too much common-sense for their heads to be turned by praise, no matter from whom. B. also says that I am displaying more energy than prudence in forming an opinion of a people merely from a few weeks' travel amongst them. But my experience is that first impressions are the most reliable. At all events, in my case they are. I often arrive at quite sensible ideas and judgments, on the spur of the moment. It is when I stop to think that I become foolish. Our first thoughts are the thoughts that are given to us; our second thoughts are the thoughts that we make for ourselves. I prefer to trust to the former. The Germans are a big, square-shouldered, deep-chested race. They do not talk much, but look as though they thought. Like all big things, they are easy-going and good-tempered. Anti-tobacconists, teetotallers, and such-like faddists, would fare badly in Germany. A German has no anti-nature notions as to its being wicked for him to enjoy his life, and still more criminal for him to let anybody else enjoy theirs. He likes his huge pipe, and he likes his mug of beer, and as these become empty he likes to have them filled again; and he likes to see other people like _their_ pipe and _their_ mug of beer. If you were to go dancing round a German, shrieking out entreaties to him to sign a pledge that he would never drink another drop of beer again as long as he lived, he would ask you to remember that you were talking to a man, not to a child or an imbecile, and he would probably impress the request upon you by boxing your ears for your impertinence. He can conduct himself sensibly without making an ass of himself. He can be "temperate" without tying bits of coloured ribbon all about himself to advertise the fact, and without rushing up and down the street waving a banner and yelling about it. The German women are not beautiful, but they are lovable and sweet; and they are broad-breasted and broad-hipped, like the mothers of big sons should be. They do not seem to trouble themselves about their "rights," but appear to be very contented and happy even without votes. The men treat them with courtesy and tenderness, but with none of that exaggerated deference that one sees among more petticoat-ridden nations. The Germans are women lovers, not women worshippers; and they are not worried by any doubts as to which sex shall rule the State, and which stop at home and mind the children. The German women are not politicians and mayors and county councillors; they are housewives. All classes of Germans are scrupulously polite to one another; but this is the result of mutual respect, not of snobbery. The tramcar conductor expects to be treated with precisely the same courtesy that he tenders. The Count raises his hat to the shopkeeper, and expects the shopkeeper to raise his hat to him. The Germans are hearty eaters; but they are not, like the French, fussy and finicky over their food. Their stomach is not their God; and the cook, with his sauces and _pates_ and _ragouts_, is not their High Priest. So long as the dish is wholesome, and there is sufficient of it, they are satisfied. In the mere sensuous arts of painting and sculpture the Germans are poor, in the ennobling arts of literature and music they are great; and this fact provides a key to their character. They are a simple, earnest, homely, genuine people. They do not laugh much; but when they do, they laugh deep down. They are slow, but so is a deep river. A placid look generally rests upon their heavy features; but sometimes they frown, and then they look somewhat grim. A visit to Germany is a tonic to an Englishman. We English are always sneering at ourselves, and patriotism in England is regarded as a stamp of vulgarity. The Germans, on the other hand, believe in themselves, and respect themselves. The world for them is not played out. Their country to them is still the "Fatherland." They look straight before them like a people who see a great future in front of them, and are not afraid to go forward to fulfil it. GOOD-BYE, SIR (OR MADAM). 
12404	----	Proofreaders Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 12404-h.htm or 12404-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/1/2/4/0/12404/12404-h/12404-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/1/2/4/0/12404/12404-h.zip) This text includes only Germany and those parts of Austria-Hungary noted in the table of contents. Part Two (Volume VI) is available as a separate text in Project Gutenberg's library. See http://www.gutenberg.net/etext/11179 SEEING EUROPE WITH FAMOUS AUTHORS, VOLUME V GERMANY, AUSTRIA-HUNGARY, AND SWITZERLAND, PART ONE Selected and Edited, with Introductions, etc., by FRANCIS W. HALSEY Editor of "Great Epochs in American History" Associate Editor of "The World's Famous Orations" and of "The Best of the World's Classics," etc. IN TEN VOLUMES ILLUSTRATED 1914 [Illustration: BERLIN: PANORAMA FROM THE TOWER OF THE TOWN HALL] INTRODUCTION TO VOLUMES V AND VI Germany, Austria-Hungary and Switzerland The tourist's direct route to Germany is by ships that go to the two great German ports--Bremen and Hamburg, whence fast steamer trains proceed to Berlin and other interior cities. One may also land at Antwerp or Rotterdam, and proceed thence by fast train into Germany. Either of these routes continued takes one to Austria. Ships by the Mediterranean route landing at Genoa or Trieste, provide another way for reaching either country. In order to reach Switzerland, the tourist has many well-worn routes available. As with England and France, so with Germany--our earliest information comes from a Roman writer, Julius Caesar; but in the case of Germany, this information has been greatly amplified by a later and noble treatise from the pen of Tacitus. Tacitus paints a splendid picture of the domestic virtues and personal valor of these tribes, holding them up as examples that might well be useful to his countrymen. Caesar found many Teutonic tribes, not only in the Rhine Valley, but well established in lands further west and already Gallic. By the third century, German tribes had formed themselves into federations--the Franks, Alemanni, Frisians and Saxons. The Rhine Valley, after long subjection to the Romans, had acquired houses, temples, fortresses and roads such as the Romans always built. Caesar had found many evidences of an advanced state of society. Antiquarians of our day, exploring German graves, discover signs of it in splendid weapons of war and domestic utensils buried with the dead. Monolithic sarcophagi have been found which give eloquent testimony of the absorption by them of Roman culture. Western Germany, in fact, had become, in the third century, a well-ordered and civilized land. Christianity was well established there. In general the country compared favorably with Roman England, but it was less advanced than Roman Gaul. Centers of that Romanized German civilization, that were destined ever afterward to remain important centers of German life, are Augsburg, Strasburg, Worms, Speyer, Bonn and Cologne. It was after the formation of the tribal federations that the great migratory movement from Germany set in. This gave to Gaul a powerful race in the Franks, from whom came Clovis and the other Merovingians; to Gaul also it gave Burgundians, and to England perhaps the strongest element in her future stock of men--the Saxons. Further east soon set in another world-famous migration, which threatened at times to dominate all Teutonic people--the Goths, Huns and Vandals of the Black and Caspian Sea regions. Thence they prest on to Italy and Spain, where the Goths founded and long maintained new and thriving states on the ruins of the old. Surviving these migrations, and serving to restore something like order to Central Europe, there now rose into power in France, under Clovis and Charlemagne, and spread their sway far across the Rhine, the great Merovingian and Carlovingian dynasties. Charlemagne's empire came to embrace in central Europe a region extending east of the Rhine as far as Hungary, and from north to south from the German ocean to the Alps. When Charlemagne, in 800, received from the Pope that imperial crown, which was to pass in continuous line to his successors for a thousand years, Germany and France were component parts of the same state, a condition never again to exist, except in part, and briefly, under Napoleon. The tangled and attenuated thread of German history from Charlemagne's time until now can not be unfolded here, but it makes one of the great chronicles in human history, with its Conrads and Henrys, its Maximilian, its Barbarossa, its Charles V., its Thirty Years' War, its great Frederick of Prussia, its struggle with Napoleon, its rise through Prussia under Bismarck, its war of 1870 with France, its new Empire, different alike in structure and in reality from the one called Holy and called Roman, and the wonderful commercial and industrial progress of our century. Out of Charlemagne's empire came the empire of Austria. Before his time, the history of the Austro-Hungarian lands is one of early tribal life, followed by conquest under the later Roman emperors, and then the migratory movements of its own people and of other people across its territory, between the days of Attila and the Merovingians. Its very name (Oesterreich) indicates its origin as a frontier territory, an outpost in the east for the great empire Charlemagne had built up. Not until the sixteenth century did Austria become a power of first rank in Europe. Hapsburgs had long ruled it, as they still do, and as they have done for more than six centuries, but the greatest of all their additions to power and dominion came through Mary of Burgundy, who, seeking refuge from Louis XI. of France, after her father's death, married Maximilian of Austria. Out of that marriage came, in two generations, possession by Austria of the Netherlands, through Mary's grandson, Charles V., Holy Roman emperor and king of Spain. For years afterward, the Hapsburgs remained the most illustrious house in Europe. The empire's later fortunes are a story of grim struggle with Protestants, Frederick the Great, the Ottoman Turks, Napoleon, the revolutionists of 1848, and Prussia. The story of Switzerland in its beginnings is not unlike that of other European lands north of Italy. The Romans civilized the country--built houses, fortresses and roads. Roman roads crossed the Alps, one of them going, as it still goes, over the Great St. Bernard. Then came the invaders--Burgundians, Alemanni, Ostrogoths and Huns. North Switzerland became the permanent home of Alemanni, or Germans, whose descendants still survive there, around Zürich. Burgundians settled in the western part which still remains French in speech, and a part of it French politically, including Chamouni and half of Mont Blanc. Ostrogoths founded homes in the southern parts, and descendants of theirs still remain there, speaking Italian, or a sort of surviving Latin called Romansch. After these immigrations most parts of the country were subdued by the Merovingian Franks, by whom Christianity was introduced and monasteries founded. With the break-up of Charlemagne's empire, a part of Switzerland was added to a German duchy, and another part to Burgundy. Its later history is a long and moving record of grim struggles by a brave and valiant people. In our day the Swiss have become industrially one of the world's successful races, and their country the one in which wealth is probably more equally distributed than anywhere else in Europe, if not in America. F.W.H. CONTENTS OF VOLUME V Germany, Austria-Hungary, and Switzerland--Part One I. THE RHINE VALLEY INTRODUCTION TO VOLS. V AND VI--By the Editor IN HISTORY AND ROMANCE--By Victor Hugo FROM BONN TO MAYENCE--By Bayard Taylor COLOGNE--By Victor Hugo ROUND ABOUT COBLENZ--By Lady Blanche Murphy BINGEN AND MAYENCE--By Victor Hugo FRANKFORT-ON-MAIN--By Bayard Taylor HEIDELBERG--By Bayard Taylor STRASBURG--By Harriet Beecher Stowe FREIBURG AND THE BLACK FOREST--By Bayard Taylor II. NUREMBERG AS A MEDIEVAL CITY--By Cecil Headlam ITS CHURCHES AND THE CITADEL--By Thomas Frognall Dibdin NUREMBERG TO-DAY--By Cecil Headlarn WALLS AND OTHER FORTIFICATIONS--By Cecil Headlam ALBERT DÜRER--By Cecil Headlam III. OTHER BAVARIAN CITIES MUNICH--By Bayard Taylor AUGSBURG--By Thomas Frognall Dibdin RATISBON--By Thomas Frognall Dibdin IV. BERLIN AND ELSEWHERE A LOOK AT THE GERMAN CAPITAL--By Theophile Gautier CHARLOTTENBURG--By Harriet Beecher Stowe LEIPZIG AND DRESDEN--By Bayard Taylor WEIMAR IN GOETHE'S DAY--By Madame De Staël ULM--By Thomas Frognall Dibdin AIX-LA-CHAPELLE AND CHARLEMAGNE'S TOMB--By Victor Hugo THE HANSEATIC LEAGUE--By James Howell HAMBURG--By Theophile Gautier SCHLESWIG--By Theophile Gautier LÜBECK--By Theophile Gautier HELIGOLAND--By William George Black V. VIENNA FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF THE CAPITAL--By Bayard Taylor ST. STEPHEN'S CATHEDRAL--By Thomas Frognall Dibdin THE BELVEDERE PALACE--By Thomas Frognall Dibdin SCHÖNBRUNN AND THE PRATER--By Thomas Frognall Dibdin VI. HUNGARY A GLANCE AT THE COUNTRY--By H. Tornai de Kövër BUDAPEST--By H. Tornai de Kövër (_Hungary continued in Vol. VI_) LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS VOLUME V A PANORAMA OF BERLIN FROM THE TOWN HALL COLOGNE CATHEDRAL COLOGNE CATHEDRAL BEFORE THE SPIRES WERE COMPLETED BINGEN-ON-THE RHINE NUREMBERG CASTLE STOLZENFELS CASTLE ON THE RHINE WIESBADEN STRASBURG CATHEDRAL STRASBURG FRAUENKIRCHE, MUNICH DOOR OF STRASBURG CATHEDRAL STRASBURG CLOCK GOETHE'S HOUSE, WEIMAR SCHILLER'S HOUSE, WEIMAR BERLIN: UNTER DEN LINDEN BERLIN: THE BRANDENBURG GATE BERLIN: THE ROYAL CASTLE AND EMPEROR WILLIAM BRIDGE BERLIN: THE WHITE HALL IN THE ROYAL CASTLE BERLIN: THE NATIONAL GALLERY AND FREDERICK'S BRIDGE BERLIN: THE GENDARMENMARKT THE COLUMN OF VICTORY, BERLIN THE MAUSOLEUM AT CHARLOTTENBURG THE NEW PALACE AT POTSDAM THE CASTLE OF SANS SOUCI, POTSDAM THE CATHEDRAL OF AIX-LA-CHAPELLE--TOMB OF CHARLEMAGNE SCHÖNBRUNN, VIENNA SALZBURG, AUSTRIA [Illustration: COLOGNE CATHEDRAL] [Illustration: COLOGNE CATHEDRAL (Before the spires were completed, as shown in a photograph taken in 1877)] [Illustration: BINGEN ON THE RHINE] [Illustration: NUREMBERG CASTLE] [Illustration: STOLZENFELS CASTLE ON THE RHINE] [Illustration: WIESBADEN] [Illustration: STRASSBURG CATHEDRAL] [Illustration: STRASSBURG AND THE CATHEDRAL] [Illustration: THE FRAUENKIRCHE, MUNICH] [Illustration: THE DOOR OF STRASSBURG CATHEDRAL] [Illustration: THE STRASSBURG CLOCK] [Illustration: GOETHE'S HOUSE IN WEIMAR] [Illustration: SCHILLER'S HOUSE IN WEIMAR] I THE RHINE VALLEY IN HISTORY AND ROMANCE[A] BY VICTOR HUGO Of all rivers, I prefer the Rhine. It is now a year, when passing the bridge of boats at Kehl, since I first saw it. I remember that I felt a certain respect, a sort of adoration, for this old, this classic stream. I never think of rivers--those great works of Nature, which are also great in History--without emotion. I remember the Rhone at Valserine; I saw it in 1825, in a pleasant excursion to Switzerland, which is one of the sweet, happy recollections of my early life. I remember with what noise, with what ferocious bellowing, the Rhone precipitated itself into the gulf while the frail bridge upon which I was standing was shaking beneath my feet. Ah well! since that time, the Rhone brings to my mind the idea of a tiger--the Rhine, that of a lion. The evening on which I saw the Rhine for the first time, I was imprest with the same idea. For several minutes I stood contemplating this proud and noble river--violent, but not furious; wild, but still majestic. It was swollen, and was magnificent in appearance, and was washing with its yellow mane, or, as Boileau says, its "slimy beard," the bridge of boats. Its two banks were lost in the twilight, and tho its roaring was loud, still there was tranquillity. The Rhine is unique: it combines the qualities of every river. Like the Rhone, it is rapid; broad like the Loire; encased, like the Meuse; serpentine, like the Seine; limpid and green, like the Somme; historical, like the Tiber; royal like the Danube; mysterious, like the Nile; spangled with gold, like an American river; and like a river of Asia, abounding with fantoms and fables. From historical records we find that the first people who took possession of the banks of the Rhine were the half-savage Celts, who were afterward named Gauls by the Romans. When Rome was in its glory, Caesar crossed the Rhine, and shortly afterward the whole of the river was under the jurisdiction of his empire. When the Twenty-second Legion returned from the siege of Jerusalem, Titus sent it to the banks of the Rhine, where it continued the work of Martius Agrippa. After Trajan and Hadrian came Julian, who erected a fortress upon the confluence of the Rhine and the Moselle; then Valentinian, who built a number of castles. Thus, in a few centuries, Roman colonies, like an immense chain, linked the whole of the Rhine. At length the time arrived when Rome was to assume another aspect. The incursions of the northern hordes were eventually too frequent and too powerful for Rome; so, about the sixth century, the banks of the Rhine were strewed with Roman ruins, as at present with feudal ones. Charlemagne cleared away the rubbish, built fortresses, and opposed the German hordes; but, notwithstanding all that he did, notwithstanding his desire to do more, Rome died, and the physiognomy of the Rhine was changed. The sixteenth century approached; in the fourteenth the Rhine witnessed the invention of artillery; and on its bank, at Strassburg, a printing-office was first established. In 1400 the famous cannon, fourteen feet in length, was cast at Cologne; and in 1472 Vindelin de Spire printed his Bible. A new world was making its appearance; and, strange to say, it was upon the banks of the Rhine that those two mysterious tools with which God unceasingly works out the civilization of man--the catapult and the book--war and thought--took a new form. The Rhine, in the destinies of Europe, has a sort of providential signification. It is the great moat which divides the north from the south. The Rhine for thirty ages, has seen the forms and reflected the shadows of almost all the warriors who tilled the old continent with that share which they call sword. Caesar crossed the Rhine in going from the south; Attila crossed it when descending from the north. It was here that Clovis gained the battle of Tolbiac; and that Charlemagne and Napoleon figured. Frederick Barbarossa, Rudolph of Hapsburg, and Frederick the First, were great, victorious, and formidable when here. For the thinker, who is conversant with history, two great eagles are perpetually hovering ever the Rhine--that of the Roman legions, and the eagle of the French regiments. The Rhine--that noble flood, which the Romans named "Superb," bore at one time upon its surface bridges of boats, over which the armies of Italy, Spain, and France poured into Germany, and which, at a later date, were made use of by the hordes of barbarians when rushing into the ancient Roman world; at another, on its surface it floated peaceably the fir-trees of Murg and of Saint Gall, the porphyry and the marble of Bâle, the salt of Karlshall, the leather of Stromberg, the quicksilver of Lansberg, the wine of Johannisberg, the slates of Coab, the cloth and earthenware of Wallendar, the silks and linens of Cologne. It majestically performs its double function of flood of war and flood of peace, having, without interruption, upon the ranges of hills which embank the most notable portion of its course, oak-trees on one side and vine-trees on the other--signifying strength and joy. [Footnote A: From "The Rhine." Translated by D.M. Aird.] FROM BONN TO MAYENCE[A] BY BAYARD TAYLOR I was glad when we were really in motion on the swift Rhine, and nearing the chain of mountains that rose up before us. We passed Godesberg on the right, while on our left was the group of the seven mountains which extend back from the Drachenfels to the Wolkenberg, or "Castle of the Clouds." Here we begin to enter the enchanted land. The Rhine sweeps around the foot of the Drachenfels, while, opposite, the precipitous rock of Rolandseck, crowned with the castle of the faithful knight, looks down upon the beautiful island of Nonnenwerth, the white walls of the convent still gleaming through the trees as they did when the warrior's weary eyes looked upon them for the last time. I shall never forget the enthusiasm with which I saw this scene in the bright, warm sunlight, the rough crags softened in the haze which filled the atmosphere, and the wild mountains springing up in the midst of vineyards and crowned with crumbling towers filled with the memories of a thousand years. After passing Andernach we saw in the distance the highlands of the middle Rhine--which rise above Coblentz, guarding the entrance to its scenery--and the mountains of the Moselle. They parted as we approached; from the foot shot up the spires of Coblentz, and the battlements of Ehrenbreitstein, crowning the mountain opposite, grew larger and broader. The air was slightly hazy, and the clouds seemed laboring among the distant mountains to raise a storm. As we came opposite the mouth of the Moselle and under the shadow of the mighty fortress, I gazed up with awe at its massive walls. Apart from its magnitude and almost impregnable situation on a perpendicular rock, it is filled with the recollections of history and hallowed by the voice of poetry. The scene went past like a panorama, the bridge of boats opened, the city glided behind us, and we entered the highlands again. Above Coblentz almost every mountain has a ruin and a legend. One feels everywhere the spirit of the past, and its stirring recollections come back upon the mind with irresistible force. I sat upon the deck the whole afternoon as mountains, towns and castles passed by on either side, watching them with a feeling of the most enthusiastic enjoyment. Every place was familiar to me in memory, and they seemed like friends I had long communed with in spirit and now met face to face. The English tourists with whom the deck was covered seemed interested too, but in a different manner. With Murray's Handbook open in their hands, they sat and read about the very towns and towers they were passing, scarcely lifting their eyes to the real scenes, except now and then to observe that it was "very nice." As we passed Boppart, I sought out the inn of the "Star," mentioned in "Hyperion;" there was a maiden sitting on the steps who might have been Paul Flemming's fair boat-woman. The clouds which had here gathered among the hills now came over the river, and the rain cleared the deck of its crowd of admiring tourists. As we were approaching Lorelei Berg, I did not go below, and so enjoyed some of the finest scenery on the Rhine alone. The mountains approach each other at this point, and the Lorelei rock rises up for four hundred and forty feet from the water. This is the haunt of the water nymph Lorelei, whose song charmed the ear of the boatman while his bark was dashed to pieces on the rocks below. It is also celebrated for its remarkable echo. As we passed between the rocks, a guard, who has a little house on the roadside, blew a flourish on his bugle, which was instantly answered by a blast from the rocky battlements of Lorelei. The sun came out of the clouds as we passed Oberwesel, with its tall round tower, and the light shining through the ruined arches of Schonberg castle made broad bars of light and shade in the still misty air. A rainbow sprang up out of the Rhine and lay brightly on the mountain-side, coloring vineyard and crag in the most singular beauty, while its second reflection faintly arched like a glory above the high summits in the bed of the river were the seven countesses of Schonberg turned into seven rocks for their cruelty and hard-heartedness toward the knights whom their beauty had made captive. In front, at a little distance, was the castle of Pfalz, in the middle of the river, and from the heights above Caub frowned the crumbling citadel of Gutenfels. Imagine all this, and tell me if it is not a picture whose memory should last a lifetime. We came at last to Bingen, the southern gate of the highlands. Here, on an island in the middle of the stream, is the old mouse-tower where Bishop Hatto of Mayence was eaten up by the rats for his wicked deeds. Passing Rüdesheim and Geisenheim--celebrated for their wines--at sunset, we watched the varied shore in the growing darkness, till like a line of stars across the water we saw before us the bridge of Mayence. [Footnote A: From "Views Afoot." Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons.] COLOGNE[A] BY VICTOR HUGO. The sun had set when we reached Cologne. I gave my luggage to a porter, with orders to carry it to a hotel at Duez, a little town on the opposite side of the Rhine; and directed my steps toward the cathedral. Rather than ask my way, I wandered up and down the narrow streets, which night had all but obscured. At last I entered a gateway leading to a court, and came out on an open square--dark and deserted. A magnificent spectacle now presented itself. Before me, in the fantastic light of a twilight sky, rose, in the midst of a group of low houses, an enormous black mass, studded with pinnacles and belfries. A little farther was another, not quite so broad as the first, but higher; a kind of square fortress, flanked at its angles with four long detached towers, having on its summit something resembling a huge feather. On approaching, I discovered that it was the cathedral of Cologne. What appeared like a large feather was a crane, to which sheets of lead were appended, and which, from its workable appearance, indicated to passers-by that this unfinished temple may one day be completed; and that the dream of Engelbert de Berg, which was realized under Conrad de Hochsteden, may, in an age or two, be the greatest cathedral in the world. This incomplete Iliad sees Homers in futurity. The church was shut. I surveyed the steeples, and was startled at their dimensions. What I had taken for towers are the projections of the buttresses. Tho only the first story is completed, the building is already nearly as high as the towers of Notre Dame at Paris. Should the spire, according to the plan, be placed upon this monstrous trunk, Strasburg would be, comparatively speaking, small by its side.[B] It has always struck me that nothing resembles ruin more than an unfinished edifice. Briars, saxifrages, and pellitories--indeed, all weeds that root themselves in the crevices and at the base of old buildings--have besieged these venerable walls. Man only constructs what Nature in time destroys. All was quiet; there was no one near to break the prevailing silence. I approached the façade, as near as the gate would permit me, and heard the countless shrubs gently rustling in the night breeze. A light which appeared at a neighboring window, cast its rays upon a group of exquisite statues--angels and saints, reading or preaching, with a large open book before them. Admirable prologue for a church, which is nothing else than the Word made marble, brass or stone! Swallows have fearlessly taken up their abode here, and their simple yet curious masonry contrasts strangely with the architecture of the building. This was my first visit to the cathedral of Cologne. The dome of Cologne, when seen by day, appeared to me to have lost a little of its sublimity; it no longer had what I call the twilight grandeur that the evening lends to huge objects; and I must say that the cathedral of Beauvais, which is scarcely known, is not inferior, either in size or in detail, to the cathedral of Cologne. The Hôtel-de-Ville, situated near the cathedral, is one of those singular edifices which have been built at different times, and which consist of all styles of architecture seen in ancient buildings. The mode in which these edifices have been built forms rather an interesting study. Nothing is regular--no fixt plan has been drawn out--all has been built as necessity required. Thus the Hôtel-de-Ville, which has, probably, some Roman cave near its foundation, was, in 1250, only a structure similar to those of our edifices built with pillars. For the convenience of the night-watchman, and in order to sound the alarum, a steeple was required, and in the fourteenth century a tower was built. Under Maximilian a taste for elegant structures was everywhere spread, and the bishops of Cologne, deeming it essential to dress their city-house in new raiment, engaged an Italian architect, a pupil, probably, of old Michael Angelo, and a French sculptor, who adjusted on the blackened façade of the thirteenth century a triumphant and magnificent porch. A few years expired, and they stood sadly in want of a promenade by the side of the Registry. A back court was built, and galleries erected, which were sumptuously enlivened by heraldry and bas-reliefs. These I had the pleasure of seeing; but, in a few years, no person will have the same gratification, for, without anything being done to prevent it, they are fast falling into ruins. At last, under Charles the Fifth, a large room for sales and for the assemblies of the citizens was required, and a tasteful building of stone and brick was added. I went up to the belfry; and under a gloomy sky, which harmonized with the edifice and with my thoughts, I saw at my feet the whole of this admirable town. From Thurmchen to Bayenthurme, the town, which extends upward of a league on the banks of the river, displays a whole host of windows and façades. In the midst of roofs, turrets and gables, the summits of twenty-four churches strike the eye, all of different styles, and each church, from its grandeur, worthy of the name of cathedral. If we examine the town in detail, all is stir, all is life. The bridge is crowded with passengers and carriages; the river is covered with sails. Here and there clumps of trees caress, as it were, the houses blackened by time; and the old stone hotels of the fifteenth century, with their long frieze of sculptured flowers, fruit and leaves, upon which the dove, when tired, rests itself, relieve the monotony of the slate roofs and brick fronts which surround them. Round this great town--mercantile from its industry, military from its position, marine from its river--is a vast plain that borders Germany, which the Rhine crosses at different places, and is crowned on the northeast by historic eminences--that wonderful nest of legends and traditions, called the "Seven Mountains." Thus Holland and its commerce, Germany and its poetry--like the two great aspects of the human mind, the positive and the ideal--shed their light upon the horizon of Cologne; a city of business and of meditation. After descending from the belfry, I stopt in the yard before a handsome porch of the Renaissance, the second story of which is formed of a series of small triumphal arches, with inscriptions. The first is dedicated to Caesar; the second to Augustus; the third to Agrippa, the founder of Cologne; the fourth to Constantine, the Christian emperor; the fifth to Justinian, the great legislator; and the sixth to Maximilian. Upon the façade, the poetic sculpture has chased three bas-reliefs, representing the three lion-combatants, Milo of Crotona, Pepin-le-Bref, and Daniel. At the two extremities he has placed Milo of Crotona, attacking the lions by strength of body; and Daniel subduing the lions by the power of mind. Between these is Pepin-le-Bref, conquering his ferocious antagonist with that mixture of moral and physical strength which distinguishes the soldier. Between pure strength and pure thought, is courage; between the athlete and the prophet--the hero. Pepin, sword in hand, has plunged his left arm, which is enveloped in his mantle, into the mouth of the lion; the animal stands, with extended claws, in that attitude which in heraldry represents the lion rampant. Pepin attacks it bravely and vanquishes. Daniel is standing motionless, his arms by his side, and his eyes lifted up to Heaven, the lions lovingly rolling at his feet. As for Milo of Crotona, he defends himself against the lion, which is in the act of devouring him. His blind presumption has put too much faith in muscle, in corporeal strength. These three bas-reliefs contain a world of meaning; the last produces a powerful effect. It is Nature avenging herself on the man whose only faith is in brute force.... In the evening, as the stars were shining, I took a walk upon the side of the river opposite to Cologne. Before me was the whole town, with its innumerable steeples figuring in detail upon the pale western sky. To my left rose, like the giant of Cologne, the high spire of St. Martin's, with its two towers; and, almost in front, the somber apsed cathedral, with its many sharp-pointed spires, resembling a monstrous hedgehog, the crane forming the tail, and near the base two lights, which appeared like two eyes sparkling with fire. Nothing disturbed the stillness of the night but the rustling of the waters at my feet, the heavy tramp of a horse's hoofs upon the bridge, and the sound of a blacksmith's hammer. A long stream of fire that issued from the forge caused the adjoining windows to sparkle; then, as if hastening to its opposite element, disappeared in the water. [Footnote A: From "The Rhine." Translated by D.M. Aird.] [Footnote B: One of the illustrations that accompany this volume shows the spires in their completed state.] ROUND ABOUT COBLENZ[A] BY LADY BLANCHE MURPHY Coblenz is the place which many years ago gave me my first associations with the Rhine. From a neighboring town we often drove to Coblenz, and the wide, calm flow of the river, the low, massive bridge of boats and the commonplace outskirts of a busy city contributed to make up a very different picture from that of the poetic "castled" Rhine of German song and English ballad. The old town has, however, many beauties, tho its military character looks out through most of them, and reminds us that the Mosel city (for it originally stood only on that river, and then crept up to the Rhine), tho a point of union in Nature, has been for ages, so far as mankind was concerned, a point of defense and watching. The great fortress, a German Gibraltar, hangs over the river and sets its teeth in the face of the opposite shore; all the foreign element in the town is due to the deposits made there by troubles in other countries, revolution and war sending their exiles, émigrés and prisoners. The history of the town is only a long military record, from the days of the archbishops of Trèves, to whom it was subject.... There is the old "German house" by the bank of the Mosel, a building little altered outwardly since the fourteenth century, now used as a food-magazine for the troops. The church of St. Castor commemorates a holy hermit who lived and preached to the heathen in the eighth century, and also covers the grave and monument of the founder of the "Mouse" at Wellmich, the warlike Kuno of Falkenstein, Archbishop of Trèves. The Exchange, once a court of justice, has changed less startlingly, and its proportions are much the same as of old; and besides these there are other buildings worth noticing, tho not so old, and rather distinguished by the men who lived and died there, or were born there, such as Metternich, than by architectural beauties. Such houses there are in every old city. They do not invite you to go in and admire them; every tourist you meet does not ask you how you liked them or whether you saw them. They are homes, and sealed to you as such, but they are the shell of the real life of the country; and they have somehow a charm and a fascination that no public building or show-place can have. Goethe, who turned his life-experiences into poetry, has told us something of one such house not far from Coblenz, in the village of Ehrenbreitstein, beneath the fortress, and which in familiar Coblenz parlance goes by the name of "The Valley"--the house of Sophie de Laroche. The village is also Clement Brentano's birthplace. The oldest of German cities, Trèves (or in German Trier), is not too far to visit on our way up the Mosel Valley, whose Celtic inhabitants of old gave the Roman legions so much trouble. But Rome ended by conquering, by means of her civilization as well as by her arms, and Augusta Trevirorum, tho claiming a far higher antiquity than Rome herself, and still bearing an inscription to that effect on the old council-house--now called the Red House and used as a hotel--became, as Ausonius condescendingly remarked, a second Rome, adorned with baths, gardens, temples, theaters and all that went to make up an imperial capital. As in Venice everything precious seems to have come from Constantinople, so in Trier most things worthy of note date from the days of the Romans; tho, to tell the truth, few of the actual buildings do, no matter how classic is their look. The style of the Empire outlived its sway, and doubtless symbolized to the inhabitants their traditions of a higher standard of civilization. The Porta Nigra, for instance--called Simeon's Gate at present--dates really from the days of the first Merovingian kings, but it looks like a piece of the Colosseum, with its rows of arches in massive red sandstone, the stones held together by iron clamps, and its low, immensely strong double gateway, reminding one of the triumphal arches in the Forum at Rome. The history of the transformation of this gateway is curious. First a fortified city gate, standing in a correspondingly fortified wall, it became a dilapidated granary and storehouse in the Middle Ages, when one of the archbishops gave leave to Simeon, a wandering hermit from Syracuse in Sicily, to take up his abode there; and another turned it into a church dedicated to this saint, tho of this change few traces remain. Finally, it has become a national museum of antiquities. The amphitheater is a genuine Roman work, wonderfully well preserved; and genuine enough were the Roman games it has witnessed, for, if we are to believe tradition, a thousand Frankish prisoners of war were here given in one day to the wild beasts by the Emperor Constantine. Christian emperors beautified the basilica that stood where the cathedral now is, and the latter itself has some basilica-like points about it, tho, being the work of fifteen centuries, it bears the stamp of successive styles upon its face.... The Mosel has but few tributary streams of importance; its own course is as winding, as wild and as romantic as that of the Rhine itself. The most interesting part of the very varied scenery of this river is not the castles, the antique towns, the dense woods or the teeming vineyards lining rocks where a chamois could hardly stand--all this it has in common with the Rhine--but the volcanic region of the Eifel, the lakes in ancient craters, the tossed masses of lava and tufa, the great wastes strewn with dark boulders, the rifts that are called valleys and are like the Iceland gorges, the poor, starved villages and the extraordinary rusticity, not to say coarseness, of the inhabitants. This grotesque, interesting country--unique, I believe, on the continent of Europe--lies in a small triangle between the Mosel, the Belgian frontier and the Schiefer hills of the Lower Rhine; it goes by the names of the High Eifel, with the High Acht, the Kellberg and the Nurburg; the upper (Vorder) Eifel, with Gerolstein, a ruined castle, and Daun, a pretty village; and the Snow-Eifel (Schnee Eifel), contracted by the speech of the country into Schneifel. The last is the most curious, the most dreary, the least visited. Walls of sharp rocks rise up over eight hundred feet high round some of its sunken lakes--one is called the Powder Lake--and the level above this abyss stretches out in moors and desolate downs, peopled with herds of lean sheep, and marked here and there by sepulchral, gibbet-looking signposts, shaped like a rough T and set in a heap of loose stones. It is a great contrast to turn aside from this landscape and look on the smiling villages and pretty wooded scenery of the valley of the Mosel proper; the long lines of handsome, healthy women washing their linen on the banks; the old ferryboats crossing by the help of antique chain-and-rope contrivances; the groves of old trees, with broken walls and rude shrines, reminding one of Southern Italy and her olives and ilexes; and the picturesque houses, in Kochem, in Daun, in Travbach, in Bernkastel, which, however untiring one may be as a sightseer, hardly warrant one as a writer to describe and re-describe their beauties. Klüsserath, however, we must mention, because its straggling figure has given rise to a local proverb--"As long as Klüsserath;" and Neumagen, because of the legend of Constantine, who is said to have seen the cross of victory in the heavens at this place, as well as at Sinzig on the Rhine, and, as the more famous legend tells us, at the Pons Milvium over the Tiber. The last glance we take at the beauties of this neighborhood is from the mouth of the torrent-river Eltz as it dashes into the Eifel, washing the rock on which stands the castle of Eltz. The building and the family are an exception in the history of these lands; both exist to this day, and are prosperous and undaunted, notwithstanding all the efforts of enemies, time and circumstances to the contrary. The strongly-turreted wall runs from the castle till it loses itself in the rock, and the building has a home-like inhabited, complete look; which, in virtue of the quaint irregularity and magnificent natural position of the castle, standing guard over the foaming Eltz, does not take from its romantic appearance, as preservation or restoration too often does. Not far from Coblenz, and past the island of Nonnenwerth, is the old tenth-century castle of Sayn, which stood until the Thirty Years' War, and below it, quiet, comfortable, large, but unpretending, lies the new house of the family of Sayn-Wittgenstein, built in the year 1848. As we push our way down the Rhine we soon come to the little peaceful town of Neuwied, a sanctuary for persecuted Flemings and others of the Low Countries, gathered here by the local sovereign, Count Frederick III. The little brook that gives its name to the village runs softly into the Rhine under a rustic bridge and amid murmuring rushes, while beyond it the valley gets narrower, rocks begin to rise over the Rhine banks, and we come to Andernach. Andernach is the Rocky Gate of the Rhine, and if its scenery were not enough, its history, dating from Roman times, would make it interesting. However, of its relics we can only mention, in passing, the parish church with its four towers, all of tufa, the dungeons under the council-house, significantly called the "Jew's bath," and the old sixteenth-century contrivances for loading Rhine boats with the millstones in which the town still drives a fair trade. At the mouth of the Brohl we meet the volcanic region again, and farther up the valley through which this stream winds come upon the retired little watering-place of Tönnistein, a favorite goal of the Dutch, with its steel waters; and Wassenach, with what we may well call its dust-baths, stretching for miles inland, up hills full of old craters, and leaving us only at the entrance of the beech-woods that have grown up in these cauldron-like valleys and fringe the blue Laachersee, the lake of legends and of fairies. One of these Schlegel has versified in the "Lay of the Sunken Castle," with the piteous tale of the spirits imprisoned; and Simrock tells us in rhyme of the merman who sits waiting for a mortal bride; while Wolfgang Müller sings of the "Castle under the Lake," where at night ghostly torches are lighted and ghostly revels are held, the story of which so fascinates the fisherman's boy who has heard of these doings from his grandmother that as he watches the enchanted waters one night his fancy plays him a cruel trick, and he plunges in to join the revellers and learn the truth. Local tradition says that Count Henry II. and his wife Adelaide, walking here by night, saw the whole lake lighted up from within in uncanny fashion, and founded a monastery in order to counteract the spell. This deserted but scarcely ruined building still exists, and contains the grave of the founder; the twelfth-century decoration, rich and detailed, is almost whole in the oldest part of the monastery. The far-famed German tale of Genovefa of Brabant is here localized, and Henry's son Siegfried assigned to the princess as a husband, while the neighboring grotto of Hochstein is shown as her place of refuge. On our way back to the Rocky Gate we pass through the singular little town of Niedermendig, an hour's distance from the lake--a place built wholly of dark gray lava, standing in a region where lava-ridges seam the earth like the bones of antediluvian monsters, but are made more profitable by being quarried into millstones. There is something here that brings part of Wales to the remembrance of the few who have seen those dreary slate-villages--dark, damp, but naked, for moss and weeds do not thrive on this dampness as they do on the decay of other stones--which dot the moorland of Wales. The fences are slate; the gateposts are slate; the stiles are of slate; the very "sticks" up which the climbing roses are trained are of slate; churches, schools, houses, stables are all of one dark iron-blue shade; floors and roofs are alike; hearth-stones and threshold-stones, and grave-stones all of the same material. It is curious and depressing. This volcanic region of the Rhine, however, has so many unexpected beauties strewn pell-mell in the midst of stony barrenness that it also bears some likeness to Naples and Ischia, where beauty of color, and even of vegetation, alternate surprisingly with tracts of parched and rocky wilderness pierced with holes whence gas and steam are always rising. [Footnote A: From "Down the Rhine."] BINGEN AND MAYENCE[A] BY VICTOR HUGO Bingen is an exceedingly pretty place, having at once the somber look of an ancient town, and the cheering aspect of a new one. From the days of Consul Drusus to those of the Emperor Charlemagne, from Charlemagne to Archbishop Willigis, from Willigis to the merchant Montemagno, and from Montemagno to the visionary Holzhausen, the town gradually increased in the number of its houses, as the dew gathers drop by drop in the cup of a lily. Excuse this comparison; for, tho flowery, it has truth to back it, and faithfully illustrates the mode in which a town near the conflux of two rivers is constructed. The irregularity of the houses--in fact everything, tends to make Bingen a kind of antithesis, both with respect to buildings and the scenery which surrounds them. The town, bounded on the left by Nahe, and by the Rhine on the right, develops itself in a triangular form near a Gothic church, which is backed by a Roman citadel. In this citadel, which bears the date of the first century, and has long been the haunt of bandits, there is a garden; and in the church, which is of the fifteenth century, is the tomb of Barthélemy de Holzhausen. In the direction of Mayence, the famed Paradise Plain opens upon the Ringau; and in that of Coblentz, the dark mountains of Leyen seem to frown on the surrounding scenery. Here Nature smiles like a lovely woman extended unadorned on the greensward; there, like a slumbering giant, she excites a feeling of awe. The more we examine this beautiful place, the more the antithesis is multiplied under our looks and thoughts. It assumes a thousand different forms; and as the Nahe flows through the arches of the stone bridge, upon the parapet of which the lion of Hesse turns its back to the eagle of Prussia, the green arm of the Rhine seizes suddenly the fair and indolent stream, and plunges it into the Bingerloch. To sit down toward the evening on the summit of the Klopp--to see the town at its base, with an immense horizon on all sides, the mountains overshadowing all--to see the slated roofs smoking, the shadows lengthening, and the scenery breathing to life the verses of Virgil--to respire at once the wind which rustles the leaves, the breeze of the flood, and the gale of the mountain--is an exquisite and inexpressible pleasure, full of secret enjoyment, which is veiled by the grandeur of the spectacle, by the intensity of contemplation. At the windows of huts, young women, their eyes fixt upon their work, are gaily singing; among the weeds that grow round the ruins birds whistle and pair; barks are crossing the river, and the sound of oars splashing in the water, and unfurling of sails, reaches our ears. The washerwomen of the Rhine spread their clothes on the bushes; and those of the Nahe, their legs and feet naked, beat their linen upon floating rafts, and laugh at some poor artist as he sketches Ehrenfels. The sun sets, night comes on, the slated roofs of the houses appear as one, the mountains congregate and take the aspect of an immense dark body; and the washerwomen, with bundles on their heads, return cheerfully to their cabins; the noise subsides, the voices are hushed; a faint light, resembling the reflections of the other world upon the countenance of a dying man, is for a short time observable on the Ehrenfels; then all is dark, except the tower of Hatto, which, tho scarcely seen in the day, makes its appearance at night, amid a light smoke and the reverberation of the forge.... Mayence and Frankfort, like Versailles and Paris, may, at the present time, be called one town. In the middle ages there was a distance of eight leagues between them, which was then considered a long journey; now, an hour and a quarter will suffice to transport you from one to the other. The buildings of Frankfort and Mayence, like those of Liège, have been devastated by modern good taste, and old and venerable edifices are rapidly disappearing, giving place to frightful groups of white houses. I expected to be able to see, at Mayence, Martinsburg, which, up to the seventeenth century, was the feudal residence of the ecclesiastical electors; but the French made a hospital of it, which was afterward razed to the ground to make room for the Porte Franc; the merchant's hotel, built in 1317 by the famed League, and which was splendidly decorated with the statues of seven electors, and surmounted by two colossal figures, bearing the crown of the empire, also shared the same fate. Mayence possesses that which marks its antiquity--a venerable cathedral, which was commenced in 978, and finished in 1009. Part of this superb structure was burned in 1190, and since that period has, from century to century, undergone some change. I explored its interior, and was struck with awe on beholding innumerable tombs, bearing dates as far back as the eighteenth century. Under the galleries of the cloister I observed an obscure monument, a bas-relief of the fourteenth century, and tried, in vain, to guess the enigma. On one side are two men in chains, wildness in their looks, and despair in their attitudes; on the other, an emperor, accompanied by a bishop, and surrounded by a number of people, triumphing. Is it Barbarossa? Is it Louis of Bavaria? Does it speak of the revolt of 1160, or of the war between Mayence and Frankfort in 1332? I could not tell, and therefore passed by. As I was leaving the galleries, I discovered in the shade a sculptured head, half protruding from the wall, surmounted by a crown of flower-work, similar to that worn by the kings of the eleventh century. I looked at it; it had a mild countenance; yet it possest something of severity in it--a face imprinted with that august beauty which the workings of a great mind give to the countenance of man. The hand of some peasant had chalked the name "Frauenlob" above it, and I instantly remembered the Tasso of Mayence, so calumniated during his life, so venerated after his death. When Henry Frauenlob died, which was in the year 1318, the females who had insulted him in life carried his coffin to the tomb, which procession is chiseled on the tombstone beneath. I again looked at that noble head. The sculptor had left the eyes open; and thus, in that church of sepulchers--in that cloister of the dead--the poet alone sees; he only is represented standing, and observing all. The market-place, which is by the side of the cathedral, has rather an amusing and pleasing aspect. In the middle is a pretty triangular fountain of the German Renaissance, which, besides having scepters, nymphs, angels, dolphins, and mermaids, serves as a pedestal to the Virgin Mary. This fountain was erected by Albert de Brandenburg, who reigned in 1540, in commemoration of the capture of Francis the First by Charles the Fifth. Mayence, white tho it be, retains its ancient aspect of a beautiful city. The river here is not less crowded with sails, the town not less incumbered with bales, nor more free from bustle, than formerly. People walk, squeak, push, sell, buy, sing, and cry; in fact in all the quarters of the town, in every house, life seems to predominate. At night the buzz and noise cease, and nothing is heard at Mayence but the murmurings of the Rhine, and the everlasting noise of seventeen water mills, which are fixt to the piles of the bridge of Charlemagne. [Footnote A: From "The Rhine." Translated by D.M. Aird.] FRANKFORT-AM-MAIN[A] BY BAYARD TAYLOR Frankfort is a genuine old German city. Founded by Charlemagne, afterward a rallying-point of the Crusaders, and for a long time the capital of the German Empire, it has no lack of interesting historical recollections, and, notwithstanding it is fast becoming modernized, one is everywhere reminded of the past. The cathedral, old as the days of Peter the Hermit, the grotesque street of the Jews, the many quaint, antiquated dwellings and the moldering watch-towers on the hills around, give it a more interesting character than any German city I have yet seen. The house we dwell in, on the Markt Platz, is more than two hundred years old; directly opposite is a great castellated building gloomy with the weight of six centuries, and a few steps to the left brings me to the square of the Römerberg, where the emperors were crowned, in a corner of which is a curiously ornamented house formerly the residence of Luther. There are legends innumerable connected with all these buildings, and even yet discoveries are frequently made in old houses of secret chambers and staircases. When you add to all this the German love of ghost-stories, and, indeed, their general belief in spirits, the lover of romance could not desire a more agreeable residence. Within the walls the greater part of Frankfort is built in the old German style, the houses six or seven stories high and every story projecting out over the other; so that those living in the upper part can nearly shake hands out of the windows. At the corners figures of men are often seen holding up the story above on their shoulders and making horrible faces at the weight. When I state that in all these narrow streets, which constitute the greater part of the city, there are no sidewalks, the windows of the lower stories have iron gratings extending a foot or so into the street, which is only wide enough for one cart to pass along, you can have some idea of the facility of walking through them, to say nothing of the piles of wood and market-women with baskets of vegetables which one is continuously stumbling over. Even in the wider streets I have always to look before and behind to keep out of the way of the cabs; the people here get so accustomed to it that they leave barely room for them to pass, and the carriages go dashing by at a nearness which sometimes makes me shudder. As I walked across the Main and looked down at the swift stream on its way from the distant Thuringian Forest to join the Rhine, I thought of the time when Schiller stood there in the days of his early struggles, an exile from his native land, and, looking over the bridge, said in the loneliness of his heart, "That water flows not so deep as my sufferings." From the hills on the Darmstadt road I had a view of the country around; the fields were white and bare, and the dark Taunus, with the broad patches of snow on his sides, looked grim and shadowy through the dim atmosphere. It was like the landscape of a dream--dark, strange and silent. I have seen the banker Rothschild several times driving about the city. This one--Anselmo, the most celebrated of the brothers--holds a mortgage on the city of Jerusalem. He rides about in style, with officers attending his carriage. He is a little baldheaded man with marked Jewish features, and is said not to deceive his looks. At any rate, his reputation is none of the best, either with Jews or Christians. A caricature was published some time ago in which he is represented as giving a beggar-woman by the wayside a kreutzer--the smallest German coin. She is made to exclaim, "God reward you a thousand fold!" He immediately replies, after reckoning up in his head, "How much have I then? Sixteen florins and forty kreutzers!"... The Eschernheim Tower, at the entrance of one of the city gates, is universally admired by strangers on account of its picturesque appearance, overgrown with ivy and terminated by the little pointed turrets which one sees so often in Germany on buildings three or four centuries old. There are five other watch-towers of similar form, which stand on different sides of the city at the distance of a mile or two, and generally upon an eminence overlooking the country. They were erected several centuries ago to discern from afar the approach of an enemy, and protect the caravans of merchants, which at that time traveled from city to city, from the attacks of robbers. The Eschernheim Tower is interesting from another circumstance which, whether true or not, is universally believed. When Frankfort was under the sway of a prince, a Swiss hunter, for some civil offense, was condemned to die. He begged his life from the prince, who granted it only on condition that he should fire the figure nine with his rifle through the vane of this tower. He agreed, and did it; and at the present time one can distinguish a rude nine on the vane, as if cut with bullets, while two or three marks at the side appear to be from shots that failed. [Footnote A: From "Views Afoot." Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons.] HEIDELBERG[A] BY BAYARD TAYLOR Here in Heidelberg at last, and a most glorious town it is. This is our first morning in our new rooms, and the sun streams warmly in the eastern windows as I write, while the old castle rises through the blue vapor on the side of the Kaiserstuhl. The Neckar rushes on below, and the Odenwald, before me, rejoices with its vineyards in the morning light.... There is so much to be seen around this beautiful place that I scarcely know where to begin a description of it. I have been wandering among the wild paths that lead up and down the mountain-side or away into the forests and lonely meadows in the lap of the Odenwald. My mind is filled with images of the romantic German scenery, whose real beauty is beginning to displace the imaginary picture which I had painted with the enthusiastic words of Howitt. I seem to stand now upon the Kaiserstuhl, which rises above Heidelberg, with that magnificent landscape around me from the Black Forest and Strassburg to Mainz, and from the Vosges in France to the hills of Spessart in Bavaria. What a glorious panorama! and not less rich in associations than in its natural beauty. Below me had moved the barbarian hordes of old, the triumphant followers of Arminius and the cohorts of Rome, and later full many a warlike host bearing the banners of the red cross to the Holy Land, many a knight returning with his vassals from the field to lay at the feet of his lady-love the scarf he had worn in a hundred battles and claim the reward of his constancy and devotion. But brighter spirits had also toiled below. That plain had witnessed the presence of Luther, and a host who strove with him. There had also trodden the master-spirits of German song--the giant twain with their scarcely less harmonious brethren. They, too, had gathered inspiration from those scenes--more fervent worship of Nature and a deeper love for their beautiful fatherland.... Then there is the Wolfsbrunnen, which one reaches by a beautiful walk up the bank of the Neckar to a quiet dell in the side of the mountain. Through this the roads lead up by rustic mills always in motion, and orchards laden with ripening fruit, to the commencement of the forest, where a quaint stone fountain stands, commemorating the abode of a sorceress of the olden time who was torn in pieces by a wolf. There is a handsome rustic inn here, where every Sunday afternoon a band plays in the portico, while hundreds of people are scattered around in the cool shadow of the trees or feeding the splendid trout in the basin formed by a little stream. They generally return to the city by another walk, leading along the mountain-side to the eastern terrace of the castle, where they have fine views of the great Rhine plain, terminated by the Alsatian hills stretching along the western horizon like the long crested swells on the ocean. We can even see these from the windows of our room on the bank of the Neckar, and I often look with interest on one sharp peak, for on its side stands the castle of Trifels, where Coeur de Lion was imprisoned by the Duke of Austria, and where Blondel, his faithful minstrel, sang the ballad which discovered the retreat of the noble captive. From the Carl Platz, an open square at the upper end of the city, two paths lead directly up to the castle. By the first walk we ascend a flight of steps to the western gate; passing through which, we enter a delightful garden, between the outer walls of the castle and the huge moat which surrounds it. Great linden, oak and beech trees shadow the walk, and in secluded nooks little mountain-streams spring from the side of the wall into stone basins. There is a tower over the moat on the south side, next the mountain, where the portcullis still hangs with its sharp teeth as it was last drawn up; on each side stand two grim knights guarding the entrance. In one of the wooded walks is an old tree brought from America in the year 1618. It is of the kind called "arbor vitae," and uncommonly tall and slender for one of this species; yet it does not seem to thrive well in a foreign soil. I noticed that persons had cut many slips off the lower branches, and I would have been tempted to do the same myself if there had been any I could reach. In the curve of the mountain is a handsome pavilion surrounded with beds of flowers and fountains; here all classes meet together in the afternoon to sit with their refreshments in the shade, while frequently a fine band of music gives them their invariable recreation. All this, with the scenery around them, leaves nothing unfinished to their present enjoyment. The Germans enjoy life under all circumstances, and in this way they make themselves much happier than we who have far greater means of being so. At the end of the terrace built for the Princess Elizabeth of England is one of the round towers which was split in twain by the French. Half has fallen entirely away, and the other semicircular shell, which joins the terrace and part of the castle-buildings, clings firmly together, altho part of its foundation is gone, so that its outer ends actually hang in the air. Some idea of the strength of the castle may be obtained when I state that the walls of this tower are twenty-two feet thick, and that a staircase has been made through them to the top, where one can sit under the lindens growing upon it or look down on the city below with the pleasant consciousness that the great mass upon which he stands is only prevented from crashing down with him by the solidity of its masonry. On one side, joining the garden, the statue of the Archduke Louis in his breastplate and flowing beard looks out from among the ivy. There is little to be seen about the castle except the walls themselves. The guide conducted us through passages, in which were heaped many of the enormous cannon-balls which it had received in sieges, to some chambers in the foundation. This was the oldest part of the castle, built in the thirteenth century. We also visited the chapel, which is in a tolerable state of preservation. A kind of narrow bridge crosses it, over which we walked, looking down on the empty pulpit and deserted shrines. We then went into the cellar to see the celebrated tun. In a large vault are kept several enormous hogsheads, one of which is three hundred years old, but they are nothing in comparison with the tun, which itself fills a whole vault. It is as high as a common two-story house; on the top is a platform upon which the people used to dance after it was filled, to which one ascends by two flights of steps. I forget exactly how many casks it holds, but I believe eight hundred. It has been empty for fifty years.... Opposite my window rises the Heiligenberg, on the other side of the Neckar. The lower part of it is rich with vineyards, and many cottages stand embosomed in shrubbery among them. Sometimes we see groups of maidens standing under the grape-arbors, and every morning the peasant-women go toiling up the steep paths with baskets on their heads, to labor among the vines. On the Neckar, below us, the fishermen glide about in their boats, sink their square nets fastened to a long pole, and haul them up with the glittering fish, of which the stream is full. I often lean out of the window late at night, when the mountains above are wrapt in dusky obscurity, and listen to the low, musical ripple of the river. It tells to my excited fancy a knightly legend of the old German time. Then comes the bell rung for closing the inns, breaking the spell with its deep clang, which vibrates far away on the night-air till it has roused all the echoes of the Odenwald. I then shut the window, turn into the narrow box which the Germans call a bed, and in a few minutes am wandering in America. Halfway up the Heidelberg runs a beautiful walk dividing the vineyards from the forest above. This is called "The Philosopher's Way," because it was the favorite ramble of the old professors of the university. It can be reached by a toilsome, winding path among the vines, called the Snake-way; and when one has ascended to it, he is well rewarded by the lovely view. In the evening, when the sun has got behind the mountain, it is delightful to sit on the stone steps and watch the golden light creeping up the side of the Kaiserstuhl, till at last twilight begins to darken in the valley and a mantle of mist gathers above the Neckar. We ascended the mountain a few days ago. There is a path which leads up through the forest, but we took the shortest way, directly up the side, tho it was at an angle of nearly fifty degrees. It was hard enough work scrambling through the thick broom and heather and over stumps and stones. In one of the stone-heaps I dislodged a large orange-colored salamander seven or eight inches long. They are sometimes found on these mountains, as well as a very large kind of lizard, called the "eidechse," which the Germans say is perfectly harmless, and if one whistles or plays a pipe will come and play around him. The view from the top reminded me of that from Catskill Mountain House, but is on a smaller scale. The mountains stretch off sideways, confining the view to but half the horizon, and in the middle of the picture the Hudson is well represented by the lengthened windings of the "abounding Rhine." Nestled at the base below us was the little village of Handschuhheim, one of the oldest in this part of Germany. The castle of its former lords has nearly all fallen down, but the massive solidity of the walls which yet stand proves its antiquity. A few years ago a part of the outer walls which was remarked to have a hollow sound was taken down, when there fell from a deep niche built therein, a skeleton clad in a suit of the old German armor. We followed a road through the woods to the peak on which stands the ruins of St. Michael's chapel, which was built in the tenth century and inhabited for a long time by a company of white monks. There is now but a single tower remaining, and all around is grown over with tall bushes and weeds. It had a wild and romantic look, and I sat on a rock and sketched at it till it grew dark, when we got down the mountain the best way we could.... We have just returned from a second visit to Frankfort, where the great annual fair filled the streets with noise and bustle. On our way back we stopt at the village of Zwingenberg, which lies at the foot of the Melibochus, for the purpose of visiting some of the scenery of the Odenwald. Passing the night at the inn there, we slept with one bed under and two above, and started early in the morning to climb up the side of the Melibochus. After a long walk through the forests, which were beginning to change their summer foliage for a brighter garment, we reached the summit and ascended the stone tower which stands upon it. This view gives one a better idea of the Odenwald than that from the Kaiserstuhl at Heidelberg. This is a great collection of rocks, in a wild pine wood, heaped together like pebbles on the seashore and worn and rounded as if by the action of water; so much do they resemble waves that one standing at the bottom and looking up can not resist the idea that they will flow down upon him. It must have been a mighty tide whose receding waves left these masses piled up together. The same formation continues at intervals to the foot of the mountains. It reminded me of a glacier of rocks instead of ice. A little higher up lies a massive block of granite called the Giant's Column. It is thirty-two feet long and three to four feet in diameter, and still bears the mark of the chisel. When or by whom it was made remains a mystery. Some have supposed it was intended to be erected for the worship of the sun by the wild Teutonic tribes who inhabited this forest; it is more probably the work of the Romans. A project was once started to erect a monument on the battlefield of Leipsic, but it was found too difficult to carry into execution. After dining at the little village of Reichelsdorf, in the valley below--where the merry landlord charged my friend two kreutzers less than myself because he was not so tall--we visited the castle of Schönberg, and joined the Bergstrasse again. We walked the rest of the way here. Long before we arrived the moon shone down on us over the mountains; and when we turned around the foot of the Heiligenberg, the mist descending in the valley of the Neckar rested like a light cloud on the church-spires. [Footnote A: From "Views Afoot." Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons.] STRASSBURG[A] BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE I left the cars with my head full of the cathedral. The first thing I saw, on lifting my eyes, was a brown spire. We climbed the spire; we gained the roof. What a magnificent terrace! A world in itself; a panoramic view sweeping the horizon. Here I saw the names of Goethe and Herder. Here they have walked many a time, I suppose. But the inside--a forest-like firmament, glorious in holiness; windows many-hued as the Hebrew psalms; a gloom solemn and pathetic as man's mysterious existence; a richness gorgeous and manifold as his wonderful nature. In this Gothic architecture we see earnest northern races, whose nature was a composite of influences from pine forest, mountain, and storm, expressing in vast proportions and gigantic masonry those ideas of infinite duration and existence which Christianity opened before them. The ethereal eloquence of the Greeks could not express the rugged earnestness of souls wrestling with those fearful mysteries of fate, of suffering, of eternal existence, declared equally by nature and revelation. This architecture is Hebraistic in spirit, not Greek; it well accords with the deep ground-swell of the Hebrew prophets. "Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art God. A thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past. And as a watch in the night." The objection to Gothic architecture, as compared with Greek, is, that it is less finished and elegant. So it is. It symbolizes that state of mind too earnest for mere polish, too deeply excited for laws of exact proportions and architectural refinement. It is Alpine architecture--vast, wild, and sublime in its foundations, yet bursting into flowers at every interval. The human soul seems to me an imprisoned essence, striving after somewhat divine. There is a struggle in it, as of suffocated flame; finding vent now through poetry, now in painting, now in music, sculpture, or architecture; various are the crevices and fissures, but the flame is one. Moreover, as society grows from barbarism upward, it tends to inflorescence, at certain periods, as do plants and trees; and some races flower later than others. This architecture was the first flowering of the Gothic race; they had no Homers; the flame found vent not by imaged words and vitalized alphabet; they vitalized stone, and their poets were minster-builders; their epics, cathedrals. This is why one cathedral--like Strassburg, or Notre Dame--has a thousandfold the power of any number of Madeleines. The Madeleine is simply a building; these are poems. I never look at one of them without feeling that gravitation of soul toward its artist which poetry always excites. Often the artist is unknown; here we know him; Erwin von Steinbach, poet, prophet, priest, in architecture. We visited his house--a house old and quaint, and to me full of suggestions and emotions. Ah, if there be, as the apostle vividly suggests, houses not made with hands, strange splendors, of which these are but shadows, that vast religious spirit may have been finding scope for itself where all the forces of nature shall have been made tributary to the great conceptions of the soul. Save this cathedral, Strassburg has nothing except peaked-roofed houses, dotted with six or seven rows of gable windows. [Footnote A: From "Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands." Mrs. Stowe published this work in 1854, after returning from the tour she made soon after achieving great fame with "Uncle Tom's Cabin." During this visit she was received everywhere with distinction--and especially in England.] FREIBURG AND THE BLACK FOREST[A] BY BAYARD TAYLOR The airy basket-work tower of the Freiburg minster rises before me over the black roofs of the houses, and behind stand the gloomy pine-covered mountains of the Black Forest. Of our walk to Heidelberg over the oft-trodden Bergstrasse, I shall say nothing, nor how we climbed the Kaiserstuhl again, and danced around on the top of the tower for one hour amid cloud and mist, while there was sunshine below in the valley of the Neckar. I left Heidelberg yesterday morning in the "stehwagen" for Carlsruhe. The engine whistled, the train started, and, altho I kept my eyes steadily fixt on the spire of the Hauptkirche, three minutes hid it and all the rest of the city from sight. Carlsruhe, the capital of Baden--which we reached in an hour and a half--is unanimously pronounced by travelers to be a most dull and tiresome city. From a glance I had through one of the gates, I should think its reputation was not undeserved. Even its name in German signifies a place of repose. I stopt at Kork, on the branch-road leading to Strassburg, to meet a German-American about to return to my home in Pennsylvania, where he had lived for some time. I inquired according to the direction he had sent me to Frankfort, but he was not there; however, an old man, finding who I was, said Herr Otto had directed him to go with me to Hesselhurst, a village four or five miles off, where he would meet me. So we set off immediately over the plain, and reached the village at dusk.... My friend arrived at three o'clock the next morning, and, after two or three hours' talk about home and the friends whom he expected to see so much sooner than I, a young farmer drove me in his wagon to Offenburg, a small city at the foot of the Black Forest, where I took the cars for Freiburg. The scenery between the two places is grand. The broad mountains of the Black Forest rear their fronts on the east, and the blue lines of the French Vosges meet the clouds on the west. The night before, in walking over the plain, I saw distinctly the whole of the Strassburg minster, whose spire is the highest in Europe, being four hundred and ninety feet, or but twenty-five feet lower than the Pyramid of Cheops. I visited the minster of Freiburg yesterday morning. It is a grand, gloomy old pile, dating back from the eleventh century--one of the few Gothic churches in Germany that have ever been completed. The tower of beautiful fretwork rises to the height of three hundred and ninety-five feet, and the body of the church, including the choir, is of the same length. The interior is solemn and majestic. Windows stained in colors that burn let in a "dim religious light" which accords very well with the dark old pillars and antique shrines. In two of the chapels there are some fine altar-pieces by Holbein and one of his scholars, and a very large crucifix of silver and ebony, kept with great care, which is said to have been carried with the Crusaders to the Holy Land.... We went this afternoon to the Jägerhaus, on a mountain near, where we had a very fine view of the city and its great black minster, with the plain of the Briesgau, broken only by the Kaiserstuhl, a long mountain near the Rhine, whose golden stream glittered in the distance. On climbing the Schlossberg, an eminence near the city, we met the grand duchess Stephanie, a natural daughter of Napoleon, as I have heard. A chapel on the Schönberg, the mountain opposite, was pointed out as the spot where Louis XV.--if I mistake not--usually stood while his army besieged Freiburg. A German officer having sent a ball to this chapel which struck the wall just above the king's head, the latter sent word that if they did not cease firing he would point his cannons at the minster. The citizens thought it best to spare the monarch and save the cathedral. After two days delightfully spent, we shouldered our knapsacks and left Freiburg. The beautiful valley at the mouth of which the city lies runs like an avenue for seven miles directly into the mountains, and presents in its loveliness such a contrast to the horrid defile which follows that it almost deserves the name which has been given to a little inn at its head--the "Kingdom of Heaven." The mountains of the Black Forest enclose it on each side like walls, covered to the summit with luxuriant woods, and in some places with those forests of gloomy pine which give this region its name. After traversing its whole length, just before plunging into the mountain-depths the traveler rarely meets with a finer picture than that which, on looking back, he seems framed between the hills at the other end. Freiburg looks around the foot of one of the heights, with the spire of her cathedral peeping above the top, while the French Vosges grow dim in the far perspective. The road now enters a wild, narrow valley which grows smaller as we proceed. From Himmelreich, a large rude inn by the side of the green meadows, we enter the Höllenthal--that is, from the "Kingdom of Heaven" to the "Valley of Hell." The latter place better deserves its appellation than the former. The road winds between precipices of black rock, above which the thick foliage shuts out the brightness of day and gives a somber hue to the scene. A torrent foams down the chasm, and in one place two mighty pillars interpose to prevent all passage. The stream, however, has worn its way through, and the road is hewn in the rock by its side. This cleft is the only entrance to a valley three or four miles long which lies in the very heart of the mountains. It is inhabited by a few woodmen and their families, and, but for the road which passes through, would be as perfect a solitude as the Happy Valley of Rasselas. At the farther end a winding road called "The Ascent" leads up the steep mountain to an elevated region of country thinly settled and covered with herds of cattle. The cherries--which in the Rhine-plain below had long gone--were just ripe here. The people spoke a most barbarous dialect; they were social and friendly, for everybody greeted us, and sometimes, as we sat on a bank by the roadside, those who passed by would say "Rest thee!" or "Thrice rest!" Passing by the Titi Lake, a small body of water which was spread out among the hills like a sheet of ink, so deep was its Stygian hue, we commenced ascending a mountain. The highest peak of the Schwarzwald, the Feldberg, rose not far off, and on arriving at the top of this mountain we saw that a half hour's walk would bring us to its summit. This was too great a temptation for my love of climbing heights; so, with a look at the descending sun to calculate how much time we could spare, we set out. There was no path, but we prest directly up the steep side through bushes and long grass, and in a short time reached the top, breathless from such exertion in the thin atmosphere. The pine-woods shut out the view to the north and east, which is said to be magnificent, as the mountain is about five thousand feet high. The wild black peaks of the Black Forest were spread below us, and the sun sank through golden mist toward the Alsatian hills. Afar to the south, through cloud and storm, we could just trace the white outline of the Swiss Alps. The wind swept through the pines around, and bent the long yellow grass among which we sat, with a strange, mournful sound, well suiting the gloomy and mysterious region. It soon grew cold; the golden clouds settled down toward us, and we made haste to descend to the village of Lenzkirch before dark. Next morning we set out early, without waiting to see the trial of archery which was to take place among the mountain-youths. Their booths and targets, gay with banners, stood on a green meadow beside the town. We walked through the Black Forest the whole forenoon. It might be owing to the many wild stories whose scenes are laid among these hills, but with me there was a peculiar feeling of solemnity pervading the whole region. The great pine-woods are of the very darkest hue of green, and down their hoary, moss-floored aisles daylight seems never to have shone. The air was pure and clear and the sunshine bright, but it imparted no gayety to the scenery; except the little meadows of living emerald which lay occasionally in the lap of a dell, the landscape wore a solemn and serious air. In a storm it must be sublime. About noon, from the top of the last range of hills, we had a glorious view. The line of the distant Alps could be faintly traced high in the clouds, and all the heights between were plainly visible, from the Lake of Constance to the misty Jura, which flanked the Vosges on the west. From our lofty station we overlooked half Switzerland, and, had the air been a little clearer, we could have seen Mont Blanc and the mountains of Savoy. I could not help envying the feelings of the Swiss who, after long absence from their native land, first see the Alps from this road. If to the emotions with which I then looked on them were added the passionate love of home and country which a long absence creates, such excess of rapture would be almost too great to be borne. [Footnote A: From "Views Afoot." Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons.] II NUREMBERG AS A MEDIEVAL CITY[A] BY CECIL HEADLAM In spite of all changes, and in spite of the disfigurements of modern industry, Nuremberg is and will remain a medieval city, a city of history and legend, a city of the soul. She is like Venice in this, as in not a little of her history, that she exercises an indefinable fascination over our hearts no less than over our intellects. The subtle flavor of medieval towns may be likened to that of those rare old ports which are said to taste of the grave; a flavor indefinable, exquisite. Rothenburg has it; and it is with Rothenburg, that little gem of medievalism, that Nuremberg is likely to be compared in the mind of the modern wanderer in Franconia. But tho Rothenburg may surpass her greater neighbor in the perfect harmony and in the picturesqueness of her red-tiled houses and well-preserved fortifications, in interest at any rate she must yield to the heroine of this story. For, apart from the beauty which Nuremberg owes to the wonderful grouping of her red roofs and ancient castle, her coronet of antique towers, her Gothic churches and Renaissance buildings or brown riverside houses dipping into the mud-colored Pegnitz, she rejoices in treasures of art and architecture and in the possession of a splendid history such as Rothenburg can not boast. To those who know something of her story Nuremberg brings the subtle charm of association. While appealing to our memories by the grandeur of her historic past, and to our imaginations by the work and tradition of her mighty dead, she appeals also to our senses with the rare magic of her personal beauty, if one may so call it. In that triple appeal lies the fascination of Nuremberg.... The facts as to the origin of Nuremberg are lost in the dim shadows of tradition. When the little town sprang up amid the forests and swamps which still marked the course of the Pegnitz, we know as little as we know the origin of the name Nürnberg. It is true that the chronicles of later days are only too ready to furnish us with information; but the information is not always reliable. The chronicles, like our own peerage, are apt to contain too vivid efforts of imaginative fiction. The chroniclers, unharassed by facts or documents, with minds "not by geography prejudiced, or warped by history," can not unfortunately always be believed. It is, for instance, quite possible that Attila, King of the Huns, passed and plundered Nuremberg, as they tell us. But there is no proof, no record of that visitation. Again, the inevitable legend of a visit from Charlemagne occurs. He, you may be sure, was lost in the woods while hunting near Nuremberg, and passed all night alone, unhurt by the wild beasts. As a token of gratitude for God's manifest favor he caused a chapel to be built on the spot. The chapel stands to this day--a twelfth-century building--but no matter! for did not Otho I., as our chroniclers tell us, attend mass in St. Sebald's Church in 970, tho St. Sebald's Church can not have been built till a century later? The origin of the very name of Nuremberg is hidden in the clouds of obscurity. In the earliest documents we find it spelt with the usual variations of early manuscripts--Nourenberg, Nuorimperc, Niurenberg, Nuremberc, etc. The origin of the place, we repeat, is equally obscure. Many attempts have been made to find history in the light of the derivations of the name. But when philology turns historian it is apt to play strange tricks. Nur ein Berg (only a castle), or Nero's Castle, or Norix Tower--what matter which is the right derivation, so long as we can base a possible theory on it? The Norixberg theory will serve to illustrate the incredible quantity of misplaced ingenuity which both of old times and in the present has been wasted in trying to explain the inexplicable. Be that as it may, the history of our town begins in the year 1050. It is most probable that the silence regarding the place--it is not mentioned among the places visited by Conrad II. in this neighborhood--points to the fact that the castle did not exist in 1025, but was built between that year and 1050. That it existed then we know, for Henry III. dated a document from here in 1050, summoning a council of Bavarian nobles "to his estate Nourinberc." The oldest portion, called in the fifteenth century Altnürnberg, consisted of the Fünfeckiger Thurm--the Five-cornered tower--the rooms attached and the Otmarkapelle. The latter was burned down in 1420, rebuilt in 1428, and called the Walpurgiskapelle. These constituted the Burggräfliche Burg--the Burggraf's Castle. The rest of the castle was built on by Friedrich der Rotbart (Barbarossa), and called the Kaiserliche Burg. The old Five-cornered tower and the surrounding ground was the private property of the Burggraf, and he was appointed by the Emperor as imperial officer of the Kaiserliche Burg. Whether the Emperors claimed any rights of personal property over Nuremberg or merely treated it, at first, as imperial property, it is difficult to determine. The castle at any rate was probably built to secure whatever rights were claimed, and to serve generally as an imperial stronghold. Gradually around the castle grew up the straggling streets of Nuremberg. Settlers built beneath the shadow of the Burg. The very names of the streets suggest the vicinity of a camp or fortress. Söldnerstrasse, Schmiedstrasse, and so forth, betray the military origin of the present busy commercial town. From one cause or another a mixture of races, of Germanic and non-Germanic, of Slavonic and Frankish elements, seems to have occurred among the inhabitants of the growing village, producing a special blend which in dialect, in customs, and in dress was soon noticed by the neighbors as unique, and stamping the art and development of Nuremberg with that peculiar character which has never left it. Various causes combined to promote the growth of the place. The temporary removal of the Mart from Fürth to Nuremberg under Henry III. doubtless gave a great impetus to the development of the latter town. Henry IV., indeed, gave back the rights of Mart, customs and coinage to Fürth. But it seems probable that these rights were not taken away again from Nuremberg. The possession of a Mart was, of course, of great importance to a town in those days, promoting industries and arts and settled occupations. The Nurembergers were ready to suck out the fullest advantage from their privilege. That mixture of races, to which we have referred, resulted in remarkable business energy--energy which soon found scope in the conduct of the business which the natural position of Nuremberg on the south and north, the east and western trade routes, brought to her. It was not very long before she became the center of the vast trade between the Levant and Western Europe, and the chief emporium for the produce of Italy--the "Handelsmetropole" in fact of South Germany. Nothing in the Middle Ages was more conducive to the prosperity of a town than the reputation of having a holy man within its borders, or the possession of the miracle-working relics of a saint. Just as St. Elizabeth made Marburg so St. Sebaldus proved a very potent attraction to Nuremberg. As early as 1070 and 1080 we hear of pilgrimages to Nuremberg in honor of her patron saint. Another factor in the growth of the place was the frequent visits which the Emperors began to pay to it. Lying as it did on their way from Bamberg and Forcheim to Regensburg, the Kaisers readily availed themselves of the security offered by this impregnable fortress, and of the sport provided in the adjacent forest. For there was good hunting to be had in the forest which, seventy-two miles in extent, surrounded Nuremberg. And hunting, next to war, was then in most parts of Europe the most serious occupation of life. All the forest rights, we may mention, of wood-cutting, hunting, charcoal burning and bee-farming belonged originally to the Empire. But these were gradually acquired by the Nuremberg Council, chiefly by purchase in the fifteenth century. In the castle the visitor may notice a list of all the Emperors--some thirty odd, all told--who have stayed there--a list that should now include the reigning Emperor. We find that Henry IV. frequently honored Nuremberg with his presence. This is that Henry IV., whose scene at Canossa with the Pope--Kaiser of the Holy Roman Empire waiting three days in the snow to kiss the foot of excommunicative Gregory--has imprest itself on all memories. His last visit to Nuremberg was a sad one. His son rebelled against him, and the old king stopt at Nuremberg to collect his forces. In the war between father and son Nuremberg was loyal, and took the part of Henry IV. It was no nominal part, for in 1105 she had to stand a siege from the young Henry. For two months the town was held by the burghers and the castle by the Prefect Conrad. At the end of that time orders came from the old Kaiser that the town was to surrender. He had given up the struggle, and his undutiful son succeeded as Henry V. to the Holy Roman Empire, and Nuremberg with it. The mention of this siege gives us an indication of the growth of the town. The fact of the siege and the words of the chronicler, "The townsmen (oppidani) gave up the town under treaty," seem to point to the conclusion that Nuremberg was now no longer a mere fort (castrum), but that walls had sprung up round the busy mart and the shrine of St. Sebald, and that by this time Nuremberg had risen to the dignity of a "Stadt" or city state. Presently, indeed, we find her rejoicing in the title of "Civitas" (state). The place, it is clear, was already of considerable military importance or it would not have been worth while to invest it. The growing volume of trade is further illustrated by a charter of Henry V. (1112) giving to the citizens of Worms customs' immunity in various places subject to him, among which Frankfort, Goslar and Nuremberg are named as royal towns ("oppida regis"). [Footnote A: From "The Story of Nuremberg." Published by E.P. Dutton & Co.] ITS CHURCHES AND THE CITADEL[A] BY THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN It may be as well briefly to notice the two churches--St. Sebald and St. Lawrence. The former was within a stone's throw of our inn. Above the door of the western front is a remarkably fine crucifix of wood--placed, however, in too deep a recess--said to be by Veit Stoss. The head is of a very fine form, and the countenance has an expression of the most acute and intense feeling. A crown of thorns is twisted around the brow. But this figure, as well as the whole of the outside and inside of the church, stands in great need of being repaired. The towers are low, with insignificant turrets; the latter evidently a later erection--probably at the commencement of the sixteenth century. The eastern extremity, as well indeed as the aisles, is surrounded by buttresses; and the sharp-pointed, or lancet, windows, seem to bespeak the fourteenth, if not the thirteenth, century. The great "wonder" of the interior is the Shrine of the Saint (to whom the church is dedicated), of which the greater part is silver. At the time of my viewing it, it was in a disjointed state--parts of it having been taken to pieces, for repair; but from Geisler's exquisite little engraving, I should pronounce it to be second to few specimens of similar art in Europe. The figures do not exceed two feet in height, and the extreme elevation of the shrine may be about eight feet. Nor has Geisler's almost equally exquisite little engraved carving of the richly carved Gothic font in this church, less claim upon the admiration of the connoisseur. The mother church, or Cathedral of St. Lawrence, is much larger, and portions of it may be of the latter end of the thirteenth century. The principal entrance presents us with an elaborate doorway--perhaps of the fourteenth century--with the sculpture divided into several compartments, as at Rouen, Strassburg, and other earlier edifices. There is a poverty in the two towers, both from their size and the meagerness of the windows; but the slim spires at the summit are, doubtless, nearly of a coeval date with that which supports them. The bottom of the large circular or marigold window is injured in its effect by a Gothic balustrade of a later period. The interior of this church has certainly nothing very commanding or striking, on the score of architectural grandeur or beauty; but there are some painted glass windows--especially by Volkmar--which are deserving of particular attention. Nuremberg has one advantage over many populous towns; its public buildings are not choked up by narrow streets; and I hardly know an edifice of distinction, round which the spectator may not walk with perfect ease, and obtain a view of every portion which he is desirous of examining.... Of all edifices, more especially deserving of being visited at Nuremberg, the Citadel is doubtless the most curious and ancient, as well as the most remarkable. It rises to a considerable height, close upon the outer walls of the town, within about a stone's throw of the end of Albrecht Dürer Strasse--or the street where Albert Dürer lived--and whose house is not only yet in existence, but still the object of attraction and veneration with every visitor of taste, from whatever part of the world he may chance to come. The street running down is the street called (as before observed) after Albert Dürer's own name; and the well, seen about the middle of it, is a specimen of those wells--built of stone--which are very common in the streets of Nuremberg. The upper part of the house of Albert Dürer is supposed to have been his study. The interior is so altered from its original disposition as to present little or nothing satisfactory to the antiquary. It would be difficult to say how many coats of whitewash have been bestowed upon the rooms, since the time when they were tenanted by the great character in question. Passing through this street, therefore, you may turn to the right, and continue onward up a pretty smart ascent; when the entrance to the Citadel, by the side of a low wall--in front of an old tower--presents itself to your attention. It was before breakfast that my companion and self visited this interesting interior, over every part of which we were conducted by a most loquacious cicerone, who spoke the French language very fluently, and who was pleased to express his extreme gratification upon finding that his visitors were Englishmen. The tower and the adjoining chapel, may be each of the thirteenth century; but the tombstone of the founder of the monastery, upon the site of which the present Citadel was built, bears the date of 1296. This tombstone is very perfect; lying in a loose, unconnected manner, as you enter the chapel; the chapel itself having a crypt-like appearance. This latter is very small. From the suite of apartments in the older parts of the Citadel, there is a most extensive and uninterrupted view of the surrounding country, which is rather flat. At the distance of about nine miles, the town of Fürth (Furta) looks as if it were within an hour's walk; and I should think that the height of the chambers (from which we enjoyed this view) to the level ground of the adjacent meadows could be scarcely less than three hundred feet. In these chambers there is a little world of curiosity for the antiquary; and yet it was but too palpable that very many of its more precious treasures had been transported to Munich. In the time of Maximilian II., when Nuremberg may be supposed to have been in the very height of its glory, this Citadel must have been worth a pilgrimage of many score miles to have visited. The ornaments which remain are chiefly pictures; of which several are exceedingly precious.... In these curious old chambers, it was to be expected that I should see some Wohlegemuths--as usual, with backgrounds in a blaze of gold, and figures with tortuous limbs, pinched-in waists, and caricatured countenances. In a room, pretty plentifully encumbered with rubbish, I saw a charming Snyders; being a dead stag, suspended from a pole. There is here a portrait of Albert Dürer, by himself; but said to be a copy. If so, it is a very fine copy. The original is supposed to be at Munich. There was nothing else that my visit enabled me to see particularly deserving of being recorded; but, when I was told that it was in this Citadel that the ancient Emperors of Germany used oftentimes to reside, and make carousal, and when I saw, now, scarcely anything but dark passages, unfurnished galleries, naked halls, and untenanted chambers--I own that I could hardly refrain from uttering a sigh over the mutability of earthly fashions, and the transitoriness of worldly grandeur. With a rock for its base, and walls almost of adamant for its support--situated also upon an eminence which may be said to look frowningly down over a vast sweep of country--the Citadel of Nuremberg should seem to have bid defiance, in former times, to every assault of the most desperate and enterprising foe. It is now visited only by the casual traveler--who is frequently startled at the echo of his own footsteps. While I am on the subject of ancient art--of which so many curious specimens are to be seen in this Citadel--it may not be irrelevant to conduct the reader at once to what is called the Town Hall--a very large structure--of which portions are devoted to the exhibition of old pictures. Many of these paintings are in a very suspicious state, from the operations of time and accident; but the great boast of the collection is the "Triumphs of Maximilian I.," executed by Albert Dürer--which, however, has by no means escaped injury. I was accompanied in my visit to this interesting collection by Mr. Boerner, and had particular reason to be pleased by the friendliness of his attentions, and by the intelligence of his observations. A great number of these pictures (as I understood) belonged to a house in which he was a partner; and among them a portrait, by Pens, struck me as being singularly admirable and exquisite. The countenance, the dress, the attitude, the drawing and coloring, were as perfect as they well might be. But this collection has also suffered from the transportation of many of its treasures to Munich. The rooms, halls, and corridors of this Hôtel de Ville give you a good notion of municipal grandeur. In the neighborhood of Nuremberg--that is to say, scarcely more than an English mile from thence--are the grave and tombstone of Albert Dürer. The monument is simple and striking. In the churchyard there is a representation of the Crucifixion, cut in stone. It was on a fine, calm evening, just after sunset, that I first visited the tombstone of Albert Dürer; and I shall always remember the sensations, with which that visit was attended, as among the most pleasing and impressive of my life. The silence of the spot--its retirement from the city--the falling shadows of night, and the increasing solemnity of every monument of the dead--together with the mysterious, and even awful, effect produced by the colossal crucifix--but yet, perhaps, more than either, the recollection of the extraordinary talents of the artist, so quietly sleeping beneath my feet--all conspired to produce a train of reflections which may be readily conceived, but not so readily described. If ever a man deserved to be considered as the glory of his age and nation, Albert Dürer was surely that man. He was, in truth, the Shakespeare of his art--for the period. [Footnote A: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour." Dibdin's tour was made in 1821.] NUREMBERG TO-DAY[A] BY CECIL HEADLAM Nuremberg is set upon a series of small slopes in the midst of an undulating, sandy plain, some 900 feet above the sea. Here and there on every side fringes and patches of the mighty forest which once covered it are still visible; but for the most part the plain is now freckled with picturesque villages, in which stand old turreted châteaux, with gabled fronts and latticed windows, or it is clothed with carefully cultivated crops or veiled from sight by the smoke which rises from the new-grown forest of factory chimneys. The railway sets us down outside the walls of the city. As we walk from the station toward the Frauen Thor, and stand beneath the crown of fortified walls three and a half miles in circumference, and gaze at the old gray towers and picturesque confusion of domes, pinnacles and spires, suddenly it seems as if our dream of a feudal city has been realized. There, before us, is one of the main entrances, still between massive gates and beneath archways flanked by stately towers. Still to reach it we must cross a moat fifty feet deep and a hundred feet wide. True, the swords of old days have been turned into pruning-hooks; the crenelles and embrasures which once bristled and blazed with cannon are now curtained with brambles and wall-flowers, and festooned with Virginia creepers; the galleries are no longer crowded with archers and cross-bowmen; the moat itself has blossomed into a garden, luxuriant with limes and acacias, elders, planes, chestnuts, poplars, walnut, willow and birch trees, or divided into carefully tilled little garden plots. True it is that outside the moat, beneath the smug grin of substantial modern houses, runs that mark of modernity, the electric tram. But let us for the moment forget these gratifying signs of modern prosperity and, turning to the left ere we enter the Frauen Thor, walk with our eyes on the towers which, with their steep-pitched roofs and myriad shapes and richly colored tiles, mark the intervals in the red-bricked, stone-cased galleries and mighty bastions, till we come to the first beginnings of Nuremberg--the Castle. There, on the highest eminence of the town, stands that venerable fortress, crowning the red slope of tiles. Roofs piled on roofs, their pinnacles, turrets, points and angles heaped one above the other in a splendid confusion, climb the hill which culminates in the varied group of buildings on the Castle rock. We have passed the Spittler, Mohren, Haller and Neu Gates on our way, and we have crossed by the Hallerthorbrücke the Pegnitz where it flows into the town. Before us rise the bold scarps and salient angles of the bastions built by the Italian architect, Antonio Fazuni, called the Maltese (1538-43). Crossing the moat by a wooden bridge which curls round to the right, we enter the town by the Thiergärtnerthor. The right-hand corner house opposite us now is Albert Dürer's house. We turn to the left and go along the Obere Schmiedgasse till we arrive at the top of a steep hill (Burgstrasse). Above, on the left, is the Castle. We may now either go through the Himmels Thor to the left, or keeping straight up under the old trees and passing the "Mount of Olives" on the left, approach the large deep-roofed building between two towers. This is the Kaiserstallung, as it is called, the Imperial stables, built originally for a granary. The towers are the Luginsland (Look in the land) on the east, and the Fünfeckiger Thurm, the Five-cornered tower, at the west end (on the left hand as we thus face it). The Luginsland was built by the townspeople in the hard winter of 1377. The mortar for building it, tradition says, had to be mixed with salt, so that it might be kept soft and be worked in spite of the severe cold. The chronicles state that one could see right into the Burggraf's Castle from this tower, and the town was therefore kept informed of any threatening movements on his part. To some extent that was very likely the object in view when the tower was built, but chiefly it must have been intended, as its name indicates, to afford a far look-out into the surrounding country. The granary or Kaiserstallung, as it was called later, was erected in 1494, and is referred to by Hans Behaim as lying between the Five-cornered and the Luginsland Towers. Inside the former there is a museum of curiosities (Hans Sachs' harp) and the famous collection of instruments of torture and the Maiden (Eiserne Jungfrau). The open space adjoining it commands a splendid view to the north. There, too, on the parapet-wall, may be seen the hoof-marks of the horse of the robber-king, Ekkelein von Gailingen. Here for a moment let us pause, consider our position, and endeavor to make out from the conflicting theories of the archeologists something of the original arrangement of the castles and of the significance of the buildings and towers that yet remain. Stretching to the east of the rock on which the Castle stands is a wide plain, now the scene of busy industrial enterprise, but in old days no doubt a mere district of swamp and forest. Westward the rock rises by three shelves to the summit. The entrance to the Castle, it is surmised, was originally on the east side, at the foot of the lower plateau and through a tower which no longer exists. Opposite this hypothetical gate-way stood the Five-cornered tower. The lower part dates, we have seen, from no earlier than the eleventh century. It is referred to as Alt-Nürnberg (old Nuremberg) in the Middle Ages. The title of "Five-cornered" is really somewhat a misnomer, for an examination of the interior of the lower portion of the tower reveals the fact that it is quadrangular. The pentagonal appearance of the exterior is due to the fragment of a smaller tower which once leaned against it, and probably formed the apex of a wing running out from the old castle of the Burggrafs. The Burggräfliche Burg stood below, according to Mummenhof, southwest and west of this point. It was burned down in 1420, and the ruined remains of it are supposed to be traceable in the eminence, now overgrown by turf and trees, through which a sort of ravine, closed in on either side by built-up walls, has just brought us from the town to the Vestner Thor. The Burggraf's Castle would appear to have been so situated as to protect the approach to the Imperial Castle (Kaiserburg). The exact extent of the former we can not now determine. Meisterlin refers to it as a little fort. We may, however, be certain that it reached from the Five-cornered tower to the Walpurgiskapelle. For this little chapel, east of the open space called the Freiung, is repeatedly spoken of as being on the property of the Burggrafs. Besides their castle proper, which was held at first as a fief of the Empire, and afterward came to be regarded as their hereditary, independent property, the Burggrafs were also entrusted with the keeping of a tower which commanded the entrance to the Castle rock on the country side, perhaps near the site of the present Vestner Thor. The guard door may have been attached to the tower, the lower portion of which remains to this day, and is called the Bailiff's Dwelling (Burgamtmannswohnung). The exact relationship of the Burggraf to the town on the one hand, and to the Empire on the other, is somewhat obscure. Originally, it would appear, he was merely an Imperial officer, administering Imperial estates, and looking after Imperial interests. In later days he came to possess great power, but this was due not to his position as castellan or castle governor as such, but to the vast private property his position had enabled him to amass and to keep. As the scope and ambitions of the Burggrafs increased, and as the smallness of their castle at Nuremberg, and the constant friction with the townspeople, who were able to annoy them in many ways, became more irksome, they gave up living at Nuremberg, and finally were content to sell their rights and possessions there to the town. Beside the guard door of the Burggrafs, which together with their castle passed by purchase into the hands of the town (1427), there were various other similar guard towers, such as the one which formerly occupied the present site of the Luginsland, or the Hasenburg at the so-called Himmels Thor, or a third which once stood near the Deep Well on the second plateau of the Castle rock. But we do not know how many of these there were, or where they stood, much less at what date they were built. All we do know is that they, as well as the Burggrafs' possessions, were purchased in succession by the town, into whose hands by degrees came the whole property of the Castle rock. Above the ruins of the "little fort" of the Burggrafs rises the first plateau of the Castle rock. It is surrounded by a wall, strengthened on the south side by a square tower against which leans the Walpurgiskapelle. The path to the Kaiserburg leads under the wall of the plateau, and is entirely commanded by it and by the quadrangular tower, the lower part of which alone remains and is known by the name of Burgamtmannswohnung. The path goes straight to this tower, and at the foot of it is the entrance to the first plateau. Then along the edge of this plateau the way winds southward, entirely commanded again by the wall of the second plateau, at the foot of which there probably used to be a trench. Over this a bridge led to the gate of the second plateau. The trench has been long since filled in, but the huge round tower which guarded the gate still remains and is the Vestner Thurm. The Vestner Thurm of Sinwel Thurm (sinwel = round), or, as it is called in a charter of the year 1313, the "Middle Tower," is the only round tower of the Burg. It was built in the days of early Gothic, with a sloping base, and of roughly flattened stones with a smooth edge. It was partly restored and altered in 1561, when it was made a few feet higher and its round roof was added. It is worth paying the small gratuity required for ascending to the top. The view obtained of the city below is magnificent. The Vestner Thurm, like the whole Imperial castle, passed at length into the care of the town, which kept its Tower watch here as early as the fourteenth century. The well which supplied the second plateau with water, the "Deep Well," as it is called, stands in the center, surrounded by a wall. It is 335 feet deep, hewn out of the solid rock, and is said to have been wrought by the hands of prisoners, and to have been the labor of thirty years. So much we can easily believe as we lean over and count the six seconds that elapse between the time when an object is dropt from the top to the time when it strikes the water beneath. Passages lead from the water's edge to the Rathaus, by which prisoners came formerly to draw water, and to St. John's Churchyard and other points outside the town. The system of underground passages here and in the Castle was an important part of the defenses, affording as it did a means of communication with the outer world and as a last extremity, in the case of a siege, a means of escape. Meanwhile, leaving the Deep Well and passing some insignificant modern dwellings, and leaving beneath us on the left the Himmelsthor, let us approach the summit of the rock and the buildings of the Kaiserburg itself. As we advance to the gateway with the intention of ringing the bell for the castellan, we notice on the left the Double Chapel, attaching to the Heathen Tower, the lower part of which is encrusted with what were once supposed to be Pagan images. The Tower protrudes beyond the face of the third plateau, and its prominence may indicate the width of a trench, now filled in, which was once dug outside the enclosing wall of the summit of the rock. The whole of the south side of this plateau is taken up by the "Palast" (the vast hall, two stories high, which, tho it has been repeatedly rebuilt, may in its original structure be traced back as far as the twelfth century), and the "Kemnate" or dwelling-rooms which seem to have been without any means of defense. This plateau, like the second, is supplied with a well. But the first object that strikes the eye on entering the court-yard is the ruined limetree, the branches of which once spread their broad and verdant shelter over the whole extent of the quadrangle. On leaving the Castle we find ourselves in the Burgstrasse, called in the old days Unter der Veste, which was probably the High Street of the old town. Off both sides of this street and of the Bergstrasse ran narrow crooked little alleys lined with wooden houses of which time and fire have left scarcely any trace. As you wander round the city tracing the line of the old walls, you are struck by the general air of splendor. Most of the houses are large and of a massive style of architecture, adorned with fanciful gables and bearing the impress of the period when every inhabitant was a merchant, and every merchant was lodged like a king. The houses of the merchant princes, richly carved both inside and out, tell of the wealth and splendor of Nuremberg in her proudest days. But you will also come upon a hundred crooked little streets and narrow alleys, which, tho entrancingly picturesque, tell of yet other days and other conditions. They tell of those early medieval days when the houses were almost all of wood and roofed with straw-thatching or wooden tiles; when the chimneys and bridges alike were built of wood. Only here and there a stone house roofed with brick could then be seen. The streets were narrow and crooked, and even in the fifteenth century mostly unpaved. In wet weather they were filled with unfathomable mud, and even tho in the lower part of the town trenches were dug to drain the streets, they remained mere swamps and morasses. In dry weather the dust was even a worse plague than the mud. Pig-styes stood in front of the houses; and the streets were covered with heaps of filth and manure and with rotting corpses of animals, over which the pigs wandered at will. Street police in fact was practically non-existent. Medievalism is undoubtedly better when survived. [Footnote A: From "The Story of Nuremberg." Published by E.P. Dutton & Co.] WALLS AND OTHER FORTIFICATIONS[A] BY CECIL HEADLAM A glance at the map will show us that Nuremberg, as we know it, is divided into two almost equal divisions. They are called after the names of the principal churches, the St. Lorenz, and the St. Sebald quarter. The original wall included, it will be seen, only a small portion of the northern or St. Sebald division. With the growth of the town an extension of the walls and an increase of fortification followed as a matter of course. It became necessary to carry the wall over the Pegnitz in order to protect the Lorenzkirche and the suburb which was springing up around it. The precise date of this extension of the fortifications can not be fixt. The chronicles attribute it to the twelfth century, in the reign of the first Hohenstaufen, Konrad III. No trace of a twelfth-century wall remains; but the chroniclers may, for all that, have been not very wide of the mark. The mud and wood which supplied the material of the wall may have given place to stone in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. However that may be, it will be remembered that the lower part of the White Tower, which is the oldest fragment of building we can certainly point to dates from the thirteenth century. All other portions of the second wall clearly indicate the fourteenth century, or later, as the time of their origin.... Beyond the White Tower the moat was long ago filled up, but the section of it opposite the Unschlittplatz remained open for a longer period than the rest, and was called the Klettengraben, because of the burdocks which took root there. Hereabouts, on a part of the moat, the Waizenbräuhaus was built in 1671, which is now the famous Freiherrlich von Tuchersche Brewery. Here, too, the Unschlitthaus was built at the end of the fifteenth century as a granary. It has since been turned into a school. We have now reached one of the most charming and picturesque bits of Nuremberg. Once more we have to cross the Pegnitz, whose banks are overhung by quaint old houses. Their projecting roofs and high gables, their varied chimneys and overhanging balconies from which trail rich masses of creepers, make an entrancing foreground to the towers and the arches of the Henkersteg. The wall was carried on arches over the southern arm of the Pegnitz to the point of the Saumarkt (or Trödelmarkt) island which here divides the river, and thence in like manner over the northern arm. The latter portion of it alone survives and comprises a large tower on the north bank called the Wasserthurm, which was intended to break the force of the stream; a bridge supported by two arches over the stream, which was the Henkersteg, the habitation of the hangman, and on the island itself a smaller tower, which formed the point of support for the original, southern pair of arches, which joined the Unschlitthaus, but were so badly damaged in 1595 by the high flood that they were demolished and replaced by a wooden, and later by an iron bridge. Somewhere in the second half of the fourteenth century, then, in the reign of Karl IV., they began to build the outer enceinte, which, altho destroyed at many places and broken through by modern gates and entrances, is still fairly well preserved, and secures to Nuremberg the reputation of presenting most faithfully of all the larger German towns the characteristics of a medieval town. The fortifications seem to have been thrown up somewhat carelessly at first, but dread of the Hussites soon inspired the citizens to make themselves as secure as possible. In times of war and rumors of war all the peasants within a radius of two miles of the town were called upon to help in the construction of barriers and ramparts. The whole circle of walls, towers, and ditches was practically finished by 1452, when with pardonable pride Tucher wrote, "In this year was completed the ditch round the town. It took twenty-six years to build, and it will cost an enemy a good deal of trouble to cross it." Part of the ditch had been made and perhaps revetted as early as 1407, but it was not till twenty years later that it began to be dug to the enormous breadth and depth which it boasts to-day. The size of it was always a source of pride to Nurembergers, and it was perhaps due to this reason that up till as recently as 1869 it was left perfectly intact. On the average it is about 100 feet broad. It was always intended to be a dry ditch, and, so far from there being any arrangements for flooding it, precautions were taken to carry the little Fischbach, which formerly entered the town near the modern Sternthor, across the ditch in a trough. The construction of the ditch was provided for by an order of the Council in 1427, to the effect that all householders, whether male or female, must work at the ditch one day in the year with their children of over twelve years of age, and with all their servants, male or female. Those who were not able to work had to pay a substitute. Subsequently this order was changed to the effect that every one who could or would not work must pay ten pfennige. There were no exemptions from this liturgy, whether in favor of councillor, official, or lady. The order remained ten years in force, tho the amount of the payment was gradually reduced.... At the time of the construction of these and the other lofty towers it was still thought that the raising of batteries as much as possible would increase their effect. In practise the plunging fire from platforms at the height of some eighty feet above the level of the parapets of the town wall can hardly have been capable of producing any great effect, more especially if the besieging force succeeded in establishing itself on the crest of the counterscarp of the ditches, since from that point the swell of the bastions masked the towers. But there was another use for these lofty towers. The fact is that the Nuremberg engineers, at the time that they were built, had not yet adopted a complete system of flank-works, and not having as yet applied with all its consequences the axiom that that which defends should itself be defended, they wanted to see and command their external defenses from within the body of the place, as, a century before, the baron could see from the top of his donjon whatever was going on round the walls of his castle, and send up his support to any point of attack. The great round towers of Nuremberg are more properly, in fact, detached keeps than portions of a combined system, rather observatories than effective defenses. The round towers, however, were not the sole defenses of the gates. Outside each one of them was a kind of fence of pointed beams after the manner of a chevaux-de-frise, while outside the ditch and close to the bridge stood a barrier, by the side of which was a guard-house. Tho it was not till 1598 that all the main gates were fitted with drawbridges, the wooden bridges that served before that could doubtless easily be destroyed in cases of emergency. Double-folding doors and portcullises protected the gateways themselves. Once past there, the enemy was far from being in the town, for the road led through extensive advanced works, presenting, as in the case of the Laufer Thor outwork, a regular "place d'armes." Further, the road was so engineered as not to lead in a straight line from the outer main gates to the inner ones, but rather so as to pursue a circuitous course. Thus the enemy in passing through from the one to the other were exposed as long as possible to the shots and projectiles of the defenders, who were stationed all round the walls and towers flanking the advanced tambour. This arrangement may be traced very clearly at the Frauen Thor to-day. The position of the round tower, it will be observed, was an excellent one for commanding the road from the outer to the inner gate. At intervals of every 120 or 150 feet the interior wall is broken by quadrilateral towers. Some eighty-three of these, including the gate towers, can still be traced. What the number was originally we do not know. It is the sort of subject on which chroniclers have no manner of conscience. The Hartmann Schedel Chronicle, for instance, gives Nuremberg 365 towers in all. The fact that there are 365 days in the year is of course sufficient proof of this assertion! The towers, which rise two or even three stories above the wall, communicated on both sides with the covered way. They are now used as dwelling-houses. On some of them there can still be seen, projecting near the roof, two little machicoulis turrets, which served as guard-rooms for observing the enemy, and also, by overhanging the base of the tower, enabled the garrison to hurl down on their assailants at the foot of the wall a hurricane of projectiles of every sort. Like the wall the towers are built almost entirely of sandstone, but on the side facing the town they are usually faced with brick. The shapes of the roofs vary from flat to pointed, but the towers themselves are simple and almost austere in form in comparison with those generally found in North Germany, where fantasy runs riot in red brick. The Nuremberg towers were obviously intended in the first place for use rather than for ornament. At the end of our long perambulations of the walls it will be a grateful relief to sit for a while at one of the "Restaurations" or restaurants on the walls. There, beneath the shade of acacias in the daytime, or in the evening by the white light of incandescent gas, you may sit and watch the groups of men, women, and children all drinking from their tall glasses of beer, and you may listen to the whirr and ting-tang of the electric cars, where the challenge of sentinels or the cry of the night-watchman was once the most frequent sound. Or, if you have grown tired of the Horn- and the Schloss-zwinger, cross the ditch on the west side of the town and make your way to the Rosenau, in the Fürtherstrasse. The Rosenau is a garden of trees and roses not lacking in chairs and tables, in bowers, benches, and a band. There, too, you will see the good burgher with his family drinking beer, eating sausages, and smoking contentedly. [Footnote A: From "The Story of Nuremberg." Published by E.P. Dutton & Co.] ALBERT DÜRER[A] BY CECIL HEADLAM Among the most treasured of Nuremberg's relics is the low-ceilinged, gabled house near the Thiergärtnerthor, in which Albert Dürer lived and died, in the street now called after his name. The works of art which he presented to the town, or with which he adorned its churches, have unfortunately, with but few exceptions, been sold to the stranger. It is in Vienna and Munich, in Dresden and Berlin, in Florence, in Prague, or the British Museum, that we find splendid collections of Dürer's works. Not at Nuremberg. But here at any rate we can see the house in which he toiled--no genius ever took more pains--and the surroundings which imprest his mind and influenced his inspiration. If, in the past, Nuremberg has been only too anxious to turn his works into cash, to-day she guards Albert Dürer's house with a care and reverence little short of religious. She has sold, in the days of her poverty and foolishness, the master's pictures and drawings, which are his own best monument; but she has set up a noble monument to his memory (by Rauch, 1840) in the Dürer Platz, and his house is opened to the public between the hours of 8 A.M. and 1 P.M., and 2 and 6 P.M. on week days. The Albert-Dürer-Haus Society has done admirable work in restoring and preserving the house in its original state with the aid of Professor Wanderer's architectural and antiquarian skill. Reproductions of Dürer's works are also kept here. The most superficial acquaintance with Dürer's drawings will have prepared us for the sight of his simple, unpretentious house and its contents. In his "Birth of the Virgin" he gives us a picture of the German home of his day, where there were few superfluous knick-knacks, but everything which served for daily use was well and strongly made and of good design. Ceilings, windows, doors and door-handles, chests, locks, candlesticks, banisters, waterpots, the very cooking utensils, all betray the fine taste and skilled labor, the personal interest of the man who made them. So in Dürer's house, as it is preserved to-day, we can still see and admire the careful simplicity of domestic furniture, which distinguishes that in the "Birth of the Virgin." The carved coffers, the solid tables, the spacious window-seats, the well-fitting cabinets let into the walls, the carefully wrought metal-work we see there are not luxurious; their merit is quite other than that. In workmanship as in design, how utterly do they put to shame the contents of the ordinary "luxuriously furnished apartments" of the present day! And what manner of man was he who lived in this house that nestles beneath the ancient castle? In the first place a singularly loveable man, a man of sweet and gentle spirit, whose life was one of high ideals and noble endeavor. In the second place an artist who, both for his achievements and for his influence on art, stands in the very front rank of artists, and of German artists is "facile princeps." At whatever point we may study Dürer and his works we are never conscious of disappointment. As painter, as author, as engraver, or simple citizen, the more we know of him the more we are morally and intellectually satisfied. Fortunately, through his letters and writings, his journals and autobiographical memoirs we know a good deal about his personal history and education. Dürer's grandfather came of a farmer race in the village of Eytas in Hungary. The grandfather turned goldsmith, and his eldest son, Albrecht Dürer the elder, came to Nuremberg in 1455 and settled in the Burgstrasse (No. 27). He became one of the leading goldsmiths of the town; married and had eighteen children, of whom only three, boys, grew up. Albrecht, or as we call him Albert Dürer, was the eldest of these. He was born May 21, 1471, in his father's house, and Anthoni Koberger, the printer and bookseller, the Stein of those days, stood godfather to him. The maintenance of so large a family involved the father, skilful artist as he was, in unremitting toil. His father, who was delighted with Albert's industry, took him from school as soon as he had learned to read and write and apprenticed him to a goldsmith. "But my taste drew me toward painting rather than toward goldsmithry. I explained this to my father, but he was not satisfied, for he regretted the time I had lost." Benvenuto Cellini has told us how his father, in like fashion, was eager that he should practise the "accurst art" of music. Dürer's father, however, soon gave in and in 1486 apprenticed the boy to Michael Wolgemut. That extraordinary beautiful, and, for a boy of that age, marvelously executed portrait of himself at the age of thirteen (now at Vienna) must have shown the father something of the power that lay undeveloped in his son. So "it was arranged that I should serve him for three years. During that time God gave me great industry so that I learned many things; but I had to suffer much at the hands of the other apprentices." When in 1490 his apprenticeship was completed Dürer set out on his Wanderjahre, to learn what he could of men and things, and, more especially, of his own trade. Martin Schongauer was dead, but under that master's brothers Dürer studied and helped to support himself by his art at Colmar and at Bâsle. Various wood-blocks executed by him at the latter place are preserved there. Whether he also visited Venice now or not is a moot point. Here or elsewhere, at any rate, he came under the influence of the Bellini, of Mantegna, and more particularly of Jacopo dei Barbari--the painter and engraver to whom he owed the incentive to study the proportions of the human body--a study which henceforth became the most absorbing interest of his life. "I was four years absent from Nuremberg," he records, "and then my father recalled me. After my return Hans Frey came to an understanding with my father. He gave me his daughter Agnes and with her 200 florins, and we were married." Dürer, who writes so lovingly of his parents, never mentions his wife with any affection; a fact which to some extent confirms her reputation as a Xantippe. She, too, in her way, it is suggested, practised the art of cross-hatching. Pirkheimer, writing after the artist's death, says that by her avariciousness and quarreling nature she brought him to the grave before his day. She was probably a woman of a practical and prosaic turn, to whom the dreamy, poetic, imaginative nature of the artist-student, her husband, was intolerably irritating. Yet as we look at his portraits of himself--and no man except Rembrandt has painted himself so often--it is difficult to understand how any one could have been angry with Albert Dürer. Never did the face of man bear a more sweet, benign, and trustful expression. In those portraits we see something of the beauty, of the strength, of the weakness of the man so beloved in his generation. His fondness for fine clothes and his legitimate pride in his personal beauty reveal themselves in the rich vestments he wears and the wealth of silken curls, so carefully waved, so wondrously painted, falling proudly over his free neck. [Footnote A: From "The Story of Nuremberg." Published by E.P. Dutton & Co.] III OTHER BAVARIAN CITIES MUNICH[A] BY BAYARD TAYLOR Art has done everything for Munich. It lies on a large flat plain sixteen hundred feet above the sea and continually exposed to the cold winds from the Alps. At the beginning of the present century it was but a third-rate city, and was rarely visited by foreigners; since that time its population and limits have been doubled and magnificent edifices in every style of architecture erected, rendering it scarcely secondary in this respect to any capital in Europe.[B] Every art that wealth or taste could devise seems to have been spent in its decoration. Broad, spacious streets and squares have been laid out, churches, halls and colleges erected, and schools of painting and sculpture established which draw artists from all parts of the world. All this was principally brought about by the taste of the present king, Ludwig I., who began twenty or thirty years ago, when he was crown-prince, to collect the best German artists around him and form plans for the execution of his grand design. He can boast of having done more for the arts than any other living monarch; and if he had accomplished it all without oppressing his people, he would deserve an immortality of fame.... We went one morning to see the collection of paintings formerly belonging to Eugène Beauharnais, who was brother-in-law to the present King of Bavaria, in the palace of his son, the Duke of Leuchtenberg. The first hall contains works principally by French artists, among which are two by Gérard--a beautiful portrait of Josephine, and the blind Belisarius carrying his dead companion. The boy's head lies on the old man's shoulder; but for the livid paleness of his limbs, he would seem to be only asleep, while a deep and settled sorrow marks the venerable features of the unfortunate emperor. In the middle of the room are six pieces of statuary, among which Canova's world-renowned group of the Graces at once attracts the eye. There is also a kneeling Magdalen, lovely in her wo, by the same sculptor, and a very touching work of Schadow representing a shepherd-boy tenderly binding his sash around a lamb which he has accidentaly wounded with his arrow. We have since seen in the St. Michael's Church the monument to Eugene Beauharnais from the chisel of Thorwaldsen. The noble, manly figure of the son of Josephine is represented in the Roman mantle, with his helmet and sword lying on the ground by him. On one side sits History writing on a tablet; on the other stand the two brother-angels Death and Immortality. They lean lovingly together, with arms around each other, but the sweet countenance of Death has a cast of sorrow as he stands with inverted torch and a wreath of poppies among his clustering locks. Immortality, crowned with never-fading flowers, looks upward with a smile of triumph, and holds in one hand his blazing torch. It is a beautiful idea, and Thorwaldsen has made the marble eloquent with feeling. The inside of the square formed by the arcades and the New Residence is filled with noble old trees which in summer make a leafy roof over the pleasant walks. In the middle stands a grotto ornamented with rough pebbles and shells, and only needing a fountain to make it a perfect hall of Neptune. Passing through the northern arcade, one comes into the magnificent park called the English Garden, which extends more than four miles along the bank of the Isar, several branches of whose milky current wander through it and form one or two pretty cascades. It is a beautiful alteration of forest and meadow, and has all the richness and garden-like luxuriance of English scenery. Winding walks lead along the Isar or through the wood of venerable oaks, and sometimes a lawn of half a mile in length, with a picturesque temple at its farther end, comes in sight through the trees. The New Residence is not only one of the wonders of Munich, but of the world. Altho commenced in 1826 and carried on constantly since that time by a number of architects, sculptors and painters, it is not yet finished; if art were not inexhaustible, it would be difficult to imagine what more could be added. The north side of the Max Joseph Platz is taken up by its front of four hundred and thirty feet, which was nine years in building, under the direction of the architect Klenze. The exterior is copied after the Palazzo Pitti, in Florence. The building is of light-brown sandstone, and combines an elegance, and even splendor, with the most chaste and classic style. The northern front, which faces the royal garden, is now nearly finished. It has the enormous length of eight hundred feet; in the middle is a portico of ten Ionic columns. Instead of supporting a triangular façade, each pillar stands separate and bears a marble statue from the chisel of Schwanthaler. The interior of the building does not disappoint the promise of the outside. It is open every afternoon, in the absence of the king, for the inspection of visitors. We went early to the waiting-hall, where several travelers were already assembled, and at four o'clock were admitted into the newer part of the palace, containing the throne-hall, ball-room, etc. On entering the first hall, designed for the lackeys and royal servants, we were all obliged to thrust our feet into cloth slippers to walk over the polished mosaic floor. The walls are of scagliola marble and the ceilings ornamented brilliantly in fresco. The second hall, also for servants, gives tokens of increasing splendors in the richer decorations of the walls and the more elaborate mosaic of the floor. We next entered the audience chamber, in which the court-marshal receives the guests. The ceiling is of arabesque sculpture profusely painted and gilded.... Finally we entered the Hall of the Throne. Here the encaustic decoration so plentifully employed in the other rooms is dropt, and an effect even more brilliant obtained by the united use of marble and gold. Picture a long hall with a floor of polished marble, on each side twelve columns of white marble with gilded capitals, between which stand colossal statues of gold. At the other end is the throne of gold and crimson, with gorgeous hangings of crimson velvet. The twelve statues in the hall are called the "Wittelsbach Ancestors" and represent renowned members of the house of Wittelsbach from which the present family of Bavaria is descended. They were cast in bronze by Stiglmaier after the models of Schwanthaler, and then completely covered with a coating of gold; so that they resemble solid golden statues. The value of the precious metal on each one is about three thousand dollars, as they are nine feet in height. We visited yesterday morning the Glyptothek, the finest collection of ancient sculpture except that in the British Museum I have yet seen, and perhaps elsewhere unsurpassed north of the Alps. The building, which was finished by Klenze in 1830, has an Ionic portico of white marble, with a group of allegorical figures representing Sculpture and the kindred arts. On each side of the portico there are three niches in the front, containing on one side Pericles, Phidias and Vulcan; on the other, Hadrian, Prometheus and Daedalus. The whole building forms a hollow square and is lighted entirely from the inner side. There are in all twelve halls, each containing the remains of a particular era in the art, and arranged according to time; so that, beginning with the clumsy productions of the ancient Egyptians, one passes through the different stages of Grecian art, afterward that of Rome, and finally ends with the works of our own times--the almost Grecian perfection of Thorwaldsen and Canova. These halls are worthy to hold such treasures, and what more could be said of them? The floors are of marble mosaic, the sides of green or purple scagliola and the vaulted ceilings covered with raised ornaments on a ground of gold. No two are alike in color and decoration, and yet there is a unity of taste and design in the whole which renders the variety delightful. From the Egyptian Hall we enter one containing the oldest remains of Grecian sculpture, before the artists won power to mold the marble to their conceptions. Then follow the celebrated Aegina marbles, from the temple of Jupiter Panhellenius, on the island of Aegina. They formerly stood in the two porticoes, the one group representing the fight for the body of Laomedon, the other the struggle for the dead Patroclus. The parts wanting have been admirably restored by Thorwaldsen. They form almost the only existing specimens of the Aeginetan school. Passing through the Apollo Hall, we enter the large Hall of Bacchus, in which the progress of the art is distinctly apparent. A satyr lying asleep on a goatskin which he has thrown over a rock is believed to be the work of Praxiteles. The relaxation of the figure and perfect repose of every limb is wonderful. The countenance has traits of individuality which led me to think it might have been a portrait, perhaps of some rude country swain. In the Hall of Niobe, which follows, is one of the most perfect works that ever grew into life under a sculptor's chisel. Mutilated as it is, without head and arms, I never saw a more expressive figure. Ilioneus, the son of Niobe, is represented as kneeling, apparently in the moment in which Apollo raises his arrow, and there is an imploring supplication in his attitude which is touching in the highest degree. His beautiful young limbs seem to shrink involuntarily from the deadly shaft; there is an expression of prayer, almost of agony, in the position of his body. It should be left untouched. No head could be added which would equal that one pictures to himself while gazing upon it. The Pinacothek is a magnificent building of yellow sandstone, five hundred and thirty feet long, containing thirteen hundred pictures selected with great care from the whole private collection of the king, which amounts to nine thousand. Above the cornice on the southern side stand twenty-five colossal statues of celebrated painters by Schwanthaler. As we approached, the tall bronze door was opened by a servant in the Bavarian livery, whose size harmonized so well with the giant proportions of the building that until I stood beside him and could mark the contrast I did not notice his enormous frame. I saw then that he must be near eight feet high and stout in proportion. He reminded me of the great "Baver of Trient," in Vienna. The Pinacothek contains the most complete collection of works by old German artists anywhere to be found. There are in the Hall of the Spanish Masters half a dozen of Murillo's inimitable beggar-groups. It was a relief, after looking upon the distressingly stiff figures of the old German school, to view these fresh, natural countenances. One little black-eyed boy has just cut a slice out of a melon, and turns with a full mouth to his companion, who is busy eating a bunch of grapes. The simple, contented expression on the faces of the beggars is admirable. I thought I detected in a beautiful child with dark curly locks the original of his celebrated infant St. John. I was much interested in two small juvenile works of Raphael and his own portrait. The latter was taken, most probably, after he became known as a painter. The calm, serious smile which we see on his portrait as a boy had vanished, and the thin features and sunken eye told of intense mental labor. [Footnote A: From "Views Afoot." Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons.] [Footnote B: This was written about 1848. The population of Munich is now (1914), 595,000. Munich is rated as third in importance among German cities.] AUGSBURG[A] BY THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN In ancient times--that is to say, upward of three centuries ago--the city of Augsburg was probably the most populous and consequential in the kingdom of Bavaria. It was the principal residence of the noblesse, and the great mart of commerce. Dukes, barons, nobles of every rank and degree, became domiciled here. A thousand blue and white flags streamed from the tops of castellated mansions, and fluttered along the then almost impregnable ramparts. It was also not less remarkable for the number and splendor of its religious establishments. Here was a cathedral, containing twenty-four chapels; and an abbey or monastery (of Saints Ulric and Afra) which had no rival in Bavaria for the size of its structure and the wealth of its possessions. This latter contained a Library, both of MSS. and printed books, of which the recent work of Braun has luckily preserved a record; and which, but for such record, would have been unknown to after ages. The treasures of this library are now entirely dispersed; and Munich, the capital of Bavaria, is the grand repository of them. Augsburg, in the first instance, was enriched by the dilapidations of numerous monasteries; especially upon the suppression of the order of the Jesuits. The paintings, books, and relics, of every description, of such monasteries as were in the immediate vicinity of this city, were taken away to adorn the town hall, churches, capitals and libraries. Of this collection (of which no inconsiderable portion, both for number and intrinsic value, came from the neighboring monastery of Eichstadt), there has of course been a pruning; and many flowers have been transplanted to Munich. The principal church, at the end of the Maximilian Street, is that which once formed the chief ornament of the famous Abbey of Sts. Ulric and Afra. I should think that there is no portion of the present building older than the fourteenth century; while it is evident that the upper part of the tower is of the middle of the sixteenth. It has a nearly globular or mosque-shaped termination--so common in the greater number of the Bavarian churches. It is frequented by congregations both of the Catholic and Protestant persuasion; and it was highly gratifying to see, as I saw, human beings assembled under the same roof, equally occupied in their different forms of adoration, in doing homage to their common Creator. Augsburg was once distinguished for great learning and piety, as well as for political consequence; and she boasts of a very splendid martyrological roll. At the present day, all is comparatively dull and quiet; but you can not fail to be struck with the magnificence of many of the houses, and the air of importance hence given to the streets; while the paintings upon the outer walls add much to the splendid effect of the whole. The population of Augsburg is supposed to amount to about thirty thousand. In the time of Maximilian and Charles V. it was, I make no doubt, twice as numerous.[B] [Footnote A: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Taur," published in 1821.] [Footnote B: Augsburg has now (1914) a population of 102,000. Woolen and cotton goods and machinery are its manufactured products.] RATISBON[A] BY THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN It was dark when we entered Ratisbon, and, having been recommended to the Hotel of the Agneau Blanc, we drove thither, and alighted--close to the very banks of the Danube--and heard the roar of its rapid stream, turning several mills, close, as it were, to our very ears. The master of the hotel, whose name is Cramer, and who talked French very readily, received us with peculiar courtesy; and, on demanding the best situated room in the house, we were conducted on the second floor, to a chamber which had been occupied, only two or three days before, by the Emperor of Austria himself, on his way to Aix-la-Chapelle. The next morning was a morning of wonder to us. Our sitting-room, which was a very lantern, from the number of windows, gave us a view of the rushing stream of the Danube, of a portion of the bridge over it, of some beautifully undulating and vine-covered hills, in the distance, on the opposite side--and, lower down the stream, of the town walls and water-mills, of which latter we had heard the stunning sounds on our arrival. The whole had a singularly novel and pleasing appearance. The Town Hall was large and imposing; but the Cathedral, surrounded by booths--it being fair-time--was, of course, the great object of my attention. In short, I saw enough within an hour to convince me that I was visiting a large, curious, and well-peopled town; replete with antiquities, and including several of the time of the Romans, to whom it was necessarily a very important station. Ratisbon is said to contain a population of about 20,000 souls.[B] The cathedral can boast of little antiquity. It is almost a building of yesterday; yet it is large, richly ornamented on the outside, especially on the west, between the towers--and is considered one of the noblest structures of the kind in Bavaria. The interior wants that decisive effect which simplicity produces. It is too much broken into parts, and covered with monuments of a very heterogeneous description. Near it I traced the cloisters of an old convent or monastery of some kind, now demolished, which could not be less than five hundred years old. The streets of Ratisbon are generally picturesque, as well from their undulating forms, as from the antiquity of a great number of the houses. The modern parts of the town are handsome, and there is a pleasant intermixture of trees and grass plats in some of these more recent portions. There are some pleasing public walks, after the English fashion; and a public garden, where a colossal sphinx, erected by the late philosopher Gleichen, has a very imposing appearance. Here is also an obelisk erected to the memory of Gleichen himself, the founder of these gardens; and a monument to the memory of Kepler, the astronomer; which latter was luckily spared in the assault of this town by the French in 1809. But these are, comparatively, every-day objects. A much more interesting source of observation, to my mind, were the very few existing relics of the once celebrated monastery of St. Emmeram--and a great portion of the remains of another old monastery, called St. James--which latter may indeed be designated the College of the Jacobites; as the few members who inhabit it were the followers of the house and fortunes of the Pretender, James Stuart. The Monastery or Abbey of St. Emmeram was one of the most celebrated throughout Europe; and I suspect that its library, both of MSS. and printed books, was among the principal causes of its celebrity. Of all interesting objects of architectural antiquity in Ratisbon, none struck me so forcibly--and, indeed, none is in itself so curious and singular--as the Monastery of St. James. The front of that portion of it, connected with the church, should seem to be of an extremely remote antiquity. It is the ornaments, or style of architecture, which give it this character of antiquity. The ornaments, which are on each side of the doorway, or porch, are quite extraordinary. [Footnote A: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour," published in 1821.] [Footnote B: Ratisbon has now (1914) a population of 53,000. Its manufactured products consist chiefly of pottery and lead pencils.] IV BERLIN AND ELSEWHERE A LOOK AT THE GERMAN CAPITAL[A] BY THEOPHILE GAUTIER The train spins along across great plains gilded by the setting sun; soon night comes, and with it, sleep. At stations remote from one another, German voices shout German names; I do not recognize them by the sound, and look for them in vain upon the map. Magnificent great station buildings are shown up by gaslight in the midst of surrounding darkness, then disappear. We pass Hanover and Minden; the train keeps on its way; and morning dawns. On either side stretched a peat-moss, upon which the mist was producing a singular mirage. We seemed to be upon a causeway traversing an immense lake whose waves crept up gently, dying in transparent folds along the edge of the embankment. Here and there a group of trees or a cottage, emerging like an island, completed the illusion, for such it was. A sheet of bluish mist, floating a little above the ground and curling up along its upper surface under the rays of the sun, caused this aqueous phantasmagoria, resembling the Fata Morgana of Sicily. In vain did my geographical knowledge protest, disconcerted, against this inland sea, which no map of Prussia indicates; my eyes would not give it up, and later in the day, when the sun, rising higher, had dried up this imaginary lake, they required the presence of a boat to make them admit that any body of water could be real. Suddenly upon the left were massed the trees of a great park; Tritons and Nereids appeared, dabbling in the basin of a fountain; there was a dome and a circle of columns rising above extensive buildings; and this was Potsdam.... A few moments later we were in Berlin, and a fiacre set me down at the hotel. One of the keenest pleasures of a traveler is that first drive through a hitherto unknown city, destroying or confirming his preconceived idea of it. All that is peculiar and characteristic seizes upon the yet virgin eye, whose perceptive power is never more clear. My idea of Berlin had been drawn in great measure from Hoffman's fantastic stories. In spite of myself, a Berlin, strange and grotesque, peopled with Aulic councillors, sandmen, Kreislers, archivist Lindursts, and student Anselms, had reared itself within my brain, amid a fog of tobacco-smoke; and there before me was a city regularly built, stately, with wide streets, extensive public grounds, and imposing edifices of a style half-English, half-German, and modern to the last degree. As we drove along I glanced down into those cellars, with steps so polished, so slippery, so well-soaped, that one might slide in as into the den of an ant-lion--to see if I might not discover Hoffman himself seated on a tun, his feet crossed upon the bowl of his gigantic pipe, and surrounded by a tangle of grotesque chimeras, as he is represented in the vignette of the French translation of his stories; and, to tell the truth, there was nothing of the kind in these subterranean shops whose proprietors were just opening their doors! The cats, of benignant aspect, rolled no phosphorescent eyeballs, like the cat Murr in the story, and they seemed quite incapable of writing their memoirs, or of deciphering a score of Richard Wagner's. These handsome stately houses, which are like palaces, with their columns and pediments and architraves, are built of brick for the most part, for stone seems rare in Berlin; but the brick is covered with cement or tinted stucco, to simulate hewn stone; deceitful seams indicate imaginary layers, and the illusion would be complete, were it not that in spots the winter frosts have detached the cement, revealing the red shades of the baked clay. The necessity of painting the whole façade, in order to mask the nature of the material, gives the effect of enormous architectural decorations seen in open air. The salient parts, moldings, cornices, entablatures, consoles, are of wood, bronze, or cast-iron, to which suitable forms have been given; when you do not look too closely the effect is satisfactory. Truth is the only thing lacking in all this splendor. The palatial buildings which border Regent's Park in London present also these porticoes, and these columns with brick cores and plaster-fluting, which, by aid of a coating of oil paint, are expected to pass for stone or marble. Why not build in brick frankly, since its water-coloring and capacity for ingeniously varied arrangement furnish so many resources? Even in Berlin I have seen charming houses of this kind which had the advantage of being truthful. A fictitious material always inspires a certain uneasiness. The hotel is very well located, and I propose to sketch the view seen from its steps. It will give a fair idea of the general character of the city. The foreground is a quay bordering the Spree. A few boats with slender masts are sleeping on the brown water. Vessels upon a canal or a river, in the heart of a city, have always a charming effect. Along the opposite quay stretches a line of houses; a few of them are ancient, and bear the stamp thereof; the king's palace makes the corner. A cupola upon an octagonal tower rises proudly above the other roofs, the square sides of the tower adding grace to the curve of the dome. A bridge spans the river, reminding me, with its white marble groups, of the Ponte San Angelo at Rome. These groups--eight in number, if my memory does not deceive me--are each composed of two figures; one allegorical, winged, representing the country, or glory; the other, a young man, guided through many trials to victory or immortality. These groups, in purely classic taste, are not wanting in merit, and show in some parts good study of the nude; their pedestals are ornamented with medallions, whereon the Prussian eagle, half-real, half-heraldic, makes a fine appearance. Considered as a decoration, the whole is, in my opinion, somewhat too rich for the simplicity of the bridge, which opens midway to allow the passage of vessels. Farther on, through the trees of a public garden of some kind, appears the old Museum, a great structure in the Greek style, with Doric columns relieved against a painted background. At the corners of the roof, bronze horses held by grooms are outlined upon the sky. Behind this building, and looking sideways, you perceive the triangular pediment of the new Museum. On crossing the bridge, the dark façade of the palace comes in view, with its balustraded terrace; the carvings around the main entrance are in that old, exaggerated German rococo which I have seen before and have admired in the palace in Dresden. This kind of barbaric taste has something charming about it, and entertains the eye, satiated with chefs d'oeuvre. It has invention, fancy, originality; and tho I may be censured for the opinion, I confess I prefer this exuberance to the coldness of the Greek style imitated with more erudition than success in our modern public buildings. At each side stand great bronze horses pawing the ground, and held by naked grooms. I visited the apartments of the palace; they are rich and elegant, but present nothing interesting to the artist save their ancient recessed ceilings filled with curious figures and arabesques. In the concert-hall there is a musicians' gallery in grotesque carving, silvered; its effect is really charming. Silver is not used enough in decorations; it is a relief from the classic gold, and forms admirable combinations with colors. The chapel, whose dome rises above the rest of the building, is well planned and well lighted, comfortable, reasonably decorated. Let us cross the square and take a look at the Museum, admiring, as we pass, an immense porphyry vase standing on cubes of the same material, in front of the steps which lead up to the portico. This portico is painted in fresco by various hands, under the direction of the celebrated Peter Cornelius. The paintings form a broad frieze, folding itself back at each end upon the side wall of the portico, and interrupted in the middle to give access to the Museum. The portion on the left contains a whole poem of mythologic cosmogony, treated with that philosophy and that erudition which the Germans carry into compositions of this kind; the right, purely anthropologie, represents the birth, development, and evolution of humanity. If I were to describe in detail these two immense frescoes, you would certainly be charmed with the ingenious invention, the profound knowledge, and the excellent judgment of the artist. The mysteries of the early creation are penetrated, and everything is faultlessly scientific. Also, if I should show you them in the form of those fine German engravings, the lines heightened by delicate shadows, the execution as accurate as that of Albrecht Dürer, the tone light and harmonious, you would admire the ordering of the composition, balanced with so much art, the groups skilfully united one to another, the ingenious episodes, the wise selection of the attributes, the significance of each separate thing; you might even find grandeur of style, an air of magisterial dignity, fine effects of drapery, proud attitudes, well-marked types, muscular audacities à la Michel Angelo, and a certain Germanic savagery of fine flavor. You would be struck with this free handling of great subjects, this vast conceptive power, this carrying out of an idea, which French painters so often lack; and you would think of Cornelius almost as highly as the Germans do. But in the presence of the work itself, the impression is completely different. I am well aware that fresco-painting, even in the hands of the Italian masters, skilful as they were in the technical details of their art, has not the charm of oil. The eye must become habituated to this rude, lustreless coloring, before we can discern its beauties. Many people who never say so--for nothing is more rare than the courage to avow a feeling or an opinion--find the frescoes of the Vatican and the Sistine frightful; but the great names of Michel Angelo and Raphael impose silence upon them; they murmur vague formulas of enthusiasm, and go off to rhapsodize--this time with sincerity--over some Magdalen of Guido, or some Madonna of Carlo Dolce. I make large allowance, therefore, for this unattractive aspect which belongs to fresco-painting; but in this case, the execution is by far too repulsive. The mind may be content, but the eye suffers. Painting, which is altogether a plastic art, can express its ideal only through forms and colors. To think is not enough; something must be done.... [Illustration: BERLIN: UNTER DEN LINDEN] [Illustration: BERLIN: THE BRANDENBURG GATE] [Illustration: BERLIN: THE ROYAL CASTLE AND EMPEROR WILLIAM BRIDGE] [Illustration: BERLIN: THE WHITE HALL IN THE ROYAL CASTLE] [Illustration: BERLIN: THE NATIONAL GALLERY AND FREDERICK'S BRIDGE] [Illustration: BERLIN: THE GENDARMENMARKT] [Illustration: THE COLUMN OF VICTORY IN BERLIN] [Illustration: THE MAUSOLEUM AT CHARLOTTENBURG] [Illustration: THE NEW PALACE AT POTSDAM] [Illustration: THE CASTLE OF SANS SOUCI, POTSDAM] [Illustration: THE CATHEDRAL OF AIX-LA-CHAPELLE, TOMB OF CHARLEMAGNE] [Illustration: THE ROYAL PALACE OF SCHÖNBRUNN, NEAR VIENNA (The man on the sidewalk at the left is the Emperor Francis Joseph)] [Illustration: SALZBURG, AUSTRIA] I shall not now give an inventory of the Museum in Berlin, which is rich in pictures and statues; to do this would require more space than is at my command. We find represented here, more or less favorably, all the great masters, the pride of royal galleries. But the most remarkable thing in this collection is the very numerous and very complete collection of the primitive painters of all countries and all schools, from the Byzantine down to those which immediately precede the Renaissance. The old German school, so little known in France, and on many accounts so curious, is to be studied to better advantage here than anywhere else. A rotunda contains tapestries after designs by Raphael, of which the original cartoons are now in Hampton Court. The staircase of the new Museum is decorated with those remarkable frescoes by Kaulbach, which the art of engraving and the Universal Exposition have made so well known in France. We all remember the cartoon entitled "The Dispersion of Races," and all Paris has admired, in Goupil's window that poetic "Defeat of the Huns," where the strife begun between the living warriors is carried on amidst the disembodied souls that hover above that battlefield strewn with the dead. "The Destruction of Jerusalem" is a fine composition, tho somewhat too theatrical. It resembles a "close of the fifth act" much more than beseems the serious character of fresco painting. In the panel which represents Hellenic civilization, Homer is the central figure; this composition pleased me least of all. Other paintings as yet unfinished present the climacteric epochs of humanity. The last of these will be almost contemporary, for when a German begins to paint, universal history comes under review; the great Italian painters did not need so much in achieving their master-pieces. But each civilization has its peculiar tendencies, and this encyclopedic painting is a characteristic of the present time. It would seem that, before flinging itself into its new career, the world has felt the necessity of making a synthesis of its past.... This staircase, which is of colossal size, is ornamented with casts from the finest antiques. Copies of the metopes of the Pantheon and friezes from the temple of Theseus are set into its walls, and upon one of the landings stands the Pandrosion, with all the strong and tranquil beauty of its Caryatides. The effect of the whole is very grand. At the present day there is no longer any visible difference between the people of one country and of another. The uniform domino of civilization is worn everywhere, and no difference in color, no special cut of the garment, notifies you that you are away from home. The men and women whom I met in the street escape description; the flâneurs of the Unter den Linden are exactly like the flâneurs of the Boulevard des Italiens. This avenue, bordered by splendid houses, is planted, as its name indicates, with lindens; trees "whose leaf is shaped like a heart," as Heinrich Heine remarks--a peculiarity which makes Unter den Linden dear to lovers, and eminently suited for sentimental interviews. At its entrance stands the equestrian statue of Frederick the Great. Like the Champs-Elysées in Paris, this avenue terminates at a triumphal arch, surmounted by a chariot with four bronze horses. Passing under the arch, we come out into a park in some degrees resembling the Bois de Boulogne. Along the edge of this park, which is shadowed by great trees having all the intensity of northern verdure, and freshened by a little winding stream, open flower-crowded gardens, in whose depths you can discern summer retreats, which are neither châlets, nor cottages, nor villas, but Pompeiian houses with their tetrastylic porticos and panels of antique red. The Greek taste is held in high esteem in Berlin. On the other hand, they seem to disdain the style of the Renaissance, so much in vogue in Paris; I saw no edifice of this kind in Berlin. Night came; and after paying a hasty visit to the zoological garden, where all the animals were asleep, except a dozen long-tailed paroquets and cockatoos, who were screaming from their perches, pluming themselves, and raising their crests, I returned to my hotel to strap my trunk and betake myself to the Hamburg railway station, as the train would leave at ten, a circumstance which prevented me from going, as I had intended, to the opera to hear Cherubini's "Deux Journées," and to see Louise Taglioni dance the Sevillana.... For the traveler there are but two ways: the instantaneous proof, or the prolonged study. Time failed me for the latter. Deign to accept this simple and rapid impression. [Footnote A: From "A Winter in Russia." By permission of, and by arrangement with, the publishers, Henry Holt & Co. Copyright, 1874. Since Gautier wrote, Berlin has greatly increased in population and in general importance. What is known as "Greater Berlin" now embraces about 3,250,000 souls. Many of the quaint two-story houses, which formerly were characteristic of the city, have given way to palatial houses and business blocks. Berlin is a thoroughly modern commercial city. It ranks among European cities immediately after London and Paris.] CHARLOTTENBURG[A] BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE Then we drove to Charlottenburg to see the Mausoleum. I know not when I have been more deeply affected than there; and yet, not so much by the sweet, lifelike statue of the queen as by that of the king, her husband, executed by the same hand.[B] Such an expression of long-desired rest, after suffering the toil, is shed over the face--so sweet, so heavenly! There, where he has prayed year after year--hoping, yearning, longing--there, at last, he rests, life's long anguish over! My heart melted as I looked at these two, so long divided--he so long a mourner, she so long mourned--now calmly resting side by side in a sleep so tranquil. We went through the palace. We saw the present king's writing desk and table in his study, just as he left them. His writing establishment is about as plain as yours. Men who really mean to do anything do not use fancy tools. His bedroom, also, is in a style of severe simplicity. There were several engravings fastened against the wall; and in the anteroom a bust and medallion of the Empress Eugenie--a thing which I should not exactly have expected in a born king's palace; but beauty is sacred, and kings can not call it parvenu. Then we went into the queen's bed-room, finished in green, and then through the rooms of Queen Louisa. Those marks of her presence, which you saw during the old king's lifetime, are now removed; we saw no traces of her dresses, gloves, or books. In one room, draped in white muslin over pink, we were informed the Empress of Russia was born. In going out to Charlottenburg, we rode through the Thiergarten, the Tuileries of Berlin. In one of the most quiet and sequestered spots is the monument erected by the people of Berlin to their old king. The pedestal is Carrara marble, sculptured with beautiful scenes called garden pleasures--children in all manner of outdoor sports, and parents fondly looking on. It is graceful, and peculiarly appropriate to those grounds where parents and children are constantly congregating. The whole is surmounted by a statue of the king, in white marble--the finest representation of him I have ever seen. Thoughtful, yet benign, the old king seems like a good father keeping a grave and affectionate watch over the pleasures of his children in their garden frolics. There was something about these moss-grown gardens that seemed so rural and pastoral, that I at once preferred them to all I had seen in Europe. Choice flowers are planted in knots, here and there, in sheltered nooks, as if they had grown by accident: and an air of sweet, natural wildness is left amid the most careful cultivation. The people seemed to be enjoying themselves less demonstratively and with less vivacity than in France, but with a calm inwardness. Each nation has its own way of being happy, and the style of life in each bears a certain relation of appropriateness to character. The trim, dressy, animated air of the Tuileries suits admirably with the mobile, sprightly vivacity of society there. Both, in their way, are beautiful; but this seems less formal, and more according to nature. [Footnote A: From "Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands."] [Footnote B: King Frederick William III. and Queen Louise are here referred to. Since Mrs. Stowe's visit (1854) the Emperor William I. and the Empress Augusta have been buried in this mausoleum.] LEIPSIC AND DRESDEN[A] BY BAYARD TAYLOR I have now been nearly two days in wide-famed Leipsic, and the more I see of it, the better I like it. It is a pleasant, friendly town, old enough to be interesting and new enough to be comfortable. There is much active business-life, through which it is fast increasing in size and beauty. Its publishing establishments are the largest in the world, and its annual fairs attended by people from all parts of Europe. This is much for a city to accomplish situated alone in the middle of a great plain, with no natural charms of scenery or treasures of art to attract strangers. The energy and enterprise of its merchants have accomplished all this, and it now stands in importance among the first cities of Europe. On my first walk around the city, yesterday morning, I passed the Augustus Platz--a broad green lawn on which front the university and several other public buildings. A chain of beautiful promenades encircles the city on the site of its old fortifications. Following their course through walks shaded by large trees and bordered with flowering shrubs, I passed a small but chaste monument to Sebastian Bach, the composer, which was erected almost entirely at the private cost of Mendelssohn, and stands opposite the building in which Bach once directed the choirs. As I was standing beside it a glorious choral swelled by a hundred voices came through the open windows like a tribute to the genius of the great master. Having found my friend, we went together to the Sternwarte, or observatory, which gives a fine view of the country around the city, and in particular the battlefield. The castellan who is stationed there is well acquainted with the localities, and pointed out the position of the hostile armies. It was one of the most bloody and hard-fought battles which history records. The army of Napoleon stretched like a semicircle around the southern and eastern sides of the city, and the plain beyond was occupied by the allies, whose forces met together here. Schwarzenberg, with his Austrians, came from Dresden; Blücher, from Halle, with the Emperor Alexander. Their forces amounted to three hundred thousand, while those of Napoleon ranked at one hundred and ninety-two thousand men. It must have been a terrific scene. Four days raged the battle, and the meeting of half a million of men in deadly conflict was accompanied by the thunder of sixteen hundred cannon. The small rivers which flow through Leipsic were swollen with blood, and the vast plain was strewed with more than fifty thousand dead. It is difficult to conceive of such slaughter while looking at the quiet and tranquil landscape below. It seemed more like a legend of past ages, when ignorance and passion led men to murder and destroy, than an event which the last half century witnessed. For the sake of humanity it is to be hoped that the world will never see such another. There are some lovely walks around Leipsic. We went yesterday afternoon with a few friends to the Rosenthal, a beautiful meadow, bordered by forests of the German oak, very few of whose Druid trunks have been left standing. There are Swiss cottages embowered in the foliage where every afternoon the social citizens assemble to drink their coffee and enjoy a few hours' escape from the noisy and dusty streets. One can walk for miles along these lovely paths by the side of the velvet meadows or the banks of some shaded stream. We visited the little village of Golis, a short distance off, where, in the second story of a little white house, hangs the sign, "Schiller's Room." Some of the Leipsic "literati" have built a stone arch over the entrance, with the inscription above: "Here dwelt Schiller in 1795, and wrote his Hymn to Joy." Everywhere through Germany the remembrances of Schiller are sacred. In every city where he lived they show his dwelling. They know and reverence the mighty spirit who has been among them. The little room where he conceived that sublime poem is hallowed as if by the presence of unseen spirits. I was anxious to see the spot where Poniatowsky fell. We returned over the plain to the city, and passed in at the gate by which the Cossacks entered, pursuing the flying French. Crossing the lower part, we came to the little river Elster, in whose waves the gallant prince sank. The stone bridge by which we crossed was blown up by the French to cut off pursuit. Napoleon had given orders that it should not be blown up till the Poles had all passed over as the river, tho narrow, is quite deep and the banks are steep. Nevertheless, his officers did not wait, and the Poles, thus exposed to the fire of the enemy, were obliged to plunge into the stream to join the French army, which had begun retreat toward Frankfort. Poniatowsky, severely wounded, made his way through a garden near, and escaped on horseback into the water. He became entangled among the fugitives, and sank. By walking a little distance along the road toward Frankfort we could see the spot where his body was taken out of the river; it is now marked by a square stone covered with the names of his countrymen who have visited it. We returned through the narrow arched way by which Napoleon fled when the battle was lost. Another interesting place in Leipsic is Auerbach's Cellar, which, it is said, contains an old manuscript history of Faust from which Goethe derived the first idea of his poem. He used to frequent this cellar, and one of his scenes in "Faust" is laid in it. We looked down the arched passage; not wishing to purchase any wine, we could find no pretense for entering. The streets are full of book-stores, and one-half the business of the inhabitants appears to consist in printing, paper-making and binding. The publishers have a handsome exchange of their own, and during the fairs the amount of business transacted is enormous. At last in this "Florence of the Elbe," as the Saxons have christened it! Exclusive of its glorious galleries of art, which are scarcely surpassed by any in Europe, Dresden charms one by the natural beauty of its environs. It stands in a curve of the Elbe, in the midst of green meadows, gardens and fine old woods, with the hills of Saxony sweeping around like an amphitheater and the craggy peaks of the highlands looking at it from afar. The domes and spires at a distance give it a rich Italian look, which is heightened by the white villas embowered in trees gleaming on the hills around. In the streets there is no bustle of business--nothing of the din and confusion of traffic which mark most cities; it seems like a place for study and quiet enjoyment. The railroad brought us in three hours from Leipsic over the eighty miles of plain that intervene. We came from the station through the Neustadt, passing the Japanese palace and the equestrian statue of Augustus the Strong. The magnificent bridge over the Elbe was so much injured by the late inundation as to be impassable; we were obliged to go some distance up the river-bank and cross on a bridge of boats. Next morning my first search was for the picture-gallery. We set off at random, and after passing the church of Our Lady, with its lofty dome of solid stone, which withstood the heaviest bombs during the war with Frederick the Great, came to an open square one side of which was occupied by an old brown, red-roofed building which I at once recognized from pictures as the object of our search. I have just taken a last look at the gallery this morning, and left it with real regret; for during the two visits Raphael's heavenly picture of the Madonna and Child had so grown into my love and admiration that it was painful to think I should never see it again. There are many mere which clung so strongly to my imagination, gratifying in the highest degree the love for the beautiful, that I left them with sadness and the thought that I would now only have the memory. I can see the inspired eye and godlike brow of the Jesus-child as if I were still standing before the picture, and the sweet, holy countenance of the Madonna still looks upon me. Yet, tho this picture is a miracle of art, the first glance filled me with disappointment. It has somewhat faded during the three hundred years that have rolled away since the hand of Raphael worked on the canvas, and the glass with which it is covered for better preservation injures the effect. After I had gazed on it a while, every thought of this vanished. The figure of the Virgin seemed to soar in the air, and it was difficult to think the clouds were not in motion. An aërial lightness clothes her form, and it is perfectly natural for such a figure to stand among the clouds. Two divine cherubs look up from below, and in her arms sits the sacred Child. Those two faces beam from the picture like those of angels. The mild, prophetic eye and lofty brow of the young Jesus chain one like a spell. There is something more than mortal in its expression--something in the infant face which indicates a power mightier than the proudest manhood. There is no glory around the head, but the spirit which shines from those features marks its divinity. In the sweet face of the mother there speaks a sorrowful foreboding mixed with its tenderness, as if she knew the world into which the Savior was born and foresaw the path in which he was to tread. It is a picture which one can scarce look upon without tears. There are in the same room six pictures by Correggio which are said to be among his best works--one of them, his celebrated Magdalen. There is also Correggio's "Holy Night," or the Virgin with the shepherds in the manger, in which all the light comes from the body of the Child. The surprise of the shepherds is most beautifully exprest. In one of the halls there is a picture of Van der Werff in which the touching story of Hagar is told more feelingly than words could do it. The young Ishmael is represented full of grief at parting with Isaac, who, in childish unconsciousness of what has taken place, draws in sport the corner of his mother's mantle around him and smiles at the tears of his lost playmate. Nothing can come nearer real flesh and blood than the two portraits of Raphael Mengs, painted by himself when quite young. You almost think the artist has in sport crept behind the frame and wishes to make you believe he is a picture. It would be impossible to speak of half the gems of art contained in this unrivalled collection. There are twelve large halls, containing in all nearly two thousand pictures. The plain south of Dresden was the scene of the hard-fought battle between Napoleon and the allied armies in 1813. On the heights above the little village of Räcknitz, Moreau was shot on the second day of the battle. We took a footpath through the meadows, shaded by cherry trees in bloom, and reached the spot after an hour's walk. The monument is simple--a square block of granite surmounted by a helmet and sword, with the inscription, "The hero Moreau fell here by the side of Alexander, August 17, 1813," I gathered as a memorial a few leaves of the oak which shades it. By applying an hour before the appointed time, we obtained admission to the royal library. It contains three hundred thousand volumes--among them, the most complete collection of historical works in existence. Each hall is devoted to a history of a separate country, and one large room is filled with that of Saxony alone. There is a large number of rare and curious manuscripts, among which are old Greek works of the seventh and eighth centuries, a Koran which once belonged to the Sultan Bajazet, the handwriting of Luther and Melanchthon, a manuscript volume with pen-and-ink sketches by Albert Dürer, and the earliest works after the invention of printing. Among these latter was a book published by Faust and Schaeffer, at Mayence, in 1457. There were also Mexican manuscripts written on the aloe leaf, and many illuminated monkish volumes of the Middle Ages. We were fortunate in seeing the Grüne Gewölbe, or Green Gallery, a collection of jewels and costly articles unsurpassed in Europe. The first hall into which we were ushered contained works in bronze. They were all small, and chosen with regard to their artistical value. Some by John of Bologna were exceedingly fine, as was also a group in iron cut out of a single block, perhaps the only successful attempt in this branch. The next room contained statues, and vases covered with reliefs in ivory. The most remarkable work was the fall of Lucifer and his angels, containing ninety-two figures in all, carved out of a single piece of ivory sixteen inches high. It was the work of an Italian monk, and cost him many years of hard labor. There were two tables of mosaic-work that would not be out of place in the fabled halls of the Eastern genii, so much did they exceed my former ideas of human skill. The tops were of jasper, and each had a border of fruit and flowers in which every color was represented by some precious stone, all with the utmost delicacy and truth to nature. It is impossible to conceive the splendid effect it produced. Besides some fine pictures on gold by Raphael Mengs, there was a Madonna, the largest specimen of enamel-painting in existence. However costly the contents of these halls, they were only an introduction to those which followed. Each one exceeded the other in splendor and costliness. The walls were covered to the ceiling with rows of goblets, vases, etc., of polished jasper, agate, and lapis lazuli. Splendid mosaic tables stood around with caskets of the most exquisite silver and gold work upon them, and vessels of solid silver, some of them weighing six hundred pounds, were placed at the foot of the columns. We were shown two goblets, each prized at six thousand thalers, made of gold and precious stones; also the great pearl called the "Spanish Dwarf," nearly as large as a pullet's egg, globes and vases cut entirely out of the mountain-crystal, magnificent Nuremberg watches and clocks, and a great number of figures made ingeniously of rough pearls and diamonds. The officer showed me a hen's egg of silver. There was apparently nothing remarkable about it, but by unscrewing it came apart and disclosed the yolk of gold. This again opened, and a golden chicken was seen; by touching a spring a little diamond crown came from the inside, and, the crown being again taken apart, out dropt a valuable diamond ring. The seventh hall contains the coronation-robes of Augustus II. of Poland, and many costly specimens of carving in wood. A cherry-stone is shown in a glass case which has one hundred and twenty-five facets, all perfectly finished, carved upon it. The next room we entered sent back a glare of splendor that perfectly dazzled us; it was all gold, diamond, ruby, and sapphire. Every case sent out such a glow and glitter that it seemed like a cage of imprisoned lightnings. Wherever the eye turned it was met by a blaze of broken rainbows. They were there by hundreds, and every gem was a fortune--whole cases of swords with hilts and scabbards of solid gold studded with gems, the great two-handed coronation sword of the German emperors, daggers covered with brilliants and rubies, diamond buttons, chains, and orders, necklaces and bracelets of pearl and emerald, and the order of the Golden Fleece made in gems of every kind. We were also shown the largest known onyx, nearly seven inches long and four inches broad. One of the most remarkable works is the throne and court of Aurungzebe, the Indian king, by Dinglinger, a celebrated goldsmith of the last century. It contains one hundred and thirty-two figures, all of enameled gold and each one most perfectly and elaborately finished. It was purchased by Prince Augustus for fifty-eight thousand thalers,[B] which was not a high sum, considering that the making of it occupied Dinglinger and thirteen workmen for seven years. It is almost impossible to estimate the value of the treasures these halls contain. That of the gold and jewels alone must be many millions of dollars, and the amount of labor expended on these toys of royalty is incredible. As monuments of patient and untiring toil they are interesting, but it is sad to think how much labor and skill and energy have been wasted in producing things which are useless to the world and only of secondary importance as works of art. Perhaps, however, if men could be diverted by such playthings from more dangerous games, it would be all the better. [Footnote A: From "Views Afoot." Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons.] [Footnote B: A Prussian or Saxon thaler is about seventy cents. Author's note--The thaler went out of use in Germany in 1906.] WEIMAR IN GOETHE'S DAY[A] BY MADAME DE STAËL Of all the German principalities, there is none that makes us feel so much as Weimar the advantages of a small state, of which the sovereign is a man of strong understanding, and who is capable of endeavoring to please all orders of his subjects, without losing anything in their obedience. Such a state is as a private society, where all the members are connected together by intimate relations. The Duchess Louisa of Saxe Weimar is the true model of a woman destined by nature to the most illustrious rank; without pretension, as without weakness, she inspires in the same degree confidence and respect; and the heroism of the chivalrous ages has entered her soul without taking from it any thing of her sex's softness. The military talents of the duke are universally respected, and his lively and reflective conversation continually brings to our recollection that he was formed by the great Frederic. It is by his own and his mother's reputation that the most distinguished men of learning have been attracted to Weimar, and by them Germany, for the first time, has possest a literary metropolis; but, as this metropolis was at the same time only an inconsiderable town, its ascendency was merely that of superior illumination; for fashion, which imposes uniformity in all things, could not emanate from so narrow a circle. Herder was just dead when I arrived at Weimar; but Wieland, Goethe, and Schiller were still there. Their writings are the perfect resemblances of their character and conversation. This very rare concordance is a proof of sincerity; when the first object in writing is to produce an effect upon others, a man never displays himself to them, such as he is in reality; but when he writes to satisfy an internal inspiration which has obtained possession of the soul, he discovers by his works, even without intending it, the very slightest shades of his manner of thinking and acting. The residence in country towns has always appeared to me very irksome. The understanding of the men is narrowed, the heart of the women frozen there; people live so much in each other's presence that one is opprest by one's equals; it is no longer this distant opinion, the reverberation of which animates you from afar like the report of glory; it is a minute inspection of all the actions of your life, an observation of every detail, which prevents the general character from being comprehended; and the more you have of independence and elevation of mind, the less able you are to breathe amidst so many little impediments. This painful constraint did not exist at Weimar; it was rather a large palace than a little town; a select circle of society, which made its interest consist in the discussion of all the novelties of art and science: women, the amiable scholars of some superior men, were constantly speaking of the new literary works, as of the most important public events. They enjoyed the whole universe by reading and study; they freed themselves by the enlargement of the mind from the restraint of circumstances; they forgot the private anecdotes of each individual, in habitually reflecting together on those great questions which influence the destiny common to all alike. And in this society there were none of those provincial wonders, who so easily mistake contempt for grace, and affectation for elegance. [Footnote A: From "Germany."] ULM[A] BY THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN We were now within about twenty English miles of Ulm. Nothing particular occurred, either by way of anecdote or of scenery, till within almost the immediate approach or descent to that city--the last in the Suabian territories, and which is separated from Bavaria by the River Danube. I caught the first glance of that celebrated river (here of comparatively trifling width) with no ordinary emotions of delight. It recalled to my memory the battle of Blenheim, or of Hochstedt; for you know that it was across this very river, and scarcely a score of miles from Ulm, that the victorious Marlborough chased the flying French and Bavarians--at the battle just mentioned. At the same moment, almost, I could not fail to contrast this glorious issue with the miserable surrender of the town before me--then filled by a large and well-disciplined army, and commanded by that nonpareil of generals, J.G. Mack!--into the power of Bonaparte almost without pulling a trigger on either side--the place itself being considered, at the time, one of the strongest towns in Europe. These things, I say, rushed upon my memory, when, on the immediate descent into Ulm, I caught the first view of the tower of the minster which quickly put Marlborough, and Mack, and Bonaparte out of my recollection. I had never, since quitting the beach at Brighton, beheld such an English-like looking cathedral--as a whole; and particularly the tower. It is broad, bold, and lofty; but, like all edifices, seen from a neighboring and perhaps loftier height, it loses, at first view, very much of the loftiness of its character. However, I looked with admiration, and longed to approach it. This object was accomplished in twenty minutes. We entered Ulm about two o'clock: drove to an excellent inn (the White Stag--which I strongly recommend to all travelers), and ordered our dinner to be got ready by five; which, as the house was within a stone's cast of the cathedral, gave us every opportunity of visiting it beforehand. The day continued most beautiful: and we sallied forth in high spirits, to gaze at and to admire every object of antiquity which should present itself. The Cathedral of Ulm is doubtless among the most respectable of those on the Continent. It is large and wide, and of a massive and imposing style of architecture. The buttresses are bold, and very much after the English fashion. The tower is the chief exterior beauty. Before we mounted it, we begged the guide, who attended us, to conduct us all over the interior. This interior is very noble, and even superior, as a piece of architecture, to that of Strasburg. I should think it even longer and wider--for the truth is, that the tower of Strasburg Cathedral is as much too tall, as that of Ulm Cathedral is too short, for its nave and choir. Not very long ago, they had covered the interior by a whitewash; and thus the mellow tint of probably about five centuries--in a spot where there are few immediately surrounding houses--and in a town of which the manufactories and population are comparatively small--the latter about 14,000--thus, I say, the mellow tint of these five centuries (for I suppose the cathedral to have been finished about the year 1320) has been cruelly changed for the staring and chilling effects of whiting.[B] The choir is interesting in a high degree. At the extremity of it is an altar--indicative of the Lutheran form of worship being carried on within the church--upon which are oil paintings upon wood, emblazoned with gilt backgrounds--of the time of Hans Burgmair, and of others at the revival of the art of painting in Germany. These pictures turn upon hinges, so as to shut up, or be thrown open; and are in the highest state of preservation. Their subjects are entirely Scriptural; and perhaps old John Holbein, the father of the famous Hans Holbein, might have had a share in some of them. Perhaps they may come down to the time of Lucas Cranach. Wherever, or by whomsoever executed, this series of paintings, upon the high altar of the Cathedral of Ulm, can not be viewed without considerable satisfaction. They were the first choice specimens of early art which I had seen on this side of the Rhine; and I, of course, contemplated them with the hungry eye of an antiquary. After a careful survey of the interior, the whole of which had quite the air of English cleanliness and order, we prepared to mount the famous tower. Our valet, Rohfritsch, led the way; counting the steps as he mounted, and finding them to be about 378 in number. He was succeeded by the guide. Mr. Lewis and myself followed in a more leisurely manner; peeping through the interstices which presented themselves in the open fretwork of the ornaments, and finding, as we continued to ascend, that the inhabitants and dwelling houses of Ulm diminished gradually in size. At length we gained the summit, which is surrounded by a parapet wall of some three or four feet in height. We paused a minute, to recover our breath, and to look at the prospect which surrounded us. The town, at our feet, looked like the metropolis of Laputa. Yet the high ground, by which we had descended into the town--and upon which Bonaparte's army was formerly encamped--seemed to be more lofty than the spot whereon we stood. On the opposite side flowed the Danube; not broad, nor, as I learned, very deep; but rapid and in a serpentine direction. Upon the whole, the Cathedral of Ulm is a noble ecclesiastical edifice; uniting simplicity and purity with massiveness of composition. Few cathedrals are more uniform in the style of their architecture. It seems to be, to borrow technical language, all of a piece. Near it, forming the foreground of the Munich print, are a chapel and a house surrounded by trees. The Chapel is very small, and, as I learned, not used for religious purposes. The house (so Professor Veesenmeyer informed me) is supposed to have been the residence and offices of business of John Zeiner, the well-known printer, who commenced his typographical labors about the year 1740, and who uniformly printed at Ulm; while his brother Gunther as uniformly exercised his art in the city whence I am now addressing you. They were both natives of Reutlingen, a town of some note between Tübingen and Ulm. [Footnote A: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour," published in 1821.] [Footnote B: Ulm has now (1914) a population of 56,000.] AIX-LA-CHAPELLE AND CHARLEMAGNE'S TOMB[A] BY VICTOR HUGO For an invalid, Aix-la-Chapelle is a mineral fountain--warm, cold, irony, and sulfurous; for the tourist, it is a place for redouts and concerts; for the pilgrim, the place of relics, where the gown of the Virgin Mary, the blood of Jesus, the cloth which enveloped the head of John the Baptist after his decapitation, are exhibited every seven years; for the antiquarian, it is a noble abbey of "filles à abbesse," connected with the male convent, which was built by Saint Gregory, son of Nicephore, Emperor of the East; for the hunter, it is the ancient valley of the wild boars; for the merchant, it is a "fabrique" of cloth, needles, and pins; and for him who is no merchant, manufacturer, hunter, antiquary, pilgrim, tourist, or invalid, it is the city of Charlemagne. Charlemagne was born at Aix-la-Chapelle, and died there. He was born in the old place, of which there now only remains the tower, and he was buried in the church that he founded in 796, two years after the death of his wife Fastrada. Leo the Third consecrated it in 804, and tradition says that two bishops of Tongres, who were buried at Maestricht, arose from their graves, in order to complete, at that ceremony, 365 bishops and archbishops--representing the days of the year. This historical and legendary church, from which the town has taken its name, has undergone, during the last thousand years, many transformations. No sooner had I entered Aix than I went to the chapel.... The effect of the great "portail" is not striking; the façade displays the different styles of architecture--Roman, Gothic, and modern--without order, and consequently, without grandeur; but if, on the contrary, we arrive at the chapel by Chevet, the result is otherwise. The high "abside" of the fourteenth century, in all its boldness and beauty, the rich workmanship of its balustrades, the variety of its "gargouilles," the somber hue of the stones, and the large transparent windows--strike the beholder with admiration. Here, nevertheless, the aspect of the church--imposing tho it is--will be found far from uniform. Between the "abside" and the "portail," in a kind of cavity, the dome of Otho III., built over the tomb of Charlemagne in the tenth century, is hid from view. After a few moments' contemplation, a singular awe comes over us when gazing at this extraordinary edifice--an edifice which, like the great work that Charlemagne began, remains unfinished; and which, like his empire that spoke all languages, is composed of architecture that represents all styles. To the reflective, there is a strange analogy between that wonderful man and this great building. After having passed the arched roof of the portico, and left behind me the antique bronze doors surmounted with lions' heads, a white rotundo of two stories, in which all the "fantasies" of architecture are displayed, attracted my attention. At casting my eyes upon the ground, I perceived a large block of black marble, with the following inscription in brass letters:-- "Carolo Magno." Nothing is more contemptible than to see, exposed to view, the bastard graces that surround this great Carlovingian name; angels resembling distorted Cupids, palm-branches like colored feathers, garlands of flowers, and knots of ribbons, are placed under the dome of Otho III., and upon the tomb of Charlemagne. The only thing here that evinces respect to the shade of that great man is an immense lamp, twelve feet in diameter, with forty-eight burners; which was presented, in the twelfth century, by Barbarossa. It is of brass, gilt with gold, has the form of a crown, and is suspended from the ceiling above the marble stone by an iron chain about seventy feet in length. It is evident that some other monument had been erected to Charlemagne. There is nothing to convince us that this marble, bordered with brass, is of antiquity. As to the letters, "Carolo Magno," they are not of a late date than 1730. Charlemagne is no longer under this stone. In 1166 Frederick Barbarossa--whose gift, magnificent tho it was, does by no means compensate for this sacrilege--caused the remains of that great emperor to be untombed. The Church claimed the imperial skeleton, and, separating the bones, made each a holy relic. In the adjoining sacristy, a vicar shows the people--for three francs seventy-five centimes--the fixt price--"the arm of Charlemagne"--that arm which held for a time the reins of the world. Venerable relic! which has the following inscription, written by some scribe of the twelfth century: "Arm of the Sainted Charles the Great." After that I saw the skull of Charlemagne, that cranium which may be said to have been the mold of Europe, and which a beadle had the effrontery to strike with his finger. All were kept in a wooden armory, with a few angels, similar to those I have just mentioned, on the top. Such is the tomb of the man whose memory has outlived ten ages, and who, by his greatness, has shed the rays of immortality around his name. "Sainted, Great," belong to him--two of the most august epithets which this earth could bestow upon a human being. There is one thing astonishing--that is, the largeness of the skull and arm. Charlemagne was, in fact, colossal with respect to size of body as well as extraordinary mental endowments. The son of Pepin-le-Bref was in body, as in mind, gigantic; of great corporeal strength, and of astounding intellect. An inspection of this armory has a strange effect upon the antiquary. Besides the skull and arm, it contains the heart of Charlemagne; the cross which the emperor had round his neck in his tomb; a handsome ostensorium, of the Renaissance, given by Charles the Fifth, and spoiled, in the last century, by tasteless ornaments; fourteen richly sculptured gold plates, which once ornamented the arm-chair of the emperor; an ostensorium, given by Philippe the Second; the cord which bound our Savior; the sponge that was used upon the cross; the girdle of the Holy Virgin, and that of the Redeemer. In the midst of innumerable ornaments, heaped up in the armory like mountains of gold and precious stones, are two shrines of singular beauty. One, the oldest, which is seldom opened, contains the remaining bones of Charlemagne, and the other, of the twelfth century, which Frederick Barbarossa gave to the church, holds the relics, which are exhibited every seven years. A single exhibition of this shrine, in 1696, attracted 42,000 pilgrims, and drew, in ten days 80,000 florins. This shrine has only one key, which is in two pieces; the one is in the possession of the chapter, the other in that of the magistrates of the town. Sometimes it is opened on extraordinary occasions, such as on the visit of a monarch.... The tomb, before it became the sarcophagus of Charlemagne, was, it is said, that of Augustus. After mounting a narrow staircase, my guide conducted me to a gallery which is called the Hochmünster. In this place is the arm-chair of Charlemagne. It is low, exceedingly wide, with a round back; is formed of four pieces of white marble, without ornaments or sculpture, and has for a seat an oak board, covered with a cushion of red velvet. There are six steps up to it, two of which are of granite, the others of marble. On this chair sat--a crown upon his head, a globe in one hand, a scepter in the other, a sword by his side, the imperial mantle over his shoulders, the cross of Christ round his neck, and his feet in the sarcophagus of Augustus--Carolus Magnus in his tomb, in which attitude he remained for three hundred and fifty-two years--from 852 to 1166, when Frederick Barbarossa, coveting the chair for his coronation, entered the tomb. Barbarossa was an illustrious prince and a valiant soldier; and it must, therefore, have been a moment singularly strange when this crowned man stood before the crowned corpse of Charlemagne--the one in all the majesty of empire, the other in all the majesty of death. The soldier overcame the shades of greatness; the living became the despoliator of inanimate worth. The chapel claimed the skeleton, and Barbarossa the marble chair, which afterward became the throne where thirty-six emperors were crowned. Ferdinand the First was the last; Charles the Fifth preceded him. In 1804, when Bonaparte became known as Napoleon, he visited Aix-la-Chapelle. Josephine, who accompanied him, had the caprice to sit down on this chair; but Napoleon, out of respect for Charlemagne, took off his hat, and remained for some time standing, and in silence. The following fact is somewhat remarkable, and struck me forcibly. In 814 Charlemagne died; a thousand years afterward, most probably about the same hour, Napoleon fell. In that fatal year, 1814, the allied sovereigns visited the tomb of the great "Carolus." Alexander of Russia, like Napoleon, took off his hat and uniform; Frederick William of Prussia kept on his "casquette de petite tenue;" Francis retained his surtout and round bonnet. The King of Prussia stood upon the marble steps, receiving information from the provost of the chapter respecting the coronation of the emperors of Germany; the two emperors remained silent. Napoleon, Josephine, Alexander, Frederick William, and Francis, are now no more. A few minutes afterward I was on my way to the Hôtel-de-Ville, the supposed birthplace of Charlemagne, which, like the chapel, is an edifice made of five or six others. In the middle of the court there is a fountain of great antiquity, with a bronze statue of Charlemagne. To the left and right are two others--both surmounted with eagles, their heads half turned toward the grave and tranquil emperor. The evening was approaching. I had passed the whole of the day among these grand and austere "souvenirs;" and, therefore, deemed it essential to take a walk in the open fields, to breathe the fresh air, and to watch the rays of the declining sun. I wandered along some dilapidated walls, entered a field, then some beautiful alleys, in one of which I seated myself. Aix-la-Chapelle lay extended before me, partly hid by the shades of evening, which were falling around. By degrees the fogs gained the roofs of the houses, and shrouded the town steeples; then nothing was seen but two huge masses--the Hôtel-de-Ville and the chapel. All the emotions, all the thoughts and visions which flitted across my mind during the day, now crowded upon me. The first of the two dark objects was to me only the birthplace of a child; the second was the resting-place of greatness. At intervals, in the midst of my reverie, I imagined that I saw the shade of this giant, whom we call Charlemagne, developing itself between this great cradle and still greater tomb. [Footnote A: From "The Rhine." Translated by D.M. Aird.] THE HANSEATIC LEAGUE[A] BY JAMES HOWELL The Hans, or Hanseatic League, is very ancient, some would derive the word from hand, because they of the society plight their faith by that action; others derive it from Hansa, which in the Gothic tongue is council; others would have it come from Hander see, which signifies near or upon the sea, and this passeth for the best etymology, because their towns are all seated so, or upon some navigable river near the sea. The extent of the old Hans was from the Nerve in Livonia to the Rhine, and contained sixty-two great mercantile towns, which were divided into four precincts. The chiefest of the first precinct was Lübeck, where the archives of their ancient records and their prime chancery is still, and this town is within that verge; Cullen is chief of the second precinct, Brunswick of the third, and Dantzic of the fourth. The kings of Poland and Sweden have sued to be their protector, but they refused them, because they were not princes of the empire. They put off also the King of Denmark with a compliment, nor would they admit the King of Spain when he was most potent in the Netherlands, tho afterward, when it was too late, they desired the help of the ragged staff; nor of the Duke of Anjou, notwithstanding that the world thought he should have married our queen, who interceded for him, and so it was probable that thereby they might recover their privileges in England. So I do not find that they ever had any protector but the great Master of Prussia; and their want of a protector did do them some prejudice in that famous difference they had with our Queen. The old Hans had extraordinary immunities given them by our Henry the Third, because they assisted him in his wars with so many ships, and as they pretend, the king was not only to pay them for the service of the said ships but for the vessels themselves if they miscarried. Now it happened that at their return to Germany, from serving Henry the Third, there was a great fleet of them cast away, for which, according to covenant, they demanded reparation. Our king in lieu of money, among other facts of grace, gave them a privilege to pay but one per cent., which continued until Queen Mary's reign, and she by advice of King Philip, her husband, as it was conceived, enhanced the one to twenty per cent. The Hans not only complained but clamored loudly for breach of their ancient privileges confirmed unto them, time out of mind, by thirteen successive kings of England, which they pretended to have purchased with their money. King Philip undertook to accommodate the business, but Queen Mary dying a little after, and he retiring, there could be nothing done. Complaint being made to Queen Elizabeth, she answered that as she would not innovate anything, so she would maintain them still in the same condition she found them. Hereupon their navigation and traffic ceased a while, wherefore the English tried what they could do themselves, and they thrived so well that they took the whole trade into their own hands, and so divided themselves (tho they be now but one), to staplers and merchant-adventurers, the one residing constant in one place, where they kept their magazine of wool, the other stirring and adventuring to divers places abroad with cloth and other manufacturies, which made the Hans endeavor to draw upon them all the malignancy they could from all nations. Moreover, the Hans towns being a body politic incorporated in the empire, complained thereof to the emperor, who sent over persons of great quality to mediate an accommodation, but they could effect nothing. Then the queen caused a proclamation to be published that the easterlings or merchants of the Hans should be entreated and used as all other strangers were, within her dominations, without any mark of difference in point of commerce. This nettled them more, thereupon they bent their forces more eagerly, and in a diet at Ratisbon they procured that the English merchants who had associated themselves into fraternities in Emden and other places should be declared monopolists; and so there was a committal edict published against them that they should be exterminated and banished out of all parts of the empire; and this was done by the activity of one Sudennan, a great civilian. There was there for the queen, Gilpin, as nimble a man as Suderman, and he had the Chancellor of Emden to second and countenance him, but they could not stop the said edict wherein the Society of English Merchant-Adventurers was pronounced to be a monopoly; yet Gilpin played his game so well, that he wrought underhand, that the said imperial ban should not be published till after the dissolution of the diet, and that in the interim the Emperor should send ambassadors to England to advise the queen of such a ban against her merchants. But this wrought so little impression upon the queen that the said ban grew rather ridiculous than formidable, for the town of Emden harbored our merchants notwithstanding and afterward Stade, but they not being able to protect them so well from the imperial ban, they settled in the town of Hamburg. After this the queen commanded another proclamation to be divulged that the easterlings or Hanseatic merchants should be allowed to trade in England upon the same conditions and payment of duties as her own subjects, provided that the English merchants might have interchangeable privilege to reside and trade peaceably in Stade or Hamburg or anywhere else within the precincts of Hans. This incensed them more, thereupon they resolved to cut off Stade and Hamburg from being members of the Hans or of the empire; but they suspended this decision till they saw what success the great Spanish fleet should have, which was then preparing in the year eighty-eight, for they had not long before had recourse to the King of Spain and made him their own, and he had done them some material good offices; wherefore to this day the Spanish Consul is taxed of improvidence and imprudence, that there was no use made of the Hans towns in that expedition. The queen finding that they of the Hans would not be contented with that equality she had offered betwixt them and her own subjects, put out a proclamation that they should carry neither corn, victuals, arms, timber, masts, cables, minerals, nor any other materials, or men to Spain or Portugal. And after, the queen growing more redoubtable and famous, by the overthrow of the fleet of eighty-eight, the easterlings fell to despair of doing any good. Add hereunto another disaster that befell them, the taking of sixty sails of their ships about the mouth of Tagus in Portugal by the Queen's ships that were laden with "ropas de contrabando," viz., goods prohibited by her former proclamation into the dominions of Spain. And as these ships were upon point of being discharged, she had intelligence of a great assembly at Lübeck, which had met of purpose to consult of means to be revenged of her thereupon she stayed and seized upon the said sixty ships, only two were freed to bring news what became of the rest. Hereupon the Pope sent an ambassador to her, who spoke in a high tone, but he was answered in a higher. Ever since our merchants have beaten a peaceful and free uninterrupted trade into this town and elsewhere within and without the Sound, with their manufactures of wool, and found the way also to the White Sea to Archangel and Moscow. Insomuch that the premises being well considered, it was a happy thing for England that that clashing fell out betwixt her and the Hans, for it may be said to have been the chief ground of that shipping and merchandising, which she is now come to, and wherewith she hath flourished ever since. But one thing is observable, that as that imperial or committal ban, pronounced in the Diet at Ratisbon against our merchants and manufactures of wool, incited them more to industry. So our proclamation upon Alderman Cockein's project of transporting no white cloths but dyed, and in their full manufacture, did cause both Dutch and Germans to turn necessity to a virtue, and made them far more ingenious to find ways, not only to dye but to make cloth, which hath much impaired our markets ever since. For there hath not been the third part of our cloth sold since, either here or in Holland. [Footnote A: From "Familiar Letters." "Montaigne and 'Howell's Letters'," says Thackeray, in one of the "Roundabout Papers," "are my bedside books." Howell wrote this letter in Hamburg in October, 1632.] HAMBURG[A] BY THÉOPHILE GAUTIER To describe a night journey by rail is a difficult matter; you go like an arrow whistling through a cloud; it is traveling in the abstract. You cross provinces, kingdoms even, unawares. From time to time during the night, I saw through the window the comet, rushing down upon the earth, with lowered head and hair streaming far behind; suddenly glares of gaslight dazzled my eyes, sanded with the goldust of sleep; or the pale bluish radiance of the moon gave an air of fairy-land to scenes doubtless poor enough by day. Conscientiously, this is all I can say from personal observation; and it would not be particularly amusing if I should transcribe from the railway guide the names of all the stations between Berlin and Hamburg. It is 7 a.m., and here we are in the good Hanse town of Hamburg; the city is not yet awake, or at most is rubbing its eyes and yawning. While they are preparing my breakfast, I sally forth at random, as my custom is, without guide or cicerone, in pursuit of the unknown. The hotel, at which I have been set down, is situated on the quay of the Alster, a basin as large as the Lac d'Enghien, which it still further resembles in being peopled with tame swans. On three sides, the Alster basin is bordered with hotels and handsome modern houses. An embankment planted with trees and commanded by a wind-mill in profile forms the fourth; beyond extends a great lagoon. From the most frequented of these quays, a café painted green and built on piles, makes out into the water, like that café of the Golden Horn where I have smoked so many chibouques; watching the sea-birds fly. At the sight of this quay, this basin, these houses, I experienced an inexplicable sensation: I seemed to know them already. Confused recollections of them arose in my memory; could I have been in Hamburg without being aware of it? Assuredly all these objects are not new to me, and yet I am seeing them for the first time. Have I preserved the impression made by some picture, some photograph? While I was seeking philosophic explanations for this memory of the unknown, the idea of Heinrich Heine suddenly presented itself, and all became clear. The great poet had often spoken to me of Hamburg, in those plastic words he so well knew how to use--words that were equivalent to realities. In his "Reisebilder," he describes the scene--café basin, swans, and townsfolk upon the quays--Heaven knows what portraits he makes of them! He returns to it again in his poem, "Germania," and there is so much life to the picture, such distinctness, such relief, that sight itself teaches you nothing more. I made the circuit of the basin, graciously accompanied by a snow-white swan, handsome enough to make one think it might be Jupiter in disguise, seeking some Hamburg Leda, and, the better to carry out the deception, snapping at the bread-crumbs offered him by the traveler. On the farther side of the basin, at the right, is a sort of garden or public promenade, having an artificial hillock, like that in the labyrinth in the "Jardin des Plantes." Having gone thus far, I turned and retraced my steps. Every city has its fashionable quarter--new, expensive, handsome--of which the citizens are proud, and through which the guide leads you with much complacency. The streets are broad and regular, and cut one another at right angles; there are sidewalks of granite, brick, or bitumen; there are lamp-posts in every direction. The houses are like palaces; their classically modern architecture, their irreproachable paint, their varnished doors and well-scoured brasses, fill with joy the city fathers and every lover of progress. The city is neat, orderly, salubrious, full of light and air, and resembles Paris or London. There is the Exchange! It is superb--as fine as the Bourse in Paris! I grant it; and, besides, you can smoke there, which is a point of superiority. Farther on you observe the Palace of Justice, the bank, etc., built in the style you know well, adored by Philistines of every land. Doubtless that house must have cost enormously; it contains all possible luxury and comfort. You feel that the mollusk of such a shell can be nothing less than a millionaire. Permit me, however, to love better the old house with its overhanging stories, its roof of irregular tiles, and all its little characteristic details, telling of former generations. To be interesting, a city must have the air of having lived, and, in a sense, of having received from man a soul. What makes these magnificent streets built yesterday so cold and so tiresome, is that they are not yet impregnated with human vitality. Leaving the new quarter, I penetrated by degrees into the chaos of the old streets, and soon I had before my eyes a characteristic, picturesque Hamburg; a genuine old city with a medieval stamp which would delight Bonington, Isabey or William Wyld. I walked slowly, stopping at every street-corner that I might lose no detail of the picture; and rarely has any promenade amused me so well. Houses, whose gables are denticulated or else curved in volutes, throw out successive overhanging stories, each composed of a row of windows, or, more properly, of one window divided into sections by carved uprights. Beneath each house are excavated cellars, subterranean recesses, which the steps leading to the front door bestride like a drawbridge. Wood, brick, stone and slate, mingled in a way to content the eye of a colorist, cover what little space the windows leave on the outside of the house. All this is surmounted by a roof of red or violet tiles, or tarred plank, interrupted by openings to give light to the attics, and having an abrupt pitch. These steep roofs look well against the background of a northern sky; the rains run off them in torrents, the snow slips from them; they suit the climate, and do not require to be swept in winter. Some houses have doors ornamented with rustic columns, scroll-work, recessed pediments, chubby-cheeked caryatides, little angels and loves, stout rosettes and enormous shells, all glued over with whitewash renewed doubtless every year. The tobacco sellers in Hamburg can not be counted. At every third step you behold a bare-chested negro cultivating the precious leaf or a Grand Seigneur, attired like the theatrical Turk, smoking a colossal pipe. Boxes of cigars, with their more or less fallacious vignettes and labels, figure, symmetrically disposed, in the ornamentation of the shop-fronts. There must be very little tobacco left at Havana, if we can have faith in these displays, so rich in famous brands. As I have said, it was early morning. Servant-maids, kneeling on the steps or standing on the window-sills, were going on with the Saturday scrubbing. Notwithstanding the keen air, they made a display of robust arms bare to the shoulder, tanned and sunburned, red with that astonishing vermilion that we see in some of Rubens' paintings, which is the joint result of the biting of the north wind and the action of water upon these blond skins; little girls belonging to the poorer classes, with braided hair, bare arms, and low-necked frocks, were going out to obtain articles of food; I shivered in my paletot, to see them so lightly clad. There is something strange about this; the women of northern countries cut their dresses out in the neck, they go about bare-headed and bare-armed, while the women of the South cover themselves with vests, haicks, pelisses, and warm garments of every description. Walking on, still at random, I came to the maritime part of the city, where canals take the place of streets. As yet it was low water, and vessels lay aground in the mud, showing their hulls, and careening over in a way to rejoice a water-color painter. Soon the tide came up, and everything began to be in motion. I would suggest Hamburg to artists following in the track of Canaletto, Guardi, or Joyant; they will find, at every step, themes as picturesque as and more new than those which they go to Venice in search of. This forest of salmon-colored masts, with their maze of cordage and their yellowish-brown sails drying in the sun, these tarred sterns with apple-green decks, these lateen-yards threatening the windows of the neighboring houses, these derricks standing under plank roofs shaped like pagodas, these tackles lifting heavy packages out of vessels and landing them in houses, these bridges opening to give passage to vessels, these clumps of trees, these gables overtopped here and there by spires and belfries; all this bathed in smoke, traversed by sunlight and here and there returning a glitter of polished metal, the far-off distance blue and misty, and the foreground full of vigorous color, produced effects of the most brilliant and piquant novelty. A church-tower, covered with plates of copper, springing from this curious medley of rigging and of houses, recalled to me by its odd green color the tower of Galata, at Constantinople.... As the hour advanced, the crowd became more numerous, and it was largely composed of women. In Hamburg they seem to enjoy great license. Very young girls come and go alone without anyone's noticing it, and--a remarkable thing!--children go to school by themselves, little basket on the arm, and slate in hand; in Paris, left to their own free will, they will run off to play marbles, tag, or hop-scotch. Dogs are muzzled in Hamburg all the week, but on Sundays they are left at liberty to bite whom they please. They are taxed, and appear to be esteemed; but the cats are sad and unappreciated. Recognizing in me a friend, they cast melancholy glances at me, saying in their feline language, to which long use has given me the key: "These Philistines, busy with their money-getting, despise us; and yet our eyes are as yellow as their louis d'or. Stupid men that they are, they believe us good for nothing but to catch rats; we, the wise, the meditative, the independent, who have slept upon the prophet's sleeve, and lulled his ear with the whir of our mysterious wheel! Pass your hand over our backs full of electric sparkles--we allow you this liberty, and say to Charles Baudelaire that he must write a fine sonnet, deploring our woes." As the Lübeck boat was not to leave until the morrow, I went to Wilkin's to get my supper. This famous establishment occupies a low-ceiled basement, which is divided into cabinets ornamented with more show than taste. Oysters, turtle-soup, a truffled filet, and a bottle of Veuve Cliquot iced, composed my simple bill of fare. The place was filled, after the Hamburg fashion, with edibles of all sorts; things early and things out of season, dainties not yet in existence or having long ceased to exist, for the common crowd. In the kitchen they showed us, in great tanks, huge sea-turtles which lifted their scaly heads above the water, resembling snakes caught between two platters. Their little horny eyes looked with uneasiness at the light which was held near them, and their flippers, like oars of some disabled galley, vaguely moved up and down, as seeking some impossible escape. I trust that the personnel of the exhibition changes occasionally. In the morning I went for my breakfast to an English restaurant, a sort of pavilion of glass, whence I had a magnificent panoramic view. The river spread out majestically through a forest of vessels with tall masts, of every build and tonnage. Steam-tugs were beating the water, towing sailing-vessels out to sea; others, moving about freely, made their way hither and thither, with that precision which makes a steam-boat seem like a conscious being, endowed by a will of its own, and served by sentient organs. From the elevation the Elbe is seen, spreading broadly like all great rivers as they near the sea. Its waters, sure of arriving at last, are in no haste; placid as a lake, they flow with an almost invisible motion. The low opposite shore was covered with verdure, and dotted with red houses half-effaced by the smoke from the chimneys. A golden bar of sunshine shot across the plain; it was grand, luminous, superb. [Footnote A: From "A Winter in Russia." By arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, Henry Holt & Co. Copyright, 1874. Hamburg is now the largest seaport on the continent of Europe. London and New York are the only ports in the world that are larger. Exclusive of its rural territory, it had in 1905 a population of 803,000.] SCHLESWIG[A] BY THÉOPHILE GAUTIER When you are in a foreign country, reduced to the condition of a deaf-mute, you can not but curse the memory of him who conceived the idea of building the tower of Babel, and by his pride brought about the confusion of tongues! An omnibus took possession of myself and my trunks, and, with the feeling that it must of necessity take me somewhere, I confidingly allowed myself to be stowed in and carried away. The intelligent omnibus set me down before the best hotel in the town, and there, as circumnavigators say in their journals, "I held a parley with the natives." Among them was a waiter who spoke French in a way that was transparent enough to give me an occasional glimpse of his meaning; and who--a much rarer thing!--even sometimes understood what I said to him. My name upon the hotel register was a ray of light. The hostess had been notified of my expected arrival, and I was to be sent for as soon as my appearance should be announced; but it was now late in the evening, and I thought it better to wait till the next day. There was served for supper a "chaud-froid" of partridge--without confiture--and I lay down upon the sofa, hopeless of being able to sleep between the two down-cushions which compose the German and the Danish bed.... I explored Schleswig, which is a city quite peculiar in its appearance. One wide street runs the length of the town, with which narrow cross streets are connected, like the smaller bones with the dorsal vertebræ of a fish. There are handsome modern houses, which, as usual, have not the slightest character. But the more modest dwellings have a local stamp; they are one-story buildings, very low--not over seven or eight feet in height--capped with a huge roof of fluted red tiles. Windows, broader than they are high, occupy the whole of the front; and behind these windows, spread luxuriantly in porcelain or faience or earthen flowerpots, plants of every description; geraniums, verbenas, fuchsias--and this absolutely without exception. The poorest house is as well adorned as the best. Sheltered by these perfumed window-blinds, the women sit at work, knitting or sewing, and, out of the corner of their eye, they watch, in the little movable mirror which reflects the streets, the rare passer-by, whose boots resound upon the pavement. The cultivation of flowers seem to be a passion in the north; countries where they grow naturally make but little account of them in comparison. The church in Schleswig had in store for me a surprise. Protestant churches in general, are not very interesting from an artistic point of view, unless the reformed faith may have installed itself in some Catholic sanctuary diverted from its primitive designation. You find, usually, only whitewashed naves, walls destitute of painting or bas-relief, and rows of oaken benches well-polished and shining. It is neat and comfortable, but it is not beautiful. The church at Schleswig contains, by a grand, unknown artist, an altar-piece in three parts, of carved wood, representing in a series of bas-reliefs, separated by fine architectural designs, the most important scenes in the drama of the Passion. Around the church stand sepulchral chapels of fine funereal fancy and excellent decorative effect. A vaulted hall contains the tombs of the ancient Dukes of Schleswig; massive slabs of stone, blazoned with armorial devices, covered with inscriptions which are not lacking in character. In the neighborhood of Schleswig are great saline ponds, communicating with the sea. I paced the high-road, remarking the play of light upon this grayish water, and the surface crisped by the wind; occasionally I extended my walk as far as the chateau metamorphosed into a barrack, and the public gardens, a miniature St. Cloud, with its cascade, its dolphins, and its other aquatic monsters all standing idle. A very good sinecure is that of a Triton in a Louis Quinze basin! I should ask nothing better myself. [Footnote A: From "A Winter in Russia." By arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, Henry Holt & Co. Copyright, 1874.] LÜBECK[A] BY THÉOPHILE GAUTIER In the evening the train carried me to Lübeck, across magnificent cultivated lands, filled with summer-houses, which lave their feet in the brown water, overhung by spreading willows. This German Venice has its canal, the Brenta, whose villas, tho not built by Sanmichele or Palladio, none the less make a fine show against the fresh green of their surroundings. On arriving at Lübeck, a special omnibus received me and my luggage, and I was soon set down at the hotel. The city seemed picturesque as I caught a glimpse of it through the darkness by the vague light of lanterns; and in the morning, as I opened my chamber-window, I perceived at once I had not been mistaken. The opposite house had a truly German aspect. It was extremely high and overtopped by an old-fashioned denticulated gable. At each one of the seven stories of the house, iron cross-bars spread themselves out into clusters of iron-work, supporting the building, and serving at once for use and ornament, in accordance with an excellent principle in architecture, at the present day too much neglected. It is not by concealing the framework, but by making it distinct, that we obtain more character. This house was not the only one of its kind, as I was able to convince myself on walking a few steps out of doors. The actual Lübeck is still to the eye the Lübeck of the Middle Ages, the old capital of the Hanseatic League.[B] All the drama of modern life is enacted in the old theater whose scenery remains the same, its drop-scene even not repainted. What a pleasure it is to be walking thus amid the outward life of the past, and to contemplate the same dwellings which long-vanished generations have inhabited! Without doubt, the living man has a right to model his shell in accordance with his own habits, his tastes, and his manners; but it can not be denied that a new city is far less attractive than an old one. When I was a child, I sometimes received for a New Year's present one of those Nuremberg boxes containing a whole miniature German city. In a hundred different ways I arranged the little houses of painted wood around the church, with its pointed belfry and its red walls, where the seam of the bricks was marked by fine white lines. I set out my two dozen frizzed and painted trees, and saw with delight the charmingly outlandish and wildly festal air which these apple-green, pink, lilac, fawn-colored houses with their window-panes, their retreating gables, and their steep roofs, brilliant with red varnish, assumed, spread out on the carpet. My idea was that houses like these had no existence in reality, but were made by some kind fairy for extremely good little boys. The marvelous exaggeration of childhood gave this little parti-colored city a respectable development, and I walked through its regular streets, tho with the same precautions as did Gulliver in Liliput. Lübeck gave back to me this long-forgotten feeling of my childish days. I seemed to walk in a city of the imagination, taken out of some monstrous toy-box. I believe, considering all the faultlessly correct architecture that I have been forced to see in my traveler's life, that I really deserved that pleasure by way of compensation. A cloister, or at least a gallery, a fragment of an ancient monastery, presented itself to view. This colonnade ran the whole length of the square, at the end of which stood the Marienkirche, a brick church of the fourteenth century. Continuing my walk, I found myself in a market-place, where awaited me one of those sights which repay the traveler for much fatigue: a public building of a new, unforeseen, original aspect, the old Stadthaus in which was formerly the Hanse hall, rose suddenly before me. It occupies two sides of the square. Imagine, in front of the Marienkirche, whose spires and roof of oxydized copper rise above it, a lofty brick façade, blackened by time, bristling with three bell-towers with pointed copper-covered roofs, having two great empty rose-windows, and emblazoned with escutcheons inscribed in the trefoils of its ogives, double-headed black eagles on a gold field, and shields, half gules, half argent, ranged alternately, and executed in the most elaborate fashion of heraldry. To this façade is joined a palazzino of the Renaissance, in stone and of an entirely different style, its tint of grayish-white marvelously relieved by the dark-red background of old brick-work. This building, with its three gables, its fluted Ionic columns, its caryatides, or rather its Atlases (for they are human figures), its semicircular window, its niches curved like a shell, its arcades ornamented with figures, its basement of diamond-shaped stones, produces what I may call an architectural discord that is most unexpected and charming. We meet very few edifices in the north of Europe of this style and epoch. In the façade, the old German style prevails: arches of brick, resting upon short granite columns, support a gallery with ogive-windows. A row of blazons, inclined from right to left, bring out their brilliant color against the blackish tint of the wall. It would be difficult to form an idea of the character and richness of this ornamentation. This gallery leads into the main building, a structure than which no scene-painter, seeking a medieval decoration for an opera, ever invented anything more picturesque and singular. Five turrets, coiffed with roofs like extinguishers, raise their pointed tops above the main line of the façade with its lofty ogive-windows--unhappily now most of them partially bricked up, in accordance, doubtless, with the exigencies of alterations made within. Eight great disks, having gold backgrounds, and representing radiating suns, double-headed eagles, and the shields, gules and argent, the armorial bearings of Lübeck, are spread out gorgeously upon this quaint architecture. Beneath, arches supported upon short, thick pillars yawn darkly, and from far within there comes the gleam of precious metals, the wares of some goldsmith's shop. Turning back toward the square again, I notice, rising above the houses, the green spires of another church, and over the heads of some market-women, who are chaffering over their fish and vegetables, the profile of a little building with brick pillars, which must have been a pillory in its day. This gives a last touch to the purely Gothic aspect of the square which is interrupted by no modern edifice. The ingenious idea occurred to me that this splendid Stadthaus must have another façade; and so in fact it had; passing under an archway, I found myself in a broad street, and my admiration began anew. Five bell-towers, built half into the wall and separated by tall ogive-windows now partly blocked up, repeated, with variations, the façade I have just described. Brick rosettes exhibited their curious designs, spreading with square stitches, so to speak, like patterns for worsted work. At the base of the somber edifice a pretty little lodge, of the Renaissance, built as an afterthought, gave entrance to an exterior staircase going up along the wall diagonally to a sort of mirador, or overhanging look-out, in exquisite taste. Graceful little statues of Faith and Justice, elegantly draped, decorated the portico. The staircase, resting on arches which widened as it rose higher, was ornamented with grotesque masks and caryatides. The mirador, placed above the arched doorway opening upon the market-place, was crowned with a recessed and voluted pediment, where a figure of Themis held in one hand balances, and in the other a sword, not forgetting to give her drapery, at the same time, a coquettish puff. An odd order formed of fluted pilasters fashioned like pedestals and supporting busts, separated the windows of this aërial cage. Consoles with fantastic masks completed the elegant ornamentation, over which Time had passed his thumb just enough to give to the carved stone that bloom which nothing can imitate.... The Marienkirche, which stands, as I have said, behind the Stadt-haus, is well worth a visit. Its two towers are 408 feet in height; a very elaborate belfry rises from the roof at the point of intersection of the transept. The towers of Lübeck have the peculiarity, every one of them, of being out of the perpendicular, leaning perceptibly to the right or left, but without disquieting the eye, like the tower of Asinelli at Bologna, or the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Seen two or three miles away, these towers, drunk and staggering, with their pointed caps that seem to nod at the horizon, present a droll and hilarious silhouette. On entering the church, the first curious object that meets the eye is a copy of the Todtentanz, or Dance of Death, of the cemetery at Bâsle. I do not need to describe it in detail. The Middle Ages were never tired of composing variations upon this dismal theme. The most conspicuous of them are brought together in this lugubrious painting, which covers all the walls of one chapel. From the Pope and the Emperor to the infant in his cradle, each human being in his turn enters upon the dance with the inevitable terror. But death is not depicted as a skeleton, white, polished, cleaned, articulated with copper wire like the skeleton of an anatomical cabinet: that would be too ornamental for the vulgar crowd. He appears as a dead body in a more or less advanced state of decomposition, with all the horrid secrets of the tomb carefully revealed.... The cathedral, which is called in German the Dom, is quite remarkable in its interior. In the middle of the nave, filling one whole arch, is a colossal Christ of Gothic style, nailed to a cross carved in open-work, and ornamented with arabesques. The foot of this cross rests upon a transverse beam, going from one pillar to another, on which are standing the holy women and other pious personages, in attitudes of grief and adoration; Adam and Eve, one on either side, are arranging their paradisaic costume as decently as may be; above the cross the keystone of the arch projects, adorned with flowers and leafage, and serves as a standing-place for an angel with long wings. This construction, hanging in mid-air, and evidently light in weight, notwithstanding its magnitude, is of wood, carved with much taste and skill. I can define it in no better way than to call it a carved portcullis, lowered halfway in front of the chancel. It is the first example of such an arrangement that I have ever seen.... The Holstenthor, a city gate close by the railway station, is a most curious and picturesque specimen of German medieval architecture. Imagine two enormous brick towers united by the main portion of the structure, through which opens an archway, like a basket-handle, and you have a rude sketch of the construction; but you would not easily conceive of the effect produced by the high summit of the edifice, the conical roofs of the towers, the whimsical windows in the walls and in the roofs, the dull red or violet tints of the defaced bricks. It is altogether a new gamut for painters of architecture or of ruins; and I shall send them to Lübeck by the next train. I recommend to their notice also, very near the Holstenthor, on the left bank of the Trave, five or six crimson houses, shouldering each other for mutual support, bulging out in front, pierced with six or seven stories of windows, with denticulated gables, the deep red reflection of them trailing in the water, like some high-colored apron which a servant-maid is washing. What a picture Van den Heyden would have made of this! Following the quay, along which runs a railway, where freight-trains were constantly passing, I enjoyed many amusing and varied scenes. On the other side of the Trave were to be seen, amid houses and clumps of trees, vessels in various stages of building. Here, a skeleton with ribs of wood, like the carcass of some stranded whale; there, a hull, clad with its planking near which smokes the calker's cauldron, emitting light yellowish clouds. Everywhere prevails a cheerful stir of busy life. Carpenters are planing and hammering, porters are rolling casks, sailors are scrubbing the decks of vessels, or getting the sails half way up to dry them in the sun. A barque just arriving comes alongside the quay, the other vessels making room for her to pass. The little steamboats are getting up steam or letting it off; and when you turn toward the city, through the rigging of the vessels, you see the church-towers, which incline gracefully, like the masts of clippers. [Footnote A: From "A Winter in Russia." By arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, Henry Holt & Co. Copyright, 1874.] [Footnote B: The decline of Lübeck dates from the first quarter of the sixteenth century and was chiefly due to the discovery of America and the consequent diversion of commerce to new directions. Other misfortunes came with the Thirty Years' War. As early as 1425, one of the constant sources of Lübeck's wealth had begun to fail her--the herring, which was found to be deserting Baltic waters. The discovery by the Portuguese of a route to India by the Cape of Good Hope was another cause of Lübeck's decline.] HELIGOLAND[A] BY WILLIAM GEORGE BLACK In Heligoland itself there are few trees, no running water, no romantic ruins, but an extraordinary width of sea-view, seen as from the deck of a gigantic ship; and yet the island is so small that one can look around it all, and take the sea-line in one great circle. Seen from a distance, as one must first see it, Heligoland is little more than a cloud on the horizon; but as the steamer approaches nearer, the island stands up, a red rock in the ocean, without companion or neighbor. A small ledge of white strand to the south is the only spot where boats can land, and on this ledge nestle many white-walled, red-roofed houses; while on the rim of the rock, nearly two hundred feet above, is a sister hamlet, with the church-tower and lighthouse for central ornaments. On the Unterland are the principal streets and shops, on the Oberland are many of the best hotels and government-house. As there is no harbor, passengers reach the shore in large boats, and get their first glimpse of the hardy, sun-browned natives in the boatmen who, with bright jackets and hats of every picturesque curve that straw is capable of, pull the boat quickly to the steps of the little pier. Crowds of visitors line the way, but one gets quickly through, and in a few minutes returns either to familiar quarters in the Oberland, or finds an equally clean and moderate home among the lodging-house keepers or seamen. The season is a very short one, only ten weeks out of fifty-two, but the prices are moderate and the comfort unchallengeable.... Heligoland is only one mile long from pier to Nordkap, and a quarter of a mile wide at its widest--in all it is three-quarters of a square mile in size. There are no horses or carts in Heligoland--only six cows, kept always in darkness, and a few sheep and goats tethered on the Oberland. The streets are very narrow, but very clean, and the constant repetition in houses and scarves and flags of the national colors gives Heligoland a gay aspect; for the national colors are anything but dull. Green land, red rocks, white strand--nothing could be better descriptive of the island than these colors. They are easily brought out in domestic architecture, for with a whitewashed cottage and a red-tiled roof the Heligolander has only to give his door and window-shutters a coat of bright green paint, and there are the colors of Heligoland. In case the unforgettable fact should escape the tourist, the government have worked the colors into the ingenious and pretty island postage-stamp, and many of our German friends wear bathing-pants of the same unobtrusive tints. Life is a very delightful thing in summer in this island. On your first visit you feel exhilarated by the novelty of everything as much as by the strong warm sea wind which meets you wherever you go. When you return, the novelty has worn away, but the sense of enjoyment has deepened. As you meet friendly faces and feel the grip of friendly hands, so you also exchange salutations with Nature, as if she, too, were an old Heligoland friend. You know the view from this point and from that; but, like the converse of a friend, it is always changing, for there is no monotony in the sea. The waves lap the shore gently, or roar tumultuously in the red caverns, and it is all familiar, but none the less welcome and soothing because of that familiarity. It is not a land of lotus-eating delights, but it is a land where there is little sound but what the sea makes, and where every face tells of strong sun and salt waves. No doubt, much of its charm lies in its contrast to the life of towns or country places. Whatever comes to Heligoland comes from over the sea; there is no railway within many a wide mile; the people are a peculiar people, with their own peculiar language, and an island patriotism which it would be hard to match.... From the little pier one passes up the narrow white street, no broader than a Cologne lane, but clean and bright as is no other street in Europe, past the cafés with low balconies, and the little shops--into some there are three or four steps to descend, into others there is an ascent of a diminutive ladder--till the small square or garden is reached in front of the Conversation House, a spacious building with a good ball-room and reading-room, where a kiosque, always in summer full of the fragrant Heligoland roses, detains the passer-by. Then another turn or two in the street, and the bottom of the Treppe is approached--the great staircase which winds upward to the Oberland, in whose crevices grow masses of foliage, and whose easy ascent need not be feared by any one, for the steps are broad and low. The older flight of steps was situated about a hundred paces northward from the present Treppe. It was cut out of the red crumbling rock, and at the summit passed through a guard-house. Undoubtedly the present Treppe should be similarly fortified. It was built by the government in 1834. During the smuggling days, it is said, an Englishman rode up to the Oberland, and the apparition so shocked an old woman, who had never seen a horse before, that she fell senseless to the ground. From the Falm or road skirting the edge of the precipice from the head of the stairs to Government House, one of the loveliest views in all the world lies before our eyes. Immediately beneath are the winding stairs, with their constant stream of broad-shouldered seamen, or coquettish girls, or brown boys, passing up and down, while at each resting-place some group is sitting on the green-red-white seats gossiping over the day's business. Trees and plants nestle in the stair corners, and almost conceal the roadway at the foot. Lifting one's eyes away from the little town, the white pier sprawls on the, sea, and countless boats at anchor spot with darkness the shining water. Farther away, the Düne lies like a bar of silver across the view, ribbed with emerald where the waves roll in over white sand; and all around it, as far as the eye can reach, white sails gleam in the light, until repose is found on the horizon where sea and sky meet in a vapory haze. At night the Falm is a favorite resort of the men whose houses are on the Oberland. With arms resting on the broad wall, they look down on the twinkling lights of the houses far beneath, listen to the laughter or song which float up from the small tables outside the café, or watch the specks of light on the dark gleam of the North Sea. It is a prospect of which one could hardly tire, if it was not that in summer one has in Heligoland a surfeit of sea loveliness.... Heligoland is conjecturally identified with the ocean island described by Tacitus as the place of the sacred rites of the Angli and other tribes of the mainland. It was almost certainly sacred to Forsete, the son of Balder the Sun-god--if he be identified, as Grimm and all Frisian writers identify him, with Fosite the Frisian god. Forsete, a personification to men of the great white god, who dwelt in a shining hall of gold and silver, was among all gods and men the wisest of judges. It is generally supposed that Heligoland was first named the Holy Island from its association with the worship of Forsete, and latterly in consequence of the conversion of the Frisian inhabitants. Hallier has, however, pointed out that the Heligolanders do not use this name for their home. They call the island "det Lunn"--the land; their language they call "Hollunner," and he suggests that the original name was Hallig-lunn. A hallig is a sand-island occasionally covered with water. When the Düne was connected with the rock there was a large stretch of sand covered by winter floods. Hallig-lunn would then mean the island that is more than a hallig; and from the similarity of the words to Heligoland a series of etymological errors may have arisen; but Hallier's derivation is, after all, only a guess. [Footnote A: From "Heligoland and the Islands of the North Sea." Heligoland, an island and fortress in the North Sea, lies thirty-six miles northwest of the mouth of the Elbe--Hamburg. It was ceded to Germany by Great Britain in 1890; and is attached to Schleswig Holstein. As a fortress, its importance has been greatly increased since the Germans recovered possession of the island.] V VIENNA FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF THE CAPITAL[A] BY BAYARD TAYLOR I have at last seen the thousand wonders of this great capital, this German Paris, this connecting-link between the civilization of Europe and the barbaric magnificence of the East. It looks familiar to be in a city again whose streets are thronged with people and resound with the din and bustle of business. It reminds me of the never-ending crowds of London or the life and tumult of our scarcely less active New York. The morning of our arrival we sallied out from our lodgings in the Leopoldstadt to explore the world before us. Entering the broad Praterstrasse, we passed down to the little arm of the Danube which separates this part of the new city from the old. A row of magnificent coffee-houses occupy the bank, and numbers of persons were taking their breakfasts in the shady porticos. The Ferdinand's Bridge, which crosses the stream, was filled with people; in the motley crowd we saw the dark-eyed Greek, and Turks in their turbans and flowing robes. Little brown Hungarian boys were going around selling bunches of lilies, and Italians with baskets of oranges stood by the sidewalk. The throng became greater as we penetrated into the old city. The streets were filled with carts and carriages, and, as there are no side-pavements, it required constant attention to keep out of their way. Splendid shops fitted up with great taste occupied the whole of the lower stories, and goods of all kinds hung beneath the canvas awnings in front of them. Almost every store or shop was dedicated to some particular person or place, which was represented on a large panel by the door. The number of these paintings added much to the splendor of the scene; I was gratified to find, among the images of kings and dukes, one dedicated "To the American," with an Indian chief in full costume. The Altstadt, or "old city," which contains about sixty thousand inhabitants, is completely separated from the suburbs, whose population, taking the whole extent within the outer barrier, numbers nearly half a million.[B] It is situated on a small arm of the Danube and encompassed by a series of public promenades, gardens and walks, varying from a quarter to half a mile in length, called the "Glacis." This formerly belonged to the fortifications of the city, but as the suburbs grew up so rapidly on all sides, it was changed appropriately to a public walk. The city is still surrounded with a massive wall and a deep wide moat, but, since it was taken by Napoleon in 1809, the moat has been changed into a garden with a beautiful carriage-road along the bottom around the whole city. It is a beautiful sight to stand on the summit of the wall and look over the broad Glacis, with its shady roads branching in every direction and filled with inexhaustible streams of people. The Vorstaedte, or new cities, stretch in a circle, around beyond this; all the finest buildings front on the Glacis, among which the splendid Vienna Theater and the church of San Carlo Borromeo are conspicuous. The mountains of the Vienna forest bound the view, with here and there a stately castle on their woody summits. There is no lack of places for pleasure or amusement. Besides the numberless walks of the Glacis there are the imperial gardens, with their cool shades and flowers and fountains; the Augarten, laid out and opened to the public by the Emperor Joseph; and the Prater, the largest and most beautiful of all. It lies on an island formed by the arms of the Danube, and is between two and three miles square. From the circle at the end of the Praterstrasse broad carriage-ways extend through its forests of oak and silver ash and over its verdant lawns to the principal stream, which bounds it on the north. These roads are lined with stately horse-chestnuts, whose branches unite and form a dense canopy, completely shutting out the sun. Every afternoon the beauty and nobility of Vienna whirl through the cool groves in their gay equipages, while the sidewalks are thronged with pedestrians, and the numberless tables and seats with which every house of refreshment is surrounded are filled with merry guests. Here on Sundays and holidays the people repair in thousands. The woods are full of tame deer, which run perfectly free over the whole Prater. I saw several in one of the lawns lying down in the grass, with a number of children playing around or sitting beside them. It is delightful to walk there in the cool of the evening, when the paths are crowded and everybody is enjoying the release from the dusty city. It is this free social life which renders Vienna so attractive to foreigners and draws yearly thousands of visitors from all parts of Europe.... We spent two or three hours delightfully one evening in listening to Strauss's band. We went about sunset to the Odeon, a new building in the Leopoldstadt. It has a refreshment-hall nearly five hundred feet long, with a handsome fresco ceiling and glass doors opening into a garden-walk of the same length. Both the hall and garden were filled with tables, where the people seated themselves as they came and conversed sociably over their coffee and wine. The orchestra was placed in a little ornamental temple in the garden, in front of which I stationed myself, for I was anxious to see the world's waltz-king whose magic tones can set the heels of half Christendom in motion. After the band had finished tuning their instruments, a middle-sized, handsome man stept forward with long strides, with a violin in one hand and bow in the other, and began waving the latter up and down, like a magician summoning his spirits. As if he had waved the sound out of his bow, the tones leaped forth from the instruments, and, guided by his eye and hand, fell into a merry measure. The accuracy with which every instrument performed its part was truly marvelous. He could not have struck the measure or the harmony more certainly from the keys of his own piano than from that large band. The sounds struggled forth so perfect and distinct that one almost expected to see them embodied, whirling in wild dance around him. Sometimes the air was so exquisitely light and bounding the feet could scarcely keep on the earth; then it sank into a mournful lament with a sobbing tremulousness, and died away in a long-breathed sigh. Strauss seemed to feel the music in every limb. He would wave his fiddle-bow a while, then commence playing with desperate energy, moving his whole body to the measure, till the sweat rolled from his brow. A book was lying on the stand before him, but he made no use of it. He often glanced around with a kind of half-triumphant smile at the restless crowd, whose feet could scarcely be restrained from bounding to the magic measure. It was the horn of Oberon realized. The composition of the music displayed great talent, but its charm consisted more in the exquisite combination of the different instruments, and the perfect, the wonderful, exactness with which each performed its part--a piece of art of the most elaborate and refined character. The company, which consisted of several hundred, appeared to be full of enjoyment. They sat under the trees in the calm, cool twilight with the stars twinkling above, and talked and laughed sociably together between the pauses of the music, or strolled up and down the lighted alleys. We walked up and down with them, and thought how much we should enjoy such a scene at home, where the faces around us would be those of friends and the language our mother-tongue. We went a long way through the suburbs one bright afternoon to a little cemetery about a mile from the city to find the grave of Beethoven. On ringing at the gate a girl admitted us into the grounds, in which are many monuments of noble families who have vaults there. I passed up the narrow walk, reading the inscriptions, till I came to the tomb of Franz Clement, a young composer who died two or three years ago. On turning again my eye fell instantly on the word "Beethoven" in golden letters on a tombstone of gray marble. A simple gilded lyre decorated the pedestal, above which was a serpent encircling a butterfly--the emblem of resurrection. Here, then, moldered the remains of that restless spirit who seemed to have strayed to earth from another clime, from such a height did he draw his glorious conceptions. The perfection he sought for here in vain he has now attained in a world where the soul is freed from the bars which bind it in this. There were no flowers planted around the tomb by those who revered his genius; only one wreath, withered and dead, lay among the grass, as if left long ago by some solitary pilgrim, and a few wild buttercups hung with their bright blossoms over the slab. It might have been wrong, but I could not resist the temptation to steal one or two while the old gravedigger was busy preparing a new tenement. I thought that other buds would open in a few days, but those I took would be treasured many a year as sacred relics. A few paces off is the grave of Schubert, the composer whose beautiful songs are heard all over Germany. We visited the imperial library a day or two ago. The hall is two hundred and forty-five feet long, with a magnificent dome in the center, under which stands the statue of Charles V., of Carrara marble, surrounded by twelve other monarchs of the house of Hapsburg. The walls are of variegated marble richly ornamented with gold, and the ceiling and dome are covered with brilliant fresco-paintings. The library numbers three hundred thousand volumes and sixteen thousand manuscripts, which are kept in walnut cases gilded and adorned with medallions. The rich and harmonious effect of the whole can not easily be imagined. It is exceedingly appropriate that a hall of such splendor should be used to hold a library. The pomp of a palace may seem hollow and vain, for it is but the dwelling of a man; but no building can be too magnificent for the hundreds of great and immortal spirits to dwell in who have visited earth during thirty centuries. Among other curiosities preserved in the collection, we were shown a brass plate containing one of the records of the Roman Senate made one hundred and eighty years before Christ, Greek manuscripts of the fifth and sixth centuries, and a volume of Psalms printed on parchment in the year 1457 by Faust and Schoeffer, the inventors of printing. There were also Mexican manuscripts presented by Cortez, the prayer-book of Hildegard, wife of Charlemagne, in letters of gold, the signature of San Carlo Borromeo, and a Greek Testament of the thirteenth century which had been used by Erasmus in making his, translation and contains notes in his own hand. The most interesting article was the "Jerusalem Delivered" of Tasso, in the poet's own hand, with his erasures and corrections. The chapel of St. Augustine contains one of the best works of Canova--the monument of the Grand Duchess Maria Christina of Sachsen-Teschen. It is a pyramid of gray marble, twenty-eight feet high, with an opening in the side representing the entrance to a sepulcher. A female figure personating Virtue bears in an urn to the grave the ashes of the departed, attended by two children with torches. The figure of Compassion follows, leading an aged beggar to the tomb of his benefactor, and a little child with its hands folded. On the lower step rests a mourning genius beside a sleeping lion, and a bas-relief on the pyramid above represents an angel carrying Christina's image, surrounded with the emblem of eternity, to heaven. A spirit of deep sorrow, which is touchingly portrayed in the countenance of the old man, pervades the whole group. While we looked at it the organ breathed out a slow, mournful strain which harmonized so fully with the expression of the figures that we seemed to be listening to the requiem of the one they mourned. The combined effect of music and sculpture thus united in their deep pathos was such that I could have sat down and wept. It was not from sadness at the death of a benevolent tho unknown individual, but the feeling of grief, of perfect, unmingled sorrow, so powerfully represented, came to the heart like an echo of its own emotion and carried it away with irresistible influence. Travelers have described the same feeling while listening to the "Miserere" in the Sistine Chapel at Rome. Canova could not have chiselled the monument without tears. One of the most interesting objects in Vienna is the imperial armory. We were admitted through tickets previously procured from the armory direction; as there was already one large company within, we were told to wait in the court till our turn came. Around the wall, on the inside, is suspended the enormous chain which the Turks stretched across the Danube at Buda in the year 1529 to obstruct the navigation. It has eight thousand links and is nearly a mile in length. The court is filled with cannon of all shapes and sizes, many of which were conquered from other nations. I saw a great many which were cast during the French Revolution, with the words "Liberté! Egalité!" upon them, and a number of others bearing the simple letter "N.".... The first wing contains banners used in the French Revolution, and liberty-trees with the red cap, the armor of Rudolph of Hapsburg, Maximilian, I., the emperor Charles V., and the hat, sword and order of Marshal Schwarzenberg. Some of the halls represent a fortification, with walls, ditches and embankments, made of muskets and swords. A long room in the second wing contains an encampment in which twelve or fifteen large tents are formed in like manner. There was also exhibited the armor of a dwarf king of Bohemia and Hungary who died a gray-headed old man in his twentieth year, the sword of Marlborough, the coat of Gustavus Adolphus, pierced in the breast and back with the bullet which killed him at Lützen, the armor of the old Bohemian princess Libussa, and that of the amazon Wlaska, with a steel vizor made to fit the features of her face. The last wing was the most remarkable. Here we saw the helm and breastplate of Attila, king of the Huns, which once glanced at the head of his myriads of wild hordes before the walls of Rome; the armor of Count Stahremberg, who commanded Vienna during the Turkish siege in 1529, and the holy banner of Mohammed, taken at that time from the grand vizier, together with the steel harness of John Sobieski of Poland, who rescued Vienna from the Turkish troops under Kara Mustapha; the hat, sword and breastplate of Godfrey of Bouillon, the crusader-king of Jerusalem, with the banners of the cross the crusaders had borne to Palestine and the standard they captured from the Turks on the walls of the Holy City. I felt all my boyish enthusiasm for the romantic age of the crusaders revive as I looked on the torn and moldering banners which once waved on the hills of Judea, or perhaps followed the sword of the Lion-Heart through the fight on the field of Ascalon. What tales could they not tell, those old standards cut and shivered by spear and lance! What brave hands have carried them through the storm of battle, what dying eyes have looked upward to the cross on the folds as the last prayer was breathed for the rescue of the holy sepulcher. [Footnote A: From "Views Afoot." Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons.] [Footnote B: The population of Vienna, according to the census of 1910, was 2,085,888.] ST. STEPHEN'S CATHEDRAL[A] BY THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN Of the chief objects of architecture which decorate street scenery in Vienna, there are none, to my old-fashioned eyes, more attractive and thoroughly beautiful and interesting--from a thousand associations of ideas than places of worship, and of course, among these, none stands so eminently conspicuous as the mother-church, or the cathedral, which in this place, is dedicated to St. Stephen. The spire has been long distinguished for its elegance and height. Probably these are the most appropriate, if not the only, epithets of commendation which can be applied to it. After Strasburg and Ulm, it appears a second-rate edifice. Not but what the spire may even vie with that of the former, and the nave may be yet larger than that of the latter; but, as a whole, it is much inferior to either--even allowing for the palpable falling off in the nave of Strasburg cathedral. The spire, or tower--for it partakes of both characters--is indeed worthy of general admiration. It is oddly situated, being almost detached--and on the south side of the building. Indeed the whole structure has a very strange, and I may add capricious, if not repulsive, appearance, as to its exterior. The western and eastern ends have nothing deserving of distinct notice or commendation. The former has a porch; which is called "the Giant's porch;" it should rather be designated as that of the Dwarf. It has no pretensions to size or striking character of any description. Some of the oldest parts of the cathedral appear to belong to the porch of the eastern end. As you walk round the church, you can not fail to be struck with the great variety of ancient--and to an Englishman, whimsical looking mural monuments, in basso and alto relievos. Some of these are doubtless both interesting and curious. But the spire is indeed an object deserving of particular admiration. It is next to that of Strasburg in height; being 432 feet of Vienna measurement. It may be said to begin to taper from the first stage or floor; and is distinguished for its open and sometimes intricate fretwork. About two-thirds of its height, just above the clock, and where the more slender part of the spire commences, there is a gallery or platform, to which the French quickly ascended, on their possession of Vienna, to reconnoiter the surrounding country. The very summit of the spire is bent, or inclined to the north; so much so, as to give the notion that the cap or crown will fall in a short time. As to the period of the erection of this spire, it is supposed to have been about the middle, or latter end, of the fifteenth century. It has certainly much in common with the highly ornamental Gothic style of building in our own country, about the reign of Henry VI. The colored glazed tiles of the roof of the church are very disagreeable and unharmonizing. These colors are chiefly green, red, and blue. Indeed the whole roof is exceedingly heavy and tasteless. I will now conduct you to the interior. On entering, from the southeast door, you observe, to the left, a small piece of white marble--which every one touches, with the finger or thumb charged with holy water, on entering or leaving the cathedral. Such have been the countless thousands of times that this piece of marble has been so touched, that, purely, from such friction, it has been worn nearly half an inch below the general surrounding surface. I have great doubts, however, if this mysterious piece of masonry be as old as the walls of the church (which may be of the fourteenth century), which they pretend to say it is. The first view of the interior of this cathedral, seen even at the most favorable moment--which is from about three till five o'clock--is far from prepossessing. Indeed, after what I had seen at Rouen, Paris, Strassburg, Ulm, and Munich, it was a palpable disappointment. In the first place, there seems to be no grand leading feature of simplicity; add to which, darkness reigns everywhere. You look up, and discern no roof--not so much from its extreme height, as from the absolute want of windows. Everything not only looks dreary, but is dingy and black--from the mere dirt and dust which seem to have covered the great pillars of the nave--and especially the figures and ornaments upon it--for the last four centuries. This is the more to be regretted, as the larger pillars are highly ornamented; having human figures, of the size of life, beneath sharply pointed canopies, running up the shafts. The extreme length of the cathedral is 342 feet of Vienna measurement. The extreme width, between the tower and its opposite extremity--or the transepts--is 222 feet. There are comparatively few chapels; only four--but many Bethstühle or Prie-Dieus. Of the former, the chapels of Savoy and St. Eloy are the chief; but the large sacristy is more extensive than either. On my first entrance, while attentively examining the choir, I noticed--what was really a very provoking, but probably not a very uncommon sight--a maid servant deliberately using a long broom in sweeping the pavement of the high altar, at the moment when several very respectable people, of both sexes, were kneeling upon the steps, occupied in prayer. But the devotion of the people is incessant--all the day long--and in all parts of the cathedral. Meanwhile, service is going on in all parts of the cathedral. They are singing here; they are praying there; and they are preaching in a third place. But during the whole time, I never heard one single note of the organ. I remember only the other Sunday morning--walking out beneath one of the brightest blue skies that ever shone upon man--and entering the cathedral about nine o'clock. A preacher was in the principal pulpit; while a tolerably numerous congregation was gathered around him. He preached, of course, in the German language, and used much action. As he became more and more animated, he necessarily became warmer, and pulled off a black cap--which, till then, he had kept upon his head; the zeal and piety of the congregation at the same time seeming to increase with the accelerated motions of the preacher. In other more retired parts, solitary devotees were seen--silent, and absorbed in prayer. Among these, I shall not easily forget the head and the physiognomical expression of one old man--who, having been supported by crutches, which lay by the side of him--appeared to have come for the last time to offer his orisons to heaven. The light shone full upon his bald head and elevated countenance; which latter indicated a genuineness of piety, and benevolence of disposition, not to be soured, even by the most bitter of worldly disappointments! It seemed as if the old man were taking leave of this life, in full confidence of the rewards which await the righteous beyond the grave. So much for the living. A word or two now for the dead. Of course this letter alludes to the monuments of the more distinguished characters once resident in and near the metropolis. Among these, doubtless the most elaborate is that of the Emperor Frederick III.--in the florid Gothic style, surmounted by a tablet, filled with coat-armor, or heraldic shields. Some of the mural monuments are very curious, and among them are several of the early part of the sixteenth century--which represent the chins and even mouths of females, entirely covered by drapery; such as is even now to be seen and such as we saw on descending from the Vosges. But among these monuments--both for absolute and relative antiquity--none will appear to the curious eye of an antiquary so precious as that of the head of the architect of the cathedral, whose name was Pilgram. [Footnote A: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour," published in 1821.] THE BELVEDERE PALACE[A] BY THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN To the Belvedere Palace, therefore, let us go. I visited it with Mr. Lewis--taking our valet with us, immediately after breakfast--on one of the finest and clearest-skied September mornings that ever shone above the head of man. We had resolved to take the Ambras, or the little Belvedere, in our way; and to have a good, long, and uninterrupted view of the wonders of art--in a variety of departments. Both the little Belvedere and the large Belvedere rise gradually above the suburbs; and the latter may be about a mile and a half from the ramparts of the city. The Ambras contains a quantity of ancient horse- and foot-armor, brought thither from a chateau of that name, near Inssbruck, built by the Emperor Charles V. Such a collection of old armor--which had once equally graced and protected the bodies of their wearers, among whom the noblest names of which Germany can boast may be enrolled--was infinitely gratifying to me. The sides of the first room were quite embossed with suspended shields, cuirasses, and breast-plates. The floor was almost filled by champions on horseback--yet poising the spear, or holding it in the rest--yet almost shaking their angry plumes, and pricking the fiery sides of their coursers. Here rode Maximilian--and there halted Charles his son. Different suits of armor, belonging to the same character, are studiously shown you by the guide; some of these are the foot-, and some the horse-, armor; some were worn in fight--yet giving evidence of the mark of the bullet and battle-ax; others were the holiday suits of armor, with which the knights marched in procession, or tilted at the tournament. The workmanship of the full-dress suits, in which a great deal of highly wrought gold ornament appears, is sometimes really exquisite. The second, or long room, is more particularly appropriated to the foot- or infantry-armor. In this studied display of much that is interesting from antiquity, and splendid from absolute beauty and costliness, I was particularly gratified by the sight of the armor which the Emperor Maximilian wore as a foot-captain. The lower part, to defend the thighs, consists of a puckered or plated steel petticoat, sticking out at the bottom of the folds, considerably beyond the upper part. It is very simple, and of polished steel. A fine suit of armor--of black and gold--worn by an Archbishop of Salzburg in the middle of the fifteenth century, had particular claims upon my admiration. It was at once chaste and effective. The mace was by the side of it. This room is also ornamented by trophies taken from the Turks; such as bows, spears, battle-axes, and scimitars. In short, the whole is full of interest and splendor. I ought to have seen the arsenal--which I learn is of uncommon magnificence; and, altho not so curious on the score of antiquity, is yet not destitute of relics of the warriors of Germany. Among these, those which belong to my old bibliomaniacal friend Corvinus, King of Hungary, cut a conspicuous and very respectable figure. I fear it will be now impracticable to see the arsenal as it ought to be seen. It is now approaching mid-day, and we are walking toward the terrace in front of the Great Belvidere Palace, built by the immortal Eugene[B] in the year 1724, as a summer residence. Probably no spot could have been selected with better judgment for the residence of a Prince--who wished to enjoy, almost at the same moment, the charms of the country with the magnificence of a city view, unclouded by the dense fumes which forever envelop our metropolis. It is in truth a glorious situation. Walking along its wide and well-cultivated terraces, you obtain the finest view imaginable of the city of Vienna. Indeed it may be called a picturesque view. The spire of the cathedral darts directly upward, as it were, to the very heavens. The ground before you, and in the distance, is gently undulating; and the intermediate portion of the suburbs does not present any very offensive protrusions. More in the distance, the windings of the Danube are seen; with its various little islands, studded with hamlets and fishing-huts, lighted up by a sun of unusual radiance. Indeed the sky, above the whole of this rich and civilized scene, was at the time of our viewing it, almost of a dazzling hue; so deep and vivid a tint we had never before beheld. Behind the palace, in the distance, you observe a chain of mountains which extends into Hungary. As to the building itself, it is perfectly palatial in its size, form, ornaments, and general effect. Among the treasures, which it contains, it is now high time to enter and to look about us. My account is necessarily a mere sketch. Rubens, if any artist, seems here to "rule and reign without control!" Two large rooms are filled with his productions; besides several other pictures, by the same hand, which are placed in different apartments. Here it is that you see verified the truth of Sir Joshua's remark upon that wonderful artist: namely, that his genius seems to expand with the size of his canvas. His pencil absolutely riots here--in the most luxuriant manner--whether in the majesty of an altarpiece, in the gaiety of a festive scene, or in the sobriety of portrait-painting. His Ignatius Loyola and St. Francis Xavier--of the former class--each seventeen feet high, by nearly thirteen wide--are stupendous productions in more senses than one. The latter is, indeed, in my humble judgment, the most marvelous specimen of the powers of the painter which I have ever seen; and you must remember that both England and France are not without some of his celebrated productions, which I have frequently examined. In the old German School, the series is almost countless; and of the greatest possible degree of interest and curiosity. Here are to be seen Wohlgemuths, Albert Dürers, both the Holbeins, Lucas Cranachs, Ambergaus, and Burgmairs of all sizes and degrees of merit. Among these ancient specimens--which are placed in curious order, in the very upper suite of apartments, and of which the backgrounds of several, in one solid coat of gilt, lighten up the room like a golden sunset--you must not fail to pay particular attention to a singularly curious old subject--representing the Life, Miracles, and Passion of our Savior, in a series of one hundred and fifty-eight pictures--of which the largest is nearly three feet square, and every other about fifteen inches by ten. These subjects are painted upon eighty-six small pieces of wood; of which seventy-two are contained in six folding cabinets, each holding twelve subjects. In regard to Teniers, Gerard Dow, Mieris, Wouvermann, and Cuyp, you must look at home for more exquisite specimens. This collection contains, in the whole, not fewer than fifteen hundred paintings, of which the greater portion consists of pictures of very large dimensions. I could have lived here for a month; but could only move along with the hurried step, and yet more hurrying eye, of an ordinary visitor. [Footnote A: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour," published in 1821.] [Footnote B: The celebrated Austrian general, who defeated the Turks in 1697, and shared with Marlborough in the victories of Blenheim and Malplaquet.] SCHÖNBRUNN AND THE PRATER[A] BY THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN About three English miles from the Great Belvedere--or rather about the same number of miles from Vienna, to the right, as you approach the capital--is the famous palace of Schönbrunn. This is a sort of summer-residence of the Emperor; and it is here that his daughter, the ex-Empress of France, and the young Bonaparte usually reside.[B] The latter never goes into Italy, when his mother, as Duchess of Parma, pays her annual visit to her principality. At this moment her son is at Baden, with the court. It was in the Schönbrunn palace that his father, on the conquest of Vienna, used to take up his abode, rarely venturing into the city. He was surely safe enough here; as every chamber and every court yard was filled by the élite of his guard--whether as officers or soldiers. It is a most magnificent pile of building; a truly imperial residence--but neither the furniture nor the objects of art, whether connected with sculpture or painting, are deserving of anything in the shape of a catalogue raisonné. I saw the chamber where young Bonaparte frequently passes the day; and brandishes his flag staff, and beats upon his drum. He is a soldier (as they tell me) every inch of him; and rides out, through the streets of Vienna, in a carriage of state drawn by four or six horses, receiving the homage of the passing multitude. To return to the Schönbrunn Palace. I have already told you that it is vast, and capable of accommodating the largest retinue of courtiers. It is of the gardens belonging to it, that I would now only wish to say a word. These gardens are really worthy of the residence to which they are attached. For what is called ornamental, formal, gardening--enriched by shrubs of rarity, and trees of magnificence--enlivened by fountains--adorned by sculpture--and diversified by vistas, lawns, and walks--interspersed with grottoes and artificial ruins--you can conceive nothing upon a grander scale than these: while a menagerie in one place (where I saw a large but miserably wasted elephant)--a flower-garden in another--a labyrinth in a third, and a solitude in a fourth place--each, in its turn, equally beguiles the hour and the walk. They are the most spacious gardens I ever witnessed. It was the other Sunday evening when I visited the Prater, and when--as the weather happened to be very fine--it was considered to be full, but the absence of the court, of the noblesse, necessarily gave a less joyous and splendid aspect to the carriages and their attendant liveries. In your way to this famous place of Sabbath evening promenade, you pass a celebrated coffee-house, in the suburbs, called the Leopoldstadt, which goes by the name of the Greek coffee-house--on account of its being almost entirely frequented by Greeks--so numerous at Vienna. Do not pass it, if you should ever come hither, without entering it--at least once. You would fancy yourself to be in Greece, so thoroughly characteristic are the countenances, dresses, and language of everyone within. But yonder commences the procession of horse and foot; of cabriolets, family coaches, German wagons, cars, phaetons and landaulets, all moving in a measured manner, within their prescribed ranks, toward the Prater. We must accompany them without loss of time. You now reach the Prater. It is an extensive flat, surrounded by branches of the Danube, and planted on each side with double rows of horse-chestnut trees. The drive, in one straight line, is probably a league in length. It is divided by two roads, in one of which the company move onward, and in the other they return. Consequently, if you happen to find a hillock only a few feet high, you may, from thence, obtain a pretty good view of the interminable procession of the carriages before mentioned: one current of them, as it were, moving forward, and another rolling backward. But, hark! the notes of a harp are heard to the left, in a meadow, where the foot passengers often digress from the more formal tree-lined promenade. A press of ladies and gentlemen is quickly seen. You mingle involuntarily with them; and, looking forward, you observe a small stage erected, upon which a harper sits and two singers stand. The company now lie down upon the grass, or break into standing groups, or sit upon chairs hired for the occasion--to listen to the notes so boldly and so feelingly executed. The clapping of hands, and exclamations of bravo succeed, and the sounds of applause, however warmly bestowed, quickly die away in the open air. The performers bow, receive a few kreutzers, retire, and are well satisfied. The sound of the trumpet is now heard behind you. Tilting feats are about to be performed; the coursers snort and are put in motion; their hides are bathed in sweat beneath their ponderous housings; and the blood, which flows freely from the pricks of their riders' spurs, shows you with what earnestness the whole affair is conducted. There, the ring is thrice carried off at the point of the lance. Feats of horsemanship follow in a covered building, to the right; and the juggler, conjurer, or magician, displays his dexterous feats, or exercises his potent spells, in a little amphitheater of trees, at a distance beyond. Here and there rise more stately edifices, as theaters, from the doors of which a throng of heated spectators is pouring out. In other directions, booths, stalls and tables are fixt; where the hungry eat, the thirsty drink, and the merry-hearted indulge in potent libations. The waiters are in a constant state of locomotion. Rhenish wine sparkles here; confectionery glitters there; and fruit looks bright and tempting in a third place. No guest turns round to eye the company; because he is intent upon the luxuries which invite his immediate attention, or he is in close conversation with an intimate friend, or a beloved female. They talk and laugh--and the present seems to be the happiest moment of their lives. All is gaiety and good humor. You return again to the foot-promenade, and look sharply about you, as you move onward, to catch the spark of beauty, or admire the costume of taste, or confess the power of expression. It is an Albanian female who walks yonder, wondering, and asking questions, at every thing she sees. The proud Jewess, supported by her husband and father, moves in another direction. She is covered with brocade and flaunting ribbons; but she is abstracted from everything around her, because her eyes are cast downward upon her stomacher, or sideways to obtain a glimpse of what may be called her spangled epaulettes. Her eye is large and dark; her nose is aquiline; her complexion is of an olive brown; her stature is majestic, her dress is gorgeous, her gait is measured--and her demeanor is grave and composed. "She must be very rich," you say--as she passes on. "She is prodigiously rich," replies the friend, to whom you put the question--for seven virgins, with nosegays of choicest flowers, held up her bridal train; and the like number of youths, with silver-hilted swords, and robes of ermine and satin, graced the same bridal ceremony. Her father thinks he can never do enough for her; and her husband, that he can never love her sufficiently. Whether she be happy or not, in consequence, we have no time to stop to inquire, for see yonder! Three "turbaned Turks" make their advances. How gaily, how magnificently they are attired! What finely proportioned limbs--what beautifully formed features! They have been carousing, peradventure, with some young Greeks--who have just saluted them, en passant--at the famous coffee-house before mentioned. Everything around you is novel and striking; while the verdure of the trees and lawns is yet fresh, and the sun does not seem yet disposed to sink below the horizon. The carriages still move on, and return, in measured procession. Those who are within, look earnestly from the windows, to catch a glance of their passing friends. The fair hand is waved here; the curiously-painted fan is shaken there; and the repeated nod is seen in almost every other passing landaulet. Not a heart seems sad; not a brow appears to be clouded with care. Such--or something like the foregoing--is the scene which usually passes on a Sunday evening--perhaps six months out of the twelve--upon the famous Prater at Vienna; while the tolling bell of St. Stephen's tower, about nine o'clock--and the groups of visitors hurrying back, to get home before the gates of the city are shut against them--usually conclude the scene just described. [Footnote A: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour." published in 1821.] [Footnote B: Marie Louise, second wife of Napoleon, and their son, the King of Rome.] VI HUNGARY A GLANCE AT THE COUNTRY[A] BY H. TORNAI DE KÖVËR Hungary consists of Hungary proper, with Transylvania (which had independent rule at one time), Croatia and Slavonia (which have been added), and the town of Fiume on the shores of the Adriatic Sea. The lowlands are exceedingly beautiful in the northeast and west, where the great mountain, peaks rise into the clear blue sky or are hidden by big white clouds, but no beauty can be compared to the young green waving corn or the ripe ears when swaying gently in the breeze. One sees miles and miles of corn, with only a tree here and there to mark the distances, and one can not help comparing the landscape to a green sea, for the wind makes long silky waves, which make the field appear to rise and fall like the ocean. In the heat of midday the mirage, or, as the Hungarians call it, "Délibáb," appears and shows wonderful rivers, villages, cool green woods--all floating in the air. Sometimes one sees hundreds of white oxen and church towers, and, to make the picture still more confusing and wonderful, it is all seen upside down. This, the richest part of the country, is situated between the rivers Danube and Theiss, and runs right down to the borders of Servia. Two thirds of Hungary consist of mountainous districts, but one third has the richest soil in Europe. Great rivers run through the heart of the country, giving it the fertility which is its great source of wealth. The great lowlands, or "Alföld," as the Magyars call them, are surrounded by a chain of mountains whose heights are nearly equal to some Alpine districts. There are three principal mountain ranges--the Tátra, Mátra, and Fátra--and four principal rivers--the Danube, Theiss, Drave, and Save. Hungary is called the land of the three mountains and four rivers, and the emblem of these form the chief feature in the coat-of-arms of the country. The Carpathian range of mountains stretches from the northwest along the north and down the east, encircling the lowlands and sending forth rivers and streams to water the plains. These mountains are of a gigantic bulk and breadth; they are covered with fir and pine trees, and in the lower regions with oaks and many other kinds. The peaks of the high Tátra are about 9,000 feet high, and, of course, are bare of any vegetation, being snow-covered even in summer-time. On the well-sheltered sides of these mountains numerous baths are to be found, and they abound in mineral waters. Another curious feature are the deep lakes called "Tengerszem" (Eyes of the Sea). According to folklore they are connected with the sea, and wonderful beings live in them. However, it is so far true that they are really of astonishing depth. The summer up in the Northern Carpathians is very short, the nights always cold, and there is plenty of rain to water the rich vegetation of the forests. Often even in the summer there are snowstorms and a very low temperature. The Northeastern Carpathians include a range of lower hills running down to the so-called Hegyalja, where the wonderful vine which produces the wine of Tokay is grown. The southeastern range of the Carpathians divides the county of Máramaros from Erdély (Transylvania). The main part of this country is mountainous and rugged, but here also there is wonderful scenery. Everything is still very wild in these parts of the land, and tho mineral waters abound everywhere, the bathing-places are very primitive. The only seaport the country possesses is Fiume, which was given to Hungary by Maria Theresa, who wanted to give Hungary the chance of developing into a commercial nation. Besides the deep but small mountain lakes, there are several large ones; among these the most important is the Balaton, which, altho narrow, is about fifty miles long. Along its borders there are summer bathing-places, considered very healthy for children. Very good wine is produced here, as in most parts of Hungary which are hilly, but not situated too high up among the mountains. The lake of Balaton is renowned for a splendid kind of fresh-water fish, the Fogas. It is considered the best fish after trout--some even prefer it--and it grows to a good size. The chief river of Hungary is the Danube, and the whole of Hungary is included in its basin. It runs through the heart of the country, forming many islands; the greatest is called the Csallóköz, and has over a hundred villages on it. One of the prettiest and most cultivated of the islands is St. Margaret's Isle, near Budapest, which has latterly been joined to the mainland by a bridge. Some years ago only steamers conveyed the visitors to it; these still exist, but now carriages can drive on to the island too. It is a beautiful park, where the people of Budapest seek the shade of the splendid old trees. Hot sulfur springs are to be found on the island, and there is a bath for the use of visitors. The Danube leaves Hungary at Orsova, and passes through the so-called Iron Gates. The scenery is very beautiful and wild in that part, and there are many points where it is exceedingly picturesque, especially between Vienna and Budapest. It is navigable for steamships, and so is the next largest river, the Theiss. This river begins its course in the Southeastern Carpathians, right up among the snow-peaks, amid wild and beautiful scenery, and it eventually empties its waters into the Danube at Titel. The three largest rivers of Hungary feed the Danube, and by that means reach the Black Sea. Hungary lies under the so-called temperate zone, but there does not seem much temperance in the climate when we think of the terrible, almost Siberian winters that come often enough and the heat waves occasioning frequent droughts in the lowlands. The summer is short in the Carpathians; usually in the months of August and September the weather is the most settled. June and July are often rainy--sometimes snowstorms cause the barometer to fall tremendously. In the mountain districts there is a great difference between the temperature of the daytime and that of the night. All those who go to the Carpathians do well to take winter and Alpine clothing with them. The winter in the mountains is perhaps the most exhilarating, as plenty of winter sport goes on. The air is very cold, but the sun has great strength in sheltered corners, enabling even delicate people to spend the winter there. In the lowlands the summer is exceedingly hot, but frequent storms, which cool the air for some days, make the heat bearable. Now and then there have been summers when in some parts of Hungary rain has not fallen for many weeks--even months. The winter, too, even in the more temperate parts, is often severe and long, there being often from eight to ten weeks of skating, altho the last few years have been abnormally mild. In the valleys of the Carpathians potatoes, barley, oats, and cabbages are grown, while in the warmer south wheat, maize, tobacco, turnips, and the vine are cultivated. Down by the Adriatic Sea the climate is much warmer, but Hungary, as already mentioned, has only the town of Fiume of her own to boast of. The visitors who look for a temperate winter and want to get away from the raw cold must go to the Austrian town of Abbazia, which is reached in half an hour by steamboat, and is called the Austrian Riviera. Those who visit Hungary should come in spring--about May--and spend some weeks in the capital, the lowlands and hilly districts, and go north to the mountains and bathing-places in the summer months. Tokay produces some of the finest wine in the world, and the vintage time in that part of the country is most interesting and picturesque. [Footnote A: From "Hungary." Published by the Macmillan Co.] BUDAPEST[A] BY H. TORNAI DE KÖVËR Budapest is one of the most beautifully situated cities in Europe. Nobody can ever forget the wonderful sight of the two sister towns divided by the wide and swiftly flowing Danube, with the steamers and barges on her waters. Buda, the old stronghold, is on one side with the fantastic "Gellért" hill, which is a formidable-looking mass of rocks and caves; farther on is the lovely royal palace with its beautifully kept gardens clinging to the hillside; then the oldest part, called the stronghold, which has been rebuilt exactly in the style Matthias Corvinus built it, and which was demolished during the Turkish invasion. Here is the old church of Matthias too, but it is so much renovated that it lacks the appearance of age. Behind the smaller hills larger ones are to be seen covered with shady woods; these are the villa regions and summer excursion places for the people. Along the Danube are green and shady islands of which the most beautiful is St. Margaret's Isle, and on the other side of the waters is the city of "Pest," with the majestic Houses of Parliament, Palace of Justice, Academy of Science, and numerous other fine buildings. At the present time four bridges join the two cities together, and a huge tunnel leads through the first hill in Buda into another part of the town. One can not say which is the more beautiful sight: to look from Pest, which stands on level ground, up to the varying hilly landscape of Buda; or to look from the hillside of the latter place on to the fairy-land of Pest, with the broad silver Danube receding in the distance like a great winding snake, its scales all aglitter in the sunshine. It is beautiful by day, but still more so at night, for myriads of lights twinkle in the water, and the hillsides are dotted as if with flitting fairy-lamps. Even those who are used to the sight look at it in speechless rapture and wonder. What must it be like to foreigners! Besides her splendid natural situation, Budapest has another great treasure, and this is the great quantity of hot sulfur springs which exists on both sides of the Danube. The Romans made use of these at the time of their colonization, and we can find the ruins of the Roman baths in Aquincum half an hour from Budapest. During the Turkish rule many Turkish baths were erected in Buda. The Rudas bath exists to this day, and with its modernized system is one of the most popular. Császár bath, St. Lukács bath, both in Buda, have an old-established reputation for the splendid cures of rheumatism. A new bath is being built in Pest where the hot sulfur water oozes up in the middle of the park--the same is to be found in St. Margaret's Isle. Besides the sulfur baths there are the much-known bitter waters in Buda called "Hunyady" and "Franz Joseph," as well as salt baths. The city, with the exception of some parts in Buda, is quite modern, and has encircling boulevards and wide streets, one of the finest being the Andrássy Street. The electric car system is one of the most modern, while underground and overground electric railways lead to the most distant suburbs. The city has a gay and new look about it; all along the walks trees are planted, and cafés are to be seen with a screen of shrubs or flowers around them. In the evening the sound of music floats from the houses and cafés. There are plenty of theaters, in which only the Hungarian language is used, and a large and beautiful opera-house under government management. There are museums, institutions of art and learning, academies of painting and music, schools, and shops, and life and movement everywhere. At present [1911] the city numbers about 900,000 souls, but the more distant suburbs are not reckoned in this number. [Footnote A: From "Hungary." Published by the Macmillan Co.] 
22511	----	http://www.archive.org/details/rollorhine00abborich ROLLO ON THE RHINE, by JACOB ABBOTT. Boston: Published By Taggard And Thompson M DCCC LXIV. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by Jacob Abbott, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts Stereotyped at the Boston Stereotype Foundry Riverside, Cambridge: Printed by H. O. Houghton [Illustration: ROLANDSECK AND DRACHENFELS.--See chap. 5] [Illustration] ROLLO'S TOUR IN EUROPE. ORDER OF THE VOLUMES ROLLO ON THE ATLANTIC. ROLLO IN PARIS. ROLLO IN SWITZERLAND. ROLLO IN LONDON. ROLLO ON THE RHINE. ROLLO IN SCOTLAND. ROLLO IN GENEVA. ROLLO IN HOLLAND. ROLLO IN NAPLES. ROLLO IN ROME. PRINCIPAL PERSONS OF THE STORY. ROLLO; twelve years of age. MR. and MRS. HOLIDAY; Rollo's father and mother, travelling in Europe. THANNY; Rollo's younger brother. JANE; Rollo's cousin, adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Holiday. MR. GEORGE; a young gentleman, Rollo's uncle. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I.--THE APPROACH TO COLOGNE, 13 II.--THE UNFINISHED CATHEDRAL, 28 III.--THE GALLERIES, 44 IV.--TRAVELLING ON THE RHINE, 60 V.--THE SIEBEN GEBIRGEN, 77 VI.--ROLAND'S TOWER, 95 VII.--ROLLO'S LIST, 107 VIII.--A SABBATH ON THE RHINE, 117 IX.--EHRENBREITSTEIN, 135 X.--ROLLO'S LETTER, 141 XI.--THE RAFT, 146 XII.--DINNER, 168 XIII.--BINGEN, 185 XIV.--THE RUIN IN THE GARDEN, 194 XV.--RHEINSTEIN, 202 CONCLUSION. 219 ENGRAVINGS. PAGE ROLANDSECK AND DRACHENFELS. FRONTISPIECE. THE RIDE, 12 COLOGNE IN SIGHT, 19 THE BEGGAR, 31 MINNIE'S ROGUERY, 51 TOWING, 63 DONKEY RIDING, 75 THE STUDENTS, 114 THE NUN, 122 THE EMIGRANTS, 132 ROLLO ON THE RAFT, 163 DINNER ON THE RHINE, 173 MINNIE, 190 THE NIGHT JOURNEY, 218 [Illustration: RIDE.--See chap. 15.] ROLLO ON THE RHINE. CHAPTER I. THE APPROACH TO COLOGNE. If a man were to be raised in a balloon high enough above the continent of Europe to survey the whole of it at one view, he would see the land gradually rising from the borders of the sea on every side, towards a portion near the centre, where he would behold a vast region of mountainous country, with torrents of water running down the slopes and through the valleys of it, while the summits were tipped with perpetual snow. The central part of this mass of mountains forms what is called Switzerland, the eastern part is the Tyrol, and the western Savoy. But though the men who live on these mountains have thus made three countries out of them, the whole region is in nature one. It constitutes one mighty mass of mountainous land, which is lifted up so high into the air that all the summits rise into the regions of intense and perpetual cold, and so condense continually, from the atmosphere, inexhaustible quantities of rain and snow. The water which falls upon this mountainous region must of course find its way to the sea. In doing so the thousands of smaller torrents unite with each other into larger and larger streams, until at length they make four mighty rivers--the largest and most celebrated in Europe. All the streams of the southern slopes of the mountains form one great river, which flows east into the Adriatic. This river is the Po. On the western side the thousands of mountain torrents combine and form the Rhone, which, making a great bend, turns to the southward, and flows into the Mediterranean. On the eastern side the water can find no escape till it has traversed the whole continent to the eastward, and reached the Black Sea. This stream is the Danube. And finally, on the north the immense number of cascades and torrents which come out from the glaciers, or pour down the ravines, or meander through the valleys, or issue from the lakes, of the northern slope of the mountains, combine at Basle, and flow north across the whole continent, nearly six hundred miles, to the North Sea. This river is the Rhine. All this, which I have thus been explaining, may be seen very clearly if you turn to any map of Europe, and find the mountainous region in the centre, and then trace the courses of the four great rivers, as I have described them. It would seem that the country through which the River Rhine now flows was at first very uneven, presenting valleys and broad depressions, which the waters of the river filled, thus forming great shallow lakes, that extended over very considerable tracts of country. In process of time, however, these lakes became filled with the sediment which was brought down by the river, and thus great flat plains of very rich and level land were formed. At every inundation of the river, of course, these plains, or intervals, as they are sometimes called, would be overflowed, and fresh deposits would be laid upon them; so that in the course of ages the surface of them would rise several feet above the ordinary level of the river. In fact they would continue to rise in this way until they were out of the reach of the highest inundations. Immense plains of the most fertile land, which seem to have been formed in this way, exist at the present time along the banks of the Rhine at various places. These plains are all very highly cultivated, and are rich and beautiful beyond description. To see them, however, it is necessary to travel over them in a diligence, or post chaise, or by railway trains; for in sailing up and down the river, along the margin of them, in a steam-boat, you are not high enough to overlook them. You see nothing all the way, in these places, but a low, green bank on each side of the river, with a fringe of trees and shrubbery along the margin of it. For about one hundred miles of its course, however, near the central portion of it, the river flows through a very wild and mountainous district of country, or rather through a district which was once wild, though now, even in the steepest slopes and declivities, it is cultivated like a garden. The reason why these mountainous regions are so highly cultivated is because the soil and climate are such that they produce the best and most delicious grapes in the world. They have consequently, from time immemorial, been inhabited by a dense population. Every foot of ground where there is room for a vine to grow is valuable, and where the slope was originally steep and rocky, the peasants of former ages have gathered out the rocks and stones, and built walls of them to terrace up the land. The villages of these peasants, too, are seen every where nestling in the valleys, and clinging to the sides of the hills, while the summits of almost all the elevations are crowned with the ruins of old feudal castles built by barons, or chiefs, or kings, or military bishops of ancient times, famous in history. This picturesque portion of the river, which extends from Bonn, a little above Cologne, to Mayence,--which towns you will readily find on almost any map of Europe,--was the part which Mr. George and Rollo particularly desired to see. When they left Switzerland they intended to come down the river, and see the scenery in descending. But Mr. George met some friends of his on the frontier, who persuaded him to make a short tour with them in Germany, and so come to the Rhine at Cologne. "We can then," said he to Rollo, "go _up_ the river, and see it in ascending, which I think is the best way. When we get through all the fine scenery,--which we shall do at Mayence,-we can then go up to Strasbourg, and take the railroad there for Paris--the same way that we came." "Yes," said Rollo, "I shall like that." Rollo liked it simply because it would make the journey longer. When at length, at the end of the tour in Germany, our travellers were approaching Cologne on the Rhine, Rollo began to look out, some miles before they reached it, to watch for the first appearance of the town. He had been riding in the coupé of the diligence[1] with his uncle; but now, in order that he might see better, he had changed his place, and taken a seat on the banquette. The banquette is a seat on the top of the coach, and though it is covered above, it is open in front, and so it affords an excellent view. Mr. George remained in the coupé, being very much interested in reading his guide book. [Footnote 1: The stage coaches on the continent of Europe are called _diligences_.] At length Rollo called out to tell his uncle that the city was in view. The windows of the coupé were open, so that by leaning over and looking down he could speak to his uncle without any difficulty. Mr. George was so busy reading his guide book that he paid little attention to what Rollo said. "Uncle George," said Rollo, calling louder, "I can see the city; and in the midst of it is a church with a great square tower, and something very singular on the top of it." Mr. George still continued his reading. "There is a spire on the top of the church," continued Rollo, "but it is bent down on one side entirely, as if it had half blown over." "O, no," said Mr. George, still continuing to read. "It really is," said Rollo. "I wish you would look, uncle George. It is something very singular indeed." [Illustration: COLOGNE IN SIGHT.] Mr. George yielded at length to these importunities, and looked out. The country around in every direction was one vast plain, covered with fields of grain, luxuriant and beautiful beyond description. It was without any fences or other divisions except such as were produced by different kinds of cultivation, so that the view extended interminably in almost every direction. There were rows and copses of trees here and there, giving variety and life to the view, and from among them were sometimes to be seen the spires of distant villages. In the distance, too, in the direction in which Rollo pointed, lay the town of Cologne. The roofs of the houses extended over a very wide area, and among them there was seen a dark square tower, very high, and crowned, as Rollo had said, with what seemed to be a spire, only it was bent over half way; and there it lay at an angle at which no spire could possibly stand. "What can it mean?" asked Rollo. "I am sure I do not know," said Mr. George. Next to Rollo, on the banquette, was seated a young man, who had mounted up there about an hour before, though Rollo had not yet spoken to him. Rollo now, however, turned to him, and asked him, in English, if he spoke English. The young man smiled and shook his head, implying that he did not understand. Rollo then asked him, in French, if he spoke French. The young man said, "_Nein_."[2] [Footnote 2: Pronounced _nine_.] Rollo knew that _nein_ was the German word for _no_, and he presumed that the language of his fellow-traveller was German. So he pointed to the steeple, and asked,-- "_Was ist das?_" This phrase, _Was[3] ist das?_ is the German of What is that? Rollo knew very little of German, but he had learned this question long before, having had occasion to ask it a great many times. It is true he seldom or never could understand the answers he got to it, but that did not prevent him from asking it continually whenever there was occasion. He said it was some satisfaction to find that the people could understand his question, even if he could not understand what they said in reply to it. [Footnote 3: The _w_ is pronounced like _v_.] The man immediately commenced an earnest explanation; but Rollo could not understand one word of it, from beginning to end. The truth of the case was, that the supposed leaning spire, which Rollo saw, was in reality a monstrous _crane_ that was mounted on one of the towers of the celebrated unfinished cathedral at Cologne. This cathedral was commenced about six hundred years ago, and was meant to be the grandest edifice of the kind in the world. They laid out the plan of it five hundred feet long, and two hundred and fifty feet wide, and designed to carry up the towers and spires five hundred feet high. You can see now how long this church was to be by going out into the road, or to any other smooth and level place, and there measuring off two hundred and fifty paces by walking. The pace--that is, the _long step_--of a boy of ten or twelve years old is probably about two feet. That of a full grown man is reckoned at three feet. So that by walking off, _by long steps_, till you have counted two hundred and fifty of them, you can see how long this church was to be; and then by turning a corner and measuring one hundred and twenty-five paces in a line at right angles to the first, you will see how wide it was to be. To walk entirely round such an area as this would be nearly a third of a mile. The church was laid out and begun, and during the whole generation of the workmen that began it, the building was prosecuted with all the means and money that could be procured; and when that generation passed away, the next continued the work, until, at length, in about a hundred years it was so far advanced that a portion of it could have a roof put over it, and be consecrated as a church. They still went on, for one or two centuries more, until they had carried up the walls to a considerable height in many parts, and had raised one of the towers to an elevation of about a hundred and fifty feet. When the work had advanced thus far the government of Holland, in the course of some of the wars in which they were engaged, closed the mouth of the Rhine, so that the ships of Cologne could no more go up and down to get out to sea. This they could easily do, for the country of Holland is situated at the mouth of the Rhine, and the Dutch government was at that time extremely powerful. They had strong fleets and great fortresses at the mouth of the river, and thus they could easily control the navigation of it. Thus the merchants of Cologne could no more import goods from foreign lands for other people to come there and buy, but the inhabitants were obliged to send to Holland to purchase what they required for themselves. The town, therefore, declined greatly in wealth and prosperity, and no more money could be raised for carrying on the work of the cathedral. At the time when the work was interrupted the builders were engaged chiefly on one of the towers, which they had carried up about one hundred and fifty feet. The stones which were used for this tower were very large, and in order to hoist them up the workmen used a monstrous crane, which was reared on the summit of it. This crane was made of timbers rising obliquely from a revolving platform in the centre, and meeting in a point which projected beyond the wall in such a manner that a chain from the end of it, hanging freely, would descend to the ground. The stones which were to go up were then fastened to this chain, and hoisted up by machinery. When they were raised high enough, that is, just above the edge of the wall, the whole crane was turned round upon its platform, in such a manner as to bring the stone in over the wall; and then it was let down into the place which had been prepared to receive it. When the work on the cathedral was suspended on account of the want of funds, the men left this crane on the top of the tower, because they hoped to be able to resume the work again before long. But years and generations passed, and the prospect did not mend; and at last the old crane, which in its lofty position was exposed to all the storms and tempests of the sky, of course began gradually to decay. It is true it was protected as much as possible by a sort of casing made around it, to shelter it from the weather; but notwithstanding this, in the course of several centuries it became so unsound that there began to be danger that it might fall. The authorities of the town, therefore, decided to take it down, intending to postpone putting up a new one until the work of finishing the cathedral should be resumed, if indeed it ever should be resumed. The people of the town were very sorry to see the crane taken down. It had stood there, like a leaning spire, upon the top of the cathedral, from their earliest childhood, and from the earliest childhood, in fact, of their fathers and grandfathers before them. Besides, the taking down of the crane seemed to be, in some sense, an indication that the thought of ever finishing the cathedral was abandoned. This made them still more uneasy, and a short time afterwards a tremendous thunder storm occurred, and this the people considered as an expression of the displeasure of Heaven at the impiety of forsaking such a work, and as a warning to them to put up the crane again. So a new crane was made, and mounted on the tower as before, and being encased and enclosed like the other, it had at a distance the appearance of a leaning spire, and it was this which had attracted Rollo's attention in his approach to Cologne. Within a few years, on account of the opening again of the navigation of the Rhine, and other causes, the city of Cologne, with all the surrounding country, has been returning to its former prosperity, and the plan of finishing the cathedral has been resumed. The government of Prussia takes a great interest in the undertaking, and the kings and princes of other countries in Germany make contributions to it. A society has been organized, too, to collect funds for this purpose all over Europe. More than a million of dollars have already been raised, and the work of completing the cathedral has been resumed in good earnest, and is now rapidly going on. All this Rollo's fellow-traveller attempted to explain to him; but as he spoke in German, Rollo did not understand him. When Mr. George and Rollo reached their hotel, and had got fairly established in their room, Mr. George took his cane and prepared to "go exploring," as he called it. "Well, Rollo," said he, "what shall we go to see first?" "I want to go and see the cathedral," replied Rollo. "The cathedral?" said Mr. George. "I am surprised at that. You don't usually care much about churches." "But this does not look much like a church," said Rollo. "I saw the end of it as we came into the town. It looks like a range of cliffs rising high into the air, with grass and bushes growing on the top of them, and wolves and bears reaching out their heads and looking down." Mr. George complied with Rollo's request, and went to see the cathedral first. The adventures which the travellers met with on the excursion will be described in the next chapter. CHAPTER II. THE UNFINISHED CATHEDRAL. As soon as Mr. George and Rollo issued from the door of their hotel into the street, which was very narrow and without sidewalks, so that they were obliged to walk in the middle of it, a young man, plainly but neatly dressed, came up to them from behind, and said something to them in German. He was what is called a commissioner, and he was coming to offer to act as their guide in seeing the town. Nearly all the travelling on the Rhine is _pleasure_ travelling. The strangers consequently, who arrive at any town or city by the steamboats and by railway, come, almost all of them, for the purpose of seeing the churches and castles, and other wonders of the place, and not to transact business; and in every town there is a great number of persons whose employment it is to act as guides in showing these things. These men hover about the doors of the hotels, and gather in front of all the celebrated churches, and in all public places where travellers are expected to go; and as soon as they see a gentleman, or a party of gentlemen and ladies, coming out of their hotel, or approaching any place of public interest, they immediately come up to them, and offer their services. Sometimes their services are valuable, and the traveller is very ready to avail himself of them, especially when in any particular town there is a great deal to see, and he has but little time to see it. At other times, however, it is much pleasanter to go alone to the remarkable places, as a map of the city will enable any one to find them very easily, and the guide book explains them in a much more satisfactory manner than any of these commissioners can do it. The commissioners generally speak French, English, and German, and after trying one of these tongues upon the strangers whom they accost, and finding that they are not understood, they try another and another until they succeed. The commissioner in this case addressed Mr. George first in German. Mr. George said, "_Nein_," meaning no, and walked on. The commissioner followed by his side, and began to talk in French, enumerating the various churches and other objects of interest in Cologne, and offering to go and show them. "No," said Mr. George, "I am acquainted with the town, and I have no need of a guide." Mr. George had studied the map and the guide book, until he knew the town quite well enough for all his purposes. "You speak English, perhaps," said the commissioner, and then proceeded to repeat what he had said before, in broken English. He supposed that Mr. George and Rollo were English people, and that they would be more likely to engage him as a guide, if they found that he could explain the wonders to them in their own language. Mr. George said, "No, no, I do not wish for a guide." "Dere is die churts of St. Ursula," said the commissioner, persisting, "and die grand towers of die gross St. Martin, which is vare bu'ful." Mr. George finding that refusals did no good, determined to take no further notice of the commissioner, and so began to talk to Rollo, walking on all the time. The commissioner continued for some time to enumerate the churches and other public buildings, which he could show the strangers if they would but put themselves under his guidance; but when at length he found that they would not listen to him, he went away. [Illustration: THE BEGGAR.] Very soon an old beggar man came limping along on a crutch, with a countenance haggard and miserable, and, advancing to them, held out his cap for alms. Mr. George, who thought it was not best to give to beggars in the streets, was going on without regarding him; but the man hobbled on by the side of the strangers, and seemed about to be as pertinacious as the commissioner. They went on so for a little distance, when at length, just as the man was about giving up in despair, Rollo put his hand in his pocket, and feeling among the money there, happened to bring up a small copper coin, which he at once and instinctively dropped into the beggar's cap. He performed the movement a little slyly, so that Mr. George did not see him. This he was able to do from the fact that the beggar was on _his_ side, and not on Mr. George's, and, moreover, a little behind. As soon as the man received the coin, he took it, put the cap on his head, and fell back out of view. "I am glad he is gone," said Mr. George; "I was afraid he would follow us half through the town." Rollo laughed. "What is it?" said Mr. George. "What makes you laugh?" "Why, the fact is," said Rollo, "I gave him a batz." "Ah!" said Mr. George. "Yes," said Rollo, "or something like a batz, that I had in my pocket." A batz is a small Swiss coin, of the value of a fifth of a cent. Rollo had become familiar with this money in the course of his travels in Switzerland, but he did not yet know the names of the Prussian coins. The money which he gave the beggar was really what they called a _pfennige_.[4] [Footnote 4: Pronounced _fenniger_.] Rollo supposed that his uncle would not quite approve of his giving the beggar this money; but as he never liked to have any secrecy or concealment in what he did, he preferred to tell him. This is always the best way. As soon as the beggar had gone, another commissioner came to offer his services. This time, however, Mr. George, after once telling the man that he did not wish for his services, took no further notice of him; and so he soon went away. The streets of Cologne are exceedingly narrow, and there are no sidewalks--or scarcely any. In one place Mr. George and Rollo passed through a street which was so narrow, that, standing in the middle and extending his hands, Mr. George could touch the buildings at the same time on each side. And yet it seemed that carriages were accustomed to pass through this street, as it was paved regularly, like the rest, and had smooth stones laid on each side of it for wheels to run in, with grooves, which seemed to have been worn in them by the wheels that had passed there. The reason why the streets are so narrow in these old towns is, that in the ancient times, when they were laid out, there were no wheeled carriages in use, and the streets were only intended for foot passengers. When, at length, carriages came into use, the houses were all built, and so the streets could not easily be widened. Our travellers at length reached a large, open square, on the farther side of which the immense mass of the cathedral was seen rising, like a gray and venerable ruin. The wall which formed the front of it, and which terminated above in the unfinished mason work of the towers, was very irregular in its outline on the top, having remained just as it was left when the builders stopped their work upon it, five hundred years ago. The whole front of this wall, having been formed apparently of clusters of Gothic columns, which had become darkened, and corroded, and moss-covered by time, appeared very much, as Rollo had said, like a range of cliffs--the resemblance being greatly increased by the green fringe of foliage with which the irregular outline of the top was adorned. It may seem strange that such a vegetation as this could arise and be sustained at such a vast elevation. But ancient ruins are almost always found to be thus covered with plants which grow upon them, even at a very great height above the ground, with a luxuriance which is very surprising to those who witness this phenomenon for the first time. The process is this: Mosses and lichens begin to grow first on the stones and in the mortar. The roots of these plants strike in, and assisted by the sun and rain, they gradually disintegrate a portion of the masonry, which, in process of time, forms a soil sufficient for the seeds of other plants, brought by the wind, or dropped by birds, to take root in. At first these plants do not always come to maturity; but when they die and decay, they help to increase the soil, and to make a better bed for the seeds that are to come afterwards. Thus, in the course of centuries, the upper surfaces of old walls and towers become quite fertile in grass and weeds, and sometimes in shrubbery. I once gathered sprigs from quite a large rosebush which I found growing several hundred feet above the ground, on one of the towers of the cathedral of Strasbourg. It was as flourishing a rosebush as I should wish to see in any gentleman's garden. What Rollo meant by the bears and wolves which he said he saw looking down from these cliff-like towers, were great stone figures of these animals, that projected from various angles and cornices here and there, to serve as waterspouts. There was an immense door of entrance to the church, at the end of a very deep, arched recess in the middle of the wall, and Mr. George and Rollo went up to it to go in. They were met at the door by another commissioner, who offered his services to show them the church. Mr. George declined this offer, and went in. The feeling of amazement and awe which the aspect of the interior of the cathedral first awakened in the minds of our travellers was for a moment interrupted by a man in a quaint costume, who came up to them, holding a large silver salver in his hand, with money in it. He said something to Mr. George and Rollo in German. They did not understand what he said; but his action showed that he was taking up a contribution, for something or other, from the visitors who came to see the church. Mr. George paid no attention to him, but walked on. On looking above and around them, our travellers found themselves in the midst of a sort of forest of monstrous stone columns, which towered to a vast height above their heads, and there were lost in vaults and arches of the most stupendous magnificence and grandeur. The floor was of stone, being formed of square flags, all cracked and corroded by time. Along the sides of the church were various chapels, all adorned with great paintings, and containing altars richly furnished with silver lamps, and glittering paraphernalia of all kinds. Parties of ladies and gentlemen, strangers from all lands, were walking to and fro at leisure about the floor, looking at the paintings, or gazing up into the vaulted roofs, or studying out the inscriptions on the monuments and sculptures which meet the eye on every hand. All this was in the body of the church, or the _nave_, as it is called, which is in fact only the vestibule to the more imposing magnificence of what is beyond, in the ambulatory and in the choir. Mr. George and Rollo advanced in this direction, and at length they came to a vast screen made of a very lofty palisade of iron. They approached a door in the centre of the screen, and looking through between the iron bars, they beheld a scene of grandeur and magnificence wholly indescribable. The carved oak stalls, the gorgeously decorated altar, the immense candlesticks with candles twenty feet high, and the lofty ceiling with its splendid frescoes, formed a spectacle so imposing that they both gazed at it for some moments in silent wonder. "I wish we could get in," said Rollo. "I wish so too," said Mr. George; "but I suppose that this is a sort of sacred place." A moment after this, while Mr. George and Rollo were looking through this grating, a sudden sound of music burst upon their ears. It was produced evidently by an organ and a choir of singers, and it seemed to come from far above their heads. The sound was at once deepened in volume by the reverberation of the vaults and arches of the cathedral, and at the same time softened in tone, so that the effect was inconceivably solemn. "Hark!" said Mr. George. "Where does that music come from?" said Rollo. "Hark!" repeated Mr. George. So Mr. George and Rollo stood still and listened almost breathlessly to the music, until it ceased. "That was good music," said Rollo. Mr. George made a sort of inarticulate exclamation, which seemed to imply that he had no words to express the emotion which the music awakened in his mind, and walked slowly away. Presently they came to a place on one side, where there was a great iron gate or door in the screen, which seemed to be ajar. "Here's a door open," said Mr. George; "let us go in here." Rollo shrank back a little. "I'm afraid they will not let us go in here," said he. "It looks like a private place." Rollo was always very particular, in all his travels, to avoid every thing like intrusion. He would never go where it seemed to him doubtful whether it was proper to go. By this means he saved himself from a great many awkward predicaments that persons who act on a contrary principle often get themselves into while travelling. Mr. George was not quite so particular. "It looks rather private," said Mr. George; "but if they do not wish us to go in, they must keep the door shut." So he pushed the great iron gate open, and walked in. Rollo followed him, though somewhat timidly. They passed between a row of chapels[5] on one side, and a high, carved partition on the other, which seemed to separate them from the choir, until, at length, they came to the end of the partition, where there was a gate that led directly into the choir. Mr. George _turned in_, followed by Rollo, and they found themselves standing in the midst of a scene of gorgeous magnificence which it is utterly impossible to describe. [Footnote 5: These chapels are recesses or alcoves along the side of the church, fitted up and furnished with altars, crucifixes, confessionals, paintings, images, and other sacred emblems connected with the ritual of the Catholic worship. They are usually raised a step or two above the floor of the church, and are separated from it by an ornamented railing, with a gate in the middle of it.] "That is where the music came from that we heard," said Rollo, pointing upward. Mr. George looked up where Rollo had pointed, and there he saw a gallery at a great elevation above them, with a choir of singers in front, and an enormous organ towering to a great height towards the vaulted roof behind. The choir was separated from the body of the church by ranges of columns above, and by richly-carved and ornamental screens and railings below. The ceilings were beautifully painted in fresco, and here and there were to be seen lofty windows of stained glass, antique and venerable in form, and indescribably rich and gorgeous in coloring. After gazing about upon this scene for a few minutes with great admiration and awe, Rollo called his uncle's attention to a discovery which he suddenly made. "See," said he; "uncle George, there is a congregation." So saying, Rollo pointed across the choir to a sort of gateway, which was opposite to the side on which they came in, and where, through the spaces which opened between the great columns that intervened, a congregation were seen assembled. They were in a chapel which was situated in that part of the church. The chapel itself was full, and a great many persons were seated in the various spaces rear. Mr. George and Rollo walked across the choir, and joined this congregation by taking a position near a pillar, where they could see what was going on. At a corner near a little gateway in a railing, where the people appeared to come in, there was a woman sitting with a brush in her hand. The brush was wet with holy water. The people, as they came in,--for a few came in after Rollo and Mr. George arrived at the place,--touched their fingers to this brush, to wet them, and then crossed themselves with the holy water. At the altar was a priest dressed in splendid pontificals. He was standing with his back to the people. There was a great number of immensely tall candlesticks on each side of him, and a great many other glittering emblems. The priest was dressed in garments richly embroidered with gold. There was a boy behind him dressed also in a very singular manner. The priest and the boy went through with a great variety of performances before the altar, none of which Rollo could at all understand. From time to time the boy would ring a little bell, and the organ and the choir of singers in the lofty gallery would begin to play and sing; and then, after a short time, the music would cease, and the priest and the boy would go on with their performances as before. Presently Rollo heard a sound of marching along the paved floor, and looking into the choir whence the sounds proceeded, he saw a procession formed of boys, with a priest, bearing some glittering sacred utensils of silver in his hands, at the head of them. The boys were all dressed alike. The dress consisted of a long crimson robe with a white frock over it, which came down below the waist, and a crimson cape over the frock, which covered the shoulders. Thus they were red above and below, and white in the middle. One of these boys had a censer in his hands, and another had a little bell; and as they came along you could see the censer swinging in the air, and the volumes of fragrant smoke rising from it, and you could hear the tinkling of the little bell. The priest advanced to the altar before which the audience were sitting, and there, while the censer was waving and the smoke was ascending, he performed various ceremonies which Rollo could not at all understand, but which seemed to interest the congregation very much, for they bowed continually, and crossed themselves, and seemed impressed with a very deep solemnity. Presently, when the ceremony was completed, the procession returned into the choir, the priest at the head of it, just as it came. When the procession had passed away, Mr. George made a sign for Rollo to follow him, and then walked along out through the gate where the woman was sitting with the holy water. She held out the brush to Mr. George and Rollo as they passed, but they did not take it. "What ridiculous mummeries!" said Rollo, in a low tone, as soon as they had got out of the hearing of the congregation. "Yes," said Mr. George, "they seem so to us; but I have a certain respect for all those ceremonies, since they are meant to be the worship of God." "I thought it was the worship of images," said Rollo. "Did not you see the images?" "Yes," said Mr. George, "I saw them; and perhaps we can make it out that those rites are, in reality, the worship of images; but they are not _meant_ for that. They are _meant_ for the worship of God." CHAPTER III. THE GALLERIES. "I want to get up upon the towers," said Rollo, "if we can." "Yes," said Mr. George, "but I want first to go and see the tomb of the three kings." "What is that?" asked Rollo. "I will show you," said Mr. George. So saying, Mr. George led the way, and Rollo followed, along what is called the _ambulatory_, which is a broad space that extends all around the head of the cross in the cathedral churches of Europe, between the screen of the choir on one side and the ranges of chapels on the other. The ambulatory is usually very grand and imposing in the effect which it produces on the mind of the visitor, on account of the immense columns which border it, the loftiness of the vaulted roof, which forms a sort of sky over it above, and by the elaborate carvings and sculptures of the screen on one side, and the gorgeous decorations of the chapels on the other. Then all along the floor there are sculptured monuments of ancient warriors armed to the teeth in marble representations of iron and steel, while the walls are adorned with rich paintings of immense magnitude, representing scenes in the life of the Savior. There seemed to Mr. George some incongruity between the reverence evinced for the teachings and example of Jesus, in the pictures above, and the honor paid to the barbarous valor of the fighting old barons, in the monuments and effigies which occupied the pavement below. At length, at the head of the cross, exactly opposite to the centre of the high altar, which faced the choir, in the place which seemed to be the special place of honor, Mr. George pointed to a small, square enclosure, or sort of projecting closet, which was richly carved and gilded, and adorned with a variety of ancient inscriptions. "There," said Mr. George, "that must be the tomb of the three kings. That is the sepulchre which contains, as they pretend, the skulls of the three wise men of the east, who came to Bethlehem to worship Jesus the night on which he was born." "How came they here?" asked Rollo. "They were at Milan about six or eight hundred years ago," said Mr. George, "and they were plundered from the church there by a great general, and given to the Archbishop of Cologne, and he put them in this church. They have been here ever since, and they are prized very highly indeed. They are set round with gold and precious stones, and have the names of the men marked on them in letters formed of rubies." "Can we see them?" asked Rollo. As he said this he climbed up upon a little step, and attempted to look through a gilded grating in the front of the coffer which contained the rubies. "Yes," said Mr. George, "but we must pay the sacristan for showing them to us. We can ask him about them when we come down from the galleries." "And besides," continued Mr. George, "the guide book says that under the floor of the church, just in front of the tomb of the three kings, the heart of Mary de Medicis is buried. That must be the place." So saying, Mr. George pointed to a large, square flagstone, which looked somewhat different from the others around it. Rollo gazed a moment at the stone, and then said,-- "I suppose so; but I don't care much about these things, uncle George. Let us go up into the towers." "Very well," said Mr. George, "we will go and see if we can find the way." So our travellers went on along the ambulatory, and thence into the aisles and nave of the church, stopping, however, every few minutes to gaze at some gorgeously decorated altar, or large and beautiful painting, or quaint old effigy, or at some monument, or inscription, or antique and time-worn sculpture. There were a great many other parties of visitors, consisting of ladies and gentlemen, and sometimes children, rambling about the church at the same time. Rollo observed, as he passed these groups, that some were talking French, some German, and some English. Here and there, too, Rollo passed plain-looking people, dressed like peasants, who were kneeling before some altar or crucifix, saying their prayers or counting their beads, and wearing a very devout and solemn air. Some of these persons took no notice of Mr. George and Rollo as they passed them; but others would follow them with their eyes, scrutinizing their dress and appearance very closely until they got by, though they continued all the time to move their lips and utter inarticulate murmurings. "I don't think those girls are attending much to their prayers," said Rollo. "I'm afraid the girls in the Protestant churches in America do not attend to them much better," said Mr. George. "There is a great deal of time spent in seeing how people are dressed by worshippers in other churches than the Roman Catholic." At length Rollo caught a view of the man who had held the plate for a contribution, at the time when he and Mr. George came in at the church door. He was walking to and fro, with his plate in his hand, in a distant portion of the church. Rollo immediately offered to go to him, and ask how he and Mr. George were to get to the towers. So he left Mr. George looking at a great painting, and walked off in that direction. Just before Rollo came to the man, his attention was attracted by a girl of about twelve or thirteen years of age, who was strolling about the church at a little distance before him, swinging her bonnet in her hand. She was very pretty, and her dark eyes shone with a very brilliant, but somewhat roguish expression. She stopped when she saw Rollo coming, and eyed him with a mingled look of curiosity and pleasure. Rollo, observing that this young lady appeared not to be particularly afraid of him, thought he would accost her. "Do you speak French?" said he in French, as he was walking slowly by her. He supposed from her appearance that she was a French girl, and so he spoke to her in that language. The girl replied, not in French, but in English,-- "Yes, and English too." "How did you know that I spoke English?" said Rollo, speaking now in English himself. "By your looks," said the girl. "What is your name?" asked Rollo. "Tell me your name first," said the girl. "My name is Rollo," said Rollo. "And mine," replied the stranger, "is Minnie." "Do you see that man out there," said Minnie, immediately after telling her name, "who is gathering the donations? Come and see what a play I will play him." Minnie was a French girl, and so, though she had learned English, she did not speak it quite according to the established usage. So she walked along towards the contribution man, wearing a very grave and demure expression of countenance as she went. Rollo kept by her side. As soon as they came near, the man held out his plate, hoping to receive a contribution from them. But as the plate already contained money which had been put in by former contributors, the action was precisely as if the man were offering money to the children, instead of asking it of them. So Minnie put forth her hand, and making a courtesy, took one of the pieces of money that were in the plate, pretending to suppose that the man meant to give it to her, and said at the same time, in French,-- "I am very much obliged to you, sir. It is just what I wanted." The man immediately exclaimed, "_Nein nein!_" which is the German for No! no! and then went on saying something in a very earnest tone, and holding out his hand for Minnie to give him back the money. Minnie did so, and then, looking up at Rollo with a very arch and roguish expression of countenance, she turned round and skipped away over the stone pavement, until she was lost from view behind an enormous column. Rollo saw her afterwards walking about with a gentleman and lady, the party to which she belonged. Rollo then asked the man who held the plate what he should do to get up into the towers. He asked this question in French, and the man replied in French that he must go "to the Swiss, and the Swiss would give him a ticket. "Where shall I find the Swiss?" asked Rollo. The man pointed to a distant part of the church, where a number of people were going in through a great iron gateway. "You will find him there somewhere," said the man, "and you will know him by his red dress." [Illustration: MINNIE'S ROGUERY.] So Rollo went and reported to his uncle George, and they together went in pursuit of the Swiss. They soon came to the great gate; and just inside of it they saw a man dressed in a long red gown which came down to his ankles. This proved to be what they called the Swiss. On making known to him what they wanted, this man gave them a ticket,--they paying him the usual fee for it,--and then went and found a guide who was to show them up into the galleries. The guide, taking them under his charge, led them outside the church, and then conducted them to a door leading into a small round tower, which was built at an angle of the wall. This tower, though small in size, was as high as the church, and it contained a spiral staircase of stone, which conducted up into the upper parts of the edifice. Mr. George and Rollo, however, found that they could not go up to the towers but only to what were called the galleries. But it proved in the end that they had quite enough of climbing and of walking along upon dizzy heights, in visiting these galleries, and Rollo was very willing to come down again when he had walked round the upper one of them, without ascending to the towers. There were three of these galleries. The first was an inner one; that is, it was inside the church. The two others were outside. The party was obliged to ascend to a vast height before they reached the first gallery. This gallery was a very narrow passage, barely wide enough for one person to walk in, which extended all around the choir, with a solid wall on one side, and arches through which they could look down into the church below on the other. After walking along for several hundred feet, listening to the swelling sounds of the music, which, coming from the organ and choir below, echoed grandly and solemnly among the vaults and arches above them, until they reached the centre of the curve at the head of the cross, Mr. George and Rollo stopped, and leaned over the stone parapet, and looked down. The parapet was very high and very thick, and Rollo had to climb up a little upon it before he could see over. They gazed for a few minutes in silence, completely overwhelmed with the dizzy grandeur of the view. It is always impossible to convey by words any idea of the impression produced upon the mind by looking down from any great height upon scenes of magnificence or of beauty; but it would be doubly impossible in such a case as this. Far below them in front, they could see the choir of singers in the singing gallery, with the organ behind them. The distance was, however, so great that they could not distinguish the faces of the singers, or even their persons. Then at a vast distance, lower still, was the floor of the choir, paved beautifully in mosaic, and with little dots of men and women, slowly creeping, like insects, over the surface of it. At a distance, through the spaces between the columns, a part of the congregation could be seen, with the women and children at the margin of it, kneeling on the praying chairs, and a little red spot near a gate, which Rollo thought must be the Swiss. The whole of the interior of the choir, which they looked down into as you would look down into a valley from the summit of a mountain, was so magnificently decorated with paintings, mosaics, and frescoes, and enriched with columns, monuments, sculptures, and carvings, and there were, moreover, so many railings, and screens, and stalls, and canopies, and altars, to serve as furnishing for the vast interior, that the whole view presented the appearance of a scene of enchantment. Mr. George said it was the most imposing spectacle that he ever saw. After this, the guide led our two travellers up about a hundred feet higher still, till they came to the first outer gallery; and the scene which presented itself to view here would be still more difficult to describe than the other. The gallery was very narrow, like the one within, and it led through a perfect maze of columns, pinnacles, arches, turrets, flying buttresses, and other constructions pertaining to the exterior architecture of the church. It was like walking on a mountain in the midst of a forest of stone. The analogy was increased by the monstrous forms of bears, lions, tigers, boars, and other wild and ferocious beasts, which projected from the eaves every where to convey the water that came down from rains, out to a distance from the walls of the building. These images had deep grooves cut along their backs for the water to flow in. These grooves led to the mouths of the animals, and they were invisible to persons looking up from below, so that to observers on the ground each animal appeared perfect in his form, and was seen stretching out the whole length of his body from the cornices of the building, and pouring out the water from his mouth. From these outer galleries Rollo could not only see the pinnacles, and turrets, and flying buttresses, of the part of the church which was finished, but he could also observe the immense works of scaffolding and machinery erected around the part which was now in progress. Men were at work hoisting up immense stones, and moving them along by a railway to the places on the walls where they were destined to go. The yard, too, on one side, far, far down, was covered with blocks, some rough, and others already carved and sculptured, and ready to go up. The towers were in view too, with the monstrous crane leaning over from the summit of one of them; but there seemed to be no way of getting to them but by crossing long scaffoldings where the masons were now at work. This Rollo would have had no wish to do, even if the guide had proposed to conduct him. So, after spending half an hour in surveying the magnificent prospect which opened every where around them over the surrounding country, and in scrutinizing the details of the architecture near, the sculptures, the masonry, the painted windows, the massive piers, and the buttresses hanging by magic, as it were, in the air, and all the other wonders of the maze of architectural constructions which surrounded them, the party began their descent. "I am glad they are going to finish it," said Rollo to Mr. George, as they were walking round and round, and round and round, in the little turret, going down the stairs. "The next time we come here, perhaps, it will be done." "They expect it will take twenty years to finish it," said Mr. George. "Twenty years!" repeated Rollo, surprised. "Yes," said Mr. George, "and about four millions of dollars. Why, when they first determined that they would attempt to finish it, it took fifteen years to make the repairs which were necessary in the old work, before they could begin any of the new. And now, at the rate that they are going on, it will take twenty years to finish it. For my part, I do not know whether we ought to be glad to have it finished or not, on account of the immense cost. It seems as if that money could be better expended." "Perhaps it could," said Rollo. "But every body that comes here to see it gets a great deal of pleasure; and as an immense number of people will come, I think the amount of the pleasure will be very great in all." "That is true," said Mr. George, "and that is the right way to consider it; but let us make the calculation in the same way that we made the calculation about the gold chain that you were going to buy in London. If we suppose that the church was half done when they left off the work, and that it will now cost four millions of dollars to finish it, that will make eight millions of dollars in all. Now, what is the interest of eight millions of dollars, say at three per cent.?" Rollo began to calculate it in his mind; but before he had got through, Mr. George said that it was two hundred and forty thousand dollars a year. "That," said Mr. George, "is equal, with a proper allowance for repairs, to, say a thousand dollars per day. Now, do you think that the people who will come here to see it will get pleasure enough from it to amount in all to a thousand dollars a day?" "I don't know," said Rollo, doubtfully. "I'd give one dollar, I know, to see it." "Yes," said Mr. George, "so would I; and I do not know but that there would be three hundred thousand to come in a year, including all the great occasions that would bring out immense assemblages from all the surrounding country." "At any rate, I hope they will finish it," said Rollo. "So do I," said Mr. George. "And I mean to put a little in the man's plate when I go down," said Rollo, "and then I shall have a share in it." "I will too," said Mr. George. Accordingly, as they passed by the man when they were leaving the church, Mr. George put a franc into his plate, and Rollo half a franc. Just at the time that they put their money in, the party that Minnie belonged to came by, and the gentleman put in a silver coin called a thaler, which is worth about seventy-five cents; so that Rollo had the satisfaction of seeing that one of the four millions of dollars was raised on the spot. [Illustration] CHAPTER IV. TRAVELLING ON THE RHINE. The steamboats and hotels, and all the arrangements made for the accommodation of travellers on the Rhine, are entirely different from those of any American river, partly for the reason that so very large a portion of the travelling there is pleasure travelling. The boats are smaller, and they go more frequently. The company is more select. They sit upon the deck, under the awnings, all the day, looking at their guide books, and maps, and panoramas of the river, and studying out the names and history of the villages, and castles, and ruined towers, which they pass on the way. The hotels are large and very elegant. They are built on the banks of the river, or wherever there is the finest view, and the dining room is always placed in the best part of the house, the windows from it commanding views of the mountains, or overlooking the water, so that in sitting at table to eat your breakfast, or your dinner, you have before you all the time some charming view. Then there is usually connected with the dining room, and opening from it, some garden or terrace, raised above the road and the river, with seats and little tables there, shaded by trees, or sheltered by bowers, where ladies and gentlemen can sit, when the weather is pleasant, and read, or drink their tea or coffee, or explore, with an opera glass, or a spy glass, the scenery around. They can see the towers and castles across the river, and follow the little paths leading in zigzag lines up among the vineyards to the watchtowers, and pavilions, and belvideres, that are built on the pinnacles of the rocks, or on the summits of the lower mountains. The hotels and inns, even in the smallest villages, are very nice and elegant in all their interior arrangements. These small villages consist usually of a crowded collection of the most quaint and queer-looking houses, or rather huts, of stone, with an antique and venerable-looking church in the midst of them, looking still more quaint and queer than the houses. The hotels, however, in these villages, or rather on the borders of them,--for the hotels are often built on the open ground beyond the town, where there is room for gardens and walks, and raised terraces around them,--are palaces in comparison with the dwellings of the inhabitants. And well they may be, for the villagers are almost all laborers of a very humble class--boatmen, who get their living by plying boats up and down the river; vinedressers, who cultivate the vineyards of the neighboring hills; or hostlers and coachmen, who take care of the carriages and of the horses employed in the traffic of the river. A great number of horses are employed; for not only are the carriages of such persons as choose to travel on the Rhine by land, or to make excursions on the banks of the river, drawn by them, but almost all the boats, except the steamboats that go up the river, are _towed_ up by these animals. To enable them to do this, a regular tow path has been formed all the way up the river, on the left bank, and boats of all shapes and sizes are continually to be seen going up, drawn, like canal boats in America, by horses--and sometimes even by men. Once I saw some boys drawing up a small boat in this way. It seems they had been going down the stream to take a sail, or perhaps to convey a traveller down; and now they were coming up again, drawing their boat by walking along the bank, the current being so rapid that it is much easier to draw a boat up than it is to row it. The boys had a long line attached to the mast of their boat, and both of them were drawing upon this line by means of broad bands, forming a sort of harness, which were passed over their shoulders. [Illustration] Now, the small villages that I was speaking of are formed almost exclusively of the dwellings of the various classes which I have described, while the hotels or inns that are built on the margins of them are intended, not as they would be in America, for the accommodation of the people of the same class, but for travellers of wealth, and rank, and distinction, who come from all quarters of the world to explore the beauties and study the antiquities of the Rhine. Thus the inns, however small and secluded they may be, and however retired and solitary the places in which they stand, are always very nice, and even elegant, in their interior arrangements. The chambers are furnished and arranged in the prettiest possible manner. Handsome open carriages and pretty boats are ready to convey visitors on any excursion which they may desire to make in the neighborhood, and the table is provided with almost as many delicacies and niceties as you can have in Paris. The roads along the banks of the Rhine, too, are absolutely perfect. Well they may be so in fact, for workmen have been constantly employed in making and perfecting them for nearly two thousand years. Julius Cæsar worked upon them. Charlemagne worked upon them. Frederic the Great worked upon them. Napoleon worked upon them. They are walled up wherever necessary on the side towards the river; the rock is cut away on the side towards the land; valleys have been filled up; hill sides have been terraced, and ravines bridged over; until the road, though passing along the margin of a very mountainous region, is almost as level as a railway throughout the whole of its course. And as it is macadamized throughout, and is kept in the most perfect condition, it is always, in wet weather as well as dry, as firm, and hard, and smooth as a floor. With such roads and such carriages on the land, and such pretty steamboats as they have upon the water, it would be very pleasant going up through the highlands of the Rhine, if there were nothing but the natural scenery to attract the eye of the traveller. But besides the quaint and ancient villages, and the curious old churches which adorn them,--villages which sometimes line the margin of the water, and sometimes cling to the slopes of the hills, or nestle in the higher valleys,--there are other still stronger attractions, in the castles, towers, and palaces, which are seen scattered every where on the river banks, adorning every prominent and commanding position along the shores, and crowning, in many cases, the summits of the hills. Many of these castles and towers, though built originally hundreds of years ago, are still kept in repair and inhabited, some being used as the summer residences of princes, or of private men of fortune, and others, being armed with cannon and garrisoned with soldiers, are held as strongholds by the kings, or dukes, or electors, in whose dominions they lie. There are a great many of them, however, that have been allowed to go to decay; and the ruins of these still stand, presenting to the eye of the traveller who gazes up to them from the deck of the steamer, or from his seat in his carriage, or who climbs up to visit them more closely, by means of the zigzag paths which lead to them, very interesting relics and memorials of ancient times. The ruins are generally on very lofty summits, and they usually occupy the most commanding positions, so that the view from them up and down the river is almost always very grand. The castles were built by the dukes, and barons, and other feudal chieftains of the middle ages, and they are placed in these commanding positions in order that the chieftains who lived in them might watch the river, and the roads leading along the banks of it, and come down with a troop of their followers to exact what they called tribute, but what those who had to pay it called plunder, from the merchants or travellers whom they saw from the windows of their watchtowers, passing up and down. In fact these men were really robbers; being just like any other robbers, excepting that they restricted themselves to some rule and system in their plunderings, such as an enlightened regard for their own interest required. If, when they found a vessel laden with merchandise, or a company of travellers coming down the river, they had robbed them of every thing they possessed, the river and the roads would soon have been entirely abandoned, and their occupation would have been gone. In order to avoid this result, they were accustomed to content themselves with a certain portion of the value which the traveller was carrying; and they called the money which they exacted a tribute, or tax, paid for the privilege of passing through their dominions. They kept continual watch in their lofty castles, both up and down the river, to see who came by, and then, descending with a sufficient force to render resistance useless, they would take what they pretended to consider their due, and retreat with it to their almost inaccessible fastnesses, where they were safe from all pursuers. They often had wars with one another; and in the progress of these wars the weaker chieftains became, in the course of time, subjected to the stronger, and thus two or more small dominions would often become united into one. These amalgamations went on continually; and as they advanced, the condition of the cultivator of the ground, and of the peaceful merchant or traveller, was improved, for the rules and regulations for the collection of the tribute became more fixed and settled, and men knew more and more what they could calculate upon, and could regulate their business accordingly. Arrangements were made, too, to collect a regular tax from the cultivators of the ground; and just so far as these arrangements were matured, and the produce of the plunder, or the tribute, or the tax, or whatever we call it, increased, just so far it became for the interest of the chieftains that the cultivation of the land and the traffic on the river should be increased, and should be protected from all depredations but their own. Thus a system of law grew up, and arrangements for preserving public order, for promoting the general industry, and rules and regulations for the collection of the tribute, until at length, when all these arrangements were matured, and the multitude of petty chieftains became combined under one great chieftain ruling over the whole, and collecting the revenue for his subordinates, we find a great kingdom as the result, in which the descendants of the ancient marauders that lived in castles on the hills, under the name of princes and nobles, collect the means of enabling themselves to live in idleness and luxury out of the avails of the labor of the agriculturists, the merchants, and the manufacturers, by a combined and concerted arrangement, and a regular system of rents, taxes, and tolls, instead of by irregular forrays and depredations, as in former years. When any one of these nobles is questioned as to the nature of his claim to the enjoyment of so large a portion of the produce of the land, without doing any thing to earn or deserve it, he says that it is a _vested right_; that is, that he has a right to claim and take a certain portion of the proceeds of the toil of the _present_ generation of laborers, because his forefathers claimed and took a similar portion from theirs. And the one monarch, whose ancestors succeeded in overpowering or crowding out the others, claims his right to rule on the same ground. Thus, in the progress of ages, by a strange commutation, robbery and plunder, when systematized, and extended, and established on a permanent basis, become legitimacy, and the divine right of kings. In America there is no such division of the fruits of industry between those who do the work and a class of idle nobles, and soldiers, and priests, who do nothing but consume the proceeds of it. There every man possesses the full fruit of his labor, except so far as he himself joins with his fellow-citizens in setting apart a portion for the purposes of public and general utility. This is the reason why such immense numbers of laboring men are every year leaving Germany and emigrating to America. But to return to the Rhine. Of course, just so fast and so far as the smaller chieftains were conquered and dispossessed, and the country came into the hands of a smaller number of greater princes, the old castles became useless. Besides, when rules and laws, instead of surprises and violence, became the means by which contributions were levied, it was no longer necessary to have strongholds on high hills to come down from, when a vessel or a traveller was coming by, and to retreat to with the booty when the plunder had been taken. A great number of these old castles have, therefore, gone to decay; for they were generally built too high on the hills and rocks to be convenient as dwellings for peaceable men. A few of the largest and strongest of them were retained as fortresses; and those that were retained have been greatly enlarged and strengthened in their defences in modern times, so that some of them are now the greatest and strongest fortresses in the world. Others, that were built in tolerably accessible situations, or which commanded an unusually beautiful view, were retained and kept in repair, and are used now as the summer residences of wealthy men. The rest were suffered gradually to go to decay, and the ruins and remains of them are seen crowning almost every remarkable height all along the river. Some of these ruins are still in a very good state of preservation, so that in going up to explore them you can make out very easily the whole original plan of the edifice. You can find the turret, with the remains of the stairs which led up to the watchtower, and the kitchen, and the hall, and the armory, and the stables. In others, there is nothing to be seen but a confused mass of unintelligible ruins; and in others still, every thing is gone, except, perhaps, some single arch or gateway, which stands among a mass of shapeless mounds, the last remaining relic of the edifice it once adorned, and itself tottering, perhaps, on the brink of its precipitous foundation, as if just ready to fall. [Illustration: DONKEY RIDING.] These old ruins are visited every year by thousands of persons who come from every part of the world to see them. These visitors arrive every year in such numbers that the steamboats, both going up and coming down, and all the hotels, and thousands of carriages, which are perpetually plying to and fro along the shores on both sides of the river, are constantly filled with them. A great many people merely pass up or down the river in a steamer, in a day and a night, and only see the ruins and the other scenery by gazing at them from the deck of the vessel. But in this case they get no idea whatever of the Rhine. It is necessary to travel slowly, to stop frequently at the towns on the bank, to make excursions along the shores and into the interior, and to ascend to the sites of the ruins, and to other elevated points, so as to view the valley and the stream meandering through it from above, or you obtain no correct idea whatever of travelling on the Rhine. The work of ascending to the old ruins would be a very arduous and difficult one for all but the young and robust, were it not for the assistance that is afforded by the donkeys that are kept at the foot of every remarkable hill that travellers might be supposed desirous to ascend. These donkeys have a sort of chair fitted upon them, that is, a saddle, flat upon the top, and guarded all around one side by a sort of back, like the back of a chair. The trappings are covered with some kind of scarlet cloth, so that the troop of donkeys standing together under the shade of the trees, at the foot of the hill which they are to ascend, make a very gay appearance. The donkeys look very small to bear so heavy a load as a full grown person; but they are very strong, and they carry their burden quite easily, especially as the distance is not very great. For these mountains of the Rhine, celebrated as they are for the romantic grandeur which they impart to the scenery, are, after all, seldom more than a few hundred feet high. There is also, almost always, an excellent path leading up to them. It winds usually by zigzags through the groves of trees, or between gardens and vineyards, in a very delightful manner, so that the ascent in going up any of these hills would make a very pleasant excursion even without the ruins on the top. Such, in its general features, is the mountainous region of the Rhine, as it appears to the travellers who go to visit it at the present day; and it was this region that Rollo and Mr. George were now going to explore. CHAPTER V. THE SIEBEN GEBIRGEN. The word _Sieben_ means _seven_, and _Gebirgen_ means _mountains_.[6] Thus the _Sieben Gebirgen_ is the Seven Mountains. It is the name given to a mountainous mass of land which rises into seven or more principal peaks, just at the entrance of the romantic part of the Rhine. The highest of these mountains is the celebrated Drachenfels, which has a ruined castle on the top of it, and an inn for the accommodation of travellers just below. The Seven Mountains and Drachenfels are on the east bank of the river. Opposite to them on the left bank are some other remarkable mountains, crowned also with celebrated ruins. The river flows between these highlands as through a gateway. They form, in fact, the commencement of the mountainous region of the Rhine, in ascending the river from Cologne.[7] [Footnote 6: The words are pronounced as they are spelled, except that the _g_ in _Gebirgen_ is hard.] [Footnote 7: The reader must be very careful to get the idea right in his mind in respect to which way is _up_ on the Rhine. The river flows north. Of course, in looking on the map, what is _down_ on the page is _up_ in respect to the flow of the river.] The large town next below where these mountains commence is Bonn, which is, perhaps, thirty or forty miles above Cologne. The country up as far as Bonn from Cologne is pretty level, and a railroad has been made there. At Bonn the mountains begin, and the railroad has accordingly not been yet carried any farther. Mr. George and Rollo went up to Bonn by the railroad. Mr. George wished to stop at Bonn for half a day to visit a celebrated university that is there. The buildings of this university were formerly a palace; but they were afterwards given up to the use of the university, which subsequently became one of the most distinguished seminaries of learning in Europe. Mr. George wished to visit this university. He had letters of introduction to some of the professors. He wished also to see the library and the cabinets of natural history that were there. He invited Rollo to go with him, but Rollo concluded not to go. He would have liked to have seen the library very well, and the cabinets, but he was rather afraid of the professors. So, while Mr. George went to visit the literary institution, Rollo amused himself by rambling about the town, and looking at the quaint old churches, and the houses, and the fortifications, and in strolling along the quay, by the shore of the river, to see the steamers and tow boats go up and down. At length he went to the hotel. The hotel was just without the gates, near the river. There was a garden between the hotel and the river, with a terrace at the margin of it, overlooking the water, where there were tables and chairs ready for any person who might choose to take coffee or any other refreshments there. Mr. George's room was on this side of the hotel, and being pretty high it overlooked the gardens, and the terrace, and the river, and afforded a charming view. Up the river, on the other side, about three or four miles off, the Sieben Gebirgen were plainly to be seen, the summits of them tipped with ancient ruins. After Rollo had been sitting there about half an hour, Mr. George came home. It was then about one o'clock. "Well, Rollo," said he, "we are going up the river. I have engaged the landlord to send us up in a carriage to some pleasant place on the bank of the river among the mountains, where we can spend the Sabbath." "Why, what day is it?" asked Rollo. "It is Saturday," replied Mr. George. Rollo was quite surprised to find that it was Saturday. In fact, in travelling on the Rhine, as there is so little to mark or distinguish one day from another, we almost always soon lose our reckoning. "What is the name of the place where we are going?" asked Rollo. "I don't know," replied Mr. George. "I cannot understand very well. He is going to send us somewhere. How it will turn out I cannot tell. We must trust to the fortune of war." Mr. George often called the luck that befell him in travelling the fortune of war. "If we were contented," he would say, "to travel over and over again in places that we know, then we could make some calculations, and could know beforehand, in most cases, where we were going and how we should come out. But in travelling in new and strange places we cannot tell at all, especially when there is no language that we can communicate well with the people in. So we have to trust to the fortune of war." Mr. George, however, determined to make one more effort to find out where he was going; and so, when the carriage came to the door, and he and Rollo were about to get into it, he asked the porter of the house--who was the man that "spoke English"--what the name of the place was where they were going to stop. "Yes, sare," replied the man. "You will stop. You will go to Poppensdorf and to Kreitzberg, and then you will go to Gottesberg, and then you will go to Rolandseck, where there is a boat that will take you to Drachenfels, or to Koenigswinter." He said all this with so strong a German accent, and pronounced the barbarous words with so foreign an intonation, that no trace or impression whatever was left by them on Mr. George's ear. "But which is the place," asked Mr. George, speaking very deliberately and plainly,--"which is the place where we are to be left by the carriage to stay on Sunday? Is it Rolandseck or Koenigswinter?" "Yes, sare," said the porter, making a very polite bow. "Yes, sare, you will go to Rolandseck, and to Kreitzberg, and to Gottesberg, and if you please you can stop at Poppensdorf." "Very well," said Mr. George. "Tell him to drive on." This is a tolerably fair specimen of the success to which travellers, and the porters, and waiters, who "speak English," attain to, in their attempts to understand one another. In fact, the attempts of these domestic linguists to _speak_ English are sometimes still more unfortunate than their attempts to understand it. One of them, in talking to Mr. George, said "No, yes," for no, sir. Another told Rollo that the dinner would be ready in _fiveteen_ minutes, and a very worthy landlord, in commenting on the pleasant weather, said that the time was very _agregable_. So a waiter said one day that the _bifstek_ was just coming up out of the _kriken_. He meant kitchen. The place where the porter, who engaged the carriage for Mr. George, intended to leave him, was really Rolandseck. Rolandseck is the name of a ruined arch, the remains of an ancient tower which may be seen in the engraving a little farther on, upon the height of land on the left side of the view. The lofty ruin on the right, farther in the distance, is Drachenfels. At the foot of Drachenfels, a little farther down the river,--and we are looking down the river in the engraving,--is a town called Koenigswinter, which is the place that people usually set out from to ascend the mountain, a great number of donkeys being kept there for that purpose. Beneath the tower of Rolandseck, near the margin of the water, is a row of three or four houses, two of which are hotels. The land rises so suddenly from the river here, that there is barely room for the road and the houses between the water and the hill. In fact, the road itself is terraced up with a wall ten or fifteen feet high towards the water, and the houses in the same manner from the road. You enter them, indeed, from the level of the road; but you are immediately obliged to ascend a staircase to reach the principal floor of the house, which is ten or fifteen feet above the road, and the gardens of the house are on terraces raised to that height by a wall. Thus from the gardens and terraces you look down fifteen feet over a wall to the road, and from the road you look down fifteen feet over a wall to the water. Along the outer margin of the road is a broad stone wall or parapet, flat at the top and about three feet high. All this you can see represented in the engraving. In the middle of the river, opposite to the hotels, is a very beautiful island with a nunnery upon it. This island is called Nonnenwerth. Now, in regard to all these castles and churches, and other sacred edifices on the Rhine, there is almost always some old legend or romantic tale, which has come down through succeeding generations from ancient times, and which adds very much to the interest of the locality where the incidents occurred. The tale in respect to Rolandseck and Nonnenwerth is this: Roland was the nephew of the great monarch and conqueror, Charlemagne. He became engaged to the daughter of the chieftain who lived in Drachenfels, the ruins of which you see in the engraving crowning the hill on the right bank of the river, some little distance down the stream. In a battle in which he was engaged, he killed his intended father-in-law by accident, being deceived by the darkness of the night, and thinking that he was striking an enemy instead of a friend. After this, he could not be married to his intended bride, the etiquette of those days forbidding that a warrior should marry one whose father he had slain. The maiden, in her grief and despair, betook herself to the nunnery on the island near her father's castle, and Roland, since he could not be permitted to visit her there, built a tower on the nearest pinnacle of the opposite shore, in order that he might live there, and at least comfort himself with a sight of the building where his beloved was confined. The story is, however, that the unhappy nun lived but a short time. Roland himself, however, continued to live in his tower, a lonely hermit, for many years. Another version of this legend is, that the maiden was led to go to the convent and consecrate herself as a nun, on account of a false report which she had heard, that Roland himself was killed in the battle, and that when she learned that he was still alive, it was too late for her to be released from her vows. However this may be, Roland retired to this lofty tower, in order to be as near her as possible, and to be able to look down upon the dwelling where she lived. How well he could do this you can easily see by observing how finely the ruined tower on the top of the hill commands a view of the river and of the island, as well as of the nunnery itself, imbosomed in the trees. A little below the ruin of Roland's Tower you see a pavilion on a point of the rock, which, though somewhat lower in respect to elevation, projects farther towards the stream, and consequently commands a finer view. This pavilion has been erected very lately by a gentleman who lives in one of the houses at the margin of the road, and who owns the vineyards that cover the slope of the hill. The road to it leads up among these vineyards through the gentleman's grounds, but he leaves it open in order that visitors who ascend up to Roland's Tower may go to the pavilion on the way, and enjoy the view. It was to one of these hotels at Rolandseck that the porter at Bonn had arranged to send Mr. George, as the pleasantest place that was near to spend the Sabbath in. He could not have made a better selection. The ride, too, in the carriage from Bonn up to Rolandseck, was delightful. Nothing could be more enchanting than the scenery which was presented to view on every hand. The carriage, like all the other private carriages used for travellers on the Rhine, was an open barouche, and when the top was down it afforded an entirely unobstructed view. The day was pleasant, and yet the sun was so obscured with clouds that it was not warm, and Rollo stood up in the carriage nearly all the way, supporting himself there by taking hold of the back of the driver's seat, and looking about him on every side, uttering continual exclamations of wonder and delight. He attempted once or twice to talk with the driver, trying him in French and English; but the driver understood nothing but German, and so the conversation soon settled down to an occasional _Was ist das?_ from Rollo, and a long reply to the question from the driver, not a word of which Rollo was able to understand. They passed out of Bonn by means of a most singular avenue. It was formed of a very broad space in the centre, which seemed, by its place, to have been intended for the road way; but instead of being a road way, it was covered with a rich growth of grass, like a mowing field. On each side of this green were two rows of trees, which bordered a sort of wide sidewalk, of which there were two, one on each side of the road. These side passages were the carriage ways. "See, uncle George," said Rollo. "The road has all grown up to grass, and we are riding on the sidewalk." The carriage passed on, and when it reached the end of the avenue, it came to a beautiful and extensive edifice, standing in the midst of groves and gardens, which was formerly a chateau, but is now used for a museum of natural history. Here were arranged the cabinets which Mr. George had been to see that morning. Passing this place, the carriage gradually ascended a long hill, on the summit of which, half concealed by groves of trees, was an ancient-looking church. Mr. George had seen this hill before from the windows of the hotel, and knew it must be the Kreitzberg. "He is taking us to the Kreitzberg," said Mr. George. "What is that famous for?" asked Rollo. "It is an ancient church, on the top of a high hill," said Mr. George, "where there is a flight of stairs made to imitate those that Jesus ascended at Jerusalem, when he went to Pilate's judgment hall. Nobody is allowed to go up or down these stairs except on their knees. "Then, besides," continued Mr. George, looking along the page of his guide book as he spoke, "the air is so dry up at the top of this high hill, that the bodies of the old monks, who were buried there hundreds of years ago, did not corrupt, but they dried up and turned into a sort of natural mummies; and there they lie now under the church, in open coffins, in full view." "Let us go down and see them," said Rollo. What Mr. George said was true; and these things are but a specimen of the strange and curious legends and tales that are told to the traveller, and of the extraordinary relics and wonders that are exhibited to his view, in the old churches and monasteries, which are almost as numerous as the castles, on the Rhine. The carriage, after ascending a long time, stopped at a gate by the way side, whence a long, straight road led up to the church, which stood on the very summit of the hill. Mr. George and Rollo got out and walked up. When they drew near to the church, they turned round to admire the splendor of the landscape, and to see if the carriage was still waiting for them below. They saw that the carriage still stood there, and that there was another one there too, and that a party of ladies and gentlemen were descending from it to come up and see the church. There was a little girl in this party. "I should not wonder if that was Minnie," said Rollo. In a short time this party, with a commissioner at the head of them, came up the walk. The girl proved to be really Minnie. She seemed very glad to see Rollo, and she stopped to speak with him while the rest of the party went on. Rollo and Minnie followed closely behind. The commissioner led the way round to the side of the church, where there were some other ancient buildings, which were formerly a nunnery. Here they found a man who had the care of the place. He was a sacristan.[8] He brought a great key, and unlocked the church door, and let the party in. [Footnote 8: A sacristan is an officer who has charge of the sacred utensils and other property of the church, and who shows them to visitors.] The interior of the church was very quaint and queer,--as in truth the interiors of all the old churches are on the banks of the Rhine,--and was adorned with a great many curious old effigies and paintings. After waiting a few minutes for the company to look at these, the sacristan went to a place in the middle of the church before the altar, and lifted up a great trap door in the floor. When the door was lifted up, a flight of steps was seen leading down under ground. "Where are they going now?" said Minnie. "I suppose they are going down to see the monks," said Rollo. The party went down the stairs, Rollo and Minnie following them. The sacristan had two candles in his hands. As soon as he got to the bottom of the stairs, he passed along a narrow passage way between two rows of open coffins, placed close together side by side, and in each coffin was a dead man, his flesh dried to a mummy, his clothes all in tatters, and his face, though shrivelled and dried up, still preserving enough of the human expression to make the spectacle perfectly horrid. When Rollo and Minnie reached the place near enough to see what was there, the sacristan was moving his candles about over the coffins, one in each hand, so as to show the bodies plainly. At the first glance which Minnie obtained of this shocking sight, she uttered a scream, and ran up the stairs again as fast as she could go. Rollo followed her, but somewhat more slowly. When he came out into the church, he caught a glimpse of Minnie's dress, as she was just making her escape from the door. Rollo would have followed her, but he was afraid of losing his uncle George. When the party, at length, came up from their visit to the dead monks, they went to see the sacred staircase. Rollo went with them. The staircase seemed to be at the main entrance to the church: the party had gone round to a door in the side where they came in. The sacred stairs occupied the centre of the hall in which they were placed. There were on the sides two plain and common flights of stairs, for people to go up and down in the usual way. The sacred stairs in the centre could only be ascended and descended on the knees. The side stairs were separated from the central flight by a solid balustrade or wall, not very high, so that people who came to see the sacred steps could stand on the side steps and look over. The flight of sacred steps was very wide, and was built of a richly variegated marble, of brown, red, and yellow colors, intermingled together in the stone; and some of the stains were said to have been produced by the blood of Christ. Here and there, too, on the different steps of the staircase, were to be seen little brass plates let into the stone, beneath which were small caskets containing sacred relics of various kinds, such as small pieces of wood of the true cross, and fragments of the bones of saints and apostles. Neither Mr. George nor Rollo took much interest in this exhibition; and so, giving the sacristan a small piece of money, they went back to their carriage. As Rollo got into the carriage that he had come in, he saw that Minnie was seated in hers, and she nodded her head when Rollo's carriage moved away, to bid him good by. Mr. George and Rollo passed one or two other very picturesque and venerable looking ruins on the way up the river, but they did not stop to go and explore any of them. In one place, too, they rode along a sort of terrace, where the view over the river, and over the fields and vineyards beyond, was perfectly enchanting. Mr. George said he had never before seen so beautiful a view. It was at a place where the road had been walled up high along the side of a hill, at some distance from the river, so that the view from the carriage, as it moved rapidly along, extended over the whole valley. The fields and vineyards, the groves and orchards, the broad river, the zigzag paths leading up the mountain sides, the steamers and canal boats gliding up and down over the surface of the water, and the mountains beyond, with the rocky summit of Drachenfels, crowned with its castle, towering among them, combined to make the whole picture appear like a scene of enchantment. The poet Byron described this view in three stanzas, which have been read and admired wherever the English language is spoken, and have made the name of Drachenfels more familiar to English and American ears than the name of almost any other castle on the Rhine. DRACHENFELS. The castled crag of Drachenfels Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine; And hills all rich with blossomed trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scattered cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine, Have strewed a scene which I should see With double joy wert _thou_ with me. And peasant girls with deep blue eyes, And hands which offer early flowers, Walk smiling o'er this paradise; Above, the frequent feudal towers Through green fields lift their walls of gray; And many a rock which steeply lowers, And noble arch in proud decay, Look o'er this vale of vintage bowers; But one thing want these banks of Rhine-- Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine! The river nobly foams and flows, The charm of this enchanted ground, And all its thousand turns disclose Some fresher beauty varying round: The haughtiest breast its wish might bound Through life to dwell delighted here; Nor could on earth a spot be found To nature and to me so dear, Could thy dear eyes in following mine Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine. In due time, Mr. George and Rollo arrived at Rolandseck, where they were received very politely by the landlord of the inn, and introduced to a very pleasant room, the windows of which commanded a fine view both of Drachenfels and of the river. [Illustration] CHAPTER VI. ROLAND'S TOWER. "And now," said Mr. George, as soon as the porter had put down his trunk and gone out of the room, "the first thing to be thought of is dinner." Rollo was also ready for a dinner, especially for such excellent little dinners of beefsteaks, fried potatoes, nice bread and butter, and coffee, as his uncle usually ordered. So, after refreshing themselves a few minutes in their room, Mr. George and Rollo went down stairs in order to go into the dining room to call for a dinner. As they passed through the hall, they saw a door there which opened out upon beautifully ornamented grounds behind the house. The land ascended very suddenly, it is true, but there were broad gravel paths of easy grade to go up by; and there were groves, and copses of shrubbery, and blooming flowers, in great abundance, on every hand. On looking up, too, Rollo saw several seats, at different elevations, where he supposed there must be good views. While they were standing at this door, looking out upon the grounds, a waiter came by, and they told him what they wished to have for dinner. "Very well," said the waiter; "and where will you have it? You can have it in your room, or in the dining room, or in the garden, just as you please." "Let us have it in the garden," said Rollo. "Well," said Mr. George, "in the garden." So the young gentlemen went out into the garden to choose a table and a place, while the waiter went to make arrangements for their dinner. The part of the garden where the seats and the tables were placed was a level terrace, not behind the house, but in a line with it, at the end, so that it fronted the road, and commanded a very fine view both of the road and of the river, as well as of all the people, and carriages, and boats that were passing up and down. This terrace was high up above the road, being walled up on that side, as I have already described; and there was a parapet in front, to prevent people from falling down. This parapet was, however, not so high but that Rollo could look over it very conveniently, and see all that was passing in the road and on the river below. There was a sort of roof, like an awning, over this place, to shelter it from the sun and the rain; and there were trees and trellises behind, and at the ends, to enclose it, and give it an air of seclusion. The trellises were covered with grapevines, on which many clusters of grapes were seen, that had already grown quite large. Numerous flower pots, containing a great many brilliant flowers all in bloom, were placed in various positions, to enliven and adorn the scene. Some were on the tables, some on benches behind them, and there were six of the finest of them placed at regular intervals upon the parapet, on the side towards the street. These last gave the gardens a very attractive appearance as seen outside, by people going by in carriages along the road, or in boats on the river. Rollo and Mr. George chose a table that stood near the parapet, in the middle of the space between two of the flower pots, and sitting down they amused themselves by looking over the wall until the waiter brought them their dinner.[9] The dinner came at length, and the travellers immediately, with excellent appetites, commenced eating it. [Footnote 9: For a view of this part of the river see frontispiece.] "Uncle George," said Rollo, in the middle of the dinner, "my feet are getting pretty lame." "Are they?" said Mr. George. "Yes," said Rollo, "I have walked a great deal lately." "Then," said Mr. George, "you must let them rest. You must go down to the river and bathe them in the cool water after dinner, and not walk any more to-night." "But I want to go up to Roland's Tower," said Rollo. "Well," said Mr. George, "perhaps you might do that. You can ride up on one of the donkeys." This plan was accordingly agreed to, and as soon as the dinner was ended it was put in execution. The donkeys that were used for the ascent of the hill to Roland's Tower were kept standing, all caparisoned, at the foot of the hill, at the entrance to a little lane where the pathway commenced. Mr. George and Rollo had seen them standing there when they came along the road. The place was very near where they were sitting; so that, after finishing their dinner, they had only to walk a few steps through the garden, and thence out through a back gate, when they found themselves in the lane, and the donkeys and the donkey boys all before them. Mr. George thought that he should prefer to _walk_ up the mountain; but Rollo chose a donkey, and with a little assistance from Mr. George he mounted into the seat. At first he was afraid that he might fall; for the seat, though there was a sort of back to it, as has already been described, to keep persons in, seemed rather unsteady, especially when the donkey began to move. "It will not do much harm if I do fall," said Rollo, "for the donkey is not much bigger than a calf." Mr. George, who was accustomed to leave Rollo a great deal to himself on all occasions, did not stop in this instance to see him set off, but as soon as he had got him installed in his seat, began to walk himself up the pathway, with long strides, and was soon hid from view among the grapevines, at a turn of the road, leaving Rollo to his own resources with the donkey and the donkey boy. At first the donkey would not go; but the boy soon compelled him to set out, by whipping him with the stick, and away they then went, all three together, scrambling up the steep path with a rapidity that made it quite difficult for Rollo to keep his seat. The paths leading up these hill sides on the banks of the Rhine are entirely different from any mountain paths, or any country roads, of any sort, to be seen in America. In the first place, there is no waste land at the margin of them. Just width enough is allowed for two donkeys or mules to pass each other, and then the walls which keep up the vineyard terrace on the upper side, and enclose the vine plantings on the other, come close to the margin of it, on both sides, leaving not a foot to spare. The path is made and finished in the most perfect manner. It is gravelled hard, so that the rains may not wash it; and it mounts by regular zigzags, with seats or resting-places at the turnings, where the traveller can stop and enjoy the view. In fact, the paths are as complete and perfect as in the nature of the case it is possible for them to be made; and well they may be so, for it is perhaps fifteen hundred years since they were laid out; and during this long interval, fifty generations of vinedressers have worked upon them to improve them and to keep them in order. In fact, it is probable that the roads and the mountain paths, both in Switzerland and on the Rhine, are more ancient than any thing else we see there, except the brooks and cascades, or the hills and mountains themselves. When Rollo had got up about two thirds the height of the hill, he came to the pavilion, which you see in the engraving standing on a projecting pinnacle of the rock, a little below the ruin. There was a gateway which led to the pavilion, by a sort of private path; but the gate was set open, that people might go in. Rollo dismounted from his donkey, and went in. His uncle was already there. It is wholly impossible to describe the view which presented itself from this commanding point, both up and down the river, or to give any idea of the impression produced upon the minds of our travellers when they stood leaning over the balcony, and gazed down to the water below from the dizzy height. The pavilion is built of stone, and is secured in the most solid and substantial manner, being very far more perfect in its construction than the old towers and castles were, whose remains have stood upon these mountains so long. It will probably last, therefore, longer than they have, and perhaps to the very end of time. It stands on a pinnacle of basaltic rock, which here projects so as actually to overhang its foundations. The view both up and down the river is inconceivably beautiful and grand. There was no seat in the pavilion, but there was one against the rocks, and under the shades of the trees just behind it; and here Mr. George and Rollo sat down to rest a while, after they had looked out from the pavilion itself as long as they desired. "I believe I'll walk up the rest of the way," said Rollo, "and let the donkey stay where he is." "Why, don't you like riding on the donkey?" asked Mr. George. "Yes," said Rollo, "I like to ride, but he don't seem to like to carry me very well. Besides, it is not far now to the top." The path immediately above the pavilion passed out of the region of the vineyards, and entered a little thicket of evergreen trees, through which it ascended by short zigzags, very steep, until at length it came out upon a smooth, grassy mound, which crowned the summit of the elevation; and here suddenly the ruin came into view. It was a single ruined arch, standing alone on the brink of the hill. The arch was evidently, when first built, of the plainest and rudest construction. The stones were of basalt, which is a volcanic rock, very permanent and durable in character, and as hard almost as iron. The mortar between the stones had crumbled away a good deal, but the stones themselves seemed unchanged. Mr. George struck his cane against them, and they returned a ringing sound, as if they had been made of metal. Around this arch were the remains of the ancient wall of the building, by means of which it was easy to see that the whole edifice must have been of very small dimensions, and that it must have been originally constructed in a very rude manner. The arch seems to have been intended for a door or a window. Probably they took more pains with the construction of the arch than they did with the rest of the edifice, using larger and better stones for it, and stronger mortar; and this may be the reason why this part has stood so long, while the rest has fallen down and gone to decay. In fact, it is generally found that the arches of ancient edifices are the parts of the masonry which are the last to fall. The opening in the arch looked down the river. Mr. George took his stand upon the line of the wall opposite the Island of Nonnenwerth, and said that he supposed there must have been another window there. "Here is where the old knight must have stood," said he, "to look down on the island, and the convent where his lost lady was imprisoned." "Yes," said Rollo, "he could look right down upon it from here. I wonder whether the nun knew that he was up here." "Yes," said Mr. George, "there is not the least doubt that she did. They found out some way to have an understanding together, you may depend." After lingering about the old ruin as long as they wished, our travellers came down the hill again as they went up, except that Rollo walked all the way. He was afraid to ride on the donkey going down, for fear that he should fall. Rollo went down to the river side, and taking off his stockings and shoes, bathed his feet in the stream. While he was there a great boat came by, towed by two horses that walked along the bank. The rope, however, by which the horses drew the boat was fastened, not to the side of the boat, as is common with us on canals, but to the top of the mast, so that it was carried high in the air, and it passed over Rollo's head without disturbing him at all. They always have the tow ropes fastened to the top of the mast on the Rhine, because the banks are in some places so high that a rope lying low would not draw. Rollo remained on the bank of the river some time, and then he put on his shoes and stockings and went up into his room. He found that his uncle George was seated at the table, with pen, ink, and paper out, and was busy writing letters. "Uncle George," said Rollo, "what shall I do now?" "Let me think," said Mr. George. Then after a moment's reflection, he added, "I should like to have you take a sheet of paper, and draw this little table up to the window, and take your seat there, and look out, and whenever you see any thing remarkable, write down what it is on the paper." "What shall you do with it when I have got it done?" said Rollo. "I'll tell you that when it _is_ done," replied Mr. George. "But perhaps I shall not see any thing remarkable," said Rollo. "Then," said Mr. George, "you will not have any thing to write. You will in that case only sit and look out of the window." "Very well," said Rollo, "I will do it. But will it do just as well for me to go down to the terrace, and do it there?" "Yes," said Mr. George, "just as well." So Rollo took out his portfolio and his pocket pen and inkstand, and went down to the terrace, and there he sat for nearly two hours watching what was going by, and making out his catalogue of the remarkable things. At the end of about two hours, Mr. George, having finished his letters came down to see how Rollo was getting along. Rollo showed him his list, and Mr. George was quite pleased with it. In the course of the evening Rollo made several additions to it; and when at length it was completed, it read as follows. [Illustration] CHAPTER VII. ROLLO'S LIST. _Remarkable Things seen from the Terrace of the Hotel at Rolandseck, by Rollo H., Saturday Evening, August 29._ 1. An elegant steamer, painted green. Her name is the _Schiller_. She is going up the river. 2. Another steamer, the _Koenig_. Ladies and gentlemen on the deck, under an awning. 3. I can see the ruins of Drachenfels with my spy glass, and the inn near the top of the mountain, painted white. I have been trying to find the path, to see if I could see any donkeys going up; but I cannot find it. 4. A boat with some men and women in it putting off from the landing just above here. They are going down the stream. The current carries them down very fast. I think they are going over to the island. No, they are going away down the river. 5. A great steamer coming _down_, with flags and banners flying. Now she has gone by, only I can see the smoke from her smoke pipe behind the point of land. 6. The nuns are taking a walk under the trees on the island. Some of the girls of the school are going with them. The nuns are dressed in black, with bonnets partly black and partly white. The girls are dressed in pink, all alike. They are laughing and frolicking on the grass, as they go along. The nuns walk along quietly. The girls are having an excellent good time. They are walking away down to the end of the island. The walk that they are going in is bordered by a row of poplar trees. 7. A procession of pilgrims going up to Remagen. At least, the waiter says they are pilgrims. They are in two rows, one on each side of the road, so that there is room for the carriages to pass along between them. They are dressed very queerly, like peasants. The girls and women go first, and the men come afterwards. The women have baskets, with something to eat in them, I suppose. The men have nothing. There is one man at the head, who carries a crucifix, with a wreath of flowers over it, on the top of the pole. They sing as they go along, and keep step to the music. First, the women sing a few words, and then the men sing in response. It is a very strange sight. 8. A very swift steamer, with a great many gentlemen and ladies on board. It has gone down on the other side of the island. 9. I hear guns firing down the river. 10. A man is going by with a very long and queer-shaped wheelbarrow, and there is a dog harnessed to it before to draw, while he pushes it behind. 11. More guns firing down the river. A steamer is coming into view, with a great many flags and banners flying. The guns that I heard are on board that steamer. The waiter says it is a company of students, from the university at Bonn, coming up on a frolic. 12. The steamer with the students is going by. There is a band of music on board, playing beautifully. 13. The steamer has stopped just above here, and all the students are going on shore. 14. The students have formed into a company on the beach, and they are marching up, with banners flying and music playing, to the terrace of a hotel, just above here. 15. The steamer has gone away up the river, and left them. There are five or six small boats on the shore at the landing, with boatmen standing by them, waiting to be hired. I mean to ask uncle George to let me go and take a sail in one of them on Monday. 16. I can see the students by leaning over the parapet and looking through my spy glass. They are sitting at the tables under the trees on the terrace, smoking pipes and drinking something. They have very funny looking caps on. 17. A tow boat coming up the river. It is drawn by two horses, that walk along the road. The boat has a roof over it instead of a deck, and it looks like a floating house with a family in it. 18. A steamer coming up--the _Wilhelm_. She came up the other side of the island. 19. A small boat going away from the landing. It is rowed by one man, with one oar, which he works near the bow on the starboard side. He has set the helm hard a-port, and tied it there, and that keeps his boat from being pulled round. I never thought of that way before. There is a woman and a child in the stern of the boat. 20. There is a man eating his supper on the parapet below me, in front of the road. A girl has brought it to him in a basket. The man seems to be a boatman, and I think the girl is his daughter. She has a tin tea kettle with something to drink in it, and she pours it out into a mug as fast as the man wants it to drink. There is also some bread, which she breaks and gives him as fast as he wants it. There is a little child standing by, and the man stops now and then to play with her. Now there is another man that has come and sat down by the side of him; and a woman has brought him his supper in a basket. I think it is his wife. 21. A long raft is coming down the river. It is very long indeed. It is made of logs and boards. There are twenty-two men on it, thirteen at the front end, and nine at the back end. They have got two monstrous great oars out; one of these oars runs out at the front end of the raft, and the other at the back end, and the men are rowing. There are six men taking hold of each of these oars and working them, trying to row the raft more into the middle of the river. There is a small house on the middle of the raft, and a fire in a large flat box near the door of it. I should think it would set the raft on fire. This fire is for cooking, I suppose, for there is a kettle hanging over it. 22. Now the students are singing a song. 23. There is a great fleet of large boats coming up the river, with a steamboat at the head of them. They come very slowly. 24. The students have finished their drinking and smoking, and are beginning to come out into the road. They are walking about there and frolicking. 25. The great fleet of boats have come up so that I can see them. They are great canal boats, towed by a steamer. There are seven of them in all. The steamer has hard work to get them along against the current. It is just as much as she can do. 26. Four of the students are getting into a small boat. One of them has a flag. Now they are putting off from the shore. They are going out to take a sail. 27. The fleet of boats is now just opposite to the window. 28. A large open carriage, with a family in it, is riding by. There is a trunk on behind; so I suppose they are travellers, going to see the Rhine. 29. Three of the students are walking by here. One of them--the middle one--is so tipsy that he cannot walk straight, and the others are taking hold of his arms and holding him up. I suppose they are going to see if they cannot walk him sober. They have gone off away down the road. 30. Here comes an elegant carriage and two outriders. The outriders are dressed in a sort of uniform, and they are riding on horseback a little way before the carriage. They go very fast. There is a gentleman and a lady in the carriage. Now they have gone by. 31. Several parties of students have gone by, to take a walk down the road. Some of them are walking along very steadily, but there are several that look pretty tipsy. Here are three or four of them coming back, riding the donkeys. They are singing and laughing, and making a great deal of fun. 32. Here is a family of poor peasants coming down the river. They look very poor. The woman has a very queer cap on. She has one child strapped across her back, and she is leading another. There is a man and a large boy. They have packs on their backs. I wonder if they are not emigrants going to America. 33. One of the students has got hurt. I can see him down the road limping. There are two other students with him, helping him. They are going to bring him home. They have taken a cane, and are holding it across between them, and he is sitting on it and putting his arms about their necks. Each student holds one end of the cane, and so they are bringing him along. [Illustration: THE STUDENTS.] The cane has broken, and let the lame student fall down. They have got another cane, stronger, and now they are carrying him again. Now they are stopping to rest right opposite to this house. They have changed hands, and are now carrying him again. 34. Here is a woman coming along up the river drawing a small boat. She has a band over her shoulders, and a long line attached to it, and the other end of the line is fastened to the mast of the small boat. There is a man in the boat steering. I think the man ought to come to the shore and draw, and let the woman stay in the boat and steer, for it seems very hard work to pull the boat along. 35. A boat with two women in it, and a man to row, is going across the river to the Nuns' Island. Now they are landing. The women are walking up towards the nunnery, under the trees, and the man is fastening his boat. 36. The students are gathering on the landing. I think that, perhaps, they are going back to Bonn in small boats. It is beginning to be dark, and time for them to go home.[10] Yes, they are crowding into two or three boats. The boats are getting very full. If they are not careful they will upset. [Footnote 10: This Rollo wrote in the latter part of the evening, in his room.] The boats are pushing off from the shore. There are three boats, with two flags flying in each. They are drifting out into the current. The students have got one or two oars out, but they are not rowing much. The current carries them down fast enough without rowing. 37. I can hear the bells ringing or tolling, away down the river, the air is so still. I think it must be the bells of Bonn. 38. The students' boats are all drifting down just opposite our windows. They are going sidewise, and backwards, and every way, and are all entangled together. The students on board are calling out to one another, and laughing, and having a great time. Some of them are trying to sing, but the rest will not listen. If they are not very careful they will upset some of those boats before they get to Bonn. 39. Here comes a carriage driving slowly down the road, with four students in it. Two of them are hanging down their heads and holding them with their hands, as if they had dreadful headaches. They look very sick. The other two students seem pretty well. I suppose they are going in the carriage with the sick ones to take care of them. It is getting too dark for me to see any more CHAPTER VIII. A SABBATH ON THE RHINE. About eight o'clock the next morning, Mr. George and Rollo went up among the gardens behind the hotel, and after ascending for some time, they came at length to a seat in a bower which commanded a very fine view, and here they sat down. Mr. George took a small Bible out of his pocket, and opened it at the book of the Acts, and began to read. He continued to read for half an hour or more, and to explain to Rollo what he read about. Rollo was very much interested in the stories of what the apostles did in their first efforts for planting Christianity, and of the toils and dangers which they encountered, and the sufferings which they endured. At length, after finishing the reading, Mr. George proposed that they should go down to breakfast. So they went down the winding walks again which led to the inn. There they found, on the front side of the house, a very pleasant dining room, with tables set in it, some large and some small. Mr. George and Rollo took their seats at a small front table near a window, where they could look out over the water. Here a waiter came to them, and they told him what they would have for breakfast. "I will have a beefsteak," said Mr. George, "and my nephew will have an omelet. We should like some fried potatoes too, and some coffee." "_Ja_,[11] monsieur," said the waiter. "Let us see. You will have one bifstek, one omelet, two fried potatoes, and two caffys." [Footnote 11: Pronounced _yah_.] "Yes," said Mr. George. "Varry well," said the waiter. "It shall be ready in fiveteen minutes." So the waiter went away. "We shall want more than two fried potatoes," said Rollo, looking very serious. "O, he means two portions," replied Mr. George; "that is to say, enough for two people. He will bring us plenty, you may depend." Rollo and Mr. George sat by the window in the dining room until the breakfast was brought in. Besides the things which they had called for, the waiter brought them some rolls of very nice and tender bread, and some delicious butter. He also brought a large plate full of fried potatoes, and the beefsteak which came for Mr. George was very juicy and rich. The omelet which Rollo had chosen for his principal dish was excellent too. He made an exchange with Mr. George, giving him a piece of his omelet, and taking a part of the steak. Thus they ate their breakfast very happily together, looking out the window from time to time to see the steamboats and the carriages go by, and to view the magnificent scenery of the opposite shores. "I'll tell you what it is, Rollo," said Mr. George; "people may say what they please about the castles and the ruins on the Rhine--I think that the inns and breakfasts on the Rhine are by no means to be despised." "I think so too," said Rollo. When they had nearly finished their breakfast, Mr. George asked the waiter what churches there were in the neighborhood. The waiter said there was a church on the Island of Nonnenwerth, belonging to the convent, and that there was another up the river a few miles, at the village of Remagen. "We might go over to the island this morning, and up to Remagen this afternoon," said Mr. George, "only you are too lame to walk so far." "No, sir," said Rollo, decidedly; "my feet are well to-day. I can walk as well as not." A few minutes after this, the waiter came to tell Mr. George that the master of the hotel was himself going over to the convent to attend church, and that he and Rollo could go in the same boat if they pleased. The boat would go at about a quarter before ten. Mr. George said that he should like this arrangement very much; and accordingly, at the appointed time, he and Rollo set out from the inn in company with the landlord. They walked along the road a short distance, and then went down a flight of steps that led to the landing. Here there was a number of boats drawn up upon the beach. One of them had a boatman in attendance upon it, waiting for the company that he was to take over to the island. Besides the landlord and his two guests, there were two or three girls waiting on the beach, who seemed to be going over too. All these people got into the boat, and then the boatman, after embarking himself, pushed it off from the shore. It was a very pleasant summer morning, and Rollo had a delightful sail in going over to the island. Mr. George and the landlord talked together nearly all the way; but Rollo did not listen much to their conversation, as he could not understand the landlord very well, notwithstanding that the language which he used was English. He was seated next to the girls; but he did not speak to them, as he felt sure that they did not know any language but German. So he amused himself with looking at the hills on the shore, and at the gardens and vineyards which adorned them, and in tracing out the zigzag paths which led up to the arbors and summer houses, and to the ancient ruins. He attempted at one time to look down into the water by the side of the boat, to see if he could see any fishes; but the water of the Rhine is very turbid, and he could not see down into it at all. At length the boat came to the land in a little cove on the side of the island, where there was a sandy beach, under the shade of some ancient trees. There was a path leading from this place up towards the convent. The party in the boat landed, and began to walk up this path. Mr. George and the landlord were first, and Rollo came next. [Illustration: THE NUN.] The little path that they were walking in came out into another which led along among the fields that extended down the island. There was a nun coming up this path, leading one of the schoolgirls. It seems they had been to take a walk. The nun had her face shaded by a large cap, or bonnet, with, a veil over it; and though she looked pale, her countenance had a very gentle expression, and was very beautiful. She bowed to the party that was coming up from the boat, and went on before them to the church. "I wonder whether she is happy," thought Rollo to himself, "in living on this island, a nun. I wish I knew where her father and mother live, and how she came to be here, such a beautiful young lady." This nun was indeed very beautiful, though she was an exception to the general rule, for nuns are often very plain. The church formed a part of the convent building. It was, in fact, only a small chapel, built in a wing of the convent, with a little cupola and a bell over it. The bell was ringing when the party from the boat went up towards the edifice. On entering Rollo found that the room was very small. At the upper end was a platform, with an altar and a crucifix at the farther end of it. The altar had very tall candles upon it, and several bouquets of flowers. The candles were lighted. Below the platform, in the place where the congregation would usually be, there were two rows of seats, like pews, with small benches before each seat to kneel upon, and also a support to lean upon in time of prayer. These seats were very few, and there were but few people sitting on them. The people that were there seemed to be the servants of the convent. Mr. George and Rollo, and the people that came with them, were the only strangers. Rollo looked around for the nuns and for the girls of the school, but they were nowhere to be seen. As soon as Rollo had taken his seat, he observed that, though there was no minister or priest at the altar, the service was going on. He could hear a female voice, which appeared to issue from some place in a gallery behind him, out of view, reading what seemed to be verses from the Bible, in a very sweet and plaintive tone, and at the close of each verse all the people in the congregation below would say something in a responding voice together. "Do you suppose that that is one of the nuns?" whispered Rollo to his uncle. "Yes," said Mr. George, "probably it is." "This is a Catholic church, is it not?" asked Rollo. "Yes," said Mr. George, "almost all the churches on the Rhine are Catholic churches; and nunneries are _always_ Catholic." Rollo said no more, but attended to the service. There was nothing that was said or done that Rollo could at all understand; and yet the scene itself was invested with a certain solemnity which produced a strong and quite salutary impression on his mind. By and by a priest, dressed in his pontifical robes, came in by a side door, and taking his place before the altar, with an attendant kneeling behind him, or by his side, went through a great number of ceremonies, of which Rollo understood nothing from beginning to end. Mr. George, however, explained the general nature of the performance to him that afternoon when they were walking up the river to Remagen, in a conversation which I shall relate in due time. The service was concluded in about an hour, and then the congregation was dismissed. All but the party that came in the boat went out by a side door which led into the other apartments of the convent. The boat party went down to the shore, and getting into the boat were rowed back across the water. After dinner, Mr. George and Rollo set out to walk up the river to Remagen, in order to attend church there. It was during this walk that they had the conversation I have referred to on the subject of the service which they had witnessed in the little chapel at the nunnery. "You must understand," said Mr. George, "that the nature and design of the ceremonies of public worship in a Protestant and in a Catholic church are essentially and totally distinct. The Protestants meet to offer up their common prayers and supplications to God, and to listen to the instructions which the minister gives them in respect to their duties. The Catholics, on the other hand, meet to have a sacrifice performed, as an atonement for their sins. The Protestants think that all the atonement which is necessary for the sins of the whole world has already been made by the sufferings and death of Christ. The Catholics think that a new sacrifice must be made for them from time to time by the priest; and they come together to kneel before the altar while he makes it, in order that they may have a share in the benefits of it. Thus the Protestant comes to church to hear something said; the Catholic to witness something done. This is one reason, in fact, why the Catholic churches may very properly be enormously large. The people who assemble in them do not come to hear, so much as to see, or rather to be present and know what is going on, and to take part in it in heart. "The great thing that is done," continued Mr. George, "is the receiving of the communion, that is, of the bread and wine of the Lord's supper, which they suppose is renewing the sacrifice of Christ, for the benefit of those who are present at the ceremony. Did you see the man who was kneeling at the foot of the steps of the altar while the priest was performing, and who brought two little silver vessels, out of which he poured something into the priest's cup?" "Yes," said Rollo. "The silver vessels were on a little shelf at first, at the side of the altar, and he went at the proper time and kneeled with them by the side of the priest, until the priest was ready to take them." "One of these vessels," continued Mr. George, "contained wine, the other water. When the priest held his large silver cup out to him, the man poured some of the wine into it." "Yes," said Rollo. "And I saw the priest wiping out the cup very carefully, with a large white napkin, before he held it out for the wine." "True," said Mr. George. "When he took the wine in his cup, it was common wine, in its natural state; but afterwards, by being consecrated to the service of the mass, it was changed, they all believe, into the blood of Christ. It looked, they knew, just as it did before; but though it thus still retained all the appearance of wine, they believe that it became really and truly the blood of Christ, and that the priest in drinking it would make a sacrifice of Christ anew for the salvation of the souls of those who should witness and join in the ceremony. "In the same manner a small round piece of bread, shaped like a large wafer, when consecrated by the priest's prayers, becomes, they think, really and truly the body of Christ; and the priest by eating it performs a sacrifice, just as he does by drinking the wine. When he has consecrated this wafer, he holds it up for a moment, that the people may look upon it; and they, in looking upon it, think they see a portion of the true body of Christ, which is about to be offered up by the priest as a sacrifice for their sins." "Yes," said Rollo, "I remember when he held up the wafer. I did not know what it was." "Did you not see that all the people bowed their heads just then," rejoined Mr. George, "and said something to themselves in a very reverent manner." "Yes," said Rollo, "but I did not understand what it meant." "Thus you see," continued Mr. George, "that the essential thing at a Catholic service like this, as they regard it, is the eating of the body and the drinking of the blood of Jesus Christ, as a new sacrifice for the sins of the people who are present and consenting in heart to the ceremony. There are a great many subordinate operations and rites. The assistant goes back and forth a great many times from one side of the altar to the other, stopping to bow and kneel every time he passes the crucifix. The priest makes a great deal of ceremony of wiping out the cup before he receives the wine. Then there is a long service, which he reads in a low voice, and there are many prayers which he offers, and he turns to various passages of the Scriptures, and reads portions here and there. The people do not hear any thing that he says and does, nor is it necessary, according to their ideas of the service, that they should do so; for they know very well that the priest is consecrating the bread or the wine, and changing it into the body and the blood of Christ, in order that it may be ready for the sacrifice. Then, when the wine is changed, the priest drinks it in a very solemn manner, raising it to his lips three several times, so as to take it in three portions. Then he holds the cup out to his assistant again, who pours a little water into it from his other vessel; and the priest then, after moving the cup round and round, to be sure that the water mixes itself well with the wine which was left on the inner service of the cup, drinks that too. He does this in order to make sure that no portion of the precious blood remains in the cup. He then wipes it out carefully with his napkin, and puts it away." "Yes," said Rollo, "I saw all those things. And after he had got through, he covered the cup with a cloth, embroidered with gold, and carried it away." "And after that," continued Rollo, "the assistant, with an extinguisher on the top of a tall pole, put out the candles, and then _he_ went away." "Yes," said Mr. George, and so the service was concluded. "Thus you see," continued Mr. George, "that for all that the people come for, to such a service as that, it was not necessary that they should hear at all. There was not any thing to be _said to_ them. There was only something to be _done for_ them; and so long as it was done, and done properly, they standing by and consenting, it was not of much consequence whether they could see and hear or not. So the priest turned his face away from them towards the altar; and when he had any thing to say, he spoke the words in a very low and inaudible voice." "It is impossible," said Rollo, after a short pause, "that the wine should become blood, and the wafer flesh, while they yet look just as they did before." [Illustration: THE EMIGRANTS.] "True," said Mr. George, "it seems impossible to us, who hear of it for the first time, after we have grown up to years of discretion; but that does not prevent its being honestly believed by people that have been taught to consider it true from their earliest infancy." "Do you suppose the priests themselves believe it?" asked Rollo. "Yes," said Mr. George, "a great many of them undoubtedly do. We find, it is true, every where, that the most intelligent and well educated men will continue, all their lives, to believe very strange things, provided they were taught to believe them when they were very young; and provided, also, that their worldly interests are in any way concerned in their continuing to believe them." Just at this time, Rollo's attention was attracted to what seemed to be an encampment on the roadside at a little distance before them. It was a family of emigrants that were going down the river, and had stopped to rest. The horses had been unharnessed, and were eating, and the wagon was surrounded with a family consisting of men, women, and children, who were sitting on the bank taking their suppers. Rollo wished very much that he understood German, so as to go and talk with them. But he did not, and so he contented himself with wishing them _guten abend_, which means good evening, as he went by. He went on after this, without any farther adventure, to the village, and after attending church there, he returned with his uncle down along the bank of the river to the hotel. [Illustration] CHAPTER IX. EHRENBREITSTEIN. The people of the Rhine have not allowed all the old castles to go to ruin. Some have been carefully preserved from age to age, and never allowed to go out of repair. Others that had gone to decay, or had been destroyed in the wars, have been repaired and rebuilt in modern times, and are now in better condition than ever. Some of the strongholds that have thus been restored are now great fortresses, held by the governors of the states and kingdoms that border on the river; others of them are fitted up as summer residences for the persons, whether princes or private people, that happen to own them. About midway between the beginning and the end of the mountainous region of the Rhine is a place where there are two very important works of this kind. One of them is far the largest and most important of all on the river. This is the Castle of Ehrenbreitstein. Ehrenbreitstein is not only a very strong and important fortification, but it guards a very important point. This point is the place where the River Moselle, one of the principal branches of the Rhine, comes in. The valley of the Moselle is a very rich and fertile one, and in proportion to its extent is almost as valuable as that of the Rhine. The junction of the two rivers is the place for defending both of these valleys, and has consequently, in all ages of the world, been a very important post. The Romans built a town here, in the days of Julius Cæsar, and the town has continued to the present day. It is called Coblenz. The Romans named it originally _Confluentes_, which means the _confluence_; and this name, in the course of ages, has gradually become changed to Coblenz. Coblenz is built on a three-cornered piece of flat land, exactly on the point where the two rivers come together. There is a bridge over the mouth of the Moselle where it comes into the Rhine, and another over the Rhine itself. The bridge over the Moselle is of stone, and was built a great many hundred years ago. That over the Rhine is what is called a bridge of boats. A row of large and solid boats is anchored in the river, side by side, with their heads up the stream, and then the bridge is made by a platform which extends across from boat to boat, across the whole breadth of the stream. Near the Coblenz side of the bridge there are two or three lengths of it which can be taken out when necessary, in order to let the steamers, or rafts, or tow boats, that may be coming up or down the river, pass through. Rollo was very much interested, while he remained at Coblenz, in looking out from the windows of his hotel, which faced the river, and seeing them open this bridge, to let the steamers and vessels pass through. A length of the bridge, consisting sometimes of _two_ boats with the platform over it, and sometimes of _three_, would separate from the others, and float down the stream until it cleared itself from the rest of the bridge, and then would move by some mysterious means to one side, and so make an opening. Then, when the steamer, or whatever else it was, had passed through, the detached portion of the bridge would come back again slowly and carefully to its place. Of course all the travel on the bridge would be interrupted during this operation; but as soon as the connection was again restored, the streams of people would immediately begin to move again over the bridge, as before. Across the bridge, on the heights upon the other side, Rollo could see the great Castle of Ehrenbreitstein, together with an innumerable multitude of walls, parapets, bastions, towers, battlements, and other constructions pertaining to such a work. One day Mr. George and Rollo went over to see this fortress. They were stopped a few minutes at the bridge, by a steamer going through. There was a large company of soldiers stopped too, part of the garrison of Ehrenbreitstein that had been over to attend a parade on the public square at Coblenz, and were now going home, so that Rollo was not sorry for the detention, as it gave him a fine opportunity to see the soldiers, and to examine the Prussian uniform. It consisted of a blue frock coat and white trousers, with an elegant brass-mounted helmet for a cap. The way up to the castle was by a long and winding road, built up artificially on arches of solid masonry. This road was every where overlooked by walls, with portholes and embrasures for cannon, and all along it, at short distances, were immense gateways exceedingly massive and strong, which could all be shut in time of siege. When Mr. George and Rollo reached the top of the castle, they found a great esplanade there, surrounded with buildings for barracks, and for the storing of arms and provisions. The view from this esplanade was magnificent beyond description. You could see far up and down the River Rhine, and far _up_ the Moselle, while all Coblenz, and the two bridges, and the town below the castle, and three other immense forts that stood on the other side of the river, were directly beneath. Rollo went into some of the barracks, and also up to the top of the buildings. The buildings were all arched over above, and covered with earth ten feet deep, with grass growing on the top. The men were mowing this grass when Mr. George and Rollo were there. The object of this earth on the roofs of the buildings is to prevent the bombshells of the enemy from breaking down through the roofs and killing the men. On the afternoon of the same day that Mr. George and Rollo visited Ehrenbreitstein, they went up the river a few miles in a boat to see a smaller castle, which has been repaired and changed into a private residence. The name of it is Stoltzenfels. They rode up the mountain that this castle was built upon on donkeys. The road was very good, but the place was so steep that it was necessary to make it twist and turn, in winding its way up, in the most extraordinary manner. In one place it actually went over itself by an arched bridge thrown across the ravine. In fact, this path was just like a corkscrew. Rollo was exceedingly delighted with the castle of Stoltzenfels. A man who was there conducted him and his uncle, together with a small company of other visitors who arrived at the same time, all over it. It would be impossible to describe it, there were so many curious courts, and towers, and winding passage ways, and little gardens, and terraces, all built in a sort of nest among the rocks, of the most irregular and wildest character. The rooms were all beautifully finished and furnished, and they were full of old relics of feudal times. The floors were of polished oak, and the visitors, when walking over them, wore over their boots and shoes great slippers made of felt, which were provided there for the purpose. [Illustration] CHAPTER X. ROLLO'S LETTER. At one place where Mr. George and Rollo stopped to spend a night, Rollo wrote a letter to Jenny. It was as follows:-- ST. GOAR ON THE RHINE.} _Friday Evening._} DEAR JENNY: We have got into a very lonely place. I did not know there was such a lonely place on the Rhine. The name of it is St. Goar; but they pronounce it St. _Gwar_. The river is shut in closely by the mountains on both sides, and also above and below; so that it seems as if we were in a very deep valley, with a pond of water in the bottom of it. Away across the river is a long row of white houses, crowded in between the edge of the water and the mountain. On the mountain above is an old ruined castle, called the Cat. There is another old ruin a few miles below, called the Mouse. I can see both of these ruins from my windows. There is a little town on this side of the village too. We went out this morning to see it. It is very small, and the streets are very narrow. We came to the queerest old church you ever saw. It was all entangled up with other buildings, and there were so many arches, and flights of steps, and various courts all around it, that it was a long time before we could find out where the door was. While we were looking about, a little girl came up and asked us something. We supposed she asked us whether we wished to see the church; so we said _Ja_, and then she ran away. Presently we saw a boy coming along, and he asked us something, and we said _Ja_; and then _he_ ran away. We did not know what they meant by going away; but the fact was, they went to find some men who kept the keys. It seems there are two men who keep keys, and the girl went for one and the boy for the other; and so, after we had waited about five minutes under an arch which led to an old door, _two_ men came with keys to let us in. Uncle George paid them both, because he said the second man that came looked disappointed. He paid the girl and the boy too; so he had four persons to pay; and when we got in, we found that it was nothing but a Protestant church, after all. I like the Catholic churches the best. They are a great deal the funniest. We went to see the Catholic church afterwards. There was a monstrous old gallery all on one side of the church, and none on the other. Then there was an organ away up in a loft, and all sorts of old images and statues. I never saw such an old looking place. As we walked along the streets, or rather the pathways between the houses, we could see the rocks and mountains away up over our heads, almost hanging over the town. They are very pretty rocks, being all green, with grapevines and bushes. Close by the town too, up a long and very steep path, is a monstrous old ruin. The name of it is Rheinfels. I can see it from the balcony of my windows. Besides, uncle George and I went up to it this afternoon. It is nothing but old walls, and arches, and dark dungeons, all tumbling down. There was a little fence and a gate across the entrance, and the gate was locked. But there was a man who asked us something in German; but we could see it all just as well without going in; so we said _Nein_, which means no. They say that a great many years ago the French took this castle, and then, to prevent its doing the enemy any good forever afterwards, they put a great deal of gunpowder into the cellars, and blew it up. I did not care much about the old ruins, but I should have liked very well to have seen them blow it up. The waiter has just come to call us to go out and hear the echo, and so I must go. I will tell you about it afterwards. The man played on a trumpet down on the bank of the river, and we could hear the echo from the rocks and mountains on the other side. He also fired a gun two or three times. After the gun was fired, for a few minutes all was still; but then there came back a sharp crack from the other shore, and then a long, rumbling sound from up the river and down the river, like a peal of distant thunder. It is a gloomy place here after all, and I shall be glad when I get out of it; for the river is down in the bottom of such a deep gorge, that we cannot see out any where. There are some old castles about on the hills, and they look pretty enough at a distance; but when you get near them they are nothing but old walls all tumbling down. The vineyards are not pretty either. They are all on terraces kept up by long stone walls; and when you are down on the river, and look up to them, you cannot see any thing but the walls, with the edge of the vineyards, like a little green fringe, along on the top. But there is no great loss in this, for the vineyards are not pretty when you can see them. They look just like fields full of beans growing on short poles. I shall be glad when we get out of this place; but uncle George says he is going to stay here all day to-morrow, to write letters and to bring up his journal. But never mind; I can have a pretty good time sitting on the steps that go down to the water, and seeing the vessels, and steamboats, and rafts go by. Your affectionate cousin, ROLLO. P.S. The Cat and the Mouse used to fight each other in old times, and the Mouse used to beat. Was not that funny? [Illustration] CHAPTER XI. THE RAFT. The morning after Rollo had finished the letter to Jenny, as recorded in the last chapter, his uncle George told him at breakfast time that he might amuse himself that day in any way he pleased. "I shall be busy writing," said Mr. George, "nearly all the morning. It is such a still and quiet place here that I think I had better stay and finish up my writing. Besides, it must be an economical place, I think, and we can stay here a day cheaper than we can farther up the river, at the large towns." "Shall we come to the large towns soon?" asked Rollo. "Yes," replied his uncle. "This deep gorge only continues fifteen or twenty miles farther, and then we come out into open country, and to the region of large towns. You see there is no occasion for any other towns in this part of the Rhine than villages of vinedressers, except here and there a little city where a branch river comes in." "Well," said Rollo, "I shall be glad when we get out. But I will go down to the shore, and play about there for a while." Accordingly, as soon as Rollo had finished his breakfast, he went down to the shore. The hotel faced the river, though there was a road outside of it, between it and the water. From the outer edge of the road there was a steep slope, leading down to the water's edge. This slope was paved with stones, to prevent the earth from being washed away by the water in times of flood. Here and there along this slope were steps leading down to the water. At the foot of these steps were boats, and opposite to them, in the road, there were boatmen standing in groups here and there, ready to take any body across the river that wished to go. Rollo went down to the shore, and took his seat on the upper step of one of the stairways, and began to look about him over the water. There were two other boys sitting near by; but Rollo could not talk to them, for they knew only German. Presently one of the boatmen came up to him, and pointing to a boat, asked him a question. Rollo did not understand what the man said, but he supposed that he was asking him if he did not wish for a boat. So Rollo said _Nein_, and the man went away. There was a village across the river, in full view from where Rollo sat. This village consisted of a row of white stone houses facing the river, and extending along the margin of it, at the foot of the mountains. There seemed to be just room for them between the mountains and the shore. Among the houses was to be seen, here and there, the spire of an antique church, or an old tower, or a ruined wall. After sitting quietly on the steps until he had seen two steamers go down, and a fleet of canal boats from Holland towed up, Rollo took it into his head that it might be a good plan for him to go across the river. So he went in to ask his uncle George if he thought it would be safe for him to go. "You will take a boatman?" said Mr. George. "Yes," said Rollo. "And how long shall you wish to be gone?" "About an hour," said Rollo. "Very well," said Mr. George, "you may go." So Rollo went down to the shore again, and as he now began to look at the boats as if he wished to get into one of them, a man came to him again, and asked him the same question. Rollo said _Ja_. So the man went down to his boat, and drew it up to the lowest step of the stairs where Rollo was standing. Rollo got in, and taking his seat, pointed over to the other side of the river. The man then pushed off. The current was, however, very swift, and so the boatman poled the boat far up the stream before he would venture to put out into it; and then he was carried down a great way in going across. When they reached the landing on the opposite shore, Rollo asked the man, "How much?" He knew what the German was for how much. The man said, "Two groschen." So Rollo took the two groschen from his pocket and paid him. Two groschen are about five cents. Rollo walked about in the village where he had landed for nearly half an hour; and then, taking another boat on that side, he returned as he had come. On his way back he saw a great raft coming down. He immediately conceived the idea of taking a little sail on that raft, down the river. He wanted to see "how it would seem" to be on such an immense raft, and how the men managed it. So he went in to propose the plan to his uncle George. He said that he should like to go down the river a little way on the raft, and then walk back. "Yes," said Mr. George, "or you might come up in the next steamer." "So I might," said Rollo. "I have no objection," said Mr. George. "How far down may I go?" said Rollo. "Why, you had better not go more than ten or fifteen miles," said Mr. George, "for the raft goes slowly,--probably not more than two or three miles an hour,--and it would take you four or five hours, perhaps, to go down ten miles. You would, however, come back quick in the steamer. Go down stairs and consider the subject carefully, and form your plan complete. Consider how you will manage to get on board the raft, and to get off again; and where you will stop to take the steamer, and when you will get home; and when you have planned it all completely, come to me again." So Rollo went down, and after making various inquiries and calculations, he returned in about ten minutes to Mr. George, with the following plan. "The waiter tells me," said he, "that the captain of the raft will take me down as far as I want to go, and set me ashore any where, in his boat, for two or three groschen, and that one of the boatmen here will take me out to the raft, when she comes by, for two groschen. A good place for me to stop would be Boppard, which is about ten or twelve miles below here. The raft will get there about two o'clock. Then there will be a steamer coming along by there at three, which will bring up here at four, just about dinner time. The waiter says that he will go out with me to the raft, and explain it all to the captain, because the captain would not understand me, as he only knows German." "Very well," said Mr. George. "That's a very good plan. Only I advise you to make a bargain with the captain to put you ashore any where you like. Because you know you may get tired before you have gone so far as ten miles. "In fact," continued Mr. George, "I would not say any thing about the distance that you wish to go to the captain. Just make a bargain with him to let you go aboard his raft for a little while, and to send you ashore whenever you wish to go." "Yes," said Rollo, "I will; that will be the best plan. But I am sure that I shall want to go as far as ten miles." So Rollo went to his trunk, and began to unlock it in a hurried manner; and when he had opened it, he put his hand down into it at the left hand corner, on the front side, which was the place where he always kept his fishing line. "What are you looking for?" said Mr. George. "My fishing line," replied Rollo; "is not that a good plan?" "Yes," said Mr. George, "an excellent plan." Rollo had no very definite idea of being able to fish while on the raft, but there was a sort of instinct which prompted him always to take his fishing line whenever he went on any excursion whatever that was connected with the water. Mr. George had a pretty definite idea that he would _not_ be able to fish; but still he thought it a good plan for Rollo to take the line, for he observed that to have a fishing line in his pocket, on such occasions, was always a source of pleasure to a boy, even if he did not use it at all. Rollo, having found his fishing line, shut and locked his trunk, and ran down stairs. As soon as he had gone, Mr. George rose and rang the bell. Very soon the waiter came to the door. "This young gentleman who is with me," said Mr. George, "wishes to go on board this raft, and sail down the river a little way." "Yes, sir," said the waiter. "Rudolf is arranging it for him." "Very well," said Mr. George. "And now I wish to have you send a commissioner secretly to accompany him. The commissioner is to remain on the raft as long as Rollo does, and leave it when he leaves it, and keep in sight of him all the time till he gets home, so as to see that he does not get into any difficulty." "Yes, sir," said the waiter. "But let the commissioner understand that he is not to let Rollo know any thing about his having any charge over him, nor to communicate with him in any way, unless some emergency should arise requiring him to interpose." "Yes, sir," said the waiter, "I will explain it to him." "And choose a good-natured and careful man to send," continued Mr. George; "one that speaks French." "Yes, sir," replied the waiter; and so saying, he disappeared, leaving Mr. George to go on with his writing. In the mean time Rollo had gone down to the shore with the waiter Rudolf, and was standing there near a boat which was drawn up at the foot of the landing stairs, watching the raft, which was now getting pretty near. There was a great company of men at each end of the raft. Rollo could see those at the lowest end the plainest. They were standing in rows near the end of the raft, and every six of them had an oar. There were eight or ten of these oars, all projecting forward, from the front end of the raft, and the raftsmen, by working them, seemed to be endeavoring to row that end of the raft out farther into the stream. It was the same at the farther end of the raft. There was a similar number of oarsmen there, and of oars, only those projected behind, just as the others did before. There were no oars at all along the sides of the raft. The fact is, that these monstrous rafts are always allowed to float down by the current, the men not attempting to hasten them on their way by rowing. All that they attempt to do by their labor is to keep the immense and unwieldy mass in the middle of the stream. Thus they only need oars at the two ends, and the working of them only tends to row the raft sidewise, as it were. Sometimes they have to row the ends from left to right, and sometimes from right to left, according as the current tends to drift the raft towards the left or the right bank of the river. Rollo did not understand this at first, and accordingly, when he first saw these rafts coming with a dense crowd of men at each end, rowing vigorously, while there was not a single oar to be seen, nor even any place for an oar along the sides, he was very much surprised at the spectacle. He thought that the men at the back end of the raft were sculling; but what those at the forward end were doing he could not imagine. When, however, he came to consider the case, he saw what the explanation must be, and so he understood the subject perfectly. At length, when Rollo saw that the forward end of the raft, in its progress down the river, had come nearly opposite to the place where he was standing, he got into the boat, and the boatman rowed him out to the raft. As soon as they reached the raft Rollo stepped out upon the boards and logs. The top of the raft made a very good and smooth floor, being covered with boards, and it was high and dry above the water. Rollo looked down into the interstices, and saw that that part of the raft which was under water was formed of logs and timbers of very large size, placed close together side by side, with a layer above crossing the layer below. The whole was then covered with a flooring of boards, so close and continuous that Rollo had to look for some time before he could find any openings where he could look down and see how the raft was constructed. In the middle of the raft were several houses. The houses were made of boards, and were of the plainest and simplest construction. Around the doors of these houses several women were sitting wherever they could find shady places. Some were knitting and some were sewing. There were several children there too, amusing themselves in various ways. One was skipping a rope. Rudolf conducted Rollo up to one of these families, and told the women that he was an American boy, who was travelling with his uncle on the Rhine, and seeing this raft going by, had a curiosity to come on board of it. The women looked very much pleased when they heard this. Some of them had friends in America, and others were thinking of going themselves with their husbands; and they immediately began to talk very volubly to Rollo, and to ask him questions. But as they spoke German, Rollo could not understand what they said. In the mean time the waiter had gone away to speak to the captain of the raft, and to make arrangements for having Rollo put ashore when he had sailed long enough upon it. The captain was walking to and fro, upon a raised platform, near the middle of the raft. This platform I will describe presently. In a few minutes the man returned. "The captain gives you a good welcome," said he, "and says he wishes he could talk English, for he wants to ask you a great many questions about America. He says you may stay on the raft as long as you please, and when you wish to go ashore, you have only to go and get on board one of the boats, and that will be a signal. He will soon see you there, and will send a man to row you to the shore." Rollo liked this plan very much. So Rudolf, having arranged every thing, wished Rollo a "good voyage," and went off in the boat as he came. Thus Rollo was left alone, as it were, upon the raft; and for a moment he felt a little appalled at the idea of going down through such a dark and gloomy gorge as the bed of the river here presented to view, on such a strange conveyance, and surrounded with so wild and savage a horde of men as the raftsmen were,--especially since, as he supposed, there was not a human being on board with whom he could exchange a word of conversation. It is true the commissioner whom his uncle George had sent was on the raft. He had come out in the same boat with Rollo, and had remained when the boat went back to the shore. But Rollo had not noticed him particularly. He observed, it is true, that two men came with him to the raft, and that only one returned; but he thought it probable that the other might be going down the river a little way, or perhaps that he belonged to the raft. He had not the least idea that the man had come to take charge of _him_, and so he felt as if he were entirely alone in the new and strange scene to which he found himself so suddenly transferred. There were, however, so many things to attract his attention that at first he had no time to think much of his loneliness. There was a fire burning at a certain part of the raft, not far from the door of one of the houses, and he went to see it. As soon as he reached it, the mystery in respect to the means of having a fire on such a structure, without setting the boards and timbers on fire, was at once solved. Rollo found that the fire was built upon a hearth of _sand_. There was a large box, about four feet square and a foot deep, which box was filled with sand, and the fire was built in the middle of it. It seemed to Rollo that this was a very easy way to make a fireplace, especially as the sand seemed to be of a very common kind, such as the raftsmen had probably shovelled up somewhere on the shore of the river. "The very next time I build a raft," said Rollo, "I will have a fire on it in exactly that way." There was a sort of barricade or screen built up on two sides of this fire, to keep the wind from blowing the flame and the heat away from the kettle that was hung over it. This screen was made of short boards, nailed to three posts, that were placed in such a manner as to make, when the boards were nailed to them, two short fences, at right angles to each other, or like two sides of a high box. The corner of this screen was turned towards the wind, and thus the fire was sheltered. A pole passed across from one of the posts to the other, and the kettle was hung upon the pole. After examining this fireplace Rollo went to look at the platform where the captain had his station. This platform was about six feet high and ten feet long; and it was just wide enough for the captain to walk to and fro upon it. There was a flight of steps leading up to this platform from the floor of the raft, and a little railing on each side of it, to keep the captain from falling off while he was walking there. The object of having this platform raised in this way, was to give the captain a more commanding position, so as not only to enable him to survey the whole of the raft, and observe how every thing was going on upon it, but also to give him a good view of the river below, so that he might watch the currents, and see how the raft was drifting, and give the necessary orders for working it one way or the other, as might be required in order to keep it in the middle of the stream. Then Rollo went to the forward end of the raft to see the raftsmen row. The oars were of monstrous size, as you might well suppose to be the case from the fact that each of them required six men to work it. These six men all stood in a row along the handle of the oar, which seemed to be as large as a small mast. They all pressed down upon the handle of the oar so as to raise the blade out of the water, and then walked along over the floor of the raft quite a considerable distance. At last they stopped, and lifting up their hands, they allowed the blade of the oar to go down into the water. Then they turned, and began to push the oar with their hands the other way. The outside men had to reach up very high, for as the oar was very long, and the blade was now necessarily in the water, the end of the handle was raised quite high in the air. The men, accordingly, that were nearest the end of the oar, were obliged to hold their hands up high, in order to reach it; and they all walked along very deliberately, like a platoon of soldiers, pushing the oar before them as they advanced. And as each of the other six oars had a similar platoon marching with it to and fro, and as all acted in concert, and kept time with each other in their motions, the whole operation had quite the appearance of a military manoeuvre. Rollo watched it for some time with great satisfaction. After this Rollo walked up and down the raft two or three times, and then his attention was attracted by a steamer going by. The steamer cut her way through the water with great speed, and the waves made by her paddle wheels dashed up against the margin of the raft as if it had been along shore. There was a great number of tourists on board the steamer. Rollo could see them very distinctly sitting under the awning on the deck. Some were standing by the railing and examining the raft by means of their spy glasses or opera glasses. Others were seated at tables, eating late breakfasts, in little parties by themselves. The boat glided by very swiftly, however, and soon Rollo could see nothing of her but the stern, and the foaming wake which her paddle wheels left behind them in the water. As soon as the steamboat had gone by, Rollo began to feel a slight sense of loneliness on the raft, which feeling was increased by the sombre aspect of the scenery around him. The river was closely shut in by mountains on both sides, and between them the raft seemed to be drifting slowly down into a dark and gloomy gorge, which, though it might have seemed simply sublime to a pleasant party viewing it together from the cheerful deck of a steamer, or from a comfortable carriage on the banks, was well fitted to awaken an emotion of awe and terror in the mind of a boy like Rollo, floating down into it helplessly on an enormous raft, with a hundred men, looking more like brigands than any thing else, marching solemnly to and fro at either end of it, working prodigious oars, with incessant toil, to prevent its being carried upon the rocks and dashed to pieces. In fact, Rollo began soon to wish that he was safe on shore again. "I am very thankful," said he to himself, "that I made a bargain with the captain to put me ashore whenever I wished to go. I don't believe that I shall wish to go more than half way to Boppard." So saying, Rollo looked anxiously down the river. The mountains looked more and more dark and gloomy, and they appeared to shut in before him in such a manner that he could not see how it could be possible for such an immense raft to twist its way through between them. "I don't believe I shall wish to go more than a quarter of the way to Boppard," said he. Two or three minutes afterwards, on looking back, he saw the town of St. Goar, where he had embarked, gradually disappearing behind a wooded promontory which was slowly coming in the way, and cutting it off from view. [Illustration: ROLLO ON THE RAFT.] "In fact," said Rollo to himself, "since I am not going all the way to Boppard, I had better not go much farther; for I shall have to walk back, as the steamer does not stop this side of Boppard. Besides, I have seen all that there is on the raft already, and there is no use in staying on it any longer." So he concluded to go at once to the boat, according to the arrangement which he had made with the captain. He was afraid that he might have to wait some time before the captain would see him; but he did not. The captain saw him immediately, and sent a man to row him ashore. _Two_ men came, in fact, the commissioner being one of them. But Rollo did not pay any particular attention to this circumstance. He did not even observe that it was the same man that had come on board with him. Rollo could not talk to the oarsman on the way, but on landing he gave him a little money,--about what he thought was proper,--and then went up into the road with a view to go home. The commissioner, in order not to awaken any suspicions in Rollo's mind that he was following him, turned away as soon as he landed, and walked along the tow path down the stream. Rollo went slowly home. He had not been more than half an hour on the raft, and had not gone down the stream more than a mile; so that in three quarters of an hour after he had left his uncle at the hotel he found himself drawing near to it again, on his return. He felt a little ashamed to get back so soon. So he thought that he would not go in at once and report himself to his uncle, but would go down on the bank of the river, and see if he could find a place to fish a little while, until some little time should have elapsed, so as to give to the period of his absence a tolerably respectable duration. "Uncle George will laugh at me," said he to himself, "if he sees me come home so soon." So Rollo went down to the quay, and taking out his fishing line, he began to make arrangements for fishing. He did not, however, feel quite at his ease. There seemed to be something a little like artifice in thus prolonging his absence in order to make his uncle think that he had gone farther down the river than he had been. It was not being quite honest, he thought. "After all," said he to himself, "I'll go and tell uncle George now. I shall have a better time fishing if I do. If he chooses to laugh at me, he may. If he is going to do it, I should like to have it over." So he went into the hotel, and advanced somewhat timidly to the door of the room where he had left his uncle writing. He opened the door, and looking in, said,-- "Uncle George! I've got back." Mr. George did not seem at all surprised, but looking up a moment from his writing, he smiled, and said,-- "Ah! I'm glad to see you safe back again. It is rather lonesome here without you. Did you have a pleasant voyage?" "Yes," said Rollo, "very pleasant. Only I did not go very far. I got them to put me ashore about a mile below here." "That was right," said Mr. George. "You did exactly as I should have done myself. In fact you can see all you wish to see on such a raft in half an hour." "Yes," said Rollo, "I found that I could." "And I am very glad that you came to tell me," said Mr. George, "as soon as you came home." So Rollo, quite relieved in mind, went down stairs again, and returning to the quay, he resumed his fishing. CHAPTER XII. DINNER. About half past three o'clock Rollo went up to his uncle's room. "Uncle George," said he, "have not you got almost through with your writing?" "Why," said Mr. George, "are you tired of staying here?" "Yes," said Rollo, "I am tired of being down in the bottom of such a deep valley. I wish you would put away your writing and go on up the river till we get out where we can see, and then you may write as much as you please." "Do you wish to go up the river to-night?" asked Mr. George. "Yes," said Rollo, "very much." Mr. George took out his watch. "Go down and ask the waiter when the next steamer comes along." Rollo went down, and presently returned with the report that the next steamer came by at five o'clock. "There is a place up the river about two hours' sail, called Bingen," said Mr. George, "where the mountains end. Above that the country is open and level, and the river wide. We might go up there, I suppose; but what should we do for dinner?" "We might have dinner on board the steamer," said Rollo. "Very well," said Mr. George; "that's what we will do. You may go and tell the waiter to bring me the bill, and then be ready at half past four. That will give me an hour more to write." At half past four Rollo came to tell Mr. George that the steamer was coming. The trunk had been previously carried down and put on board a small boat, for this was one of the places where the steamers were not accustomed to come up to a pier, but received and landed passengers by means of small boats that went out to meet them in the middle of the river. Such a boat was now ready at the foot of the landing stairs, and Mr. George and Rollo got into it. The boatman waited until the steamer came pretty near, and then he rowed out to meet it. He stopped rowing when the boat was opposite to the paddle wheel of the steamer, and the steamer stopped her engine at the same time. A man who stood on the paddle box threw a rope to the boat, and the boatman made this rope fast to a belaying pin that was set for the purpose near the bow of the boat. By means of this rope the boat was then drawn rapidly up alongside the steamer, at a place directly aft the paddle wheel, where there was a little stairway above, and a small platform below, both of which, when not in use, were drawn up out of the way, but which were always let down when passengers were to come on board. As soon as the boat came alongside this apparatus, Rollo and Mr. George stepped out upon the platform, and went up the little stairway, the hands on board the steamer standing there to help them. In a moment more the trunk was passed up, the boat was pushed off, and the paddle wheels of the steamer were put in motion; and thus, almost before Rollo had time to think what was going on, he found himself comfortably seated on a camp stool under the awning, by the side of Mr. George, on the quarter deck of the steamer, and sailing swiftly along on his voyage up the river. "What sudden transitions we pass through," said, Mr. George, "in travelling on the Rhine!" "Yes," said Rollo, "it seems scarcely five minutes ago that I was sitting, all by myself, on the bank of a lonesome river, fishing; and now I am on board a steamer, with all this company, and dashing away through the water at a great rate." "True," said Mr. George; "and how quickly we came on board! One minute we are creeping along slowly over the water in a little boat, and the next, as if by some sort of magic, we find ourselves on the deck of the steamer, with the boat drifting away astern." "How high the mountains are," said Rollo, "along the shores here! Do the mountains end at Bingen?" "Yes," said Mr. George, "at Bingen, or soon after that. There the country opens, and the banks of the river become level and flat. The river widens, and there are a great many islands in it. There we come to railroads again too, for where the land is level they can make railroads very easily. It would be very difficult to make a railroad here, though I believe they are going to do it." "I should think it would be difficult," said Rollo. "But now, uncle George, about our dinner." "Very well," said Mr. George, "about the dinner." So the two travellers held a consultation on this subject, and concluded what to have. A few minutes afterwards a waiter came by, carrying a large salver, with some coffee and bread and butter upon it, for a gentleman on the deck. Mr. George beckoned to this waiter, and when he came to him, he ordered the dinner that he and Rollo had agreed upon. It consisted of sausages for Rollo, a beefsteak for Mr. George, and fried potatoes for both. After that they were to have an omelet and some coffee. The coffee on board the Rhine steamers, being made with very rich and pure milk, is delicious. The waiter brought up a small square table to the part of the deck where Mr. George and Rollo were sitting, which was under the shady side of the awning, and set it for their dinner. In about twenty minutes the dinner was ready. The table itself was as neat and nice as possible, and the dishes which had been ordered were prepared in the most perfect manner. I need not add, I suppose, that Mr. George and Rollo--it being now so late--were provided with excellent appetites. So they had a very good time eating their dinner. While they were eating it they could watch the changes in the scenery of the banks, as they glided swiftly along, and observe the steamers, tow boats, and other river craft, that passed them from time to time. While they were at dinner, Rollo asked Mr. George about the rafts, and where the timber that they were made of came from. [Illustration: DINNER ON THE RHINE.] "Why, you see," said Mr. George, "the River Rhine, in the upper portions of it, has a great many branches which come down from among the mountains, where nothing will grow well but timber. So they reserve these places for forests, and as fast as the timber gets grown, they cut it down, and slide it down the slopes to the nearest stream, and then float it along till they come to great streams; and there they form it into rafts, and send it down the river to Holland and Belgium, where timber does not grow." "Would not timber grow in Belgium and Holland?" asked Rollo. "Yes," said Mr. George, "it would grow very well, but the land is too valuable to appropriate it to such a purpose. The whole country below Cologne, where we came to the river, is smooth and level, and free from stones, so that it is easily ploughed and tilled; and thus grain, and flax, and other very valuable crops can be raised upon it. They raise a few trees in that part of the country, but not many." "I never heard of raising trees before," said Rollo, "except apple trees, or something like that." "True," said Mr. George, "because in America, as that is a new country, there is an abundance of native forests, where the trees grow wild. But you must remember that every foot of land in Europe has been in the possession of man, and occupied by him, for two thousand years. There is not a field or a hill, or even a rocky steep on the mountain side, which has not had sixty or seventy generations of owners, who have all been watching it, and taking care of it, and improving it more or less all that time; each one carefully considering what his land can produce most profitably, and taking care of it and managing it especially with reference to that production. If his land is smooth and level, he ploughs it, and cultivates it for grass, or grain, or other plants requiring special tillage. If it is in steep slopes, with a warm exposure, he terraces it up, and makes vineyards of it. If it is in steep slopes, with a cold exposure, then it will do for timber, provided there are streams near it, so that he can float the timber away. If there are no streams near it, he can use it as pasture ground for sheep or cattle; for the wool, or the butter and cheese, which he obtains from this kind of farming, can be transported without streams; or, at least, such commodities will bear transporting farther before coming to a stream than wood or timber. Thus, you see, whatever the land is fit for, it has been appropriated to for a great many centuries; and it has all been cropped over and over again, even where the crop is a forest of trees. If we allow the trees even a hundred years to grow, before they are large enough to cut, that would give, in two thousand years, time to cut them off and let them grow up again twenty times." "Here comes a steamer," said Rollo. Just then the bow of a steamer came shooting into view, down the river. On the forward part of the deck were several soldiers and laborers, with women and children that looked like emigrants, and also a huge pile of trunks and merchandise covered with a tarpauling. Then came the paddle wheels, and then the quarter deck, with a large company of tourists, most of whom were looking about very eagerly at the scenery, with guide books and glasses in their hands. These were tourists that had been travelling in Switzerland, and were coming home by way of the Rhine; and as they were now just entering the part of the river where the grand and imposing scenery was to be seen,--though Mr. George and Rollo were just leaving it,--they were full of wonder and admiration at the various objects which appeared around them on every side. Rollo had but a very brief opportunity to look at these strangers, for the steamer which conveyed them passed by very swiftly, and in a moment they were gone. "How swift!" said Rollo. "Yes," said Mr. George, "they go down the stream much faster than they go up; for in going down they have the current to help them, but we have it to hinder us in going up." "And does it help just as much as it hinders?" asked Rollo. "Yes," said Mr. George, "for any given time. If the current flows two miles an hour, it will carry forward a boat that is going _with_ it just two miles faster than it would go in still water. And if the boat is going _against_ it, it will go just two miles an hour slower. "Thus, you see," continued Mr. George, "if a steamer had an engine capable of driving her twelve miles an hour through the water, in navigating a stream that flows _two_ miles an hour, she would go _fourteen_ miles an hour in going down, and _ten_ miles an hour in going up." "Then," said Rollo, "it seems that the _help_ of a current is just as much as the _hinderance_ of it, and that a river running fast is just as good for navigation as if the water were still. Because, you see," he added, "that though they lose some headway in going up, they gain it just the same in coming down." "That reasoning seems plausible," replied Mr. George, "but it is not sound." "What do you mean by _plausible_?" asked Rollo. "Why, it _appears_ to be good, when it really is not so. Reasoning very often appears to be good, while there is all the time some latent flaw in it which makes the conclusion wrong. Very often something is left out of the account which ought to be taken in and calculated for, and that is the case here. The truth is, that the current helps the steamer in going down just as much as it retards her in coming up _for any given time_; as for instance, for an hour, or for six hours. But we are to consider that in accomplishing any given _distance_, the steamer is longer in coming up than she is in going down, and so is exposed to the retarding effect of the current longer than she has the benefit of its coöperation. "For example," continued Mr. George, "suppose the distance from one place to another, on a river flowing two miles an hour, is such that it takes a steamer three hours to go down and four hours to come up. In going down she would be aided how much?" "Two miles an hour," said Rollo. "And that makes how much for the whole time going down?" asked Mr. George. "Six miles," said Rollo. "Now, it takes her _four_ hours to go up," said Mr. George. "How much would she be kept back then by the current?" "Why, two miles an hour for _four_ hours," said Rollo, "which would make eight miles." "Thus in the double voyage," said Mr. George, "the boat would be helped _six_ miles and hindered _eight_, so that the current would on the whole be a serious disadvantage. For a steamer, therefore, which is to be navigated equally both ways, the current is an evil. "But for that sort of navigation which goes only one way, it is a great advantage. For instance, the rafts have to come down, but they never have to go back again; and so they have the whole advantage of the current in bringing them down, without any disadvantage to balance it. "On the whole," said Mr. George, "I do not see but that the currents of great rivers are an advantage, for there is always a much greater quantity to come down than to go up. The heavy products that grow on the borders of the rivers are to come down, while comparatively little in quantity goes up. So the benefit, on the whole, which is produced by the flow of the water, may be greater than the injury." "What do they do with the rafts," said Rollo, "when they get them down the river?" "They break them up," said Mr. George, "and sell the timber in the countries near the mouth of the river, where but little timber grows." By this time, Mr. George and Rollo had finished eating the meats which they had ordered for their dinner, and so the waiter came and took away the plates, and brought the omelet and the coffee. With the coffee the waiter brought two small plates and knives, and some very nice rolls and butter. He also brought a plate containing several slices of a kind of cake, _toasted_. This cake was very nice. While Rollo was eating it he asked his uncle George whether, in case he had gone down the river to Boppard, and had not got back until dark, he should not have been anxious about him. "No," said Mr. George, "not much. I took precautions against that." "What precautions?" asked Rollo. "Why, I sent a man with you to take care of you," said Mr. George. "You sent a man with me?" repeated Rollo, very much surprised. "Yes," said Mr. George, quietly. "As soon as you had gone out of my room, to go on board the raft, I called the waiter, and asked him to send a commissioner with you, to see that you did not get into any difficulty, and to take care of you in case there should be any occasion." "Now, uncle George," said Rollo, in a mournful and complaining tone, "that was not fair." "Why not?" asked Mr. George. "Because," said Rollo, "I wanted to take care of myself." "Well," said Mr. George, "you _did_ take care of yourself--didn't you? My plan did not interfere with yours at all--did it?" Rollo did not answer, but he looked as if he were not convinced. "I gave the man special charge," said Mr. George, "not to interfere with you in any way, and not even to let you know that I had said any thing about you to him, so that you should be left entirely to your own resources. And you _were_ so left. You acted in the whole affair just as you thought proper, and took care of yourself admirably well. I think especially that you were very wise in leaving the raft when you did, instead of remaining on board three or four hours longer. But however this may be, you acted for yourself throughout. I did not interfere with you at all." "Well," said Rollo, after a moment's pause, "what you say is very true. But it seems to me it was a little artful in you to do that; and you always tell me that I must not be artful, but must be perfectly honest and open in all that I do. Don't you think you deceived me a little?" "I do not see that I did," said Mr. George. "When we deceive a person, we do it by saying or doing something to give him a false impression, or to make him suppose that something is true which is not true. Now, what did I do or say to give you any false impression?" "Why, nothing, I suppose," said Rollo, "except sending that man to take care of me without letting me know it." "That was _concealing_ something from you," said Mr. George, "not deceiving you. There are a thousand occasions when it is right to conceal things from the people around us. That is very different from deceiving them. This was a case in which I thought it best to conceal what I did, for a time, though I intended to tell you in the end. You see, I should not have done my duty, as a guardian intrusted with the care of a boy by his father, if I had allowed you to go away from me on such a doubtful expedition without some precautions. So I thought it best to send the commissioner; but I knew you wished to take care of yourself, and so I charged the commissioner to allow you to do so, and on no account to interpose, unless some accident, or unforeseen emergency, should occur. I told him not even to let you know that he was there, so that you might not be embarrassed or restricted at all by his presence, or even relieved of any portion of your solicitude. But I determined to tell you all about it as soon as it was over, and I was fondly imagining that you would praise me for my sagacity in managing the business as I did, and also especially for my openness and honesty in explaining all to you at last. But instead of that, it seems you think I did wrong; so that where I expected compliments and praise, I get only censure and condemnation; and I do not know what I shall do." Mr. George said this with a perfectly grave face, and with such a tone of mock meekness and despondency, that Rollo burst into a loud laugh. "If you could think of any suitable punishment for me," continued Mr. George, in the same penitent tone, "I would submit to it very contentedly; though I do not see myself any suitable way by which I can be punished, except perhaps by a fine." "Yes," said Rollo, "a fine; you shall be fined, uncle George. There is a woman out here that has got some raspberries, in little paper baskets. You shall be fined a paper of raspberries." Mr. George acceded to this proposal. The raspberries were two groschen a basket. Mr. George gave Rollo the money, and Rollo, going forward with it, bought the raspberries, and he and Mr. George ate them up together. They served the double purpose of a punishment for the offence, and of a dessert for the dinner. [Illustration] CHAPTER XIII. BINGEN. At some places on the Rhine the passengers go on board the steamers and land from them in a small boat, as Mr. George and Rollo did at St. Goar. At others there is a regular pier for a landing. At all the large towns there is a pier,--in some there are two or three,--which belong severally to the different companies which own the lines of steamers. These piers are constructed in a very peculiar manner. They are made by means of a large and heavy boat, which is anchored at a short distance from the shore, and then a massive platform is built, extending from the quay to this boat. The boat, being afloat, rises and falls with the river; and thus the end of the platform which rests upon it is kept always at the proper level for the landing of the passengers, so that, whatever may be the state of the water, they go over on a level plank. This is a very convenient arrangement for such a river as the Rhine, which rises and falls considerably at different seasons, on account of the variation in the quantity of rain, and in the melting of the snows, on the mountains in Switzerland. Bingen is one of the towns where there is a floating pier of this kind, and Mr. George and Rollo were safely landed upon it about eight o'clock. It was a very pleasant evening. As they approached the town, before they landed, they both walked forward towards the bows of the vessel, to see what sort of a place it was where they were going to spend the night. "It is just like Coblenz," said Mr. George, "only on a small scale." It was indeed very much like Coblenz in its situation, for it was built on a point of land formed between the Rhine and the Nahe, a branch which came in here from the westward, just as Coblenz was at the junction of the Rhine and the Moselle. There was a bridge across the Moselle, you recollect, just at the mouth of it, on the lower side of the town, which bridge was made to accommodate the travellers going up and down the Rhine on that side. There was just such a bridge across the mouth of the Nahe. So that the situation of the town was in all respects very similar to that of Coblenz. Just below the town there was a small green island covered with shrubbery, and on the upper end of the island was a high, square tower, standing alone. "That's must be Bishop Hatto's Tower," said Mr. George. "Who was he?" asked Rollo. "He was a man that was eaten up by the rats," said Mr. George, "because he called the poor people rats, and burned up a great many of them in his barn. The story is in the guide book. I will read it to you when we get to the hotel." By this time the boat had glided by the island, and the tower was out of view; and very soon afterwards Mr. George and Rollo were landed on the floating pier, as I have already said. There were very few people to land, and the boat seemed merely to touch the pier and then to glide away again. There were several porters standing by, and they immediately took up the passengers' baggage, and carried it away to the hotels, which were all very near the river. Rollo and Mr. George were soon comfortably established in a room with two beds in it, one in each corner, and a large round table near one of the windows. Outside of the other window was a balcony, and Rollo immediately went out there, to look at the view. "We have not got quite _out_ yet, uncle George," said he. Rollo was right, for the bank of the river opposite Bingen was very steep and high, and was terraced from top to bottom for vineyards. In fact, this part of the river is more celebrated, perhaps, than any other for the excellent quality of the grapes which it produces. It is here that are situated the famous vineyards of Rudesheim and Johannisberg. In fact, the whole country, for miles in extent, is one vast vineyard. The separate fields are divided from one another by the terrace walls, which run parallel to the river, and by paths formed sometimes by steps, and sometimes by zigzags, which ascend and descend from the crest of the hills above to the line of the shore. The only buildings to be seen among all this vast expanse of walls and terraces are the little watchtowers that are erected here and there at commanding points to enable the vinegrowers to watch the fruit, when it comes to the time of ripening. The laborers who till the fields, and dress the vines, and gather the grapes in the season, live all of them in compact villages, built at intervals along the shore. While Rollo was looking at this scene, and wondering how such an immense number of walls and terraces could ever have been built, his attention was suddenly arrested by hearing a sweet and silvery voice, like that of a girl, calling out,-- "Rollo." Rollo turned in the direction of the sound, and found that it was Minnie speaking to him. She was standing on another balcony, one which opened from the chamber next to his. Rollo was very much pleased to see her. He thought it very remarkable that he should meet her thus so many times; but it was not. Travellers on the Rhine going in the same direction, and stopping to see the same things, often meet each other in this way again and again. After talking with Minnie some little time from the balcony, Rollo asked her if her mother was there. "Yes," said Minnie. "Ask her then," said Rollo, "if you may come down and take a walk with me in the garden." Minnie went in from the balcony, and in a moment returning, she said, "Yes," and immediately disappeared again. So Rollo went down, and Minnie presently came and met him in the garden. [Illustration: MINNIE.] The garden was a small piece of ground in front of the hotel, between the hotel and the river. There was a large gate opening from it towards the hotel, and another towards the river. The garden was full of shade trees, with pleasant walks winding about among them, and here and there a border, or a bed of flowers. There were several carved images placed here and there, one of which amused Rollo and Minnie very much, for it represented a monkey sitting on a pole and looking at himself in a hand looking glass which he held before his face. In the other hand he had a parasol. In the front part of the garden, towards the river, were several tables under the trees, where people might take coffee or ices, or they might take their dinner there if they chose. In the front of the garden too, at the corners, were two summer houses, with tables and chairs in them. The sides of these houses that were turned towards the river, and also those that were towards the gardens, were open. The other two sides of each summer house had walls, on which were painted views of castles and other scenery of the Rhine. Over one of the summer houses was a little room for a lookout, where there was a very fine prospect up and down the river. Rollo and Minnie rambled about here for some time, examining every thing with great attention. They chose one of the pleasantest tables, and sat down before it. "This is a nice place," said Minnie. "I propose that you and I come out here to-morrow morning and have breakfast, all by ourselves." "O, we can't do that very well," said Rollo. "Yes we can," replied Minnie, "just as well as not. I'll plan it all." Minnie then jumped up and led the way, Rollo following, through the open gate towards the river. There was a sort of street outside, and Rollo and Minnie stood here for a few minutes to see a steamer go by. Minnie then proposed that they should get into a boat that was lying there, and take a sail. "You can row--can't you?" said she to Rollo. "No," said Rollo, "not on such a river as this. See how swift the current flows." "Never mind," said Minnie, "I can. Let us jump into this boat, and have a sail." "No," said Rollo, "not for the world. We should be carried off down the stream in spite of every thing." "Never mind," said Minnie; "we should land somewhere, and they would send down for us. We should have a great deal of fun." How far Minnie would have persevered in urging her plan for a venture in the boat on the river I do not know; but the conversation was here interrupted by the appearance of Mr. George, who had come down through the garden, and just at this instant joined the children on the quay. [Illustration] CHAPTER XIV. THE RUIN IN THE GARDEN. Mr. George said that he had come to ask Rollo to go and take a walk to see an old ruin in the town, and he told Minnie that he should be very glad to have her go too, if her mother would be willing. "O, yes," said Minnie, "she will be willing. I'll go." "You must go and ask her first," said Mr. George. So, while Mr. George and Rollo walked slowly up towards the hotel, Minnie ran before them to ask her mother. Mr. George explained to Rollo in walking through the garden, that there were two ruins that he wished to see while he was at Bingen. One was the famous castle of Rheinstein, which stood on the bank of the river, a few miles below the town. "But it is too late to go there to-night," said Mr. George. "We will take that for to-morrow. But there is an old ruin back here in the village, which I think we can see to-night." When they reached the door of the hotel, Minnie met them, and said that she could go; and so they walked along together. Mr. George groped about a long time among the narrow streets and passage ways of the town, to find some way of access to the ruin, but in vain. He obtained frequent views of it, and of the rocky hill that it stood upon, which was seen here and there, by chance glimpses, rising in massive grandeur above the houses of the town; but he could not find any way to get to it. "It is in a private garden," said Mr. George, "I know; but how to find the way to it I cannot imagine." "Perhaps it is here," said Minnie. So saying, Minnie ran up to a gate by the side of the street, which led into a very pretty yard, all shaded with trees and shrubbery, and having a large and handsome house by the side of it. The gate was shut and fastened, but Minnie could look through the bars. There was a woman standing near one of the doors of the house, and Minnie beckoned to her. The woman came immediately down towards the gate. Minnie pointed in towards a walk which seemed to lead back among the trees, and said to the woman,-- "_Schloss?_" _Schloss_ is the German word for _castle_. Minnie could not speak German; but she knew some words of that language, and the words that she did know she was always perfectly ready to use, whenever an occasion presented. "_Ja_, _Ja_," said the woman; and immediately she opened the gate. By this time Minnie had beckoned Mr. George and Rollo to come up from the road, and they all three went in through the gate. The woman called to a man who was then just coming down out of the garden, and said something to him in German. None of our party could understand what she said; but they knew from the circumstances of the case, and from her actions, that she was saying to him that the strangers wished to see the ruins. So, the man leading the way, and the three visitors following him, they all went on along a broad gravel walk which led up into the garden. Mr. George asked the guide if he could speak English, and he said, "_Nein._" Then he asked him if he could speak French, and he said, "_Nein._" He said he could only speak German. "He can't explain any thing to us, children," said Mr. George; "we shall have to judge for ourselves." The walk was very shady that led along the garden, and as it was now long past eight o'clock, it was nearly dark walking there, though it was still pretty light under the open sky. The walk gradually ascended, and it soon brought the party to a place where they could see, rising up among the trees, fragments of ancient walls of stupendous height. Rollo looked up to them with wonder. He even felt a degree of awe, as well as wonder, for the strange and uncouth forms of windows and doors, which were seen here and there; the embrasures, and the yawning arches which appeared below, leading apparently to subterranean dungeons, being all dimly seen in the obscurity of the night, suggested to his mind ideas of prisoners confined there in ancient times, and wearing out their lives in a dreadful and hopeless captivity, or being put to death by horrid tortures. Minnie was still more afraid of these gloomy remains than Rollo. She was afraid to look up at them. "Look up there, Minnie," said Rollo. "See that old broken window with iron gratings in the walls." "No," replied Minnie, "I do not want to see it at all." So saying she looked straight down upon the path before her, and walked on as fast as possible. "If I should look up there, I should see some dreadful thing mowing and chowing at me," she added. Rollo laughed, and they all walked on. Presently the path began to ascend more rapidly, and soon it brought the whole party out into the light, on the slope of an elevation which was covered with the main body of the ruined castle. The man led the way up a steep path, and then up a flight of ancient stone steps built against a wall, until he came to an iron gateway. This he unlocked, and the whole party went in, or rather went through, for as the roofs were gone from the ruins, they were almost as much out of doors after passing through the gateway as they were before. Mr. George and the children gazed around upon the confused mass of ruined bastions, towers, battlements, and archways, that lay before them, with a feeling of awe which it is impossible to describe. The grass waved and flowers bloomed on the tops of the walls, on the sills of the windows, and on every projecting cornice, or angle, where a seed could have lodged. In many places thick clusters of herbage were seen growing luxuriantly from crumbling interstices of the stones in the perpendicular face of the masonry, fifty feet from the ground. Large trees were growing on what had formerly been the floors of the halls, or of the chambers, and tall grass waved there, ready for the scythe. There was one tower which still had a roof upon it. A steep flight of stone steps led up to a door in this tower. The door was under a deep archway. The guide led the way up this stairway, and unlocking the door, admitted his party into the tower. They found themselves, when they had entered, in a small, square room. It occupied the whole extent of the tower on that story, and yet it was very small. This room was in good condition, having been carefully preserved, and was now the only remaining room of the whole castle which was not dismantled and in ruins. But this room, though still shut in from the weather, and protected in a measure from further decay, presented an appearance of age wholly indescribable. The door where the party had come in was on one side of it, and there was a window on the opposite side, leading out to a little stone balcony. On the other two sides were two antique cabinets of carved oak, most aged and venerable in appearance, and of the most quaint construction. The walls and the floor were of stone. In the middle of the floor, however, was a heavy trap door. The guide lifted up this door by means of a ponderous ring of rusty iron, and let Mr. George and the children look down. It was a dark and dismal dungeon. "_Prison,_" said the guide. This, it seemed, was the only English word that he could speak. "Yes," said Mr. George, speaking to Rollo and Minnie. "He means that this was the prison of the castle." The guide shut down the trap door, and the children, after gazing around upon the room a few minutes longer, were glad to go away. Just before reaching the hotel on their way home, Rollo told Minnie that he and Mr. George were going down the next day to see Rheinstein, a beautiful castle down the river, and he asked her if she would not like to go too. Mr. George was walking on before them at this time, and he did not hear this conversation. "No," said Minnie, "I believe not. It makes me afraid to go and see these old ruins." "But this one that we are going to see is not an old ruin," said Rollo. "It has been all made over again as good as new, and is full of beautiful rooms and beautiful furniture. Besides, it stands out in a good clear place on the bank of the river, and you will not be afraid at all. I mean to ask uncle George if I may ask you to go." That evening, in reflecting on the adventures of the day, Rollo wondered that Minnie, who seemed to have so much courage about going out in a boat on the water, and in clambering about into all sorts of dangerous places, should be so afraid of old ruins; but the fact is, that people are in nothing more inconsistent than in their fears. [Illustration] CHAPTER XV. RHEINSTEIN. Rollo determined to ask his uncle George at breakfast if he might invite Minnie to accompany them on their visit to the castle of Rheinstein. He was sorry, however, when he came to reflect a little, that he had not first asked his uncle George, before mentioning the subject to Minnie at all. "For," said he to himself, "if there _should_ be any difficulty or objection to prevent her going with us, then I shall have to go and tell her that I can't invite her, after all; and that would be worse than not to have said any thing about it." When, at length, Rollo and Mr. George were seated at table at breakfast, Rollo asked his uncle if he was willing that Minnie should go with them to the castle. "I told her," said he, "last night, that we were going, and I said I intended to ask you if she might go with us. But I thought afterwards that it would have been better to have spoken about it to you first." "Yes," said Mr. George, "that would be much the best mode generally, though in this case it makes no difference, for I shall be very glad to have Minnie go." So Rollo immediately after breakfast went to renew his invitation to Minnie, and about an hour afterwards the party set out on their excursion. They went in a fine open barouche with two horses, which Mr. George selected from several that were standing near the hotel, waiting to be hired. Mr. George took the back seat, and Rollo and Minnie sat together on the front seat. Thus they rode through the streets of the town, and over the old stone bridge which led across the Nahe near its junction with the Rhine. From the bridge Rollo could see the little green island on which stood Bishop Hatto's Tower. "There is Bishop Hatto's Tower," said Rollo, "and you promised, uncle George, to tell me the story of it." "Well," said Mr. George, "I will tell it to you now." So Mr. George began to relate the story as follows:-- "There was a famine coming on at one time during Bishop Hatto's life, and the people were becoming very destitute, though the bishop's granaries were well supplied with corn. The poor flocked and crowded around his door. At last the bishop appointed a time when, he told them, they should have food for the winter, if they would repair to his great barn. Young and old, from far and near, did so, and when the barn could hold no more, he made fast the door, and set fire to it, and burned them all. He then returned to his palace, congratulating himself that the country was rid of the 'rats,' as he called them. He ate a good supper, went to bed, and slept like an innocent man; but he never slept again. In the morning, when he entered a room where hung his picture, he found it entirely eaten by rats. Presently a man came and told him that the rats had entirely consumed his corn; and while the man was telling him this, another man came running, pale as death, to tell him that ten thousand rats were coming. 'I'll go to my tower on the Rhine,' said the bishop; ''tis the safest place in Germany.' He immediately hastened to the shore, and crossed to his tower, and very carefully barred all the doors and windows. After he had retired for the night, he had hardly closed his eyes, when he heard a fearful scream. He started up, and saw the cat sitting by his pillow, screaming with fear of the army of rats that were approaching. They had swum over the river, climbed the shore, and were scaling the walls of his tower by thousands. The bishop, half dead with fright, fell on his knees, and began counting his beads. The rats soon gained the room, fell upon the bishop, and in a short time nothing was left of him but his bones. "There is an account of it in poetry too, in my book," said Mr. George. "Read it to us," said Minnie. So Mr. George opened his book, and read the account in poetry, as follows:-- BISHOP HATTO. The summer and autumn had been so wet, That in winter the corn was growing yet; 'Twas a piteous sight to see all around The grain lie rotting on the ground. Every day the starving poor Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door, For he had a plentiful last year's store; And all the neighborhood could tell His granaries were furnished well. At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day To quiet the poor without delay: He bade them to his great barn repair, And they should have food for the winter there. Rejoiced at such tidings good to hear, The poor folk flocked from far and near; The great barn was full as it could hold Of women and children, and young and old. Then, when they saw it could hold no more, Bishop Hatto he made fast the door; And while for mercy on Christ they call, He set fire to the barn, and burned them all. "I' faith 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he, "And the country is greatly obliged to me For ridding it, in these times forlorn, Of rats that only consume the corn." So then to his palace returned he, And he sat down to supper merrily, And he slept that night like an innocent man; But Bishop Hatto never slept again. In the morning, as he entered the hall Where his picture hung against the wall, A sweat like death all o'er him came, For the rats had eaten it out of the frame. As he looked there came a man from his farm; He had a countenance white with alarm. "My lord, I opened your granaries this morn, And the rats had eaten all your corn." Another came running presently, And he was pale as pale could be: "Fly, my lord bishop, fly," quoth he; "Ten thousand rats are coming this way; The Lord forgive you for yesterday." "I'll go to my tower on the Rhine," replied he, "'Tis the safest place in Germany; The walls are high, and the shores are steep, And the stream is strong, and the water deep." Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away, And he crossed the Rhine without delay, And reached his tower, and barred with care All the windows, doors, and loopholes there. He laid him down and closed his eyes; But soon a scream made him arise. He started, and saw two eyes of flame On his pillow, from whence the screaming came. He listened and looked: it was only the cat: But the bishop he grew more fearful for that; For she sat screaming, mad with fear At the army of rats that were drawing near. For they have swum over the river so deep, And they have climbed the shores so steep, And now by thousands up they crawl To the holes and windows in the wall. Down on his knees the bishop fell, And faster and faster his beads did he tell, As louder and louder, drawing near, The saw of their teeth without he could hear. And in at the windows, and in at the door, And through the walls by thousands they pour, And down through the ceiling and up through the floor, From the right and the left, from behind and before, From within and without, from above and below; And all at once at the bishop they go. They have whetted their teeth against the stones, And now they pick the bishop's bones; They gnawed the flesh from every limb, For they were sent to do judgment on him. "I'm glad they ate him up," said Minnie, as soon as Mr. George had finished reading the poetry. "I am very glad indeed." "Yes," said Rollo, "so am I." "What a pleasant ride this is!" said Rollo, after a little pause. It was, indeed, a delightful ride. The road was carried along the bank of the river a short distance above the level of the water. It was very hard, and smooth, and level; and on the side of it opposite to the water, the land rose abruptly in a steep ascent, which was covered with forest trees. At the distance of about a mile before them, down the river, they could see the towers and battlements of the castle which they were going to visit, rising among the tops of the trees, on a projecting promontory. "I like the ride very much," said Rollo; "but I don't care much about the castle. I'm tired of castles." "So am I," said Mr. George; "but this is different from the rest. This is a castle restored." "What do you mean by that?" said Rollo. "Why, nearly all the old castles on the Rhine," replied Mr. George, "have been abandoned, and have gone to decay; or else, if they have been repaired or rebuilt, they have been finished and furnished in the fashion of modern times. But this castle of Rheinstein, which we are now going to see, has been restored, as nearly as possible, to its ancient condition. The rooms, and the courts, and the towers, and battlements are all arranged as they used to be in former ages; and the furniture contained within is of the ancient fashion. The chairs, and tables, and cabinets, and all the other articles, are such as the barons used when the castles on the Rhine were inhabited." "Where do they get such things nowadays?" asked Rollo. "Some of the furniture which they have in this castle," said Mr. George, "originally belonged there, and has been kept there all the time, for hundreds of years. When they repaired and rebuilt the castle, they repaired this furniture too, and put it in perfect order. Some other furniture they bought from other old castles which the owners did not intend to repair, and some they had made new, after the ancient patterns. But here we are, close under the castle." A few minutes after this, the carriage stopped in the road at the entrance to a broad, gravelled pathway, which diverged from the road directly under the castle walls, and began to ascend at once through the woods in zigzags. Mr. George and his party got out, and began to go up. The carriage, in the mean time, went on a few steps farther, to a smooth and level place by the roadside, under the shade of some trees, there to await the return of the party from their visit to the castle above. "Now, children," said Mr. George, "we will see how you can stand hard climbing." Rollo and Minnie looked up, and they could see the walls and battlements of the castle, resting upon and crowning the crags and precipices of the rock, far above their heads. The road, or rather the pathway,--for it was not wide enough for a carriage, and was besides too steep, and turned too many sharp corners for wheels,--was very smooth and hard, and the children ascended it without any difficulty. They stopped frequently to look up, for at every turn there was some new view of the walls or battlements, or towers above, or of the crags and precipices of the rock on which the various constructions of masonry rested. The cliffs and precipices in many places overhung the path, and seemed ready to fall. In fact, in one place, an immense mass had cracked off, and was all ready to come down, but was retained in its place by a heavy iron chain, which passed around it, and was secured by clamps and staples to the more solid portion of the rock behind it. Rollo and Minnie looked up to this cliff, as they passed beneath it, with something like a feeling of terror. "I should not like to have that rock come down upon our heads," said Minnie. "No," said Rollo, "nor I; but I should like to see it come down if we were out of the way." At length the road, after many winding zigzags and convolutions, came out upon a gravelled area in front of a great iron gate at an angle between two towers. A man came from a courtyard within, and opened a small gate, which formed a part of the great one. He seemed to be a servant. Mr. George asked him in French if they could come in and see the castle. The man smiled and shook his head, but at the same time opened the door wide, and stood on one side, as if to make way for them to come in. "He says no," whispered Rollo. "No," replied Mr. George, "his _no_ means that he does not understand us; but he wishes us to come in." As Mr. George said these words, he passed through the gate, leading Minnie by the hand, and followed by Rollo. The man shut the gate after them, and then began to say something to them, very fluently and earnestly, pointing at the same time to a door which opened upon a gallery that extended along the wall of a tower near by. As soon as he had finished what seemed to be some sort of explanation, he left the party standing in the court, and returned to his work. "He says," remarked Mr. George, "that there is a man coming to show us the castle." "How do you know?" asked Rollo. "I know by the signs that he made," replied Mr. George. "Besides, I heard him say _schloss-vogt_." "What is _schloss-vogt_?" asked Rollo. "That was the ancient name for the officer who kept the keys of a castle," replied Mr. George, "and in restoring this castle they thought they would reëstablish the old office. So they call the man who keeps the keys the _schloss-vogt_." In a few minutes the _schloss-vogt_ came. He was dressed in the ancient costume. He wore a black velvet frock coat, and green velvet cap, both made in a very antique and curious fashion, after the pattern of those worn, in ancient days, by the officers who had the custody of the keys in the baronial castles. The _schloss-vogt_ conducted his visitors all over the edifice that was under his charge. It would be impossible to describe the variety of halls, corridors, courts, towers, ramparts, and battlements which Rollo and Minnie were led to see. They went from one to another, until they were at length completely bewildered with the intricacy, as well as dazzled by the magnificence, of the place. There were suites of most beautiful apartments, with polished floors, and painted walls, and furniture of the most curious and antique description. The chairs, the tables, the cabinets, and the beds of these rooms were all of the strangest forms; and though they were of very elaborate and splendid workmanship, being richly carved and inlaid with mosaic work, and often ornamented with mountings of silver, they all wore a very antique and venerable air, which was extremely imposing. The rooms were of all shapes and sizes, and were arranged and connected with each other in the most odd and singular fashion, as the external walls which enclosed them were extremely irregular in plan, being conformed in a great measure to the shape of the rocks on which the castle was founded. The _schloss-vogt_ was continually leading his party, as he guided them through the rooms, into some unexpected and curious place--a little cabinet, built on an angle of the wall; a winding staircase, opening suddenly in a corner, and leading up to a watchtower, or down to a court; a balcony overhanging a precipice, and commanding a most magnificent view up and down the river; or some other curious nook or corner, which in the snugness and coziness of its seclusion, and the beauty of its adornments, filled the hearts of Rollo and Minnie with delight. There were a great many specimens of ancient arms and armor, hung up in various halls in the castle, all of the most quaint and curious forms, but yet of the most elaborate and beautiful workmanship. There were swords, and daggers, and bows and arrows, and spurs, and shields, and coats of mail, and every other species of weapons, offensive and defensive, that the warriors of the middle ages were accustomed to use. Rollo was most interested in the bows and arrows. They were of great size, and were made in a style of workmanship, and ornamented with mountings and decorations, which Rollo had never dreamed of seeing in bows and arrows. Among the other articles of armor, the _schloss-vogt_ showed the party a _gauntlet_, as it is called; that is, an iron glove, which was worn in ancient times to defend the hand from the cuts of swords and sabres. The inside of the glove--I mean the part which covered the inside of the hand--was of leather; but the back was formed of iron scales made to slide over each other, so as to allow the hand to open and shut freely, without making any opening in the iron. Mr. George tried this glove on, and so, in fact, did Rollo and Minnie. They were all surprised to find how well it fitted to the hand, and how freely the fingers could be moved while it was on. The _schloss-vogt_ said that a man could write with it; and Mr. George placed his hand, with the glove upon it, in the proper position for writing, and then moved his fingers to and fro, as if there had been a pen between them. "Yes," said he, "I think I could write with it very well." All the furniture of the rooms was of a very quaint and curious description, while yet it was very rich and magnificent. There were elegant bedsteads of carved ebony surmounted with silken curtains and canopies of the most gorgeous description. There were cabinets inlaid with silver and pearl, and elegant cameos and mosaics, and a profusion of other such articles, all of which Rollo had very little time to examine, as the _schloss-vogt_ led the party forward from one room to another without much delay. The rooms themselves, in respect to form and arrangement, were almost as curious as the articles which they contained. Every one seemed different from the rest. You were constantly coming into the strangest and most unexpected places. There were cabinets, and wide halls, and intricate winding corridors, and open courts, and vaulted passages, and balconies, paved below and arched over above. At one place there was a light iron staircase built on the outside of a round tower, and as the tower itself was built on the pinnacle of an overhanging rock, you seemed, in ascending the staircase, to be poised in the air, with the rocks that lined the shore of the river beneath your feet, hundreds of feet below. After rambling about the castle for half an hour, the party returned to the gate where they had come in, and the _schloss-vogt_ bade them good by. He gave Minnie a little bouquet of flowers as she came away. They were flowers which he had gathered for her, one by one, from the plants growing in the various balconies, and in little parterres in the courtyards, which they passed in going about the castle. Minnie was very much pleased with this bouquet. "I mean to press some of the flowers," said she, "and keep them for a souvenir." "Yes," said Rollo, "I'll help you press them. I've got a pressing apparatus at home." "Well," said Minnie, in a tone of great satisfaction. "And then, when they are pressed, I'll give you one of them." So the party went down the zigzag path till they came to the main road at the bank of the river, and there getting into their carriage again, they rode home to the hotel. CONCLUSION. Our travellers had now passed through all that portion of the Rhine which contains the castles and the romantic scenery. Above Bingen the valley of the Rhine widens; that is, the mountains, instead of crowding in close to the river, recede from it many miles, enclosing a broad and level, but very fertile plain, through the midst of which the river flows between low banks, and with endless meanderings. The level country through which the river thus flows is inexpressibly beautiful, being divided into magnificent fields, and cultivated every where like a garden. It presents to the view a broad expanse of the richest verdure and beauty, but it cannot be seen from the steamboats on the river. Travellers are, accordingly, accustomed to leave the river at Mayence, a short distance above Bingen, and to go on up to Strasbourg by the railway. This was the plan which Mr. George and Rollo pursued. From Strasbourg, Mr. George took passage for Paris by a railway train which left Strasbourg in the afternoon, so that they travelled all night. This was Rollo's plan. He wished to see how "it would seem," he said, to be travelling in the cars at midnight. [Illustration: THE NIGHT JOURNEY.] He, however, fell asleep soon after dark, and slept soundly all the way. * * * * * TAGGARD & THOMPSON PUBLISH THE FOLLOWING POPULAR JUVENILE BOOKS. ROLLO'S TOUR IN EUROPE. Ten volumes, 16mo, cloth. Being a new series of Rollo Books. By REV. JACOB ABBOTT. Beautifully illustrated. Rollo on the Atlantic--Rollo in Paris--Rollo in Switzerland--Rollo on the Rhine--Rollo in London--Rollo in Scotland--Rollo in Geneva--Rollo in Holland--Rollo in Naples--Rollo in Rome. Price per vol. 50 cts. MY UNCLE TOBY'S LIBRARY. By FRANCIS FORRESTER, ESQ., consisting of twelve volumes, elegantly bound, and illustrated with upwards of SIXTY beautiful engravings. Each book is printed in large and splendid type, upon superior paper. Price per vol. 25 cts. THE SUMMER HOUSE STORIES. By the author of "Daisy," "Violet," &c. Elegantly illustrated by Billings. Six volumes. Price per vol. 63 cts. This series is designed to sketch attractively and simply the wonders of reptile and insect existences, the changes of trees, rocks, rivers, clouds, and winds. This is done by a family of children writing letters, both playful and serious, which are addressed to all children whom the books may reach. THE MARTIN AND NELLIE STORIES. By JOSEPHINE FRANKLIN. Twelve volumes, 16mo, cloth. Illustrated by Billings and others. Price per vol. 50 cts. The object of these stories is the inculcation, in a quiet, simple way, of the principles of good nature, kindness, and integrity among children. They consist of the usual pathetic and mirthful incidents that constitute boy and girl life. THE GLEN MORRIS STORIES. By FRANCIS FORRESTER, author of "My Uncle Toby's Library." Five vols. 16mo, cloth. Beautifully illustrated. Price per vol. 63 cts. The purpose of the "Glen Morris Stories" is to sow the seed of pure, noble, manly character in the mind of our great nation's childhood. They exhibit the virtues and vices of childhood, not in prosy, unreadable precepts, but in a series of characters which move before the imagination, as living beings do before the senses. PICTURES FROM THE HISTORY OF THE SWISS. One volume, 16mo. Price 67 cts. A very instructive and entertaining Juvenile, designed for children from ten to fifteen years of age. PICTURES FROM THE HISTORY OF SPAIN. By the author of "Pictures from the History of the Swiss." A new volume just published. Price 67 cts. LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF WHITENOSE WOODCHUCK. One volume, 16mo. Price 38 cts. Intended especially for younger children, and illustrated with numerous engravings, by Billings. In addition to the above, B. & T. publish a great variety of Toy and Juvenile Books, suited to the wants of children of all ages. * * * * * AN INTERESTING BOOK FOR SCHOLARS. The Boys have long desired such a Book. THE UNIVERSAL SPEAKER: CONTAINING A COLLECTION OF SPEECHES, DIALOGUES, AND RECITATIONS, ADAPTED TO THE USE OF SCHOOLS, ACADEMIES, AND SOCIAL CIRCLES. Edited by N. A. Calkins and W. T. Adams. The excellences of this work consist, in part, of its entire originality, of its more than usual adaptation to the wants of our High Schools and Academies, and of the systematic arrangement of its selections for declamation and for elocutionary practice. Those in Part Second were prepared by Prof. WM. RUSSELL, the eminent elocutionist, expressly for this work. The publishers feel assured that in presenting this work to Teachers and Scholars, they are offering them no revision of old matter with which they have long been familiar, but an original work, full of new, interesting, and instructive pieces, for the varied purposes for which it is designed. In 1 vol. 12mo. Price $1. The instructions in declamation are so complete and accompanied by such ample illustrations relative to position and gestures of the student, that the "Universal Speaker" needs only to be seen to become what its name indicates--universal.--Rochester Repository. The pieces are judiciously selected, and the book is very attractive in its appearance--Connecticut School Journal. We find, upon close inspection, that the work contains much fresh matter, which will be acceptable to schools and students, particularly in the department of dialogues of which there is a great dearth of really good and FIT matter in most speakers.--United States Journal. They are all school-like, the dialogues being illustrative of scenes in common life, including some first-rate conversations pertinent to school-room duties and trials. The speeches are brief and energetic. It will meet with favor.--R. I. Schoolmaster. The selection has been made with a great deal of foresight and taste, by men who are highly esteemed as elocutionists, writers, or teachers. The notation, the directions and cuts appended to the pieces, will be found useful to those who use them.--Mass. Teacher. Looking it over hastily, we notice many admirable selections from the best authors, and as the book is entirely fresh, the matter never having appeared in previous readers or speakers, it cannot fail to be a welcome addition to the books of its class.--Springfield Republican. In this they have succeeded, and have also been fortunate in the selection. The book contains a larger number of dialogues than any we have seen, and they are mostly relative to school children and school affairs.--Penn. School Journal. * * * * * INSTRUCTION AND AMUSEMENT. PICTURES FROM THE HISTORY OF THE SWISS. In 1 vol. 16mo. 262 pages. Price 75 cents. WITH CHARACTERISTIC ILLUSTRATIONS, DESIGNED BY HAMMETT BILLINGS. It is not generally known that the early history of the Swiss abounds in the most thrilling and interesting stories, of which that of Wm. Tell shooting the apple from the head of his son, by order of the tyrant Gessler, so familiar to every child, is but a specimen. The present volume, while it introduces the youthful reader to many of the scenes through which the brave Swiss passed in recovering their liberty, also narrates many stories of peculiar interest and romance, every way equal to that of Tell. Among these we may name, The Thievish Raven, and the Mischief he caused. How the Wives and Daughters of Zurich saved the City. How the City of Lucerne was saved by a Boy. The Baker's Apprentice. How a Wooden Figure raised Troops in the Valois. Little Roza's Offering. A Little Theft, and what happened in consequence. The Angel of the Camp. With twenty-one other similar stories. * * * * * A NEW SERIES OF JUVENILES. THE SUMMER-HOUSE SERIES. BY THE AUTHOR OF "VIOLET," "DAISY," ETC. The first volume of what the publishers sincerely believe will be the most popular series of Juvenile Books yet issued, is now ready, entitled OUR SUMMER-HOUSE, AND WHAT WAS SAID AND DONE IN IT. In 1 vol. 16mo. Price 62 cents. Handsomely Illustrated by HAMMETT BILLINGS. From the author's Preface:-- "The Summer-House Series of children's books, of which the present volume is the first, is an attempt to sketch attractively and simply the wonders of reptile and insect existence, the changes of trees, rocks, rivers, clouds and winds. "To this end a family of intelligent children, of various ages, collected in a garden summer-house, are supposed to write letters and stories, sometimes playful, sometimes serious, addressing them to all children whom the books may reach. "The author has hoped, by thus awakening the quick imagination and ready sympathies of the young, to lead them to use their own eyes, and hearts, and hands, in that plentiful harvest-field of life, where 'the reapers indeed are few.'" Among the stories in the present volume are the following:-- Bessie's Garden. One of the most touching and affecting stories we have read for many a day. The Lancers. A most humorous story, with a never-to-be-forgotten moral, inculcating contentment. The Working Fairies. In this story Industry is held up for attainment, and Idleness receives a severe rebuke. The style and language, though perfectly intelligible to children, are worthy of a Beecher. The Princess. A story of wrong and suffering. Little Red-Head. A true story of a bird. The Little Preacher. A sweet story, introducing bird and insect life, and conveying more truth and instruction to children, than can be found in a dozen ordinary sermons. TAGGARD & THOMPSON, Publishers, 29 CORNHILL, BOSTON. 
45983	----	[Transcriber's Note: Underscores are used as delimiters for _italics_] [Illustration: FIFTH AVENUE HOTEL, NEW YORK.--_Page 18._] TO NUREMBERG AND BACK A Girl's Holiday BY AMY NEALLY _ILLUSTRATED_ NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 31 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET 1892 Copyright, 1892 BY E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. AN UNEXPECTED PLEASURE 11 II. NEW YORK FOR THE FIRST TIME 19 III. LIFE ON A STEAMER 25 IV. A FIRST GLIMPSE OF ENGLAND 32 V. A WEEK IN LONDON 36 VI. OFF FOR THE CONTINENT 44 VII. UP THE RHINE 50 VIII. THE LEGEND OF THE LORELY 58 IX. MAYENCE TO NUREMBERG 66 X. NUREMBERG 70 XI. NUREMBERG.--_Continued_ 82 XII. STRASBOURG 91 XIII. HOMEWARD BOUND 101 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE FIFTH AVENUE HOTEL, NEW YORK _Frontispiece_ THE GREAT STEAMER BACKED OUT INTO THE RIVER 22 HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT 29 NELSON COLUMN 36 TOWER OF LONDON 41 HAMPTON COURT 42 BRUSSELS BOURSE 47 COLOGNE CATHEDRAL 51 LAHNECK CASTLE 55 MOUSE TOWER 62 MAYENCE--GENERAL VIEW 67 NUREMBERG WALLS 71 ALBRECHT DÜRER'S HOUSE 73 NUREMBERG CASTLE 75 NUREMBERG 82 STRASBOURG CATHEDRAL--SIDE VIEW 91 STRASBOURG STORKS 95 STRASBOURG-CATHEDRAL CLOCK 97 PLACE DE LA CONCORDE 102 PETIT TRIANON 109 THAMES EMBANKMENT 112 TO NUREMBERG AND BACK. A GIRL'S HOLIDAY. CHAPTER I. AN UNEXPECTED PLEASURE. One day in the early spring, Alice Winter came home from school, and, after the usual question at the door, "Is mamma at home?" rushed upstairs, and found to her great surprise that her papa was at home, talking very earnestly to Mrs. Winter. When Alice came into the room, Mr. Winter stopped talking, and she wondered very much what they could have been talking about so earnestly, as all she heard was her papa asking, "Do you think we had better take her with us?" "Why, papa! What is the matter? Are you going away? Are you sick? What made you come home so early?" were the questions which Alice gave rapidly, without waiting for an answer. Mr. Winter said, "Yes, dear, I am obliged to go to Nuremberg, Germany, on business immediately, and mamma is trying to make up her mind whether it is best for her to go with me. She does not like to leave you for so long a time, and we do not think it wise to take you with us, when you are getting on at school so nicely." "O papa, please take me with you. I shall learn just as much on such a lovely trip as at school, and you know I can take care of mamma, and keep her from being lonely when you are busy. O papa, please ask mamma to let me go. I should be so unhappy to stay without you, even with dear Aunt Edith, and I know there is where you would send me." "Alice, dear, go to your room and get ready for dinner, and leave us to talk it over," said Mr. Winter. "My dear little daughter knows that no matter which way we decide, it will be as we think is best for all of us. You know it is as hard for us to leave you as it will be for you to let us go." Alice left the room without another word, with her heart beating very fast from the excitement of it all. The thought of going to Europe across the great ocean was a very happy one to a bright girl of fifteen who was studying all the time about the places she would visit and the objects of interest she would see, if her papa would only decide to take her. Alice sat down by the window of her pretty room, and looked out on the village street, far away in the northern part of the State of New York. She wondered how the ocean looked, as she had never seen any larger body of water than that of Lake Erie, when she went with her mother to make a visit in Cleveland. She also wondered if her state-room on the steamer would be as large as the room she was in; also, would she be sick, and how would all those wonderful cities look; if they could be as beautiful as the pictures she had seen of them. Then she remembered that only last week she had been studying about the quaint old city of Nuremberg, and wishing she could go there and see all its curiosities. Alice was startled by the dinner-bell, and could not even wait to brush her hair, she was so anxious to know what her papa had decided. As Alice went into the dining-room with a very wistful look in her deep-brown eyes, Mr. Winter said, "Well, dear, we have decided to take you with us, and as it is now Wednesday, and we sail Saturday from New York on the 'Etruria,' you will be very busy getting ready, and you must help your mamma all you can." Alice threw her arms around Mr. Winter's neck, crying with joy, saying at the same time, "Oh, you dear, darling papa, how kind and good you are, and how I do love you!" After kissing him again and again, she went to her mamma and nearly smothered her with kisses. Mr. Winter had never been abroad, though he had large business interests there, which had been attended to by a clerk in whom he had the utmost confidence. This clerk had been taken very suddenly and dangerously ill, Mr. Winter had no one else he could send, and found he must go himself and at once. He telegraphed to the Cunard office for state-rooms, and went home to tell his wife, hardly thinking she would go with him at such short notice, or leave Alice. Mrs. Winter was not willing he should go without her, and soon decided not only to go, but to take Alice with them. Alice could hardly eat any dinner, she was so happy and full of excitement. The next morning Alice went to school to get her books and tell the wonderful news to her teacher and school-mates. They were nearly as interested as she, for it was quite an event for any one to go to Europe from that quiet village. It was decided then and there that all would be at the station to see her off on Friday. When Alice went to her room she found there a new steamer-trunk marked "A. W." in large letters, and then she was busy indeed getting it packed and deciding what to take with her. Mrs. Winter came in while Alice was almost in despair and said, "This is to be such a hurried trip you will need only a couple of dresses, but you must take all your warm wraps." Alice laughed and said, "I do not think I shall need them in the spring;" but mamma said, "It is always cold at sea, and you will need your winter clothes." Friday afternoon our little party started for New York, with the best wishes of their friends, who came to the station for the very last "good-byes." Alice even shed a few tears, but they were soon wiped away, and a happy face looked from the car window, which fortunately was on the side overlooking the Hudson River. Alice had never seen that lovely river before, and naturally was delighted. When they passed the Catskill Mountains it was so clear she could see the famous old Mountain House, and, beyond, the immense Kauterskill Hotel, which seemed almost in the clouds, it looked so high. West Point was the next object of interest, and Alice did hope she could go there sometime and see the cadets do some of their drills. When they were opposite the Palisades, which stood up in their grandeur, with the softened tints of the setting sun settling upon them, Alice said, "I know I shall see nothing in Europe any finer than that." Very soon the tall spires and smoke in the distance showed that they were drawing near New York, and after leaving the Hudson they followed the pretty Harlem River, which makes an island of New York City. Alice was much interested in the bridges, there seemed to be so many of them, and papa told her that the one then in sight was the new Washington bridge, just completed. The next was High bridge, which carries the water over the river into the city. When it was finished it was said to be the finest engineering in the country. The next bridge was the continuation of the elevated railroad, and then came Macomb's Dam bridge, the oldest of them all, and used simply for driving and walking across, and looked, Alice thought, quite unsafe. The pretty Madison Avenue bridge was the last they saw as they crossed their own bridge, and were soon in a tunnel which Alice thought would never end. When they came out of the tunnel the train was nearly at the station, where the noise and bustle were very confusing, and they were glad to get into a carriage to be driven to the Fifth Avenue Hotel. As it was quite dark, Alice thought it was like a glimpse of fairyland when they reached Madison Square, with its electric lights shining on the trees, and all the bright lights around the hotel. CHAPTER II. NEW YORK FOR THE FIRST TIME. Mr. Winter having telegraphed for rooms, found them ready for him; and on going down to dinner they were delighted to see the corridors and dining-room crowded with people, many of them public characters whom he could point out to Alice, who was so excited she felt the entire evening as if she were in a dream. Of all the prominent men there Alice was the most interested in General Sherman, with his kind, rugged face. The "Etruria" sailed at noon on Saturday, and Mrs. Winter and Alice spent the morning buying a few last things, such as a hat and hood and comfortable steamer-chairs. At eleven o'clock a Fifth Avenue Hotel stage was at the door, and several people beside themselves went in it to the steamer. The ladies had flowers and baskets of fruit, and seemed so bright and happy that Alice for the first time felt a little lonely and homesick. On reaching the dock there were so many people going on and coming off the steamer, and pushing each other, it was almost impossible to cross the gang-plank and reach their own state-rooms. Finally they found them, and, instead of nice large rooms, they were so very small that Alice felt she never could live in them for a week or ten days, and the berths were so narrow she said, "O papa, you can never get into one of those in the world." "Oh, yes, I can," said Mr. Winter, "and perhaps before we reach Liverpool I shall wish they were narrower yet."' Mrs. Winter and Alice had one room, and Mr. Winter was across the passage with another gentleman. After settling their valises and rugs they went up on deck to see the people, and also the last of the city itself. Large baskets of fruits and flowers in every shape were constantly being brought on board, and much to Alice's delight there was a large bunch of violets from her school friends at home. She had been looking at the other people a little enviously, especially at a girl of her own age who had many friends to see her, and her arms full of flowers. Very soon the gong sounded, and Alice, who had never heard one, put her hands to her ears to shut out the noise. As soon as the man had passed by Alice said,-- "What is that?" "That is a gong, dear," said her papa, "and is now being used to notify the people who are not sailing on the steamer that it is time to go ashore." The people who left kissed their friends hurriedly, and went down the gang-plank as if afraid they might be carried away, after all. After the people were on the dock and the mailbags had been put on the steamer, very slowly but surely the great steamer backed out into the river. Tugs turned her around, and carefully she steamed toward the ocean, trying to avoid the many boats moving about the river in all directions. [Illustration: THE GREAT STEAMER BACKED OUT INTO THE RIVER.--_Page 21._] Alice was rather frightened, and thought they certainly would run into some of them. Many of the passengers were still waving to their friends, who were also waving to them from the dock as long as they could distinguish it at all. Very soon they could see the famous statue of the Goddess of Liberty, that holds its light so high in the air; then lovely Staten Island, with its green hills and fine houses. The two forts, Hamilton and Wordsworth, which guard the entrance to the harbor, were soon left behind, and on the left could be seen Coney Island, with its large hotels and elephant and high elevator. Suddenly, as they were looking at the largest hotel of all, the one at Rockaway Beach, the steamer stopped. Alice, rather startled, said,-- "Oh, dear! what is the matter?" "They are going to drop the pilot," said her papa. "Where?" said Alice. "In the water?" "Oh, no," said Mr. Winter; "do you see that small boat rowing towards us?" "Yes, papa. Will he drop into that? He never can; he will surely fall into the water." Mr. Winter smiled and told her to go and watch from the rail, which she did, and soon saw the pilot go down the side of the steamer by a rope and drop into the little row-boat, where two men were waiting to row him to the pretty pilot-boat No. 4, which was quite a distance away. The steamer started immediately, and in five minutes the row-boat was only a speck on the water. "There is another hotel, papa. What is it?" said Alice. "That is the Long Beach Hotel, and you will not see another until you reach Liverpool," said her papa. CHAPTER III. LIFE ON A STEAMER. "Come, Alice," said Mrs. Winter, "we will go down to our state-room and unpack our trunks while we are in smooth water, for to-morrow morning it may be so rough we cannot get out of our berths at all." Alice went with her mamma and helped put everything in order, but there were so few hooks and no bureau she did not know at first where to put anything. Mrs. Winter decided to sleep in the lower berth and have Alice on the sofa, which gave them the top berth for a bureau, and they found themselves very comfortable. Alice wanted to put some little things around to look pretty, but her mamma said, "No, dear, for if the ship rolls they will be all over the floor." Alice laughed and said, "I guess the 'Etruria' never rolls enough for that; she is too big." "Wait and see," quietly said her mamma. Mrs. Winter said, "Now we will put on our warm wraps and go on deck." Mr. Winter had found their chairs and put them in a nice place. Just as they were being settled in them, the gong was sounded again. "That is for lunch this time," said Mr. Winter, "and I for one am glad, for I am very hungry." On going to the saloon they were delighted to find that their seats were at the captain's table, and any one who has crossed the ocean with Captain Hains knows what a treat they had before them, if it should be a nice passage and he could be in his seat at the head of the table. In the afternoon the ship rolled, and when dinner was announced Mrs. Winter thought she would take hers on deck. She was not sick, but was afraid if she left the air she might be. Mr. Winter and Alice went to the table, and Alice was surprised to see the vacant seats around the room. The racks were on the table, so the dishes were held in place, but Alice found it rather uncomfortable keeping her chair. In the morning Mrs. Winter was too ill to leave her berth, but Alice never felt better in her life. The captain was so pleased to have her at the table to breakfast he put her in her mamma's seat next to him, and when she told him it was her birthday he said, "You shall have a nice cake for your dinner." After breakfast Alice went up on deck with Mr. Winter, who put her in a comfortable place and covered her up nice and warm. He went down to see his wife. The sea was a deep, bright blue, with lovely white caps, and when the sun shone on them Alice could see a rainbow on every wave. Alice became tired of sitting in her chair, and went to the rail to look over the side and see how pretty the water looked as the ship cut through it. Soon the young girl whom she had seen the day before came up to her and said, "Have you ever crossed before?" Alice said, "No, have you?" "Oh, yes, several times; and I do enjoy every minute, for I am never sick." Alice asked her name, and she answered, "Nellie Ford. What is yours and where are you going?" Alice told her name and that she was going to Nuremberg. Nellie said, "I have never been there. We are going to Brussels, and it is such a beautiful city." They talked on until the gong sounded, and agreed to meet again after lunch. At dinner that night Alice found the cake which the captain had promised her on the table. After thanking him, she asked if she might send a piece of it to her new friend. "Of course, my dear," said the captain. "It is yours to do with just as you please." The second day was very much like the first, only Mrs. Winter was able to be on deck, and Nellie Ford introduced her to Mr. and Mrs. Ford, and they soon settled to a little party of six, as passengers on a steamer are very apt to do. The two girls were together all the time, and joined in a game of ring toss with some more of the young people. [Illustration: HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT.--_Page 37._] The days passed away, one very much like another--some pleasant, some stormy and rough, some foggy, with the whistles being blown every two minutes. Alice felt that she should be glad when she saw land again. One night they met a steamer, and it did look very pretty all lighted up. The "Etruria" set off Roman candles, which were answered by the steamer, and Alice thought that was the most interesting evening of all, even more so than the night of the concert. The "Etruria" made a very quick trip, and reached Queenstown Friday afternoon. Alice was writing letters in the saloon to send home, when suddenly the steamer stopped. "Oh, dear, what is the matter?" she cried, jumping to her feet. A gentleman sitting near her said, "It is a fog, and as we are very near Fastnet Rock they do not dare to go on." Soon a gun was heard in answer to the steamer's whistle, and the gentleman said, "We must be right there now." Alice went up on deck rather frightened, but as suddenly as the fog had settled upon them it lifted, and directly ahead of them was the straight rock rising out of the water like a sentinel. The "Etruria" ran up her signal flags and then started on, and in three hours was off Queenstown Harbor, where the tug was waiting for their mails and the few passengers who wished to be landed. CHAPTER IV. A FIRST GLIMPSE OF ENGLAND. Queenstown was soon a thing of the past, and when they went to their rooms the packing was finished, so that the next morning all the time could be spent upon the deck until they landed. It was a clear, bright morning, but very cold and windy, when the steamer was left to take the tug. On leaving the tug, Alice and Nellie were very careful to each put her left foot first on the dock, as they had been told it would bring them good luck. There was not much to interest our party in Liverpool except the docks, which of course Alice had been told were the finest in the world. After leaving the Custom House they were driven to the North Western Hotel, and the ladies and two girls waited in the parlor in front of an enormous soft-coal fire, while Mr. Ford and Mr. Winter went into the station, which joins the hotel, and engaged a compartment for London. Opposite the hotel they could see St. George's Hall, with its two statues in front, one of Queen Victoria and the other of her husband, Prince Albert, when they were young. Suddenly a noise of horses being rapidly driven was heard, and the girls ran to the window just in time to see the high sheriff's carriage of state being driven to the hotel to take him away to open court. It was very elegant, with its satin linings and the four beautiful horses. The footmen stood up at the back of the carriage, holding themselves on by leather straps. Four men in uniform stood in the street and blew on trumpets until the sheriff was out of sight. The girls thought it very interesting, but Mrs. Winter said, "A sheriff's position in England must be very different from that in America, where they usually go about in the quietest manner possible." Mr. Winter and Mr. Ford came in and told them it was time to get some lunch. A very nice one they had, and Alice was particularly interested in the table on wheels, with the joints of meat on it, which was pushed about to each person to select the cut of meat he liked. Mr. Ford advised their going to the Hotel Victoria in London, as he had tried many others and liked that one the best; so they had telegraphed for rooms before starting on the two o'clock train. All the party were in good spirits, and glad to be on dry land. Mrs. Winter and Alice did not like the carriage, as it is called in England, as well as the drawing-room car at home, but enjoyed every moment of the journey. England is like a large garden, every portion being under cultivation; the fields are so green and full of large, beautiful sheep grazing everywhere. "O mamma, how much more lovely the hedges are than our fences and walls at home!" said Alice. "Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Winter. "I have always heard they were lovely, but I did not think they would add so much to the beauties of the landscape." Harrow, with its school on the hill, was passed, and caused some interest to the girls. London was reached before they realized it, and they were driven to the Hotel Victoria in two four-wheeled cabs called "growlers"--why, they did not know, unless people "growl" at their lack of comfort in every way; no springs, narrow, high seats, generally dirty, and a worn-out old horse, whipped the most of the time by a very poor driver. Their rooms were ready for them, and glad enough they were to get their dinner and go to bed to get rested for the following days, to which the Winters were looking forward with great interest. [Illustration: NELSON COLUMN.] CHAPTER V. A WEEK IN LONDON. Sunday our party rested, but on Monday morning they started for Westminster Abbey, hardly looking at anything on the way, though they went by Trafalgar Square, with the high column erected to Nelson, which stands there so proudly, with its beautiful lions made by Landseer lying so quietly at its base. A pleasant morning was passed at the Abbey, and the Poets' Corner proved to be their greatest attraction, as it is with most Americans. The chair in which Queen Victoria sat when she was crowned was shown to them, but Alice said she thought it was a common-looking chair, and wondered why the Queen did not have one that was more imposing. On leaving the Abbey they naturally turned towards the Houses of Parliament, and wishing to get even a better view, they walked part way over Westminster bridge, where they also saw St. Thomas's Hospital, situated on the Surrey side of the Thames. The walk back to the hotel by way of the Embankment was very pleasant, with its large buildings one side, and the river with its boats moving up and down on the other, and the rumble of the underground railroad beneath their feet. On reaching home they were so tired it was decided to rest in the afternoon and visit Madame Tussaud's wax-works in the evening. After dinner Mr. Ford said, "How would you like to go to the wax-works by the underground railway? It is not very far, if you think you won't mind the smoke and confined air. The station is very near, and we shall be left at the next building to the wax-works. I have been driven there and it only took about twenty minutes, so I think we can go by train in ten." "All right," said Mr. Winter; "it will be a good opportunity to see how we shall like it." Off they all started to the Charing Cross station. The girls did not like going down underground so far, but Alice said to Nellie, "I think I will not say much about it unless mamma does." After passing three stations, Mr. Winter said, "This air is stifling, do you not think we are nearly there?" "Oh, yes," said Mr. Ford, "I think it must be the next station." When they reached it, it was not theirs, and Mr. Ford called out to the guard, "How many more stations before we reach Baker Street?" The man looked at him rather queerly, and said, "Fourteen. Where did you get on the train?" "At Charing Cross," said Mr. Ford. "Oh," said the guard, "you have taken a train for the outer circle and come the longer way; some one should have told you." The train moved on, and our party had nothing to do but sit patiently and try not to think how close and stifling the air was getting. When they were once more in the fresh air Mr. Ford said, "Driving in cabs suits me pretty well, and that is the way I am going home, if I go alone." There was not a dissenting voice, and after a very pleasant evening they had a lovely drive home in three hansom cabs, and it only took them sixteen minutes. Tuesday morning was spent in visiting the Bank of England and St. Paul's Cathedral, where the young people and the gentlemen went upstairs to the Whispering Gallery. They all went down to the Crypt, where are many tombs, among them those of Nelson and Wellington. The great object of interest to them was the immense funeral car which was made to carry the body of the Duke of Wellington through the streets of London to his last resting-place. The wheels were made from pieces of cannon picked from the field of Waterloo. Mr. Ford took them to a quaint, old-fashioned place noted for its soups, for lunch. In the afternoon the Tower of London was visited, and of course was of more interest to the Winters than to the Fords. To Alice it was very realistic, it was so full of English history. She could tell her mamma much more than could the man, in his strange costume, who showed them around. That night the ladies and the two girls were too tired to go out again, so Mr. Ford took Mr. Winter and they did a little sight-seeing on their own account. Wednesday was given up to visiting the Buckingham Palace stables, where they saw the Queen's famous ponies that are only used on state occasions; and the South Kensington Museum, which they found very interesting. [Illustration: TOWER OF LONDON.--_Page 40._] In the evening they went to the theatre, and Alice thought it very strange to go downstairs to their seats. The audience looked so much better than in America, as the ladies were in evening dress and the gentlemen in dress suits. Thursday was a lovely day, and was spent at Hampton Court. They went on the outside of a coach, and what a lovely drive it was through Richmond and Bushy Park, with its wonderful horse-chestnut trees all in bloom! [Illustration: HAMPTON COURT.] The coach stopped at a little inn beside the river, where they lunched before visiting the famous court, once the home of Henry the Eighth, and presented to him by Cardinal Wolsey. It is now the home of certain ladies of small income who are alone in the world. They are selected by the Queen, and of course have only one portion of the palace. The remainder is occupied as state apartments and a famous picture-gallery, beside a gun-room only second in interest to that of the Tower. Friday was given to Windsor Castle and the Crystal Palace. Saturday they shopped and visited the Royal Academy, where they saw a beautiful collection of paintings, and only wished there was more time to spend looking at them. Mr. and Mrs. Ford decided to go with the Winters as far as Brussels, and as they were to start on Monday it was thought best to keep very quiet on Sunday. Mrs. Winter said to her husband she wished they could stay longer in London, where every minute had been a delight; but he said it was impossible. CHAPTER VI. OFF FOR THE CONTINENT. Monday morning was bright and clear, and Mr. Ford said, "This looks like a pleasant crossing of the Channel." The ride in the cars to Dover was very interesting, and the view of Canterbury Cathedral was quite fine. Quite a large boat was waiting for the train, and the water looked so smooth Alice said,-- "I guess the people who are sick crossing this Channel do not know much of ocean discomfort." Like a good many travellers who see the Channel for the first time, she thought it must always be quiet. It proved to be a very smooth trip, and only a little over an hour was spent in crossing. The train left Calais fifteen minutes after the arrival of the boat, and the gentlemen bought nice luncheons which were put up in baskets,--chicken, bread and butter, and a bottle of wine. They found a good compartment, and away they went, eating their lunch and enjoying the views from the windows at the same time. Belgium is called the garden of Europe, as vegetables are raised there for all the principal cities. The country is flat and rather uninteresting to look at, but when one realizes that the willows which surround the farms are used by the women and children to make baskets which are sent all over the world it becomes very interesting. The land is divided by water wide enough for flat-bottomed boats to be rowed about, that the farmers may till their land and bring home the products in them. It seemed very strange to see women at work in the fields, but Mr. Ford said they would get used to that before they reached Nuremberg. It was dark when the train drew in at the station at Brussels, and they took a stage marked "Grand Hotel," and were driven through the principal street of the city. The shops were all lighted, and the streets and sidewalks full of people. Outside the restaurants little tables were set on the sidewalks, and men and women were eating and drinking. It was a sight the Winters had never seen, and it looked very strange to them. "It is just like Paris on a small scale," said Mr. Ford. Excellent rooms were ready for them at the hotel, as they had been telegraphed for by Mr. Ford, who was in the habit of going there every year. They had a delicious supper, and Mr. Winter said,-- "That is the best meal I have seen since leaving America." The ladies had found the cars very hard to travel in, and were glad to go to their rooms. The next day Mrs. Winter was so thoroughly used up that Mr. Winter decided to stay in Brussels a few days for her to get rested. The girls were delighted, as they had become very fond of each other and were dreading the separation. [Illustration: BRUSSELS BOURSE.] Mr. Ford had to go out on business, and Mrs. Ford said she would entertain Mrs. Winter if Mr. Winter would take the girls sight-seeing. They started on their walk in high spirits, and found such wide, clean streets, interesting shops, and large, handsome buildings. The new Exchange just completed, and the Palace of Justice, are two of the most magnificent civic buildings in Europe. They were much interested in a lace manufactory. On the lower floor were women at work on the finest patterns. They were all ages, from twenty to seventy, and never looked up while their work was being examined. When the girls were leaving the room, Alice laughed at some remark of Nellie's, and then every head was lifted and a sad smile came on each face for a second. Mr. Winter bought two lace handkerchiefs for the girls to take as presents to their mothers. Through the remainder of their stay in Brussels they had lovely drives in the beautiful park, visited the Palace of Justice, situated at the end of a long street, on a hill where there was a glorious view of the surrounding country for miles. They also found that the picture gallery had a very fine collection--indeed, said to be the best in Belgium, and the pictures were beautifully arranged in schools and periods. One day was given to the field of Waterloo, which they all enjoyed very much. Alice felt so unhappy to be parted from Nellie that Mr. Winter finally persuaded Mr. and Mrs. Ford to let Nellie go with them to Nuremberg, as it would give her a delightful trip, and she was equally miserable to be left in Brussels without Alice. It was decided to meet in Paris, have an enjoyable week together, and sail for home on the "Etruria" near the middle of July. CHAPTER VII. UP THE RHINE. On Monday, Mr. and Mrs. Winter and the girls said "good-bye" to Mr. and Mrs. Ford and started for Cologne in the gayest of spirits. The trip was found very interesting, as they followed the Meuse River a great deal of the way. Between Liège and Verviers the country was wonderfully picturesque, with the pretty winding river, which they continually crossed, and little villages with the mountains in the distance. The Meuse has been called the miniature Rhine. Verviers is the last Belgian station, and Aix-la-Chapelle is the first town of much interest in Germany. From the train there was an excellent view of the city, which has seen many changes since it was the favorite home of Charlemagne. [Illustration: COLOGNE CATHEDRAL.] For more than three centuries the German emperors were crowned there. It was growing dark as Cologne was reached, but the girls, knowing the cathedral was near the station, hurried outside to see it, and how wonderfully high and beautiful the noble great spires looked in the twilight no one can imagine who has never seen them. Tuesday morning was spent in visiting the Church of St. Ursula (which is reputed to hold the bones of eleven thousand virgins martyred by the Huns) and the cathedral. An excellent guide showed our party around, and pointed out the beautiful windows which King Ludwig presented, costing eighteen thousand pounds, English money. The late King Frederick gave one elegant window, at the end opposite the entrance. On one side of the building were windows made by Albert Dürer, considered Germany's greatest artist. A large gold cross, presented by Marie de Medici, and costing an enormous sum of money, Alice thought was more beautiful than the windows. On the way back to the hotel they met a company of soldiers who were singing as they marched along. It seemed very inspiring. Wednesday morning this happy party took the train for Mayence up the Rhine, as the boats, they found, were not yet running. Alice and Nellie had been reading up the legends of the Rhine, and could hardly wait to see its beauties and wonders. The Rhine was not reached until after leaving Bonn. The scenery was so pretty they did not miss the river views. In full view of the train was the famous avenue of horse-chestnuts, three-quarters of a mile in length. There is a large university at Bonn, and many other schools. As many of the students in their different costumes came to the station and walked up and down the platform to show themselves, the girls were very much amused. The city is also noted as being the birthplace of Beethoven. As soon as Bonn was out of sight, the river was beside them. At first the entire party were disappointed, the river seemed so quiet, narrow, and sluggish, compared to the rivers at home. However, that was soon forgotten as its beauties grew upon them. They soon saw the Seven Mountains coming into view, and wished they could stay over one night to see the sun rise from the top. Mr. Winter felt he must hurry on, as they had spent so much time in Brussels, and see all they could from the train. At Oberwinter, where there is the finest view down the Rhine, all the party looked back to see it. Coblence was the next large town, and the situation is beautiful, as it is at the confluence of the Rhine and the Moselle, with the strong fortifications opposite, the Castle of Ehrenbreitstein, often called the Gibraltar of the Rhine. Just after leaving Coblence they saw two castles, one the royal castle of Stolzenfels on its "proud rock," more than four hundred feet above the river. It was destroyed by the French in the seventeenth century, but is now completely restored. The other castle is directly opposite, above the mouth of the Lahn river, is called the Castle of Lahneck, and has been lately restored. Alice knew the legend of this castle, and told it to the rest of the party. "It was here, in the beginning of the fourteenth century, that the order of Knights Templars, which had been founded for religious purposes chiefly, was severely persecuted by Philippe le Beau of France and Pope Clement V. [Illustration: LAHNECK CASTLE.--_Page 54._] "After many vicissitudes there was a long and desperate siege, in which all the knights fell except one man. He held the commander at bay, who was so overpowered by the knight's bravery he offered him life and liberty if he would stop fighting and beg for mercy. "The templar's only answer was to throw his spear among the soldiers, and then was killed by throwing himself on their lances." Boppart was the next town of any interest, it being a walled town of Roman origin. The wall had crumbled away in many places, and houses had been built on the ruins. On the opposite side of the river was Bornhoffen, with its twin castles of Sternberg and Liebenstein, or "The Brothers." Mr. Winter told this legend, which runs that once a rich knight, with his two sons and one daughter, lived there, and were very rich in gold and lands, which the old knight had gained through wrong and robbery. All his neighbors felt sure that such ill-gotten wealth would bring him anything but blessings. The brothers inherited the avarice of the father; but the sister was lovely and gentle, like her mother. When the father died the brothers gave their sister much less than a third of the property. She gave hers to the cause of religion and went into a convent. The brothers, disappointed, disputed over their share, and at last fell in love with the same maiden, who did not hesitate to flirt with both and increase their jealousy. They finally fought and killed each other. Just as Mr. Winter finished his story, the guard of the train put his head into the car window, to say that the Lorely rock was nearly in sight. CHAPTER VIII. THE LEGEND OF THE LORELY. Both girls jumped to their feet, for of course they were interested to see that famous rock where the water-nymph Lore was said to have lived. She would appear on the top of the rock, clothed in wonderful garments, and a veil of the color of the sea-green water reaching to her feet, to lure wicked people to destruction by her singing. The people who came to the foot of the rock were swallowed in the waves, while those who tried to climb to the top were either thrown back into the water or led through the dense woods, only to be days finding their way out of them. Lore was very kind to good people, having the fairy power of distinguishing good from evil. At last a young count, much to his father's unhappiness, saw and fell in love with her. He constantly went to gaze upon her, for she was very beautiful. He used to carry his zither and play and sing to her, until she finally caused the waves to rise so high that his boat was upset and broken. The count sank into the waves, and his attendants returned home to tell the father the sad news. The old count swore revenge, and was going to seize Lore and have her burnt. The next night he took some friends and surrounded the rock. When Lore appeared the old count said, "Where is my son?" Lore pointed to the waves, at the same time continuing to sing very sweetly. As soon as Lore had finished her song, she threw a stone into the river, which caused a wave to rise. She mounted it and sank from view with it, never to be seen again, though her singing was often heard by men passing by. The rock was formerly called Lorely, but is now Lurlei, and has a lovely echo said to be the gift of Lore. The girls were disappointed to see the water around the rock so very quiet--no whirlpool at all. When they saw that a cut had been made through the rock for railroad trains, all the romance was gone for them. Alice said, "O papa, how could anybody spoil that pretty story by running trains through the rock? If that is the way my romances are going to end I will not read any more." However, she soon saw a house built in the river, and wanted to know what it was and why it was there. "I know," said Nellie. "I was reading about it the other day." It is called the Pfalz, and was built by Louis of Bavaria in the thirteenth century, in order to exact tribute from passing vessels. Opposite is the town of Bacharach, the Ara Bacchi of the Romans, and has long been famous for its wines. In Longfellow's "Golden Legend" is the old rhyme,-- "At Bacharach on the Rhine, At Hochheim on the Main, And at Würzburg on the Stein, Grow the three best kinds of wine." The Bacchus-Altar is to be found in this lovely country. It stands just below the town, but the water has to be very low to read the inscription (which is nearly illegible), as it is situated between the bank of the river and an islet. The Altar is supposed to have been erected by the Romans to their god of wine. Many other castles, some restored, but the most of them in ruins, were passed, before Assmanshausen, famous for its red wines, was reached. Mr. Winter said, "Now this ends what is called 'the great gorge of the Rhine,' and the river will broaden, and the open country, not very interesting, is before you." Just before reaching Bingen they saw the ruins of Ehrenfels, and in the middle of the river the Mausthurm, or "Mouse Tower." "O papa, I know the story of that tower," said Alice. "Can I tell it?" "We are only too glad to hear it," said her mamma. "Hatto was Bishop of Fulda, and wishing to be made Archbishop of Mayence, used every means in his power to accomplish his purpose. He succeeded, and became very ambitious, proud, and cruel. He taxed the poor to build for himself fine dwellings. [Illustration: MOUSE TOWER.--_Page 61._] "At last he built the tower in the river where it was very narrow, to compel all ships to pay him toll. "A famine set in, and he, having plenty of money, bought up everything and filled his granaries. He sold his stores at such high prices that only the rich could buy. "He paid no heed to the supplications of the famishing people, as he intended building a superb palace with his money. "One day when Hatto was entertaining friends at dinner, the starving people forced their way into the dining-hall and begged for food. He told them to go to a large barn where corn should be given them. When they were all inside, Hatto ordered the doors to be closed and fastened on the outside and the barn to be set on fire. "When their shrieks reached the dining-hall, Hatto turned to his guests and said, 'Hear how the corn-mice squeal: I do the same to rebels as I do to them.' "The wrath of Heaven was turned against him, for out of the ashes at the barn thousands of mice took their way to the palace, filling the rooms and attacking Hatto. Thousands were killed, but they steadily increased, and he was finally obliged to flee in terror of his life to a boat, still pursued by legions. "Hatto was ferried over the Rhine to the tower, but the mice perforated the walls, and fell on him by the thousands, and ate him up. They then disappeared, and the tower has been called the 'Mouse Tower' ever since. "It has never been used in any way, but stands as a warning to despotic people." Mr. Winter said, "Alice, you told that very well; but he was not such a very wicked man as the legend makes him. He was imperious and caused his people much suffering, but was the Emperor's confidant and was called the Heart of the King." Bingen is not a very interesting town, but has many walks and drives that are full of interest in every way. Directly opposite, on the heights of Niederwald, is the beautiful monument built to commemorate the restitution of the German Empire in 1870-1871. Alice and Nellie did wish they could stop long enough to go up and see it, it looked so grand and mighty outlined against the sky. Mr. Winter said, "No, we must get to Mayence to-night." There was not much of interest after leaving Bingen, as the train left the river and the Rhine was not seen again until just before entering Mayence, where the Main flows most peacefully into it, making a very beautiful picture. CHAPTER IX. MAYENCE TO NUREMBERG. Mr. Winter as usual had telegraphed to Mayence for rooms, and found very comfortable, large rooms ready for them in a new, pleasant hotel near the station. After resting a little while Mr. Winter said, "Who wants to go with me and take a drive around the city?" The entire party, even Mrs. Winter, who had thought she was too tired to go out again, said they would like to go. What a delightful drive they had, at the close of a warm, lovely day, around that interesting old city, with its wonderful fortifications! The view of the rivers at the base of the hill they thought as pretty as any they had seen all day. Mr. Winter told them what a very old city it was, a Roman camp having been laid there thirty-eight years before Christ. [Illustration: MAYENCE--GENERAL VIEW.--_Page 65._] The foundations may be said to date from fourteen years B.C., when Drusus built his extensive fortifications. There is a Roman monument forty-five feet high erected in honor of Drusus. There are also remains of a Roman aqueduct to be found outside the city. The cathedral was founded in 798. It has been burnt and restored six times, and is one of the grandest in Germany. Just outside the cathedral they saw a fine statue of Gutenberg, who is regarded by the Germans as the inventor of movable types for printing. Our party drove back to the hotel, had a nice supper, which was waiting for them, and went to bed feeling they had enjoyed that day more than any since leaving home. The next morning all were rested and eager to get to Nuremberg, the end of the trip. Mr. Winter, by some mistake, did not get the fast train, and as the one they took stopped very often, and the scenery was not very interesting, our party arrived in Nuremberg so tired they ate their supper and went directly to bed. CHAPTER X. NUREMBERG. In the morning Mr. Winter said, "I will give one day to you for sight-seeing, and then I must attend to business. You will have to spend the rest of your time going around with a guide or by yourselves." Alice was delighted with the old moat which was opposite her window, and wanted to look in it at once. Nellie felt the castle was of more importance, and could hardly wait to get there. The moat surrounds the old city, and now is rented to gardeners, who live in the old towers and cultivate the land in the moat. Our party started out to walk until they were tired, and kept on the sidewalk side of the moat, and thought it did look so pretty with everything so fresh and green. The cherry-trees were all white with their lovely blossoms, which grew even with the sidewalk. [Illustration: NUREMBERG WALLS.] Finally they went through an old gateway, which was said to be the one where a rope was kept in the olden time, to use on the bakers. If they did not give full weight, the bakers were tied to the end of a pole and dipped into the water several times. If poison was found in the bread, they were immediately drowned. As the ladies were getting tired, Mr. Winter called a carriage to drive them to the castle. As he could speak German, the driver told him many interesting things, and pointed out various objects of interest. He showed them one house that had been occupied by the same family for four hundred and fifty years. The churches of St. Sebald and St. Lawrence they admired very much on the outside, leaving the beauties of the interiors for another day. They passed one fountain called the Goose Man, and another, the Beautiful Fountain, built in 1385. Also, a fine statue of Hans Sachs, erected in 1874, who was known through Germany as the cobbler-poet. It was from his life Wagner wrote the opera of the "Meistersinger." Soon the driver drew up his horses at a corner where a small house stood under a hill, called the Sausage Shop, for its wonderfully cooked sausages. It has been made famous by such men as Albert Dürer, the great artist, Hans Sachs, and the old burgomasters meeting there for their nightly mugs of beer and a sausage. [Illustration: ALBRECHT DÜRER'S HOUSE.--_Page 74._] The statue of Albert Dürer, erected in 1840, is between the Sausage Shop and his old home. All the houses, with their deep, slanting roofs, were objects of interest, but most of all was that of Albert Dürer, which is the only house in Nuremberg that has not undergone some alteration. The house is now filled with many curiosities, some of them having belonged to Albert Dürer, and is open every day to visitors. The girls wanted to stop and go in at once, but Mr. Winter said, "No, we cannot stop now; we must get to the castle, and leave the house until we have more time." The castle stands very high, and they were obliged to drive up through very narrow and steep streets; but the horses were used to it, and Mrs. Winter finally overcame her nervousness. When the top of the hill was reached, there was a plateau where a beautiful view of the city was to be seen. They left the carriage here, and after looking at the scenery they walked on up to the castle. [Illustration: NUREMBERG CASTLE.] On the way they saw a small shed, and, on looking in, found it held the famous well. A young girl was there, who, in a parrot sort of way, told them that the well was built in the eleventh century, under Conrad II., by convicts, and that it took thirty years to finish it. She told Mrs. Winter to hold a mirror in her hand while she lowered a candle, to show by the reflection in the mirror the depth of the well. It took just six seconds for water which she poured out of a glass to reach the water in the well. She told them it was four hundred and fifty feet deep, and they all believed her. In the courtyard of the castle they saw an old linden tree growing, which is said to have been planted by Empress Kunigunde eight hundred years ago. The castle they found quite interesting without being very elegant. A lady in charge of it told them many things of interest about the castle and the city. She told them that the first records of Nuremberg date from 1050. In 1105 the town was besieged, conquered, and destroyed by Henry V., again besieged in 1127 by Emperor Lothar, from which time imperial officials appeared who took the title of Burggrafer. Frederick I. (Barbarossa), under whom the burg was enlarged, frequently lived here from 1156 to 1188. Rudolph von Hapsburg held his first diet here in 1274, and often visited the town. Under Emperor Karl IV. the first stone bridge was built, and the streets were paved. The first fundamental law of the empire was formed by him, and is known as the "Golden Bull." It was framed in Nuremberg in 1356, and is still kept in Frankfort. According to this law, every German emperor was obliged to spend his first day of government in Nuremberg. His government was very favorable to Nuremberg in every way. The four large towers were built 1555 to 1568, after a plan designed by Albert Dürer. The town reached its highest artistic development in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, under such men as Albert Dürer, A. Krafft, Herman Fischer, and many others. Goblets and many such objects of art were made here at that time. In 1649 Nuremberg displayed its last splendor. Commerce had been ruined by different wars. In 1806 it was made a matter of rejoicing when it came under the crown of Bavaria. King Ludwig first revived art, and trade made a start. In 1835 the first railroad was opened to Fürth. In 1855 King Max II. with his family lived here, and the Imperial Burg was offered to him as a present by the town. The lady also told them that the five-cornered tower, which is the oldest building in Nuremberg and connected with the castle, contained a collection of instruments of torture. Among them is the iron virgin, a figure of a woman, which opens and is full of spikes. The poor victim would be shut up in its clutches. None of our party felt like visiting that horrible place, so they thanked the woman, and took some last looks at the beautiful views to be seen from the windows. To their surprise they found it was noon-time, and as everything in Nuremberg is closed for an hour and a half at mid-day, they were driven back to the Wurtemberger Hof, their comfortable hotel, where everything possible was done for their pleasure. After a good dinner and a rest, Mr. Winter said he thought, as his time was so limited, he would like to visit the Town Hall and St. John's Cemetery. A guide was found, and they started out with more enthusiasm than ever. The guide told them that the Town Hall was built in the years from 1616 to 1619, in Italian style. He pointed out to them a fine picture by Paul Ritter, painted in 1882, to represent the act of the arrival of the German Emperor's Insignia in Nuremberg. The guide also showed them several pictures of Dürer's representing the triumphal procession of Emperor Maximilian. His pictures are, many of them, very indistinct. They were taken into a room where the wedding couples go to sign their marriage contracts. Mr. Winter was more interested than the girls, and Mrs. Winter was so tired they were glad enough to get in the carriage and be driven to the famous old cemetery. For some blocks before reaching the entrance are paintings of Christ, representing the last days of his life. At the gateway are the three statues of Christ and the two thieves nailed to the cross. The guide showed them the graves of Dürer and Sachs, and one of a man who had been killed, while asleep, by his wife hammering a nail in his head. There was a bronze skull, with the nail in it just where she killed him. Another interesting bronze was the figure of a woman with a lizard on a perch, which, when touched, turns towards the woman's figure and shows where she was bitten in the neck by the lizard that killed her. The girls thought that very quaint and more interesting than any they saw, though there were many very beautifully carved, and, being of bronze, were of great value. While our party was wandering through the cemetery a funeral was taking place, and as the entire service was intoned, it was very impressive. Mr. Winter said as they entered the carriage, "You have had enough sight-seeing for to-day, and we will drive home and talk over all the wonderful and interesting things we have seen and heard to-day." [Illustration: NUREMBERG.] CHAPTER XI. NUREMBERG.--_Continued._ The following morning Mr. Winter left the ladies, who walked aimlessly, not caring much where they went, it was all so full of interest to them. Accidentally they visited quite an interesting place called the Preller House. It was built three hundred years ago by a Venetian nobleman, and is now used as a furniture warehouse. There is a chapel in it, and some of the old furniture still remains. The ceilings are very fine, and in two of the rooms were only discovered when the present occupants were having gas-pipes put in the house. Mr. Winter did not come home to dinner, and in the afternoon Mrs. Winter and the girls went to the Museum, where they found more to interest them than anywhere they had been. It had a very large and interesting collection of paintings and antiquities, but the girls enjoyed seeing the old cloister--the first they had ever seen. That evening when Mr. Winter came home, he told his wife that he should only be obliged to remain one more day, and they must entertain themselves again without him. The next morning Mrs. Winter took a guide with them, as she wished to visit some of the shops where they could collect some curiosities. They also went to the Market square, where the poor people can buy everything they need at very reasonable prices. Mrs. Winter then said, "Now, girls, we will visit those churches of which we have only seen the outside." The guide took them first to St. Lawrence's Church. This church, he told them, was mentioned as early as 1006, and had the handsomest artistic decoration of any of the celebrated churches throughout Germany. The finest portion is the choir, with a vaulted roof supported by slender pillars from which the arches are formed like palm branches. The guide wished them particularly to look at the Gothic bronze chandelier, which weighs four hundred and eighty-two pounds, and was cast by Peter Vischer in 1489. The girls were charmed by the seven windows of the choir, which are considered the best examples of Nuremberg glass-painting from 1450 to 1490. The last window, called the Emperor's, was presented by the citizens of Nuremberg in memory of the restitution of the German Empire. It was put in the 22d of March, 1881. Mrs. Winter was much interested in some beautiful tapestries representing the lives of St. Lawrence and St. Catharine, and are over four hundred years old. There were many more paintings of much interest, some of them Albert Dürer's. As they were leaving, the girls saw some richly carved chairs by the doors, and asked the guide why they were there. He told them that they formerly belonged to the guilds, and the masters sat in them, in turn, to receive alms. From this church our party was driven to St. Sebaldus's, which was finished in the tenth century. One of the most interesting things they saw was the font, which was remarkable not only as the first product of Nuremberg's foundries, but as having been used to christen King Wenceslas of Bohemia, in 1361. There were more paintings of Dürer's to be seen here, but the finest work was the sepulchre of St. Sebaldus in the centre of the choir. It is the most extensive work German art has ever produced, and was cast by Peter Vischer and his five sons. "It was commenced in 1508 and completed in 1519. It rests on twelve snails, having four dolphins at its corners, the whole forming a pagan temple adorned with the Twelve Apostles. It is surmounted by twelve smaller figures, and finally by an infant Christ holding a globus in his hand, the latter being a key of the whole monument, when it is to be rent asunder. There is also a fine portrait of Peter Vischer in this church." Of course there were many more objects of interest to be seen, but Mrs. Winter thought they had seen enough; so they were driven home to dinner. In the afternoon they took a drive out of the city to a beer-garden situated at the side of a pretty lake. They had some tea, and walked on the borders of the lake quite a distance. Mrs. Winter said, "I wish we had such a quiet, pretty place near home where we could spend an afternoon as delightfully as we have here." That evening Nellie said, "Dear Mrs. Winter, how can I ever thank you and your husband for this trip? Mamma could not have come, and never shall I forget what I have enjoyed through your kindness." Mrs. Winter told her that the pleasure she had given them was more than hers, as it had added so much to Alice's happiness. Alice said, "Now, mamma, will you not add to our pleasures by repeating Longfellow's beautiful poem on Nuremberg before we go to bed?" "Dear Mrs. Winter, please do," said Nellie. "I have never heard of it, but I know it must be very lovely." "Very well," said Mrs. Winter. "I certainly never knew a more appropriate time to recite it than now." The girls gathered around her in the twilight as she sweetly commenced:-- In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands. Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song, Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng: Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, Had their dwelling in the castle, time defying, centuries old; And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme, That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime. In the courtyard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde's hand; On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise. Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art-- Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart; And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust, And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust; In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare, Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air. Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, Lived and labored Albrecht Dürer, the Evangelist of Art; Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land; _Emigravit_ is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies; Dead he is not, but departed,--for the artist never dies. Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air. Through these streets, so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal lanes, Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude poetic strains. From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly guild, Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows build. As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's chime; Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed; But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, And a garland in the window, and his face above the door; Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's song, As the old man, gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long, And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cash and care, Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antique chair. Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my dreamy eye Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry. Not thy councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's regard; But thy painter, Albrecht Dürer, and Hans Sachs thy cobbler-bard. Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away, As he paced thy streets and courtyards, sang in thought his careless lay; Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the soil, The nobility of labor--the long pedigree of toil. "How very beautiful!" said Nellie. "Thank you so much, Mrs. Winter, for reciting it to us. I shall learn it myself when I get home, trusting I may sometime give as much pleasure to another as you have given me." Mr. Winter said, "Why, Agnes, I never heard you recite that poem so well." "I never did," said his wife; "for I never truly felt it before." "Thank you, mamma dear," said Alice. "Now we will go to bed, feeling all the happier for the lovely poem which has put our best thoughts into words." [Illustration: STRASBOURG CATHEDRAL--SIDE VIEW.] CHAPTER XII. STRASBOURG. Mrs. Winter was very anxious to travel to Paris by the way of Strasbourg, as she had always wished to see the cathedral with its wonderful clock. Mr. Winter made inquiries and found that was decidedly the best way to go, which was a great delight to them all. Our party left Nuremberg early in the morning, sorry to see the last of the most interesting city they had seen thus far on their trip. Nellie, who was looking forward to meeting her father and mother in Paris, was quite happy to make a move in that direction. The first part of the trip was not very interesting, but the latter was delightful, and as they had a compartment to themselves the girls could enjoy the view from both sides of the train. A change of cars was made at a place where there was hardly anything but the station and the railroad interests. Here they ate a cold lunch from the counter, though there were some hot dishes on a table; but they did not look very tempting. The spire of the Strasbourg Cathedral could be seen some time before reaching the station, and well it might, being four hundred and sixty-six feet high, and by some authorities said to be the highest in the world. The fortifications had been so fine at Mayence our party was surprised to find others much finer here, many of them being new, having been built at the time of the French and German war in 1870. The engineering of some of them is particularly fine, as they are made to be opened, so that all the surrounding country can be flooded if necessary. The train wound round the city, giving them a fine view of the fortifications and the soldiers being drilled in many of the enclosures. Strasbourg was one of the most important cities during the last war, and a great portion of it was destroyed. One side of the cathedral was badly damaged, but is now thoroughly restored. Mr. Winter took his family to a small hotel on the square near the station, having been recommended there by the manager of the hotel at Nuremberg. He found it very comfortable, and every possible attention was shown them. Arriving about five o'clock, there was plenty of time to be driven around the city. Of course they started for the cathedral, but on the way the driver stopped the carriage to point out one of the highest chimneys on one of the tallest houses, where the storks had built a nest. He also told them how the storks arrive every spring and build their nests, and then leave in the fall with their young, to return the next spring with their families no larger nor smaller than when they go away. What becomes of the surplus is a great question--whether they only increase sufficiently to fill the vacancies caused by death or old age, or that the young ones found colonies in other countries. The storks are held in great reverence by mankind, and are never harmed. Indeed, it is considered good fortune to the inmates of a house when a nest is built on one of its chimneys. The driver told a story of one man who gave up the use of his room an entire winter, rather than destroy a nest which two storks had built over the top of his chimney, and thus prevented his building a fire. As they approached the cathedral Alice said, "Why, papa, where is the clock? I cannot see it at all." [Illustration: STRASBOURG STORKS.--_Page 94._] "I do not know," said Mr. Winter; "but it certainly is there somewhere." The driver took them to the front of the building, where they were met by a guide, who showed them the beauties of the outside architecture and the many statues of the apostles and saints. He told them that the cathedral was commenced in 1015 and finished in 1601. The guide showed them the plateau half-way up the height of the steeple, and told them that it is used by men who watch for fires all the time. The citizens are so proud of the cathedral that they have it dusted and washed inside very frequently. "Where is the clock?" said Mrs. Winter, as soon as the guide stopped talking long enough for her to speak a word. The man did not answer, but took them around to a side door, where, after receiving his tip, he left them and walked away. At first they did not know what to do, but Mrs. Winter said, "I think we had better go inside if we can." In they went, and right by the door was the clock. A fine-looking man dressed elegantly met them. He proved to be a finely educated Swiss, and he explained the various wonders of the clock. [Illustration: STRASBOURG--CATHEDRAL CLOCK.--_Page 96._] He told them that the clock was built three hundred years ago, and was to run a certain number of years. It shows all fête days for all those years, tells the changes of the moon, eclipses--in fact, everything that one could imagine. The apostles do not all come out and walk around except at noon, but as it was quarter before six our party saw three men move. The clock stops at six at night and then commences again at six in the morning. Mrs. Winter said the longer she looked at it, the more wonderful it seemed to her that any man could think of so many things. The guide also told them that the man who first conceived the idea of the clock became totally blind when it was nearly completed. Of course he could work no more, and it was never thought the clock would be finished. He lived thirty years, and after his death another man was found who thought he could complete it. He succeeded, and was paid by the government for his time and work. Mrs. Winter said, "I think it is the most wonderful thing I ever saw, and I do not know which man I admire the most--the one who conceived such a work, or the man who could carry out such marvellous thoughts of a man whom he had never met." After leaving the cathedral our party was driven around the city. The old part they found very quaint and picturesque, with its high and sloping roofs. The new part, built by the Germans, was very handsome, some of the buildings, like the palace, conservatory of music, and the post-office, being particularly fine. The driver told them that one of the great interests there was the making of _pâté de foie gras_. It is made from the livers of geese which are fed in such a way that the liver grows abnormally large, often weighing three pounds. He also told them that many of the French people are still very bitter against the Germans, even pulling down their shades to the windows if a regiment should march by the house. On their return to the hotel, the manager told Mr. Winter he would have a very quick and comfortable journey to Paris if he took the Orient express which runs between Constantinople and Paris. It would leave Strasbourg three hours later than the ordinary train, and would arrive in Paris some hours before it. Mr. Winter engaged a compartment at once, and the next day had a very enjoyable trip, though it was a very long one. The first part of the route, over mountains and through ravines, was very delightful; but after getting into France it was flat and uninteresting. They passed through Epérgny, which was interesting for its vines, which covered the fields for many miles. From these grapes champagne is made. Paris was reached at six o'clock, and their hotel, which had been recommended by friends, was found to be very homelike. The Fords were there waiting for them, and were as glad to see Nellie as she was glad to be with them again. CHAPTER XIII. HOMEWARD BOUND. That evening after Nellie had told her mamma some of her pleasant experiences, Mr. Winter said, "Now we have just five days to spend in Paris, and you must decide what you would most like to do. Mr. Ford and I are entirely at your disposal." Guidebooks were brought out and studied, and after many discussions their plans were settled for each day. On Thursday morning they went to the Louvre, feeling there would be so many pictures to see they had better visit it first. How tired they did get sliding around on those slippery floors, trying to see the nine miles of pictures, many of which were quite uninteresting to them all. In the afternoon Mr. Winter took his wife and the girls in a carriage, and started for the Bois de Boulogne. When the Place de la Concorde was reached, with its monolithic obelisk of Luxor, and fountains and statues, with the gardens of the Tuileries one side, and the Champs Élysées on the other, the girls both exclaimed, "How beautiful!" but Nellie added, "When I think of all the horrors that have taken place here it loses some of its loveliness to me." [Illustration: PLACE DE LA CONCORDE.] The drive through the Champs Élysées they thought very beautiful, and when they reached the Arc de Triomphe de l'Étoile, the most beautiful in the world, their admiration knew no bounds. Mr. Winter said, "Alice, what do you know about this?" Alice answered that "It was commenced by Napoleon I. in 1806 and finished by Louis Philippe, and cost over two millions of dollars. It is about one hundred and fifty feet high, and the same in breadth, and the central arch is ninety feet high." "Very good, my dear; you know that lesson very well," said her papa. From there to the Bois everything was full of interest to them, and the drive around the Cascade Alice thought particularly lovely. Nellie said, "It is not kept up as nicely as I like to see a park. They had better make Central Park a visit, and see its nicely cut lawns and trimmed bushes." On their way home they were driven through the Place Vendôme, with its magnificent column in the centre. Nellie said, "I can tell you a little about that, Mr. Winter, if you would like me to." "Of course I should," said Mr. Winter. "It is one hundred and forty feet high, and was also built by Napoleon I. It was pulled down by the Communists in 1871, but has since been restored." The girls felt quite at home historically in Paris, as all these interesting things were very fresh in their minds. In the evening, being very near the Palais Royale, which was built for Cardinal Richelieu, they thought it would be a pleasant way to pass their evening to go and walk around and gaze into the shop windows. The ladies were too tired, so the gentlemen took the girls, and they had a delightful time. Alice told her mamma on her return that she enjoyed it, but did not care to go again; she had seen so much jewelry, all alike, that it was actually tiresome. Friday morning they drove to the Palais du Luxembourg, which has been prison, palace, senate-house, and is now noted for its sculptures and paintings. Our party enjoyed it much more than the Louvre, as the paintings were so many of them modern and very familiar to them. At the back of the garden they saw the statue of Marshal Ney, on the very spot where he was shot. Being on that side of the river, they visited the Church of the Hôtel des Invalides to see the tomb of Napoleon I. It was directly under the dome, and the softened lights all around made it very beautiful. After being driven home and having lunch, they walked to the Madeleine, the most magnificent of modern churches. Mrs. Winter said, "This is very beautiful, but I do like the solemnity of some of the older churches I have seen very much better." Leaving there, they walked through some of those wide and interesting boulevards, watching the people and carriages and gazing into the fascinating shop-windows. Mr. Ford said, "I thought I had seen in New York some florists' windows that could not be improved, but I find I was mistaken. Never have I seen such windows as these." When too tired to walk any farther, carriages were called, and they were driven to the Cathedral of Notre Dame, built on an island in the Seine; from there to the Panthéon, which Alice said "looked like a barn, and was cold and inhospitable." The most interesting thing about it was, that such celebrated men as Victor Hugo, Marat, Voltaire, Mirabeau, and Rousseau had been buried there. The Hôtel de Ville, recently restored, they passed on their way home. The evening was given to the Hippodrome, which is quite the thing to do in Paris, and is wonderfully fine. The drive there was like a picture of fairyland, with the bright lights and trees and glimpses of the river. Saturday was devoted to shopping, a great deal of it being done at the Magasin de Louvre and the Bon Marché. The buildings are immense, and there is everything to be found in them that one could possibly desire. That evening it was decided to go to the opera at the Grand Opera House, the most beautiful one in the world. The girls were so excited they could not eat any dinner, for it was their first appearance. Faust was the opera given, and a wonderful ballet followed it. Between the opera and ballet they all went outside and looked down at the men on horseback, stationed like sentinels outside the building. Before them was the whole length of the Rue de l'Opera a blaze of light. Alice said, "Nothing yet has been as delightful as this evening." Sunday was bright and clear, much to the delight of our sight-seers, as they were going to Versailles. They decided on Sunday, as the fountains were advertised to play, and all were very anxious to see them. They drove there and enjoyed every moment, especially when passing St. Cloud. They saw all it was possible to see in one day, but felt as if it was very little, after all. They went through the palace as fast as they could, but any one knows who has been there that with those glossy floors it took time. The room devoted to war pictures they did not care for, but were much interested in Marie Antoinette's private rooms, which were so very small, and also in the place where the Swiss Guards were killed in defending her. The state apartments were very elegant, especially the Galerie de Glace, where the German emperor was proclaimed emperor in the late war. Of course the girls were eager to get to the Great and Little Trianon. They were disappointed in the size and simplicity of their furnishings. The rooms, however, were so full of historical interest that their disappointment was forgotten, and they thought they could have spent all their time in the two houses. In the coach-house were seen some very curious old state coaches used by Charles X. and Napoleon I. and many other sovereigns. The man in charge was almost as much of a curiosity as the coaches, he told his stories in such an interesting manner, laughing heartily at his own jokes. [Illustration: PETIT TRIANON.--_Page 108._] The drive home was delightful, but they were all too tired to say very much. After a good dinner, the two girls talked as fast as magpies over the delights of the day. Being like most girls, Marie Antoinette was one of the most interesting characters in French history, and they talked of her and her sad life, feeling almost as if they had lived a portion of it with her, in the quiet retreat and lovely gardens of Versailles. Mr. Winter said to his wife, "I have really finished my business this side of the water, and unless you would like to remain in London three or four more days for the 'Etruria,' we can catch the 'Teutonic' next Wednesday." Mrs. Winter said she would like to go home on the "Teutonic" very much, but did not like to leave Mr. and Mrs. Ford, as they had made all their arrangements to go home together. Mr. Ford said, "We are delighted to shorten the trip, as I ought to be at home now; but we did not like to break up the party." "Very well," said Mr. Winter. "We will go out and telegraph to Liverpool for state-rooms." Alice said to her mamma, "I wonder if we can like the 'Teutonic' as well as we did the 'Etruria' that brought us over the seas so safely." Monday was devoted to visiting the Salon, where they saw so many pictures that they came away with a very vague idea of what they had seen, but all agreed they preferred the English pictures of the present day to those of the French. Tuesday night saw our party again in London, but at the Savoy Hotel, where they had delightful rooms overlooking the river. Wednesday at eleven o'clock our happy party took the special train which connects with the fast steamers, and at four o'clock were on the "Teutonic" and starting for home. A lovely night down to Queenstown, where the steamer stops for the mails. While waiting the next morning, Mr. Winter and Mr. Ford took Alice and Nellie on shore in the tug, and gave them a nice drive in a jaunting car. The girls did not enjoy the drive very much, but were glad of the experience. The ladies were very much interested in the boats which came out to the "Teutonic" with women who had laces and small articles to sell. The things were sent up to the deck in baskets, on ropes, which were tossed up for the passengers to catch. Some of the Irish girls were very bright, and made very good sales. [Illustration: THAMES EMBANKMENT.--_Page 111._] At last the tug with the mails arrived, and was attached to the steamer at once. Both went down the harbor until the passengers, among them our party, and the mails had been transferred. The girls were uneasy until they were with their mothers. At two o'clock the tug left them, and then, indeed, it seemed as if they had started for home. One bad stormy day, some foggy and some delightful ones, fell to their share. No one of their party was sick, and they thought the steamer delightful. Much as they had liked the "Etruria," it was decided by all that the "Teutonic" would be their steamer in the future. New York was reached on Wednesday afternoon, and at night the entire party was at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, feeling very glad to get safely across the ocean again. They had become such good friends it was very hard to separate. However, a promise was made by the Fords to visit Mr. and Mrs. Winter before the summer was over. Thursday night the Winters could have been found in their own home, all very happy, and feeling that the following years would be fuller of interest in every way for the experiences, most of them pleasant, of their charming trip to Nuremberg and back. [Illustration] [Transcriber's Notes All words printed in small capitals have been converted to uppercase characters. The following modifications have been made, Page 18: "fairy-land" changed to "fairyland" (it was like a glimpse of fairyland) Page 74: "bergomasters" changed to "burgomasters" (the old burgomasters meeting there for their nightly mugs) Page 76: "Runigunde" changed to "Kunigunde" (planted by Empress Kunigunde eight hundred years ago) Page 78: "Firth" changed to "Fürth" (the first railroad was opened to Fürth) Page 113: "Mr. and Mr." changed to "Mr. and Mrs." (to visit Mr. and Mrs. Winter)] 
33806	----	THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ACROSS THE SEAS BY MARGARET VANDERCOOK Author of "The Ranch Girls Series," etc. ILLUSTRATED PHILADELPHIA THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO. PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1914, by THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY [Illustration: "LOOK HERE, ESTHER," HE BEGAN] CONTENTS I. TWO YEARS LATER II. THE WHEEL REVOLVES III. FAREWELLS IV. UNTER DEN LINDEN V. CHANGES VI. A COSMOPOLITAN COMPANY VII. DAS RHEINGOLD VIII. OTHER SCENES IX. THE MEETING X. AN ADVENTURE XI. AND ITS CONSEQUENCES XII. THE UNCERTAIN FUTURE XIII. RICHARD ASHTON XIV. BETTY'S STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE XV. THE FINDING OF BRUNHILDE XVI. A HEART-TO-HEART TALK XVII. THE DAY BEFORE ESTHER'S DÉBUT XVIII. THAT NIGHT XIX. TEA AT THE CASTLE XX. ESTHER AND DICK XXI. SUNRISE CABIN LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS "LOOK HERE, ESTHER," HE BEGAN THERE WAS A SLIGHT SOUND FROM HIS LISTENER "TELL ME MORE ABOUT THE PLACES NEAR HERE" "FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS TO ME!" The Camp Fire Girls Across the Seas CHAPTER I Two Years Later A young man strode along through one of the principal streets of the town of Woodford, New Hampshire, with his blue eyes clouded and an expression of mingled displeasure and purpose about the firm lines of his mouth. It was an April afternoon and the warm sunshine uncurling the tiny buds on the old elm trees lit to a brighter hue the yellow Forsythia bushes already in bloom in the gardens along the way. Standing in front of an inconspicuous brown cottage was a large touring car, empty of occupants. Within a few yards of this car the young man paused, frowning, and then gazed anxiously up toward the closed door of the house. A short time afterwards this door opened when a girl, wearing a scarlet coat and a felt hat of the same shade pinned carelessly on her dark hair, hurried forth and with her eyes cast down and an air of suppressed excitement moved off in the opposite direction, without becoming aware of the onlooker. And although the bystander's lips moved once as if forming her name with the intention of calling after her, his impulse must have immediately died, for he continued motionless in the same spot until the girl had finally turned a corner and was lost to his view. Then the young man walked on again, but not so rapidly or resolutely as at first. Indeed, he was so intensely absorbed in his own line of thought as to be unconscious of the other passers-by, until some one stopped directly in front of him and a familiar voice pronounced his name. "Why, Billy Webster, where are you going?" Meg Everett demanded. "You look as if you were giving Atlas a holiday this afternoon and had transferred the weight of the world to your own shoulders." Two years had changed the greater number of the old Sunrise Hill Camp Fire members from girls to young women, but they had not made a conspicuous difference in Margaret Everett. Her sunny yellow hair was tucked up, but today the April winds had loosened it, and though she was dressed with greater care than before the Camp Fire influence, she would never altogether approach her brother John's ideal of quiet elegance, as the Princess always had. Yet her eyes were so gay and friendly and her face so full of quick color and sympathy, that there were few other young men besides her older brother who found much to criticize in her. And certainly not the small boy at her side, who had once been "Hai-yi," the Indian name for "Little Brother," to the twelve girls at Sunrise Hill. Returning Meg's interested gaze, Billy Webster, who was never given to subterfuges, had a sudden impulse to seek information and possible aid from her. "Is it true, Meg," he asked, "that Miss Adams, the actress, is here in Woodford visiting her cousin and that Polly O'Neill has been going to see her every day and riding over the country in her motor car? I thought Mrs. Wharton had insisted that Polly was to have nothing to do with anything or anybody connected with the stage until three years had passed. It has been only two since Polly's escapade, and it seems to me that nothing could so awaken a girl's interest as being made the companion and friend of a famous woman. I thought Mrs. Wharton had better judgment. Polly had almost forgotten the whole business!" As she shook her head Meg Everett's face wore a slightly puzzled look. For she was wondering at the instant if it could be possible that Billy had any special right to his concern in Polly O'Neill's proceedings. Mollie O'Neill was her dearest friend and for several years she knew Mollie and Billy had been apparently devoted to each other. Yet she would have been almost sure to have guessed had their old affection developed into something deeper. Moreover, Mollie was only nineteen and Mrs. Wharton would have insisted upon their waiting before agreeing to an engagement between them. "Oh, I don't think it worth while for you and Mollie to worry over Polly," Meg returned, even in the midst of her meditations, which is a fortunate faculty one has sometimes of being able to think of one thing and speak of another at the same instant. "Miss Adams is going away in a few days, I believe, and though she has invited Polly to be her guest and travel with her in Europe this summer, Mrs. Wharton has positively refused to agree to it. I can't help being sorry for Polly, somehow, for think what it would mean to see Esther and Betty again! Two years has seemed a dreadfully long time to me without the Princess; I only wish that there was a chance for me to go abroad this summer." And in the midst of her own wave of the spring "Wanderlust," which is aroused each year in the hearts of the young and the old alike, the girl had a moment of unconsciousness of her companion's nearness and of the manner in which he had received her news. The next instant he had lifted his hat and with a few muttered words of apology for his haste, had walked off with his shoulders squarer than ever and his head more splendidly erect. Meg's eyes followed him with admiration. "I hope you may look like Billy Webster some day, Horace," she said to the small boy at her side, who was now all long legs and arms and tousled hair. "But I don't know that I want you to be too much like him. Billy is the old-fashioned type of man, I think--honest and brave and kind. But he does not understand in the least that the world has changed for women and that some of us may not wish just to stay at home and get married and then keep on staying at home forever afterwards." And Meg laughed, feeling that her little brother was hardly old enough to understand her criticism or her protest. She herself hardly realized why she had made it, except that the spring restlessness must still be lingering within her. Meg was not usually a psychologist and there was no reason to doubt that Mollie would always continue a home-loving soul. On the broad stone steps of the Wharton home, which was the largest and finest in Woodford, except the old Ashton place, Billy Webster was compelled to wait for several moments before the front door bell was answered. And then the maid insisted that the entire family had gone out. Mr. and Mrs. Wharton were both driving, Mollie was taking a walk with friends, and Polly paying a visit. Sylvia was not living in Woodford at present, but true to her Camp Fire purpose was in Philadelphia studying to become a trained nurse. "Do you mean that Miss Polly gave you instructions to say she was not in?" the young man inquired, trying his best to betray no shadow of offended pride in his question. "Because if she did not, I am sure that you must be mistaken. I saw her leave the place where she was calling some little time ago and----" But the maid was crimsoning uncomfortably, for at this moment there arose the sound of some one playing the piano in the music room near by. "No, sir," the girl stammered, "no one asked to be excused. Miss Polly must have come in without my knowing." And in her confusion the girl ushered the visitor into an almost dark room, without announcing his name or even suggesting his approach. However, the recent visitor was so much in the habit of going frequently to the Wharton home that he did not feel in any sense a stranger there. Besides, had he not spied the familiar scarlet coat and hat on a chair outside the music room, where no one but Polly would have placed them? And was it not like her to be sitting in the semi-darkness with the shutters of four big windows tightly closed, playing pensively and none too well on the piano, when the rest of the world was out of doors? Billy felt a sudden and almost overmastering desire to take the musician's slender shoulders in his hands and give them a slight shake, as she continued sitting on the stool with her back deliberately turned toward him. "I hope I am not disturbing you," he began with a little laugh, which even to his own ears did not sound altogether natural. And then, when the girl had swung slowly around, he walked up toward her and leaning one elbow on the piano, with his eyes down, continued speaking, without giving his companion the opportunity even for greeting him. "Polly," he said, "I have just heard that Miss Adams has invited you to go abroad with her this summer and that your mother has refused to let you accept. But I cannot entirely believe this last part of my news. I don't dare unless you tell me." [Illustration: THERE WAS A SLIGHT SOUND FROM HIS LISTENER] There was a slight sound from his listener, an effort at interruption, but the young man went on without regarding it. "I did not mean to speak to you so soon. I know you are too young and I expected to wait another year. And certainly you have not given me much encouragement. Sometimes I have not felt that you liked me any better than when first we knew each other. But you can't have completely forgotten what I said to you that day in the woods two years ago. And you know I never change my mind. Now I can't bear to have you go so far away from Woodford without saying again that I care for you, Polly, in spite of our sometimes disagreeing about things and that I will do my level best to make you happy if you, if you----" But the girl at the piano had risen and Billy now lifted his eager blue eyes to her face. Immediately his expression changed, the hot blood poured into his cheeks, and he moved forward a few steps. Then he stood still with his hands hanging limply at his sides. For the girl, whose pallor showed even in the semi-darkness of the room and whose lips trembled so that it was difficult for her to command her voice, was not Polly O'Neill! Although her hair was almost equally dark, her chin was less pointed, her lips less scarlet and her whole appearance gentler and more appealing. "I am sorry," Mollie O'Neill faltered, "I did not understand when you began, Billy, or I should not have listened. But I didn't dream that you and Polly--oh, I didn't suppose that people could quarrel as you do and yet be fond of each other. And you were my friend, Billy, and Polly is my twin sister. I cannot understand why one of you did not tell me how you felt without waiting to have me find out like this." And in spite of her struggle for self-control, there was a break in Mollie O'Neill's soft voice that Billy would have given a great deal never to have heard, and a look on her face which, though he did not entirely understand, he was not soon to forget. She had put out one arm and stood steadying herself against the piano stool like a child who had been unexpectedly hurt and frightened and who wished to run away, yet felt that if she lingered a little longer she might better understand the puzzle. Nevertheless Billy said nothing for a moment. He was too angry with himself, too worried over the surprise and sorrow in Mollie's eyes, to speak. For they were deeply attached to each other and nothing had come between their friendship since the morning, now almost five years ago, when she had cleverly bandaged up the wound in his head. They had been foolish children then, but so long an intimacy should surely have taught him by this time the difference between the twin sisters. If only the room had not been so dark when he came in, if only he had not been deceived by the crimson coat and cap and by his own excitement! "There was nothing to tell you before, Mollie, at least nothing that counts," Billy began humbly. "Sometimes I have wanted to explain to you my feeling for Polly. We do quarrel and she makes me angrier than anyone I know in the world, and yet somehow I can't forget her. And I like being with her always, even when she is in a bad temper. Then I don't wish her to go on the stage. I think it a horrid profession, and Polly is not strong enough. I would do anything that I could to prevent it. But you see, Mollie, I have no reason to believe that Polly cares for me; though now and then she has seemed to like me better than she once did. Still I am determined to try whatever means I can to keep her away from this Miss Adams' influence. For if once Polly leaves Woodford with her, the old Polly whom we both know and love will never come back to us again." And Billy appeared so disconsolate and so unlike his usual confident, masterful self, that Mollie smiled at him, a little wistfully it is true, but in a perfectly friendly and forgiving fashion. "I'll go and find whether Polly has come home," she answered. "I ran in for a moment to call on Miss Adams and found that Polly had left there half an hour before. I wore her old coat and cap, so I think she must be dressed in her best clothes and paying visits somewhere." And Mollie laid a hand lightly on her friend's arm. "Don't be discouraged at whatever Polly says to you," she begged. "You know that she may be angry at the idea of your opposing her having this European trip with Miss Adams. But she is not going. Mother is positive and Polly will not do more than ask for permission since there is a whole year more before her promise ends." And Mollie slipped quietly away, grateful for the darkness and her old friend's absorption. In the hall, a few feet from the music room door, she encountered Polly herself, with her eyes shining and her face aglow with the beauty and fragrance of the April afternoon. And before she could slip past her Polly's arms were about her, holding her fast, while she demanded, "Whatever has happened to make you so white and miserable, Mollie Mavourneen? Are you ill? If anyone has been unkind to you----" But Mollie could only shake her head. "Don't be absurd; there is nothing the matter. Billy Webster is here waiting to see you." Nevertheless, a moment afterwards, when Polly had marched into the music room and opened wide a shutter, her first words as she turned toward her visitor were, "Billy Webster, what in the world have you said or done to make Mollie so unhappy?" CHAPTER II The Wheel Revolves It was midnight, yet Polly O'Neill had not gotten into bed. Instead she sat before a tiny, dying fire in her own bedroom with her hands clasped about her knees and her black hair hanging gypsy-fashion over her crimson dressing gown. Mollie had gone to her own room several hours before. In a moment there was a light knock at the door and Polly had scarcely turned her head when her mother stood beside her. Mrs. Wharton looked younger than she had several years before, absurdly young to be the mother of two almost grown-up daughters! Her face had lost the fatigue and strain of another spring evening, when Betty Ashton had first hurried across the street to confide the dream of her Camp Fire club to her dearest friends. Of course her hair was grayer and she was a good deal less thin. Notwithstanding her eyes held the same soft light of understanding that was so curiously combined with quiet firmness. "Why aren't you in bed, Polly mine?" she asked. "I saw that the gas was shining or I should never have disturbed you." In answer Polly without rising pushed a low rocking chair toward her mother. "I wasn't sleepy. Is that the same reason that keeps you awake, Mrs. Wharton?" she queried. In all their lives together Polly O'Neill and her mother had always held a different relation toward each other than ordinarily exists between most mothers and daughters. In the first place Mrs. Wharton was so very little older than her children that in the days in the cottage when they had lived and worked for one another, they had seemed more like three devoted and intimate friends. Of course the two girls had always understood that when a serious question was to be decided their mother remained the court of the last decision. However, in those years few serious questions had ever arisen beyond the finding of sufficient money for their food and clothes and occasional good times. So that there had been nothing to disturb the perfection of their attitude toward one another until Mrs. O'Neill's marriage to her former employer, Mr. Wharton. And then there is no doubt that Polly for a time had been difficult. Naturally she was glad for her mother's sake that she had the new love and wealth and position; nevertheless she was homesick for their old life and its intimacy and in her heart half sorry that her own dream of some day bringing fortune and ease to her mother and Mollie was now of so little account. And then all too soon, before matters had really become adjusted between the two families, had followed her own act of insurbordination and deception and her mother's mandate. Of course Polly had bowed before it and had even understood that it was both right and just. She had been happy enough in these last two years, in spite of missing Betty Ashton almost every hour, and had come to like and admire her stepfather immensely. Nevertheless there had remained a slight shadow between herself and her mother, a misapprehension so intangible that Polly herself did not realize it, although Mrs. Wharton did. "I suppose you are not sleepy, dear, because you are sitting here thinking that never in the whole world was there ever a mother so narrow and so dictatorial as I am," Mrs. Wharton began. "Oh, I have been in bed, but I have been lying awake for the past hour looking at myself with Polly's eyes." Polly frowned, shaking her head, yet her mother went on without appearing to notice her. "I wonder if you think that I have no realization of the wonderful opportunity I have just made you refuse. Do you think, Polly, that I don't appreciate what it must mean to a girl like you to have made a friend of a great woman like Margaret Adams? And to have her so desire your companionship that she has asked you to be her guest during her summer abroad? Why such a chance does not come to one girl in a hundred thousand and yet I have made you give it up!" With a little protesting gesture Polly stretched out her hand. "Then let us not discuss it any further, mother of mine," she demanded. "I promised you not to speak of it again after our talk the other day and I am going to exact the same promise of you." The girl shut her lips together in a tight line of scarlet and all unconsciously began rocking herself slowly backward and forward with her expression turned inside instead of out, as her sister Mollie used sometimes to say. But Mrs. Wharton leaned over, and putting her finger under Polly's chin tilted it back until her eyes were upturned toward hers. "But was I fair to you, dear? Have I decided what was best for you, as well as for Mollie and me? We have not spoken of it; we have both felt that silence was the wisest course; but tonight I should like to know whether, when the three years of your promise to me have passed, do you still intend going upon the stage?" Mrs. Wharton asked. "Would you mind so very, very much?" Polly inquired quietly. And then with a sudden rush of confidence, which she had never before shown in any of their talks together on this subject, Polly faced their old difference of opinion squarely. "It has always been hard for me to understand, mother, why you are so opposed to my trying to become an actress. You are broad-minded enough on other subjects. You have worked for your own living and ours; and you were willing enough to have Sylvia, who is younger than I am and who will be very rich some day, go away and study to become a trained nurse, just because she believed it her calling. Yet because I want to learn to act, why the whole stage and everything connected with it is anathema. You do not even like Miss Margaret Adams as much as you would if she were in some other kind of work. Oh, of course I appreciate that people used to feel that no woman could be good and be on the stage, but no sensible person thinks that nowadays." Polly stopped abruptly. "I don't mean to be rude, mother," she concluded. But Mrs. Wharton nodded. "Please go on. I came in tonight to find out just what you were thinking. I don't believe you realize how little you have explained your real feeling to me on this subject since that unfortunate time in New York." "I didn't want to trouble you," again Polly hesitated. "It is hardly worth while doing it now. Because honestly I have not made up my mind just how to answer the question that you asked me a few minutes ago. Whether at the end of another year, when you have agreed to let me do as I like, I shall still insist upon going upon the stage, knowing that you and Mollie are at heart unwilling to have me, I can't tell. Perhaps I shall give up and stay on here at Woodford and maybe marry some one I don't care about and then be sorry ever afterwards." Instead of replying Mrs. Wharton got up and walked several times backwards and forwards across the length of the room, not glancing toward the girl who still sat before the fire with her hands clasped tightly over her knees. But Polly had small doubt where her mother's thoughts were. And a few moments afterwards she too rose and the next instant pulled her mother down on a cushion before the fire, and resting close beside her put her head on her shoulder. "Dear, you were mistaken when you came in and found me awake," Polly explained, "in supposing that I was thinking of my own disappointment in not being allowed to make the journey with Miss Adams or feeling hurt or angry with you because you decided against it. Really, I never dreamed in the first place that you would be willing. Still, I was thinking of asking you to let me break my word to you after all! You said that I was to stay here in Woodford for three years, and yet I want you to let me go away somewhere very soon. I don't care where, any place will do." Now for the first time since the beginning of their conversation Mrs. Wharton appeared mystified and deeply hurt. "Is your own home so disagreeable to you, Polly, that you would rather go anywhere than stay with us?" she queried. And then to her further surprise, turning she discovered that tears were standing unshed in Polly's eyes and that her lips were trembling. "I don't know how to tell you, mother. It is all so mixed up and so uncertain in my own mind and so foolish. But I wonder if you have ever thought that Mollie liked Billy Webster better than our other friends?" "Mollie?" Mrs. Wharton could hardly summon her thoughts back from the subject which had lately absorbed them, to follow what she believed a quickly changing idea of Polly's. "Why, yes, I think I have," she answered slowly. "But I have never let the supposition trouble me. Mollie is so young and her deepest affections are for you and me. Besides, Billy is a fine fellow and perhaps when the time comes I shall not be quite so selfish with her." But Polly's cheeks were so crimson that she had to put up her cold hands to try and cool them. "And you have always believed that Billy almost hated me, haven't you?" Mrs. Wharton laughed. "Well, I have never thought a great deal about it, except that you argued a great deal about nothing and that each one of you was determined to influence the other without producing the smallest result." "Yes, mother, and that is what makes what I want to tell you so horrid and silly," Polly went on, intentionally making a screen for her face with her dark hair. "Because Billy Webster has a perfectly absurd idea that he cares for me, simply because he wishes to manage me. And--and he was tiresome enough to tell me so this afternoon." Surprise and consternation for the moment kept Mrs. Wharton silent. "But you, Polly?" she managed to inquire finally. "How do you feel? What did you answer him?" Then for an instant the girl's former expression changed and the old Irish contrariness of spirit hovered in a half smile about her lips. "Oh, I told him that I did not like him any better than I had in the beginning of our acquaintance and that I had only been nicer to him now and then lately because he was your friend and Mollie's. And no matter what happened to me, if I never, never stirred a foot out of Woodford, I should never dream of marrying him even when I am a hundred years old." A sigh of some kind escaped Mrs. Wharton, partly of relief and partly of annoyance. "Then why should you wish to go away, dear?" she queried. "If you said all that, surely Billy will never trouble you again!" A characteristic shrug was Polly's first answer. "Oh, Billy only cares about me because he can't have me," she replied the next minute. "But he insists that he will go on trying to win me until doomsday. Still it isn't either about Billy or about me that I am thinking at present. Can't you understand, mother, without my having to explain? It is so hard to say. It's Mollie! Not for anything in the world would I have her feelings hurt or have her think that I had come between her and her friendship for Billy." But Mrs. Wharton's manner was immediately quiet and reassuring. "Mollie would never think anything unfair of you, Polly. And perhaps it will be better for you to speak of this to her. If Mollie has had any false impression, if her feeling for Billy has been anything but simple friendliness, now it will not be difficult for her to adjust herself. When later--" However, Mrs. Wharton was not able to finish her sentence, for Polly had murmured, "She does know. Of course she has not said anything to me and I never want to have to refer to it to her. But you need not trouble. Billy was so stupid." Here Polly gave an irrepressible giggle. "He proposed to both of us this afternoon. And I think he was much more worried over Mollie's telling him that she should have been taken into his confidence sooner, than he was over my refusal." The clock on Polly's mantel shelf was striking one long stroke. Hearing it Mrs. Wharton rose to leave the room, first pulling Polly up beside her. The girl was several inches taller than her mother. "Polly dear," she said, "so far as Mollie is concerned I don't agree with the wisdom of your going away from home. But I want you to understand something else, something that I have never properly explained to you. It is not just narrowness or prejudice, this opposition of mine to your going upon the stage. You remember, dear, why your father left Ireland and came here to live in these New Hampshire hills. And you know you are not so strong as Mollie, and I used to be afraid that you had less judgment. Recently, however, you have seemed stronger and more poised. And I had almost decided before I came in to you tonight, that if in another year you are still sure that you wish to make the stage your profession, I shall not stand in the way of your giving it a fair trial. You don't know, but in your father's family not so many years ago there was a great actress. She ran away from home and her people never forgave her. I don't even know what became of her. Nothing like that must ever happen between you and me." Mrs. Wharton kissed Polly good night. "Have faith in me, dear, for I have understood the ambition and the heart-burning you have suffered better than you dreamed. I shall go to see Miss Adams again tomorrow. If you must try your wings some day, perhaps there could be no better beginning than that you should learn to know intimately one woman who has fought through most of the difficulties of one of the hardest professions in the world and has earned for herself the right kind of fame and fortune." CHAPTER III Farewells Polly O'Neill was entertaining at a farewell reception. April had passed away and May and it was now the first week in June. In a few days more she would be sailing for Southampton with Miss Margaret Adams to be gone all summer. The party was not a large one, for Polly had preferred having only her most intimate friends together this afternoon. So of course the old members of the Sunrise Hill Camp Fire Club were there and a few outside people, besides the group of young men who had always shared their good times. Moreover, the past two years had given the old Camp Fire Club an entirely new distinction, since one of its girl members had recently married. At this moment she was approaching Polly O'Neill, and Polly held out both hands in welcome, as she had not seen the newcomer since the return from her wedding journey. Edith Norton it was, who was dressed, as she had always hoped to be, in a costume that neither Betty nor Rose Dyer could have improved upon, a soft blue crêpe with a hat of the same color and a long feather curling about its brim. For Edith had confessed her fault to her employer soon after her difficulty in the last story and had been forgiven. And, as a good-by present to Betty Ashton, she had promised never to have anything more to do with the young man of whom her Camp Fire friends had disapproved. The result was that she had married one of the leading dry goods merchants in Woodford, and hard times and Edith were through with each other forever. Now her cheeks were flushed with happiness instead of the color that she had used in the days before her membership in the Camp Fire Club, and her pretty light hair made a kind of halo about her face. "Apoi-a-kimi," Polly smiled at her guest, "you have not forgotten our Indian name for you, have you, Mrs. Keating, now that you are the first of us to acquire an altogether new name?" Edith shook her head with perhaps more feeling than she might have been expected to show and at the same time touching an enameled pin which she wore fastened on her dress she said: "I am a Camp Fire girl once and forever, no matter how old I may become! And I never needed or understood the value of our experiences together so much as I do now. Tell Betty for me, please, that I sometimes think it is to our Camp Fire Club that I owe even my husband. He could not possibly have liked me had he known me before those good old times. So since Betty brought me into the club and has stood by me always----" With a smile Polly now made a pretense of putting her fingers to her ears; nevertheless she glanced around with a kind of challenging amusement at the half a dozen or more friends who were standing near, as she interrupted her visitor. "Betty! Betty!" she exclaimed. "I have been wondering the greater part of this afternoon whether this is a farewell party to me or an opportunity to send messages to Betty Ashton." Purposely Polly waited until she was able to catch John Everett's eye, for he stood talking to Eleanor Meade only a few feet away. John pretended not to have heard her. He had only returned to Woodford for the week in order to see his father and sister, for he had graduated at Dartmouth some time before and was now in a broker's office in New York City. And already he was under the impression that he had attained the distinction of a New York millionaire and that his presence in Woodford was a unique experience for his former village acquaintances. So he was now being extremely kind to his sister Meg's old friends, although it was, of course, absurd for any one to presume that he had more than a passing, pleasant recollection of any girl whom he had ever known in Woodford. All this that he was thinking Polly appreciated when she had watched the young man's face for less than half a moment. And as she had a reprehensible fondness for getting even with persons, she then registered a private vow to let Betty hear just how much John Everett had changed. However, she had but scant time to devote to this resolution, for almost at the same instant another young man, excusing himself from his sister, walked toward her with an expression which was rarely anything except grave and reserved. Polly spoke to him with especial pleasure. For the past two years had changed not only her attitude toward Anthony Graham, but that of a good many other persons in Woodford. Two years can be made to count for a great deal at certain times in one's life and Anthony had made the past two do for him the work of four. He was no longer an office boy and student in Judge Maynard's office, for he had graduated at law and was now helping the old man with the simpler part of his practice. And because Judge Maynard was seventy and childless he had taken a liking to Anthony and had asked him to live in his home, for the sake of both his protection and his society. And this perhaps was a forward step for the young fellow which the people in the village appreciated even more than the boy's own efforts at self-improvement; for Judge Maynard was eccentric and wealthy and no one could foretell what might happen in the future. Edith had moved away to make room for the newcomer, so that Polly and her guest stood apart from the others. Anthony was as lean as ever, although it was the leanness of muscular strength, not weakness; his skin was dark and clear and his hazel eyes gazed at one frankly, almost too directly. One had the sensation that it might be difficult to conceal from him anything that he really wished to know. "Miss Polly," he began rather humbly, "I wonder if you would be willing to do a favor for me?" He smiled, so that the lines about his mouth became less grave. "Oh, I have not forgotten that you did not altogether approve of Miss Betty's friendship for me when I came back to Woodford, and I do not blame you." "It was not Betty's friendliness for you that I minded," Polly returned with a directness that was very often disconcerting. The young man reddened and then laughed outright. "I thought it better to put it that way, but if you must have the truth, of course I know it was my liking for her to which you objected. But look here, Miss Polly, no one knew of my admiration except you. So I suppose you know also that every once in a while in these past two years Miss Betty has written me a letter--perhaps half a dozen in all. So now I want you to take her something from me. It does not amount to much, it is only a tiny package that won't require a great deal of room in your trunk. Still I have not the courage to send it her directly and yet I want her to know that I have never forgotten that what she did for me gave me my first start. I have improved a little in these past two years, don't you think? Am I quite so impossible as I used to be?" Polly frowned in reply; but she reached forward for the small parcel that Anthony was extending toward her. "Look here, Anthony," she protested, "for goodness sake don't make a mountain out of a molehill, as the old saying goes. Betty Ashton did not do anything more for you than she has done for dozens of other persons when she could afford it, not half as much. So please cease feeling any kind of obligation to her; she would hate it. And don't have any other feeling either. Goodness only knows how these past two years in foreign lands may have altered the Princess! Very probably she will even refuse to have anything to do with me, if ever Miss Adams and I do manage to arrive in Germany." Polly ended her speech in this fashion with the intention of making it seem a trifle less impertinent. However, Anthony appeared not to have understood her. Nevertheless, having been trained in a difficult school in life perhaps he had the ability for not revealing his emotions on all occasions. For Herr Crippen and Mrs. Crippen, Betty's father and stepmother, were at this moment trying to shake hands with him. Herr Crippen looked much more prosperous and happy since his marriage to the girls' first Camp Fire Guardian. He had now almost as many music pupils in Woodford as he had time to teach, while Miss McMurtry had lost every single angular curve that had once been supposed by the girls to proclaim her an old maid for life and as Mrs. Crippen was growing almost as stout and housewifely as a real German Frau. In the interval after Anthony's desertion, as Mrs. and the Herr Professor had already spent some time in talking with her, Polly found herself alone. She was a little tired and so glanced about her for a chair. Her mother and Mollie were both in the dining room as well as Sylvia, who had come home for a week to say farewell to her beloved step-sister. But before Polly could locate a chair for herself, she observed that two were being pushed toward her from opposite sides of the room. Therefore she waited, smiling, to find out which should arrive first. Then she sank down into the one that John Everett presented her, thanking Billy Webster for his, which had arrived a second too late. Excitement always added to Polly O'Neill's beauty, and so this afternoon she was looking unusually pretty. As it was the month of June she wore a white organdie dress with a bunch of red roses pinned at her belt and one caught in the coiled braids of her dark hair. She had been perfectly friendly with Billy, even more so than usual, since their April talk. For having her own way made Polly delightfully amiable to the whole world. Billy, however, had not responded to her friendliness. He was still deeply opposed to her going away with Miss Adams. And though he was doggedly determined to have his own will in the end, he seemed to have lost all his former interest and pleasure in being often at the Wharton home. For not only was Polly in what he considered a seventh heaven of selfish happiness at her mother's change of mind, but Mollie no longer treated him with her former intimacy. She was friendly and sweet-tempered, of course, but she never asked his advice about things as she once had, nor seemed to care to give him a great amount of her time. Instead she appeared to be as fond of Frank Wharton and as dependent upon him as though he had been in reality her own brother. And Frank having recently returned to Woodford to live, had gone into business with his father. Truly Billy felt that he had not deserved the situation in which he now found himself. Of course one might have expected anything from so uncertain a quantity as Polly, but to Mollie he had been truly attached and she had been to him like a little sister. So it was difficult to comprehend what had now come between them. Billy had no special fancy for playing third person and remaining to talk to Polly and John Everett, so considering that both his chair and his presence were unnecessary, he moved off in the direction of the dining room. Polly smiled up at her latest companion with two points of rather dangerous light at the back of her Irish blue eyes. Then she let her glance travel slowly from the tips of John Everett's patent leather shoes, along the immaculate expanse of his frock coat and fluted shirt, until finally it reached the crown of his well-brushed golden brown hair. "It must be a wonderful feeling, John, to be so kind of--glorious!" Polly exclaimed, in a perfectly serious manner. "Glorious," John frowned; "what do you mean?" He was an intelligent, capable fellow, but not especially quick. "Oh, don't you feel that you are giving poor little Woodford a treat every now and then by allowing it the chance of beholding so perfect an imitation of a gentleman. I don't mean imitation, John, that does not sound polite of me. Of course I mean so perfect a picture. I have been feasting my eyes on you whenever I have had the opportunity all afternoon. For I want to tell Betty Ashton when I see her who is the most distinguished-looking person among us. And of course----" John flushed, though he laughed good-naturedly. "What a horrid disposition you still have, Polly O'Neill. One would think that you were now old enough to make yourself agreeable to your superiors." He stooped, for whether by accident or design, the girl had dropped a small paste-board box on the floor. "This is something or other that Anthony Graham is sending over to Betty Ashton," Polly explained with pretended carelessness. "I suppose you can remember Betty?" But John Everett was at the present moment engaged in extracting a small pin from the lapel of his coat. "Don't be ridiculous, Polly, and don't impart your impressions of me to Betty, if you please. Just ask her if she will be good enough to accept this fraternity pin of mine in remembrance of old times." CHAPTER IV Unter den Linden A tall girl with red hair and a fair skin, carrying a roll of music, was walking alone down the principal street in Berlin. She did not look like a foreigner and yet she must have been familiar with the sights of the city. For although the famous thoroughfare was crowded with people, some of them on foot, the greater number in carriages and automobiles, she paid them only a casual attention and finally found herself a seat on a bench under a tall linden tree near the monument of Frederick the Great. Here she sighed, allowing the discouragement which she had been trying to overcome for some little time to show in every line of her face and figure. She was not handsome enough to attract attention for that reason, and she had too much personal dignity to suffer it under any circumstances. So now she seemed as much alone as if she had been in her own sitting room. Only once was she startled out of the absorption of her own thoughts. And then there was a sudden noise near the palace of the Emperor; carriages and motor cars paused, crowding closer to the sidewalks; soldiers stood at attention, civilians lifted their hats. And a moment afterwards an automobile dashed past with a man on the back seat in a close fitting, military suit, with a light cape thrown back over one shoulder, his head slightly bowed and his arms folded across his chest. He had an iron-gray mustache, waxed until the ends stood out fiercely, dark, haughty eyes, and an intensely nervous manner. And on the doors of his swiftly moving car were the Imperial Arms of Germany. The girl felt a curious little thrill of admiration and antagonism. For although she had seen him more than a dozen times before, the Kaiser Wilhelm could hardly pass so near to one without making an impression. And although the American girl was not in sympathy with many of his views, she could not escape the interest which his personality has excited throughout the civilized world. But a moment after the street grew quiet once more and she returned to her own reflections. In spite of her pallor she did not seem in the least unhealthy, only tired and down-hearted. For her eyes, though light in color, were clear and bright, and the lips of her large, firmly modeled mouth bright red. She wore a handsome and becoming gray cloth dress and a soft white blouse, her gray hat having a white feather stuck through a band of folded silk. The coolness and simplicity of her toilet was refreshing in the warmth of the late June day and a pleasant contrast to the brighter colors affected by the German Frauen and Fräulein. Finally the girl opened her roll of music and taking out a sheet began slowly reading it over to herself. Then her dejection appeared to deepen, for eventually the tears rolled down her cheeks. She continued holding up her music in order to shield herself from observation. Even when she was disturbed by hearing some one sit down beside her on the bench, she did not dare turn her head. But the figure deliberately moved closer and before she could protest had actually taken the sheet of paper out of her hands. "Esther, my dear, what is the matter with you? Have you no home and no friends, that you have to shed your tears in the public streets?" a slightly amused though sympathetic voice demanded. Naturally Esther started. But the next instant she was shaking her head reproachfully. "Dr. Ashton, however in the world did you manage to discover me?" she demanded. "I am resting here for the special pleasure of being miserable all by myself. For I knew if I went back to the pension Betty and your mother would find me out. And the worst of it is that neither one of them understands in the least why I am unhappy. Betty is really angry and I am afraid that Mrs. Ashton thinks I am stupid and ungrateful." Instead of replying, Richard Ashton picked up Esther's hand and slipped it through his own arm. He looked a good deal older than his companion. For he was now a graduated physician with three years of added foreign experience, and besides his natural seriousness he wore the reserved, thoughtful air peculiar to his profession. So his present attitude toward Esther Crippen seemed that of an older friend. "I don't know what you are talking about or what dark secret you seem to be trying to conceal," he returned. "All that I do know is that I have been sent out to find you and that you are please to come home with me. Betty and mother have been expecting you to return from your music lesson for an hour. And Betty is so in the habit of getting herself lost or of mixing up in some adventure where she does not belong, that she is convinced a like fate has overtaken you. Then I believe that something or other has happened which she has not confided to me, but which she is dying to tell you. There are times, Esther, when I wish that our sister, Betty, was not quite so pretty. I am always afraid that some day or other these German students, whom she seems to have for her friends, will be involved in a duel over her. And if that happens I shall very promptly send her home." Dick and Esther had now left the broad, park-like square and had turned into a narrower side street adjoining it. Ordinarily any such suggestion concerning Betty would have aroused Esther's immediate interest and protest. However, whatever was now on her mind was troubling her too much for her to pay any real attention to what Dick had just said. So they walked on for another block in silence, until finally Esther spoke in her old timid, hesitating manner, quite unconsciously locking her hands together, as she had on that day, long ago, of her first meeting with Richard Ashton. "I am sorry to be so stupid and unentertaining. It was good of you to come and look for me," she began apologetically. "I wish I could stop thinking of what troubles me, but somehow I can't. For Betty will insist on my doing a thing that I simply know I shall not be able to do. And I do hate having to argue." They were still some distance from the German pension where Dick, his mother and sister and Esther were boarding, so the young man did not make haste to continue their conversation, as he and Esther knew each other too intimately to consider silences. "Look here, Esther," Richard Ashton finally began, "you know that Betty considers me the worst old gray-beard and lecturer on earth. So I am going to be true to my reputation and lecture you. Why do you allow yourself to be so much influenced by Betty? Don't you realize every now and then that you are the older and that the Princess ought to come around to your way of thinking? Why don't you tell her this time that _you_ are right and she is wrong and that you won't hear anything more on the subject that is worrying you." Esther laughed, swerving suddenly to get a swift view of the earnest face of her companion. How often he had befriended her, ever since those first days of shy misery and rapture when she had made her original appearance in the Ashton home, little realizing then that the Betty whom she already adored was her own sister. "I am not really afraid of the Princess, you know, Mr. Dick," she replied, laughing and using an odd, old-fashioned title that she had once given him. "The truth is that if you were able to guess what I have on my mind you might also disagree with me. Because in this particular instance there is a possibility that Betty may be right in her judgment and I in the wrong." They had walked by this time a little distance beyond the crowded portion of the big city. Now the houses were private residences and boarding places. Finally they stopped before a tall yellow building, five stories in height, with red and yellow flowers growing in a narrow strip along its front. Before an open window on the third floor a girl could be seen sitting with a book in her lap. But she must have become at once aware of the presence of the young man and his companion, because the instant that Dr. Ashton's hand touched the door knob, she disappeared. CHAPTER V Changes Dick Ashton's laughing wish that his sister Betty were a little less pretty was not so unreasonable as you might suppose, had you seen her on this particular late June afternoon as she ran down the narrow, ugly hall of the German pension to greet her brother and sister. She had on a pale blue muslin dress open at the throat with a tiny frill of lace. Her red bronze hair had coppery tones in it as well as pure gold and was parted a little on one side and coiled up in the simplest fashion at the back of her head. The darkness of her lashes and the delicate lines of her brows gave the gray of her eyes a peculiar luster like the shine on old silk. And this afternoon her cheeks were the deep rose color that often accompanies this especial coloring. She put one arm around Esther, drawing her into their sitting room, while Dick followed them. It was an odd room, a curious mixture of German and American taste and yet not unattractive. The ceiling was high, the furniture heavy and dark, and the walls covered with a flowered yellow paper. But the two girls had removed the paintings of unnatural flowers and fruits that once decorated them, and instead had hung up framed photographs of the famous pictures that had most pleased them in their visits to different art galleries. There was Franz Hals' "Smiling Cavalier" gazing down at them with irresistible camaraderie in his eyes which followed you with their smile no matter in what portion of the room you chanced to be. On an opposite wall hung a Rembrandt painting of an old woman, and further along the magical "Mona Lisa." In all the history of art there is no more fascinating story than that relating to this great picture by Leonardo da Vinci. For the woman who was the original of the picture was a great Italian princess whom many people adored because of her strange beauty. She had scores of lovers of noble blood and lowly, but no one is supposed to have understood the secret of her inscrutable smile, not even the artist who painted it. This picture was first the property of Italy and then carried away to hang for many years in the most celebrated room in the great gallery of the Louvre in Paris. From there it was stolen by an Italian workman, taken back into Italy and later restored to the French Government. But before Mona Lisa's return to her niche in the Louvre she made a kind of triumphal progress through the great cities of her former home, Rome, Florence and Venice. And in each place men, women and little children came flocking in thousands to pay their tribute to beauty. And so for those of us who think of beauty as a passing, an ephemeral thing, there is this lesson of its universal, its eternal quality. For the smile of one woman, dead these hundreds of years, yet fixed by genius on a square of canvas, can still stir the pulses of the world. Betty happened to be standing under this picture as she helped Esther remove her coat and hat. And though there was nothing mysterious in her youthful, American prettiness, there is always a poignant and appealing quality in all beauty. Esther suddenly leaned over and placing her hands on both her sister's cheeks, kissed her. "What have you been doing alone all day?" she asked. "Was your mother well enough to go out with you?" Betty shook her head without replying and, though Esther saw nothing, Dick Ashton had an idea that his sister was merely waiting for a more propitious time for the account of her own day. For she asked immediately after: "What difference in the world does it make, Esther Crippen, what I have been doing? The thing I wish to know this instant is whether Professor Hecksher has asked you to sing at his big concert with his really star singers? And if he has asked you what did you answer?" "So that was what was worrying you, Esther?" Dick said and walked over to the high window, pretending to look out. For Esther was beginning to grow as pale and wretched as she had been an hour before and was once more twisting her hands together like an awkward child. Betty caught her sister's hands, holding them close. "Tell me the truth," she insisted. First the older girl nodded, as though not trusting herself to speak and then said: "Yes, Professor Hecksher _has_ asked me. He wants me to make my musical _début_ even though I go on studying afterwards. But I can't do it, Betty dear. I wish you and the Professor would both understand. I appreciate his thinking I can sing well enough, but it is not true. I should break down; my voice would fail utterly. Oh, I am sorry I ever came abroad to study. I have been realizing for months and months that my voice is not worth the trouble and expense father and the rest of you have taken. I am simply going to be a disappointment to all of you." "Esther, you are a great big goose!" Betty exclaimed indignantly. "I thought we ended this discussion last night and you decided to let Professor Hecksher judge whether or not you could sing. One would think he might know, as he is the biggest singing teacher in Berlin. And certainly if you don't sing I shall die of disappointment. And I _shall_ believe that you are ungrateful to father and to--to all of us." She was obliged to break off, for Esther had left the room. Then Dick swung around, facing his sister. "Look here, Betty," he began more angrily than she had often heard him speak. "Has it ever occurred to you that you may all be forcing Esther into a life for which she is not fitted, which will never make her happy? Of course there is no denying her talent; her voice is wonderful and grows more so each day. But she is intensely shy. She hates notoriety and strange people--everything that a musical life must mean. I don't think that you ought to insist upon her singing at this special concert if she does not wish it. You do not understand her." Utter amazement during her brother's long speech kept Betty silent. For it was too absurd that any one should seriously suggest Esther's turning her back on the big opportunity for which she had been working for the past two years. Why, for what other purpose had they come to Germany? And for Esther to be invited to sing at Professor Hecksher's annual autumn concert was to have the seal of his approval set upon her ability. For of course the great man selected from his pupils only those whose appearance in public would reflect credit upon him. And often an appearance at one of these much-talked-of recitals meant the beginning of a musical reputation in the outside world. So Betty stared at her brother curiously, at loss to appreciate his point of view. She felt offended, too, at the tone he had just taken with her. "So you think you understand Esther better than I do, Dick?" she answered slowly. "I suppose you and Esther must have talked this matter over on your way home. Certainly it is Esther's own choice and I shall say nothing more about it. And I'll ask mother not to mention the subject either." Betty picked up a small piece of embroidery lying on a table near by and began sewing industriously, keeping her face bent over it so as to hide her flushed cheeks and the light in her eyes. For Betty had not forgotten her Camp Fire training in self-control. Besides, she did not like quarreling with her brother. Dick was ordinarily so reasonable, she felt even more mystified than hurt by his behavior. It was so unlike him to argue that one should turn back from a long-sought goal just because there were difficulties to be overcome. Had he not fought through every kind of obstacle for the sake of his profession? The silence in the room was interrupted only by the ticking of a Swiss clock, until finally a deep gong sounded from below stairs. It might easily have given the impression that the house was on fire, but as neither Dick nor Betty appeared surprised, it was plainly a summons to the early dinner, which is so important a feature of German pension life. Folding up her work Betty moved quietly toward the door. But she had only gone a few steps when she heard Dick coming after her. Then in spite of trying her best to hurry from the room, he caught up with her, putting his arms about her. "Tell me you are sorry, Princess, or you shan't have any dinner," he demanded. For it had been a fashion of theirs years before when they were children to have the offender pretend to demand an apology from the offended. But Betty did not feel in the mood for jesting at present and so shook her head. Then Dick met her gaze with an expression so unusual that Betty instantly felt her resentment fading. "Perhaps I was wrong in what I said just then, little sister, I don't feel sure," he apologized. "But at least I realize that you wish Esther to gain fame and fortune for her own sake and not for yours. I was only wondering which makes a woman happier in the end, a home or a career? Now please relate me your day's experience, which you have been keeping such a profound secret, so that I may know I am forgiven." "It is too late now," Betty returned, slipping away from his grasp. "I must find out whether mother is coming down to dinner. Perhaps I may tell you afterwards." CHAPTER VI A Cosmopolitan Company Sitting opposite Betty at the dinner table were the two German youths to whom Dick most objected. And yet they were totally unlike both in appearance and position. For one of them was apparently a humble person, with long light hair hanging in poetic fashion below his shirt collar, a big nose and small, hungry, light-blue eyes that seemed always to be swimming in a mist of embarrassment. He was a clerk in a bank and occupied the smallest room on the highest floor of the pension. So it would have been natural enough to suppose from his manner and behavior that he was of plebeian origin. But exactly the opposite was the case. For the landlady, Mrs. Hohler, who was herself an impoverished gentlewoman, had confided to Mrs. Ashton that the strange youth was in reality of noble birth. He had an uncle who was a count, and though this uncle had one son, the nephew Frederick stood second in the line of succession. To Richard Ashton, however, this added nothing to the young man's charms, nor did it make him the less provoked over Frederick von Reuter's attitude toward Betty. Nevertheless he rather preferred Frederick, who seemed utterly without brains, to her second admirer, Franz. For Franz was dark and aggressive and had an extremely rich father, a merchant in Hamburg. Also Franz hoped to be able to purchase a commission in the German army, so that already he was assuming the dictatorial, disagreeable manner for which many German officers are unpleasantly distinguished. However, neither young man had ever done anything in the least offensive either to Betty or to any member of her family, so that Dick Ashton's feeling was largely prejudice. And although Esther shared his point of view, Mrs. Ashton was somewhat flattered at the amount of admiration that Betty's beauty had excited ever since their arrival in Europe. As for Betty herself, she gave the whole question very little attention. All her life she had been accustomed to attention. Now and then her two suitors amused her and at other times she was bored by them. Notwithstanding she did not find it disagreeable to be able to tease her serious-minded brother. Moreover, the widow with her two daughters, about whom Betty and her mother had been making guesses for several years, continued making her home at the pension, and without a shadow of a doubt one of the girls regarded Dick with especial favor. So tonight Betty, who had not yet entirely recovered from her irritation, was unusually gracious to the two young Germans. She even lingered downstairs in the small, overcrowded parlor after dinner with her mother, allowing Dick and Esther, who were not so friendly with the other boarders, to go up alone to their private sitting room. "Fritz and Franz," as Betty's adorers were called, although Herr von Reuter and Herr Schmidt were their proper titles, were regarded with a good deal of quiet amusement by their fellow boarders. While this filled the autocratic soul of Franz with a variety of suppressed emotions, the gentle Fritz seemed totally unaware of it. He was content to sit silently on one side of the _schönes Fräulein_, even when she devoted the greater part of her attention to his rival. This evening, without openly flinching, he overheard her accepting with her mother's approval an invitation from the wealthy Franz for both of them to attend a performance at the Royal Opera House the next evening. Then, although Frederick's eyes grew mistier and his figure more dejected in consequence, he did not leave the parlor until Betty and her mother had gone up stairs. Late into the night, however, had anyone been in the German youth's neighborhood, strains of exquisitely melancholy music might have been heard drifting forth from a fifth floor back room. It was the music of the oboe. Even after Betty Ashton had seen her mother in bed, helping her undress for the night, she did not immediately join Esther and Dick, although Mrs. Ashton had asked her to explain to them that she was not well enough to remain up any longer. Instead Betty went first into her own bedroom and there re-read the two letters which she carried in her pocket. For if Dick and Esther were of so much the same opinion in regard to her sister's refusal to sing in public, it was best that they be allowed to discuss the matter without interruption from her. For although she had promised not to speak of it again to her sister, Betty felt that it would be impossible for her to disguise how she actually felt. It was wicked of Esther, utterly foolish and unreasonable, to intend surrendering to her own shyness and lack of self-confidence, as with Dick's abetting she evidently intended doing. Why, Esther might have a truly great future! Professor Hecksher had assured Mrs. Ashton that she only required time, training and more self-confidence. For, although when Esther was finally under the sway of her music, she was able to throw her whole force and fervor into it, in the beginning of any performance she was often awkward and shy, alarming her audience with the impression that she might break down. Professor Hecksher had even suggested that Esther's voice might be beautiful enough for grand opera when she grew older and had more experience. With this last thought still in mind, Betty finally returned to the sitting room to spend the rest of the evening with her brother and sister. Often she had thought of how curious it was that she could speak of Dick and Esther in this fashion when they bore not the slightest relation to each other! She found them sitting on opposite sides of a small table, a complete silence pervading the room, although neither one of them was reading. Esther's face was flushed and Dick's a little pale. As Dick rose to give his chair to the newcomer, Esther spoke: "Please don't go, Dr. Ashton," she said. And Betty wondered idly why Esther should suppose that Dick intended leaving the room. More often than not he spent his evenings at home with them. "I only want to tell you, Betty dear," she continued, "that you were quite right this afternoon in saying that I was wrong in refusing this chance to sing at Professor Hecksher's concert. Of course I am not going to give up my work now, when I have been struggling and struggling to learn even the little bit I know. Then if I never sing in public how am I ever to earn that fortune which I have promised to bestow on you, Princess?" Esther laughed, but Betty frowned with an expression unusual to her. "I don't want you to keep on with your singing, Esther, for my sake," she protested. "Mother and I are accustomed now to being poor and don't mind it. So if there is anything else you would prefer to do with your life, please don't waste a thought on me." Esther shook her head reproachfully. "Don't be silly and don't be cross, Princess," she pleaded. "You know perfectly well that I can no more help thinking about you than I can help breathing. But so far as my keeping on with my music is concerned, I can't see that I shall ever have the right not to do that. So I am going to make the biggest effort I possibly can at the concert, and then if I fail, why at least I shall have been true to 'the Law of the Fire.'" At this Betty's face softened, but Dick Ashton marched abruptly out of the room. Neither of the two girls, though far away from their old Camp Fire circle now for two years, had ever forgotten its purposes and teaching. So often when they were lonely the three Wohelo candles were lighted and the old ceremony followed, usually ending by Esther's singing a Camp Fire song. Tonight Betty walked over to a kind of shrine or shelf which they had erected in one corner of their room. German houses have queer stoves and no fireplaces. There she lighted three tall white candles. The long northern twilight was fading and the room had become almost dark. A moment after, Betty came and sat down on a stool at Esther's feet. "I had a letter from Polly today," she began. "She and Miss Adams have landed and are in England. They want to join us later if----if----" "If what, Betty?" Esther demanded. "Surely you and Polly are not to be disappointed in being with each other!" "Well, it is just this that I have been dying to tell you ever since you came home," Betty protested, her words now running over each other in her effort to tell all her story at once. "Polly wrote that Miss Adams would love to come and spend a part of the summer near us if we were only in some place in the country. But she is too worn out from her work last winter to feel that she can endure the city for any length of time. And you know mother and I have been getting pretty tired of Berlin ourselves lately, since the warm weather has come and you and Dick are away so much of the day. So this morning while you were out I got one of the maids to go with me and we went for miles into the country until we came to an enchanting place, all forests and brooks, near the village of Waldheim. I can't tell you all that happened to me or the queer experience I had, only that I found a delightful place where we may live. It is near enough for you and Dick to come back and forth into town. And it is so still and cool with such wonderful green hills behind it that somehow it made me think of Sunrise Mountain and our cabin and the girls and--" But in a sudden wave of homesickness Betty's voice failed and she dropped her face in her hands. Esther's own voice was unsteady. "Then we will move out to this spot at once, Betty. And don't you ever dare tell me that I am not to think of you in connection with my music, when I realize how much you have given up for me. Oh, yes, I know you have enjoyed Europe and Berlin and all of our interesting experiences. Yet somehow I don't believe that you will ever be so fond of any place in the world as you are of your old home in Woodford. You see that is the way I comfort myself and Dr. Ashton about your new foreign admirers. You wouldn't, Betty, ever seriously care for anyone who lives in Europe, would you?" Esther asked so anxiously that her sister laughed, refusing to make a reply. CHAPTER VII Das Rheingold A girl sat on a flat rock beside a small stream of water, evidently drying her hair in the rays of the sun, for it hung loose over her shoulders and shone red and gold and brown, seeming to ripple down from the crown of her head to the ground. She was entirely alone and a close group of trees formed a kind of green temple behind her. It had been an extremely warm day so that even the birds were resting from song and from labor. Suddenly the girl tore into small pieces the letter that she had been writing, tossing them into the air like a troop of white butterflies. "There is no use of my trying to do anything sensible this afternoon," Betty Ashton sighed, "I am so happy over being in the country once more with nothing to do but to do nothing. I was dead tired of all those people at the pension, of Fritz and Franz and all the rest of them. It is lovely to be alone here in the German forests----" Then unexpectedly Betty Ashton straightened up, looking about her in every possible direction in a puzzled fashion while hurriedly arranging her hair. For although she could see no one approaching, she could hear an unmistakable sound, a kind of mellow whistling, then flute-like notes and afterwards a low throbbing, as though the wings of imprisoned things were beating in the air. Betty stared through the open spaces between the trees, since from that direction the sound was now approaching. But when and where had she heard that peculiar music before? However, the Germans were such a strangely musical race that probably any one of her neighbors could play. Then with a smothered expression of vexation, the girl got up on her feet and took a few steps forward. There was no mistaking the figure slowly advancing, the long light hair, the mild eyes and timid though persistent manner. But how in the world had Frederick von Reuter found her, when she had been careful not to mention where they were going in saying farewell at the pension? "Why, Herr von Reuter," Betty exclaimed, divided between vexation and the thought that she must not be rude, "what are you doing in this part of the world and how did you happen to discover me?" At this question the young man abruptly ceased his sentimental playing, though instead of answering Betty in a sensible fashion, he pointed first toward her hair and then toward the water behind her and the circle of hills. "I haf come in search of '_Das Rheingold_,'" he murmured in his funny, broken English, "and I haf found a Rhein _mädchen, nicht wahr_?" Betty bit her lips. She was not in the mood for nonsense and it was difficult to conceive of her present companion as the hero of Wagner's great opera. "Let's not be absurd," she returned coldly. "And please answer my questions." Betty did not mean to be disagreeable, for she did not actually dislike this young man--he was too queer and apparently too simple. Nevertheless it was impossible for her to appreciate how unlike she was to any other girl with whom the young German had ever associated. Her frankness, her self-possession, her brightness and of course her beauty, all of which were ordinary characteristics of most American girls, were a kind of miracle to Fritz. "I haf come into this place that I may see _you_," he replied. "And your _Mutter_ has told me where I must come to look. But this neighborhood I know _sehr wohl_. It is the castle of my uncle which you may haf seen on a hill not far away. It is of stone with a high wall around it----" But Betty's expression had now changed, her eyes were sparkling and her color rapidly changing. How could poor Fritz have guessed that no higher emotion than curiosity stirred her? She now pointed invitingly toward a fallen tree, seating herself on one end of it. [Illustration: "TELL ME MORE ABOUT THE PLACES NEAR HERE"] "Do tell me more about the places near here, if you know about them," she suggested. "I was perfectly sure that they had strange and romantic histories. I think I can guess which is your uncle's estate. Has it a long avenue of linden trees and a lodge covered with ivy and a lake with a waterfall?" Betty hesitated, for even Fritz was looking somewhat startled at her knowledge of details. "And it may all be yours some day!" the girl added, hoping to change the current of her companion's thoughts. But the young man shook his head. "No," he returned honestly, "I haf in my heart no such idea. My cousin is younger than I am, stronger----" Betty glanced over toward the blue rim of hills. "Is your cousin a girl?" she queried softly. Young Herr von Reuter was again surprised. "I thought I haf told you. No, he is a man, like me. Oh, no, not like me," he added sadly. "My cousin is tall like me, but he carries of himself so otherwise." Fritz touched his own shoulders, owing their stoop perhaps to the long hours spent in going over his accounts in the bank. "And his hair it is light and his eyes blue. And there is a shine on his hair that makes it so golden as Siegfried's. And when he laughs!" Poor Fritz's face now wore the same expression of mild adoration which he had oftentimes bestowed upon Betty. "But if you are so awfully fond of your cousin and he is a count living in that old stone castle, why does he not do something for you? I should think your uncle----" "You do not _verstehen_, you _Amerikaner_" Fritz answered. "My uncle is _sehr_ poor himself. It is hard to live as he must. Some day my cousin must marry a rich girl with his title and his good looks." Betty laughed. "Oh, that's the plan, is it? Well, let us walk on back to the cottage and find mother. I am sure she will enjoy talking to you." Again Betty Ashton's manner had changed to its original indifference. Fritz seemed bewildered and a little depressed. "It is _schöner_ here," he replied. However, he got up and obediently followed Betty out of her retreat. She was more than half a mile from the cottage which they had secured for the summer time. And they were compelled to pass out of the woods and walk along a country lane for a part of the way. There were few persons using this lane at four o'clock on a hot July afternoon, and so Betty had felt that she would be perfectly safe from observation. She had left home with her hair still damp from washing and simply tucked up under a big summer hat. Now she was feeling disheveled and uncomfortable and most devoutly anxious not to meet anyone on their return journey. It had been tiresome of her mother to have revealed her whereabouts. Then all at once Betty found herself blushing and wishing that she could hide somewhere along the road. For there advancing toward them was a handsome riding horse. Could it be possible that Herr von Reuter's cousin was seeking him? She must not meet him under the present conditions, not if what she believed were true. But the horse kept moving toward them with greater rapidity, while Fritz plodded on slowly at her side, telling her some story of the history of the neighborhood and not understanding that for the time being she had lost interest in it. Betty glanced about her. There was no place where she might hide herself without being seen in the act; besides her companion could never be made to understand her behavior and would be sure to reveal his bewilderment. No, she must simply continue walking on with her head averted and her attention too concentrated upon Herr von Reuter's information to be conscious of anything else. Now the low voice at her ear abruptly ceased, and turning in surprise to glance at him, Betty beheld Fritz's ordinarily placid countenance crimsoning with what certainly looked like anger instead of pleasure at the appearance of his admired cousin. "_Ach Himmel!_" exclaimed poor Fritz, "is one never to lose him?" Betty would have liked to stamp her foot with vexation. For the figure on horseback was wholly unlike the German knight whom her companion had recently described. Here was no Siegfried with shining hair and armor, but a small dark person whom she had hoped never to see again. He reined up his horse, slid off, and after a surprised scowl at Fritz, greeted Betty as though she could hardly fail to be gratified by his appearance. "You had neglected to tell me where I might find you, but Frau Hohler was kinder," Franz Schmidt declared at once. Surely Betty's manner might have discouraged almost anyone else, but not so pompous and self-satisfied a character as Franz. Money appeared to him as the only really important thing in the world and he had an idea that Betty Ashton had but little of it. Therefore she must be impressed by his attentions. Notwithstanding he decided at this moment she would soon have to choose between him and the ridiculous Fritz. Franz was now walking along by the other side of Betty, leading his horse. And all the time the girl kept wondering what she could do or say to get rid of one or both of her escorts. Fortunately she would find no one at home except her mother. Esther's and Dick's train did not arrive for another hour. They doubtless would have been amused and Dick very probably angry. How nonsensical she must appear marching along in such a company! CHAPTER VIII Other Scenes A taxicab was driving slowly down Regent Street in the neighborhood of Piccadilly Circus in London with a woman and a girl inside it. The woman leaned back in a relaxed position with her eyes not on the scene about her, but on the face of the girl. For she was sitting upright with her hands clasped tight together in her lap, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks glowing. It was nearly six o'clock in the afternoon, the hour when English people, having just finished their "afternoon tea," were returning to their homes, so that the streets were crowded with fashionably dressed men and women. And to the girl in the cab they were entirely absorbing and interesting. For whatever the closeness of their relation, American and English people when seen in any numbers are strikingly different in their appearance. The English are taller and fairer, the men better dressed than the women, and with less energy and less grace than Americans. And to a young girl's eyes there were also hundreds of other details of unlikeness and of fascination that older persons possibly might not have noticed. Besides there was the spectacle of big, beautiful, gray old London itself! "Is there any other place on earth quite so wonderful?" Polly O'Neill queried, turning to glance shyly into the face of the woman beside her. "I feel that I should like to do nothing else for the rest of my life but just sit here in this cab and drive about Piccadilly." Miss Adams smiled. For Polly's exaggerations, that oftentimes annoyed other people, merely amused her. Thus far, and they had been away for a number of weeks, the great lady had not repented her invitation to the girl to be her guest in Europe during the summer. For some reason she had taken an odd fancy to Polly. Moreover, she was weary of her usual summer amusements, wishing to enjoy life through younger eyes than her own. And the special value of Polly O'Neill as a companion was that with her ardent Irish temperament she could see and feel more in half an hour than many persons do in half a life time. Now, however, with her swift vision of her companion's expression, the girl's altered. "You are tired," she murmured, with one of her quick changes of mood and of opinion, "and I am sure that I have seen all I wish to this afternoon. Don't you think we had better drive back to the hotel?" Miss Adams made a little sign to the cabman. "It is getting late, Polly, and I forgot to tell you that I am having a friend to dinner." The girl was silent for the next few moments after this speech, yet her cheeks were flushing and her eyes so intent that it was evident she was trying to say something without having sufficient courage to begin. Finally she did speak in an embarrassed fashion: "Miss Adams, I don't quite know how to say this, but I have been wondering lately if you were not growing tired of London and staying on longer here on my account. You remember that you told me before we sailed that you were going to find some quiet place in the country to rest. And it has not been much rest for you showing me both Paris and London, with people after you all the time, even though you do refuse most of their invitations." A sudden overwhelming shyness confused the girl so that she could not continue for the moment. For in spite of the weeks of daily intimacy with her new friend, Polly was not yet able to think of her nor to treat her like any other human being. Not that Miss Adams was ever anything but simple and kind like most great people. She made no effort to be impressive and was not beautiful--only a slight, frail-looking woman with a figure like a girl's, chestnut brown hair and big, indescribably wonderful eyes. But to Polly she represented everything in life worth attaining. Although still comparatively young, Margaret Adams had won for herself the position of one of America's leading actresses. Moreover, she had the world's respect as well as its admiration, and besides her reputation a large fortune. So it was small wonder that Polly should not so soon have recovered from her first combination of awe and devotion for this celebrated woman, nor yet understand the miracle of her choice of her as a traveling companion. It was true that Miss Adams had no family and no close relatives except her cousin, Mary Adams, who had been Polly's elocution teacher in Woodford. The effort to persuade this cousin to accompany her on the European trip had been the cause of Margaret Adams' visit to Woodford earlier in the spring. There, finding that her cousin could not join her and yielding to a sudden impulse, she had transferred her invitation to Polly. And the thought that Miss Adams may have repented her rashness since their departure from home had oftentimes made Polly O'Neill grow suddenly hot and then cold. Some day, perhaps, her mother would discover that this trip of Polly's with Miss Adams was to teach her the lessons that at the present time she most needed--a new humility and the desire to place another person's comfort and wishes before her own. Perhaps Miss Adams partly understood the girl's sensations, for without waiting for her to continue her speech she immediately asked: "What was the name of that place in the German forests about which your friends have written you? Did they not say that they had found a little house for themselves and another not far away for us? It might be pleasant to go there for a time." In endeavoring to hide her excitement Polly now had to turn her head and pretend to be looking at something out of the opposite side of the cab. For this suggestion of Miss Adams represented the summit of her own desires. Of course she had adored the sights and experiences of the weeks in Paris and London, and life had never been so fascinating; yet never for a moment had she ceased to look forward and yearn for a reunion with Betty and Esther. Moreover, Betty's picture of the country where they now were sounded like a scene from one of the German operas. But Polly only murmured: "The village is called 'Waldheim,'" and made no reply when Miss Adams returned: "Perhaps it may be a good idea for us to go on there in a week or ten days, if we can make the necessary arrangements." By this time, however, their cab had stopped in front of a small, inconspicuous brown hotel, which was one of the quietest and yet most fashionable hotels in London, and within a few moments the two women disappeared into their own rooms. Half an hour afterwards Polly walked into their private sitting room. There she sat down at a desk, intending to write to Betty Ashton before the dinner hour. In making her European trip under such unusual circumstances Polly had not brought with her a great number of clothes. Nevertheless her stepfather had insisted that she have whatever might be necessary and Mrs. Wharton had taken great care and forethought to see that her things were beautiful and appropriate. For Polly was not an easy person to dress suitably. Persons who have more temperament than sheer physical beauty always are difficult. It is impossible that they should look well in any character of changing fashion or in the colors that are out of harmony with their natures. For instance, one could never conceive of Polly O'Neill in a pale blue gown, though for Mollie or Betty Ashton it might be one's immediate choice. White and red, pale yellow or pink were Polly's shades for evening wear and either brown or green for the street. Tonight at work on her letter she appeared younger than in truth she was, like a girl of sixteen instead of nineteen. For although her hair was worn in a heavy braided coil encircling her head, her dress was extremely simple. It was of messaline silk of ivory whiteness and made with a short Empire waist and narrow, clinging skirt. There was no sign of trimming, except where the dress was cut low into a square at the throat and edged with a fold of tulle. On first coming into the sitting room, Polly, who had always an instinctive attraction toward bright colors, had taken a red carnation from a vase on a table and was now wearing the flower carelessly fastened inside her belt. During the first absorption of her writing she had paid no heed to the door's quiet opening. Nor did she stir when a strange man entering the room took his seat before the tiny fire which Miss Adams always had lighted in the evenings, since the English summer is so often unpleasantly cool to American people. Neither did the man appear to have observed Polly. When the girl finally did become aware of his presence she remembered that Miss Adams had neglected to mention the name of the guest whom they were expecting to dinner. And although Polly was becoming more accustomed to the almost daily meetings with strangers, she always suffered a few first moments of painful shyness. The man happened to have his back turned toward her and had seated himself in a comfortable big leather chair. Nevertheless as soon as she stirred from her desk he got up instantly, facing her with a kind of smiling and vague politeness such as one often employs in greeting a stranger. Their guest was a good-looking man, with clear-cut features, a smooth face and brown hair. He wore evening dress, of course, and held himself with exceptional dignity and grace. He must have been about twenty-seven or -eight years old. There was nothing in the least formidable or disconcerting in his appearance, so it seemed distinctly ungracious and stupid of Polly to commence their acquaintance by stammering, "Oh, Oh, why--" and then continue to gaze into their visitor's face without attempting to finish her utterly unintelligible speech. Also for the space of a moment the man seemed surprised and a trifle embarrassed by this odd form of greeting. Nevertheless the next instant he was staring at the girl in equal amazement. Then suddenly he held out both his hands. "It is the 'Fairy of the Woods,' or I am dreaming!" he exclaimed, closing and then opening his eyes again. Polly at once dispelled all possible uncertainty. "If I am the 'Fairy of the Woods,' then you are 'Grazioso' in 'The Castle of Youth,'" she laughed, allowing her own hands to rest for the space of a second in those of her former acquaintance. "But as I happen to remember your real name, Mr. Hunt, and you cannot possibly recall mine, I am Polly O'Neill." "Then will you please sit down and tell me everything that has been happening to you and how I chance to find you here in London with Miss Adams?" Richard Hunt insisted, drawing up a chair to within a few feet of his own. Polly sat down. And quite unconsciously dropped her pointed chin into the palm of her hand, murmuring with her elbow resting on the arm of her chair: "You remember that time when I met you in New York, we were both playing in a fairy story," she said. "Well, sometimes fairy stories come true," she said. Ten minutes afterwards when Miss Adams entered the drawing room to greet her guest, to her surprise she found that he and Polly were already deep in intimate conversation, so much so that they did not immediately hear her approach. And Polly was ordinarily so diffident and tongue-tied with strangers! "I am glad that you and Mr. Hunt have not waited for me to introduce you, Polly," Miss Adams began. Polly jumped to her feet, and her face grew suddenly white. For she had never spoken of her escapade of two years before to Miss Adams, and did not know just how the great lady might receive it. Richard Hunt waited politely for the girl to acknowledge her previous acquaintance with him. For if she did not wish to speak he must, of course, by no word or sign betray her. However, in less than a moment Polly had fought out a silent battle with herself. There was no positive reason why she should confess her misdeed to this woman whom she admired beyond all others. And yet to pretend a falsehood to her friend, Polly could not endure the thought. The girl made a charming picture as she stood there in her white dress with her eyes cast down, not trusting herself to look into the face of either of her friends. Quite frankly, then, she told the entire story of her sudden yielding to temptation and of her two weeks' experience in stage life, which had resulted in her meeting with Mr. Hunt. Nor did she allow her speech to take but a few moments of time, not wishing to draw too much attention to herself. At the instant of her finishing, it happened that dinner was announced, so that Miss Adams had no opportunity for expressing an opinion of Polly's conduct either one way or the other. As they walked out of the room, however, she did manage to give Polly's arm a tiny sympathetic squeeze, whispering, "I'll tell you of my own first stage appearance some day, dear, if you remind me of my promise." CHAPTER IX The Meeting "They are not coming, Esther, and I am so dreadfully disappointed I think I shall weep," Betty Ashton announced one afternoon about two weeks later. The two girls were waiting in front of a tumble-down little German station in the country, apparently several miles from any thickly settled spot. Esther was seated in a carriage with a driver, but Betty was leaning disconsolately over the station platform raised by a few steps from the ground. A few moments before she had been walking rapidly up and down in far too great a state of excitement and pleasure to keep still. Now, however, the train had pulled in and stopped, letting off several stout passengers, but revealing no sign of Polly O'Neill and the maid, whom Miss Adams was sending on ahead to make things ready for her. "They must have missed the train; they will be sure to come down early in the morning," Esther comforted. But Betty mournfully shook her head. "It won't be quite the same if they do. Of course I shall always be happy to see Polly O'Neill at any time or place in this world or the next; still, a postponed pleasure is not as agreeable as one that takes place on time. And think of all we had planned for this evening!" Under the circumstances there was nothing for Betty to do now but to climb back into the carriage and take her seat next her sister. For the little station was by this time completely deserted and had few attractions for making one linger long in its neighborhood. It was too lonely and dilapidated. There was another station at Waldheim, where passengers usually got out, but the two girls had given Polly special directions to use this one, so that they might have a long drive home through the German forests at sundown, bringing her to their little house in the woods amid the best scenic effects. "We won't even be able to receive a telegram tonight telling us what has occurred, the office closes so early," Betty continued. "I wish at least that Dick had not chosen to spend tonight in Berlin. Don't you think he is behaving rather curiously lately, Esther? He is so unlike himself and sometimes so cross. Of course I realized that he had a right to be angry when those absurd German youths came wandering out here. But I was glad enough to have him write to Franz Schmidt that he was never to see me again. And we have not exactly the right to forbid Frederick von Reuter's coming to this neighborhood. You don't believe, do you, Esther child, that Dick can be staying in town so often lately to see that abominable girl at our old pension?" Esther chanced to be gazing at the beautiful landscape through which they were passing, so that the younger girl had no opportunity for observing her face. Moreover, Esther's rather weary and wistful expression would not have altogether surprised her, as both she and her mother had been worrying recently over Esther's appearance. Undoubtedly she was working too hard over her music. She went into town twice a week for lessons and the thought of her appearance in the early autumn might also be making her nervous. Esther made no answer now to Betty's complaints, but instead pointed toward a hill at the left of them. Near the summit they could see a gray stone house, looking more like a prison than the American ideal of a home, and yet possessing a kind of lonely beauty and dignity. "Whose castle is that, Betty, do you know?" Esther queried. Betty wondered if the question was intended to change the current of her thoughts. "It looks far more like one of the castles that we saw during our trip along the Rhine than the estates near Berlin." Then for some absurd reason Betty blushed. "It is Fritz von Reuter's uncle's place, I believe. I have always intended telling you, Esther, if you will promise not to mention it to Dick. The day I first came to this neighborhood to look for a place for us to live I had rather an odd experience." Betty would have continued her confession, but at this moment they were driving through a wonderful stretch of woodland road. The way was narrow and on one side was a sharp decline and on the other a thick growth of evergreens. Moving toward them was a horse with a young man upon it in a suit of light gray riding clothes, which in the afternoon sunlight looked almost the color of silver. He was carrying his hat in his hand and his hair was a bright yellow such as one seldom sees except in young children. Indeed, he was so remarkably handsome that even Esther, who rarely paid much attention to strangers, gazed at him for the moment with interest, temporarily forgetting what Betty had been trying to confess. To her amazement, however, the rider made not the faintest effort to give their carriage the right of way, but moved on directly in the center of the road. Their driver, evidently recognizing the young man as a person of distinction, then drove so close to the underbrush on their right that both girls felt a momentary fear of being tumbled out. Betty kept her lips demurely closed and her head held upright, with the expression of pride and self-possession which she reserved for very special occasions. However, it was difficult to maintain an atmosphere of cold dignity when one was in immediate danger of being tipped out of a rickety old carriage into a ditch. The horse and rider approached nearly opposite the carriage, the young fellow gazing haughtily but none the less curiously toward the two American girls. Then almost instantly his unprepossessing manner changed and his face broke into a smile which was singularly charming. Neither of the two girls had often seen in Germany just this type of youth. He was of only medium height, but perfectly proportioned, with square military shoulders, and he rode his horse as though he and it were carved from the same block of stone. Nevertheless there was no doubt but that he was looking at Betty as if he expected some sign of recognition. He was mistaken, however, for she let him pass them without even turning her head in his direction. It was after eight o'clock that evening when Mrs. Ashton, Betty and Esther had finally come to the end of their melancholy dinner. For there are few things drearier than eating alone the banquet prepared for a long expected guest, when the guest has failed to arrive. The dinner table had a miniature pine tree in the center, which Betty had dug out of the earth with her own hands and decorated with the tiny Camp Fire emblems which she and Esther always carried about in their trunks, while waving from its summit was a tiny American flag. On either side of the tree were the three candles sacred to all their Camp Fire memories, and the table was also loaded with plates of German sweets and nuts and favors sent out from town for this evening's feast. Esther and Mrs. Ashton had been trying to keep up a semblance of cheerfulness during dinner, but Betty had refused to make any such effort. Now the front doorbell unexpectedly rang and their funny little German _Mädchen_ went out of the room to open it. Betty did not even glance up. She supposed that it must be Dick, who had changed his mind about remaining in Berlin and had taken a later train home. However, even Dick's return was of only limited interest this evening. The next moment and two arms were tight about her neck, almost stifling her. Then a voice that could only be Polly O'Neill's, though Betty could not turn her head, was whispering: "Oh, Princess, Princess, has it been two years or two centuries since we met? And are you as pretty as ever, and do you love me as much?" A little later, when both girls had laughed and cried in each other's arms, Polly was at last able to explain to Mrs. Ashton that she and her maid had made a mistake in their train and had taken one which did not stop at the out-of-the-way station mentioned in the girls' letters. So they had been compelled to go on further and then to have an automobile to bring them back to Waldheim. CHAPTER X An Adventure "Margaret, if you don't mind, we are going for a walk. Betty has been talking to some girls in the next village about starting a Camp Fire club with six dear little German maidens who make us think of Meg and Mollie when they were tiny. Would you care to come with us?" Margaret Adams shook her head. She was lying in a hammock under a tree which made a complete green canopy above her head. At no great distance away was the brook where Betty had thought herself in hiding several weeks before, and by dint of keeping very quiet and concentrating all one's senses into the single one of listening, the music of the running water might be heard. The woman in the hammock had no desire for other entertainment. She had been thinking but a few moments before that she had not felt so well or so young in half a dozen years. The three girls, Esther, Betty and Polly, had been laughing and talking not far away from her for the past hour, but she must have been asleep since she had heard no word of what they were saying until Polly's direct question to her. "I am awfully lazy, Polly dear," she apologized. "You know I have been insisting each day that the next I was going to do exactly what you girls do and try to pretend I am as young as the rest of you. But I have not the valor, and besides you will have a far more thrilling time without a chaperon. Kiss me good-by and take care of pretty Betty." And Margaret Adams waved her hand in farewell to the other two girls. Since their stay in the German forests she had insisted that the girls treat her as much as possible like one of themselves, that they forget her profession and her age, and as a sign they were all to call one another by their first names. To Betty Ashton this act of friendliness had not been difficult; it had actually been harder for Polly, who had known Miss Adams so much more intimately, and most trying of all to Esther because of her natural timidity. In the first place Betty did not often think of their new acquaintance as a great actress. Once several years before she had been introduced to Miss Adams in Woodford, but later had considered her merely in her relation to Polly. She of course felt very strongly the older woman's magnetism, just as the world did, and was proud and grateful for this opportunity to know her. Indeed, Polly in the past few days had to have several serious talks with herself in order to stifle a growing sensation of jealousy. Of course she perfectly appreciated how pretty and charming the Princess was and how she had attracted people all her life. Yet she was not going to pretend that she was noble enough to be willing to have Miss Adams prefer the Princess to her humble self. As Polly joined her two friends she found herself surveying Betty with an air that tried hard to be critical; but there was no use in attempting it this morning. Betty was too ridiculously pretty and unconscious of it. For, seeing that Polly seemed slightly annoyed with her, she slipped her hand into hers, as the three of them started off for the village. In her other hand she carried her old Camp Fire Manual. Betty was dressed in an inexpensive white muslin with a broad white leather belt and a big straw hat encircled with a wreath of blue corn flowers. Probably her entire outfit had cost less than a single pair of slippers in the days of their wealth. "I hope, Esther, that you have not allowed Betty to go about the country alone before I joined you," Polly began in her old half-mocking and half-serious tones. Betty laughed at the idea of Polly O'Neill grown suddenly conventional; however, Esther took the suggestion gravely. "I don't know and I am truly glad you have arrived, Polly dear, for a great many reasons," she replied. "You know I have to be in Berlin two days every week and Dr. Ashton is away the greater part of the time. And somehow neither one of us has ever been able to persuade Mrs. Ashton or Betty to appreciate the difference between Germany and America. Betty seems to think she can wander about here as freely as if she were in Woodford." "Well, I shall see that she does not wander alone any more if I can help it," Polly added with decision. And then, "Tell me, please, for goodness sake, Betty Ashton, how you are going to manage to start a Camp Fire club in Waldheim? In the first place do you know enough of the German language to teach other people, and otherwise how will you ever be able to explain all that the Camp Fire means, its ceremonies and ideals?" For the moment Betty's face clouded, as any lack of faith on Polly's part had always checked her enthusiasm. "I can't teach them _all_ of anything, Polly, for in the first place I have never begun to understand myself one half that our Camp Fire organization stands for. But I have the feeling that because it has always given me so much help and happiness I should at least try to suggest the idea to other people. You see the Camp Fire is not just an American institution. It is almost equally popular in England, though there it is called 'The Girl Guides.' And of course in time its influence is obliged to spread to Germany, so I hope to be a pioneer. I have been to the school for girls in Waldheim and managed to interest one of the teachers. She has promised me that when we have read and studied enough together she will form a Camp Fire club among her pupils and be their first guardian. So you see I shall not count for much." "Angel child!" exclaimed Polly enigmatically, but she offered no further criticism. And indeed the three girls spent a wonderfully interesting two hours among Betty's new acquaintances. For Esther and Betty both spoke German extremely well after their two years' residence in Berlin, and although Polly had to be unusually quiet, she did remember enough of her school German to understand the others. And when their call had finally ended Betty promised to return twice each week to continue their work, and though Polly made no such promise, her enthusiasm was almost equally great. Later on the girls found a tiny restaurant in the village where they drank hot coffee and ate innumerable delicious German cookies. For they had left word that they were not to be expected at home for luncheon, since the best of their excursion was to take place after the trip to the village. For a long time Betty had a place in mind she had particularly wished Esther and Polly to see and now this was their first opportunity since Polly's arrival for a long walk. "It is only a specially lovely bit of woods with a little house inside, which looks as though it might be the place where the old witch lived in the story of 'Hansel and Gretel,'" she explained. "The house is built of logs, but there are the same tiny window panes and a front door with a great bolt across it. It is so gloomy and terrifying that it is perfectly delicious," she concluded gaily, for they had been walking for some distance to get into her enchanted forest and so far no sign of it had appeared. Plainly the other two girls were growing weary. Half an hour later, however, both Esther and Polly were sufficiently good sportsmen to confess that their long walk had not been in vain. For Betty's forest, as they chose to call the place, was entrancingly lovely, the greenest, darkest, coolest spot in all that country round. And so curiously secluded! Hundreds of great forest trees and shrubbery so thick that it must have been left uncut and untrampled upon for many years. Indeed, except for Betty's previous acquaintance with a path that led to the house in the woods, there could have been no possibility of the girls' discovering it. For once having climbed a low stone fence, they had seen and heard nothing except a solitary deer that had fled at their approach and an unusual number of wild birds. Not far away from the little house Polly and Esther found seats within a few feet of each other on the trunks of two old trees, while Betty stretched herself along the ground, closing her eyes as though she had been a veritable Sleeping Princess. The three girls had no thought of being disturbed, for the little house was locked and barred and entirely deserted. Then in the midst of the peace and silence of the scene a bullet whistled through the air. And following the report of a rifle Esther tumbled quietly off her resting place. CHAPTER XI And Its Consequences Betty bent over her sister first, saying with a kind of quick intake of her breath: "Esther, what is the matter? Are you hurt? Oh, I have always been afraid that something dreadful would happen to you, you are so good!" And at this Esther smiled, although somewhat faintly, allowing Polly to assist her to her feet. "Well, I am not being punished for my virtues this time, Betty child," she answered. "I was just a ridiculous coward, and when that bullet passed so close to my head that I am quite sure it cut off a lock of my hair, it made me so faint and ill for an instant that I collapsed. I am all right now. But I wonder where the shot could have come from?" Then the three girls stood silently listening, almost equally pale and shaken from their recent experience. In another moment they heard the noise of some one stirring about in the underbrush at no great distance away and walking in their direction. They waited speechless and without moving. Then suddenly, before they could see the speaker, a voice called out angrily: "Don't try to escape; stay where you are or I shall fire again. For I will not endure this lawlessness any longer." And almost immediately a young man appeared before them in a hunter's costume of rough gray tweed, carrying his gun in his hand. His expression was angry and masterful, his face crimson and his eyes had ugly lights in their blue depths. Yet instantly Esther recognized the speaker as the same young fellow whom they had met on horseback a week or ten days before. At his first glance toward Esther and Polly his face changed; for obviously he was both startled and mystified. Then as he caught sight of Betty, who was standing just back of the other two girls, another wave of crimson crossed his face, but this time it was due to embarrassment and not anger. With a swift movement he lifted his hat and bowed so low that in an American it would have seemed an absurdity. Yet somehow with him the movement had both dignity and grace. Straightway Polly O'Neill, in spite of her vexation, decided that never before had she seen a more perfect "Prince Charming." The young man's hair was bright gold, his skin naturally fair and yet sufficiently browned from exposure, his features almost classic in shape. And while he was not exceptionally tall, his figure was that of a young soldier in action with the same muscular strength and virility. "I shall never be able to express to you my chagrin and my regret," he began, including the three girls in his speech but in reality addressing himself to Betty. He spoke English with only the slightest foreign accent. "These happen to be my woods and I have been greatly annoyed recently by trespassers who destroy my game at a season of the year when there can be neither profit nor pleasure in it. And this when the park is posted with signs warning intruders." "I am sorry that we did not chance to see the signs," Esther murmured. "You can understand that we are strangers in this neighborhood, Americans," Polly defended more hotly. "But of course we should not have wandered in here without inquiring of some one whether or not we had the privilege. In the United States we know very little about game preserves and people are willing to have you enjoy the beauty of their forests. But we shall leave immediately and promise never to trouble you again." "But that means that you have not forgiven me and I ask your pardon with all my heart. It is my pride, my great pleasure to have you consider my place worthy of your attention. Miss Ashton," the young foreigner now turned directly to Betty, "surely you can appreciate and pardon my mistake." Neither of the other two girls had been paying any special attention to Betty, but at the stranger's surprising knowledge of her name they turned toward her at once. And both decided that they had never seen her look so pretty or so angry in her life. Apparently she had not spoken before because she had not been willing to trust herself. And Polly had a sudden sense of satisfaction in the knowledge that the Princess did not lose her poise and self-control in her anger, as she so invariably did. "You ask us to understand and pardon your mistake," Betty now began quietly. "But suppose that the bullet which you fired so carelessly had killed my sister. Would you still have expected us to make the same answer? Of course we are just as much intruders upon your property as if we were men instead of American girls. But I presume that when you fired, thinking that we might be poachers, you would have been indifferent had you wounded one of us. For I believe in Germany it is the fashion for the soldiers who are intended for the defense of their country to have little respect for the lives of their country_men_." This was a long and bitter speech for a young girl to have made. But remember that Betty Ashton had been living in Germany for the past two years at a time when the army had been frequently criticized and had suffered just as most travelers do from the rudeness of German officers upon the streets and in places of public amusement. Moreover, she had not yet recovered from her moment of fright over Esther and was annoyed at having their pleasure so destroyed. Her accusation so surprised the young man to whom it was addressed that for a moment he did not reply. For evidently he did not often find himself obliged to be placed on the defensive side in a discussion and the position did not please him. "I regret to have frightened you. And I had no intention of injuring any one," he remarked stiffly. "It was my plan to fire into the air, but I stumbled at the critical moment. However, I did not suppose that the shot came anywhere in your direction. And I am sorry that you should consider this but another instance of the lack of courtesy in His Majesty's officers." There was an awkward pause. Betty was holding her big flowered hat pressed close against her white dress, her lips were scarlet and her face so pale that her gray eyes looked almost smoke-colored. The wind and the long walk had loosened her hair until it was curling and blowing about her forehead like tiny red-gold clouds. Honestly no young man could have remained angry with her for any great length of time. She slipped one arm through Esther's, as Esther had continued white and nervous, and beckoning Polly with the other to join them, with the merest inclination of her head the Princess started to lead the little company away. But before she had gone more than a few feet she stopped and turned around. The young man was standing exactly where they had left him with his hat still in his hand and his face and figure rigid. Betty advanced nearer toward him. "Lieutenant von Reuter," she said, "it is I who must now beg your pardon. You were kind to me once when my maid and I lost our way in trying to find the village of Waldheim. But under no circumstances should I have said anything that reflected upon you or your friends. I know that you are an officer in the German army, so naturally you must think as little of American courtesy as--" But not knowing just how to end her sentence Betty did the wisest possible thing and smiled. And at once the young man was figuratively on his knees before her again. "Don't go away just yet," he pleaded; "you must know that I have been asking my cousin Frederick about you. It is he who has told me your name and he must also have spoken of me to you. You yourselves have said that it was lovely here in my forest and surely you must be weary enough to remain a little time longer. It is not as though we were entire strangers, with Frederick your friend and my relative." This time Betty laughed outright. "Your cousin is scarcely our friend; we have only boarded in the same pension with him in Berlin while my sister was there studying music." She looked a little more searchingly at Esther. Esther had not been very well for several weeks and now certainly was unfit for the long walk home in the hottest part of the afternoon without more rest. With an inclination of her pretty head the Princess surrendered. "If you really are sure that you won't mind we should like to sit here in the shade a little longer," she confessed. "That is if we will not trouble you. You must not feel that you must remain with us, for I promise that we shall do nothing any harm." Without replying, Carl von Reuter then led Esther to her discarded tree trunk, the other girls having already found seats. "If you will be good enough to wait for a few moments I should like very much to bring you some tea. The little house there is my hunting lodge and I have all sorts of bachelor arrangements inside," he announced. And the suggestion was far too welcome for any one of the girls to decline. Then in the five minutes of the young man's absence as rapidly as possible Betty sketched the outline of her acquaintance with him and the knowledge of his history which she had since been able to acquire. He was the son of the German count whose stone castle they had seen, and of course the heir to the title and estate. He was also, as she had already revealed, a lieutenant in the German army and probably about twenty-two or-three years old. The family was a very old and proud one and although they still owned a great deal of land, they were extremely poor. But Betty had to cease her confidences abruptly, seeing that their unexpected host was coming toward them with four cups of tea and a tray of small crackers and cakes. No American man could have performed these small social services with so little embarrassment, but as Carl explained he had had an English mother and had been taught to assist her with their guests from the time he was a boy. And by the time the tea had been drunk and the cakes eaten the little company had apparently reached terms of complete friendliness, having already forgotten their uncomfortable earlier meeting. "I am dreadfully sorry to find that your little house in the woods is nothing but a hunting lodge," Betty confided. "For you see I have been telling my sister and Miss O'Neill that this place was a kind of enchanted forest where 'Hansel and Gretel' must once upon a time have lost their way." However, Carl von Reuter shook his head protestingly. "Why not think of it instead as Siegfried's forest before he went forth in search of Brunhilde." "Won't you tell us the story of Siegfried?" Polly asked. "I have never heard the opera and it has been such a long time since I read it." Carl laughed. "I am a soldier, not a poet," he explained, "and the legend is too long and too complicated for me to repeat all of it to you. Besides, you are sure to recall it as soon as I begin. Siegfried, you remember, was the son of Siegmund and Sieglinde and the youth who knew no fear. He is brought up in a forest by a wicked dwarf named Mime, who desires that Siegfried wrest the magic treasure of the Nibelung from the giant Fafnir who guards it in the gaping cave of the Niedhole. With the sword of his father Siegfried goes forth and destroys the giant and then appears wearing the glittering tarn helmet, the invincible armor and the magic ring. From the blood of the dead Fafnir, with which Siegfried touches his lips, he is enabled to understand the voices of birds. And when one of these sings to him of a maiden surrounded by flames who can be won only by the man who knows no fear, Siegfried sets out in search of Brunhilde. On a grassy mound he discovers a sleeping figure clad in armor and surrounded by flames. Removing the shield and helmet, he sees a flood of red-gold hair rippling around the form of a sleeping woman." The story teller stopped and Esther inquired: "You know the story of Siegfried so well, I wonder if you sing?" "Not very well," the young man replied. And then, as though to disprove his own words and without further urging, he began singing in a fine, clear tenor, glancing now and then toward Betty Ashton, the beautiful song of Siegfried's that awakens the sleeping Brunhilde: "No man it is! Hallowed rapture Thrills through my heart; Fiery anguish Enfolds my eyes. My senses wander And waver. Whom shall I summon Hither to help me? Mother, mother! Be mindful of me." Later in the afternoon when they had almost reached their own cottage in the woods, Betty suddenly slipped an arm across her older sister's shoulder. Polly had already said good-by. "After all we did discover a kind of enchanted forest, didn't we, Esther?" she whispered. But Esther was tired and annoyed. "Lieutenant von Reuter was an agreeable enough fellow for a foreigner, if that is what you mean, Betty," she returned. "But I got rather tired of his telling us the story of Siegfried which I certainly knew perfectly well. Besides, it seemed to me that he was trying to make an impression upon us. And I shall never, never be able to understand how you can like these German youths so much. I should feel a great deal happier about you and so would your brother if you were safely back in Woodford." "Don't be a goose, dear," was Betty's only answer. CHAPTER XII The Uncertain Future "Have you ever wished some days that you were nine years old instead of nineteen, Miss Adams--Margaret?" Polly O'Neill corrected herself hastily. The girl and the older woman were sitting out in the yard in front of their funny little German cottage one afternoon just before twilight. Polly had been reading aloud until the dusk had settled down too thickly, and since then had been silent, gazing pensively at the far line of hills toward the west. Margaret Adams looked closely at the girl before replying. For the past few days she had seen that there was something unusual weighing upon Polly's mind, since she was never able to conceal her emotions, and had wondered whether she was feeling homesick or if something had occurred to worry her. But she only answered lightly: "No, Polly, I am afraid when one is thirty-five one is more apt to wish to be nineteen than nine. But would you like to tell me, dear, what special objection there is to your present age? Don't, if you feel that you would rather not, or if you would be betraying a confidence." But Polly gave a characteristic shrug. "No," she returned, "I would not be betraying a confidence, only an imagination, and since the imagination happens to be my own, I suppose I have the right to betray it." Not comprehending exactly what the younger girl was trying to say and yet understanding that she would make herself plain later on, the woman quietly waited. She was interested in the processes of Polly's mind and liked to see them work themselves out. "Do you like foreign men?" was the girl's next apparently irrelevant question. But by this time Miss Adams had begun to have a faint suspicion of what might be at the end of her companion's confession. For in the past two weeks since Polly's, Betty's and Esther's visit to the German forest, she too had become interested in some of its consequences. Yet she answered with entire truthfulness: "Why, of course, Polly child, I like foreign men. Why should not one? It is absurd and prejudiced to like or dislike a person because of his nationality; it is the man's own character that counts." "Oh, yes, I know that is what one should feel and say. I don't mean to be rude," Polly added quickly, blushing over her fatal habit of saying whatever was uppermost in her mind. "I was just wondering whether it was actually true. Don't most of us really in the end like best the kind of people and life to which we have been accustomed. Now, for example, just suppose that we take a girl who has been brought up in the United States almost all her life, where she has had boy acquaintances and friends whom she has known in a simple, intimate way, without thinking of any one of them seriously. Then bring her to a foreign country, take Germany, just when she is about grown. All of a sudden imagine a young fellow turning up entirely unlike her old boy friends, handsome, charming and behaving as though he were falling in love with her. Do you believe that the girl could honestly care for him? Don't you think that it would just be a mistaken fancy on her part and that some day when she grew older she would want her old friends and associations again. Why, she might even meet one of her former acquaintances and find that she liked him best, because after all he was also an American and thought about life and women and lots of other things more in the way that she did." Margaret Adams covered both ears with her hands. "My dear Polly," she began, "if you think I have imagination enough to follow all those supposings and all those mixed-up sentences and ideas, you must consider me cleverer than I am. But as long as I happen to be able to guess whom you are talking about, don't you think we might be straightforward. We will never speak of it to any one else, nor to each other if it seems wiser not. But of course you mean----" "Betty!" finished Polly. And then sighing profoundly: "You see, ever since our meeting in the woods the other day with Carl von Reuter he has been coming to see Betty. He brought his father, the old count, to call on Mrs. Ashton and has been sending Betty flowers and they have been riding together and he does not even pretend not to admire her tremendously. He makes Esther and me perfectly miserable, for you see Germans seem so different from Americans, so sentimental and silly, I think. Why, I overheard Lieutenant von Reuter calling Betty Brunhilde, and instead of being bored she actually appeared pleased. Esther and I can't understand it. Of course we realize that it is absurd to believe that people can learn to care for each other in two weeks, yet just the same Betty is behaving strangely. And Esther wonders if it is her duty to speak to Richard Ashton before things go any further. Mrs. Ashton would be no good; she is too pleased over Betty's being admired by a member of the German nobility. She would never be able to see all the mischief that might result from it. But then Esther and Dick Ashton are not friends as they once were. Dick has hardly anything to do with Esther nowadays--even leaves on an earlier train the mornings that she has to go into Berlin for her music lessons. And yet when Esther first came to live with Mrs. Ashton, when she was a hundred times less attractive than she is now, why he was kinder to her than any of the rest of us. Oh me, oh my, it is a strange world!" And down went Polly's chin into the palm of her hand in a characteristic manner. For a moment Margaret Adams did not reply. For perhaps a good deal better than Polly she appreciated the disaster that might result from the present circumstances. Betty was only nineteen and of course Polly was right in presuming that she could hardly know her own mind. And yet the romance and beauty of her surroundings, the good looks of the young lieutenant with the glamour of his title and position, were sufficiently strong influences to affect a much older person. Yet notwithstanding Betty's beauty and charm, Miss Adams did not have the same uneasiness that Esther and Polly suffered. For she did not believe that Lieutenant von Reuter could marry a girl without a dower, no matter what his personal inclination might be. And Betty had no money and so far as any one knew no chance of receiving any amount except what her brother and sister might some day be able to earn. The danger that the older woman dreaded was that Betty herself might possibly misunderstand the young foreigner's attentions and that she might learn to care for him more than would be wise for her happiness. Frowning, Miss Adams waited for a moment without speaking. And yet she looked so entirely interested and sympathetic that Polly dropped to the ground at her feet, taking one of her slim hands in hers and pressing it softly to her lips. For it was wonderfully kind of this famous lady to have forgotten herself so completely that she felt as deep a concern over Betty Ashton as though she had known her all her life. "It was Betty herself who told me that young Count von Reuter had been brought up with the idea that he must marry a wealthy girl. Don't you suppose that she understands that anything else is impossible for him?" she asked. "The family is deeply in debt and even if the young man had the faintest knowledge of any kind of work it would be regarded as a disgrace for him to engage in it. Besides, he has chosen his career of a soldier, which also requires a fortune back of him. Don't you think we might be able to make Betty see this, even supposing that she does not already appreciate it?" Margaret Adams finally inquired. "I don't know," Polly answered. "For you see, Margaret, it is like this. All her life Betty Ashton has never known anything but love and admiration. Why, when we were little children and began having beaux that nobody knew about except just ourselves, we always expected the admirers to be Betty's and were surprised when they were not. Oh, I don't mean that she expected it. The Princess used to be spoiled in lots of ways before our Camp Fire club and the change in their family fortunes, but she never has been silly or vain. Then when we grew up together it was pretty much the same thing. I remember how cross I once was in Woodford because a young fellow there, who was not Betty's equal then in any kind of way, in money or family or education, had the presumption to feel a kind of fancy for her. But now I wish that he or John Everett or any one of our old friends would turn up here and show her how much nicer an American fellow is. Any old kind of an American!" Polly ended almost viciously. Miss Adams laughed, touching the girl's dark braids of hair and looking closely into her emotional, sensitive face. "Don't let us worry before it is necessary," she suggested. "But tell me, Polly, and I am not asking you for curiosity, with all these admirers whom you insist your beloved Betty has had, hasn't there ever been any one who has cared for you and whom you may some day care for?" For the moment the unexpectedness of this question took Polly's breath. And then to her deep chagrin she felt herself blushing, even while vigorously shaking her head in denial. And yet at the same time in her intense desire to be perfectly straightforward with her new friend she was wondering if her denial had been entirely truthful. Or was it her duty to confess Billy Webster's stupidity? "There was some one once," she murmured after her little period of hesitation had passed. "But really, Margaret, he did not care for me a bit; he only wanted to manage me. And I--I didn't care for him in the least. I never shall care for anybody," Polly insisted with the absolute conviction of youth. Then completely forgetting everybody and everything else, Polly O'Neill put both arms about her slender knees and there on the grass at the feet of the great Miss Adams began slowly swaying herself backwards and forwards as she always had ever since she was a little girl when in the thrall of some dominant idea. She did not look at Miss Adams; she did not even look at the hills or trees, nor feel the summer darkness that was beginning to close about them like a soft cloak. For Polly was having one of her moments when the things inside her mind were so much more visible and important to her than any outside scene. Never since leaving New York had she mentioned to Miss Adams her own desire to go upon the stage. It had not seemed fair to take advantage of her friend's kindness by annoying her with her own ambition. For it might look as though she expected or hoped for aid and advice from Miss Adams' friendship. But tonight Polly had forgotten her past resolutions and reserves. "I shall not care for anyone, Margaret, because you know in another year I intend either going upon the stage in some little part, or if mother will give me the money, I shall go to a dramatic school. For I am going to make the stage my career whether I succeed or fail." There was a catch in the girl's breath and although it was too dark to see her face, the older woman could imagine the glow in her cheeks and the light in her curious blue eyes. She looked like an elf or a sprite, something born of the woods or the sky and hardly an ordinary flesh-and-blood girl, as she sat in her curious position, dreamily rocking herself back and forth in the evening dusk and silence. "I suppose there are some women great enough to have a career and to marry besides," she added so solemnly that Miss Adams did not dare smile, "but I don't believe I am one of them. And I want a career. Yet it is odd, isn't it? I don't think I have any special talent and Esther Crippen is so talented we think she is almost a genius. I wish you could hear her sing, but she is too afraid of you yet. Nevertheless Esther does not want to be famous one bit and Betty and I don't even dare mention the word 'career' before her. I am sure she would much rather marry some day and have babies and sing to her husband and to them, or perhaps in a church where no one would think much about her. For she does love her music for itself." "But why then does she go on working so intensely, if she does not intend making a profession of her singing? The poor child is actually wearing herself out," Miss Adams avowed. "Why, don't you know?" Polly faced her companion and though it was now almost entirely dark, they could yet catch the outlines of each other's faces. "Esther Crippen does not care for money for herself, but she cares for it beyond anything for Betty. You see, she and Betty were separated during all their childhood and now that they have found each other again Esther fairly worships her sister. She is going to earn all the money she can with her voice so as to be able to lavish on Betty the things that she used to have when the Ashtons were rich. Of course Betty does not know that this is the chief reason that is urging Esther to sacrifice everything in the world for her work. For naturally Betty thinks that Esther has so wonderful a talent that she ought to wish to cultivate it for its own sake. And so does their father, Herr Crippen. I believe he has the feeling that he has failed with his own music, but that if Esther succeeds in some way it will redeem his failure. In a way it does seem rather hard upon Esther if she should ever happen to fall in love." But before Miss Adams could answer her maid had announced an unexpected visitor. CHAPTER XIII Richard Ashton Esther Crippen ran out of the front door of their little house with her coat still on her arm, so great was her hurry. "Dr. Ashton," she called several times. And at last the young man striding on ahead turned and glanced back in surprise. Esther was carrying her usual music roll, a book and a box of lunch which she always bore into town on her lesson days. Richard Ashton took these from her. "I beg your pardon, Esther. I did not know that you were going in on the early train or of course I should have waited. What is taking you in so soon? Have you a special appointment?" And Esther could only blush and stammer nervously. For intimately as she had known Dick Ashton, living in the same house with him for several years in a curious position as though she were a member of his family yet without any real bond of relationship between them, she could not now quietly tell him that she was taking this train into town because she wished to accompany him. At one time in their acquaintance this would have been a simple and natural enough confession, but recently Dick Ashton had been so unlike his former self. Or at least if he had not changed personally, his manner toward her was different. And in these weeks in the country when Esther had been pondering over the change it had seemed to her that she could almost remember the day and hour when the transformation began. Now as Esther made no reply to his question Richard Ashton looked at her more steadily. He was a physician and the girl's pallor and weariness were more conspicuous to him than to other people, although he was not alone in noticing it. "There isn't any point in your going into the city at daybreak for these singing lessons of yours," the young man protested in a friendly tone. "I should think that your wretched old Professor would have brains enough to know that you won't do him or yourself half as much credit if he wears you out completely before the date of his concert. When does it take place?" "In October," Esther returned, apparently with little interest. However, Dick was walking her toward the station with such rapidity that she had little breath for any other exertion. And yet they had plenty of time, there was no reason for such hurry. The young man himself did not seem to be aware of their haste. "Look here, Esther," he began a little later, "I am glad of this chance for our having a talk together. There is something that I have had on my mind to say for some time without having had the courage or the opportunity." Just for the moment Esther's pallor left her, a slight flush coming into her cheeks and her lips parting. "You see, I think it will be better for you to break the news to mother and Betty than for me to speak of it first," he continued. "But I--I have got to go back to the United States this autumn for good. I have spent all the time studying over here that I have the right to spend and if ever I am to make a success of my profession I have to get down to hard work building up a practice. I suppose they will both take it kind of hard, my deserting them in this way, but they must have anticipated it." In reply Esther's voice was less interested and sympathetic than Dick Ashton was accustomed to hearing it. "Why, I don't believe they will mind half so much as you think; at any rate your mother will not," she returned. "I have heard Mrs. Ashton say half a dozen times lately that she wished we were all to go home when Polly and Miss Adams sail in November. And as far as Betty is concerned I shall be glad to have you take her back with you." "Take Betty home with me!" Dick Ashton's exclamation was in itself a denial of any such intention. "Why, Esther, I hadn't the faintest thought of either mother or the Princess coming along with me. You don't mean that Professor Hecksher has suggested that _you_ take a rest and that you are going to see your father?" With a frown and a sudden nervous movement of her hands Esther shook her head. But they were now within sight of their little station, where several other passengers were waiting and no other word of intimate conversation was possible between them until they were on the train. And Esther made no protest when Dick, in spite of their poverty, discarding his regular ticket, bought seats for them both in an empty first-class coach. There they could be alone and without interruption. And there was no denying that their conversation, which had just been broken off so abruptly, must be continued as soon as possible. They were both too full of things too long left unsaid. "Of course you know, Dr. Ashton, that there is not the remotest chance of my going back home for a long time," Esther went on when once again they were settled, just as though no interruption to their talk had ever taken place. "For you see after I make my _début_ at this concert I have to go on studying. I have even to make a reputation here in Europe if I can before I return to the United States. Professor Hecksher says that it is absolutely necessary, and he is willing to help me get engagements to earn some money, so I shall not continue to be so dreadful an expense." "Sounds rather glorious, doesn't it, Esther, fame and fortune all ready and waiting to drop at your feet? What a wonderful thing it is to be born into this world with a great talent and how it must make you look down on us poor mortals who have to grind and grind for just a bare existence. I'll be proud some day to say that I have had the honor of knowing you. You won't forget we were acquaintances, will you, Esther?" the young man concluded, it was hard to tell whether in bitterness or joking. And his companion turned her face away, pretending to glance out of the car window at the uninteresting stretch of country and the rapidly disappearing telegraph poles. "I shall never forget that I was a girl being raised in an orphan asylum and that your mother took me to her home and did what she could to give me my first start in learning to sing, if that is what you mean, Dr. Ashton," Esther continued. "Neither can I forget what you have always done for Betty, though I feel of course that Betty will more than repay all the people who love her. But if you mean that you only wish us to be acquaintances in the future, why--" But in spite of her strong effort at self-control Esther's lips were trembling and the tears gathering in her eyes. Nevertheless she made no effort at withdrawal when Dick Ashton for an instant placed his hands over her own tightly clasped ones. "You are not playing fair, Esther," he urged, "for you know in your heart that I meant no such thing." Then both the girl and the man were silent with the vision of their possible futures before them. If only Dick Ashton could have asked Esther to give up the career ahead of her, to renounce her music, to come back home with him to the United States to be his wife. But what had he to offer in exchange for these great sacrifices? He was a penniless young doctor without more than a hundred dollars in the world once he had paid his passage home and set up some kind of office. Moreover, suppose he should win patients and success sooner than other men? Did he not owe his first earnings to his mother and to his sister, Betty, whose courage and resourcefulness had helped him prepare for his career? Besides, what did Esther not also feel that she owed to this same sister? Plainly she had let him know her views on that afternoon some time ago when he had tried dissuading her from making her _début_ if the thought of a professional life made her unhappy. Esther had then said that she felt that she must work until she was able to take care of herself and Betty and even to assist her father and new stepmother. For Herr Crippen was growing older and had nothing except what he earned by his music pupils. No, Esther's way was straight before her and one owed it to a great talent like hers to make the best of it. She had never manifested for Richard Ashton more than a warm friendliness which was natural enough to their position. Neither had he ever given Esther any reason to believe that the old kindness and sympathy which he had once felt for her had deepened into emotions much stronger. Yet, to him Esther's plain face, with its pallor and serious sweetness, with its big mouth and splendidly modeled lips was more beautiful than all his sister Betty's vivid prettiness. "Betty!" The thought of her brought him back to the every-day world again. He laughed good-humoredly. "Esther, Betty has everlastingly been saying that you had a perfectly determined passion for sacrificing yourself. Please get it out of your head at once that I have the faintest idea of taking Mistress Betty home with me. For if ever you needed her in all your life it seems to me you will need her in the next few years. And as long as half your effort is being made for her sake don't you think that she might at least be allowed to stand shoulder to shoulder with you? The Princess is rather a nice person, you know, Esther, in spite of us, and I don't believe that all the pleading in the world that I could do would persuade her to desert you." "But it must," Esther replied so solemnly that Richard Ashton stared at her in fresh astonishment. For now that they were talking of Betty and not of herself she was looking directly at him. "You see, it is for just this reason that I wanted to talk to you alone," Esther went on hurriedly. "Of course I may be mistaken or perhaps I have not exactly the right to interfere, but I am awfully afraid, Dick, that Betty is learning to care for that young German fellow, Carl von Reuter. Oh, I can understand that you may consider it absurd of me to be so suspicious, because Betty has been having dozens of admirers ever since we came to Germany. But I am sure this affair is quite different. In the first place the man himself is so much more attractive. He is heir to an old title and----" "But Betty could not be such an utter goose as to care about a title," Dick interrupted; "and this fellow is as poor as a church mouse and she has only known him a few weeks. Don't you think it is rather looking for trouble? Why, I shouldn't dream of allowing Betty to consider the fellow seriously. I'll tell him not to come to the house again, as I did that other youth, if you say the word. Anyhow, I'll give Betty a piece of my mind tonight." "You won't do any such a thing, Richard Ashton," Esther remarked firmly, actually shaking the young man's arm to express her scorn of his stupidity, "for if you do you will involve us all in a great deal of discomfort if nothing worse. In the first place I don't think Betty yet dreams that she is beginning to care seriously for this young German and perhaps she won't if no one says anything to her. But from what Polly and I have seen she does like him a great deal already and she tries to see him by himself without Polly or me. And you know that isn't in the least like the Princess. But she is awfully interested in her Camp Fire club in the village and perhaps if you take her home pretty soon nothing serious will happen. Lieutenant von Reuter is awfully poor, I know, and everybody says he simply has to marry a rich girl. But I don't know which I should hate the most: to have Betty care for him and he not return her affection or to have them both care and----" "For goodness' sake, don't say another word, Esther, or I shall take the next train back home and sit and watch every breath Betty draws for the rest of the day," Dick answered miserably. "Please remember that I have a particularly hard lecture on anatomy in another hour. But I shall meet you on the train going out this afternoon and perhaps we can think up some plan of campaign together." CHAPTER XIV Betty's Strange Disappearance When Dick and Esther returned home just before dusk on that same afternoon, Betty was not there. They found Mrs. Ashton in tears from nervousness and fright, Polly O'Neill divided between anger and solicitude, and only Miss Adams sufficiently composed to have been making the necessary investigations. So far as the newcomers could learn Betty had left the cottage at about eleven o'clock in the morning to go to the village of Waldheim for the work with the Camp Fire club which she had recently organized. But instead of waiting for Polly to accompany her after their regular custom she had seemed restless and in a most unusual hurry, and when Polly happened to be ten or fifteen minutes late for their appointment, Betty had gone off without her, taking their little German maid-of-all-work as her companion for the walk. Afterwards the maid had reported that _das Fräulein_ had arrived safely at the school and had joined her German friend, who was learning the business of a Camp Fire guardian. Later the girl had returned home expecting Betty to appear at lunch time; but it was now half-past five and no word had come from her, notwithstanding that several hours before Mrs. Ashton herself had gone into Waldheim and learned that Betty had presumably started for the cottage a short time after noon. She had no other acquaintances in the village to detain her, so that the mystery of her disappearance was complete. There were, however, several persons who claimed to have seen her leaving for home at about the accustomed hour. Naturally for the first few moments after their arrival both Dick and Esther were more astounded and stunned over the Princess' unaccountable behavior than frightened. For it seemed impossible to imagine that anything serious could have happened to her. Yet ten minutes later both the girl and man were suffering from even greater apprehension than Mrs. Ashton had endured. For whatever had induced Betty to attempt the walk from the village to their cottage alone? Of course the neighborhood in which they were spending the summer was presumably a quiet and peaceful one; still the two older women and Richard Ashton had objected to any one of the girls going any distance from their homes without companionship. And Betty was ordinarily obedient to her mother's slightest wish, fearing to cause her anxiety. Rather helplessly Richard Ashton turned toward Margaret Adams, as a stranger is oftentimes of more use in an emergency of this kind than a member of one's own family. "I had better go down to the village at once, don't you think?" he suggested. "There must be police, some one to whom I can appeal for assistance. If we were only in our own country one would know so readily what to do." "I will go with you, Dick," Polly answered, beginning to put on her hat and light wrap. "No, Esther dear, you look tired to death already and some one must stay here with Mrs. Ashton and Margaret. In all probability Betty will return before we are able to get back." Esther had gone to their front door to look out, but at Polly's words she returned and faced Mrs. Ashton. "Don't you think we had best find Lieutenant von Reuter and ask his assistance?" she volunteered. "We know no one in this part of the country who would have so much influence. If Betty has lost her way, if the woods have to be searched, why no one could give us such valuable aid." Mrs. Ashton's expression changed; she looked much relieved. "Esther dear, you are such a comfort. Why in the world did I not think of that idea at once? Lieutenant von Reuter is such a friend of Betty's and of mine that I am sure he will tell us what to do, even if he is unable to discover Betty himself." She put her hand on her son's shoulder, for Dick Ashton was growing more and more stern and uneasy. "Don't you think you had best drive up to the castle and see him yourself? Or if you could telephone that would be quicker." "I dislike very much asking a stranger to have any part in a family affair of this kind, mother," Dick answered severely. "I have met Lieutenant von Reuter only two or three times and it surprises me to find that you appear to regard an acquaintance of a few weeks as a friend. I shall prefer to make my own investigations first without asking his advice." So accustomed was Mrs. Ashton to yielding to her son's wishes that for the moment, although she was plainly unconvinced of his wisdom, she seemed about to give up. However, Esther Crippen laid her hand quietly on Richard Ashton's arm. "Please, please," she whispered so faintly that no one else could catch her exact words, "don't let anything that I have been saying to you today influence you or keep you from following the wisest course. Mrs. Ashton and I are right. And besides," Esther's voice trembled in spite of her effort at self-control, "we must find Betty no matter what method we use. I am afraid she has been taken ill and is among strangers unable to let us hear. I--I can't imagine what else could have occurred." Dick's face softened. Why did Esther's advice always seem to him so much more admirable and intelligent than other persons'? Possibly because she so seldom thought first of herself! "Dr. Ashton, do hurry," Polly O'Neill now urged impatiently. "I want to study every foot of the way from here into Waldheim before it grows too dark for me to see. If our Camp Fire training only will come to our aid! For if Betty has lost her way, surely she ought to be able to give us one of our old signals which we may recognize." She was hurrying out of the door when Margaret Adams, who was sitting next Mrs. Ashton, trying to soothe the older woman's nervousness, said in a voice whose thrilling and sympathetic quality never failed to hold any audience that heard it. "Please wait for a moment, Dr. Ashton and Polly. There is something I want you to hear--a confession I must make. Earlier this afternoon when we first began to feel afraid that Betty was not coming home it occurred to me that perhaps Lieutenant von Reuter might know something about her. You must not think I intended being officious, but was there not a possibility that she might have gone for a walk or drive with him? You see, American girls so often fail to understand that they cannot do away from home the things they do in the United States without any thought of harm. And so I wondered if the walk or drive together might not have become a longer one than they realized or if an accident might not have taken place so as to delay them unaccountably. Therefore at about four o'clock this afternoon I telephoned to the castle and asked to speak to Lieutenant von Reuter. The man servant told me that he was not at home, that he had left the castle at an early hour in the morning without saying where he was going or when he would return. However, I left word begging him to let us hear as soon as he came in. I made the message so emphatic that I hardly think it could have failed to be delivered. Notwithstanding we have heard nothing thus far. But if Dr. Ashton feels that it would be best to inquire again, I want him to know what I have done and----" Never in their acquaintance had Polly O'Neill before shown impatience with her new friend. Now, however, her loyalty to Betty Ashton seemed the most important issue in the world. Particularly when on the faces of Mrs. Ashton, of Dick and even Esther, she could observe that Miss Adams' suggestion had left its influence. Well, she and Betty had been like sisters always, members of the same Camp Fire club. She knew that Betty could do no such thing as Margaret Adams suggested, even in a spirit of thoughtlessness. It would seem too much like an effort to mislead her mother and deliberately to desert her. Just as emphatically as of old Polly shook her head, although she did manage to speak with more than her usual restraint. "You are mistaken, Margaret, in supposing that Betty's disappearance has anything to do with Carl von Reuter. Oh, yes, I--I know it is partly my fault because I told you the other afternoon that Esther and I were both uneasy because she seemed to like him so much. But that did not mean that she would ever do anything wilful or foolish because of him. You see, dear, you are confusing the Princess and me. Betty thinks before she does things; I don't as often as I should, though I hope I have improved." Deserting her position next Richard Ashton, Polly slipped across the room, dropping on one knee before her friend. "You must not think we do not appreciate your kindness in trying to help us, but if you had known the Princess as long as I have you would not misunderstand her." "Bravo, Polly," whispered Margaret Adams kindly. Then she turned gracefully toward Mrs. Ashton. "I hope you do not feel as offended with me as Polly does. Truly I did not mean that my suggestion should reflect seriously upon Betty. It has not taken me so long a time to understand her as one might think. But it did not seem to me that taking a walk or a drive with a friend would be thought so serious an offense. Also there is the possibility that she may have met Lieutenant von Reuter on her way home and that without reflecting on your possible uneasiness----" But Miss Adams could not continue her apology, for at this moment there was an unexpected noise of some one approaching the front door. And as the sitting room was so close to the small hall everybody started up with broken words of relief. Betty was doubtless arriving and within a few seconds would be able to explain the mystery of her delay. Almost at the same moment Dick Ashton and Esther managed to reach the little front door together, although it was Dick's hand that opened it. The changed expression in his usually serious eyes showed the burden of anxiety that had been so suddenly lifted from him. However, he made no outward sign--it was Esther who gave the muffled cry of disappointment--when outside they discovered the figures of two young men, Lieutenant von Reuter and his cousin Frederick. "I have been in Berlin for the day," Carl von Reuter explained formally, "and when I returned, bringing my cousin with me, I found the message that some one here wished to speak to me. It seemed best that I come in person. I do not understand, but if I can be of service----" Brushing past Richard Ashton, Esther held out her hand. "You are very kind, Lieutenant von Reuter. Won't you both please come in? For you see my sister Betty has been lost for five or six hours and as we are dreadfully worried, we hoped you would be kind enough to try to help us find her." CHAPTER XV The Finding of Brunhilde From twilight until almost midnight Dick Ashton, the other two young men, Polly and Esther and a number of people from the village of Waldheim searched the surrounding country for Betty Ashton. It seemed utterly incredible that she could not be found! She was not a child; she was almost a woman and could not have been lured away by strangers. But why if she were lost did she not make some sign? There were several signals learned in her Camp Fire days, which Polly and Esther would assuredly have understood. Earlier in the evening by the aid of a lantern Polly O'Neill had insisted that she had discovered tracks that were surely Betty's, turning from the main road which would have brought her to the cottage, into a small stretch of woods. But at night it was quite impossible to follow these tracks over the brush and bracken, and after the woods had been thoroughly searched and no other suggestion of a wanderer discovered, Polly's idea did not carry much weight. Moreover, the two girls were too utterly exhausted and frightened to continue the investigation, though neither of them would consent to return home. By chance the two girls, Richard Ashton and Carl von Reuter had separated from the others and were resting for a moment by the side of a low stone fence enclosing a forest. Dick was leaning over Esther urging her to let him take her into the village, where a carriage was in waiting to drive any one of them who might have news, back to Mrs. Ashton and Miss Adams, who were still together at the cottage. Carl von Reuter happened to be standing close to Polly, but he was not speaking to her nor observing her. All through the evening he had seemed as anxious and interested about Betty as her brother and even more nonplussed at their inability to find any trace of her; because, of course, he knew so thoroughly well every inch of ground in the surrounding country and had also called in his servants from the castle to assist in the search. Suddenly Polly clutched at the young lieutenant's arm. She had risen unexpectedly to her feet and was pointing ahead apparently at nothing so far as her companions could see. The night had been dark and cloudy, the atmosphere sultry with suggestions of a September storm. Therefore the task of finding Betty, should she be out of doors, had been the more difficult and the more imperative. "Look, Esther," Polly called sharply, "there over in the woods toward the west. Do you see anything?" Esther had gotten up on her feet more slowly and was leaning on Dick Ashton's arm. She had become weary of false clues and false hopes. And Polly with her sanguine temperament had been more often deceived than any one else. "That is only a mist you see rising between the trees, Miss O'Neill," Carl von Reuter answered before the others spoke. "It very often occurs in these damp old forests on sultry nights." Polly made no reply for the moment, only walking over to where Esther was standing she whispered something to her that no one else could hear. And Esther took tight hold of Polly's hand and without regarding their escorts they both stared unceasingly in the direction that Polly had first indicated. Were the light clouds they saw at so great a distance away, rising and floating lightly in the night air like pale ghosts, really nothing but mist? Then it was curious that the mist should rise always in double clouds, the one within a few feet of the other. A second time the two girls together watched this phenomenon and then after an interval of ten minutes, during which neither one of them would change her position, for the third time they saw the two light clouds unfurl and this time, though they may not have been perfectly certain of this detail, there appeared tiny sparks and cinders amid the clouds. Polly turned deliberately toward Carl von Renter. "Lieutenant von Reuter," she said, "Betty is somewhere within your woods. I am perfectly sure of it and so is Esther by this time. You may not understand, but we have lived together in the woods for over a year and have studied woodcraft until we know almost as much about it as Indian women. The two columns of smoke which we have discovered rising at regular intervals are a woodsman's signal for help. We must go to Betty at once. It is dark and we are not familiar with your forests, so that it would take us a longer time to reach her alone. Will you be good enough to lead the way?" There was no disputing the girl's quiet conviction, and as Esther was now equally convinced, neither young man advanced any denial. Only Carl von Reuter plunged ahead so rapidly that following him was almost out of the question. By some magic he seemed to know the open spaces between the trees and where the underbrush could be safely trodden down. Neither did he make any effort to assist either of the two girls, leaving that task entirely to Richard Ashton. And though under ordinary circumstances neither girl would have needed help, tonight Esther was strangely tired. All day, since the early hour of leaving their little German cottage, she had been under unusual strain. So that now, though she was ashamed of it, remembering her long training in outdoor life, now and then she did manage to stumble and to have to clutch either at Polly or at Dr. Ashton for support. In one of these moments of delay, Carl von Renter did hesitate for an instant, calling back over his shoulder: "We will reach the path in a short time. It is the same path which you took through the woods to my hunting lodge several weeks ago." But when they finally reached this path their leader had disappeared into the distance ahead of them, leaving the three strangers to stumble on through the darkness alone. And if ever in her life Polly O'Neill was to recognize the need which any woman may some day require of a knowledge of the woods and fields, she needed it tonight. For here the three of them were in an unknown forest in a strange land with no light except that made by the dark lantern which some one in the village had loaned Dick. Esther was too tired to be of much assistance, and Richard Ashton did not understand half so much of outdoor life as the two Camp Fire girls. Always he had been too devoted a student of books for the right kind of acquaintance with nature. Moreover, Dick was extremely angry at Lieutenant von Reuter's desertion of them. Of course Betty must be found as promptly as possible, if it were true that she was signaling for their aid from some place in the woods. But if Dick had realized it, in his prejudice against their new acquaintance, he would honestly have preferred that Betty should have to wait for her deliverance a few moments longer than that this young foreigner should manage to be her deliverer. And this in spite of the fact than an occasional drop of rain was beginning to fall and that now and then a line of lightning streaked the sky. Under other circumstances nothing would have persuaded Carl von Reuter to have so failed in courtesy as his present action showed. For whatever the difference in points of view between an American and a foreigner, there is little difference in the code of good breeding between one civilized nation and another. And Lieutenant von Reuter was a member of the old German nobility. Indeed, one of the objections to him which both Esther and Polly had expressed was that he was almost too formal, too conventional in his manner and behavior for their simpler American taste. So of course there was some unusual impulse, some strong emotion and design now urging him ahead almost to the complete forgetting of his other companions. But not since the hour of their original meeting had the young German failed to acknowledge to himself that Betty Ashton had a charm for him which no other girl had ever before possessed. He had known no other American girls until now, and his acquaintance with German girls of his own position in life had been at solemn parties, where they were usually too frightened and self-conscious to have much to say for themselves. Of course he had always been told that American girls were unlike any others and yet had failed to imagine that they could have the beauty and fascination that Betty Ashton had for him. Why, he had not even tried to find out anything about her family, about her position in the world! For it is a curious fact that foreigners who care so much for class distinctions in their own countries have no such attitude toward Americans. Because we have no titles, because a family that is poor and obscure in one generation may be rich and distinguished in the next, they consider that all Americans are of equal position except in the matter of wealth. And this fact Carl von Reuter had learned in connection with Betty Ashton. She was poor, there was no possibility of doubting it. One could see it plainly enough in the simple fashion in which they were living and through their ordinary conversation. Moreover, Betty had made no effort to hide the fact. Indeed, it had seemed at times as if she were anxious to speak of it for some secret reason of her own. Yet she need not have felt this necessary, since there could be no uncertainty in the young count's mind. Frederick von Reuter, who seemed to have almost forgotten his own emotion in his deep interest in his cousin's, having made careful inquiries through his bank, had sadly reported that Miss Ashton could not possibly be regarded as an American heiress. This information, tragic as it may have sounded at the time, had no place in Carl's thoughts tonight. He was only possessed of the one thought that the girl whom he admired and liked so much was alone in the woods, probably hurt and needing his aid. And that at any moment she might be caught in a fierce thunderstorm. As the young fellow strode swiftly along--he had hunted too frequently in his own forests not to be entirely familiar with them--he began to realize that the signal which his two girl companions had recognized first was coming from the same neighborhood where he had had a previous meeting with them. For as he drew nearer, once again the signals flashed, though dimmer now because of the increasing strength of the storm. Curiously enough, as he strode along he was recalling the story of Siegfried and Brunhilde which he had repeated to the three girls at Polly's request. And the words of Siegfried's song came back to his mind. This was not just an idle coincidence. The Germans are a far more sentimental and music-loving race of people than we can fully understand. And from the hour when Carl von Reuter had first seen Betty, the beauty of her gold-red hair had suddenly made him think of his small boy dream of this best-loved heroine in all the old German legends. There was hardly a time in his childhood when he had not been devoted to this story, which is usually unfamiliar to American boys and girls until such time as they are grown and begin seeing Wagner's wonderful operas, written about these tales of the Nibelung. And in truth the young man found Betty Ashton as much encircled by fire as ever the famous Brunhilde could have been and with the thunder and lightning playing over her head like the final scene in "Siegfried." The girl lay on the ground between two smouldering fires from which only feeble columns of smoke were now arising, although there were flames enough still left among the embers to reveal the outline of her form. Nevertheless, though Carl von Reuter called her name aloud long before he could reach her side, Betty made no response. A short time after the reason was sufficiently plain, for she had fainted. For half a moment the young lieutenant stood silent, staring down upon her, too full of feeling to trust himself to speak. She looked so utterly worn out and exhausted. Her thin summer dress of some light color and material was torn and soiled and her hair had come unfastened and was hanging loose about her shoulders, making a kind of vivid pillow against the darker background of the earth. For when another sudden flash of lightning followed the girl's hair was the color of the flame. "Miss Ashton," Carl von Reuter called. It was evident enough even in these first few minutes what had taken place. For one of Betty's shoes was off and her ankle had been put into splints and bandaged with the sleeve torn from her gown. She must have dragged herself about collecting wood and underbrush for her camp fires and there was at present no way of guessing how many she may have had to build before her signals were discovered. "Miss Ashton--Betty!" Lieutenant von Reuter called again. But the girl made no answer and the heavens suddenly seemed to part wide open, letting forth a heavy downpour of rain. In the same instant the young man gathered up the girl in his arms and ran toward the shelter of his hunting lodge. He had always the key with him, so that the door was quickly opened. Placing her on a couch, he then lighted candles; but the next moment, now that Betty was safe, he had a sudden appreciation of the struggle and anxiety of his three companions, whom he had so unceremoniously deserted. With a silver hunting whistle to his lips he blew loudly and then waited for an answer. None succeeded and he tried again and again. The third time an answering "hello" came from the lips of Richard Ashton. When the young count finally turned and re-entered the room he discovered that Betty's eyes were now open and that she was looking gratefully and with entire consciousness at him. But without attempting to do anything more than smile at her reassuringly the young lieutenant knelt and started a fire in his big open fireplace. And before it had done more than flicker into a light blaze, Polly, Esther and Dick were also crowding into the room, the girls kneeling beside Betty, while Carl von Reuter apologized to Dr. Ashton for his desertion. It was now past midnight and out of the question for any one of the three girls to attempt the journey home. So after seeing that his four guests were made as comfortable as possible in his lodge for the night, it was the young German officer who tramped the long distance back through the rain to assure Mrs. Ashton and Miss Adams of Betty's discovery. CHAPTER XVI A Heart-to-Heart Talk Several days later Betty Ashton was driven over to spend the day with Polly and Miss Adams. Her accident had not been a serious one, since by putting her ankle into splints at once she had saved it from dangerous swelling. Nevertheless she was unable to walk about except on crutches and so the tedium of staying at home was trying. Particularly as this was one of Esther's days in Berlin devoted to her music lesson, Betty wished to be with her friends. The three women had spent the morning out of doors, but after lunch, as it grew unexpectedly cool, Polly suggested that a small fire be laid in their queer German stove, which was built of porcelain and stood like an odd-shaped monument in a corner of the sitting room. Betty was resting on the sofa, Miss Adams writing letters at her desk and Polly sitting on a low stool as close as possible to the few embers visible near the base of the stove. She had never forgotten her old devotion to a camp fire and this was as good a substitute as one could obtain in their little German household. Strangely enough no one of the little company had spoken a single word for the past ten minutes, so that it might have appeared as though all possible confidences had been exchanged during the morning. Margaret Adams finally got up and coming across the room, seated herself on the edge of Betty's sofa. She was wearing a soft, dark-blue silk made with no other trimming than a girdle and a little round collar of lace, and she seemed very few years older than her two companions. The Princess looked at the great lady admiringly. It had been difficult to think of Miss Adams today except as one of themselves. She had been so gay and friendly, laughing over their jokes and apparently never once thinking or talking of herself. How wonderful to be able to accept fame and wealth in so simple a spirit, and what an object lesson for erratic Polly! Yet some benefit must Miss Adams have received from her friend, for surely she was looking years younger since her arrival in the German forests and so rested that she might soon be able to go back to her work with renewed talent. Think of being rested by being in Polly O'Neill's society! How surprised Polly's mother and Mollie would be by this information! And unconsciously Betty began smiling into the lovely face now bending over hers. Could it be possible that Miss Adams was actually blushing, that she was returning her gaze with a kind of gentle timidity that somehow recalled either Mollie or Meg? Then suddenly Margaret Adams said, "Betty, I have been wishing to apologize to you ever since the day of your accident. I know that no one else will tell you, but on the evening when we were so worried over deciding what might have become of you, I suggested that you might have gone for a walk or drive alone with Lieutenant von Reuter without thinking to let your mother know, and that some accident had occurred to delay you. At the time Polly scolded me dreadfully for my lack of faith in you, yet I don't feel that it would be quite fair to you unless I make this confession." What on earth would Betty Ashton not have given at this moment to have prevented her cheeks from suddenly crimsoning in such a ridiculous fashion? Would she never hear the end of her escapade? Excepting her mother, her own family had been curiously severe and unsympathetic over what had seemed to her only an act of foolishness on her part, scarcely a crime. And here was Polly O'Neill also frowning upon her at this present instant as if she had been a saint herself during all her past life. "It is all right, Miss Adams, of course," Betty murmured. "I am not in the least offended by your conjecture. It was natural enough under the circumstances, I think." And here Betty raised herself on one elbow, forgetting everything else in her earnestness. "Won't you tell me, please, Miss Adams, if it would have been so dreadful a thing if I had done what you supposed? Of course I should have let mother know, but otherwise I should not have thought anything of it. Why, it seems to me that it would have been much better had I had a companion on my walk. Because when I was such a goose as to catch my foot in a tangle of vines and tumble headlong, had Lieutenant von Reuter been with me he could have helped me home or at least let mother hear so that I need not have given so much trouble and uneasiness." Miss Adams kissed the girl impetuously, failing to see that Polly was frowning at them both. "Yes, dear, since you honestly wish to know, it would not have been wise," the older woman answered, "though I understood at the time that you might have done the thing without thinking. You know there is an old expression--and of course these old expressions bore us so that we are apt to forget how vital they are--that when we live in Rome we must do as the Romans so. I wish American girls would remember this adage a little better when they are traveling in Europe. You see, these old countries over here have had their customs much longer than we have had ours, and a walk with a friend would have meant nothing of any importance to you, but to them----" "Margaret," Polly O'Neil broke into the conversation abruptly, "I don't mean to be rude in interrupting you. But there is one thing that Betty Ashton has never yet explained to my satisfaction or anybody else's, and I don't see why she should not do it now. Will you please tell me, Betty, whatever induced you to start off on such a journey by yourself? You must have known that the walk would take you several hours at least, even if nothing unforeseen had happened. Surely you had sense enough to know that your wandering around in a strange woods alone without anyone's knowing where you were would not be safe at any time or place. What made you do it?" Betty bit her lips. It was true that she and Polly had never failed in the past in being absolutely honest with each other, nor had she ever hesitated to ask of Polly anything that she herself desired to know. Yet it was hardly fair that she should be asked this particular question before a comparative stranger. It had been difficult enough to make Dick and Esther accept her explanation as a reasonable one after several days of discussion. So what should she now answer Polly? For her friend's eyes were upon her with that queer searching gaze they sometimes wore, and her high cheek bones were flushed with determination--and something else. "Answer me," Polly repeated firmly. "Why, I thought I told you the other morning," Betty returned meekly. "I had no very special reason for taking the walk. I was just nervous and restless and kind of worried and all of a sudden as I started for home, why it seemed to me that I could not bear to go indoors so soon. And then I thought of the beautiful woods where we were together a while ago and I believed that if I could rest there for a little I should be----" "Be what, Betty Ashton?" Polly demanded almost savagely. And then she shook her head sagely and with her arms about her knees relapsed into her old habit of rocking herself thoughtfully back and forth. "You need not try to explain anything further to me or to any one else for that matter. Your explanations are too absurd. Because if you don't know yourself what is the trouble with you, Esther and I both do. You are falling in love. You have not been like yourself for weeks! Why do you suppose that just now when I asked you a simple question that you should hesitate and flush? You went to that same old place in the forest alone just because you wanted to think about----" But the Princess was now getting up from her place on the sofa and the other girl understood perfectly well her pretty air of offended dignity. "Miss Adams," Betty began quietly, "it is growing late and if you don't mind will you ask your maid to send for my carriage. I have had a lovely day with you. Thank you for having asked me." And as she started limping into the other room for her wraps it was the older woman who slipped her arm affectionately about her, in the meantime frowning at Polly with more displeasure than she had ever before shown. But Mistress Polly did not stir from her stool nor cease from rocking herself after the other two women had disappeared. Nor did she even repent sufficiently to help Betty out to her carriage, in spite of her friend's temporary lameness and need of her. The maid and Margaret could this time fill her place. But it was not only bad temper nor was it exactly repentance for her impertinence that kept Polly so steadfast in her childish position. It was ridiculous of her, certainly, and yet she could not keep back her tears. She had been fearful that her beloved Betty was beginning to care for this young foreigner; now she felt absolutely assured of it. For Betty would not even deny her accusation nor quarrel with her effrontery. How grown-up she had become, her dear Princess! And what a gracious, high-bred manner she had! It was too dreadful to have to think of leaving her behind in a foreign country forever and ever, married to a man whose ideas of life must be so different from theirs. Well, for her part she should fight against such a marriage taking place to the bitter end! Nevertheless this resolution did not keep Polly from feeling like a very rude and much-snubbed little girl for the rest of that afternoon and evening. Miss Adams did not refrain from assuring her that she had behaved like a bad-mannered child. For whether or not the Princess was beginning to care for the young lieutenant, it was both unjust and unkind in Polly to try to tear away the delicate veil of romance which in the beginning should cover all young eyes. As for Betty herself, she of course made no comment on the day's experiences to her family, except to say that she had had a pleasant enough time, but was tired. No one of them paid her as much attention as usual, for they were too deeply interested in some news which Dick Ashton had just received in an American letter. Anthony Graham had written saying that old Judge Maynard had recently died and that Betty had been mentioned in the old man's will. The will had not yet been probated, but would be within the month, when full particulars would be furnished them. At the time of his death Anthony had been with the old Judge, who had asked that the Ashton family be advised of his intention. It was odd that under the circumstances Betty should appear to be the least interested of the four persons about their small dinner table in the news of her own good fortune. "I wonder how much the legacy will amount to, mother--only a few hundred dollars, I presume," Dick Ashton suggested. "It is an amazing thing to me, however, why Judge Maynard should have left Betty a cent. Of course he is an old bachelor with no heirs, but he seemed to have taken a great fancy to this Graham fellow. And moreover, Betty was entirely an outsider." Mrs. Ashton would not entirely agree to her son's line of argument. For Judge Maynard and her husband had been great friends, and interested in a number of business ventures together in earlier days, when Mr. Ashton had helped make the Judge's fortune as well as his own. And the older man had not had the misfortune to lose his. Moreover, he had been devoted to Betty when she was a small girl and later had shown much interest in her effort to hold on to the old Ashton place. "I should not be in the least surprised, dear, if the old Judge has left you as much as a thousand dollars," Mrs. Ashton insisted as she helped Betty undress and kissed her good-night. CHAPTER XVII The Day Before Esther's Début Three weeks had passed and Betty Ashton had fully recovered from her accident. Today she had been doing a hundred small tasks in the house, marching up and down their little garden, sometimes alone and sometimes with Polly, yet never getting beyond calling distance of home. Now and then she would tiptoe softly to a small bedroom and stand outside for a moment listening silently. If a voice called her she went inside for a little while, but if not she would go quietly away. For a solemn edict had been issued in the family the evening before, that on the following day no matter what should take place Esther must have absolute rest. At four o'clock, however, she was to be aroused, dressed and given a light tea, since at five they were to start for Berlin, where Esther was to make her _début_ as a singer at Professor Hecksher's celebrated autumn concert. And curiously enough, Esther had been able to sleep the greater part of the morning. For weeks before it had seemed to her that she had slept neither day nor night, so intense had been her nervousness and dread. Suppose she should make a ghastly failure of her songs; suppose as she stepped out on the stage, facing an audience largely composed of German critics and musicians,--that one of her old attacks of shyness should seize her? Her own disgrace she might be able to bear, but not Betty's, nor her father's, who was writing such eager, excited letters from Woodford with the sailing of each ship to their port; and not Richard Ashton's, who had always been her good friend. Through his kindness had she not first been allowed to play the grand piano at the old Ashton homestead, in those early days when her hunger for music had been almost as strong as her hunger for love? But after her breakfast, which Betty brought to her sitting beside her on the bed while she ate, Esther for the time at least forgot her fears. There was nothing more that she could do--no further thought or study or preparation of any kind that she could give to her evening's work. So a feeling of gentle lassitude stole over her with the conviction that she was now in the hands of fate, and that it was useless to struggle further. But if Esther was spared this final nervous tension before her _début_, Betty Ashton experienced a double portion of it. Indeed, in after years she often used to say that never at another time in her life had she suffered anything like it--not even on her own wedding day when every girl supposedly reaches the climax of excitement. It was not because Betty had any lack of faith in her sister's talent, for no one who had heard Esther sing in the past few months could have doubted her ability. Even Miss Adams, who had heard most of the world's great singers, had assured them that they need have no fear for her future. Yet Betty knew her sister's disposition so well, knew how little self-esteem Esther had, how little of the vanity that sometimes seems necessary to success, and there was a harrowing possibility that she might suddenly be made ill from stage fright. Yet of course the younger girl recognized her own foolishness in allowing her imagination to dwell on such remote chances. Hardly was she able to explain even to herself the exact reasons for her feeling of stress and strain on that day which seemed so interminably long. Of course she and Polly had made up their difficulty long before--they had been having quarrels and making up ever since they were tiny girls--but today even Polly's society had failed to offer her any consolation, until at last Polly had gone back home to rest for an hour or two before dressing for their journey into Berlin. And Mrs. Ashton had insisted upon Betty's doing the same thing. The girl could not make up her mind to stay shut up in the house, for although it was early October, the day was delightfully warm, so she lay down in a steamer chair under a tree in the yard, and covering herself with a light-blue shawl, fell at once into her former train of thought. For in some way it was not just this thought of Esther's concert alone that had so filled her mind, but the idea that this concert in a measure was to be a turning point in their lives. Soon after it was over Polly and Miss Adams intended returning to America and Dick Ashton was to go with them. For not long after his talk with Esther on the train he had also discussed the same matter with his mother, and though she and Betty were both deeply grieved over giving him up, it was plain enough to them that Dick's future now lay in the United States. There he must make his reputation and establish himself in his profession. Nevertheless Betty could not now leave Esther to fight her battles alone, and just as surely Mrs. Ashton must remain with Betty. So Dick was to begin his struggle without his family. He had received a fine opening with a prominent physician in Boston, an old friend of his father's who had always known of his devotion and success in his chosen work, so that except for his loneliness there was no special reason for troubling about his immediate future. Notwithstanding, Betty was troubled. For Dick was not in the least like himself, had not been all summer, and now was becoming more and more solemn and stern as the time of his leave-taking approached. Of course she had always remembered him as more serious than most other young men; yet he had never before been morose or unhappy. All their lives had they not been having wonderfully good times together? And now--well, for one thing, Betty knew perfectly that her brother was feeling uneasy over her friendship with Lieutenant von Reuter and had not hesitated in telling her so, expressing his own disapproval of any further intimacy between them. And assuredly she had failed in giving him any satisfaction in return. For Betty had made no clearer revelation of her feeling toward the young foreigner to her brother than she had to Polly O'Neill. She had positively declined having their friendship interfered with, and as Richard Ashton knew nothing against him he was forced to yield to his sister's wish. Mrs. Ashton entirely sympathized with Betty, and made no effort to hide her pleasure in Carl von Reuter's attentions. As the girl lay almost as if she were asleep in her big chair, now and then opening her eyes to glance up at the deeply blue October sky, it did not seem to her that her own obstinacy in this one particular was a sufficient reason for Dick's dejection. And yet what other reason could there be? He had promised to come home from Berlin earlier this afternoon in order to escort them back again. And probably if Esther's _début_ was a tremendous success he might be made more cheerful. And then in all probability Betty must have fallen asleep for about ten minutes, because when next she opened her eyes, Dick was standing within a few feet of her and some one else was beside him. "Betty," she heard her brother's voice saying, "wake up, please, won't you and speak to an old friend? For otherwise you would never guess in half a lifetime who has arrived and come to me in Berlin today." Making a tremendous effort to attain her usual dignity, Betty opened wide her gray eyes, stared, tried to get up out of her chair, and then finding her feet tangled in the blue shawl, stumbled and would have fallen except for the newcomer's outstretched arm. Yet even when he had restored her to her usual equilibrium she did not immediately recognize their visitor, although she found herself looking up into a pair of clear hazel eyes and at the strong, clean outline of a typical American face. The young man must have been about twenty-three or four years old. He had dark hair, resolutely forbidden to curl, and curiously brilliant skin; but the contour of his face was almost too lean and the expression of his lips and chin too set and firm for so young a fellow. "Miss Ashton," he began unsmilingly, "am I always to have to tell you who I am each time we meet?" And then, just as she had once several years before, Betty held out both hands in a surprised and happy greeting. "Why, it is Anthony Graham! But you must please forgive me, because how in the world could I ever have dreamed of seeing you here? What in the wide world has brought you to Germany?" And as Anthony did not answer at once, Dick Ashton walked away, coming back a moment later with two porch chairs, which he placed near his sister's larger one. "Sit down again, please, Betty," he asked. "I realize that we have very little time, but I think it better that you should hear at once what Mr. Graham has come all the way across the ocean to tell you." And Dick's face was so queer that it was quite impossible to tell what his emotions might be, so that Betty clutched the sides of her chair, white and frightened. "Yes, please, if it is bad news, tell me at once," she whispered. Anthony Graham's smile, appearing now for the first time, was immediately reassuring. "But it is not bad news and we should not have frightened you," he began at once. "It is news that almost anybody in the world would be more than happy to hear. Judge Maynard has left you the greatest part of his fortune, which will amount to about fifty thousand dollars, I believe, and as he made me his executor, I have come over to try and make matters clear to you and your mother and brother." [Illustration: "FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS TO ME!"] "Fifty thousand dollars to me!" Betty Ashton heard the tones of her own voice distinctly and yet was hardly conscious of what she was saying. "Why, what could have influenced Judge Maynard to leave me so much money? I simply can't understand it." "You don't have to understand it, Miss Betty; you just have to accept and enjoy it," Anthony argued. "But some day when we have more time I should like to tell you some of the things Judge Maynard said to me at about the time he was writing his last will. He was a peculiar, childless old man and he had always been more fond of you than you or any member of your family dreamed. And after your father's death, when you went on so cheerfully with your life in spite of the change in your fortune, he made up his mind to look after your future." "But you, Anthony. Polly told me that it was to you the Judge had taken such a great fancy that most of the people in Woodford expected him to make _you_ his heir. I cannot take your inheritance." Anthony Graham laughed, at the same moment getting up from his chair. "I have to take the next train back to Berlin, but I mean to see you tonight at Miss Esther's concert. And please, Dr. Ashton, won't you explain to your sister that she cannot take from me an inheritance which I never had nor dreamed of having. Judge Maynard believed that a man should make his own way in the world. So he has left me the chance to go on with his law practice if I am big enough to hold on to it, and besides that a legacy of five thousand dollars." "But how could you have come away from home at such a time, running the risk of losing so much?" Betty queried thoughtfully. "I suppose you might have written us all the details of my inheritance if you had chosen." Richard Ashton appeared a little annoyed at what seemed to him a lack of appreciation and of proper friendliness in his sister's speech. Their guest, however, showed no hurt or concern. He merely looked steadfastly at Betty, saying with a directness and honesty that was to distinguish him for the rest of his life, "I don't wonder at your being surprised. But I have never been out of the state of New Hampshire before in my life. And it seemed to me about time that I should learn something more of the outside world. And besides I was not willing to have many more months go by without seeing you once again." CHAPTER XVIII That Night Although six persons left the little station at Waldheim to attend the concert in Berlin by special arrangement, Esther and Betty were allowed to occupy a coach in the train together without any one else being with them. Esther had particularly asked that this might be arranged. The two sisters did not speak very often during the trip, but sat quietly looking out the window holding each other's hands. Judging from the two faces, one might reasonably have supposed that it was Betty Ashton who was about to make her _début_ that evening instead of Esther. For the older girl's eyes shone with a new happiness and content. Just while she was dressing for her concert her sister had managed to tell her the news of Judge Maynard's surprising will. And from that moment Esther had almost forgotten the trying ordeal ahead of her in her joy over Betty's good fortune. For now she need no longer worry over her little sister's future, no longer grieve over the change in her fortune. Why, she might even fail tonight and Betty would not suffer. She gave a sigh, and the Princess drew closer to her. "You are not to think about a single thing that has any connection with the concert tonight, Esther," the younger girl reminded her. "Professor Hecksher says that you know your song perfectly and your encore is to be a surprise even to me. Let us talk about our old Camp Fire days in the woods. Don't you remember when we thought poor little Nan Graham must have stolen that wretched money of mine, when I had only lost it in the woods and Polly had discovered it. Dick says that Anthony Graham told him Nan has a fine position as a teacher of domestic science in a high school in Dartmouth. And it seems that his father has reformed and gone to work and the whole family now is quite different. Anthony gives all the credit of the changes to Nan and Nan ascribes them to what she learned in our Camp Fire club at Sunrise Hill. It is lovely to think that may be true, isn't it?" "Yes, and even better to reflect that Betty Ashton originated the club," Esther returned. "Yes, and that Esther suggested the idea to her by singing an exquisite song and then with her own hands starting a fire," Betty added. So the two girls talked on fitfully while the train carried them swiftly onward toward the great German city. The concert was to be held in a small opera house close to one of the more fashionable avenues. It was an old building, but was considered a particularly fine one for musical purposes. And immediately upon their arrival Mrs. Ashton and Betty went with Esther to remain in her dressing room until a short time before her appearance. Dick Ashton, Miss Adams and Polly had a box reserved for them near the stage, where Betty and Mrs. Ashton were to join them. But before they appeared Anthony Graham in immaculate evening clothes came around to the box door to extend his greetings to Polly, and Dick insisted that he be one of their party. And five minutes afterwards Lieutenant von Reuter also joined them, Betty having invited him several days before. The concert was to be a serious musical affair commencing with the playing of a stringed orchestra led by the great Professor Hecksher himself. And as Polly had never seen him before, she amused herself while waiting for Betty's return and fighting off her own apprehensions about Esther by never taking her eyes from the great man's face. He must have weighed two hundred and fifty pounds and yet had the face of a glorified cherub. His hair was long and light, hanging down to his shoulders and he wore spectacles over his burning, heavy-lidded brown eyes. The first singer on the program was supposed to be the famous teacher's star pupil. But because she seemed old and ugly to Polly O'Neill and because the girl could hardly wait for her own friend to be heard, she took little interest in the really remarkable solo and was almost vexed with Miss Adams and with Carl von Reuter for their evident admiration of a stranger. It was a comfort to her to observe that Richard Ashton seemed to be feeling just as she did and that he spent the greater part of his time studying the audience, trying to discover just how many important musical critics were present. Anthony Graham also had the air of waiting for something or some one. A quartette followed, and then a violin solo, and afterwards Betty and Mrs. Ashton stole quietly in, taking the two chairs left vacant for them. Polly and Miss Adams were in the front row with Dick Ashton at one side of them, near the back of the box and yet facing the stage. In the second row Betty had the outside seat and she kept her elbow resting on the plush railing with her chin in her hand, entirely unconscious of the large crowd about her. Next her Carl von Reuter had arranged his chair, leaving Mrs. Ashton and Anthony in the rear. A young man sang before the time for Esther's appearance, but Betty never recalled having seen or heard him. She had left her sister composed and not especially nervous; but there was no way of guessing what a surge of feeling might since have overtaken her. And then Esther's moment came. Notwithstanding that Betty had dressed her, fixed her hair and kissed her only a few moments before, she hardly recognized her own sister as she walked slowly to the front of the stage. For had they not always thought of Esther as the homeliest of their group of Camp Fire girls? What had happened to her, what wonderful transformation had taken place? Polly O'Neill almost gasped aloud. Of course every one of her friends had appreciated how much Esther had improved in appearance in the past two years, but it was hardly credible that she could look and behave like this, a girl brought up in an orphan asylum with no friends and no opportunities for so long a time! Well, one should understand that into each life certain wonderful hours may come when one seems to transcend one's self. And tonight such an hour had come to Esther. She was to sing Elizabeth's farewell song from the opera of Tannhäuser. And though the concert was not to be sung in costume, so far as possible in selecting and arranging Esther's dress Betty had been mindful of the character and the circumstances of her song. In the opera there is seen a wayside shrine where the Princess Elizabeth appears each day to pray for the soul of her lover, the knight Tannhäuser, who has gone on a pilgrimage to Rome to ask that his sins may be forgiven him. On this last day the pilgrims have passed on their journey homeward and among them Elizabeth sees no sign of her lost lover, so that she knows he must be unforgiven. She then sings this final song, asking that peace may come to her at last. Esther wore a long white gown of _crêpe de chine_ made in simple classic lines, with the draped tunic which is a modern fashion copied after a far older model. Ordinarily she was too tall and angular in every-day clothes, but this toilette seemed to give her just the grace and dignity her figure and character needed. Her red hair, which had grown a little darker as she grew older, was tonight a crown of glory, so that the pallor of her long grave face did not matter, for her always beautiful mouth had a look both of power and of wistfulness that surprised the strangers in the audience. "The girl is far too young for the song her teacher has chosen for her," the critics whispered among themselves. It is not fair to make such an experiment, for this song of Elizabeth's is one of the favorites among the great prima donnas. What would this young girl do with it? Would she be too theatrical, too showy, or fail altogether? While the orchestra played the opening chords Esther waited with her hands clasped lightly together in front of her, but not moving them with her old nervous gesture. Neither did she seem to be looking at anything or anybody. Not once did she even glance toward the box where her sister and friends were watching her, though in a kind of subconscious fashion she was aware of the white intensity in Betty's pretty face and the look of grave strength and helpfulness in Richard Ashton's. Then Esther began to sing--and Betty, Dick, Polly, Mrs. Ashton and indeed all her friends, both new and old, had a sudden sensation of bitter disappointment. The tears came into Betty's eyes, rolling unheeded down her cheeks, though Polly slipped her hand back through the opening in her chair to press it sympathetically. However, Richard Ashton only set his lips, hardly breathing for the space of half a moment. Did he not recall a similar beginning on Esther's part some years before, when she had sung the Indian Love Song before a group of their Woodford acquaintances, which he had at first believed would end in a failure? Esther would not find this audience so ready to forgive or admire should she take too long a time before winning their attention. "O blessed Virgin, hear my prayer! Thou star of glory, look on me!" These lines were whispered in so low a tone that they were almost inaudible except to the persons nearest the stage and Esther's voice trembled with nervousness. Was she frightened as she had expected to be? It was difficult to decide, because she stood so still. "Here in the dust I bend before thee, Now from this earth oh set me free! Let me a maiden pure and white, Enter into thy kingdom bright!" Betty's tension relaxed. "Bravo," Miss Adams whispered under her breath. Richard Ashton felt a glow which was oddly commingled of pleasure, pride and sorrow. Yet one could not think, could not feel any other emotion now except wonder and delight as the beautiful voice in perfect sympathy with the music and its theme filled every shadowy space in the opera house with harmony. Betty witnessed the expressions on several previously bored faces near them changing first to surprise, then interest and finally frank pleasure. Small wonder that the old German music master had allowed this young American girl to appear unheralded before them! She could only be twenty-one or twenty-two years old at the most. What a future lay before her! Still Esther sang on: "If vain desires and earthy longing Have turn'd my heart from thee away, The sinful hopes within me thronging Before thy blessed feet I lay. I'll wrestle with the love I cherished, Until in death its flame hath perish'd. If of my sin thou wilt not shrive me, Yet in this hour, oh grant thy aid! Till thy eternal peace thou give me, And on thy bounty I will call, That heav'nly grace on him may fall." And with the closing words of her song Esther suddenly seemed to have reached the realization of all her worst fears. Surely she had failed abjectly, for was there not a silence everywhere about her, chilling and cruel? Would not a single pair of hands applaud? She dared not try to find the face of her master, for she hoped never to have to see Professor Hecksher again so long as she lived. Yet here miraculously enough he had appeared on the stage standing next her, with one of his powerful hands holding tight to her cold one, bowing and smiling, while the noise of many bravos and of almost a tumult of applause shook the house. Esther then wondered why she only felt dreadfully tired and had a childish disposition to cry as the great maestro led her off the stage. But when the girl returned for her encore she was smiling, and her cheeks were more flushed than ever in her life. And in her hands she held a great bunch of pink roses which had mysteriously appeared in her dressing room. And this time she allowed herself to glance smilingly at Betty and Polly and Mrs. Ashton and even to exchange a single quiet glance with Richard Ashton. Then to the surprise, to the mystification and yet to the pleasure of her listeners, Esther sang the verses which had first touched Betty Ashton's heart and inspired her ardor on that day long ago, the song that is to remain an inspiration to many thousands of women for many years to come, the Camp Fire song of "The Soul's Desire." "Lay me to sleep in sheltering flame, O Master of the Hidden Fire. Wash pure my heart, and cleanse for me My soul's desire. "In flame of sunrise bathe my mind, O Master of the Hidden Fire, That, when I wake, clear-eyed may be My soul's desire." And ten minutes after the finishing of this second song Esther, Betty and Richard Ashton were driving to their old pension where the entire party was to spend the night, Mrs. Ashton, Polly and Miss Adams meaning to join them when the concert was over. And in the carriage, again it was Esther who seemed quiet and composed, while between tears and laughter Betty poured forth her joy and pride in her sister's wonderful success. CHAPTER XIX Tea at the Castle Several days after Esther's concert Lieutenant von Reuter persuaded Mrs. Ashton and Miss Adams to bring Betty and Polly with them to afternoon tea at the castle with his father. And as Anthony Graham, not knowing their plans, had come from Berlin for a farewell visit on the same day, he of course was included in the little company. Esther had been urged and had almost promised to be one of them, but when the morning of the party arrived she had pleaded to be excused. Immediately then Polly and Betty had both insisted that she change her mind and had tried coaxing and scolding and almost every possible form of influence until at last Mrs. Ashton had come to her rescue. For Esther had been extremely tired since her _début_ and very unlike herself both girls considered. Indeed, they even went further in thinking that she failed in proper appreciation and gratitude for her own success. However, Esther naturally believed that her friends were overestimating her achievement, yet she had recently scarcely understood herself. For it was odd and stupid of her not to feel more elation and more interest in her own future. Had not Professor Hecksher himself written her that she had sung better than he expected? And this from the master was praise indeed! However, he had also written that she was to allow herself a complete rest before they had a talk about her future plans. So with this defense and Mrs. Ashton's additional authority Esther was finally allowed the privilege of staying at home alone except for their maid. "Dick may be back a little earlier this afternoon, dear," Betty said as she kissed her sister good-by. "He has not so much to do in Berlin now that he has finished his lectures and is just closing up his affairs. Keep him with you if you feel like talking to him, but if not, ask him to come over to the castle and drive back home with us. It is absurd for Dick to be so prejudiced against Lieutenant von Reuter and dreadfully embarrassing to me. For I am sure he hasn't a reason in the world, and yet it is plain enough to everybody." And as Betty walked away after this final speech Esther had a momentary pang of regret that she had not conquered her own disinclination and gone along with them. For they and Mrs. Ashton were leaving the country for Berlin as soon as the others sailed, and this might prove an excellent chance for the young foreigner to declare his feeling for Betty, _if_ his admiration really was serious. Also Esther regretted that she had failed in asking Polly to keep a careful watch upon them, although this she understood that Polly was more than inclined to do without further suggestion. After Betty and her mother had climbed into the carriage, Anthony Graham accompanying them, and Betty had waved her hand in farewell, Esther, who was standing on the porch watching them depart, suddenly recalled Richard Ashton's half-jesting wish that their sister Betty were not quite so pretty. And this afternoon for the first time Esther believed that she agreed with him. It was absurd to send a girl looking like the Princess did at this present moment into a young man's home with the hope that he would cease to feel an interest in her. Because it was cold Betty wore a long white cloak over a china blue silk dress of her favorite shade and a white felt hat with a band of the same material about it. No costume could have been simpler, and yet excitement or pleasure or some unusual emotion had made the girl's color brighter in her eyes, her cheeks and even her hair, so that there seemed a kind of mysterious shining about her like a star--a glow which Polly O'Neill recognized instantly as she took her place beside her in the carriage with Anthony Graham in front with the driver and Miss Adams and Mrs. Ashton together on the back seat. Indeed, it inspired Polly to give her friend rather a malicious pinch which actually hurt a little and yet for which she would neither apologize nor explain. Betty presumed that it must have something to do with Anthony Graham's presence, since Polly immediately began making herself more than usually agreeable to him, insisting that he give them his impressions of Germany and the Germans, when Anthony would much have preferred remaining silent. Polly hoped that thus she might be enabled to make her friend realize how much cleverer and more worth while an American fellow was than any blond Siegfried whom she might have met by accident in a foreign land. Carl von Reuter's old feudal estate, however, was picturesque enough to excite even Polly's undivided admiration, as they drove along an avenue of oak trees, some of them more than a century old, and crossed a drawbridge over a moat, which now formed the bed of a stream flowing down from the hills. Outside in the garden in front of the house the visitors found Lieutenant von Reuter, his cousin Frederick and his father walking about in the afternoon sunshine waiting to receive their guests. And the young count wore his full dress uniform as an officer in one of the Kaiser's regiments. He was undeniably handsome, and there was no doubt but that he and Betty made a striking picture as they stood side by side for a moment before entering the house, while the young man showed the girl the view of their hunting forests over to the right where she had had her accident. Tea was served in the most splendid apartment that either the two American girls or Anthony Graham had ever seen before in their lives. Perhaps there was some motive in their host's inviting them into the big banqueting hall in an upper part of the castle rather than in the shabby drawing rooms on the first floor, where the poverty of the family was so much more apparent. But even if this were true, the selection was a happy one, for which his guests were unfeignedly thankful. The great room was fifty feet long and about two-thirds as broad. It had heavy black oak paneling midway to the ceiling, which was formed of heavy beams and rafters of the same wood. And along the ledge of the wainscoting were old tankards of silver and pewter, plates hammered deep with the armorial bearings of different branches of the family. Shields hung against the walls and battered helmets, while standing in groups or in solemn solitary dignity were the "iron men" or the "knights in armor," who had fought for their war lords long before Germany was an empire. The old count, although he spoke English much less well than his son, led his guests toward a circular space underneath a great stained-glass window, where the light of the afternoon sun shone rose and gold upon the carved table and high-back chairs. He appeared genuinely pleased with their interest and enthusiasm over his estate and the country near by, until Polly, whose sense of the dramatic was always stronger than any other, felt herself becoming as ardently admiring of the older man as she was critical of his son. And after tea was over and the others sat discussing unimportant matters, in a moment of thoughtlessness, Polly allowed the old count to lead her and Anthony Graham to another part of the house in order to show them his library. Mrs. Ashton and Miss Adams had expressed themselves as too tired for the climbing of more stairs, while Betty, Carl and Frederick von Reuter, though making no excuses, yet failed to join them. When nearly midway down the room it did occur to Polly as unwise to be leaving Betty unchaperoned by her own vigilance, yet as Betty now shook her head, declining positively to be lured into this excursion, there was nothing to do but to trust her friend to Mrs. Ashton and Margaret Adams for a few moments. Nevertheless Polly should have understood that Mrs. Ashton would not oppose any suggestion for a more intimate conversation with Betty that the young lieutenant might chance to make. And of course it was impossible for Miss Adams to object unless Betty's mother did. As for Frederick von Reuter, the attraction he once entertained for the American girl seemed to continue now only in a kind of transferred interest in his cousin's success. So that five minutes after Polly disappeared out of one door at the far end of the hall, Carl von Reuter led Betty through another, ostensibly to show her a celebrated portrait in the family gallery, but without inviting the others to accompany them. And Betty seemed quite willingly to have accepted his invitation. Once inside the gallery, she appeared more deeply interested in the pictures than the young man expected or desired. For the greater number of them were ugly old men and stout elderly _Frauen_ with no very strong attraction even for their descendant. And there at the end of the dark room near a window hung with a faded velvet curtain, stood a small oak seat, while beyond was a particularly fine view of the park. But Betty could only be lured to this seat by long effort and the moment after seating herself suggested that they had best return to the others now that the pictures had been seen, since it must be almost time for leaving for home. Nevertheless, as her host did not stir or even seem to have heard her request, Betty subsided for a few moments. She was honestly weary, being unaccustomed to such a vast house with its miles of steps and endless passage-ways. "Miss Ashton," said Lieutenant von Reuter suddenly and quite formally, "will you do me the honor to become my wife? In my country you know it is the custom to speak first to the parent, but I understand that it is not so in your United States." Then as Betty gazed at him without answering, although her face had flushed deeply, he went on with more feeling: "You know I have cared for you always since our first meeting. I have been unable--I have not cared to conceal it." Frightened and uncertain, Betty bit her lips to keep them from trembling. This was her first proposal, and she could not help thinking of that for a moment; besides it was so romantic! No one of her friends would ever be apt to experience anything like it. Here she and Lieutenant von Reuter were in his splendid, shabby old castle sitting together in the shadow of his ancestors. Why, what he had just said to her meant that she might some day be a countess if she wished! But Betty brought herself together with a slight frown and a feeling of distaste and shame of herself. What absurd ideas were in her mind in the presence of so tremendously serious a subject! Here she was thinking and behaving like a foolish dreaming child. Did she care for Carl von Reuter for himself? Would she have cared had he been of more humble origin, had he been less handsome? Betty glanced at the young fellow almost fearfully. She had been trying to decide how much she liked him before this without success. Yet because until today he had not declared his feeling toward her, she had not felt it necessary wholly to make up her mind. "But I thought, Lieutenant von Reuter," Betty answered slowly, "that it was impossible for you to marry any one who was not wealthy, that your estates were mortgaged and that your father looked to you to make your old name prominent once more." Until now she had kept her head slightly turned away; but with her question Betty faced her companion, her expression grave and interested. Yet she was surprised to see that the young man's blue eyes now closed slightly while his fair face flushed with what appeared to be an odd combination of satisfaction and regret. "But you are no longer poor, Miss Ashton," he answered unexpectedly. "I have lately heard of your good fortune, and while it is very little compared to the amount my father expected me to marry, it may be enough. At least, I have been able to persuade him that I care for you so much that we must make it do." Carl von Reuter spoke quite frankly without any special embarrassment, for it did not seem to him that his speech was in any way remarkable. Indeed, it should make Betty realize the extent of his admiration for her that he had been able to overlook the smallness of her inheritance in comparison with his own needs. Why, a week before he should not have been able to make any declaration of his own feelings! Yet now he was offering his title, his castle, almost his whole future, to an American girl whose estate was so small that it could scarcely do more than cover their debts. And that Betty should not be honored by his offer was beyond his point of view. A German girl would have appreciated the sacrifice he was making; so why not an American? Betty sat perfectly still during his explanation, with her hands clasped tightly together, showing white against the blue folds of her dress. In her whole life she had never felt so astounded, so completely overwhelmed, and in truth so angry. How could any man coolly say to her that he was willing to marry her in spite of the smallness of her fortune, plainly insinuating at the same moment that unless she had had the good luck to come into her unexpected inheritance she should never have received the honor at all. The girl's cheeks first flushed hotly and then she felt herself growing pale and self-possessed. Never in her life had she had a more important demand made upon her dignity and good sense. For she must not show any kind of ill-feeling. Thank goodness that she was able to give the only kind of reply that could carry any kind of weight or conviction to her companion and that she could say it with all truthfulness. For never had Betty Ashton felt less affection for any friend she had ever had than she did at this instant for the young nobleman. "You are very kind, Lieutenant von Reuter," she now answered quietly, "and I greatly appreciate the honor which you feel you have given me. But I don't care for you in the way that you wish me to and I am very, very sure that I never can. Do you not now think it time for us to go and join the others?" And Betty talked pleasantly and unaffectedly of other things, while her host led her back on the return journey between his lines of distinguished ancestors, although the young man himself scarcely made a reply to one of her remarks. CHAPTER XX Esther and Dick Not long after the others had driven away Esther found that it was quite impossible for her to take a nap as she had planned. She seemed to be growing more restless and fatigued with every moment spent upon the bed. Besides, had she not been indoors far too much recently, when they would so soon be going back to the city where only a comparatively small amount of outdoor life would be possible? Esther did not stop to dress with any care; she merely fixed her hair and slipped a long brown coat over her dress, tying a light scarf about her hair. And because both Mrs. Ashton and Dick had insisted that no one of the three girls go any distance from home alone after Betty's misfortune, she wandered about idly in their small enclosed garden for a few moments and then sat down in Betty's empty steamer chair under their single tall linden tree. The light gusts of the October wind sent down little showers of curled-up yellow leaves and shriveled flowers upon her head and shoulders, until Esther, glancing up at them, smiled. When she dropped her eyes again she saw that Dick Ashton was on his way toward her along the short path from the gate. And he held a bundle of letters in his hand which he had stopped by the village post-office to secure. Two of them he dropped into Esther's lap and then sat down on the ground near her, sighing quite unconsciously. "Are you all by yourself?" he inquired. Esther nodded. "Yes, I did not feel like being polite to any one this afternoon. Betty told me to ask you to walk over and join them if you are not too tired." "I am not too tired, yet I have not the remotest idea of going," Dick returned quietly. "Though I declare to you, Esther, that it seems to me if Betty really does care for this German fellow, it will be about the last straw." Always if you had asked Esther Crippen's friends what they considered the dominant trait of her character the answer would have been "sympathy." So now, observing Richard Ashton's anxiety and depression, she almost entirely forgot her own. "The last straw, Dr. Ashton?" she repeated. And then smiling and yet wholly gentle she asked, "Why do you say 'the last straw' in such a desperate fashion? Surely things are not going so wrong with you! If you feel so dreadfully unhappy over leaving Betty and your mother behind, why you know I don't wish to be selfish. Take them with you; I shall manage somehow." Leaning over, Dick Ashton touched Esther's hand lightly with his lips in such a friendly, kindly fashion that the girl did not flush or draw it away. "Who says that I am so desperate over leaving mother and the Princess to take care of our future great American prima donna?" he asked half-joking and half-serious. The girl's brows drew together in her effort to understand and appreciate her friend's real meaning. "Why, I don't see what else there can be to make you unhappy," she replied thoughtfully. "You are going back to your own country, which you know you have learned to care more for with each year that you have spent away from it. And you are going to commence the practice of the profession you have always loved since you were a child. But of course if there is anything else that is worrying you which I have not the right to know, I don't want you to think that I am trying to make you confide in me. I can sympathize with you without understanding." "Then you have a very rare and wonderful gift, Esther," Dick Ashton replied. "But please read your letters and don't consider me." Slowly the girl read a letter from her father, which besides its interest in her work was so full of bits of Woodford interest and gossip that she felt herself growing sharply homesick. Then, tucking this letter inside her dress, to re-read to her sister later, Esther slowly opened the one from her music master in Berlin. It was just what she had expected. Professor Hecksher felt that she might have a future in grand opera, only she was far too young and too untrained to attempt it for several years. So she must stay on in Germany, working unceasingly with him until they could both understand more thoroughly her capabilities. Esther let this single sheet of paper slip out of her hand to the ground, where Dick picked it up, returning it to her. But not before he had recognized the master's handwriting and letter head. "It is all right, isn't it?" he queried, surprised at the girl's expression. "Oh, yes, I suppose so," she replied, not looking at him but at a far stretch of country with her eyes and of years with her mind. "Only I expect I am what both Betty and Polly think me, an ungrateful and unreasonable person with no ambition and no imagination." Dick was silent for a moment and then answered, "No, Esther, I do not believe you appreciate what a great gift you have; you are too modest and care too little for the applause most of the people in the world are willing to sacrifice everything for." Richard Ashton turned his serious dark eyes upward toward the tall, pale girl sitting in the chair near him. "Esther," he said, "I want to tell you, to make you believe what a great gift you have. I love you, and more than anything on earth I want you to be my wife. The other day when Anthony Graham came with the news from Woodford that Betty had inherited a small fortune I was happier than I can ever tell you. And it was not for Betty's sake or even mother's; it was a selfish happiness. For then I believed that both you and I were released from our first duty to them and that I had the right to tell you that I cared for you and meant to try and make you love me. Then came the night of your concert, when I heard you sing. And since then, Esther, I have realized that I have no right to ask you to give up the career that is before you and to ask you to share my uncertain future. For with my work I could not follow yours and my profession is the one thing I have learned. I had not meant to tell you this, but, after all, Esther, I don't know why I should not. A girl can never be hurt by knowing that a man loves her." And for the second time Dick kissed Esther's hand and then turned his face away. The next moment the girl had risen from her chair. "Dr. Ashton, will you take a walk with me?" she asked. "I am tired sitting here." Then, without referring to what had just been said between them, the girl and man walked along, talking quietly of other things until they came to the stream of water sheltered by trees, with a rim of hills along the other side. Away from the possibility of being interrupted Esther stopped, putting her hand on her companion's arm. She did not look like her usual self; her face was flooded with color and her shyness and reserve for the moment seemed swept away. "You were not fair to me just now," she declared. "You had not the right to tell me you cared for me without asking me what my feeling was for you. Why does everybody in the world think that because I have a talent I have to sacrifice my whole life to it? I love my music, but I don't wish to be an opera singer. I hate the kind of existence it forces one to lead. I want a home of my own and some one to care for me. Why do people nowadays think that girls are so changed, that all of us are wishing to be independent and famous? Why, it was because our old Camp Fire club taught us that all the best things of life are centered about the hearth fire that means home, that I first cared for it so much. I wonder if any one realizes because I was brought up in an orphan asylum and then lived with other people that I have never had a home of my own in my life. But of course this would not count, Dick, if I did not care for you more than I do for my music, or even for Betty. Tell me, then, is it my duty to go on with my work in Berlin, to give up everything I wish for a career I don't desire?" And here, overcome by the rush of her own feelings and her own words, Esther ceased speaking, feeling her old stupid, nervous trembling seize her. But Richard Ashton's arms were about her, holding her still. "The most perfect home that my love can make for you, Esther, shall be yours so long as we live. And there are other ways where the gift of a beautiful voice may bring pleasure and reward outside of the life you dread." CHAPTER XXI Sunrise Cabin It was Christmas once more at the Camp Fire cabin and a wonderful white night. Everywhere there was snow and enchantment under the "Long-night Moon." Dinner was over, for from the inside of the great living room came the sound of music and dancing and many gay voices. Built like a magic circle about the log house were seven camp fires, uncurling their long fingers of flame into the frost-laden air. And now and then fire-makers came out of the cabin, usually in pairs, to pile more logs and pine branches where the need was greatest. First Eleanor Meade and Frank Wharton, and Eleanor looked tall and picturesque in her Indian costume with a white shawl over her shoulders. But when they had finished with their fire building they walked on a few yards and then lingered for a moment close to the tall Totem pole, which still stood like a faithful sentinel outside the Sunrise Cabin door, its colors bright with the history of the Camp Fire club it had been chosen to tell. "I thought I was going to be a great artist when I painted that pole and the walls of our cabin, Frank," Eleanor whispered. "But the paths of a woman's glory sometimes lead----" "To the altar," Frank returned. "Never mind, dear, there is no place where one so needs to keep the white lights burning." And a little later he and his companion disappeared along the path that led to the grove of pines closer to the foot of the mountain. For nearly ten minutes no one else opened the cabin door; then two muffled figures stole out and industriously piled wood on half a dozen of the dying fires. Out of breath they afterwards paused and began talking to each other. They were the two girls in the Camp Fire club at Sunrise Hill who were now the closest friends. "I am awfully glad to hear of your new position, Nan. Are you going to make more money?" Sylvia Wharton asked with her old-time bluntness. And as Nan Graham nodded, she went on, "I want everybody in our club to understand that no matter what any one of us accomplishes, you are the best of the lot. Because the rest of us have had money and aid from other persons, but you have done every blessed thing for yourself and have helped other people besides." "Yes, but I don't have to help now," Nan explained. "Anthony is able to do everything for the family that is necessary beyond what father earns. And he has made me promise to go to college next year and study all the courses in domestic science that I can manage, besides chemistry and physiology and hygiene. I shall be a wonderfully learned person if I ever know half the things he wishes me to." "Anthony is splendid," Sylvia announced, "and you will have a chair in a college some day." At the absurdity of this suggestion, which nevertheless might one day come true, Nan laughed, putting her arm across Sylvia's shoulder. "We must go back indoors or you may take cold, Dr. Wharton," she teased. "Truly I am glad that your father and mother have made you undertake the study of medicine instead of going on with nursing. For my part I shall always prefer you as a physician to Dr. Ashton, even though he has a good many years' start of you." Never could Sylvia take things humorously. "Then you will show very poor judgment, Nan Graham. Richard Ashton is going to be a perfect wonder. Betty and Esther both say I may be his partner, but I shall not. I am coming back to Woodford after I graduate and help Dr. Barton. Thank heavens, he and Rose Dyer finally decided to marry last month. It will take both of them to look after little Faith. That child is so queer and fanciful I am afraid she may turn out a poet." And Sylvia did not smile or have the least understanding that she had said anything amusing when her friend led her back inside the cabin living room. Then Meg Everett and her brother John strolled out into the night air, arm in arm, and went and piled logs on the camp fire farthest away from the house. Meg wore nothing on her head in spite of the cold, so that her yellow-brown hair blew about her face in shocking confusion. Yet her elder brother did not seem to be in a sufficiently critical mood tonight to notice it. "Don't stay outdoors too long or go far away from the cabin, Betty; I am so afraid you may take cold," Esther Ashton whispered ten minutes after John and Meg had come in, wrapping her own long white fur coat about her sister. Esther had been married now for two weeks and she and Richard Ashton had returned from their honeymoon journey to spend the holidays with their own people before leaving for Boston. So Esther was in bridal white, with no other color than her crown of red hair. Betty wore the last frock she had bought in London before sailing for home, having paid a great deal more for it than she felt that she should, just to taste the joy of being extravagant once again. It was of blue velvet with a silver girdle, with silver embroidery about the throat. Instead of jewelry she wore her chains of Camp Fire honor beads. "No, I won't be gone long, dear," Betty answered. "I have promised too many people to dance with them. But it is such a glorious night! And I have told Anthony Graham that I would look at the beautiful picture our cabin makes with the camp fires burning around it. The moon is now just above the top of the old hill." At this moment Dick Ashton joined them. "Moon, Betty Ashton," he began with a pretense of sternness, "is the very last word I wish to hear from your lips." Then, as Betty ran away from the possibility of his further objecting to her departure, Dick turned seriously to Esther. "Esther, if you have any influence with Betty, do please stop allowing her to have admirers. Tell her that she is not to be permitted to consider any one seriously, say for five or ten years." As Esther laughed, he added, "Who is it that she has gone off in the moonlight with this time? Anthony Graham? Well, he is a fine fellow, but has his way to make, and thank fortune cannot think of marrying for several years!" Down by the lake, which was frozen over with a thin coating of ice, forming a kind of mirror for the silver face of the moon, Anthony and Betty were at this moment standing in the shadow looking out over its surface. "I want to tell you something I never have mentioned, Anthony," Betty said gravely. "I want to thank you for coming to Germany to bring me the good news of my inheritance. Oh, it is not that I could not have waited longer to have heard, but that if the news had not come just when it did, I might have been the unconscious cause of making the two people I love almost best in the world unhappy all their lives. For you see I did not dream that Dick cared for Esther or she for him. So I kept on urging Esther to devote herself to her music, when all the time she and Dick wanted to be married, and Esther was only going on with her music because she wanted to earn money for me and for father. As though either one of us wished her to sacrifice herself!" "Still, your brother was a brave fellow to ask a girl to give up such a future," Anthony Graham returned. "I don't think I could have done it." Betty frowned at him. "Why not?" she demanded. Turning toward her, Anthony now looked at her so steadfastly that the girl's white lids drooped. "Well, once I cared for a girl who was miles and miles above me in family, position, beauty, brains, oh, everything that is worth having, except one thing!" he explained. "Neither she nor her people had money; they had lost it through misfortune. So I used to work and dream that some day I might be able to climb that _one_ hill. But before I was even halfway up my hill--oh, I can't talk in figures of speech, I must speak plain English--why the girl inherited a lot of money. So now she has everything and I have nothing worth while to offer her. Yet I don't wish her to think that I have ever ceased caring for her or ever will." "Anthony," Betty replied unexpectedly, "I always wear that little enameled pin representing a pine tree that you sent me by Polly a long time ago. But I have been thinking lately that perhaps you did not remember that one of the meanings of the pine tree is faithfulness." Then she moved away toward the cabin and, as the young man walked along beside her without speaking, she said half to herself and half to him, "Not long ago I had one person declare that he cared for me because I had inherited a fortune. And here is another person who has ceased caring because I have money. Yet, if I have to choose between the two, I believe I like the American way best." "You don't mean that you like _me_, do you, Betty?" Anthony pleaded. The Princess shook her head. "I don't mean anything--yet, Anthony," she answered. Inside the living room on their return they found at least a dozen friends urging Esther to sing. To Margaret Adams' request she finally yielded. For Miss Adams had lately come to Woodford to spend the week with Polly O'Neill's family. And now Polly was standing with her arm slipped caressingly through her friend's. "I shall never, never be able to understand how Esther Crippen could give up her art and her career for Dick Ashton's sake, fine as he is," Polly murmured in Miss Adams' ear. "If I only had one-half of Esther's talent for the work I hope to do I should be down on my knees with gratitude." Then Polly gave the arm she was holding fast a slight pressure. "But mother says perhaps I may come and have a small part in your company next spring, as you said I might. And surely if anybody in the world can teach me to be a great actress it is you!" Then Polly's lips twitched and her expression changed in its odd Irish fashion, for across the room she now caught sight of her old enemy and friend, Billy Webster, still glowering disapprovingly at her. But the next instant he had turned and was smiling a reply to some question that Mollie O'Neill had just put to him. Then no one spoke or moved for several moments, under the spell of Esther's "Good-night" Camp Fire song. "Beneath the quiet sentinel stars, we now rest. May we arise to greet the new day, give it our best. Good-night, good-night, God over all." The next volume in the Camp Fire Series shall be known as "The Camp Fire Girls' Careers." The group of girls who first came together to spend a summer as a Camp Fire Club in the woods are now grown up and life has, of course, altered and widened for all of them. The question now is, What will each girl do to make her future happy and successful? Will she marry well or ill, or will she choose to follow some career in which marriage has no part? Although the fifth volume is to deal with the original number of heroines, it will be more largely devoted to the most brilliant and erratic of the twelve Camp Fire Girls, Polly O'Neill. STORIES ABOUT CAMP FIRE GIRLS THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT SUNRISE HILL THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AMID THE SNOWS THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN THE OUTSIDE WORLD THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ACROSS THE SEA THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS' CAREERS THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN AFTER YEARS 
21654	----	* * * * * +-----------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Inconsistent hyphenation in the original document has | | been preserved. | | | | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected in this | | text. For a complete list, please see the end of this | | document. | | | +-----------------------------------------------------------+ * * * * * IN AND AROUND BERLIN BY MINERVA BRACE NORTON CHICAGO A.C. MCCLURG AND COMPANY 1889 COPYRIGHT BY A.C. MCCLURG AND COMPANY A.D. 1889 TO MY HUSBAND, WHOSE GENEROUS SYMPATHY MADE POSSIBLE THESE PAGES; To my Countrymen and Countrywomen WHO HAVE VISITED BERLIN; TO THOSE WHO HOPE TO GO THERE, AND TO THE LARGER NUMBER OF ARMCHAIR TRAVELLERS, I Dedicate this Book. M.B.N. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. FIRST IMPRESSIONS 9 II. FAMILY AND SOCIAL LIFE 20 III. EDUCATION 51 IV. CHURCHES 79 V. MUSEUMS 103 VI. THE GERMAN REICHSTAG AND THE PRUSSIAN PARLIAMENT 125 VII. PROMINENT PERSONAGES 133 VIII. THE EMPEROR'S NINETIETH BIRTHDAY 159 IX. STREETS, PARKS, CEMETERIES, AND PUBLIC BUILDINGS 179 X. PALACES 195 XI. THE HOMES OF THE HUMBOLDTS 209 XII. PHILANTHROPIC WORK 221 XIII. AROUND BERLIN 249 IN AND AROUND BERLIN. I. FIRST IMPRESSIONS. It was seven o'clock of a gray November morning when we arrived in Berlin for our first residence abroad. The approach to the city reminded us of the newer parts of New York, and we found that the population was about the same. But here the resemblance ceases. New York is the metropolis of a great nation,--the heart whence arterial supplies go forth, and to which all returning channels converge; the cosmopolitan centre of a New World. Berlin is the increasingly important capital of the German Empire,--growing rapidly, but still the royal impersonation of Prussia and the Hohenzollerns; seated in something of mediæval costume and quiet beside the river Spree; as content to cast a satisfied glance backward to Frederick the Great and the Electors of Brandenburg as to look forward to imperial supremacy among the Great Powers, and the championship of continental Protestant Europe. There is one continuous thread woven through the old history and the new, and this appeared in the first hour of our stay. Everywhere on the streets the one thing most strange to our American eyes was the number of striking military uniforms mingled with the more sober garb of civilians. Officers of fine form and gentlemanly bearing, in uniforms of dark blue with scarlet trimmings and long, dragging, rattling swords, were commanding the evolutions of infantry in the main streets; while frequent glimpses of gold-laced light blue or scarlet jackets or of plumed and helmeted hussars animated the scene on the crowded sidewalks. Germany is, as it has been from the beginning, a military power. We drove first to the home of an American friend. We were not prepared for the four long flights of stairs up which we were directed by the porter on the ground floor. "What reverses of fortune have come to A.," thought we, "that she lives in an attic!" The tenement was a good one, to be sure, when we found it,--large and lofty apartments with many windows, commanding a fine view. But to one unused to many stairs, and weakened by continuous illness in a long sea-voyage, the exhaustion of that first ascent was something to be remembered. It was, however, but the precursor of hundreds of similar feats, which our residence involved, as nearly all families live up several flights of stairs. Only once did we see an elevator in Germany. In the elegant hotel known as the Kaiserhof, the sojourning-place of princes, diplomatists, and statesmen, we took our seats in a commodious elevator, rejoiced at the thought of such an American way of getting upstairs. It was fully five minutes before we reached the moderate elevation of the corridor on which our rooms opened; the liveried and intelligent official in charge, evidently a personage of importance, meanwhile replying to our queries and enjoying our evident surprise at the slow motion, until we forgot our annoyance in the interest of the conversation which ensued before we reached our destination. Once I was toiling up the four flights which led to the residence of a cultivated German lady, in company with the hostess. "Oh," I said breathlessly, "would there were elevators in Germany!" "Yes," courteously responded the lady; adding, with a resigned sigh, the conclusive words which indicated contentment with her lot, "but it is not ze custom." It was late in the season, and our lodgings were not engaged in advance. Americans in increasing numbers make Berlin a winter residence, and by October the most desirable _pensions_ generally have their rooms engaged. By the kind offices of our friend, our famishing party were provided with the rolls and coffee which compose the continental breakfast, and a fortunate entrance was, after much seeking, obtained for us to a most desirable boarding-house. Our own apartment was a large corner room, with immense windows looking north and east, and, like nearly all rooms in Berlin houses, connected by double doors with the apartments on either side. A fire was built before we took possession, but it was two days before we ceased to shiver. We looked for the stove of which we had heard. More than one of the five senses were called into requisition to determine which article of furniture was entitled to that designation. Across one corner of the room stood a tall white monument composed of glazed tiles laid in mortar, built into the room as a chimney might have been, with a hidden flue in the rear connecting it with the wall. A drab cornice and plaster ornaments of the same color set off the four or five feet above the mantel which surrounded it, and a brass door, about ten inches by twelve, was in the middle front of the part below. On the mantel were disposed sundry ornaments, including vases of dried grasses, and the hand could always be held upon the tiles against which they stood. In a small fireplace within this unique mass of tiles and mortar, the housemaid would place a dozen pieces of coal-cake once or at most twice a day, and after allowing a few minutes for the kindling to set it aglow, would close and lock the triple door, and the fire was made for twenty-four hours. In two or three hours after the lighting of the fire, the temperature of the room, if other conditions were favorable, might be slightly raised. To raise it five to ten degrees would require from six to ten hours. In response to our request to the landlady for an addition of cold meat or steak to the coffee and rolls of the breakfast, and for more warmth in the room, accompanied by an expression of willingness to make additional payment for the same, the reply, given in a courteous manner, was that Americans lived in rooms much too warm, and ate too much meat, and that it would be for their health in Germany to conform to the German customs. However, some spasmodic efforts were made, for a season, to comply with the requests, which before long were wholly discontinued; and the strangers learned the wisdom of accommodating themselves "in Rome" to the ways of the Romans. This, however, was not accomplished without continued suffering. The meagre "first breakfast," served about half-past eight o'clock, was supplemented by a "second breakfast" of a cup of chocolate or beef tea, at about eleven, to those who were then in the house and made known their desire for it. But the days were short. Berlin is about six hundred miles nearer the north pole than New York, in the latitude of Labrador and the southern part of Hudson's Bay. The climate is milder only because the Gulf Stream kindly sends its warmth over all Europe, which lies in much higher latitudes than we are wont to think. Consequently the days in winter are much shorter than ours, as in summer they are longer. All the mid-winter daylight of Berlin is between the hours of eight A.M. and four P.M. With dinner at two o'clock, from which we rose about three, there was too little light remaining for visits to museums and other places of interest, so that the chief sightseeing of the day must be put into the hours between nine and two o'clock, often far from residence or restaurants; so the work of the day must be done on insufficient food, and the prevailing physical sensation was that of being an animated empty cask. We thus reached a settled conviction that however well the continental breakfast may serve the needs of Germans, with their slow ways of working, and their heavy suppers of sausage, black bread, and beer, late at night, an American home for Americans temporarily in Berlin is a consummation much to be wished. It is almost with a feeling of despair that many a woman first unpacks her trunk in the Berlin apartment which, according to general custom, is to serve her for sleeping-room, breakfast-room, study, and reception-room. In a lengthened sojourn, in hotels, _pensions_, and private residences, I never saw a closet opening from such an apartment. Indeed, there were, in the houses I visited, no closets of any kind; unless an unlighted, unventilated cubic space in the middle of the house or near the kitchen--the upper half often devoted to sleeping room for domestics, and the lower to a general rendezvous of odds and ends--might be dignified with that name. A statement which I once ventured in conversation, as to the closets opening from nearly every room of an American house, was received with a look of incredulity and wonder. Neither did I see a real bureau in Berlin. A poor substitute was a portable piece of furniture, often quite ornamental, which opened by doors, exposing all the shelves whenever an article on any one of them was wanted. Here must be kept bonnets, hats, gloves, ribbons, laces, underwear, and all the thousand accumulations of the toilet; while a cramped "wardrobe" was the receptacle of shoes, cloaks, and dresses, hung perhaps three or four or five deep on the half-dozen wooden pegs within. Bathrooms were the rare exceptions. As a rule, bathing must be done with a sponge and cold water, in one's private apartment, where are no faucets, drains, or set bowls, but the ordinary wash-bowl, pitcher, and jar. Evidently German civilization does not rate the bath very high among the comforts of life. An essential part of the furniture in the kind of apartment I am describing, is a screen to stand before each bed and wash-stand. The beds are invariably single, two or more being placed in a room when needed, the screens, by day, transforming the room into a parlor. There are no carpets. On the oiled or painted wooden floors rugs are placed before the beds, before the sofa, and under the table which always stands before it. One luxury is seldom wanting,--a good writing-desk, with pens and ink ready for use. It is no trouble to a German hostess to increase or diminish the number of beds in a room, the narrow bedsteads being carried with ease through the double doors, from room to room, as convenience requires. Pictures are on the walls,--not often remarkable as works of art, but most frequently stimulants to love of country,--portraits of the Kaiser and the Crown Prince, and battle scenes in which glory is reflected on the Prussian arms. Every window is double; the two outer vertical halves opening on hinges outward, and the inner opening in the same manner into the room. Graceful lace drapery is the rule, over plain cotton hangings or Venetian blinds. The arrangement of the bedding is peculiar. Over a set of wire springs is laid the mattress, in a closely fitting white case, buttoned, tied, or laced together at one end. This case takes the place of an under sheet. The feather pillow is in a plain slip of white cotton, similarly fastened. Over the whole a blanket or comfortable is laid, securely enfolded in another white case, which also serves instead of an upper sheet. Over this is the feather bed, usually encased in colored print, sometimes of bright colors. Under this one always sleeps. Over the bed, from low head-board to foot-board, is stretched by day the uppermost covering. Ours was of maroon cotton flannel, bordered in front by a flounce intended to be ornamental. The custom is to furnish clean cases and pillow-slips once a month, and it is difficult to secure more frequent changes of bed-linen. Ventilation is something of which the Germans are particularly afraid. The impure air of schools, halls, churches, and other places of assemblage is dreadful, and a draught is regarded as the messenger of death. When our landlady found that we were in the habit of sleeping with our windows open, most emphatic remonstrance was made, with the assurance that this would never do in Berlin. However, like the drinking of water, against which also warnings are customary, the breathing of fresh air was to us followed by no harmful results. These differences in habits and customs of household life, like the sounds of a strange language, affect the traveller unpleasantly at first. But differences in national customs are natural and inevitable, and one gradually becomes accustomed to them, and enabled to live a happy life in spite of them, as appreciation grows when acquaintance has made one familiar with many interesting and excellent aspects of existence here. II. FAMILY AND SOCIAL LIFE. Holidays and birthdays are more scrupulously and formally observed in Germany than with us. There are cakes and lighted candles and flowers for the one whose birthday makes him for the time the most important personage in the family, and who sits in holiday dress in the reception-room, to receive the calls and congratulations of friends. Those who cannot call send letters and presents, which are displayed, with those received from the family, on a table devoted to the purpose; and the array is often quite extensive. The presents are seldom extravagant, consisting largely of the ornamental handiwork of friends and of useful articles of clothing for common use. A genuine German family festival on Christmas eve is a pleasant thing to see. We accepted with pleasure the invitation of Frau B---- and her family, to be present at theirs. In a large _salon_ adjoining that where the table was laid for supper, was another long table spread with a white cloth. Toward the farther end of the table stood a tall Christmas-tree, decked with various simple ornaments; and the candles on it were lighted with a little ceremony, the chubby granddaughter of three years pointing her bare arm and uplifted forefinger to the tree, and reciting a short poem appropriate to the occasion, as we entered the room, about half-past seven o'clock. Then the beautiful and winning child found her toys, her lovely wax doll and its cradle, and another doll of rubber, small and homely, on which, after the fashion of little mothers, she imprinted her most affectionate kisses. Suddenly the room was radiant with a contagious happiness. "The little Fräulein," daughter of the hostess, just engaged by cable to a gentleman in America, had found his picture, wreathed with fresh and fragrant rosebuds, among her presents; and the smiles and blushes chased each other over her face, as the engagement was thus announced by her mother to the assembled guests. She answered her congratulations by more blushes and smiles, laying her hand on her heart, and saying with true German frankness, "Oh, I am so happy!" No presents hung on the tree, but those intended for each person were in a group beside a plate of cakes and bonbons, with a card bearing the name. Each of the company found his own, delicately assisted by the hostess and her daughters. Then the servants were called in, to find their presents on side tables, to receive and express good wishes and thanks, and to join in the general joy of the household over the engagement. After supper in the dining-room, we talked awhile, there was music from the piano, then the married daughter and her family withdrew with kind "good-nights;" and before a late hour all the other guests had done the same, not, however, until the national airs of America and of Scotland had been sung by all present, in honor of the guests from these countries. Private hospitality is kind and open, but so far as our observation went, conducted within certain specified limits seldom overstepped. Order of precedence is carefully observed, and more honor is shown to age than with us. The best seat in the drawing-room is the sofa. A single guest would never be offered any other place, and among a number the eldest or the most honored would be invariably conducted there. Hence no one would venture to take this place of honor uninvited. Sometimes one is secretly glad of not being invited to crowd behind the table which usually stands, covered with a spread, inconveniently close before the sofa, and of having instead a chair, with a better support for the back. One is expected to bow to the hostess and to each guest on coming to the table, and also on leaving it. Odd as this seems at first, it soon becomes a habit rather pleasant than burdensome, and one grows insensibly to admire the outward politeness of this German custom. Greetings and farewells are more ceremonious, even between intimate friends, than with us; and to omit a ceremonious leave-taking or to substitute a light bow and "good day" would not make a pleasant impression on a German hostess. Americans, especially young ladies, are much criticised for their independence and lack of courtesy. A German friend told me that a young American lady who had formerly been an inmate of her family called to bid her good-by before leaving Berlin. "I was amazed," she said, "at such politeness." It is not alone in matters of courtesy that young American ladies shock the Germans. Though a young lady has more freedom in Germany than in France and Italy, she is expected to conform carefully to the custom of going out in the evening or travelling only in company with a relative if a gentleman, or with an older lady. It is true that American girls are forgiven some liberties which no German girl would think of taking, on the ground of American customs; and a careful, well-bred young lady, from our side the water will seldom fall into serious trouble if she observes the rule of not going out unattended. But young ladies from America in Europe hold largely the honor of their country in their hands, and they ought to recognize this responsibility. German politeness has also a reverse side. Perhaps the general absence of higher education among German women leaves them an especial prey to idle curiosity and gossip. Not only is one questioned freely as to the cost of any article of dress by comparative strangers, but questions as to one's family and private affairs are common, almost customary. Conversation which does not turn upon such things, or on others equally trivial and irrelevant, is the exception. The recital on their part, however, of personal and family history has a charming good-nature and simplicity, and often a touch of the homely and pathetic, which reach the heart of the listener. There were few tables where the conversation was not too loud for our comfort. No one seemed particularly to care for quiet talk with his neighbor, but the conversation at a long table was a rattling sharpshooting or a heavy cannonade from one end to the other, mingled with hearty laughter, while "Attic salt" was sparing. Table-manners, even among otherwise charming people, were often shocking to the taste of Americans. What we should call the first principles of good-breeding were freely contravened. The nicety and daintiness which in some favored American and English homes make of the family board a visible and tangible poem, were very rare in our German experience. And yet there are charming German tables and well-bred German ladies and gentlemen. One custom which we have been taught to regard as vulgar and profane is that of constantly using the names of the Deity by way of exclamation and emphasis in the most ordinary conversation. Being on sufficiently intimate terms with a German lady, we one day ventured to inquire deprecatingly about this habit. "Everybody does it," was her candid reply; and this was the only reason we ever heard. "George Eliot" long ago complained of the inconvenience of perambulating Berlin streets, where you are pushed off the sidewalks and are in constant danger of involuntary surgical experience through contact with the military swords that clank and clatter in the crowd. There is still room for improvement in this respect. The owners of sabres often seem to take it for granted that the right of way belongs first of all to them and their weapons, and if any one is thus inconvenienced that is the business of the unlucky party. The streets and sidewalks are much wider and less crowded than those in Boston; but a collision on a Boston sidewalk is rare, while a half-dozen rude ones in an hour is a daily expectation in Berlin. A Berlin pedestrian "to the manner born," in blind momentum and disregard of all obstacles, has no equal in our experience. It was told me that if you are run over by the swiftly driven horses in the streets, you must pay a fine for obstructing the way. Remembering that many regulations are relics of the times when laws were made for the good of the aristocracy who ride, and not for the vulgar crowd who walk, we did not try the experiment. Mounted policemen are to be seen, like equestrian statues, at the intersection of the more crowded thoroughfares, as Unter den Linden and Friedrich Strasse, and with a little care there is seldom need of delay in crossing. I heard of one poor cab-driver who was fined and cast into prison for injuring a lady who suddenly changed her mind and took a new tack while just in front of his horses. Regard for foot-passengers seems thus to have an existence in some cases. Regard for women is not a thing to which German men are trained. A gentleman may not carry a small parcel through the street, but his delicate wife may take a heavier one to save the disgrace of her husband's bearing it. Among the middle classes, those couples who go out for a walk with the baby-carriage invariably regard the management of it as the wife's privilege, leaving to the father the custody of his pipe or cigar alone. If the baby is to be carried in arms, it is always the wife, not the husband, who bears the burden. Women in the humbler classes wear no bonnets in the street, although sometimes in cold weather they tie a little shawl or a handkerchief about the head. Their usual habit is, however, to go out in all weathers with the head as unprotected as the face, even for long distances. A maid follows her mistress to market, with a basket on her arm, often covered with an embroidered cloth, in which are placed the purchases of the careful housemother. A huckster is frequently accompanied by a dog, both being harnessed to the little cart which holds the wares. Often the man will be free, while the woman and the dog side by side drag the cart to which they are tied, the woman usually knitting even when the air is cold enough to benumb her fingers. Women knit constantly in the streets about their other work, whether bowed down under huge bundles of fagots on their backs, serving milk at the houses, or doing many other things with which we should regard knitting as incompatible. The best society is like the court, in being exclusive. It is difficult for strangers, in Germany as in America, easily to obtain desirable acquaintance, except by means of letters of introduction, and the friendship which comes with time and natural selection. Glimpses of home-life in cultivated circles are accordingly to be highly valued. One delightful visit with supper, to which we were invited, began about six o'clock. That we might have more in common, the hostess, who herself spoke English with much intelligence, had invited a German lady who had resided in Boston to meet us. We were seated on the sofa and shown some of the many art treasures in the way of fine engravings which the home contained, the fancy-work of our hostess--a German lady seems never to be without it--lying neglected as the conversation rose in interest. Supper was served between eight and nine o'clock, at a round table accommodating the hostess and her three guests. Delicious tea, made from a burnished brass teakettle over an alcohol lamp on a stand beside the hostess, with white and black bread, five kinds of sausage, cold meat, and pickled fish, composed the first course. There was a second, composed of little cakes and apples. Dinner, in our experience, was almost invariably good. First course, always soup and bread. Second, unless fish were served, some kind of meat, a variety of vegetables, among which green beans, spinach, and varieties of cabbage delicately cooked were prominent. This course was usually accompanied by cooked or preserved fruit. Third course, various puddings and cakes, all good, some delicious; never any pie. The luxury of dessert was sometimes omitted. It is not common in German families, except those frequented by American guests. Radishes and cheese form an extra course at some suppers. In hotels, of course, the simple family dinner of three or four courses is replaced by a more elaborate feast of many courses. The anniversaries of the death of friends are remembered by dressing in black, burning candles before their portraits, and visiting their graves. There is also one day in spring which is celebrated as a kind of combination of All Saints Day and Decoration Day, when every one visits the cemeteries, leaving flowers and wreaths in memory of the loved and lost. Funeral services are held, both at the homes and in the churches, and are often accompanied by very impressive and majestic music. In at least one of the cemeteries there is a large and scientifically arranged crematory. A recent judicial decision, however, forbids cremation within the municipal jurisdiction. Sundays, as is well known, are not observed in Germany as in England and Scotland. But in the parts of Berlin which we were accustomed to see on that day, including two miles or more between our residence and the central part of the city, the general sobriety and orderly appearance would compare favorably with that in the better parts of many American cities. We were asked on our first Sunday at the dinner-table if we would like to have seats secured for us at the opera that evening. Operatic performances and concerts are among the better entertainments offered on Sunday evenings. The laws are strict, however, regarding quiet in the streets and the closing of places of business until after Sunday morning service in the churches. In the finest residence portions of some American cities we have been frequently disturbed by the street-cries of hucksters during divine service on Sunday mornings, while the ear-piercing shouts of newspaper venders disturb all the peace of the early morning hours. Dime museums and other places flaunt their attractions in the faces of the crowd who gather at their doors, and many places of business seem to be always open. It was not our experience to see or hear anything like this in Germany. Even the law of despotic power is better than none at all,--often far better than enlightened law not enforced. Policemen in the streets of Berlin make short work with the luckless tradesman who leaves his blinds or doors open on Sunday before two o'clock P.M. Of course restaurants and places of food supply are open. To all outward appearance Berlin was a fairly well-ordered city on Sundays. One in search of evil, however, could doubtless find it, here as elsewhere. Sunday afternoon is a favorite time for calls and family visits; and in the pleasant weather the genuine love for out-door life, which seems dormant in winter, blossoms out luxuriantly. Parents take their whole families to the numerous gardens in the suburbs for picnics on Sundays and the frequent holidays. Sunday hours at home are spent by most German ladies with the inevitable crochet-work or knitting,--even the most devout seeing no harm in this, nor in their little Sunday evening parties, with games and music. One day in the year--Good Friday--is observed as scrupulously as was ever a Puritan Sunday. The organic Protestant Church of Germany--a union of the Lutheran and Reformed churches,--has small affiliation with the Church of Rome; but some observances which we have been accustomed to associate with so-called Catholicism have lingered with Protestantism in Germany. Good Friday was a solemn day in the family where we had our home. Bach's music, brought to light after a hundred years of deep obscurity by Felix Mendelssohn, and rendered, though at first with much opposition from musicians of the old school, in the Sing Akademie of Berlin, now lends every year, on the eve of Good Friday, its incomparable _Passion-Musik_ to the devotion of the occasion. "There are many things I must miss," said a cultivated German to me, "but the _Passion-Musik_ on the eve of Good Friday,--never! It makes me better. I cannot do without it." We found this music, at the time of which we speak, an occasion to be ever memorable for its wonderful power and pathos. The next morning we did not attend the service in the cathedral, where we wished to go, knowing that the crowd would be too great for comfort. On returning to our room from another service, a beautiful arrangement of cut flowers on the table greeted our senses as we opened the door. It was the thoughtful, affectionate, and devout offering of our hostess in reverent memory of the day. After dinner we entered the private parlor of the family for a friendly call and to express our thanks. No suggestion of knitting or fancy-work was to be seen. The hostess and her daughters, soberly dressed, were reading devotional books. "Do you not go out this afternoon?" I inquired. "No, one cannot go out," was the reply, indicating probably both lack of disposition and of places open for entertainment. Later, I ventured out for a walk. Only here and there could a team be seen, and the throng of pedestrians usually on the sidewalks in a bright spring afternoon seemed to have deserted the busy streets, in which comparative silence reigned. "I am glad there is here _one_ sabbath in the year," was our inward comment, "even though it falls on a Friday." Easter was a day of gladness in the churches, though elaborate adornments of flowers and new spring bonnets were not so prominent as in American cities. The respectable church communicant, even if he goes to church on no other day in the year, usually takes the communion at Easter. Easter Monday was one great gala-day. All Berlin seemed to be in the streets in holiday attire; and, to our eyes, no other day ever showed such universal gladness reflected in the faces and demeanor of the people. "Prayer Day," answering somewhat to the original New England Fast Day, was solemnly observed in May; and the holidays of Whitsuntide dress every house and market-stall and milk-cart with green boughs, and crowd the railways and the steamers with throngs of pleasure-seekers. The few weeks before Easter is a favorite season for weddings, and these are invariably celebrated in church. Even people in moderate circumstances make much display at the church ceremony, with or without an additional celebration at home. We were invited to one at the Garrison Church, which the soldiers attend, and where most of the pews on the main floor are held by officers and their families. We entered the church fifteen minutes before the hour appointed,--four o'clock. An elderly usher in a fine suit, with swallow-tail coat and a decoration on his breast, politely gave us liberty to choose our seats, as the invitations were not numerous and the church is large. A few persons, mostly ladies, were there before us, and had already taken the best seats,--those running lengthwise of the church, and facing a wide central aisle. We joined them, and while waiting felt more at liberty to inspect the church than at the service on a previous Sunday. The Grecian interior was undecorated, except that a mass of green filled the space to the right and left of the altar, beginning on each side with tall oleanders succeeded by laurels and other evergreens, growing gradually less in height, until they reached the pews in the side aisles. A rich altar-cloth of purple velvet, embroidered with gold, fell below the crucifix and the massive candles on either side, which are always seen in the Lutheran churches; and in the aisle below the chancel stood a square altar, covered with another spread of purple velvet, heavy with gold fringe and embroidery. Two chairs were side by side just in front of the high altar, and facing it. Six chairs facing the audience were on the platform on each side of the altar, directly in front of the mass of green I have described. Below the steps to the chancel about twenty chairs were placed on each side of the central aisle, and facing the altar. In each chair was a printed slip containing a hymn to be sung after the ceremony. About four o'clock a maid came in with the little granddaughter who on Christmas eve had spoken the poem at the lighting of the family Christmas-tree. When they were seated, the handsome little face, with its white bonnet and cloak, was seen in a side pew very near the altar. It seemed so like a dream,--the announcement of the engagement of "the little Fräulein" at that Christmas party; and now the time has come when the bride is to belong to her mother and her home no more! Ladies had long ceased looking impatiently at their watches, and were perhaps busy with their thoughts, as I was, when from the "mittel" door Court-preacher Frommel entered, his long white hair thrown back, and crossed through the transverse aisle to the robing-room opposite. Soon a signal given by an usher to the organist was the prelude to solemn music, which filled the church; and a stout clerical assistant, with a book under his arm, appeared at the rear door. Then Pastor Frommel, in his black robe and simple white muslin bands, took his place before the high altar and bowed in prayer, the two immense candles in tall candlesticks on either side the altar, now lighted, throwing their radiance on his silver hair. Meantime the bridal procession slowly moved down the side aisle toward the middle of the church, turned at the transverse aisle, crossed to the centre, turned again, now toward the altar, passing to it up the central aisle. The clerical personage with the service-book under his arm passed first. Then came the bride on the arm of the groom. There were a few orange-buds hidden here and there in the fluffy mass of her front hair; a veil of tulle was fastened behind them in a gathered coronet, and fell down over the folds of her white silk dress, whose train swept along the aisle to the length of a yard and a half. I saw no ornaments, save a wreath below the high, full, white ruche at the throat, perhaps of geranium leaves, and a full bouquet of pink rosebuds in the right hand. From my glance at the train of the bridal dress, I looked up to see six bridesmaids coming after, each on the arm of a groomsman. The first bridesmaid was a lovely sister of the bride, in a dress of cream-white silk without train, pink flowers in her hair, and carrying a large bouquet of full-blown cream and crimson roses. The second bridesmaid wore a dress of silk,--not ecru and not palest olive, but a shade between the two,--with a perfectly fitting corsage, likewise _décolleté_, and for ornaments a necklace of large pearls, a bouquet, and flowers in her hair. The first groomsman was in civilian's dress; but the second was in all the glory of full regimentals, with scarlet trimmings and showy buttons. The third bridesmaid wore pink silk, with a bouquet at the centre of the heart-shaped corsage; but unlike the others, she had no flowers in her hair. Of the following bridesmaids, one wore pink silk of a paler shade, one was in lemon-color, and the last in palest mauve, with trimmings of garnet velvet. The bridesmaids filed to the right, and the groomsmen to the left, as they reached the altar, before which Pastor Frommel now stood. As the bride and groom approached, they remained a moment standing with bowed heads in silent prayer, as the custom is on entering a German church, and then took the two chairs which had been placed for them, facing the minister. I had been struck by the beauty of the widowed mother, as she followed the bridesmaids, leaning on the arm of her brother,--a fine-looking, dignified officer from Potsdam, in full uniform, with broad silver epaulettes. The black hair of the mother--dressed high and gracefully on the crown of her uncovered head, set off by a fine white marguerite and a yellow one--and her dark eyes and complexion were in strong contrast to the fair hair and light German complexion of the younger ladies. She was in a dress of garnet silk, fitting perfectly her tall and graceful form. The bridesmaids took the six chairs on the right of the altar, facing the audience and before the mass of greenery, which made an effective background for so much youth, beauty, and elegance; and the groomsmen took the corresponding chairs on the left. The mother and uncle parted at the steps below the altar, she taking the first chair on the right, and he on the left, with the central aisle between them. Next came two elderly ladies, in dark silk with long trains, with uncovered and ornamented hair, and white shoulder-shawls of silk or wool, each with a gentleman; and they were seated to the right and left respectively. The bride's eldest married sister came next, in a splendid robe of blue satin, with a long train, looking very young and _distingué_. She and her husband filed to the right and left, as the others had done. The second married sister of the bride followed, in a similar dress of pink satin; and her very handsome husband, in his full military suit, was a decided addition to the courtly-looking assemblage. These five ladies filled the front row of chairs on one side, as did the gentlemen accompanying them on the other side. Eight other ladies, all in full dress,--one wearing an ermine cape,--followed, each with a gentleman; and these were seated in the second row. When for a few brief moments I first caught sight of all this elegance, I felt as though I were in a dream; then came a rush of emotion, because I loved the fair young bride, and was touched at the thought of the solemn place in which she stood,--forsaking home and friends and native land to go to what seems to these home-dwelling Germans a far, strange country, all for the sake of a young man whom a year ago she had never seen. I was as sorry for the mother, too, as I could be for one so handsome and so dignified. How fast one feels and thinks in such a time! Before the hush which followed the procession and the temporary change while all were finding their appropriate seats, the feeling of sympathy had given place to one of stimulated imagination, and this dim old soldiers' church, with the majestic music filling all its spaces, seemed merely the setting for some scene at a royal court in the olden time, where beauty and brilliance and grandeur were a matter of course. The music ceased, all present rose, while Pastor Frommel read a brief service from the book, and said "Amen." Then we sat down again, and the pastor preached the wedding sermon, which we were told is a matter of course at a German marriage. The sermon over, the bride and groom stood up before him, and he looked down with a fatherly glance upon the bride whom he took into his own house to prepare for confirmation only a few short years ago, and whom he is now to send with his marriage benediction across the sea. In a sweet, calm voice he addressed them; then the bride hands her bouquet to her sister bridesmaid sitting near, and removes her own glove; the groom takes from his pocket a ring, and gives it to the minister, who places it on the bride's finger, speaking a few solemn sentences, of which only the last reaches my ears: "What God hath joined together, let not man put asunder." For the first time in the service, the bride and groom kneel before him who bends over them; then follows a prayer, and it is finished. They rise, and are seated an instant; then rise again as the pastor gives his hand in congratulation to the groom; and when he places his hand with a few words in that of the bride, she bends low over it and kisses it in a pathetic farewell. The pastor goes first. The bride and groom bow in silent devotion before the altar until the time seems a little long, then turn and come down the aisle, followed by their retinue as they went in, but twain no more. The mother wiped away a tear quietly once or twice during the service, the unmarried sister bridesmaid looked as sweet and calm as always she does at home, but the bride, silently taking farewell of friends and native land, was deeply moved. No one had any voice for the printed hymn, and the organ alone supplied its music. The newly married couple went in the first carriage which rolled homewards, the others followed without observing precedence, and a small and quiet home reception closed the day. In a family where we found a home we were once asked, with other temporary residents, to attend a small evening gathering. At the usual hour of half-past eight we were led out to supper by the hostess. The table was very handsome with its fine linen and an elaborately embroidered lunch cloth extending through the whole length of a board at which fourteen were seated. I counted ten tall wine bottles, and at every plate except two, wine-glasses were standing. Several of the European ladies drank off three or four glasses as they might have done so much water. "You are temperance?" said a young lady from Stockholm at my left, in her broken English. I said, Yes; and on inquiry found she knew something of the great temperance movement in her own country, of which she told me over her wine. She said she thought a glass would do me good. I said, "No, it would flush my face and do me harm;" to which, without any intention of discourtesy, she replied simply, "I do not believe it." Five plates of various sizes were piled before each individual. The smallest was of glass, for preserved fruit and sweet pickles, four kinds of which were passed, all to be deposited, if one partook of all, on the same plate. The other plates and the whole service were of beautiful old Berlin china, white, with a line of dark blue and another of gilt around the edge of each piece, and the monogram of the grandmother to whom it originally belonged in the centre of each piece in blue letters. The first course was excellent chicken broth, served to each guest in a china cup, with a roll. The second course was cold roast beef and hot potatoes, served in three different ways, with rolls and plenty of wine. The third course was offered to me first by a handsome serving-maid lately from the country, with a clear face, bright dark eyes, dark hair, and rosy cheeks. Admiring her, I cast only a brief and doubtful glance on the large plate she bore, at one side of which were two lifelike sheep three or four inches high, with little red ribbons around their necks and standing in the midst of greenery. "This is confectionery," I thought, "and these are sugar sheep for ornament." Disposed on other parts of the plate were sundry rounds and triangles which looked peculiar; but my custom was, at German tables, "to prove all things" and "hold fast that which is good." So I decided on a creamy-looking segment, covered with silver-paper, and showing at the sides a half-inch thickness of what I hoped was custard-cake. The plate was next passed to a lady at my right, who cut a little piece off a white substance; and I thought, "She has ice-cream." Before I had touched my portion, a suspicious odor diverted my attention from the conversation. I found that the course was cheese and radishes, that my neighbor had "Dutch cheese," that the sheep were the butter and I had none for my roll, and that I had possessed myself of perhaps the whole of one variety of European cheese in tin-foil, the peculiar aroma of which was anything but agreeable to my cheese-hating sense. I begged a German Fräulein who sat near and who was intensely enjoying the situation to relieve me, when she kindly took about one third of my delicacy, leaving the rest in solitary state until the end of that course. Fortunately, the non-winedrinkers were offered a cup of tea just here, and I ate my roll with it in thankfulness. My American friend laughingly made a remark to her German neighbor,--a tall and dignified lady, but very vivacious. She turned her head, saying in hesitating English, "Speak on this side; I am _dumb_ in that ear." Meanwhile the conversation, not as at American tables a low hum, but rather the rattle of artillery, fires away, across the table, along its whole length, anywhere and everywhere, much sounding, little meaning, amid infinite ado of demonstration and gesticulation. The next course was the nearest approach to pie I saw at any German table,--_apfeltochter_,--a browned and frosted crust, nearly eighteen inches in diameter, between the parts of which was cooked and sweetened apple. I noted the different nationalities at the table,--the mother and her daughters, Germans of the Germans; a buxom young girl from the country, a fine singer; the tall German, and the young Swedish lady of whom I have spoken; another Swedish lady from Gothenburg, tall, very dignified, with gray eyes and dark hair, an exquisite singer. Then there was Herr G----, also from Sweden, and Fräulein von K----, a young Polish lady, with striking black eyes and hair and a laughing face. Other guests were two Norwegian gentlemen. One of them, tall, dark, and with the dress and bearing of a gentleman, said to my American friend, "Yes, I speak English _very well_" which we found to be the case. As I had mentally completed this summary, my friend said to me in a low "aside," "The young lady at your left is a free-thinker, the Polish lady is a Roman Catholic, Herr G----is a Jew; the rest Lutherans, except you and me." And one of us at home was of "Andover," and the other "straight Orthodox"! Later, we adjourned to the drawing-room, spacious and handsome after the German fashion. I asked one of the daughters of the house, who I knew had spent some years in Russia, if the portrait of a middle-aged gentleman hanging near me, much decorated and with a gilded crown at the top of the frame, were not that of the late Czar (Alexander II.), when she replied, "It is our Emperor!" And I had seen his Majesty at least half a dozen times! But he was a much older man now. One of the Norwegian gentlemen sat down at the piano and played portions of a recent opera, and a game of questions and answers followed. Oranges and little cakes were served before the company broke up at the early hour of half-past eleven. Concerts and even the opera and theatre begin early in Germany. Doors are open usually about half-past five, and the performance seldom begins later than six or seven. This interferes with the time of the usual evening meal, so that refreshments at these places are always in order. One of the most characteristic evenings maybe spent at the Philharmonie, where the best music is given at popular prices several times each week. Tickets seldom cost more than fifteen or eighteen cents, and may be bought by the package for much less. This is a favorite place with the music-loving Germans, and for many Americans as well. Nearly all the German ladies take their knitting or fancy-work. The large and fine hall is filled on these occasions with chairs clustered around small tables accommodating from two to six. Here families and friends gather, chat in the intervals, and listen to the music, quietly sipping their beer or chocolate, and supper is served in the intermission to those who order it. Smoking is forbidden, but seldom is the hour after supper free from fumes of smokers who quietly venture to light their cigars unrebuked unless the room gets _too_ blue. Many entire families seem to make nightly rendezvous at these concerts, enjoying the music as only Germans do, and setting many a pretty picture in the minds of strangers. The concerts are over by nine or ten o'clock, but the performances at theatre and opera are frequently not concluded before half-past ten or eleven, and an after-supper at a _café_ or at home is a consequent necessity. In one aspect of behavior at concerts, American audiences may well imitate our German friends. The beginning of every piece of music is the signal for instantaneous cessation from conversation. I do not remember ever having been annoyed during the performance of music, either in public or private, while in Germany, by the talking of any except Americans or other foreigners. To the music-loving Germans this is among the greatest of social sins. III. EDUCATION. The buildings of the Berlin University are somewhat scattered, but the edifice known by this name is situated opposite the Imperial Palace, in the finest part of the city. The building was once the palace of Prince Henry, brother of Frederick the Great. It is built around three sides of a court open southward to the street, guarded by a high ornamental iron fence. Before it are the sitting statues of the brothers Humboldt, in fine white marble, on high pedestals. That of Alexander von Humboldt, in particular, inspired me with profound admiration often as I passed it. Few statues are more fortunate in subject, in execution, or in position. The former reception-room of the palace is now the great _aula_ of the University, and the old ball-room is transformed into a Museum. The Cabinet of Minerals and the Collections of the Zoölogical Museum are each among the most valuable of their kind in existence. The fine park to the north of the University is open to the public, and is best seen from the rear entrance in Dorotheen Strasse. Its quiet shades seem quite the ideal of an academic grove, if that can be in the middle of a great city. The Astronomical Observatory is upwards of half a mile south, in a park at the end of Charlotten Strasse; and the Medical Colleges are mostly to the northwest, near the great hospital. This University, with its hundreds of professors, and nearly six thousand students annually in attendance, is now one of the foremost in Europe. Professors who, like Virchow, Helmholtz, and Mommsen, have a world-wide reputation, draw many to their classes; but there are other equally learned specialists with a more circumscribed reputation and influence. Hundreds of American students tarry each year for a longer or shorter term of study in Berlin, and it is rapidly gaining upon Leipsic as a centre for musical study also. No woman is allowed to matriculate in the University at present, although there are not wanting German women who, in advance of general public sentiment, affirm that this ought not so to be. The Academy of Arts and the Academy of Science are housed in the conspicuous building opposite the palace of Emperor William I. and adjoining the University. The Science Academy is organized in four sections, physical, mathematical, philosophical, and historical, and has valuable endowments and scholarships. The Academy of Arts has one section devoted to higher instruction in painting, engraving, and sculpture, and one to music, eminent specialists in each branch composing the Board of Direction. The imposing building of the Institute of Technology, near the extremity of the Thiergarten, has a fine Technological Museum, and accommodation for two thousand students. Its organization grew out of the union of two previously existing institutions for the promotion of architecture and trade. It has now five sections, in which about one thousand students pursue the study of architecture, civil engineering, machinery, ship-building, mining, and chemistry. Instruction in the science of war is given in all its departments, as might be expected. The War Office of the Government is in the Leipziger Strasse, adjoining the Reichstag, with one of the finest of ancient parks behind it, covering a space equal to several squares in the heart of the city. This park is elaborate and finely kept, but it is surrounded by high walls, within which the public is rarely admitted. Even its existence is unsuspected by most visitors. The large and elegant building of the War Academy in the Dorotheen Strasse has a war library of eight hundred thousand volumes and magnificent accessories. Its object is to educate army officers. There are three courses of study, promotion from which to the General Staff is made by examinations. The business of the General Staff is, in war, to regulate the movements of the army and to attend to the correct registration of material for war history. In peace, the time of the officers who compose it is devoted to a profound post-graduate study of the science and the art of warfare. An important accessory to the privileges of the University is the Royal Library, opposite the main building and adjacent to the palace of Emperor William I. in the Opera Platz. It is possible, though not common, for ladies to be allowed the privileges of this library, consisting of over a million volumes and thousands of valuable and curious manuscripts. A card of introduction to the Director from an influential source gave me the great pleasure of the use both of the library and the fine reading-rooms. Considerable time was consumed in the preliminaries, and there was red tape to be untied, but in general no unnecessary obstacles were thrown in the way even of a woman. On my first visit, before the requisite permission to use the library had been obtained, I was treated as a visitor, and most politely shown the treasures of the institution by intelligent officials. A young man who spoke excellent English was given me as a guide by the distinguished Director-in-Chief. Classification of the books is carried to great minuteness, and it is but the work of a moment, to one familiar with its principles, to turn to any book of the million. The apartments are plain and crowded, although some of the rooms of the adjoining palace had recently been turned into the library, which is fast outgrowing its accommodations. The young librarian who acted as our guide was eager for information concerning American libraries, asking particularly about the size and classification of the Boston Public Library. It was a pleasure to respond to one so intelligent and interested, and I felt sure he would make good use of every scrap of trustworthy information. He showed us his books with pride, and gave many interesting particulars. He also displayed to us some of the treasures kept in glass cases and usually covered from the light. Here were Luther's manuscript translation of the Bible, Gutenberg's Bible, the first book printed on movable types, the ancient Codex of the time of Charlemagne, miniatures, illuminated missals, and other things of much interest. As my dinner-hour approached I begged off for that day from the cordially offered inspection of the celebrated Hamilton manuscripts. It is said that the highest-priced book ever sold was the vellum missal presented to King Henry VIII. by Pope Leo X., which brought $50,000. The missal was accompanied by a document conferring on the King the title of "Defender of the Faith." It is now in this collection, having been given by King Charles II. to an ancestor of the Duke of Hamilton, whose manuscripts were purchased by the German Government in 1882. The tables of the reading-rooms for periodicals are well filled with magazines in all languages, and equal politeness is shown by officials. The apartments are in the second story, reached by a stairway ascending from a paved court off the Behren Strasse, in the rear of the Imperial Palace. No lovely spring-time memories are to us more vivid and attractive than those of the library reading-room, in the second story of the Library building, looking on the Opera Platz. Here, among many students of all nationalities from the University, I was wont to spend long delicious afternoons at a table of my own choosing, to which attentive officials brought the books of my selection, and where I was free to turn to books of reference on the shelves beside me. The room would accommodate perhaps two hundred, similarly employed. Among those I frequently met there were a German lady and an American gentleman whom I was so happy as to number among my friends. Intercourse between our tables was by smiles and nods, seldom crystallizing into words, but these were not wanted. Four centuries looked down upon us in portraits from the walls, and forty centuries were ours in the books below them. As the season advanced, the room was not full, and the long French windows stood open. Before them was a balcony facing the Platz, with its fountains, its shrubbery, and its flowers. The breath of spring and early summer was perfumed by mignonette and English violets, as it floated away from the murmur and the brightness of the brilliant scenes beyond up through every alcove of this quiet scholar's retreat. Books in English, as in other languages, are many and finely selected, though some departments are incomplete. A month's preparation here for a trip to Russia and the far North was one of unalloyed pleasure; and many volumes from the library were, under the rules, kindly permitted to reach and remain on the study-table of my own room while I needed them. The department of Scandinavian travel was, however, much more scantily represented than Russia. Long shall I have reason to remember with gratitude the generous "open sesame" and the rich privileges of this library, which, more than most things that enjoy the epithet, truly deserves the name Royal. As no woman can enter the Berlin University as a student, neither is it practicable for a lady, either as student or visitor, to find access to the _Gymnasia_, which, in the German sense of this term, are somewhat in the line of our American colleges. My windows looked into those of a fine new building across the street, devoted to the instruction of German youth. In through its doors there filed, every week-day morning, long lines of German boys and young men for the various grades of instruction; and a natural desire arose in the mind of an old teacher to "visit the school." But on application to an influential friend long resident in Germany, for a note of introduction to the Director of the _Gymnasium_, his hands were lifted in unaffected astonishment at the nature of the request, "A woman in a boys' school! oh, never! Ask me any other favor but that! Oh, it is _impossible_!" A German lady was more hopeful. She was intimate with the wife of the Director, and thought she could gain for me the coveted permission. But weeks lengthened into months, and still the right to enter even the enclosure sacred to the education of German boys was not obtained. So I studied the educational system at first on paper, and found many facts of interest. Attendance at the common schools is compulsory, all children of both sexes being required to attend, in separate buildings, from the ages of five to fourteen. Beyond this, the High School offers a training for practical life and business, and the _Gymnasium_ a classical and scientific training leading to the special studies of the University. The course of study in the _Gymnasia_ is similar to those of our colleges, some of the studies of the latter, however, being relegated to the University. A boy at nine years of age enters the _Gymnasium_ for a course of nine years, in which Latin and Greek receive the chief emphasis. The same great division of opinion as to the comparative merits of linguistic and scientific training which exists in the rest of the world, agitates the German mind. The _Gymnasium_ with its classical training is the child of the present century, and its growth all along has been disputed by those who claim greater advantages from a curriculum which lays chief stress on science, omitting the Greek and half the Latin, for a part of which modern languages are substituted. This has given rise to what are called the Real Schools, corresponding to our Scientific Schools. These receive their inspiration from the people rather than the learned classes, and are regarded as still on trial. Meantime, until quite recently, the graduates of the _Gymnasia_ have had a monopoly of competition for positions as teachers and opportunity to practise the learned professions. A recent change allows graduates of the Real Schools to compete for teacherships. The graduates of _Gymnasia_ only are allowed to enter the professions of Medicine and Law. The Prussian _Gymnasia_ are about two hundred and fifty in number, and the Real Schools somewhat over one hundred. In point of military service, these schools are all on an equal footing, a pupil who completes a course of six years in either being obliged to serve but one year with the colors. It is said that a large number of those who graduate in these schools do so for the sake of thus shortening their term of military service. I was present at an evening entertainment offered by the older students of one _Gymnasium_ to the friends of the school. It was a rendering, in Greek, of the Antigone of Sophocles, with considerable adjuncts of scenery, costume, and Greek chorus. A brief outline of the play in German was distributed to the audience. For the rest, a knowledge of Greek was the only key to what was said by experts to be well done. But if this one personal glimpse of the scholarship of the higher schools for boys was all that could be obtained, I was more fortunate in finding access to the schools for girls. Not, however, without painstaking. It is by no means a matter of course for any visitor to knock at the door of a school-room for a call upon the school. The coming of visitors is uniformly discouraged; the teachers saying that the pupils are not used to it, and that their attention is thereby diverted from their studies. A lady of my acquaintance, resident for some years in Berlin, asked permission to visit the school which her little daughter attended, and was refused. A professional educator from abroad, especially a gentleman, if properly introduced, will find little difficulty in obtaining access to the schools; but a lady, who wishes to go unofficially, will need persistence and courage before she effects her object. A friendly acquaintance with two German teachers smoothed the way, perhaps opened it, to a privilege I had hitherto sought in vain. At supper one evening I made an engagement to meet one of these ladies in the school to which she belonged, early the next morning. In the short Berlin days of mid-winter one must rise by candle-light to be in time for even the second hour of school, if living a half-hour distant. In one of the largest hotels of Berlin I saw, the week before Christmas, a little fellow, scarcely tall enough for seven years, departing for school in the morning, with his knapsack on his back, an hour before there would be daylight enough for him to study by. As he sturdily went forth from the elegant rooms and brilliantly lighted corridors into the cold gray dawn and the snowy streets towards the distant school, I said, "There is the way to train Spartans!" The schools begin at eight o'clock for girls, at seven for boys, though many go at later hours. Those who are not able to pay for instruction attend the "common schools," where tuition is free; but those who can must pay at the rate of from about five to seven dollars per quarter, in the schools denominated "public." The school to which I went occupies a handsome modern brick edifice, and accommodates eight hundred girls. It was ten o'clock, when the recess which follows the stroke of each hour (ten minutes) is doubled, in order to give time for the "second breakfast"--bread and butter taken in basket or bag--by both teachers and pupils, to supplement the rolls and coffee partaken of by candle-light in winter, which form the first breakfast. The teacher whom I knew was waiting for me in the corridor, where the busy hum of hundreds of young voices filled the air. Handsome and substantial stone staircases fill the central portion of the edifice, lighted by a skylight, by windows where a transverse corridor reaches to the street, and by ground glass in the double doors leading to some of the class-rooms. It was a dark morning, and so the corridors were dim enough. Most of the pupils are in school from eight to one o'clock. Some of the younger ones come at nine, or even ten, and go home at twelve. I was told that instruction as to what to do in case of fire in the building is carefully given, but saw no fire-escapes, except the stairways. There was provision for ventilation in the class-rooms,--a register near the floor admitting pure warm air, and another near the ceiling giving exit to impure air. But this mode was quite insufficient to secure good air in most of the rooms. I was conducted to the Director of the school, without whose permission I could not enter. He was standing in the corridor on the third floor, surrounded by several girls, with whom he was talking in the manner of a _paterfamilias_,--an aged man, with a shrewd but kindly face. I was introduced, and the object of my visit stated. Bowing and leading the way to his office, he made a slight demurrer as to the profit I should reap, but freely accorded the permission, after making an entry, apparently from my visiting-card, in his register. My friend again took me in charge, and conducted me to another room, where I was introduced to the "first instructress," and to five or six other lady teachers, all of whom sat, in wooden chairs, around a plain wooden table, partaking of their luncheon. Two or three good photographs--one of the Roman forum--were in frames on the walls; a large mirror and a set of lock-boxes gave the teachers toilet accommodations; while baskets of knitting and other belongings bespoke this as the retiring-room of the lady teachers. The chief of these, a kind-faced matronly woman, spoke English imperfectly; but several of the younger ones spoke it very well, and one or two were of charming manners and appearance. From a schedule hanging on the wall, I was shown the names and number of recitations for the day. "What would I like to see? How long can I remain? Will I come again to-morrow?" If the permission to visit a school be often difficult to gain, once received, it covers every recitation, and as many hours or days as the visitor chooses to devote to it. I was first conducted to a recitation in arithmetic. The room contained accommodations for fifty pupils, and the seats were filled by girls about thirteen or fourteen years of age. Wooden desks and seats (the outer row for three pupils each, the central for four each), a slightly raised platform for the teacher, with a plain desk and two chairs, several cases of butterflies and beetles, on the walls a map or two, a small blackboard behind the teacher's desk, in grooves, so that it may be elevated or lowered at pleasure, make up the furniture of the room. The light, as in every room I visited, was from one side, to the left of the pupils. The teacher--a man with gray hair and beard, but young enough as to vivacity and enthusiasm, and a gentleman in manners--bowed me to the chair he offered, and with a wave of the hand bade the children, who had risen on our entrance, be seated. The lesson was wholly oral and mental. Addition, subtraction, and multiplication were carried on by means of numbers, given out with so much vivacity and judgment that every eye was fastened on the teacher and every mind alert. Most of the right hands were raised for answer to every question, with the index finger extended; and the pupil selected was chosen now here, now there, to give it audibly. Rank was observed from left to right, the lower changing places with the higher whenever a failure above and a correct answer below paved the way. Large numbers were often used; for example, adding or subtracting by sixties, and multiplying far beyond twelve times twelve,--all apparently with equal facility. The second half of the hour was devoted to a visit to a class of younger girls. Another arithmetic class, taught by a younger gentleman; the pupils were in the eighth class, or second year at school,--age about seven. The room accommodated the same number, and was lighted and furnished in a similar way. Here figures were written on the blackboard by the teacher. The early part of the lesson had evidently been in addition; now it was subtraction, which was carefully explained by the pupils, and the hour closed by a few mental exercises in concert. In the ten minutes' recess which followed, I again chatted with the teachers in their private room. Thirty teachers are employed to teach these eight hundred girls,--twenty gentlemen and ten ladies. I said that in America the lady teachers largely outnumbered the gentlemen. The lady with whom I was conversing replied that the upper classes in girls' schools were all taught by gentlemen, as the ladies were not prepared to pass the required examinations for these positions. "The gentlemen have a course in the _Gymnasium_ about equal to that in your colleges," she said, "and then pursue a course in the University, in order to fit themselves for teachers." "The expense of this is too much for ladies?" I inquired. "Yes; and they have not the opportunity. They are not admitted to the University of Berlin, and then--women have not the strength for such hard studies"! "How many recitations do you hear?" I asked. "The lady teachers, twenty-two per week; the gentlemen, twenty-four." "The salaries of the gentlemen are higher?" "Oh yes, much higher. They have families to support; and then, the ladies are unsteady,--they often marry." I was now conducted to the upper division of the first class; girls in the last of the nine years' course of study,--ages about fourteen to sixteen. This was the only class reciting in English, which within a few years has been made a part of the required course, as well as French. They were reading in little paper-covered books, in German text, the _Geisterseher_ of Schiller, and translating the same into English. The teacher was an English gentleman. He wrote occasionally a word on the blackboard, when he wished to explain or impress upon the memory a term or a synonym,--as, for instance, "temporarily," and the words "soften," "mitigate," "assuage,"--and corrected such mistakes in translation as "guess to" for "guess at," and "declaration" for "explanation." The second division of this first class was in German history. Several of the pupils had historical atlases open before them, which covered the history of the world from the most ancient times to the present, prepared with that excellence which has made German maps famous. The compendium used for a class-book was a brief record of dates and events in Roman type, which is gradually but surely superseding the old German letters. The teacher talked of the quarrel between popes and emperors in the Middle Ages, and especially of the wars of the Investitures. Passing through the corridor after this recitation, I inquired the use of a library there, consisting of several hundred volumes, and was told it was for the use of the teachers; and that there was also one for the use of the pupils, from which they might draw books to read at home,--"some amusing and some instructive." As "Religion" is marked in the schedule of instruction, and in the weekly, monthly, and quarterly reports sent to the parents, I asked to see the text-book, and was shown two or three. That for the younger pupils was simple, after the manner of our "Bible Stories," of the Creation, "Joseph and his Brethren," etc. That for the upper classes consisted of several catechisms bound in one, including "Luther's," and supplemented by a number of Psalms, as the 1st, 15th, 23d, 130th, to be committed to memory. I asked if sewing and knitting were taught, and was answered in the affirmative. "Is there a teacher for sewing only?" I asked. "No; formerly there was, but now the teaching of sewing and knitting is distributed among all the lady teachers. The teachers have more influence with the pupils in this way." A wise remark; as only a sewing-teacher of exceptional force and ability can have an influence with the pupils to be compared with that of those who teach them literature. Embroidery is taught, but only "useful embroidery," as the beautiful initial-work on all bed and table linen in Germany is called. Some of that shown me in the sewing-room I now visited was exquisite, but was outdone, if possible, by the darning. Over a small cushion, encased in white cotton cloth, a coarse fabric of stiff threads is pinned, after a square has been cut out from it. This hole the pupil is to replace by darning, composed of white and colored threads. In this instance blue and white threads were woven about the pin-heads inserted at some distance outside the edges of the hole, one for each thread. The darning replaces the fabric, not only with neatness and strength, but in ornamental patterns. Squares, plaids, herringbone and lozenge patterns were done by this process in such a manner as to be very handsome. We now descended to the ground floor, where was a large gymnasium, fitted up simply, but with a variety of apparatus. A teacher is employed for gymnastics only, but for the reason that until recently the other teachers have not had opportunity to prepare for the examinations, so strict in Germany on every branch. The children here were among the youngest in the school, and were well taught by a lady, but with nothing in the method worthy of special note. The last half-hour, I listened to a recitation in geography. Girls of ten to twelve were numbering and naming the bridges of Berlin, as I entered, and the recitation continued for some time on the topography and boundaries of their own city. A few general questions were given on Germany and its boundaries, and the passes of the Alps, especially the Simplon; and the First Napoleon came in for a little discussion. The whole method and result in this class were admirable. The teachers seemed to expect I would come again on the morrow, as I had not visited all the classes; and my thanks for the hospitality and full opportunity of inspection which I had so much enjoyed, were mingled with the apology I felt was needed, that my engagements would not permit another visit to the school. I next sought and obtained an introduction to a Girls' High School. This was under the patronage of the Empress Augusta, and was said, in furnishing and equipment, to be the best in the city. The building is a good one, and the furniture more nearly approaching to that of the best schools in American cities. We went into two or three classes, but were not particularly impressed, favorably or unfavorably, with the methods of instruction. Not so in the gymnastic rooms, where we went to view the exercises of the Normal class, soon to be graduated. No courtesy was shown us by the master in charge, but we were tolerantly allowed to take seats. Here were young women about eighteen years of age, going through some of the more active exercises, in a large and well-fitted room, without a breath of outer air, in sleeves so close that their arms were partly raised with difficulty; so tightly laced about the waist that the blood rushed to their faces whenever they attempted the running exercise sometimes required, and with long skirts and the highest of French heels! And yet this is a country in which a woman is not considered capable of instructing the higher classes in gymnastics! I now essayed to visit a representative girls' school carried on by private enterprise. The one to which I obtained introduction--and this was always a particular matter, the time of the visit being arranged some days previous by correspondence--was under the patronage of the then Crown Princess, Victoria, whose portrait hung in a conspicuous place in the elegantly furnished drawing-room into which I was first shown. Soon the principal appeared,--a lady, who from a small beginning about fifteen years before had brought the enterprise to its present successful stage, with several hundred pupils in annual attendance. There were a number of governesses, and about thirty pupils resident in the family, the remainder being day-pupils. When asked what I would like to see, as this was a private school, and I knew nothing of its methods, I replied that I would leave the particulars of my visit to the lady in charge. She still hesitated, when I suggested that I should feel interested to visit a class in mathematics. The lady lifted her hands in astonishment. "Mathematics! for girls? Never! We aim to fit girls to become good wives and mothers,--not to teach them mathematics!" "Do you have no classes in arithmetic?" I asked. "Yes, some arithmetic; but higher mathematics would only be hostile to their sphere,--it is not necessary." "Not necessary, possibly," I replied; "but in America we do not think higher study hostile to the preparation of girls for their duties as wives and mothers." "But it is," she replied. "When girls get their minds preoccupied with such things, it interferes with the true preparation for their life." As I had come to learn this lady's ideas of education for girls, not to vindicate mine, I turned the discussion into an inquiry as to the ideal of culture she set before her pupils. "Girls attempt too many things," was the reply. "They come here, some from England and other places, anxious to learn music and languages and what not. I tell them it is impossible to do so many things well. If they wish to learn music, this is not the place for them. They may practise a little,--an hour or two a day, if they wish,--but it is folly to attempt the study of music with other things. We aim to give a thorough training in language and literature; not a smattering, but such an acquaintance as will enable them to understand the people whose tongue they study,--to look at life through their eyes, and to be thoroughly familiar with the masterpieces of their literature. Of course, German holds the first place, but French and English are also taught." I was taken to a class in German literature. The plain and primitive furnishing of the class-rooms was in noticeable contrast to the elegance of the parlors. The girls sat on plain wooden benches, with desks before them on which their note-books lay open. They used these as those who had been trained to take notes and recite from them. I had been told that the teacher in charge of this class was one of the most excellent in the city. The hour was occupied by a lecture on Lessing, a poet whom the class were evidently studying with German minuteness. I also visited a class in reading,--younger girls, about ten or twelve years of age. They were admirably taught, both in reading and memorizing, the latter chiefly of German ballads. I saw no better teaching done in Berlin than that of this class. Its enthusiastic lady teacher would be a treasure in any land. The last visit of the morning was to a class in vocal music, taught by a gentleman. It was interesting as affording a view of the methods in this music-loving country, but did not differ materially from what would be considered good instruction and drill on this side the water. The teacher himself played the piano, the pupils standing in rows on either side. In the teachers' dressing-room, a comfortable apartment for the teachers who came from without the building, I chatted a few moments with two or three ladies. One spoke English so well that I asked if it were her vernacular. She appeared gratified by the compliment; said she had been much in other continental countries, and had spent three years in England, with eighteen months beside in the United States. She mistook me for an Englishwoman, and confidently informed me that she had feared her English accent was ruined by the time spent "in the States." "Did you find it so?" I inquired. "No," she said; "fortunately I was able to correct it by stopping in England on my way back." She had evidently not met the gentleman who informed his English friends that they must go to Boston, Massachusetts, if they would hear English spoken correctly. While in Berlin I heard of a young American who was accosted by an Englishman with a question as to what language she spoke. "I speak American," was the reply, "but I can understand English if it is spoken slowly." The wish to learn English is almost universal among Germans, and the schools have not been before public opinion in making it a part of the curriculum. The result as yet, however, judging from our observation, will justify greater painstaking and more practice, before a high degree of accuracy is reached among the pupils. IV. CHURCHES. The greatest Protestant power of Continental Europe has no Court-churches worthy in appearance of companionship with its palaces and public buildings. But there are those of much historical and other interest, and in some of them the living power of Christianity bears sway. The _Dom_, or Cathedral, dating from the time of Frederick the Great, is far inferior, within and without, to the magnificent buildings which surround it, facing the _Lustgarten_, or Esplanade. Long ago royal plans were made to replace it by an edifice more worthy, but these have not been carried out, though since the accession of Emperor William II. measures have been taken looking toward the erection of a new cathedral. The usual hour for Sunday-morning service is ten o'clock. The latitude of Berlin is over ten degrees farther north than that of New York and Chicago, and the sun at ten o'clock in winter is about as high as at nine o'clock in the latter cities. So it is only by special effort that a midwinter sojourner in Berlin can be at morning service. Within three minutes of the time appointed, on my first visit, the aged Emperor William entered the _Dom_ and stood for a few minutes in the attitude of devotion, as did the other members of the Imperial household. The gallery on the left of the preacher was occupied by three boxes,--one for the Emperor, one for the Crown Prince and his family, and one for their retinues. The service proceeded in the language of the people,--that language created and preserved to Germany by Luther's translation of the Bible. A finely trained choir of some sixty singers led the music, all the people joining in the psalms and hymns; the Imperial family taking part in the service with simplicity and appearance of sincerity, as those who stood, with all present, in the presence of Him with whom is no respect of persons. The plain interior of the _Dom_ has a painting behind the altar, and the large candles in immense candlesticks on either side were burning before a crucifix throughout the entire service. This we found true also in most of the other churches,--a reminder that, wide as was the gulf between the Lutheran Church and that of Rome, the former retained some customs which Puritanism discarded. Pews fill the central part of this cathedral, and the broad aisle skirting the side at the left of the front entrance has a few seats for the delicate and infirm of the throng which always stands there at the time for the morning service. It was in this church that the departed Emperor William I. lay in state for the great funeral pageant when his ninety-one years of life were over. Here in the vaults many members of Prussia's royal family repose, and here many stately ceremonies have taken place. At the door of this cathedral Emperor William I., then Prince Regent, stood with uncovered head to receive the remains of Alexander Von Humboldt, which here lay in state in May, 1859, after the great scholar "went forth" for the last time from his home in the Oranienburger Strasse. We attended a service at the oldest of the Berlin churches, the Nicolai Kirche, and found the sparseness of the audience in striking contrast with the crowds which frequented most of the other churches where we went. Standing-room is usually at a premium in the Cathedral, the Garrison Church, and the place, wherever it may be, in which Dryander preaches; and in nearly all the churches unoccupied seats are hard to find. This is due, not to the large numbers of church-going people in Berlin, but to the comparatively limited church accommodations. It is not too soon that the present Emperor has given order that the number of churches and sittings be immediately increased. In this city of about a million and a half inhabitants, there are only about seventy-five churches and chapels, all told; none very large, and some quite small. It is said that Dryander's parish numbers forty thousand souls, and that there are other parishes including eighty thousand and one hundred and twenty thousand each. Only about two per cent of the population attend church. Ties to a particular church seem scarcely to exist in many cases; those who go to Divine service following their favorite preacher from place to place as he ministers now in one part, now in another, of his vast parish, or going to the Court Church to see the Imperial family, or to some other which happens to offer fine music or some special attraction for the day. Churches do not need, however, to offer special attractions nor to advertise sensational novelties in order to be filled, and of course there are many humble and devout Christians found in the same places from week to week. The Nicolai Kirche dates from before 1250 A.D. and the great granite foundations of the towers were laid still earlier. At this period the savage Wends and the robber-castles of North Germany were yielding to the prowess of the Knights of the Teutonic Order, and the powerful Hanseatic League was uniting its free cities and cementing its commercial interests, of which Berlin was erelong to be a part,--a League which was to sweep the Baltic by its fleets, and to set up and dethrone kings by its armies. Already the Crusades had broken the long sleep of the Dark Ages, and stirred the people with that mighty impulse which brought the culmination, in the thirteenth century, of the great church-building epoch of Europe in the Middle Ages. No great churches which they could not live to finish were begun by he frugal burghers of Berlin; but they had a style of their own in the brick Gothic, which is the most truly national architecture of North Germany. The Nicolai Kirche is a representative of these early times and of this national architecture, but its interior decorations show every variety of adornment which prevailed during five centuries after its founding. Not alone the history of art is represented on the inner walls of this venerable and unique edifice, but the municipal history, and the history of the "Mark of Brandenburg," and the Kingdom of Prussia as well. Almost as ancient as the Nicolai Kirche is the Heiliggeist Kirche, behind the Börse. Near this is the Marien Kirche, with its high spire, its Abbot's Cross--the emblem of Old Berlin--before the entrance, and on the inner walls its frescos of the Dance of Death, painted to commemorate the plague which ravaged Berlin in 1460. Adjoining this church, in the Neue Markt, Berlin's statue of Luther is to be erected. Of the same old time, and in the same old heart of Berlin, is the fine Kloster Kirche of the Franciscan monks, who had once a monastery adjoining. A morning's stroll or two enables one to inspect all these interesting old churches,--passing first to the Nicolai Kirche from the end of the tramway in the Fisch Markt, and then, by a convenient circuit, to each of the others, returning by the Museums and the Lustgarten. The Jerusalems Kirche, about three quarters of a mile south, is said to have been founded by a citizen at the end of the Crusades as a memento of his journey to Palestine; but its present ornamented architecture belongs to a modern reconstruction. An effective architectural group is formed by the two churches in the Schiller Platz, with the great _Schauspielhaus_, or Royal Theatre, between them,--a view which soon becomes familiar to one passing often through the central part of the city. The French Church, on the north side of the Theatre, we did not enter, and of the "New Church"--a hundred years old and recently rejuvenated--our most abiding memories are of an exquisite sacred concert given there in aid of a local charity. We made a pilgrimage to see the effect of this group by moonlight, but, perhaps because it had been too highly praised, we found the view rather disappointing. But we shall long remember a walk at evening twilight through this place, when early dusk and gleaming gas-jets around and within the square had taken the place of departing sunlight, which still bathed in radiance the gilded figures surmounting the domes in the clear upper air. Few of the hurrying multitudes stopped to look upward, but those who did could hardly fail to gain an impressive lesson from the inspiring and suggestive sight. Frommel, the good man and attractive preacher who usually officiates in the Garrison Church, is one of the four Court-preachers, each of whom is eminent in his way. We sat one morning, with many others, on the steps to the chancel in the Garrison Church, as the house was crowded in every part. The spacious galleries were filled with soldiers in Prussian uniform, and many also were in the pews below. The soldiers were not there merely in obedience to orders. They listened intently, for Court-preacher Frommel has a message to the minds and hearts of men. His oratory is eloquent, scintillating; from first to last it holds captive the crowded audience. Never have I witnessed gestures which were so essentially a part of the speaker; hands so incessantly assisting to convey subtle thought and feeling from the brain and heart of the orator to the magnetized audience, whose faces unconsciously testified to a mental and spiritual uplifting. It was told me that the aged Emperor never travelled from his capital without the attendance of this chaplain, as well known for his simple Christian integrity and his ceaseless good deeds as for his wonderful eloquence. Trinity Church, where for a quarter of a century Schleiermacher preached and wrought, is now ministered to by the worthy Dryander and his colleagues, who faithfully do what they can for the spiritual welfare of the immense parish. The edifice, of a peculiar model, stands in a central portion of Berlin, almost under the shadow of the lofty and famous hotel known as the Kaiserhof. On the Sunday mornings when Dryander preaches here, aisles, vestibules, and stairways are crowded until there is no standing-room, much less a seat, within sight or hearing of the popular preacher. His manner is simple, but very forceful and sympathetic, his earnest face and voice holding the audience like a spell. The finest religious music in Berlin is rendered on Friday evenings at sunset, in the great Jewish synagogue in the Oranienburger Strasse, built at a cost of six million marks, and said to be the best in Europe. The spacious interior seats nearly five thousand, with pews on the main floor for men only, and galleries for the women. Three thousand burning gas-jets above and behind the rich stained glass of the dome and side windows give an effect remarkable both for beauty and weirdness. The building without loses much by its close surroundings of ordinary houses, but the Moorish arches and decorations within are unique and effective. Over the sacred enclosure, where a red light always burns, and which contains the ark "of the law and the testimony," a gallery across the eastern end holds the fine organ, and accommodates the choir of eighty trained singers. Christmas eve happened in 1886 on a Friday; so, before the later German Christian home festival to which we were invited, we wended our way to the Jewish weekly sunset service. Neither among the men nor the women was there much outward evidence of devotion. In the female countenances around me in the gallery the well-known Jewish physiognomy was almost universal. While the rabbi read the service, with his back to the audience, most followed in their Hebrew books; but one by one many men slipped out, as though they were "on 'Change" and did not care to stay any longer to-day. The women remained, but with a slightly perfunctory air in most cases. One old crone before me seemed touched with the true pathos which belongs to her race and its history. She followed the service intently, swaying her body back and forth in time with the beautiful music, and ever and anon breaking forth in a low, sweet, plaintive strain with her own voice. Oh the longing of such lives, waiting to find through the centuries the realization of a hope never fulfilled and growing ever more and more dim! My Puritanism had been scarcely reconciled to the crucifix and the candles of the Protestant churches in Berlin, but now, if my life and hopes had depended on the religion of this Jewish ceremonial, I would have given worlds to find a crucifix in the vacant space above their Sacred Ark. These sweet strains of exquisite music seem to give voice without articulation to the unrevealed, imprisoned longing of the Jewish heart for something better than it knows. I could only compare the feeling, in this cold, mechanical worship of the Fatherhood of God, as it seemed to me, with the vague disappointment of climbing stairs in the dark, and stretching out foot and hand for another which is not there. The Christmas torches were burning in the Schloss-platz and the market-places without, crowded for days and nights past with a busy multitude, making ready for the Christ-festival which was to light a Christmas-tree that night in every home in Germany. Even Jews could not resist the gladness; and their homes, like the rest, had every one its Christmas-tree and its fill of cheer, paying their tribute to the world-wide joy, even though they would not. But as I sat among them and went forth with them, I thought also of their ancestral line stretching back to Abraham through centuries of the most wonderful history which belongs to any race. Beside these Israelites, how puerile the fame and deeds of the Hohenzollerns! The sixty or seventy thousand Jews of Berlin hold in their hands, it is said, a large part of the wealth of the city; but they are proscribed, and it is thought by many, unjustly treated before the law. The one English church in Berlin rejoices in a new and beautiful though chaste and modest edifice in the gardens of Monbijou Palace. The site, presented by the Emperor William I., is in the heart of the city, surrounded, in this quiet and beautiful place, by many interesting historic associations. The edifice was built chiefly through the efforts of the Crown Princess Victoria, who raised in London in a few hours a large part of the necessary funds, and who also devoted to this object, so dear to her English heart, presents received at her silver wedding. The service attracts on Sunday mornings, of course, all adherents of the Church of England, as well as many Americans, to whom the magnet of an Episcopal service is greater than that of the association of Christians of all denominations in the devout and simple worship of the Chapel in Junker Strasse, where the Union American and British service is held. One of the first places we essayed to find in Berlin was the chapel at present used by this organization. Our German landlady had unwittingly misdirected us, and we insisted on her direction, to the bewilderment of our cabman. Up one strange street and down another he drove, with sundry protests and shakes of the head on our part. We insist on "Heulmann Strasse." He stops and inquires. "Nein! nein!" he says, "Junker Strasse." "No! no!" we reply. He holds a conference with two brother drosky-men. Three Germans "of the male persuasion" outside insist on "Junker Strasse." Three Americans "of the female persuasion" inside insist on "Heulmann Strasse." "Nein!" says the man, with a determined air, and takes the reins now as though he means business. We lean back in our seats, resigned to going wrong because we cannot help ourselves, when lo! we draw up at the door of the building used by the American church in Junker Strasse. Those barbarous men were right, after all! Late; but how our hearts were warmed and cheered by the sight of a plain audience-room, holding about two hundred English-speaking people; the pulpit draped in our dear old American flag, and another on the choir-gallery! How precious were the simple devout hymns and prayers in our own tongue wherein we were born! There was an American Thanksgiving sermon,--eloquent, earnest, magnetic. Strangers in a strange land, we felt that we could never be homesick in a city where was such a service. This Union Church service was established some twenty-five or thirty years ago, Governor Wright, then United States Minister to Germany, being prominently connected with its beginnings. There is now a regular church organization, with the Bible and the Apostles' Creed as its doctrinal basis. For eight or nine years past, the present pastor, the Rev. J.H.W. Stückenberg, D.D., born in Germany, but a loyal and devoted soldier and citizen of the American Republic, has, with his accomplished wife, been indefatigable in caring for the services, and administering to the needs--physical, social, and religious--of Americans in Berlin. The first gathering which we attended in the city was an American Thanksgiving Banquet, under the auspices of the "Ladies' Social Union" connected with this "American Chapel." Invitations were issued to an "American Home Gathering," for Thanksgiving evening, to be held in the Architectenhaus at six o'clock. Greetings, witty and wise, were extended to the assembled company of some two hundred, by a lady from Boston; grace was said by Professor Mead, formerly of Andover, and the American Thanksgiving dinner was duly appreciated, though some of us had in part forestalled its appetizing pleasures by attendance at a delightful private afternoon dinner-party, where the true home flavors had been heightened by the shadow of the American flag which draped its silken folds above the table, depending from candelabra in which "red, white, and blue" wax lights were burning. Only the initiated can know what such an American Thanksgiving dinner as that given in this public entertainment in Germany must mean to the painstaking ladies, who need to direct every detail in contravention of the established customs of the country. Turkey was forthcoming, but cranberries were sought far and wide in vain, until Dresden at last sent an imitation of the American berry, to keep it company. Mince pies were regarded as essential to the feast. As pies are here unknown, the pie-plates must be made to order after repeated and untold minuteness of direction to the astonished tinman. The ordinary kitchen ranges of Germany are without ovens, and all cake and pastry, as well as bread, must emerge from the baker's oven. So to the shop of the baker two ladies repaired, to mix with their own hands the pastry and to prepare the mince-meat, graciously declining the yeast and eggs offered them for the purpose. The delicious results justified in practical proof the tireless endeavor for a real home-like American dinner. Our German friends laughed at the "dry banquet" where only lemonade and coffee kept the viands company, but right good cheer was not wanting. Before the guests rose from table, the pastor read letters of regret from Minister Pendleton (absent in affliction) and others, and proposed the health of the President of the United States and of Mrs. Cleveland, who, as Miss Folsom, shared in the Berlin festivities of Americans at Thanksgiving the year before. The toast which followed--to the aged Emperor William--was most cordially responded to by a member of the Empress's household, Count Bernsdorff, endeared to many in both hemispheres by his active interest in whatsoever things are true and of good report. Rare music was discoursed at intervals, from a band in the gallery, alternating with amateur performers on the violin and piano, from under the German and American flags intertwined at the opposite end of the handsome hall. The good name of American students of music in Berlin was well deserved, judging from their contributions to the enjoyment of this occasion. The evening's programme closed with our national airs in grand chorus, cheering and inspiring all. To some hearts the dear melody of "The Suwanee River," which afterwards floated out on the evening air of the busy city, mingled a pathos before unsuspected with the good-nights and the adieus, and brought an undertone of sadness caused by the knowledge that we were far from home, and that our loved ones, from Atlantic to Pacific, were returning from their Thanksgiving sermon, or later gathering about the festal board, at the hour when we, wanderers, were clustered in the heart of the German Empire with like purpose and in like precious faith and memory. The Sunday services of this enterprise are now held in an edifice belonging to a German Methodist church, which can be had for one service only, at an hour which will not interfere with the uses which have a prior claim. The Sunday evenings, when a goodly congregation might be gathered if a suitable audience-room could be had, are times of loneliness and homesickness to many American youth and others far from home and friends. Dr. and Mrs. Stückenberg have generously opened their own pleasant home at 18 Bülow Strasse for Sunday-evening receptions to Americans. Their large and beautiful apartments were much too small to accommodate all who would gladly have gathered there. But in the course of the season there were few Americans attending the morning service who were not to be met, one Sunday evening or another, in the parlors of the pastor and his wife; and many others, students, were nearly always there. A half-hour was given on these occasions to social greetings; then followed familiar hymns, led by the piano and a volunteer choir of young people, after which an informal lecture was given by the pastor. Dr. Stückenberg emigrated with his parents to America in early childhood, but has studied in the Universities of Halle, Göttingen, Berlin, and Tübingen. His large acquaintance with German scholars enabled him to give most interesting reminiscences of the teaching and personality of some of these, his teachers and friends. Among the talks which we remember vividly were those on Tholuck, Dörner, and Von Ranke. At another time Dr. Stückenberg gave a series of lectures on Socialism,--a theme whose manifold aspects he has studied profoundly, and which, in Germany as elsewhere, is the question of the hour, the day, and the century, and perhaps of the next century too. After the lecture there generally followed prayer and another hymn, and always slight refreshments,--tea and sandwiches, or little cakes,--over which all chatted and were free to go when they would. Many were the occasions when, in these gatherings, every heart seemed to partake of the gladness radiated by the magnetic host and hostess; and all Europe seemed brighter because of these homelike, social, Christian Sunday evenings which lighted up the sojourn in Berlin. The effort now being made to build a permanent and commodious church edifice for Americans in Berlin is a pressing necessity. Dr. Christlieb, the eminent Professor of Theology and University Preacher in Bonn, asserts that the number of American students in Berlin is now by far the largest congregated in any one place in Germany. The number, as stated in 1888 by Rev. Dr. Philip Schaff, was about four hundred, besides the numerous American travellers there every year for a longer or shorter time. Seventeen denominations have been represented in this church in a single year, and any evangelical minister in good standing in his own church is eligible to election as its pastor. From the beginning these union services have been entirely harmonious; and Methodists, Congregationalists, Presbyterians, Baptists, Lutherans, and Episcopalians have been chiefly active in promoting them. The churches of the royal suburb of Potsdam possess an interest quite equal to that of those in Berlin. The Potsdam Garrison Church, in general interior outlines, reminds one of some quaint New England meeting-house of the early part of the eighteenth century. But here the resemblance ceases. The ancient arrangement of windows and galleries impresses one only at the moment of entering, attention being presently diverted to the flags clustered on the gallery pillars and on either side the pulpit, in two rows,--the lower captured from the French in the wars with the First Napoleon, the upper taken in the late contests with Austria and with Napoleon III. Altar-cloths and other furnishings are heavily embroidered with the handiwork of vanished queens. But the chief interest centres in the vault under the handsome marble pulpit. In this vault, on the left, are the mortal remains of the old Prussian King, Frederick William I.,--father of Frederick the Great,--a character hard to understand, and interpreted differently as one surveys him in the light of Macaulay's genius or that of Carlyle. But one cannot help hoping that the final verdict will be with the latter; and as we stand in this solemn place, memory recalls the day--the midnight, rather--when this same oak coffin, long before the death of the King made ready by his orders in the old Palace of Potsdam close at hand, at last received its burden, and was borne in Spartan simplicity to this place, the torch-lighted band playing his favorite dirge,-- "Oh, Sacred Head, now wounded!" On the right, separated from the coffin of his father only by the short aisle, is that of Frederick the Great. Three wreaths were lying upon it,--placed there by the Emperor and by the Crown Prince and the Crown Princess on the hundredth anniversary of the death of this founder of Prussia's greatness, August 17, 1886. Fortunate is the visitor to Potsdam who does not altogether overlook this Garrison Church, misled by the brief mention usually accorded to it in the guide-books. The Friedenskirche, near the entrance to the park of Sans Souci, has a detached high clock-tower adjoining, and cloisters beautiful, even in winter, with the myrtle and ivy and evergreens of the protected court which they surround. In the inner court is a copy of Thorwaldsen's celebrated statue of Christ (the original at Copenhagen); also, Rauch's original "Moses, supported by Aaron and Hur," and a beautiful _Pieta_ is in the opposite colonnade. The church is in the form of the ancient basilica, which is not favorable to much adornment. A crucifix of _lapis lazuli_ under a canopy resting on jasper columns--a present from the Czar Nicholas--stands on the marble altar. A beautiful angel in Carrara marble adorns the space before the chancel, above the burial-slabs of King Frederick William IV., founder of the church, and his queen; and the apse is lined with a rare old Venetian mosaic. But the chief interest of this "Church of Peace" will henceforth centre around it as the burial-place of the Emperor Frederick III. In an apartment not formerly shown to the public, his young son, Waldemar, was laid to rest at the age of eleven years, deeply mourned by the Crown Prince, the Crown Princess, and their family. Here in this church, beside his sons Waldemar and Sigismund, who died in infancy, it was the wish of the dying father to lie buried. Here the quiet military funeral service was held; here the last look of that noble face was taken amid the tears of those who loved him well, while the sunlight, suddenly streaming through an upper window, illuminated as with an electric light that face at rest, as the Court-preacher Koëgel uttered the words of solemn trust,-- "What God doeth is well done." Fitting it is that in this "Church of Peace" should rest all that was mortal of the immortal Prince who could say, as he entered Paris in the flush of victory: "Gentlemen, I do not like war. If I should reign, I would never make it." V. MUSEUMS. The chief art treasures of Berlin are found in the Royal Museums, Old and New, and in the National Gallery. There are few more characteristic and inspiring sights in Europe than that which greets the eye in a walk on a sunny afternoon in winter from the palace of Kaiser Wilhelm I. through the Operahaus Platz and the Zeughaus Platz, across the Schloss Brücke and the Lustgarten, to the peerless building of the Old Museum,--with the grand equipages, the brilliant uniforms, and the busy but not overcrowded life which throng the vast spaces of these handsome thoroughfares. The Old Museum is not so rich in masterpieces as some other and older art galleries, but there are many fine original works. The Friezes from the Altar of Zeus, excavated within a few years at Pergamus, are extremely interesting, and are exhibited with all the adjuncts which the most thorough German scholarship can supply for their elucidation. The celebrated Raphael tapestry, woven for Henry VIII. from the cartoons now in the South Kensington Museum, and long the foremost ornament of the palace of Whitehall, hangs in the great upper rotunda, which is a setting not unworthy of its fame. Michael Angelo's "John the Baptist as a Boy," one of his early works, is quite unlike most of this master's work, in conception and execution, and is interesting especially on this account. The "Altar-piece of the Mystic Lamb" is remarkable for its merits and because it is reputed to be the first picture ever painted in oils. Murillo's "Ecstasy of Saint Anthony" is a picture of rare sweetness and power. In one room are five of Raphael's Madonnas, but only one of them is in his better style. "The collection of pictures in the Old Museum," wrote George Eliot in 1855, "has three gems which remain in the imagination,--'Titian's Daughter,' Correggio's 'Jupiter and Io,' and his 'Head of Christ on a Handkerchief.' I was pleased, also, to recognize among the pictures the one by Jan Steem which Goethe describes in the 'Wahlverwandschaften' as the model of a _tableau vivant_ presented by Lucian and her friends. It is the daughter being reproved by her father, while the mother empties her wine-glass." The department of the Museum known as the Antiquarium has its treasures. Here is the original silver table service, supposed to be that of a Roman General, dug up in 1868 near the old German mediæval town of Hildesheim. A handsome copy of this service is among the beginnings of Chicago's Art collections. Here are the exquisite terra-cotta statuettes from the ancient Grecian Colony of Tanagra, which no modern work of plastic art can imitate in grace of form and delicacy of color,--dating three or four hundred years before the Christian era; and in other rooms, a fabulous collection of jewels, and numberless precious vases, illustrating especially the progress of Ancient Grecian Art. The New Museum, connected by a colonnade with the Old, is not, like it, remarkable for architectural beauty; but its vast collections, especially in marble, already need and are to have a new building. The masterpieces of ancient sculpture gathered at Munich, Vienna, Paris, Rome, Naples, and elsewhere, are here reproduced in casts, making up a collection said to be, in its way, unrivalled in the world. The collection of originals in Renaissance sculpture is also extensive and valuable. Referring to sculpture in Berlin, George Eliot wrote: "We went again and again to look at the Parthenon Sculptures, and registered a vow that we would go to feast on the originals [in the British Museum] the first day we could spare in London." At the date before mentioned, her opinion was that "the first work of art really worth looking at that one sees in Berlin is the 'Horse-Tamers' in front of the [Old] palace. It is by a sculptor [Baron Clodt, of St. Petersburg] who made horses his especial study; and certainly, to us, they eclipsed the famous Colossi at Monte Cavallo, casts of which are in [before] the New Museum." The Department of Coins has 200,000 specimens, many very old and rare; and that of Northern Antiquities illustrates with great fulness the prehistoric and Roman periods. The Cabinet of Engravings is extremely interesting, and has some specimens of very great value; but it is open to the general public for a few hours on Sunday only, and even then the greater part of its collections is reserved to art students, who have the entire monopoly of its treasures on other days of the week. It well repays persistent effort, however, to make a few quiet visits to this rare cabinet. Some of the finest works are hung on the walls of the pleasant rooms. The famous mural paintings by Kaulbach adorning the upper staircase walls of the New Museum are widely admired, but critics differ in the estimate of their place as works of art. The upper saloons reached by this staircase show the cartoons of Cornelius, and foreshadow a grandeur in German art not yet realized. The third building in the group which holds the chief art treasures of Berlin is the National Gallery, its pictures partaking, as such a collection should, strongly of the German spirit as shown in modern German art. The paintings are of various degrees of merit, many being of value chiefly as reflecting the national life. A fine portrait of Mommsen arrested me, on one visit; a striking picture, "Christ healing a Sick Child in its Mother's Arms," by Gabriel Max, was a continual favorite; and many others were among those to which we went frequently and before which we lingered long. The crowning excellence of all the Royal Art Collections is their singular method and completeness. The Old Museum, especially, in its arrangement and illustration of the history of painting in all schools, is without a peer, and it is particularly rich in the early Italian masters. The National Gallery in London has been compared in arrangement with the Berlin Museum, but our observation showed nowhere else in Europe so great facility for systematic study of art as here. Quite recently, a writer in the "London Art Journal," in comparing European art galleries, characterizes the Italian galleries, except the Pitti, as mere storehouses of pictures, so great have been the accessions, in late years, of altar-pieces from suppressed convents; while, on the other hand, the Louvre, and the galleries of Munich, Dresden, Vienna, St. Petersburg, and Madrid still retain their original characteristics as collections made by persons of taste and discrimination. "The Berlin Gallery," says this writer, "is neither a storehouse nor a collection. It stands on a footing of its own. The studious and organizing Prussian mind soon handed over the management of all its collections to a body of specialists, trained to study the objects in their keeping and to arrange them not so much for the delight as for the information of a studious public. The Berlin Gallery has been thus arranged, and its additions have been purchased under the direction of scholars and historians rather than artists and _dilettanti_. Historical sequence and historical completeness have been aimed at. The collection is intended to exemplify the development of the art of painting in mediæval and renascence Europe. It is impossible to enter the Museum gallery and not be struck with this fact. The visitor finds himself turned into a student of the history of painting, as he wanders from room to room. The ordering of the pictures, the information contained in the catalogue,--everything points in the same direction. So clearly has the Museum come to be understood at Berlin as a kind of art-history branch of a university, that a portion of the funds devoted to it is annually spent upon the publication of a periodical universally recognized as the leading magazine in the world devoted to the history of art. By means of it, students in all countries are informed from year to year of the new acquisitions and discoveries made by the staff of the Museum, or by the leading authors and students of the subject, of all nationalities. The Berlin collection has thus won for itself a place as the historical collection _par excellence_." The Museums are under the care of a Director-General, with nine or more Directors of Departments. Dr. Julius Meyer, Director of the Picture-Gallery, is said to be probably unequalled by any living writer for a wide and philosophic grasp of the whole subject of Art History, to which his life has been devoted; while the names of distinguished scholars and professors at the head of the other departments are guaranties of similar excellence. A series of four illustrated volumes is now in process of publication, which will present, in photographs and engravings, large or small, every picture of importance in the gallery. The text of these volumes, by Drs. Meyer and Bode, will be extremely valuable, and the whole will doubtless stand foremost among publications designed as exponents of European galleries. The fine and massive building of the Arsenal, opposite the palace of the late Crown Prince, dates from the time of Frederick I., last of the Electors and first of the Prussian Kings. The grand sculptures of the German artist Schlüter, who was afterwards called to the aid of Peter the Great in the creation of St. Petersburg, adorn the exterior of the edifice. Any chance walk along the Linden will arrest the attention to this building, with the remarkable heads of dying warriors carved in the keystones of its window arches. In the renovation of the Arsenal a few years since, no improvement was made on the exterior, except to remove the accumulations of smoke and dust which a hundred and seventy years had deposited there. After the close of the Franco-Prussian War, it was the thought of the aged Emperor to make this Arsenal, already crowded with an immense collection of arms, armor, and trophies, into a kind of Walhalla,--a National Hall of Fame. This was fully carried out. In rooms on the ground floor one may read the whole history of ordnance, old and new, including the famous Armstrong and Krupp guns. A portion of this floor is devoted to models of fortresses, plans of battles, and captured flags. There is a war library; and the celebrated pictures of the Giant Grenadiers, painted with his own hand by Frederick William I., father of Frederick the Great, are also to be seen. A magnificent double staircase under a glass roof leads to the second floor (in Germany called the first), where one portion is devoted to an interesting collection of arms, which is, however, inferior to those of one or two other European cities. The chief attraction to the visitor, as well as a permanent magnet to the patriotic Berlinese, who come hither in whole families, is the "Hall of Fame," consisting of three sections, all splendid in mosaic floors and massive marble pillars, and adorned with sculpture and fine historical frescos. One of the latter represents the Coronation of the first King of Prussia at Königsberg, and another has for its subject the Proclamation of the German Empire at Versailles. The Central Hall is adorned with bronze statues of the Great Elector, of the Fredericks and Frederick-Williams of the Prussian royal line, and of the Emperor William I. The "Halls of the Generals," on either side of this "Hall of the Rulers," have busts of the military leaders, including a fine one of the Crown Prince. Here are also several historical paintings; prominent among which are "The Battle of Turin," "The Emperor William and the Crown Prince at Königgrätz," and "The Capitulation at Sedan." Perhaps no collection, among many more which might be mentioned, better illustrates the practical working of the German mind than the Royal Post Museum in the Leipziger Strasse. Here is shown everything of interest connected with the transmission of intelligence, and poetry as well as prose has entered into the heart of this Government exhibit. On the walls of the first saloon entered by the visitor are copies in stone of Assyrian bas-reliefs showing a warrior with chariot and arrows. This suggests to us a scene in the lives of David and Jonathan; but communication by means of arrows is probably much older than the time of David. Earlier than even the Assyrian stone must have been the model for the Egyptian wicker and wooden post-chariot. In this room, under a glass case, is an exquisite marble statuette, found at Tanagra, of a Grecian girl seated, and writing on a tablet; and not far away is a Roman warrior, carrying his message. Entering the next hall, we pass a beautiful bronze statue of Philip, the Grecian soldier, bearing a laurel spray, stretching his athletic limbs in breathless strides as he goes toward the capital to announce the battle of Marathon, and to fall dead on his entrance to the city, with the single word "Victory!" on his lips. Here on the walls are four emblematic pictures: "The Land-Post," representing a knight with a sealed missive in his hand, standing beside and curbing his fiery steeds; "The Sea-Post," showing a mail-carrier on the back of a dolphin in the midst of stormy waves far out at sea; "The Telegraph," with Jove and his lightnings as its central figure: and "The _Rohrpost_,"--a maiden, blowing into an orifice with "the breath of all the winds." This last is emblematic of that postal arrangement in Berlin by which letters and postal cards are sent with great speed through pneumatic tubes from which the air is exhausted by means of pumps, and which makes it possible to receive a written message from a distant part of the city within a few minutes after it is written. Among the ancient representations are models of the boats in which the old Norsemen sailed the seas, and of those by which our Anglo-Saxon ancestors invaded England from Germany. These are strikingly contrasted, in their simplicity and clumsiness, with a fully equipped model, from four to six feet long, of a modern North German Lloyd Atlantic mail steamship, than which no better equipped boat sails the main. One goes on, past a Gobelin tapestry representing a mail-scene at Nüremberg in the Middle Ages, through long halls and corridors where are hundreds of models of post-office buildings of the most convenient and approved plans, in all parts of the world. These are of every variety of architecture, from the great general post-office in London, the handsome Hanover post-office building, those of the central and district post-offices in Berlin, Dresden, Cologne, Heidelberg, and many others in South Germany, to the modern edifices which adorn, and yet seem strangely out of keeping with, the picturesque old North German towns. These models are miniature copies of the exteriors of post-office buildings, varying in length from one and a half to six or eight feet, and of corresponding height. One most interesting model shows the interior of a modern post-office, each floor showing an exact copy of its department of the service, with all appliances and conveniences. In another room are miniature mail-coaches of different kinds. In the centre of this apartment stands a life-size figure of a mail-carrier in Germany of four hundred years ago. He is a wild-looking official, reminding one by his bronzed features and general appearance of some trusty Indian scout, as he holds his gun in an attitude of suspicion and menace, while a bear-cub opens a capacious mouth at his feet. Model mail and post-office cars occupy the side of another large room; but this exhibit is so vast and varied that the memory refuses to retain its classification, and holds side by side Alaskan sledges drawn by dogs, Russian post-chaises with reindeer teams, mail-boats on Norwegian fiords, carrier-pigeons and balloons, camels and elephants, and the model mail-coach of the lightning express of the New York Central Railroad. The working appliance used in America for catching off a mail-bag without stopping the train attracts much attention. There is a complete set of the weights and measures used in British post-offices, and two glass cases show the forms of horseshoes best adapted to the speed of horses carrying mails. Tablets, pens, and pencils have cases to themselves, as well as parchments, ancient rolls and ink-horns, reeds and papyrus. Here are the primitive postal arrangements of some of the East Indies; there is the yellow satin missive with a scarlet seal which carries the royal mandates of Siam. Pictures and models of mail-carrying elephants come next, their gay saddle-cloths filled with pockets and parchment rolls. A model of a Japanese post-office is finished in all its interior with the perfection of detail and delicacy of execution which characterize the best Japanese work. A framed engraving of the International Postal Congress at Berne in 1874 hangs near one of the Congress at Paris in 1878. There is a room devoted to the exhibition of postal stamps, cards, and envelopes of every kind, and there are several rooms where models of the most approved kinds of telegraphic apparatus are shown. In a corridor are all varieties of submarine cables, with the ore and the Bessemer steel of which they are spun. In one of the rooms a small crowd is collected about an operator who speaks through a telephone, records the sound of his own voice on strips of foil, which he tears into fragments and distributes to those who eagerly reach for them. In the centre of this room there is a tiny circular railway, with a coach, but no locomotive, standing on the track. By turning the wheel of an electro-magnet the official produces an electric light at the extremity of a model burner; then, applying the same power to the little railway, propels the coach at a rapid rate by means of the invisible agent. One goes forth into the street, past wax figures of armed and mounted mail-messengers in the Middle Ages, past the model street mail-boxes and carriages which help to make so wonderful the Berlin postal arrangements, in a maze at what may here be seen in a single half-hour of the history of mail-carrying in all lands and ages. The originator of this "Post Museum" is Dr. Stephan, the inventor of the postal card and the chief promoter of the International Postal Union. His is the "power behind the throne" which has made the German postal system a marvel of efficiency, unsurpassed, if not unrivalled, in the world. Less known to travellers than many others far inferior in interest, is the Hohenzollern Museum, occupying the Monbijou Palace in the heart of Berlin. This palace, of so much interest to the readers of Carlyle's "Frederick the Great," has been transformed into a repository for the personal belongings and memorials of the kings and queens of Prussia. One or more rooms devoted to each sovereign in historical succession make up a fascinating picture of the royal customs of the kingdom for two hundred years. Our attention was called to this museum by an English resident, but its interest far exceeded our expectations. Here are the laces, jewels, and often the entire wardrobes of the Hohenzollern queens, with their writing desks and tablets, jewel-cases, embroidery, work-baskets, mirrors, beds, and other furniture; and the kings have each their own apartment likewise, tenanted by their "counterfeit presentments" in wax, sitting or standing in the very clothes they wore, and surrounded by visible mementos of the life they used to live. The glittering eyes and mundane expression of Frederick William I., father of Frederick the Great, give one a strange feeling, and the chairs and table of his "Tobacco College" must have a vivid interest for every reader of Carlyle's "Frederick." But when we entered the rooms containing the many mementos of the Great Frederick himself, from his effigy in the cradle and his baby shoes, and threaded all the vicissitudes of that strangely fascinating life by the help of its visible surroundings, and finally stood before the glass case containing a mask of his dead face and hand surrounded by its laurel wreath, the spell of the past was at its height. It was a bright sunny afternoon, and the golden light came in long slanting lines through windows opening on Monbijou gardens, beautiful even in winter, and lay upon the tessellated floors of the corridors in patterns of shining glory. The chat and laughter of young companions floated from adjoining rooms, and the foot of the guard fell softly in the marble halls. But a kind of awe born of that wonderful past had taken possession of me. I was alone with the spirit of the Great Monarch, and it was more than could be borne. We hurried away from the spot, as when children we fled from fancied ghosts. To one in search of a genuine sensation, we recommend the reading (with judicious skipping) of Carlyle's "Frederick the Great," and a visit, alone or with a single companion, to the Hohenzollern Museum. Upwards of twenty years ago, German trade was falling behind in the best markets of the world, because the products of German industry were largely poor in quality and deficient in artistic value. With the Duke of Ratisbon, President of the Herrenhaus, as chairman of a committee appointed to consider the subject, a few leading minds combined in a movement which issued in the establishment of the Industrial Art Museum. The Crown Prince and the Crown Princess were much interested in the subject, and gave the plan their hearty support. Less than ten years since, the fine new building in Zimmer Strasse near Königgrätzer was opened on the birthday of the Crown Princess, to receive the vast treasures accumulated, by gift, loan, and purchase, for the permanent exhibition. A cursory visit, though most interesting, is sometimes bewildering from the extent and variety of the collection. The centre of the edifice consists of a large court, roofed with glass and surrounded by two galleries. This is the place reserved for loan exhibitions, and several of importance have already been held here. One of the earlier was of some of the treasures of the South Kensington Museum, loaned by Queen Victoria. Opening upon these arcades are numerous halls on the lower floor, devoted to the permanent exhibition. The classification of the objects exhibited, if not loose, is very general, seeming to us inferior to the method which makes the South Kensington a delight, whether one has hours or months in which to visit it. On the ground floor of this Berlin Museum are "objects in the making of which fire is not used." This includes domestic and ecclesiastical furniture of different countries and historical periods, musical instruments, tapestries, carvings in ivory and wood, and many other objects widely separated in thought. A fine exhibit is made of articles in amber wrought by workmen of rich old Dantzic, for which Baltic Germany furnishes the raw material. The ancient Italian carved bridal-chests brought vividly to mind our childhood's favorite story of Ginevra, by chance imprisoned in such a chest on the day which was to have witnessed her marriage. The upper floor, with an arrangement similar to that of the lower, shows "objects in the manufacture of which fire is necessary." The very extensive collection of pottery and porcelain was surpassed, in our observation, only by that at Sèvres; and there are many rare and valuable specimens of work in glass and metals. The ancient municipal silver service of the city of Lüneberg, bought at a cost of $165,000, deserves the attention it attracts; and the work of German mediæval goldsmiths--particularly of the famous Augsburg artisans--is a revelation of the possibilities of human handiwork. Stained glass, of much historic and artistic value, fills the windows of the entire building. The specimens of textile fabrics, in completeness and extent, are matchless, and are so arranged as to afford the utmost facility to students of the history of this important subject, as well as great pleasure to the favored visitor who has the opportunity to inspect them. This "Künstgewerbe Museum" is open to the public without charge on three days of the week, and for a small fee on the remaining days; while its valuable industrial library may be freely consulted on four week-day evenings. Its influence is already strongly felt along the lines of trade and industry throughout the Empire. The great Ethnographical Museum adjoining, on the corner of Königgrätzer Strasse, has the kind and variety of objects usually found in such exhibitions, including those connected with several races of American Indians. The other departments were, to us, eclipsed in interest by the Schliemann exhibition of Trojan remains on the ground floor. Here we found, on the walls, framed pencil or India ink sketches of the localities where the earlier excavations were made, plans of the work, sections of the unearthed portions, and the precious old Trojan antiquities themselves, deposited here for inspection and safe keeping. The Märkische Museum, in the Fisch Markt, a centre of Old Berlin, illustrates the history and the prehistoric times of the Mark of Brandenburg, including an interesting department of curiosities from the lake-dwellings and tumuli. There are also ancient coins and other objects picked up at different times within the province. One of the later treasures of this unique museum is the box from which the monk Tetzel sold the indulgences which fanned into a flame the rising fires of the Reformation. VI. THE GERMAN REICHSTAG AND THE PRUSSIAN PARLIAMENT. The Reichstag, or Imperial Diet of the German Empire, was, during our stay in Berlin, a focus for the eyes of all Europe and America. The Government, professedly actuated by a fear of war, asked for an appropriation, largely to increase the army annually for a term of seven years. This House of Deputies, elected by the people and numbering nearly four hundred members, contained a considerable element of opposition to the Government. The debate over the Army Bill brought Chancellor Bismarck up from his distant country-seat, where he had spent several previous months, to a participation in the contest which was anticipated on both sides with eagerness and solicitude. The building on Leipziger Strasse, as severe in inner details as in the sombre gray of its outer walls, was hastily constructed in 1871 for the accommodation of the newly consolidated German Empire, and has long been inadequate to the need. A single gallery surrounds three sides of the hall, and is occupied on the right by boxes for the Imperial household, the diplomatic corps, and high officials. The left is appropriated to English and American visitors; and the centre, immediately above the desk of the presiding officer and the elevated seats of the Chancellor and members of the Bundesrath, is alone left for the general public. When the new building near the Thiergarten shall be occupied, it is hoped that greatly improved acoustics and ventilation may be secured, and the accommodations for visitors such that it may not be said that there are Germans in Berlin who have for years desired visitors' tickets of admission without having been able to secure them. By a singular good fortune, our tickets gave us seats for this debate in full view of the leaders of each of the great parties. On the first day the Prime Minister made his great speech, and on the second day thereafter, Richter, the leader of the progressive party, took up the speech point by point, and with bold and vigorous oratory for two hours held the attention of all to his own opposing views. A man of robust physique, still in the prime of life, Richter's dark complexion and facial expression give the impression of "staying qualities" formidable as lasting. The session opened at eleven o'clock A.M., and the veteran General and Field-Marshal Von Moltke was the first speaker. His rising was the signal for a general hush, and for about a quarter of an hour all listened in breathless silence. Half the width of the hall from the observer, his more than eighty years seemed to sit lightly on "the great taciturnist;" and his fair complexion, fine brow, thin face, and singular firmness of mouth have the fascination of genius. Later, during the long and sometimes denunciatory speech of Richter, he seemed wearied. Rising from his seat in the front rank of the Conservatives on the extreme right, he moved to the rear, stood in the aisle, took a vacant seat,--resting by various changes for fifteen or twenty minutes; but when, between one and two o'clock, the time for Bismarck's entrance approached, he returned to his own seat and thenceforth listened attentively. Like the aged Emperor, Von Moltke's age was most apparent in his movements. Sitting or standing, he was the graceful, well-bred gentleman, as well as the dignified chief of the German army. In walking, his movement is slow, and lacking vigor to a marked degree. The offer of the Opposition to vote for the bill with a term of one, two, or even three years, while declaring that they could not vote for seven, was haughtily received by the Prime Minister, who had already given his reasons, supported by the Emperor, by Von Moltke, and other eminent military authority, for adhering to the longer term. "I will not abate a hair's breadth of the septenate," said he. "If you do not vote it, I prefer to deal with another Reichstag." This on the second day of the debate. On the third day Bismarck replied to some of the positions of the Opposition, in a speech of three quarters of an hour, immediately following his opponent, Richter. The latter, and the members on the left included in the three great divisions of the Liberal party, retired from the hall at the conclusion of Richter's two hours' speech; but the centre, or Catholic party, among whom were several priests and a number of very keen and watchful physiognomies, remained in their seats, as well as the Conservatives of both grades. Soon Richter was back, though without his supporters. Fumbling a moment at his desk for pencil and paper, he stepped forward in the aisle, so as not to lose the sentences of Bismarck (occasionally somewhat indistinct), and refusing to be diverted for more than an instant by the communications of friends and officials. Cries of _Ja wohl! Ja wohl!_ and _Bravo!_ were heard from the right during the speech of Bismarck, with now and again a general ripple of laughter at some pleasantry accessible to the German mind; but these were much outdone in heartiness by the applause which frequently interrupted Richter when speaking. There is a massiveness about this scene which rises up in memory with a vividness greater, if possible, than the reality made on our excited and wearied endurance during the hours we spent there. Later, Windhorst, the leader of the Roman Catholic party, made a memorable speech. The dozen great electric lights depending from the ceiling were extinguished when the early afternoon sun faintly struggled with the clouds for entrance through the skylight which forms the entire roof of the room, except those left burning near the seats of Bismarck and Von Moltke, which brought these foremost figures into strong relief. Prince William--now Emperor--and the gentlemen of his party were in gay uniforms in the Imperial box, and the diplomatic box was lighted mainly by the diamonds of the ladies who sat there; while the crowded ranks of the other galleries were in dim twilight. It was a picture to remain in history. The bill was lost. In less than twenty-four hours after we left the Reichstag, Bismarck had read his summary dissolution of the Diet, and before another sunset the hall was closed and silent. The Iron Chancellor had made his appeal to the country. The war-cloud was heavy over Europe, and great was the excitement in Berlin. Under fear of a bolt which might strike at any moment, the elections for a new Chamber were held, and Bismarck had his will. The Reichstag is the representative body of the whole German Empire, with its four kingdoms, six grand duchies, and sixteen lesser principalities and powers united under one emperor. Prussia is a kingdom which forms but one, though the most important, of these constituent parts. The Reichstag is a kind of Upper and Lower House in one; the Bundesrath or Federal Council, with somewhat arbitrary powers, has its private Council-room; but the Chancellor of the Empire is its presiding officer, and, with the members of this Council, occupies the elevated platform at the right of the President of the Reichstag. The chief function of the latter as a legal Chamber of Deputies is to check the power of the Bundesrath. It can thus reject bills and refuse appropriations, but has no power to bring about a change of administration. The Prussian Diet is composed of two separate houses. The building of the Lower House--the Abgeordnetenhaus--is near the eastern extremity of the Leipziger Strasse, and the House of Lords--Herrenhaus--is adjacent to the Reichstag-Gebaude. The Prussian Lower House is somewhat larger in numbers than the Reichstag, and is of course an elective body. It contained a number of eminent men,--as Herr Windhorst, also the leader of the Catholic party in the Reichstag, and Professor Virchow. On the day of our visit no business of special importance was before the assembly, and visitors' tickets were obtained with an ease in pleasing contrast to the most difficult feat of obtaining entrance to the Reichstag on a great occasion. The House of Lords is reputed a dull place, and is seldom visited. In a dwelling formerly occupying this site (No. 3 Leipziger Strasse), and of which some memorials remain, Felix Mendelssohn spent, with his parents and sister Fanny, several years of his wonderful youth; and the "Gartenhaus" of this estate witnessed the memorable private performance of the work which first revealed his greatness to the world,--the "Overture to the Midsummer Night's Dream." VII. PROMINENT PERSONAGES. "I love my Emperor," said "our little Fräulein," laying her hand on her heart, one day when we were talking of him. It was on our first day in Germany that we, returning from church a little after noon, were kindly greeted by an American lady who saw that we were strangers. "The Emperor lives on this street," she said; "and if we hasten, we may see him when he comes to the window to review his Guards." Soon we were before the palace on Unter den Linden, a substantial-looking building facing the north, with an eastern exposure. The Imperial standard was floating over the palace, denoting the presence of his Majesty. The room on the ground floor, northeast corner, of the palace is the one used by Emperor William I. as his study; and one back of this was his bedroom, containing the simple iron cot which was the companion of his soldier days, and which remained the couch of his choice to the end of life. At "the historic window" we often saw him. Every day at noon, and sometimes long before, the crowd began to gather in the street opposite this window, for a sight of his Majesty when he came for a moment to review his Guards at a quarter to one. It was touching to see the devotion of the people, standing patiently in all weathers; mothers and fathers holding up their children that they might catch a sight of the idolized Kaiser. Rarely did he disappoint them. As the military music of the guard drew near, and the tramp of the soldiers fell on the pavement before the palace, the aged man would appear at the window in full uniform of dark blue with scarlet trimmings and silver epaulettes, returning the salutations of the guard, and bowing and waving his white-gloved hand to the people, then retiring within the shadow of the lace curtains. Sometimes the cheering broke forth anew as he was lost to sight, and the welkin was made to ring with the Kaiser-song, or some hymn of Fatherland, until he indulgently appeared again, bowing his bald head, his kindly face lighted up with a smile. In full-front view he did not look like a man in his ninetieth year. Many a man of sixty-five or seventy looks older. When he turned, the side view revealed that his form was not erect; but only when he walked with a slow movement could one realize that this soldier of perfect drill--this courtly gentleman--was one who had seen almost a century of life. His earliest memories were of privation and hardship. In his young boyhood the First Napoleon held Berlin in his grasp, and the family of the King, Frederick William III., fled to Königsberg. The beautiful and noble Queen Louise and her two little boys, afterwards Frederick William IV. and William I., wandered at one time in the forests, and made their food of wild berries. They amused themselves by making wreaths of _cornblumen_,--blue flowers answering closely to our "bachelors' buttons,"--which grow wild everywhere in Germany. Thenceforward the _cornblumen_ were dear to the young princes, and they were "the Emperor's flowers" to the end of his Imperial life. So devoted was he to the memory of his mother, that when in his later years he saw a young girl whose striking beauty of face and form reminded him of Queen Louise, he persuaded her to allow her portrait to be taken, that it might remind him of the mother whom he remembered in her youth. This beautiful portrait is bought, by many Germans even, as that of Queen Louise, and may be known by a star over the forehead. The finest actual portrait of this Queen which we saw was, at the time of our visit, in the Old Schloss at Berlin, and showed a mature and lovely woman, every inch a queen. The exquisite reposing statue, by Rauch, in the Mausoleum at Charlottenburg, over her grave, is well known by copies. The life led by the aged Emperor was simple and methodical to the last. Rising at half-past seven, he breakfasted, looked over his letters and papers, and was ready by nine or half-past nine to begin his reception of officials or other callers, which lasted till after midday. After lunch, he usually drove for an hour or so in the afternoon, often accompanied by a single aid, bowing right and left to the populace, who thronged for a look and a smile. His plain military cloak enveloped him in cold or rainy weather, and his was often one of the plainest equipages on the brilliant street. "I do not think," said General Grant, after having visited the Emperor, "that I ever saw a more perfect type of a soldier and a man. His Majesty went off into military affairs. I was anxious to change the subject, as I had no interest in the technical matters of war. But the Emperor held me to the one theme, and we spoke of nothing else. I fancied Bismarck sympathized with me, and would have gladly gone off on other subjects, but it was of no use. The manner of Bismarck toward the Emperor was beautiful,--absolute devotion and respect. This was my one long talk with the Emperor. I should call him the embodiment of courage, candor, dignity, and simplicity; a strikingly handsome man." Sometimes the Kaiser would hold up to the palace window his eldest great-grandson, now Crown Prince, then a beautiful child of four or five years; and the little fellow would go through his military salute of the passing guard with great gravity and propriety, while the huzzas of the crowd burst forth with renewed zeal. This child was the favorite of the aged Emperor, and sometimes took liberties with his great-grandsire which would hardly have been tolerated from any one else. If it was touching to see the devotion of the people to their Emperor, it was no less so to see how he trusted himself with them. He could remember when, with the revolutionary spirit of 1848, the mob in the streets of Berlin had so insulted him, a prince, that he had fled for a time from his country. But that he had forgiven and they had forgotten long ago. The times had "changed all that." Now he lived daily in sight of the people, with only a pane of glass for a shield. He loved his people, and they worshipped him with no temporary oblations. One of the last occasions in which we saw him in public was that of the spring manoeuvres in the last May-time of his long life. Some distance south of the Halle gate, the large and finely situated "Tempelhofer Feld" extends to the suburban village of Tempelhof, which was once the property of the Knights of Malta, and which still bears their cross and inscription on its church bells. The intervening ground has been devoted to the annual parades of the Berlin garrison for more than a hundred years. It has ample room for evolutions of infantry, artillery, and cavalry, but a comparatively small space is devoted to the accommodation of spectators. Only about three hundred carriages can be admitted, and these are distributed among royal personages, officials, and a limited number of distinguished or fortunate visitors. Our application for a carriage place was duly filed with the chief of the Berlin police a month or six weeks in advance of the parade, but, after long waiting, word came that there was no room. By the courtesy and special thoughtfulness of Secretary Crosby, of the United States Legation, a carriage ticket was placed at our disposal, after all hope of obtaining the coveted privilege had been abandoned. The German Emperor can place, if need be, nearly three million trained soldiers in the field. All able-bodied Germans are liable to service, with few exceptions, from the age of twenty to that of thirty-two, and can in exceptional circumstances be called out up to the age of forty-two. But the German youth spends only the first three years, of his twelve of liability, with the colors, the remaining nine being spent in different branches of the reserve forces. The effective force in time of peace is about half a million, which is distributed through the Empire in seventeen army corps, of which the Third has its headquarters at Berlin. The ordinary strength of an army corps is about thirty thousand, including infantry, cavalry, and artillery; but the garrison of Berlin and various extra and unattached troops bring the number up to fifty thousand or more, stationed mostly in Berlin and Potsdam. These have their spring manoeuvres at Berlin; and the special parade, for which every day for two months beforehand seemed parade-day in the streets of Berlin, was that for which we were so fortunate as to receive tickets. Nearly every day for a week previous, his Majesty was to be seen, in his low two-horse carriage, passing through the Unter den Linden and south through Friedrich Strasse, to the parade-ground. On this grand and final parade-day the three hundred carriages of the privileged spectators were in good time on the ground assigned them, prepared to welcome the Emperor and the Imperial party as loyally as the soldiers themselves. A deafening hurrah burst from the throats of all, as his Majesty appeared in a carriage and drove to his post of observation. Many of his princely retinue, both ladies and gentlemen, were on horseback; and it was formerly his custom to review the troops, mounted on his black war-horse. In spite of a piercing wind which swept over the wide Brandenburg plains, we hugged our warm wraps, and stood in our carriages, like all the rest, in eager watchfulness and admiration, as the evolutions of the most perfectly drilled troops in the world went forward. The infantry marched and countermarched; plumes of all colors waved in the sunlight and kept time to the music; uniforms and men seemed but part of one grand incomprehensible automatic movement; battle-flags scarred with the history of all the wars fluttered their tattered shreds in the wind, waking memories of irrepressible pathos and joy; the artillery rumbled and thundered; the evolutions of the cavalry were like systematic whirlwinds; and the scarlet Zouaves, the blue Dragoons, the white-uniformed and gilt-helmeted Cuirassiers, and the dark Uhlands with lances ten feet long poised in air above their prancing horses, commingled the "pomp and circumstance of war" without its pain. Now the infantry come on at double quick, in the step with which they entered Paris; now the artillery is lumbered across a vast stretch of the field with a rapidity and precision which almost take away one's breath; and anon the cavalry seem to burst in orderly confusion upon the scene, flying in competition, across, around, athwart, until the cheers and huzzas burst forth anew with, "Hail to the Kaiser!" "Long live the Fatherland!" It was with joy that the soldiers received the commendations of their Imperial chieftain on that field-day, and it was to us a fitting place and moment of farewell to the great military Emperor. "King, the Saxon Konnig," says Carlyle,--"the man who CAN." And Emperor William I. was the man who _could_. * * * * * "Fritz, dear Fritz," were the last words of the aged Emperor. "Unser Fritz" was the well-beloved elder brother of the German people. If any doubt as to the real feeling among the South-Germans toward the Imperial house had existed in our minds, it was removed as we journeyed through Saxony, Bavaria, Würtemberg, Darmstadt, Thuringia. Everywhere, in humble homes, in shops, hotels, and market-places, were the likenesses of the handsome Kaiser and the open, sincere, manly countenance of the Crown Prince to be seen. In Berlin the Crown Prince occupied the palace directly east of that of the Kaiser, separated from it only by the Operahaus Platz. We had heard him called "the handsomest man in Europe." Our study of his kindly face from photographs had revealed manliness enough, but nothing more to justify this epithet. But as one came to be familiar with his look, his figure, his bearing, there was full assent to his being called, in appearance, "the finest gentleman in Europe." The titles and tokens of honor that had been showered upon him, and which he wore so gracefully, were his least claims to distinction. He was as great in true nobility of soul as he was exalted in station, as symmetrical in character as he was regal in bearing. When he mated with the Princess Royal of England, he was not even Crown Prince of Prussia, and some of the English papers asserted that the eldest daughter of Queen Victoria had married beneath her. But this opinion was easily dissipated, as the years brought, with increasing honors, development of manly virtues and graces. A hero in the wars in which his country had engaged before he reached middle life, and with all the courage of his Hohenzollern blood, he yet delighted in peace, and was a most humane and liberal statesman. That thirst for liberty which is quenchless in the human breast, and which has had as yet small satisfaction in Teutonic lands, seemed to find sympathy in this enlightened Prince. At the age of thirty he became the heir apparent to the Prussian Crown, when the new king, his father, had reached the age of sixty-four. When he was forty, and his father was proclaimed Emperor of Germany at the age of seventy-four, Frederick became heir to the Imperial throne. A most careful and liberal education, grafted on a genial and wise character, had fitted him to watch the course of events in which, according to the course of nature, he might be expected so soon to take chief part. But the years which made his sire venerable passed, and still he had no opportunity to shape public affairs. Absolutism feared his influence and that of his liberal and strong-minded English wife. The prime of life was his; but his best years were behind and not before him as at the age of fifty-five he filially and devotedly filled his own place, the loved and loving son of his Imperial father, whose trusted representative he was on all courtly occasions, the model husband and father, the accomplished and interested patron of art and letters, the polished gentleman, the benevolent and devout Christian. During his last winter of health (1886-1887) he was often to be seen among the people. Accompanied by the Crown Princess and their three unmarried daughters, he walked out and in, along the Unter den Linden, an interested participator, like any other father of a family, in the Christmas shopping. On one of the culminating days of the great Reichstag debate, it was Prince William who was seen in the Imperial box in the Parliament House, while "Unser Fritz" with wife and daughters were skaters among the crowds on the ice-ponds of the Thiergarten. This by no means indicated indifference to great questions of public concern. None knew better the issue, the times, and the need. But, standing all his mature life with his foot on the threshold of a throne, with talents and training fitting him to do honor to his royal line, to his Fatherland, and to the brotherhood of kings in all lands and ages, he yet knew that while the father reigned, it was not for the son to reign. He was to bide his time. Alas! an inscrutable Providence made that time to be crowned only with the halo of a dawning immortality, a time in which strength and peace were to be radiated from one anointed by the chrism of pain, and whose diadem was to shine, not among the treasures of earth, but as the stars for ever and ever. When the messenger of the fallen Napoleon III. had brought his unexpected surrender after Sedan, and the flush of startling victory had mantled even the cheek of the pale and reticent Von Moltke, had shaken the leonine composure of Bismarck, and affected the heroic William I. almost to tears, the courtly Frederick forgot himself and the victory of the cause he had helped to win, in sympathy for the vanquished foe. The embarrassed general who brought the surrender of the French had Frederick's instant devotion, and those first moments of deep humiliation were soothed by the conversation of the Crown Prince and by kind attentions which all others forgot to render. With a truth and devotion to his country which could never be doubted or questioned, he yet had a heart "so much at leisure from itself" that in the supremest moments of life he sympathized with friend and foe, as only regal souls can do. I saw this foremost prince of Europe in the nineteenth century always and increasingly to admire him, whether in the largest or the smallest relations of life; whether as royal host entertaining the sovereigns of Europe and their representatives when that magnificent assemblage came to greet the ninetieth birthday of his father; dashing on horseback through the streets of the capital and the riding-paths of the park; saluting with stately grace his Imperial sire, as he alone entered the place where the Emperor sat; handing the Crown Princess to her seat, or going down on his knees to find her Imperial Highness's misplaced footstool in her pew at church; accompanying his daughters to places of public amusement and looking upon them with manly tenderness; or standing with military helmet before his face in silent prayer, as he entered the house of God to worship before the King of kings. My last sight of his Imperial Highness was on one of the latest occasions of his public appearance in Berlin while in health, in connection with one of those opportunities of hearing grand music in which this city excels the rest of the world. It was that most devotional music ever written,--Bach's Passion Music, rendered once a year, on the evening of Good Friday, in the Sing Akademie of Berlin. There was a trained chorus of about four hundred voices, with the best orchestra in the city, besides solo singers of repute,--one, a charming alto from Cologne. The simple and touching narrative of the Betrayal and the Crucifixion was sung as it is written in the twenty-sixth and twenty-seventh chapters of Matthew, certain phrases and sentences repeated and adapted to the music, but none of it essentially changed in form. One of the bass soloists took, with the tenor, the soprano and the alto alternating, most of the narrative; and another bass solo took the words of Jesus, whenever these occur in the sad story. The _arias_ and _recitatives_ were finely given, but no effect was comparable to that of the grand chorus. The single word "Barabbas!" sung, or rather shouted, by these hundreds of voices in perfect time and tune, was overwhelming. Another passage of most thrilling effect was that in which every instrument and every voice joined in the deafening but harmonious description of the multitude who went out with swords and staves in the midnight, to take the unoffending Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. And one could almost hear in the music the sobbing of Peter when, after his denial of the Lord, "he went out and wept bitterly." Another most touching passage was that representing the love of the woman who anointed the feet of Jesus. When the shout of the multitude arose in the words "Crucify Him!" the awfulness was intense. There were times when the audience scarcely seemed to breathe freely, so strong was the spell, so vivid the reality of this saddest and most touching of narratives, as interpreted by this wonderful music. Never but once have I heard the perfection of choral music. It was one of the grand and solemn ancient hymn-tunes which are introduced at certain stages of this composition. I closed my eyes to the brilliance of the scene before me, that the ear might be the sole avenue of impression. Not the slightest jar or dissonance revealed any difference in the four hundred voices speaking as one; there seemed but one great soul pouring forth the vast volume of the harmony. The mighty cadences rose and fell, breaking in waves of sound against walls and roof, and must have floated far out into the night, now soaring in triumph, now sweet and soft and low as the tones of an Eolian harp; but the voice of hundreds was only as the voice of one. Three hours and more, with one brief intermission, we listened, and lived as it were those last sad hours of the Life so sacred and so majestic, so unutterably full of love. The end came, when the stone was rolled against the sealed door of the sepulchre, and the Roman watch was set. No hint of a resurrection was in the music; but the singers sang, in closing, again and again, in varying strains, "Good-night, good-night, dear Jesus!" The audience, moved as it seemed by a common impulse, joined in that last song. The Crown Prince, with the Crown Princess and their daughters, and the Princess Christian, then on a visit to Berlin, were in the royal box in the concert-room. With his family and his royal visitors, Frederick, his voice already in the penumbra of a dim, unknown, unforeseen, but fateful shadow, took up the strain. "He sang it through," said a friend to me, who knew him well, "and I could see that he was deeply touched." There we left the story, as almost nineteen hundred years ago it was left, on that Friday evening in Jerusalem, with the full light of the Paschal moon falling on the closed and silent tomb, in the garden of Joseph of Arimathea. Two days later, on the evening of Easter Sunday, the Crown Prince united in the service of the English Church, with his family, in celebrating the joyous anniversary of a sure resurrection, and during the same week left Berlin in quest of rest and health. He came not back until, before another Good Friday, "Unser Fritz" was Emperor of Germany, and already walking through the Valley of that Shadow in which he sorrowfully sung of his "dear Jesus," one short year before. * * * * * Various estimates have been made of the talents and character of the third of the three German Emperors of the year 1888, but the record and the proof of all prophecies concerning William II. have yet to be made. As Prince William we saw him with best opportunity in the Imperial box at the Reichstag, where for three hours he listened intently to the speeches of Bismarck, Von Moltke, and others. A fair young man, in the heavily ornamented light blue uniform of his regiment, to a casual observer his countenance bore neither the marks of dissipation nor the signs of intellectual power and force of character. But he was only in the late twenties, and "there is time yet." He is the idol of the army, and the devoted friend of Bismarck. Not one of all the great concourse of dignitaries at the celebration of the ninetieth birthday of William I. received such shouts of adulation from the populace as those which rent the air when the State carriage passed which bore the Prince and Princess William and their three little sons. Of the Princess William, now Empress Augusta Victoria, there was but one opinion. "None will ever know the blessing which the Princess William has been to our family," once said her father-in-law, the Crown Prince Frederick. From the throne to the hut, blessings followed her, a Christian lady, in faithfulness as wife, mother, friend, and princess, worthy of her exalted place. At a lawn-party given for the benefit of the Young Men's Christian Association, in the magnificent old park of the War Department in the heart of Berlin, Prince and Princess William were present. The Princess walked up and down, chatting now with one lady, now with another, in attire so simple that the plainest there could feel no unpleasant contrast, and in manner so beautiful and genial that we could forget the princess in admiration of the unassuming lady. * * * * * Of the Empress Frederick much has been said, and much invented, since the days when she left England, a bride of seventeen, to make her home in a foreign land. "Is the Crown Princess popular?" I said to a young German lady, in the early days of our residence in Berlin. "Not very." "She is strong-minded, is she not?" "Yes, too strong," replied the lady. Perhaps the Crown Princess Victoria did not sufficiently disguise the broad difference between her birthright as the heir of the thought and feeling of her distinguished father, "Prince Albert the Good," and the low plane still habitual to many German women. She has always been an Englishwoman; and this was the chief charge I ever heard against her, in my endeavor to reach the real statement of the case. And yet all agree that she has been devoted to the best interests of the German people. Everywhere in humane, benevolent, and educational work, we found the impress of her guiding hand. A German lady, of rare ability, sweetness, and culture, was one day giving me the pathetic story of her hopes and efforts for the elevation and education of her country-women. In the course of the conversation she was led to quote a remark made to her by the Crown Princess: "You must _form the character_ of the German women, before you can do much to elevate them." Is not this in keeping with the profound practical wisdom which, notwithstanding the puerilities and small femininities which abound in some of the published writings of England's royal family, makes their pages still worth the reading, and lets us into the secret of the true womanliness which, despite all blemishes and foibles, Victoria, Empress Queen of England, has instilled into the mind of her daughter Victoria, Empress Dowager of Germany. There is hope for womankind, when "the fierce light which beats upon a throne" shows naught to mar the purity of the home-life which has adorned the palaces and the courts of Germany and of England, so far as these have been under the influence of the two Victorias. * * * * * "When you say 'Germany,'" said our "little Fräulein" to us one day, "nobody is afraid; when you say 'Bismarck,' everybody trembles." Reports about the ill health of the Iron Chancellor were, two or three years ago, possibly exaggerated, but doubtless they had some foundation in fact. Previous to the great debate on the Army Bill, it had been said that his physical health was a mere wreck. No sign of this appeared, however, when we saw the great Diplomatist in his seat in the Reichstag on that memorable occasion. His speech, though occasional cadences lapsed into indistinctness in that hall of poor acoustic properties, was in the main easily heard in all parts of the house. The yellow military collar of his dark blue coat showed his pallid face not to advantage, but that fierce look was unsubdued, the broad brow loomed above eyes before which one instinctively quails, and the pose and movements were those of vigorous health. Every afternoon in the ensuing spring, his stout square-shouldered figure might be seen, in military uniform and with sword rattling in its scabbard, accompanied by a single aid, on horseback, trotting through the shaded riding-paths of the Thiergarten,--for the sake of health, doubtless, but evidently with no little pleasure. On his birthday in April he received, at his palace in the Wilhelm Strasse, the greetings of his regiment, to whom he distributed wine and cake and mementos, and also saw many other friends. At his country-seats in Pomerania and Lauensburg most of his time is spent, divided between the cares of State and the enjoyments of a rustic life. On the occasion referred to in the Parliament, speaking of the Army Bill which the Opposition professed a willingness to grant for three years but not for seven, he said, "Three years hence, I may hope to be here; in seven, I shall be above all this misery." The three years have not yet passed. For the glory of Germany, many will hope that twice seven may find the name of Bismarck still inspiring with dread the enemies of his country. * * * * * General Von Moltke, the Grant of Germany, might often be seen, by those who knew when and where to look for him, in plain dress, walking along Unter den Linden, or through the city edge of the Thiergarten, near the building of the General Staff, of which he was long the Chief and where he lives. This most eminent student of the art of war lives a seemingly lonely life since the death of his wife, whose portrait is said to be the chief adornment of his private room. He is fond of music, and an open piano is his close companion in hours of leisure. His plain carriage is seen but seldom by sojourners in Berlin. His words need not to be many to be weighty, and his influence was great with Emperor William I. and Crown Prince Frederick, whose tutor he had been. No scene after the death of Frederick III. was more affecting than Von Moltke in tears over his bier. "Never before," said an officer who had long known the great general, "have I seen Von Moltke so broken up." * * * * * General Von Waldersee has, by the recent retirement of Von Moltke, become Chief of the German Army Staff. The Countess Von Waldersee, closely related by her first marriage to the present Empress, is a devout Christian lady, an American by birth, and has much influence in the German Court. Her most romantic history is known to many since, the daughter of a wealthy New York merchant, she went abroad some twenty-five years ago, met and married a wealthy Schleswig-Holstein baron, by which marriage she became related to more than one royal house in Europe; was soon left a youthful widow with great wealth, and after a few years, in which she maintained the estate and title of an Austrian Princess also bequeathed her by her first husband, married the German nobleman who is now the head of the German army. She is devoted to her home, her husband and children, and to quiet ways of doing good. Her dazzling history is her least claim on the interest of American women. A noble character, devoted consistently in her high station to the service of God and to even the humblest good of her fellow-creatures, gives regal lustre to her name, which is a synonym for goodness to all who know her. VIII. THE NINETIETH BIRTHDAY OF EMPEROR WILLIAM. To those who are fond of pageants and who linger lovingly with past ages, such a spectacle as Berlin witnessed on the 22d of March, 1887, must have extraordinary attractions. Never in the long life of the aged Emperor, whose ninetieth birthday it was, had there been in splendor a rival to that day, although his whole career was prolific of great scenes and dramatic situations. Eighty-five royal personages had accepted the invitation to visit the Emperor on that occasion; and they came in person, or sent special envoys, each accompanied by a more or less imposing retinue. As guests of the Imperial family, they were lodged in the various palaces of Berlin and Potsdam, and entertained with most thoughtful and sumptuous hospitality. The arrivals began on Friday, March 18, and continued through the three following days, until the list included the Prince of Wales; the Crown Prince of Austria; the Grand Duke and Duchess Vladimir and the Grand Duke Michel of Russia; the Crown Prince and Princess of Sweden; the King and Queen of Roumania; the King and Queen of Saxony; the Prince and Princess Christian of Schleswig-Holstein; the Grand Duke of Hesse and his daughter the Princess Irene; the Grand Duchess of Baden; the Duke of Saxe-Meiningen; the Hereditary Prince and Princess of Mecklenburg-Strelitz; the Duke of Waldeck-Pyrmont, father of the Queen of the Netherlands and the Duchess of Albany; the Dowager Grand Duchess of Mecklenburg-Schwerin; the Grand Duchess Marie, and a host of other royal notables. Costly presents and beautiful flowers had been pouring in to the Emperor for days before, from the members of his own large family, the various diplomatic corps, from royal friends, from learned societies, industrial and philanthropic associations, with gifts from China, Turkey, and other distant countries. Many of the presents were arranged in a room in the Kaiser's palace, the centre-piece being a portrait of his favorite and eldest great-grandson painted by the Crown Princess, and surrounded by an elegant display of flowers. This palace was reserved for the calls of the distinguished guests, and for a State dinner of a hundred covers, given to the visiting royalties on the eve of the birthday by the Emperor and Empress. The palace of the Crown Prince was decorated about the entrance with palms and other exotics. Here the Crown Princess entertained the Prince of Wales and the Princess Christian with her family,--three children of Queen Victoria under the same roof. The Grand Duchess of Baden, only daughter of the Emperor, was entertained in the Dutch Palace, connected with the Emperor's by a corridor. One of those dramatic touches in real life of which Emperor William was fond, was the betrothal of the Princess Irene, daughter of the Grand Duke of Hesse and the late Princess Alice of England, to her cousin Prince Henry, second son of the Crown Prince. It was announced by the Emperor on his birthday, standing in the midst of the assembled family, with the foreign princes grouped in a semicircle around, the bride-elect leaning on her father's arm and blushingly receiving the congratulations of all present. In the two days preceding his birthday, the Emperor received not only his royal visitors, but the representatives of Spain, Portugal, Turkey, Servia, Japan, and China. The Old Schloss, with its six hundred apartments and reception-rooms, was used for the entertainment of royal guests. All the sunny south windows facing the Schloss Platz rejoiced for days beforehand in open draperies and freshly cleaned plate glass, giving an unwonted look of cheer and human habitableness to the majestic and venerable pile through which we had walked, a few weeks before, with hushed voices and muffled footsteps, gazing on the rich decorations of the public rooms, the glittering candelabra, the silver balustrades, the ancient plate, the historic paintings and monuments which recall past centuries and vanished sovereigns. But the streets witnessed the most memorable scenes. On the eve of the birthday a torchlight procession of more than six thousand students represented the Universities of Berlin, Bonn, Heidelberg, Jena, Königsberg, Leipzig, Marburg, Munich, Strasburg, and others; the Polytechnic Schools of Berlin, Brunswick, Darmstadt, Dresden, Hanover, Karlsruhe, and Stuttgardt; the Mining Academies of Berlin, Clausthal, and Freiberg; and the Agricultural Schools of Berlin, Eberswalde, and Tharandt. Opposite the Imperial Palace stands the University,--formerly the palace of Prince Henry,--amid old trees and gardens, and with the fine colossal statues of the brothers Humboldt in white marble, sitting on massive pedestals on either side the main gateway. This was the starting-point of the great procession, which was led by two mounted students in the garb of Wallenstein's soldiers. Five abreast the torch-bearers approached the Emperor's palace, and before his windows the Ziethen Hussars wheeled in and out in mystic evolutions. A labyrinthine series of movements, marked in the darkness only by the flaming torches, was executed in perfect silence; then a simple hymn of the Middle Ages was sung with singular effect by these thousands of young and manly voices; and from the silence which succeeded, at the call of a student standing in the midst and waving his sword above his head, there arose a "Three cheers for the Emperor!" while six thousand torches swung to and fro, and hundreds of flags and ancient banners waved in the evening air. Again there was silence, when one struck the National Anthem, which was sung with all heads uncovered, the aged hero bowing low at his window in acknowledgment until emotion obliged him to withdraw. An incident soon on every tongue was the Emperor's sending for a deputation of the students to wait on him, his kind reception of and conversation with them, and their elation at the honor, notwithstanding their mortification at the contrast of the smoke-soiled hands and faces of the torch-bearers with the brilliance of the Imperial chamber and the full dress of distinguished visitors. Leaving the Emperor's palace, the procession passed through Unter den Linden and the Brandenburg Gate to the Thiergarten, where amid a dense and surging throng the students threw their burning torches in a heap and sang over the expiring flames, "Gaudeamus igitur juvenes dum sumus." Deputies from all the Universities, dressed in black velvet coats, high boots, and plumed hats, and bearing fine swords, brought up the rear of the procession in thirty carriages, with the flags of the old German towns and Universities floating above them. I watched this torchlight procession from a second-story window-seat on Unter den Linden, and was much impressed with the general view, extending from the equestrian statue of Frederick the Great before the Emperor's palace, where the entire area was filled with reflected light, for nearly a mile to the Brandenburg Gate, the various forms of the waving torches on the long line seeming the very apotheosis of flame. Many of the young men were dressed in the picturesque taste peculiar to German students. Gay feathers and unique caps set off to advantage the fine features and fair complexions which render some of the students remarkable, though the faces are too often disfigured by tell-tale sabre-cuts. After the passing of the procession, we drove through a portion of the Potsdamer Strasse where the lamps were rather infrequent and the overarching branches of the trees shut out the starlight from the handsome street. Crowds were hurrying to and fro,--but to this we had become accustomed,--when suddenly we met a company of mounted students returning from the park. In white wigs and high-peaked caps, close-fitting white suits embroidered with gold, brilliant sashes, and top-boots, they looked, in the dim light, like knights of the Middle Ages returning from some quest or tournament; and as they slowly filed by, bowing to the greetings of the passers, it was hard to believe for the moment that they were other than they seemed. The morning of the birthday dawned bright and beautiful. "Emperor's weather this," the Germans fondly said. Before we left our breakfast-room the sound of chimes was calling all the children of the city to the churches for their share of the celebration. From my window I saw at one time three large processions of children passing in different directions through diverging streets. All were marshalled by teachers from the public schools in strictest order, and with fine brass bands playing choral music as they entered the church. Here the pastor, after prayer, addressed the children on the blessings of peace and the life of the good Emperor, and the children sang, as only German children can, the patriotic songs of their country. No more touching sight was seen that day than these thousands of boys and girls passing into the churches, with the sound of solemn music, to thank God for the blessings of Fatherland and Emperor,--a scene which caused tears to roll down the cheeks of many a spectator. It will be hard to uproot German patriotism while its future fathers and mothers are thus trained. While the children were marching, another procession was also passing, composed of the magistrates and city officials, going to the Nicolai Kirche (the oldest church in Berlin) for a similar service. Every one was astir early, and before ten o'clock a dense crowd filled the streets. Horses, omnibuses, and tram-cars were garlanded and decorated with flags, and the house fronts were bewildering in color and decorations. The double-headed eagle, signifying in the heraldry of Germany the Empire of Charlemagne and that of the Cæsars, was everywhere intermingled with the German tri-color of red, white, and black, with the black and white of Prussia, the green of Saxony, the blue of Bavaria, and the orange, purple, and other colors of the various principalities and powers of the German Empire; hardly a house lacking some brilliant flutter of symbolic colors. Only an American in a foreign land can know how welcome was the sight of "the stars and stripes" floating majestically from two or three points on the route; though in one case it was flanked by the crescent and star of the Turkish Empire, and in another contrasted with the blue dragon on a yellow ground which formed the triangular flag of China. Miles of business thoroughfares showed glittering and artistic arrangements in the shop windows; nearly every one having its picture, bust, or statue of the Emperor,--some with most elaborate and expensive designs. Between ten and eleven A.M. the deputations from the Universities passed through Unter den Linden, making a daylight parade but little inferior to that of the evening before. The dense throng immediately closed in after the procession, but by great efforts the mounted police cleared a passage for the State carriages to the palace of the Emperor. At eleven o'clock a magnificent royal carriage drew up at the palace of the Crown Prince, who entered it, accompanied by the Crown Princess and two daughters. They proceeded to the presence of the Emperor, to offer the first congratulations. Next came a carriage whose splendid accompaniments eclipsed all others. Preceded by a mounted herald in scarlet and silver, on a mettled and caparisoned steed, and by other outriders in the same glittering fashion, came the carriage, surmounted by silver crowns, drawn by six horses; carriage, steeds, coachman, and footmen in shining livery and flowing plumes. At the door of the Crown Prince's palace the stout figure of the Prince of Wales, in comparatively plain attire, stepped into this coach; a lady was handed in after him, and the splendid equipage rolled toward the Emperor's palace, amid the cheers of the multitude. From the Old Schloss, a succession of royal carriages passed in the same direction, all glittering in silver and gold and flowing with plumes, many with four or six horses; until fully fifty State carriages had deposited their occupants at the palace of the Kaiser, and awaited, in the fine open spaces around the famous equestrian statue of Frederick the Great, the return of royalty from its congratulations to the venerable object of all this attention. Many of the royal visitors were known by sight to the crowd, as Berlin sees much of royalty; but many were not. The cheering was not enthusiastic, except in special cases. "Who is that?" said one near me, as a splendid carriage passed. "I do not know," replied another man; "it is only one of those kings." But when the Crown Prince Frederick returned from his call, "This is something else," said the proud German heart; and the cheers were deafening. The greatest enthusiasm of the day was shown when Prince William and his family passed, in the most striking equipage of all, except that of the Prince of Wales. It was a State carriage of the time of Frederick the Great, its decorations of gold on a dark body; a large, low vehicle whose glass windows revealed the occupants on every side. Six Pomeranian brown steeds of high mettle were guided by the skilful driver, horses and outriders being splendidly caparisoned in light blue and silver. Rudolph, Crown Prince of Austria, solitary in his carriage, received his share of attention, as did the Russian Grand Dukes and Grand Duchess, the fine-looking King and Queen of Saxony, the Prince-Regent of Bavaria with his two sons of ten and twelve, and the Duchess of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, venerable sister of the Emperor. The Queen of Roumania bowed to the throng with utmost grace, smiling and showing her brilliant teeth; but whether the special huzzas were a tribute to the beauty of the Queen, or to the poetry of Carmen Sylva, we could not determine. All things have an end; and so did this dazzling State pageant, at which all Europe assisted and where all Europe was looking on; but not until Bismarck's carriage had conveyed the Chancellor to his chief, followed by General Von Moltke, who had the good taste to drive up simply, with two horses and an open carriage that interposed not even plate-glass between the great soldier and the loyal multitude. A few moments after their entrance, the Emperor appeared at the palace window, Bismarck on his right and Von Moltke on his left, and the hurrahs of the crowd burst forth anew. Later in the day the Crown Prince and Crown Princess entertained the royal guests at dinner; and Prince Bismarck, as usual on the Emperor's birthday, gave a dinner to the Diplomatic Corps. A drizzling rain set in suddenly in the afternoon, sending dismay to the hearts of all; for the most brilliant part of the celebration was still in reserve for the evening. The rain fell in occasional light showers up to a late hour, but it dampened only the outer garb, not the hearts, of the undiminished multitude, which at night-fall, on foot or in carriages, thronged the streets of the brilliant capital, whose myriad lights showed to better advantage under the reflecting clouds than they would have done under starlight. The carriages numbered scores of thousands, and the people on foot hundreds of thousands; but so complete were the arrangements of the police and so obedient the concourse, that all proceeded in nearly perfect order. Our coachman fortunately drove through Old Berlin and Köln, as a preliminary to the evening's sight-seeing. Long arcades filled with Jews' shops were worthy the pen of Dickens. This festal day made this most ancient portion of the city also one of the most picturesque. Houses with quaint dormer windows roofed by "eyelids," of an architecture dating back two or three hundred years, gleamed with candles in every window. Almost no house or shop was so poor as to dispense with its share of the universal illumination. At least three horizontal lines of lighted candles threaded both sides of every street of this city of a million and a half inhabitants. Many private as well as public buildings in the old part showed by colored lights the picturesque, quaint streets and nooks, as no light of day can ever do. We were passing the Rath-haus, or City Hall,--a modern and imposing edifice,--at the time when its great tower was being lighted up. Three hundred feet above the pavement floated the flags grouped in the centre and at the corners of the square tower. Invisible red fires illuminated them, the shafts of crimson light rising to the clouds above, the outlines of the remainder of the building dimly reposing in darkness. An immense electric light, guided by a reflector in another tower, shot a bridge of white light high in air across the river, and fell, like a circumscribed space of noonday amid black darkness, on the fine equestrian statue of the Great Elector by the bridge behind the Old Castle, with an effect almost indescribable. As we entered Unter den Linden by the Lustgarten, the beautiful square and its historic edifices, which form an ideal sight even by daylight, glowed and gleamed with jets of light from every point. The Old Schloss showed continuous lines of illumination in the windows of its four stories, along its front of six hundred and fifty feet, while the majestic dome caught and reflected rays of light from every point of the horizon. On the opposite side of the Lustgarten, the Doric portico of the National Gallery glowed with rose-colored light from massive Grecian lamps, while the arched entrance beneath its superb staircase gleamed with a pale sea-green radiance like the entrance to some ocean cave. The incomparable architecture of the Old Museum was set in strong relief by white light, which flooded its immense Ionic colonnade and brought out the high colors of the colossal frescos along the three hundred feet of its magnificent portico. The front of the palace of the Crown Prince was thrown, by innumerable jets, into a blaze of crimson. The Roman Catholic Church of St. Hedwig, with its dome in imitation of the Pantheon, its Latin cross and window arches beaming in pale yellow, made a fine background for the only unilluminated building, the palace of the Emperor. From the Opera House, the Arsenal, and the University, crowns and elaborate designs were burning, yet unconsumed. Most elaborately decorated of all Berlin buildings was the Academy of Arts and Sciences, opposite the Imperial Palace, with colossal warriors in bronze keeping guard at its portals, and the Angel of Peace laying a laurel wreath on the altar of Fatherland as its decorative centre-piece. No high meaning of all its symbols was more touching and significant than the appropriate texts of Scripture written for the Kaiser's eye, underneath its elaborate frescos. But of what avail would be an attempt to describe two miles of most beautiful decorations along Unter den Linden, each one a study in itself, and having nothing in common with the others, except the eagles and the Emperor's monogram; and the innumerable points of light, massed in a world of various forms, and in all the colors of the rainbow! This glow of splendor surrounded by the dense darkness covered the city, and the dazzling coronals of its lofty towers and domes and spires must have been visible to a great distance across the plains of Brandenburg. Slowly the triple line of carriages and the surging throng pressed onward, past the palaces and diplomatic residences of the Pariser Platz; some diverging down the Wilhelm Strasse, where streaming flags and blazing illuminations made noonday brightness and gayety about the palace of the Chancellor, but most passing through the Brandenburg Gate. The massive Doric columns of this impressive structure were in darkness, but the Chariot of Victory with its fine bronze horses, surmounting the gate, was weird with the scarlet light of Bengal fires burning on the entablature. As the artist rests his eyes by the spot of neutral gray which he keeps for the purpose on wall or palette, so brain and eye were prepared for sleep at the close of this long day, by sitting in our carriages, safe sheltered from the soft-falling rain, outside the great gate which divided the splendor from the darkness, for three quarters of an hour, in an inextricable tangle of carriages, until the perturbed coachmen and the sorely vexed police could evolve order from the temporary confusion, and set the hindered procession again on its homeward way. Meantime the day was not over for the much-enduring Emperor and his royal guests. In the famous White Saloon of the Old Schloss an entertainment was going forward. Blinding coronets and necklaces on royal ladies made the interior of this ancient palace more brilliant than its shining exterior on this birth-night. The Empress Augusta, leaning on the arm of her grandson, Prince William, was attired in a lace-trimmed robe of pale green, her diamonds a mass of sparkling light; the Crown Princess was in silver-gray, the wife of the English Ambassador in pale mauve, the Princess Christian in turquoise blue; and the Grand Duchess Vladimir of Russia wore a magnificent robe of pink satin trimmed with sable, with a tiara of diamonds and a stomacher of diamonds and emeralds. From the neck and forehead of the Queen of Roumania flashed a thousand prismatic hues; and the Green Vault of Dresden sent some of its most precious treasures to keep company with the fair Queen of Saxony in adding brilliance to the scene. Our reverie led from this starry point in history back to the time when, as on this memorable day, the royal salute of Berlin artillery shook the city, to announce the birth of a prince ninety years ago. A rapid, almost a chance recall of the years shows us Washington then living on his estate at Mount Vernon, Lafayette a young man of forty, Clay a stripling of twenty, Webster a boy of fifteen. The Directory in France had not yet made way for the First Republic; the younger Pitt and Canning held England; Metternich and O'Connell were in their youth, and Robert Peel was a child of nine. Napoleon Bonaparte was in the flush of youthful success, soon to become the idol of France and the terror of Europe, before whom the boy, now Kaiser Wilhelm, and his royal family fled to Königsberg by the Baltic, while the conqueror held Berlin and reduced Prussia to a second-rate province. To this boy the flames of burning Moscow were a transient aurora-borealis under the pole-star; and Nelson and Wellington were unknown to the stories of his childhood, for as yet their fame was not. Goethe and Schiller were in the prime of early manhood; Kant and Klopstock elderly, but with years yet to live; Scott was just laying down his poet's pen and preparing to take up the immortal quill with which he wrote his first "Waverley;" Moore was singing his sweet melodies; Wordsworth had yet to lay the foundations of the "Lake Poetry;" and the fair boy, Byron, was chanting his early songs, not yet for many a year to die at Missolonghi. This wonderful old man of ninety, gayly stooping to kiss the hand of a lady to-night in his hospitable palace, like the young man that he is, has a memory stretching from the battle of Austerlitz across the gigantic struggles of the century to the battle of Sedan,--all of which he has seen, and a part of which he has been! IX. STREETS, PARKS, CEMETERIES, AND PUBLIC BUILDINGS. For a hundred years the picturesque Brandenburg Gate has guarded the entrance to Unter den Linden from the Thiergarten. It is a monument of the reversion of royal taste from the devotion to French style, which characterized Frederick the Great, to the purely classical. It is nearly two hundred feet in width, its five openings being guarded by six massive Doric columns about forty-five feet in height. To foot-passengers, riders, and ordinary vehicles the two outer spaces on each side are devoted respectively, while the wide central passage is traversed only by the royal carriages. The celebrated quadriga with the figure of Victory, on the entablature, was first placed with the face toward the Park. When the First Napoleon robbed Berlin, along with other cities, for the adornment of Paris, he carried off this masterpiece in bronze and set it up in the Place du Carrousel under the shadow of the Tuileries. Upon Napoleon's downfall in 1814, this group was restored to its original place, but was set facing the Unter den Linden, making of the Brandenburger Thor a triumphal arch marking the victory of Prussia in the long contest. The famous Unter den Linden, nearly two hundred feet wide and three fourths of a mile in length, with a double line of lime-trees enclosing an area of greensward along the centre, would be accounted anywhere a handsome street, with the palaces of the Pariser Platz at one end, the Imperial palaces, the Arsenal, the Academy, and the University at the other, and brilliant shop-windows lining both sides of the whole length, while the Brandenburg Gate and the great equestrian statue of Frederick the Great at either extremity close the fine vista. Leaving out of view, however, these two noble features which mark its termini, the street seemed not handsome enough to justify its fame. Perhaps this was because we found the famous lime-trees, for which the street is named, quite ordinary young trees, not to be compared with the magnificent elms which line the streets of New Haven and the Mall of Boston Common. The characteristic part of Berlin is, to our view, the great space east of Unter den Linden, surrounded by the palaces, the royal Guard House, the Arsenal, the University, and the Academy of Arts and Sciences. These fine buildings and the ornamented open spaces around and between them, on a sunny afternoon in midwinter, show a brilliant and unique scene which has hardly its parallel in Europe. The Champs Élysées is finer at night; Hyde Park, St. James, the Parliament buildings, and Westminster Abbey far finer on a sunny morning; but the third city in Europe has no need to be ashamed of its royal buildings and the scene before them, in the season when the Court is in Berlin, and the slant rays of an early afternoon sun light up the gay throng of soldiers in uniform, State carriages, pedestrians, and vehicles which surge to and fro without crowding the vast spaces. The Lustgarten is fine; but of the buildings around it, the Old Museum alone meets the eye with architectural satisfaction. In all lights that building is beautiful in design and proportions. The Old Schloss is impressive mainly by its massiveness and its august dome. A most picturesque view by moonlight is to be had from the east end of the Lange or Kürfürsten Brücke, southeast of the old palace. Here the water-front of the old castle is in full view, with the fortified part unaltered since the early occupation by the Hohenzollerns. This mediæval building, shaded by a few ancient trees, with here and there a light reflected from the upper windows at evening, and with tower and turret duplicated on the surface of the darkly flowing river at its foot, shares with one the feeling of ancient times, as no other place in Berlin can do. In the centre of this bridge is the equestrian statue of the Great Elector, superior as a work of art to any other of its date. This grand figure is fabled to descend from his horse and stalk through the streets on New Year's eve, for the chastisement of evil-doers. The Wilhelm Strasse, running from a point near the Pariser Platz south from Unter den Linden, has many palaces and public buildings; but its chief interest centres about No. 77, the palace of Prince Bismarck. The front looks eastward, and is built around three sides of a garden filled with shrubbery and threaded by walks, and shut off from the street by great iron gates and a high open iron fence. The study, where the Chancellor spends much time when in Berlin, looks upon a garden, and is furnished with the same simplicity which characterizes the private apartments of General Von Moltke. Among the few pictures which adorn the study of Bismarck is one of General Grant. Here it was that the famous Berlin Congress met in 1878 for the settlement of the Eastern Question. The palace of Prince Albert of Prussia, now Military Governor of Brunswick, is situated in a magnificent private park, acres in extent, in the heart of the city. It opens from the Wilhelm Strasse at the head of Koch. This palace was built in the early part of the eighteenth century by a French nobleman, with wealth gained in the great speculations of the Mississippi Scheme, upon which all France entered in hope of retrieving the bankruptcy entailed by Louis XIV. Its fine colonnade, its great park, and its position, adjoining the park of the War Department, between two great railroad stations and surrounded by tramways, render it one of the most prominent features of Central Berlin. The small and elaborately laid-out square of the Wilhelm Strasse, known as the Wilhelms Platz, with its pretty fountains, shrubs, and flowers, has bronze statues of six generals of Frederick the Great,--heroes of the Seven Years' War. Here it is easy to sit and dream of the olden time, in reverie which not even the Kaiserhof diplomats nor the Wilhelm-Street autocrats, within a stone's-throw on either side, nor the throng and glitter of the Berlin of to-day, can disturb. Here, surrounded by the figures and the faces of the men with whom Carlyle has made us acquainted, we recall the wonderful story which he, as none other, has written. How masterly is the way in which he has portrayed for us this Prussian history whose memorials stand around us! With feeling how deep and true for the real and the eternal as against the false, the seeming, and the transient! What a picture is the history! What a poem is the picture! At the northeast corner of the Wilhelms Platz is the palace of Prince Friedrich Karl, one of the leaders of the Franco-Prussian War. It was once the temple of the Order of the Knights of Malta, but its sumptuous interior has now for many years been devoted to residence on the upper floor, and to the famous art and _bric-à-brac_ collections of the late prince, on the ground floor. It is not difficult to gain, from the steward, the requisite permission to visit this interesting palace. Many private houses, interesting for their associations, might be found by the sojourner in Berlin who cares to search them out; but intelligent residents only, and not the guide-books, can facilitate this search. In the Margrafen Strasse, near the Royal Library, is the house where Neander lived and studied and wrote. Near the Dreifaltische Kirche, behind the Kaiserhof, is the old-fashioned parsonage which was the home of Schleiermacher, and in the Oranienburger Strasse is the house in which lived Alexander von Humboldt. Of the many beautiful parks, the Thiergarten overshadows all the rest, both because of its commanding location, close to Unter den Linden and other busy streets, and its great extent. A combination of park and wild forest, with streams, ponds, bridges, and miles of shaded avenues and riding-paths in perfect condition, its six hundred acres form one of the largest, most beautiful and useful parks in Europe. The elaborate and towering monument to commemorate the victories of recent Prussian and German wars is the centre of a system of grand avenues in the northeastern part. This monument was originally intended to commemorate the Schleswig-Holstein conquest; later, the victories over Austria in 1866 were to be included; and when the Franco-Prussian War was happily ended, it was decided to make of it also a fitting memorial of united Germany. On the third anniversary of the Capitulation of Sedan, Emperor William I. unveiled the colossal statue of Victory on the summit of the monument, which commemorates the chief events of his august reign. Immense bas-reliefs on the pedestal represent, on one side, events in the Danish campaign; on another is shown the Decoration of the Crown Prince by the Emperor on the field of Sadowa, with Prince Friedrich Karl, Von Moltke, and Bismarck standing by; the third side shows the French General Reille, handing Louis Napoleon's letter of capitulation at Sedan; and the fourth, the triumphal entry of German soldiers into Paris through the Arc de Triomphe. There is also a representation of the scene, on that day when all Berlin went wild with joy and exultation over the return of the Kaiser and his troops from Paris, of their reception at the Brandenburg Gate. Within the open colonnade of the substructure, a vast mosaic shows, in symbols, the history of the Franco-Prussian War, closing with a representation of Bavaria offering the German Crown to Prussia, and the proclamation of the Kaiser at Versailles. It was King William himself who refused to have his own image placed here as the Victor, and who substituted in the design of the artist the female figure of Borussia with the features of his mother, Queen Louise. The shaft, rising eighty-five feet above the substructure, has three divisions, with twenty perpendicular grooves in each. These grooves are filled with thrice twenty upright cannon, captured from the Danes, the Austrians, and the French, bound to the shaft by gilded wreaths of laurel. The Prussian Eagles surmount the column, forming a capital upwards of one hundred and fifty feet above the pavement; and the great statue soars nearly fifty feet still higher. In the southeastern portion of the Thiergarten is a colossal statue of Goethe, which shows at its best in the twilight of an early summer evening, framed in the tender greens and browns of the bursting foliage behind it. Not far away are the statues of Queen Louise and King Frederick William III., parents of Emperor William I., surrounded by beautiful flowers, pools, and fountains; and the famous "Lion Group" marks the intersection of much-frequented avenues in the same neighborhood. A wide central avenue traversing the whole length of the Thiergarten from east to west allows space for the tramway to the imposing edifice of the Institute of Technology and to the Zoölogical Gardens, where is one of the largest and best collections of birds and animals in the world, each species with habitations suited to it, several built in showy Oriental style, amid concert-gardens where beautiful music may be heard every day. A favorite walk of ours on sunny winter mornings was in the West End of Berlin, where are many of the finer aristocratic residences. No city can show, so far as we know, a handsomer residence quarter than portions of that which stretches between the Thiergarten on the north, the Zoölogical Gardens on the west, and the Botanical Garden on the south. The collections of the latter, like those of the Zoölogical Gardens, rank among the first of their kind. The great glass house which shelters the _Victoria Regia_ is attractive chiefly in the summer, when the plants are in blossom, but the cacti and the palm houses are interesting the year round. The palm-house is a Crystal Palace on a small scale. Entering, one finds a tropical atmosphere, hot and moist. All the larger palms and some of the smaller have each a furnace to themselves, from four to six feet in diameter and the same in height. Over this furnace the great tub is set which contains the roots of the tree, over which water is frequently sprinkled. The arrangement of the trees is graceful and beautiful. There are galleries and seats everywhere; and little imagination is required to transport one's self to Oriental and Biblical scenes, with these palm-trees towering overhead. A short walk east of these gardens is the Matthai Cemetery, where repose the brothers Grimm. The Schiller Platz, so named from the statue before the Schauspielhaus, is fortunate--if not in the life-size statue of the poet--in the fine pedestal, with its allegorical figures of Poetry, History, and Philosophy, which were originally designed to adorn a fountain. In a still more crowded part of Berlin the Donhof Platz has recently been transformed, from a barren square surrounding the statue of that great Prussian, Baron von Stein, into a lovely garden-spot, with flowers and trees and birds for the cheer of the hurrying multitudes. The old Halle Gate, where several streets converge to the southern extremity of the Friedrich Strasse, is reached through ornamental grounds known as the Belle-Alliance Platz, in the centre of which is a column erected to commemorate the peace which followed the wars of the First Napoleon. Not far to the southwest is the Kreuzberg, the only mountain in this part of Brandenburg,--a modest eminence about two hundred feet above the sea-level. It is crowned by an iron obelisk which affords a good view of the city. Berlin has no cemetery comparable in extent or beauty to many in the environs of American cities. Three small burial-grounds, separate but adjoining, at the southern edge of the city contain the graves of Neander, with the memorable inscription,--his favorite motto,--"Pectus est quod theologum facit;" of Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, his parents and his sister Fanny; of Schleiermacher, and of our countryman, the Rev. Dr. J.P. Thompson, long-beloved pastor of the Broadway Tabernacle Church, New York. Here, also, Bayard Taylor was for a time laid to rest, before being finally removed to his native land. Decorations are not so ostentatious as in Catholic countries; and quiet ivy, simple greensward, and the shadow of trees in which birds may sing, make the quaint Berlin cemeteries attractive places. This was to us especially true of the ancient cemetery connected with the Sophien Kirche and the old Dorotheen-Stadt cemetery, in the northern part of the city, where we went to look upon the graves of Fichte and Hegel, and of several artists famous in Berlin annals. In the Sophien Kirchof lies the philosopher, Moses Mendelssohn; and in that of the Garrison Church, De la Motte Fouqué, the author of "Undine." One of the most conspicuous public buildings is the Rath-haus, or Town Hall, erected at a cost of nearly two million dollars. Its lofty clock-tower with illuminated dial tells the time to all Berlin by night, and adds a charm to the group of royal palaces and museums on which it looks down. The ancient town-houses of North Germany most truly express the spirit of the old Hanse League; and the Rath-haus of Berlin, while keeping the spirit, adds the grand proportions and embellishments characteristic of the modern city. The interior apartments, including the Festival Hall, the Town Council-Room, and the Magistrates' Chamber, are elaborately adorned with historical frescos and statues, and the grand staircase has a finely vaulted ceiling and windows of stained glass filled with Prussian heraldry. A visit to this edifice by daylight gives one the fine view from the clock-tower; but to see the famous Raths-Keller underneath, with characteristic accompaniments, one must go after dark. One evening, after the adjournment, in an upper hall, of that rare thing in Berlin, a temperance meeting, a friend led our party through the elegant apartments of this place of popular refreshment. In the basement of this costly municipal building is a gilded saloon, upwards of three hundred feet long, divided into apartments. In some of these whole families were partaking of their evening "refreshments;" others were manifestly the appointed trysting-places of friends, while here and there, in sheltered nooks, the solitary ones sipped their wine or beer. Everything, so far as we could see, was orderly and quiet, and we were told that the place was one of eminent respectability. It is only after witnessing the habits of the people, in their homes and places of popular resort, that one is prepared to appreciate the enormous consumption of beer, averaging four glasses per day to every man, woman, and child in the kingdom, at an average annual cost to families greater than their house-rent. The Exchange, or Börse, on the east bank of the river, is a most imposing building. The excitements of this money-centre may be seen in a visit here any week-day at noon. There are galleries for visitors, over the Great Hall, which accommodates five thousand persons. The Imperial Bank, like the Imperial Mint, is under State control; and both occupy buildings themselves worthy to be called Imperial. The great City Prison, on a modern plan, is in Moabit, a northwestern suburb. This region received its name, "Pays de Moab," from French immigrants on account of its sterile soil; but a part of it is becoming an attractive and beautiful residence quarter. To the north of this is a model state-prison, accommodating twelve hundred prisoners. The Insane Asylum is said also to be a model institution. It has accommodations for fifteen hundred patients; and its buildings are near Dalldorf, a short distance east of the route to the northwestern suburb of Tegel. The Medical Department of the University has large buildings in different parts of the city. Connected with these is the great Carité Hospital, founded a hundred years ago, and richly endowed by public and private funds. In its many wards more than fifteen hundred patients are constantly under treatment. Another interesting hospital is the Städtische Krankenhaus, completed about fifteen years ago, on the "pavilion" plan, with the best modern appliances. This is situated in the beautiful park known as the Friedrichshain, in the northeastern part of the city. The Bethanien, in the southeastern quarter, is a large institution for the training of nurses, admirably managed, under the care of the deaconesses, or Protestant Sisters. X. PALACES. The palaces lately occupied by Emperor William I. and Crown Prince Frederick were formerly shown to the public during the absence of the occupants at their country residences; but as this was usually in the summer, when comparatively few strangers are in Berlin, they were not commonly included in a sight-seeing programme. They are pleasant homes, without great magnificence, but containing many interesting memorials of the lives of their Imperial masters. The palace of the Crown Prince was not used by him after he became Emperor Frederick III. The hundred days of pain which remained to him of life were spent at Charlottenburg and in the Castle of Friedrichskron at Potsdam. The Old Schloss of Berlin, dating back in its foundation to the castle fortified on the river-side more than four hundred years ago by one of the early Electors of Brandenburg to maintain his rights of conquest, has received many later additions. It now has seven hundred apartments, and reached perhaps its greatest glory in the time of Frederick the Great, who was born here. It was then the central seat of the royal family; and here were deposited the records and treasures of the Government. It is now used only as the permanent residence of a few officials, but is the place of entertainment for many royal guests and their retinues when the great State pageants occur, of which Berlin has seen so many. It is popularly said to be haunted. There is a story that the Countess Agnes of Orlamünde, many, many years ago, murdered her two children in order that she might marry the man of her choice, and that in penance her ghost is condemned to haunt the Old Palace of Berlin and that of Bayreuth. It is believed by some that this apparition of "the White Lady" appears to a member of the Hohenzollern family as a sure forerunner of death; and Carlyle's picture of the causeless fright of one of the royal rulers when he thought he had seen this ghost, will recur to all who have read "Frederick the Great." We have heard of no visitor so fortunate as to get a sight of the apparition. One enters through an inner court; and parties who wish to see the interior are taken every half-hour, by an official in charge, for a tour of the palace. The waxed floors of inlaid wood are very handsome; and, as in other parts of Central Europe, they are protected from the tramp of visitors by immense felt slippers, into which all are required to thrust their shoes, and in which one goes gliding noiselessly over the polished surfaces in a way to save the floors, but not always to conserve the dignity or gravity of those unaccustomed to the process. Many of the rooms are highly decorated, and memorials of the history of Prussia abound. There are many paintings, of which most are portraits or battle scenes, the picture gallery proper containing the pictures connected with Prussian history, and the Kings' and Queens' chambers the portraits of all the sovereigns. The Chamber of the Cloth of Gold and the Old Throne Room are highly ornamented, and contain massive gold and silver mementos of former kings and of Emperor William's long career. Here also is the great crystal chandelier which once hung in the Hall of the Conclave at Worms, and under which Luther stood when he made the immortal declaration, "Hier stehe ich; ich kann nicht andere; helfe mir Gott. Amen." In the White Hall court balls are held, and here sometimes has gathered the Parliament to be opened by the Emperor. It is said that when lighted up by its nearly three thousand wax candles for a court festival, the scene in this hall is extremely brilliant. Charlottenburg has been anew endeared to the public by the pathos of the home-coming of Emperor Frederick III., who took up his first Imperial residence in this suburban palace, and from an upper window of which he watched the funeral procession of his venerable sire as it passed to the mausoleum. This only son and heir to a great throne might not follow the bier of the father to its resting-place, but gazed alone from the palace at the mournful pageant, knowing that the time could not be far distant when the same sad ceremonials would be repeated for himself. Who shall say what were the thoughts of the manly Frederick III., as, when wife and children had joined the sad procession which wound its way northward through that grand but sombre avenue of stately pines which leads from the palace of Charlottenburg to the beautiful marble mausoleum where Kaiser Wilhelm was laid to rest beside his mother and his father, the sick man stood immovably at that upper window, following only with his eyes, and with no spoken word, the drama in which himself was the central and most pathetic figure! Charlottenburg is a suburb some two or three miles southwest of Berlin, practically now a part of the capital, but with a corporation and a quiet life of its own. Sophia Charlotte, Queen of the first King of Prussia, founded for herself a country residence here at the village of Lietzow, nearly two hundred years ago; and this has given the palace and the present suburb its name. Here the idolized Queen Louise in the early part of this century lived much, and here are many portraits and marbles bearing her likeness. The palace and front garden are in unattractive "rococo" style, especially the rooms occupied by Frederick the Great; but the gardens in the rear of the palace are large and most attractive. The fame of the place arises chiefly from the beautiful Doric mausoleum to Frederick William III. and Queen Louise, created by the taste of their son, King Frederick William IV., brother and predecessor of the late Emperor William. The exquisite reposing figure of Queen Louise in Carrara marble lies under light falling through stained glass in the dome; and the tomb of the King (her husband) lying beside her is hardly less attractive. Both are surrounded by excellent accessories in marble and fresco, and it is a place where one gladly lingers long. The great avenue leading from the palace to the mausoleum has ivy-mantled trunks of giant trees for sentinels, and greensward and forest on either hand make a quiet which beseems one of the loveliest of resting-places for the dead. It was here that King William came to pray, beside the tomb of the mother who had suffered so much at the hands of the First Napoleon, on the eve of going out to the war with Napoleon III.; and here, when returning in the flush of victory as Emperor of United Germany, with Louis Napoleon a prisoner in the German castle of Wilhelmshöhe, the old man came again to kneel in silent prayer beside the form of that mother whom the fortunes of war had so signally avenged more than sixty years after her death. What wonder that in this sacred spot only did William I. wish to be laid, when death should gather him to his fathers! Sixteen miles southwest of Berlin, "that amphibious Potsdam" of Carlyle holds out manifold attractions by land and water ways. It is a city of fifty thousand inhabitants, besides a garrison of soldiers which guard its royal palaces and their lovely grounds. There are many interesting public buildings and historical monuments. It was early in our Berlin residence that, taking advantage of a bright morning when bright mornings were not too frequent, two Americans were set down at the station in Potsdam, armed only with a well-studied guide-book and a few words of conversational German. We did not wish to be shown everything, and so, declining the offered services of guides, engaged a drosky by the hour, with a kindly-faced young man for driver. He took the greatest interest in us, and supplied us with such information as we wished. For the rest we were set down at Sans Souci, free to stroll through its rooms in charge of the palace official, with our freshly read Macaulay and Carlyle in mind, striking the balance for ourselves between these two differing estimates of Frederick the Great, with every particular standing out vividly in the light of the object-lessons from that monarch's life which crowded on every hand. It was fortunate for us that we were the only visitors that morning, for this was the first palace we had entered, and the dreams of childhood were realizing themselves like the lines of a remembered fairy poem. The sympathy which spoke or was silent at will, sure of being always understood, gave the final touch of perfection to a memorable day. Beautiful for situation, the long, domed, one-storied building, the favorite residence of Frederick the Great, is impressive because of its history. As we wandered through the suites of elegant rooms and heard the stories connected with Frederick and Voltaire, their shades seemed everywhere to flit before us. The first terrace leads to the spot where the King buried his favorite horses and dogs, and where, before the palace was built, he once expressed a wish to lie at the last. "When I am there I shall be without care," he said in French; and so the palace afterwards built for him here took the name "Sans Souci." The great iron gates at the north of the palace had been but twice opened, we were told,--once by the force of the First Napoleon, and once when the greater monarch, Death, had laid his hand on King Frederick William IV., who was carried hence to his last home. The great fountain was not playing that day; but the drive through the vast and famous park, with its enticing views and bewitching beauty, left nothing to be desired except a convenient place for physical refreshments. Past the orangery, with its wide views over land and lake, and Bornstedt (the favorite country home of the Crown Prince) to the north; past the "old windmill" known to history, to the New Palace, with its magnificence, its great extent, and its curious shell grotto,--we leave the simple charms of Charlottenhof and its neighborhood for another visit, and hasten to stand beside the coffin of Frederick the Great beneath the pulpit of the Potsdam Garrison Church. Nearer to the station is the Old Schloss of Potsdam. An old lime-tree opposite the entrance is shown as the place where the petitioners for the favor of Frederick the Great used to station themselves, in order to attract his Majesty's attention from the window of his bedroom, or as he went in and out of the palace. Here we were almost bewildered by the number and extent of the rooms, and the multitude of historical associations connected with them. Here lived Frederick William I., father of Frederick the Great, in Carlyle's word-painting inferior to no other figure in that great composition. Here are the rolling chairs and the inclined planes along which that monarch was wheeled in the course of his long and painful illness; in his study are the pictures painted by him _in tormentis_, and looking forth from the south windows we see the parade-ground where he used to drill his giant soldiers. There stands a statue of this strange, eccentric monarch, who, notwithstanding all that was bad, had so much in him that was good and true. It was from this palace that his lifeless remains were carried forth to rest in the Garrison Church, not far away. As at Sans Souci, remembrance of Frederick the Great crowds upon us in the Old Schloss also. Here is his round-corner room, with walls of famous thickness, and a dumb-waiter lifting up through the floor the table and all its viands, that here he might dine alone with his intimates and no tell-tale sounds escape. Here is the heavy solid-silver balustrade which separates his library from his sleeping-room. In this place, not long before our visit, Prince and Princess Wilhelm, whose winter residence was on an upper floor of this palace, had brought their youngest son for baptism. All the later sovereigns have occupied, at one time or another, apartments in this interesting old palace, and here many souvenirs of the present as well as former royal families are shown. Charlottenhof, in the southern part of the grounds of Sans Souci, is an unpretending villa, beautiful in its simplicity, and with all its charms enhanced by its having been granted by the King as a summer residence to Alexander von Humboldt while working at his "Kosmos." Near this is the beautiful Roman Bath, adorned with fine works of art. The New Palace, now known as Friedrichskron, built on a vast scale by Frederick the Great after the Seven Years' War, to show that he was not impoverished, has henceforth its immortality as the birthplace of Frederick III.; and here he expired, on the morning of a June day, scarce a twelvemonth after he had ridden among the foremost of that dazzling throng of potentates which graced the imperial progress of Queen Victoria to Westminster Abbey on the celebration of her regal Jubilee. In the days of their happy summer life, lived in great simplicity and homelikeness, the Crown Princess once wrote, in a little pavilion here,-- "This plot of ground I call my own, Sweet with the breath of flowers, Of memories, of pure delights, And toil of summer hours." Alas! henceforth these domestic memories have an element of unspeakable pathos added by the remembrance of the last fortnight of that devoted life which vanished in this memorable spot, whence the funeral procession went forth, through the park of Sans Souci, to lay all that was mortal of the beloved Frederick III. beside the graves of their young sons Waldemar and Sigismund, in the Peace Church of Potsdam. Babelsburg, the summer home of Emperor William I., is to many visitors more charming than any of the historic castles and palaces of Potsdam. Distant two or three miles from these, it is in striking contrast with them all. It is a modern villa in the Norman style, in a beautiful and extensive park northeast of Potsdam. One does not wonder that it was dearest of all his residences to the heart of the aged Emperor. Here, more than elsewhere, are the evidences and atmosphere of a simple yet courtly home life. Babelsburg should be visited in the early summer, when the trees of its great forest are showing their first leaves, clothed, and yet not obstructing the unrivalled view by land and water, and when the sward is embroidered by daisies and buttercups. Here the private rooms of Emperor William I. and Empress Augusta were freely shown, with scattered papers, work-basket, fires laid in the grates ready to light for the cool mornings and evenings, halls, staircases, reception-rooms, library, study, and sleeping-rooms, as homelike and everyday-looking as though they were those of any happy family in any part of the land. Of special interest to English travellers is the suite of rooms fitted up for the reception of the Princess Royal when she came to Germany as a bride in 1858. The chambers are hung with chintz of pale pink and other delicate colors, such as one sees in England, and with the same dainty arrangements which make English bedrooms a synonym for spotless comfort the world around. Here were arranged the pictures of father and queen-mother and brothers and sisters, and the little souvenirs of home with which, as an English girl of seventeen, she fought the homesickness inevitable to a stranger in a foreign land; and here many of them remain, in the rooms still called by her name. The "Marble Palace" is seen to fine advantage, in the midst of lovely waters, from the road which leads from Potsdam to Gleinicke. It was the summer home of the present Emperor, while Prince William, and is not open to visitors. XI. THE HOMES OF THE HUMBOLDTS. An hour by tramway, northwest of Berlin, lies Tegel, the hereditary estate of the Humboldt family. About two hundred years ago its hills and dales, pine forests and sandy plains, were the property of the Great Elector. Some eighty years later, a Pomeranian Major in the army of Frederick the Great was high in favor with the King on account of his distinguished service in the Seven Years' War, and was rewarded by gifts and promotions. To William von Humboldt, eldest son of this Major and Royal Chamberlain, descended the château and lands of the former royal hunting-lodge of Tegel. Though this was not, in strict sense, the home of the more famous younger brother, Alexander, these were his ancestral acres. Here he often came to this brother, whose death in his arms in 1835 cast a lasting shadow over his lonely life; and here, beside the brother and his family, his mortal part lies buried. A bright April morning was the time of our visit. The outskirts of a great city are seldom more free from unpleasant sights than the northern suburb through which we passed. Here and there, in the plain which surrounds Berlin, sandy knolls appear; now and then the tall chimney of a manufactory or a brewery pierces the sky; but the city insensibly gives place to the country. Clean-swept garden paths, trim hedges of gooseberry bushes just bursting into leaf, and hens scratching the freshly turned furrows, brought back a childlike delight in the spring-time; while the antiquarian tastes of later years were fed by glimpses of delicious old houses which raised their drooping eyelids in quaint gable-windows looking forth over ivy-mantled walls, as if in sleepy surprise at all the bustle and stir of this work-a-day world. One or two hamlets had been passed, and the camp, from which we had met a train of artillery and many companies of soldiers on their way to the city, when the tram-conductor announced the village of Tegel, the end of the route. A few rods, and a turn to the left past some mills brings us to the entrance of the castle park. An obelisk, battered and ancient-looking enough to belong to the age of Cleopatra, stands beside the modest iron gate of the entrance. An old peasant-woman passing with a pack on her back answers our question by saying that this is an ancient milestone which formerly stood a little above its present site; and we surmise that its mutilated condition is due to relic-hunters. Inside the gate we see a grassy plain with sandy patches; here and there are deep open ditches for drainage; and avenues stretch off in several directions, bounded by rows of great overarching trees. We follow one reaching toward higher ground and forest-covered hills. On an elevation a few rods farther on stands the château,--the old hunting-lodge no more, but a two-story Roman villa, rectangular, with square towers at the corners, on each face of which is a carved frieze with a Greek inscription. Back of this "Schloss," but not hidden by it, on a smooth slope, is a large ancient one-story dwelling with side front, in good preservation. Its ivy mantle does not conceal the frame, which is filled in with stuccoed brick, and which alone would proclaim the age of the building. The long slope of the mossy roof must hide a wonderful old attic, for it is full of tiled "eyes" to admit light and air, and two or three single panes of glass are inserted in different places for the same purpose. Three windows on each side the low doorway in the front look forth on the quiet scene, the lace curtains within revealing glimpses of a cosey, homelike interior. On one side are supplementary buildings fit for companionship with this quaint home, and a fenced garden and ancient orchard, beyond which five woodmen were leisurely sawing an old-fashioned woodpile of immense size;--only princely estates can supply such a luxury in these degenerate days. The shadow of death was in the villa. Two days before, Frau von Bülow, the last of the Humboldts, had been carried forth, to rest beside her husband and children, her father William, and her uncle Alexander von Humboldt. The gnarled and twisted stem of a venerable ivy clasps with two arms one of the most majestic of the tall trees before the house, one branch bearing large leaves of a tender green, the other small and beautifully outlined leaves of dark maroon exquisitely veined. Beds bordered with box are bright with pansies. We wander onward, along the great shaded avenue, with level green fields on either side. An opening suddenly sets a study in color before our eyes. The unbroken stretch of sward southward is in most vivid spring green; there is a gleam of blue water beyond the tender purple of a distant forest, overhung by the fleecy cumuli of a perfect but constantly changing sky. It is simple and beautiful beyond description. We approach some wooded hills, well cared for, but lifting themselves upward in the beauty of Nature, not art. Buttercups and star-grass and chickweed arrest us occasionally by the roadside, until a wooded pathway brings us to a plot surrounded by an iron fence. Within, an old woman is trimming the ivy overspreading a grave, and there are eight or ten other mounds, all ivy or flower covered, and with low headstones. At the west end of the enclosure is a semicircular stone platform, with a stone seat skirting the circumference. From the centre rises a lofty shaft of polished granite, bearing on its summit a statue of Hope, by Thorwaldsen. On the pedestal are the names of William von Humboldt and his noble wife, and near it the newly closed grave of this daughter, who at the age of eighty-five, after a distinguished life, sleeps here beneath the funeral wreaths which hide the mound, and bear, on long black or white ribbons, the names of societies and eminent families who have sent these tributes of remembrance and affection. White hyacinths and lilies-of-the-valley perfume the air, and palm-branches lie on the new-made grave, above the flowers. I treasure an ivy leaf or two, given by the workwoman, and pick up a cone which has just fallen from a fir-tree upon the grave of Alexander, as I read the inscription on his headstone: "Thou too wilt at last come to the grave; how art thou preparing?" This simple epitaph, with name and age, is all, except his earthly work, that speaks for him who was once, after Napoleon Bonaparte, the most famous man in Europe, and who, in learning and in devotion to Nature, was as great as he was famous. From the little burial-ground we took a hill-path, hoping for a more distant view than we had found but hardly expecting it. Ascending gradually, there were glimpses of forests and hills far to the northward; and a porter's lodge, and stables, in a vale amid the trees, revealed only by the distant baying of a hound, and the blue smoke curling upward. Still we wound along, over the hillsides and under the trees, pausing occasionally to rest on simple rustic seats, on which were carved the initials of former pilgrims to these scenes. Faring onward, there came a sudden burst of light and beauty. "Far, far o'er hill and dale" shines the blue expanse of the Tegeler See, with sunshine flooding all the broad acres between. The fortress spires of Spandau and the dome of the royal palace of Charlottenburg spring from the purple, forest-rimmed horizon; and beyond is a tangle of history written on the sky in domes and palaces and spires, I know not what, nor how many. To the delight of this sudden vision is added the thought of the generations of men and women who have trod this forest path, and whose eyes have been gladdened by this sight, until a file of mounted knights and nobles, from the Great Elector through a line of kings and emperors, of grand dames and fair princesses, has swept in stately procession down the hill-side to be followed in imagination by the footsteps of many of the greatest men in literature, science, and philosophy which Europe has brought forth, and by those of statesmen and diplomatists from every quarter of the globe. Returning to the château, we passed between it and the ancient house, when lo! a glance at the rear of the modern villa toward a second-story bay window under the spreading shade of a venerable tree told a new tale. I did not then know the history of the buildings, and it had seemed that only the low cottage was ancient, and the Roman villa comparatively modern. But here was a tell-tale slope of ancient roof, with a square port-hole of a window just beneath it, peeping forth behind the modern bay-window under the tree-tops, all out of harmony with the lines of Roman towers and roofs; and so we knew that the château was only modern in appearance, but ancient in reality. A day full of quiet beauty, not unmingled with delight, this had proved; worth to the heart, in some moods, acres of canvas and chiselled marble within the walls of royal museums. But we were not yet quite satisfied. In the Oranienburger Strasse in Berlin stands a city house of the last century. Here, with a serving-man as the real master of his house,--with no wife, no child,--the author of "Kosmos" did much of his best work. "I was often with my father in Humboldt's house during his lifetime," said my German hostess to me, after my return from these visits. "He lived among his books, in his study in the back of the house,--the second story, looking into the court; for he could not bear the noise of the street in the front rooms." To this place we found our way in returning from Tegel. We stood before it in the street, and read the inscription on the marble tablet in the front wall: "In this house lived Alexander von Humboldt from the year 1842 till _he went forth_, May 6, 1859." Entering the street door, we inquired of the bright-eyed little daughter of the porter, who had been left in charge, if we could see the second floor, where Humboldt used to live. "No," said the child; "there is nothing to see. Others live there now. As for Humboldt, you can see his statue before the University!" The privilege of looking upon the home surroundings of Humboldt in Berlin was accorded us later, by an American gentleman into whose possession they had come. His massive old writing-desk, with a great mirror behind it, and deep drawers,--each bearing his seal,--where he kept his most valued curiosities and correspondence, and where now repose many of his autograph papers, is worth going far to see. Here, too, are a smaller writing-desk, his champagne glasses, quill pens, lamp-screen, candlestick, snuffers, and the last candle which he used. These and other significant and home-like memorials belong not to Germany, but to America, unless Germany repurchase them, as she should. Only in the house so long the home of their master will they fittingly repose, as the memorials of Goethe and Schiller adorn the homes that were theirs at Weimar. During the conversation with the child of the porter at the house in Oranienburger Strasse, I had looked into the large and pleasant court, and saw the great vine clambering up over the wall which must have been in sight from the study. Here doubtless it was that Bayard Taylor, the famous young traveller visiting the famous old traveller, had the interview which he described so vividly that at the distance of more than thirty years recorded bits of the conversation remain distinctly traced in our memory. "Humboldt showed me a chameleon," wrote Taylor, "remarking on its curious habit of casting one eye upward and the other downward at the same time,--'a faculty possessed also by some clergymen,'" added the facetious old man, as though he had discovered a new fact in natural history. Turning to a map of the Holy Land, Humboldt gave the young guest minute directions for his contemplated journey, until the very stones by the wayside seemed to grow familiar to the listener. "When were you there?" asked Mr. Taylor. "I was never there," replied Humboldt. "I prepared to go in 18--," naming a date thirty or forty years before. In such preparation for work lies an open secret of greatness. In the little cemetery at Tegel, which has now no vacant place, Humboldt's epitaph speaks to the living. His virtues and his faults are left to the judgment of the Omniscient. In the gallery of her great men Germany places the colossal figure of Humboldt beside that of Goethe. More than one century must pass before the place of either is finally determined in the perspective of history. XII. PHILANTHROPIC WORK. This has many departments,--educational, humane, and religious. Although the churches of Berlin are sufficient for only a very small per cent of the population, many private and semi-public enterprises carried on by Christian people show a true spirit of devotion to the good of humanity. The "Pestalozzi-Froebel-Haüs" was established some years ago by a grand-niece of Froebel, who endeavors thus to carry out the principles of her great-uncle, whose instruction and companionship she enjoyed in her youth. Still in the prime of life, of gracious and winning presence, full of noble enthusiasm in doing good and of love for children; a devoted student of the principles and philosophy of education, ably seconded by her husband, who is a member of the Imperial Diet, and by other gentlemen and ladies of position and influence, and with the faithful assistance of teachers trained under her own supervision,--this lady already sees the ripening fruit of this renowned system of education. After struggling with obstacles at the outset, on account of limited means and lack of accommodations, the enterprise was finally established at No. 16 Steinmitz Strasse, by the generosity of two of the gentlemen referred to; and from the time it had a settled home, prosperity followed. "We wish to show that all work is honorable," said the Directress to me, "and our teachers are all _ladies_." The aim of the institution is to develop healthfully and fully the children committed to its care, and to prepare girls to be good mothers, Kindergarten teachers, housekeepers, and servants. There is thus a Kindergarten proper, with several departments; and a training-school with two grades, in one of which young ladies are received who are preparing to be educators, and in the other, girls to be trained for household work. No distinction is made in receiving rich and poor. Having learned by experience that the poor truly value only that for which they make some return, the managers set a price upon everything, except help in cases of sickness. In cases of extreme poverty some member of the committee pays the dues; and in illness, appliances and comforts, medicines, and the services of a trained nurse are furnished without charge whenever there is need. The Kindergarten had, at the time of my visit, over one hundred children, between the ages of two and seven years. The price of tuition is about twelve cents a month to the poor, and seventy-five cents per month to those able to pay this larger sum. The children are brought in the morning by the mothers or nurses, and taken away early in the afternoon. They are divided into groups of about a dozen, under supervision of the heads of the different departments, assisted by those who are learning the system in the normal or training school. Each group has, alternating with the others, garden-play and work, and house-guidance and help. We were first shown into a secluded walled garden-plot, covered only with clean sand. The children are disciplined by freedom, as well as healthful restraint. In this sand-garden they are free. With their little wooden shovels and spoons, and with their hands, they revel in the sand, as all healthy children do. They were no more abashed by our presence than tamed and petted birdlings would be to feed from the hand of those they had learned to love and trust. In the next garden, radiant with spring sunshine, a lady was surrounded by a group who were digging, planting, watering,--veteran gardeners of three and a half years. They are not free, but must learn obedience as well as gardening during the hour they spend here. Pansies in bloom bordered the regular beds and trim walks, and some were watering them from little water-pots. The stone wall around the four sides of the enclosure was covered by a vine just bursting into leaf. This had been trained, twig by twig, against the wall, by tiny fingers under the guidance of the lady in charge. A rustic summer-house contained a table, and seats of different heights. Here were seeds and implements for immediate use. Every stray leaf and bit of waste was brought by the children to a corner appropriated to it, covered with earth, and left to become dressing for the beds; thus teaching at once the chemistry of Nature and the value of neatness and economy. To another corner the children were encouraged to bring all the stones and shells they could find; and thus a rock-grotto was growing. From the gardens we went into the house. In the first room the two-year-olds were on low seats before a long table, where each had his six by ten inches of sand-plot, in which, with tiny wooden shovels and rakes, they were laying out garden beds and sticking in green leaves and cut pansies to make the wilderness blossom. Behind these were seats and tables for those who were a little older and could do real work. In a large tin dish-pan, two or three, under suitable supervision, were washing flower-pots with sponges and tepid water; others were filling the clean pots by taking spoonfuls of black loam from another pan; others, having been shown pansy plants with roots, and told that the plants took nourishment and drank water by means of these root-mouths, were pressing them carefully into the earth-filled pots and giving them water. In an anteroom two or three children were helping to wash the leaves of ivies and other plants, having had the office of the leaves simply explained. All was done with such care that the clean faces and garments of the children were not soiled, nor the floor and desks littered. "We try to make one idea the centre of thought for the week,--not to confuse the minds of the children by too much at once," said the Directress. "This week it is pansies." In the garden children were watering pansies in bloom, and pansies were cut and dug for use in the house, where they were the materials for play and work. In one room the children had cards in their hands, in which they had pricked the outlines of pansies. Each had a needle threaded with a color selected by itself, with which to work this outline. In another room they were painting pansies. At Easter time the lesson was on eggs. We were shown eggs colored by the children in their own devices, birds' nests, feathers, etc. One treasure, I remember, was a blue card on which a barn was outlined by straws sewed to the surface, showing roof, hayloft, and stairs, mounting which was a lordly fowl cut from white paper. One room is called "the baby room." At a long low table sat nearly twenty children, with dolls of every size and complexion, cradles, baby-wagons, changes of clothing for the dolls, beds, a tiny kitchen-range, with furniture, and every other accessory to doll life. The bathing is a department by itself. Every child is bathed, as a rule, when it is received. Then in the afternoon, once a week, many are brought for the regular weekly bath, which is so conducted as to make the children like it. The cost of the weekly bath is two and a half cents, and the children who are old enough often remind their mothers to save the small coin for this purpose. All the children are given a luncheon in the middle of the forenoon. Parents who desire it can have a dinner of good porridge also served to their children, about noon, at a cost of a little more than one cent. As the children approach the age of six, they enter the elementary class, where they have slates and pencils and a blackboard, and are taught the elements of reading. This is the only school exercise, so called, connected with the institution, and is to prepare the children to enter the public schools. After they leave the Kindergarten, some are received in the afternoons,--the girls to be taught sewing, and the boys carpentering. The last department shown to us was the music-room. Here the little ones stood, and counted, and beat double time, under the direction of a leader, to a slow, melodious air played on the piano. Then they marched, keeping step, and still counting the time. After this they took tambourines, triangles, drums, and clappers, and made a noise, in perfect time and tune. "Children like a noise," said the Directress. "Here they have it, but under direction and limitation. Some of the boys, when they are received here," continued the lady, "are so very, very naughty; but when they come to the music-class and have this noise, then they grow quiet and good. If it is taken away, they get naughty again." A religious atmosphere is sought, as the only one in which child-nature can normally develop. They have daily morning prayers and songs, religious books and pictures, such as "Christ blessing Little Children," and at Christmas time stories of the birth of Christ. Benevolence in their relations to one another is sedulously cultivated. The four-or-five-year-olds make little wooden spades and rakes for the two-or-three-year-olds, saying gravely, "We do it for the little ones." Meetings are held by the Directress with the mothers, and in several parts of the city three or four mothers have united in supporting little Kindergartens for their own families. The teaching of the Directress is also put in practice by mothers in their own homes, where much more time is devoted to the children than formerly. As applications are constantly on hand for more than can be received to this institution, I asked if the revenue from fees and gifts were devoted to the enlargement of the accommodations. "No; for _perfecting_ the system and its methods," was the reply. And this seemed to me to be the key to this most interesting undertaking. A perfect development of child-nature is sought; and a Kindergarten means here, "not several hours a day spent in much folding of papers and braiding of pretty things," said the Directress, but a many-sided and all-embracing culture of the whole being. Having given this full account of the methods of the Kindergarten, the description of the department for the training of teachers may be omitted. Not so with the department devoted to the preparation of girls who have left school for the duties of wives, mothers, nurses, housekeepers, and servants. In this important department of the Pestalozzi-Froebel-Haüs, over forty young women from the various ranks of life were gathered. It was under the special patronage of the Crown Princess, whose own daughters were its first pupils. The lady who directed the teaching of washing and ironing kept a close eye to the perfection of the work, which is all classified. At one time table-linen is washed and ironed properly; at another, the best methods of treating dish-towels are taught; at another, the washing of flannels and the doing up of prints and ginghams; at another, clear-starching, the cleansing of laces and fine materials; and so on, until the whole round of a family laundry has been scientifically taught and enforced by practice. In one room a girl of fourteen or fifteen, formerly a pupil in the Kindergarten, was washing windows and paint. Well dressed, she was poised on a step-ladder, polishing a large pane of glass with a chamois skin. Her pail of suds stood on the shining floor, with a bit of oil-cloth under it, that not a drop of water should touch the varnish. I involuntarily looked at the wall-paper along the edges of the window and door casings and baseboards, and saw that no careless washcloth had ever left its trail on a surface for which it was not designed. As I glanced back at the maiden, she was folding her towels and placing them in a covered basket, with a compartment for each. We were now conducted to the kitchen. It was a large and pleasant room, in the second or third story, with three double windows looking out on a beautiful garden, the floor a marble or tile mosaic, and the walls frescoed. Dainty curtains hung at the upper part of the windows, in such a way as not to exclude light or air. Opposite the windows was a large range, on which the dinner for the family and for various ladies who statedly dine in the institution was cooking. Two of the ten young ladies present were learning that difficult art,--the management of a fire so as to produce desired and exact results in cooking, themselves having the entire responsibility of feeding it and regulating the draughts. On a thin marble slab another was cutting fresh beef into bits, which she presently placed in a bottle for the purpose of preparing nourishment for a member of the family who was ill. The preparation of food for the sick is taught in all its branches with utmost care. Two had evidently reached that branch of the cooking art which involves the preparation of luxuries by delicate processes. They were seated apart, each stirring, drop by drop, oil or flavoring into a sauce. One of the principles taught is that of the utmost economy of material. The teachers, with the young ladies under instruction who desire it, and the nurses, constitute the family, and have good and wholesome food, all prepared by those who are learning cookery. The making of delicacies and expensive dishes is also taught; and these are served to certain ladies, who dine at the house to test these dishes, for perhaps three months at a time, gladly paying for the privilege. Shining tin and other utensils, wooden and iron ware of the most approved patterns, in every size and variety, were systematically ranged about the kitchen in a way really ornamental. At one side were weights and measures, where everything brought in was tested. A map of the world, showing the productions of every zone and country, hung beside the sugar and spice table; and beside it was a glass cupboard, containing phials showing the analysis of every article of food. One small table was devoted to good and bad samples of household food supplies, the samples being in cubical boxes about an inch and a half each way, set into a large box with compartments, the whole so arranged as to show easily the qualities to be desired and those not to be desired by the purchaser. The book-keeper had her desk and account-books, where the amount of every article purchased and its cost were duly entered. The superintendent of the kitchen, with fine and ladylike courtesy, showed us her book of written questions, which those under her charge were required to be able to answer both from a scientific and a practical standpoint. One department of this domestic school is the supervision of a milk-route. The children of Berlin, like those of all large cities, especially among the poor, suffer for want of milk, or of that which is good. Here the milk of two or three large dairies in the country is bought by the Kindergarten committee. It costs them, by wholesale, much less than people in the city pay for poor milk. This good milk is supplied at a low price by an attendant, who is directed to carry the milk into the dwelling, instead of requiring the poor mother to leave her children and go to the wagon for it, as is the general custom. In the sewing-room mending and darning alternate, on certain days, with the cutting and making of plain garments. This department supplements the teaching of sewing in the public schools by instruction in only the higher kinds of plain sewing, and the surgery required to make "old clothes almost as good as new." Every part of the duty and work of an ordinary nurse is taught, like all the other departments, with the utmost faithfulness and excellence; and this department was supported by the Crown Princess. As we passed from the bathing-department, we met a sweet-faced nurse going out, who immediately returned with us, throwing off her alpaca duster, and showing, unasked, her private rooms to the unexpected American visitors with the greatest cordiality and the most ladylike grace. Refinement and perfect order characterized the rooms. There were closets with shelves filled with bed-linen and undergarments for the sick in every size. This bedding and clothing is loaned to the sick poor without charge, on the sole condition that they shall return it clean. The washed and ironed articles neatly piled and folded bespoke both gratitude and faithfulness on the part of beneficiaries. Water-beds and other appliances for the use and comfort of the sick were stored in another place, and in still another were garments kept for gifts to the convalescent and particularly needy. As the nurse kneeled to replace a water-bed she had been showing us, the Lady Director lifted an ornament which she wore about her neck on a silver chain. Her color deepened prettily, as we saw that it was the monogram of the Crown Princess in silver, bestowed only for brave and specially meritorious service in nursing. If Germany is too slow, as we believe, in according to women the opportunity for higher education, surely this institution sets a noble example in that which to the world in general is of vast and incalculable importance. A mission to the cabmen of Berlin is conducted by a benevolent lady with great modesty but with most eminent success. The Berlin cabman is a picturesque object In summer he wears a dark blue suit with silvered buttons, a vest and collar of scarlet, and a black hat with a cockade and a white or yellow band. In winter, a great Astrakhan cap with tassels surmounts his bronzed features, he is enveloped in a long blue great-coat with a cape, and his feet are encased in immense boots with soles often from one to two inches thick. The covered carriage known as a drosky is a rather lumbering vehicle on four wheels. Formerly every one rode in these droskies, the fares being very low. But within a few years the tram-car, which is increasingly popular, has diverted patronage from the cabs, and the times are hard for the cabman. He must pay a certain sum to the company which controls the cabs, for the use and keeping of the horse and vehicle; must purchase his uniform at his own expense; and if his receipts bring him anything over and above these outlays, he has the surplus for the support of himself and family. How the average cabman in Berlin manages in this way to live, is a mystery. His family must dwell in a cellar or attic, or eke out their subsistence by taking lodgers, washing, or by any other means which they can find. All must live on insufficient food; and this, with constant exposure to the weather and enforced idleness much of the time, is a constant temptation to drinking-habits. Beer-shops are numerous near the cab-stands; and the small change in the cabman's pocket often goes into their coffers, when it should be saved for the poor wife and children in his wretched home. About twenty years ago a German lady of noble birth, an invalid, employed as her substitute in doing good among the poor a Christian widow, whom she instructed to go out among the cabmen and their families. This work is still under the supervision of the lady who began it, and, now restored to health, she gives a large part of her time and means to this mission, assisted by a deaconess and six Bible-women under her direction, who reach the families of about eight hundred cabmen. If possible, the cabman is won, often through his family; and sometimes the long idle hours on his drosky-box are beguiled by the memorizing of verses from the little Testament given him to carry in his pocket. Then a circulating library is kept constantly in use by the Bible-woman, who carries a book in her bag to each house which she visits, leaving it until her round again gives the opportunity of taking it up and putting another in its place. Best of all is the friendship which springs up between these poor people and their helpers. Doubt, anxiety, trouble, misfortune, all find loving sympathy; and when serious illness comes, especially in contagious and malignant diseases, when friends and neighbors flee, then this mission brings light into the darkness. The deaconess is also a trained nurse, to whom a yearly stipend is given, that she may devote her entire time to the work; and she is constantly going from one family to another, as scarlet-fever, diphtheria, and other diseases call for her help. As a special favor, I was allowed, with a few other American friends, to be present at an evening tea-meeting, such as are held frequently for the cabmen and their wives. An opening hymn, in which all joined, was sung; a passage of Scripture was read, and prayer offered. A "Gospel song" was well sung by a German gentleman as a solo, and then there was a familiar address from the eloquent Court-preacher Frommel. Another prayer followed, another song, and then the tea was served. In a side room, separated by sliding doors from the audience, I had noticed, when we entered, ladies flitting about long tables and hovering over white china. The Countess Waldersee was there, in simple apparel, helping to pass the tea and abundant cakes and sandwiches, as were also two granddaughters of Chevalier Bunsen, and other representatives of honorable and noble Christian families. Meantime the Baroness who is the cherishing mother of this work was helping, as occasion required; both she and her deaconess going from one row of seats to another, speaking a friendly word here, bestowing a greeting or answering an inquiry there, and unconsciously followed by a wake of happiness everywhere. As the wounded soldiers in Crimean hospitals turned to kiss the shadow of Florence Nightingale passing them, there was surely gladness in hearts and on faces here that would have counted it a privilege to kiss the place hallowed by the footsteps of these Christian women. About four hundred were present in the plain Moravian Chapel which is always used for these tea-meetings. Fewer men than women were present, as many of the cabmen must be at their posts until near midnight. From time to time the Bible-woman at the door softly opened it for the entrance of one who had thought it better to come late than not at all. As these men in their picturesque garb came, cold and hungry, into the warm and well-lighted room, I looked to see if their physical wants were supplied before they were asked to partake of the spiritual feast. To my great satisfaction I discerned that a well-filled table had been spread just inside the entrance-door, from which they were served as soon as chairs had been handed them; and from time to time great motherly tea-pots went the rounds, to fill all cups a second time. When they had been warmed and fed, they often moved forward to be nearer the speakers; and when the exercises were over, one and another found his wife in the audience, and together they went out. As this was going forward, a parting hymn was struck, which seemed to form no part of the programme. Inquiring, I was told that this was always sung in parting, in remembrance of an occasion very sad, but also very precious, to their benefactress. The sullen roar of a great coming conflict of social elements breaks on the shore of every land, now rising, now lulling, but every day drawing nearer. The simple chapel of this scene is little more than a stone's-throw from the palace of the Chancellor of the German Empire. Here, in sympathy and helpfulness, and not there, in absolutism, will be heard the Voice which only can say, "Peace, be still!"--the Voice which says to-day, as of old, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto me." The Young Men's Christian Association of Berlin has the hearty sympathy and assistance of Count Bernsdorff, lately an officer of the Empress Augusta's household and well known in diplomatic circles, of Court-preacher Frommel, and others widely known in other spheres of influence. Its intelligence-office has had nearly fifty thousand calls for advice and help in a single year, and twenty committees from its membership actively co-operate in different lines of work. Besides its various religious meetings, daily and weekly, at which there was an aggregate attendance of between fifteen and twenty thousand in one recent year, it maintains a well-equipped reading-room and library, a hall for gymnastic exercises, and fine reception-rooms. Tea-meetings are also frequently held here; and two courses of lectures in English and two courses in French are given, besides courses of instruction in stenography and book-keeping. A male quartette gives frequent musical entertainments, and in one winter thirteen "musical evenings" held forth manifold attractions to this music-loving people. The Committee of Ladies co-operating in this work assists in obtaining positions, manages tea-meetings, etc.; and the management asserts that it increasingly realizes "how important is the eye and hand of woman in all its work." The magnificent gardens and park attached to the War Department were, during our visit to Berlin, opened on a beautiful May afternoon and evening, by the co-operation of the Countess Waldersee and under the patronage of the Prince and Princess William, to a promenade concert for the benefit of this Association. Two of the finest military bands alternated in rendering popular and classical music; and few who were present will ever forget the striking scene, where, amid the flower-bordered lawns, under sunset skies slowly fading through the long twilight into the gayly lighted evening, hundreds of ladies and gentlemen, some in bright military uniforms, some with the insignia of rank, and some with only the stamp of Nature's noblemen, gathered about the refreshment-tables, chatted in groups apart, or sauntered along the fine old avenues under the towering trees or beside the lakes and fountains, the hours seeming all too short under the inspiration of the place and the music. Prince William, always in uniform, and the charming Princess, on this occasion in the simplest and plainest dress, mingled quietly with the company. As we passed out through the great gateway between nine and ten o'clock, the steeds of their State carriage were champing, and pawing the pavement of the quadrangle, held in check by the officials who were awaiting their return. The Crown Princess Frederick was the patroness of nearly every undertaking in Berlin for the good of women and children, and, with her noble husband, often visited among them. "On one occasion," said a German lady to me, "some one asked of the Crown Prince the particulars of a certain benevolent enterprise. 'Ask my wife,' replied the Prince; 'she knows everything,'" It is certain that, from Kindergarten and other schools, to cooking-schools, training-schools for nurses, hospitals, and a school for the daughters of officers who would be taught art, literature, science, as a practical help in the battle of self-support, there seemed to be no enterprise which could not count as its chief patron the Crown Princess Victoria. The aged Empress Augusta was also the patron of girls' schools and soup-kitchens, to the number of more than a dozen, and was counted by many the especial friend of the very poor. One of the most interesting institutions to which we had access was founded upwards of twenty years ago by Dr. Adolph Lette, of Berlin, whose plans have since his death been faithfully carried out by his daughter, Frau Schepeler-Lette, who devotes nearly her entire time to its supervision. It was also under the patronage of the Crown Princess. Its object is to promote the higher education and practical industry of women, and to render single and friendless women the help and protection so much needed in all large cities. Many English and some American girls have reason to bless this institution, which knows no rank, no nationality, but only need, as the password to its gracious and abounding ministries. One of its departments is the Charlotten-Stiftung, intended to help destitute daughters of German noblemen and military and civil officers to earn their own livelihood by giving them a practical education, especially in dress-making, cooking, and the management of a household. This department was founded and endowed by a noble German lady with property yielding an annual income of nearly twenty thousand dollars. Another department is the Bank of Loans. Its object is to assist unmarried women in establishing and maintaining shops, especially those who wish to establish business in some art-industry. No individual loan is to exceed one hundred and fifty dollars, and each is to be repaid in small instalments at five per cent interest. One per cent of the loan is to be repaid within four weeks after it is made, and the remainder in small specified sums fortnightly. The annual income of the "Bank of Loans" is about two thousand dollars. These departments, though most successful, are subordinate in interest to the main work of the Lette-Verein, as at present conducted, which has a commercial training-school, a school of industry and drawing, and a school of fine arts. The commercial school offers two courses, of one and two years respectively. Girls and women, married or unmarried, are there offered the advantages of thorough instruction in writing and stenography, commercial reckoning and correspondence, book-keeping, knowledge of goods, commerce, banking affairs, and money matters in general. Lessons in French, English, and German, in Grammar, Geography, Correspondence, and Conversation, are also given. The fee for tuition is about forty dollars per annum. We were much interested in the School of Industry. Here were girls and women, mostly young, in bright, cheery, and well-lighted rooms, going through all stages of graded and scientific instruction in the cutting and making of dresses, mantles, and underwear, plain needlework, and in all kinds of embroidery and lace-work. The use of a sewing-machine is taught in a term of two months, six lessons each week. Millinery in all branches, the making of the finest artificial flowers by French methods, glove-making by machinery, and hair-dressing are practically carried on for the instruction of those who wish to learn these industries. A school of cookery, in which we were allowed to inspect the scientific classification and analysis of provisions and to test the appetizing results of numerous ladylike pupils in various stages of proficiency, impressed us with the inestimable value of its training. In all these departments the pupils are expected to pay moderate fees, varying from twenty-five cents to one dollar per week; and entrance to any department can be made on the first of every month. Two lessons per week are given in the science of teaching, for a term of six months. The Employment Bureau has a vast correspondence, and is an agency of great good, as a medium of communication between women and girls in want of positions, and the employers of labor. A school and lodging-house for the training of servant-girls has been much called for, and has lately been started. The Drawing-School has a seminary for the training of teachers, and a school for teaching the different branches of industrial drawing. There are free-hand drawing from copies and plaster models, perspective and geometrical drawing, the drawing and painting of ornamental and practical designs, and flower-painting on wood, china, and paper, with thorough courses of one and two years in the History of Art. Modelling in clay, wax, and designs for gold and silver industry, bronzes, etc., are given eight hours in each week. There is also a school of type-setting in connection with the Berlin Typographical Company, in which female compositors over the age of sixteen may be received, to the number of thirty-six, under the close supervision of the Lette-Verein, and at which, after an apprenticeship of six months, all pupils are paid for their work. There is a boarding-house, called the Victoria-Stift, in connection with this institution, with a _café_ or refreshment-room, where the tables are supplied, to ladies, at economical prices, from the cooking-school. It has also a lending-library and a Victoria Bazar, where all kinds of needlework done by the pupils are offered for sale, and orders are taken for family sewing. XIII. AROUND BERLIN. Berlin, on account of its general healthfulness and its combination of economical and other attractions, is esteemed by many experienced travellers as, on the whole, the continental city best adapted to an extended residence abroad. To the visitor with limited time, the city itself and Potsdam--"the Prussian Versailles"--monopolize the attention. But to those who can spend more time there, the attractive environs and places which may be seen within the limits of a day's excursion are many and varied. Grünewald, not far beyond Charlottenburg, is the seat of a royal hunting-lodge, and its fine old woods are most attractive. It may be reached by railway and steam-tram, and also, in summer, by water. The extensive forest occupies a great stretch of country below the junction of the Spree with the Havel, which here, on the west, loiters and meanders and turns upon itself; now spreading out into wide lakes, now narrowing to a thread, but finally reaching in its dubious course the wide-flowing Elbe. The great bay into which the Havel here expands has pretty islands and shores. Pichelsberg, at the northern extremity of the bay, is a place of popular resort, where observation of Nature is rather concentrated on that branch known as human nature. Wansee, at the southern extremity, is picturesque and rural,--a delightful place in which to spend a quiet day in early summer. Spandau, eight miles west of Berlin, at the junction of the Spree with the Havel, has much historical and military interest. Here, surrounded by immense fortifications, is the workshop of the German army; and here in the citadel, or old "Julius tower," are kept "the sinews of war," in the form of a reserve military fund of from fifteen million to thirty million dollars. The railway toward Hanover leads on from Spandau to the long-settled region near the crossing of the Elbe, which here flows northward between high banks. Not far from the Elbe is the railway station of Schönhausen, some two hours' ride from Berlin. The estate of Schönhausen had been in the Bismarck family two hundred and fifty years, when the Chancellor was born there in 1815. Later, this old family inheritance passed to other ownership; but the numerous friends and admirers of the great diplomatist repurchased it, and presented it to him on his seventieth birthday, April 1, 1885. The great gratification of possessing this ancient home hardly induces Prince von Bismarck to spend much time there. Possibly it is within too easy reach of his cares in the capital. The distant Friedrichsruh in the forest of Sachsenswald, within a dozen miles of Hamburg, and more than one hundred and fifty miles northwest of Berlin, is his favorite residence; and Varzin, upwards of two hundred miles to the northeast, in Baltic Pomerania, sometimes wins him to its still greater quiet and seclusion. Here Bismarck received our countryman, the historian Motley, and his daughter, with the delightful welcome to companionship and the simple and informal family life so charmingly portrayed in Motley's correspondence. The whole region of Schönhausen was as early settled as Berlin itself. Fine old churches, castles, and mediæval town walls mark the neighboring towns of Stendal and Tangermünde, the latter the long-time seat of the Margraves of Brandenburg. A short détour from the main line to the northwest of Berlin brings one to Fehrbellin, where the Great Elector defeated a Swedish army double the size of his own. In the same region are Neu Ruppin and Rheinsberg, each connected with many memories of the youth of Frederick the Great. At the Castle of Rheinsberg he spent the comparatively happy years of his unhappy married life. His neglected queen, who never saw his favorite palace at Sans Souci, and who was wife and queen only in name for many long years, said that the early days at Rheinsberg were her happiest. Though these places are hardly more than thirty miles northwest of Berlin, lack of railway connections renders it impracticable to visit them in a single day. The most direct thoroughfare to Copenhagen, that by way of Rostock, passes, outside the elevated railway known as the Ringbahn, the village of Pankow, also reached by tramway, and also once the residence of the Queen of Frederick the Great. This road leads north from Berlin, at first through a country dotted with lakes. Our memory of these is of beautiful sheets of water, surrounded by the green of mid-June, and over-arched by the blue sky and the fleecy cumuli of a perfect summer day. The characteristic North German landscape was here seen to fine advantage. The color of the cottages and farm-houses harmonizes or contrasts beautifully with the landscape. Roofs of brown weather-beaten thatch or of dull red tiles, in the midst of embowering trees and shrubbery, formed for us pictures of beauty long to be remembered. Frienwalde, to the northeast, has mineral springs in the most attractive part of Brandenburg, and is growing as a place of summer resort. The fine old monastery, and the ruined early Gothic abbey-church of Chorin on the Stettin Railway, the burial-place of the Margraves of Brandenburg, are interesting to all students of architecture. An eastern suburb of Berlin is Köpenick, in the château of which the youthful Frederick the Great was tried for his life by court-martial, by order of his tyrannical father; and in the same direction, an hour from Berlin by express-train, is Cüstrin, whose strong castle was the scene of his subsequent imprisonment, and where, in sight from his window, his noble friend, Lieutenant von Katte, was beheaded on the ramparts for no other crime than fidelity to his young master. Another most interesting excursion is that to Frankfort-on-the-Oder, two hours eastward of Berlin. This largest city of Brandenburg outside the capital has a varied history, dating from before the time when this region was won from the heathen Slavs to Germany and Christianity. This old stronghold of the Wendish race saw many vicissitudes in the great wars of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, being the last important place on the great trading-route from Poland to Berlin. It has annual fairs which are relics of these olden times, interesting mediæval churches, and a town-house bearing on its gable the device of the Hanseatic League,--an oblique rod supported by a shorter perpendicular one. To the southeast, a few miles out on the Görlitz Railway, is Wusterhausen, in the picturesque region of the frequented Müggelsberge,--itself made memorable by an episode in Carlyle's pages. No more fascinating trip can be taken in summer, after Berlin and Potsdam have been visited, than to the wild and beautiful Spreewald,--a combination of forest and morass not yet wholly redeemed to the civilization of Europe, but holding in its remoter depths a genuine relic of the old barbarism. The Görlitz Railway skirts this forest for twenty-five miles before reaching Lübben, some two hours from Berlin in a southerly direction. This is the best point of departure from the train for a visit to the forest, which is cut by more than two hundred arms of the Spree, some parts of the wood only to be reached by boats or skates. Here, in their villages reclaimed from the swamps, live the descendants of the aboriginal Wends, who have preserved intact their language, their manners, and their modes of dress. This Venice of North-central Germany has for streets the water-ways of the Spree, and for palaces the log huts of the aboriginal race; but no views of Nature are more exquisite than some of those in the Upper and Lower Spreewald. Twenty-two miles west of Potsdam, on the Havel, is the city of Brandenburg,--the old Brennabor of the Slavic people who fortified it before the beginning of modern history. The Castle of Brandenburg may share with the celebrated and beautiful one of Meissen, near Dresden, the honor of being the oldest in Germany. Conquered from the original owners by the Emperor Henry I. in 927, it was by them retaken. More than two centuries afterwards, Albert the Bear captured and kept it, and thenceforth styled himself First Margrave of Brandenburg. For six hundred years this old town shared in all the strifes of that turbulent and passionate time between the midnight of the Dark Ages and the dawn of modern history, and its old buildings will tell much of its forgotten story to any one who lays his ear beside their ancient stones to hear. At Steglitz, a southwest suburb, may be seen the mulberry plantation and the one silk manufactory of Berlin. It was not our lot to find the large nurseries and hot-houses which make the flower-shops and market-places of Berlin exquisitely radiant with blossoms at all seasons,--beyond even the famous Madeleine flower-market at Paris in the season when we visited it--and, if so, surpassing in this respect all other cities. One of the two routes to Dresden and Leipsic passes Lichterfelde, five miles from Berlin, where conspicuous buildings are the seat of the chief cadet-school in Germany. Here are accommodations for eight or nine hundred cadets, the flower of German youth. Neither pains nor expense has been spared in the erection and embellishment of these extensive buildings. The "Flensburg Lion," erected by the Danes to commemorate a former victory in Schleswig-Holstein over the Prussians, and later captured by the latter, stands here before the house of the Commandant. Five or six miles farther on is Gross-Beeren, a Napoleonic battlefield where Bülow won a victory over the French in 1813; and about an hour and a half from Berlin, in the same direction, is the little city of Jüterbok, with interesting old edifices. The student of the Reformation will feel most interest in this place as that where Tetzel was selling his famous "indulgences" when Luther, protesting in righteous wrath, nailed to the door of the Wittenberg Church the ninety-five theses which set all Germany ablaze. One of these "indulgences" is kept for inspection in the Nicolai Kirche of Jüterbok. Near by are the old Cistercian abbey of Zinna, and another battlefield, Dennewitz, an important strategic point in one of the campaigns against the First Napoleon, where the victory of Bülow over Ney and Oudinot saved Berlin from the hands of the enemy. No student of history--especially no Protestant--can afford to visit Berlin without an excursion to Wittenberg, which may either be compressed into a single day, with a few hours in this old University town which was the cradle of the Reformation, or may be pleasantly prolonged to days full of musing on the manifold phases of that unparalleled movement in the history of religious thought, amid the very scenes with which they were most intimately associated. Not alone that Germany is to-day what Luther, more than any other man, has made it, but as heirs to the inheritance which he bequeathed to all lands and ages, are Americans called to the profound study of the epoch which Luther shaped, and of which our age is but a part. Of all intense pleasures, none to us was greater than a humble pilgrimage through Germany where our feet were set in the footprints of the Reformer. Quaint Eisleben, with the house where he was born, and that in whose chamber he was suddenly stricken with mortal pain, while his companions watched with awe the passing to higher service of that valiant soul, we had visited before we looked upon Wittenberg. Mansfield, too, with its flaming forges and its vast cinder-heaps,--where Hans Luther, the miner, toiled to feed his wife and babes,--we had seen; and historic Erfurt, with memories of the University where he studied and the monastery into which he went, taking with him, of all his books, only his Plautus and his Virgil, to study the Latin Bible chained to its post, and to fight that mental battle which toughened his sinews for the world-conflicts awaiting him; and whence he emerged at the call of his Superior, a young priest of twenty-five years, to take the professorship offered him at the new University of Wittenberg. At lovely Eisenach we had tarried for days; had entered the door of the once grand house of the burgomaster Cotta, before which little Martin, with the other charity boys of the school near by, had sung Christmas carols for his bread, and where he had been taken to the heart and the home of Mother Ursula; had peeped into the room there that was his, and been driven up the mountain-side beyond the village whose crown is the fine old castle of the Wartburg; had stood at the solitary casement of the room where he fought with the devil, and looked out over the magnificent panorama of wooded mountains and beautiful valley where he looked forth day after day of those ten months of mysterious imprisonment, into which friendly hands had thrust him from the thick of the fight,--where he saw the miracle of spring-time creeping over the hills and waving trees far beneath him, and heard and felt the wintry winds howl around his solitude. He was only thirty-five, but he had already come into conflict with the mightiest power on earth, and his life was forfeited, when here he slowly came to know that God had thoughts of good and not of evil concerning him; and here he began another work,--the translation of the New Testament,--for which he never would have had time if left to himself. Eisenach, with its dramatic situation, perhaps lingers longest in the memory of men of any place connected with that great story. But if it bore a more poetic share, it was not the most important. It was neither at Leipsic nor at Heidelberg, at Nüremberg nor at Speyer, at Augsburg nor even at Worms, that the great drama had its chief location, though memories of Luther were to us among the conspicuous attractions of these places. From the time when the young monk emerged from Erfurt, where his preparation for life was made, until at sixty-three he had "finished his course," Wittenberg was his only home. For thirty-eight long years here his heart was, and here, like the needle to the pole, the direction of his activities constantly turned. Here, in the old Augustinian monastery, is the lecture-room and the ancient "cathedra" from which he delivered those lectures which laid the foundation of his fame in the early years of his professorship. Here he quietly wrought at his translation of the Bible and discharged the duties of his position, while his voice shook the world, and all Europe was swaying in the storm, himself the calm centre of the whirlwind. Here, at the age of forty-two, he brought his bride, the nun Katherine von Bora; and in this monastery, presented to him by his friend the Elector, his six children were born. Hither, when his work was done, his lifeless form was borne, followed by a weeping funeral procession which stretched across Germany; and here in the church which had been the scene of so many great sermons, he was laid to rest, with room for Melanchthon beside him. Here one may enter that other church where he first administered the communion in both kinds to the laity; may read the immortal theses, now in enduring bronze on the doors of the castle church; may pluck a leaf from the oak-tree planted on the spot outside the city gate where he burned the papal bull; may sit in the window-seat of his family-room, surrounded by his table, his bench, and his stove, and listen where that family music seems still to echo; may wander in the old garden, amid the representatives of the trees which shaded him, and the flowers and birds he loved; may sit at the stone table in Melanchthon's garden where the names of the friends are inscribed; may stand before their statues in the market-place and hear his voice: "If it be God's work, it will endure; if man's, it will perish." As we live over these days and realize afresh all that history can tell us of the wondrous story, we know that not the polish and the learning of its scientists, its philosophers, and its men of letters, not the prowess of its soldiers and its military leaders, have made United Germany possible, but that Bible which Luther translated for the German people,--that standard of the German tongue which through all the conflicts of three centuries and a half has defied the power of diverse interests, and cemented and preserved the integrity of the nation. INDEX. Academy of Arts and Sciences, 53. American Chapel, 91-93. American Thanksgiving Banquet, 94. Americans in Berlin, 98, 188. Antiquarium, 105. Apartments, 15. Army, 139. Army Bill, debate on, 127. Arsenal, 111-113. Art Collections, 108-110. Babelsburg, 206-208. Bach's Passion Music, 147. Bank, Imperial, 193. Belle Alliance Platz, 190. Berlin, Cathedral, 79. Cathedral service, 80. character of, 9, 249. church attendance, 82. climate, 14. latitude, 14. Old Berlin, 172. parade, 141. Bethanien, 194. Birthdays, 20. Bismarck, Chancellor von, 125-130, 154, 156, 171, 251. palace of, 175, 183. Bornstedt, 203. Börse, 84, 193. Botanical Gardens, 189. Brandenburg, Castle and City of, 256. Brandenburg Gate, 179, 187. Bülow, Frau von, 212, 214. Bundesrath, 131. Cabmen's Mission, 235. Cemeteries, Dorotheen-Stadt, 191. Garrison Kirche, 191. Matthai, 189. Sophien Kirche, 191. Charlottenburg, 196, 198-201, 215. Mausoleum at, 200. Charlottenhof, 205. Chorin, 253. Christmas, 21. Churches of Berlin, Cathedral, 79. Chapel, American, 91. English, 90. French, 85. Garrison, 82, 86. Heiliggeist, 84. Jerusalems, 85. Kloster, 84. Marien. 84. New, 85. Nicolai, 82, 85. Trinity, 87. City Prison, 193. Closets, 16. Concerts, 48-50. Cornelius, cartoons, 107. Crown Prince Frederick, 100, 102. as Emperor, 111, 142-151, 171, 195-199. birthplace, 205. new palace, Friedrichskron, 196, 205. funeral service, 102. Crown Princess Victoria, 91, 100, 102, 143, 145, 146, 152, 154, 206-208, 244, 246. Cüstrin, 254. Dennewitz, 258. Donhof Platz, 190. Dryander, 87. Easter, 35. Educational system, 59-61. Eisenach, 259, 260. Eisleben, 259. Elevators, 11. Emperor Wm. I., 81, 95, 100, 133, 136-138, 177, 186. ninetieth birthday, 159-166. palace, 195. burial-place, 201. Emperor Wm. II. (Prince William, 130), 151, 205, 208. Princess William, 152. English Church, 90. Erfurt, 259. Fehrbellin, 252. Fichte, grave of, 191. Fouqué, De la Motte, grave of, 191. Frankfort-on-Oder, 254. Frederick Wm. I., 204. Frederick II. (the Great), 196, 204, 252-254. statue of, 180. Frederick Wm. III., 135, 200. Frederick Wm. IV., 136, 200, 203. Friedrichsruh, 251. Frienwalde, 253. Frommel, 86. Funerals, 30. Furniture, 16-18. German Army, 139. Germany, a military power, 10. Good Friday, 33, 34. Great Elector, statue of, 173, 182. Grimm brothers, graves of, 189. Gross-Beeren, 257. Grünewald, 249. Gymnasia, 59-61. Hanse League, 192. device of, 254. Hegel, grave of, 191. Hildesheim, silver service, 105. Hospitals, 194. Humboldt, Alexander von, 81, 85, 205, 210-220. Humboldt, William von, 209-214. Insane Asylum, 194. Jews, synagogue, 90. music, 88-90. service, 88-90. Jüterbok, 257. Kaiserhof, 11. Kaulbach, frescos, 107. Knights of Malta, 185. Köln, 172. Köpenick, 253. Kreuzberg, 190. Lette-Verein, Bank of Loans, 245. Charlotten-Stiftung, 245. Commercial School, 246. Drawing School, 247. Employment Bureau, 247. School of Industry, 246. School of Type-setting, 248. Victoria-Stift, 248. Library, Royal, 54-58. Lichterfelde, 257. Lodgings, 12. Lübben, 255. Lüneberg, silver service, 123. Luther, 80, 84, 258-260, 263. Manners, 23-26. Mansfield, 259. Mausoleum, 200. Meals, 14, 30, 45-47. Mendelssohn, Fanny, 132. Mendelssohn, Felix, 132. Mendelssohn family, graves of, 191. Mint, Imperial, 193. Moabit, 193. Moltke, General von, 127-130, 156, 171. Museums, Ethnographical, 123. Hohenzollern, 118-120. Industrial, 121-123. Märkische, 124. National Gallery, 107, 173, 174. New, 105. Coins, 106. Engravings, 107. Sculpture, 106. Old, 103, 108, 174, 182. Napoleon I., 177, 180. Napoleon III., 146, 200. Neander, home of, 185. grave of, 190. Neu Ruppin, 252. Old Schloss, Berlin, 173, 182, 196-198. Pankow, 253. Parishes, 82. Pestalozzi-Froebel-Haüs, 221. domestic department, 230. Kindergarten, 223-229. Pichelsberg, 250. Postal system, 118. Potsdam, 201. Babelsburg, 206. Friedenskirche, 101, 206. Garrison Church, 99, 203. New Palace, 203-205. Old Schloss, 203. Roman Bath, 205. Sans Souci, 201-203. Prince Albert of Prussia, palace of, 183. Prince Frederick Charles, palace of, 184. Prussian Parliament, 131. Queen Louise, 136, 187, 199. Raphael Tapestry, 104. Rath-haus, 172, 191. Raths-Keller, 192. Reichstag, 125-131. Rheinsberg, 252. Richter, 127-129. Rohrpost, 114. Schiller Platz, 85, 189. Schleiermacher, home of, 185. Schliemann, remains, 124. Schönhausen, 251. Schools, girls, 63-74. Real, 60. Sculpture, 106. Society, 29. Spandau, 215, 250. Spreewald, 255. Stairs, 10-12. Steglitz, 256. Stendal, 252. Stoves, 13. Sunday evenings at Dr. Stückenberg's, 97. Sunday observance, 31. Tangermünde, 252. Taylor, Bayard, 191, 219. Technological Institute, 53. Tegel, 209. Tempelhof, 138. Tetzel's indulgence box, 124. Thiergarten, 185. monuments in, 186-188. Thompson, Rev. J.P., 191. University, 51, 53. Unter den Linden, 180. Varzin, 251. Ventilation, 18. Virchow, 132. Waldersee, General Von, 157. Waldersee, Countess von, 157. Wansee, 250. War Academy, 54, 242. War Office, park of, 54. Wartburg, 260. Weddings, 35. West End, 188. Wilhelms Platz, 184. Windhorst, 129, 131. Wittenberg, 261. Women, education of, 75. regard for, 27. Young Men's Christian Association, 241. Zinna, 258. Zoölogical gardens, 188. * * * * * +-----------------------------------------------------------+ | Typographical errors corrected in text: | | | | Page 136: Charlottenberg replaced with Charlottenburg | | Page 267: Babelsberg replaced with Babelsburg | | | +-----------------------------------------------------------+ * * * * * 
36820	----	VISITS AND SKETCHES AT HOME AND ABROAD. VOL. III. VISITS AND SKETCHES AT HOME AND ABROAD WITH TALES AND MISCELLANIES NOW FIRST COLLECTED. BY MRS. JAMESON, AUTHOR OF "THE CHARACTERISTICS OF WOMEN," "LIVES OF CELEBRATED FEMALE SOVEREIGNS," &c. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. III. SECOND EDITION. LONDON SAUNDERS AND OTLEY, CONDUIT STREET. 1835. LONDON: IBOTSON AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND. CONTENTS OF VOL. III. PAGE Sketch of Mrs. Siddons 3 Sketch of Fanny Kemble 49 The False One 93 Halloran the Pedlar 177 The Indian Mother 231 Much Coin, Much Care 263 VOL. III. Page 42, line 5, _for_ the full stop _read_ a comma, and _for_ she had _read_ having. 59,--4, _for_ cannot _read_ could not. MRS. SIDDONS. [The following little sketch was written a few days after the death of Mrs. Siddons, and was called forth by certain paragraphs which appeared in the daily papers. A misapprehension of the real character of this remarkable woman, which I know to exist in the minds of many who admired and venerated her talents, has induced me to enlarge the first very slight sketch, into a more finished but still inadequate portrait. I have spared no pains to verify the truth of my own conception by testimony of every kind that was attainable. I have penned every word as if I had been in that great final court where the thoughts of all hearts are manifested; and those who best knew the individual I have attempted to delineate bear witness to the fidelity of the portrait, as far as it goes. I must be permitted to add, that in this and the succeeding sketch I have not only been inspired by the wish to do justice to individual virtue and talent,--I wished to impress and illustrate that important truth, that a gifted woman may pursue a public vocation, yet preserve the purity and maintain the dignity of her sex--that there is no prejudice which will not shrink away before moral energy, and no profession which may not be made compatible with the respect due to us as women, the cultivation of every feminine virtue, and the practice of every private duty. I might here multiply examples and exceptions, and discuss causes and results; but it is a consideration I reserve for another opportunity.] MRS. SIDDONS "_Implora pace!_"--She, who upon earth ruled the souls and senses of men, as the moon rules the surge of waters; the acknowledged and liege empress of all the realms of illusion; the crowned queen; the throned muse; the sceptred shadow of departed genius, majesty, and beauty,--supplicates--_Peace!_ What unhallowed work has been going forward in some of the daily papers since this illustrious creature has been laid in her quiet unostentatious grave! ay, even before her poor remains were cold! What pains have been taken to cater trifling scandal for the blind, heartless, gossip-loving vulgar! and to throw round the memory of a woman, whose private life was as irreproachable as her public career was glorious, some ridiculous or unamiable association which should tend to unsphere her from her throne in our imagination, and degrade from her towering pride of place, the heroine of Shakspeare, and the Muse of Tragedy! That stupid malignity which revels in the martyrdom of fame--which rejoices when, by some approximation of the mean and ludicrous with the beautiful and sublime, it can for a moment bring down the rainbow-like glory in which the fancy invests genius, to the drab-coloured level of mediocrity--is always hateful and contemptible; but in the present case it is something worse; it has a peculiar degree of _cowardly_ injustice. If some elegant biographer inform us that the same hand which painted the infant Hercules, or Ugolino, or Mrs. Sheridan, half seraph and half saint--could clutch a guinea with satisfaction, or drive a bargain with a footman; if some discreet friend, from the mere love of truth, no doubt, reveal to us the puerile, lamentable frailties of that bright spirit which poured itself forth in torrents of song and passion: what then? 'tis pitiful, certainly, wondrous pitiful; but there is no great harm done,--no irremediable injury inflicted; for there stand their works: the poet's immortal page, the painter's breathing canvass witness for them. "Death hath had no power yet upon _their_ beauty"--over them scandal cannot draw her cold slimy finger;--on _them_ calumny cannot breathe her mildew; nor envy wither _them_ with a blast from hell. There they stand for ever to confute injustice, to rectify error, to defy malice; to silence, and long outlive the sneer, the lie, the jest, the reproach. But _she_--who was of painters the model, the wonder, the despair;--she, who realised in her own presence and person the poet's divinest dreams and noblest creations;--she, who has enriched our language with a new epithet, and made the word _Siddonian_ synonymous with all we can imagine of feminine grace and grandeur: she has left nothing behind her, but the memory of a great name: she has bequeathed it to our reverence, our gratitude, our charity, and our sympathy; and if it is not to be sacred, I know not what is--or ever will be. Mrs. Siddons, as an _artist_, presented a singular example of the union of all the faculties, mental and physical, which constitute excellence in her art, directed to the end for which they seemed created. In any other situation or profession, some one or other of her splendid gifts would have been misplaced or dormant. It was her especial good fortune, and not less that of the time in which she lived, that this wonderful combination of mental powers and external graces, was fully and completely developed by the circumstances in which she was placed.[1] "With the most commanding beauty of face and form, and varied grace of action; with the most noble combination of features, and extensive capability of expression in each of them; with an unequalled genius for her art, the utmost patience in study, and the strongest ardour of feeling; there was not a passion which she could not delineate; not the nicest shade, not the most delicate modification of passion, which she could not seize with philosophical accuracy, and render with such immediate force of nature and truth, as well as precision, that what was the result of profound study and unwearied practice, appeared like sudden inspiration. There was not a height of grandeur to which she could not soar, nor a darkness of misery to which she could not descend; not a chord of feeling, from the sternest to the most delicate, which she could not cause to vibrate at her will. She had reached that point of perfection in art, where it ceases to be art, and becomes a second nature. She had studied most profoundly the powers and capabilities of language; so that the most critical sagacity could not have suggested a delicacy of emphasis, by which the meaning of the author might be more distinctly conveyed, or a shade of intonation by which the sentiment could be more fully, or more faithfully expressed. While other performers of the past or present time, have made approaches to excellence, or attained it now and then, Mrs. Siddons alone was pronounced faultless; and, in _her_, the last generation witnessed what we shall not see in ours;--no, nor our children after us;--that amazing union of splendid intellectual powers, with unequalled charms of person, which, in the tragic department of her art, realized the idea of perfection." Such was the magnificent portrait drawn of Mrs. Siddons twenty years ago; and it will be admitted by those who remember her, and must be believed by those who do not, that in this case, eulogy could not wander into exaggeration, nor enthusiasm be exalted beyond the bounds of truth. I have heard people most unreasonably surprised or displeased, because this exceeding dignity of demeanour was not confined to the stage, but was carried into private life. Had it been merely conventional,--a thing put on and put off,--it might have been so; but the grandeur of her mind, and the light of her glorious beauty, were not as a diadem and robe for state occasions only; her's was not only dignity of manner and person, it was moral and innate, and, I may add, hereditary. Mrs. Siddons, with all her graces of form and feature, her magnificence of deportment, her deep-toned, measured voice, and impressive enunciation, was in reality a softened reflection of her more stern, stately, majestic mother, whose genuine loftiness of spirit and of bearing, whose rare beauty, and imperious despotism of character, have often been described to me as absolutely awful,--even her children trembled in her presence. "All the Kembles," said Sir Thomas Lawrence, "have historical faces;" and for several generations their minds seem to have been cast in a poetical mould. It has, however, been disputed, whether Mrs. Siddons possessed genius. Whether genius be exclusively defined as the creative and inventive faculty of the soul, or taken, in its usual acceptation, as "a mind of large general faculties, accidentally determined to some particular direction," I think she did possess it in both senses. The grand characteristic of her mind was power, but it was power of a very peculiar kind: it was slowly roused--slowly developed--not easily moved; her perceptions were not rapid, nor her sensations quick; she required time for every thing,--time to think, time to comprehend, time to speak. There was nothing superficial about her; no vivacity of manner; to petty gossip she would not descend, and evil-speaking she abhorred; she cared not to shine in general conversation. Like some majestic "Argosie," bearing freight of precious metal, she was a-ground and cumbrous and motionless among the shallows of common life; but set her upon the deep waters of poetry and passion--there was her element--there was her reign. Ask her an opinion, she could not give it you till she had looked on the subject, and considered it on every side,--then you might trust to it without appeal. Her powers, though not easily put in motion, were directed by an incredible energy; her mind, when called to action, seemed to rear itself up like a great wave of the sea, and roll forwards with an irresistible force. This prodigious intellectual power was one of her chief characteristics. Another was _truth_, which in the human mind is generally allied with power. It is, I think, a mistaken idea, that habits of impersonation on the stage tend to impair the sincerity or the individuality of a character. If any injury is done in this way, it is by the continual and strong excitement of the vanity, the dependence on applause, which in time _may_ certainly corrode away the integrity of the manner, if not of the mind. It is difficult for an admired actress not to be vain, and difficult for a very vain person to be quite unaffected, on or off the stage; it is, however, certain that some of the truest, most natural persons I ever met with in my life, were actresses. In the character of Mrs. Siddons, truth, and a reverence for truth, were commensurate with her vast power: Heaven is not farther removed from earth than she was from falsehood. Allied to this conscientious turn was her love of order. She was extremely punctual in all her arrangements; methodical and exact in every thing she did; circumstantial and accurate in all she said. In little and in great things, in the very texture and constitution of her mind, she was integrity itself: "It was," (said one of her most intimate friends,) "a mind far above the average standard, not only in ability, but in moral and religious qualities; that these should have exhausted themselves in the world of fiction, may be regretted in reference to her individual happiness, but she certainly exercised, during her _reign_, a most powerful moral influence:--she excited the nobler feelings and higher faculties of every mind which came in contact with her own. I speak with the deepest sense of personal obligation: it was at a very early age that she repeated to me, in a manner and tone which left an indelible impression, 'Sincerity, Thou first of virtues! let no mortal leave Thy onward path,' &c. and I never knew her to omit an opportunity of making her fine genius minister to piety and virtue." Now what are the bravos of a whole theatre, "When all the thunder of the pit ascends," compared to such praise as this? "Her mind" (again I am enabled to give the very words of one who knew her well) "was a perfect mirror of the sublime and beautiful; like a lake that reflected only the heavens above, or the summits of the mountains around, nothing below a certain level could appear in it. The ideal was her vital air. She breathed with difficulty in the atmosphere of this 'working-day world,' and withdrew from it as much as possible. Hence her moral principles were seldom brought to bear upon the actual and ordinary concerns of life. She was rather the associate of 'the mighty dead,' than the fellow-creature of the living. To the latter she was known chiefly through others, and often through those who were incapable of reflecting her qualities faithfully, though impressed with the utmost veneration for her genius. In their very anxiety for what they considered her interests, (and of her worldly interests she took _no charge_,) they would in her name authorize prudential arrangements, which gave rise to the suspicion of covetousness, whilst she was sitting rapt in heavenly contemplation. Had she given her mind to the consideration and investigation of relative claims, she might on some occasions have acted differently--or, rather, _she_ would have acted where in fact _others only_ acted: for never, as I have reason to believe, was a case of distress _presented to her_ without her being ready to give even till her 'hand lacked means.' Many of the poor in her neighbourhood were pensioned by her. "She was credulous--simple--to an extraordinary degree. Profession had, therefore, too much weight with her. She was accustomed to _manifestations_ of the sentiments she excited, and in seeking the demonstration sometimes overlooked the silent reality;--this was a consequence of her profession. "She was not only exact in the performance of her religious duties; her religion was a pervading sentiment, influencing her to the strictest observance of truth and charity--I mean charity in judging others: the very active and excursive benevolence which '_Seeks_ the duty, nay, _prevents_ the need,' would have been incompatible with her toilsome engrossing avocations and with the visionary tendencies of her character. But the visionary has his own sphere of action, and can often touch the master-springs of other minds, so as to give the first impulse to the good deeds flowing from _them_. There are some who can trace back to the sympathies which Mrs. Siddons awakened, their devotedness to the cause of the suffering and oppressed. Faithfully did she perform the part in life which she believed allotted to her; and who may presume to judge that she did not choose the better part?" The idea that she was a cold woman is eminently false. Her affections, like her intellectual powers, were slow, but tenacious; they enveloped in folds, strong as flesh and blood, those whom she had found worthy and taken to her heart; and her happiness was more entwined with them than those who knew her only in her professional character could have supposed; she would return home from the theatre, every nerve thrilling with the excitement of sympathy, and applause, and admiration, and a cold look or word from her husband has sent her to bed in tears. She had that sure indication of a good heart and a fine mind, an exceeding love for children, and a power to attract and amuse them. It was remarked that her voice always softened in addressing a child. I remember a letter of her's relative to a young mother and her infant, in which, among other tender and playful things, she says, "I wonder whether Lady N---- is as good a talker of baby-nonsense as I flatter myself _I_ am!" A lady who was intimate with her, happening to enter her bedroom early one morning, found her with two of her little grand-children romping on her bed, and playing with the tresses of her long dark hair, which she had let down for their amusement. Her own children adored her; her surviving friends refer to her with tenderness, with gratitude, even with tears. I speak here of what I _know_. I have seldom been more touched to the heart than by the perusal of some of her _most_ private letters and notes, which for tenderness of sentiment, genuine feeling, and simple yet forcible expression, could not be surpassed.[2] Actress though she was, she had no idea of doing any thing for the sake of appearances, or of courting popularity by any means but excellence in her art. She loved the elegances and refinements of life--enjoyed, and freely shared what she had toiled to obtain--and in the earlier part of her career was the frequent victim of her own kind and careless nature. She has been known to give generously, nobly,--to sympathize warmly; but did she deny to greedy selfishness or spendthrift vanity the twentieth demand on her purse or her benevolence? Was she, while absorbed in her poetical, ideal existence, the dupe of exterior shows in judging of character? Or did she, from total ignorance of, or indifference to, the common-place prejudices, or customary forms of society, unconsciously wound the _amour-propre_ of some shallow flatterer or critic,--or by bringing the gravity and glory of her histrionic impersonations into the frivolities and hard realities of this our world, render herself obnoxious to vulgar ridicule?--then was she made to feel what it is to live in the public eye: then flew round the malignant slander, the vengeful lie, the base sneer, the impertinent misinterpretation of what few could understand and fewer feel! Reach _her_ these libels could not--but sometimes they reached those whose affectionate reverence fenced her round from the rude contact of real life. In some things Mrs. Siddons was like a child. I have heard anecdotes of her extreme simplicity, which by the force of contrast made me smile--at _them_, not at _her_: who could have laughed at Mrs. Siddons? I should as soon have thought of laughing at the Delphic Sybil. As an artist, her genius appears to have been slowly developed. She did not, as it has been said of her niece, "spring at once into the chair of the tragic muse;" but toiled her way up to glory and excellence in her profession, through length of time, difficulties, and obstacles innumerable. She was exclusively professional; and all her attainments, and all her powers, seem to have been directed to one end and aim. Yet I suppose no one would have said of Mrs. Siddons, that she was a "_mere actress_," as it was usually said of Garrick, that he was a "_mere player_;"--the most admirable and versatile actor that ever existed; but still the mere player;--nothing more--nothing better. He does not appear to have had a tincture of that high gentlemanly feeling, that native elevation of character, and general literary taste which strike us in John Kemble and his brother Charles; nor any thing of the splendid imagination, the enthusiasm of art, the personal grace and grandeur, which threw such a glory around Mrs. Siddons. Of John Kemble it might be said,[3] as Dryden said of Harte in his time, that "kings and princes might have come to him, and taken lessons how to comport themselves with dignity." And with the noble presence of Mrs. Siddons, we associated in public and in private, something absolutely awful. We were accustomed to bring her before our fancy as one habitually elevated above the sphere of familiar life,-- "Attired in all the majesty of art-- Crown'd with the rich traditions of a soul That hates to have her dignity profan'd By any relish of an earthly thought."[4] Who was it?--(I think Northcote the painter,) who said he had seen a group of young ladies of rank, Lady Fannys and Lady Marys, peeping through the half-open door of a room where Mrs. Siddons was sitting, with the same timidity and curiosity as if it had been some preternatural being,--much more than if it had been the queen: which I can easily believe. I remember that the first time I found myself in the same room with Mrs. Siddons, (I was then about twenty,) I gazed on her as I should have gazed at one of the Egyptian pyramids--nay, with a deeper awe, for what is material and physical immensity, compared with moral and poetical grandeur? I was struck with a sensation which made my heart pause, and rendered me dumb for some minutes; and when I was led into conversation with her, my first words came faltering and thick,--which never certainly would have been the case in presence of the autocratrix of all the Russias. The greatest, the noblest in the land approached her with a deference not unmingled with a shade of embarrassment, while she stood in regal guise majestic, with the air of one who bestowed and never received honour.[5] Nor was this feeling of her power, which was derived, partly from her own peculiar dignity of deportment, partly from her association with all that was grand, poetical, terrible, confined to those who could appreciate the full measure of her endowments. Every member of that public, whose idol she was, from the greatest down to the meanest, felt it more or less. I knew a poor woman who once went to the house of Mrs. Siddons to be paid by her daughter for some embroidery. Mrs. Siddons happened to be in the room, and the woman perceiving who it was, was so overpowered, that she could not count her money, and scarcely dared to draw her breath. "And when I went away, ma'am," added she, in describing her own sensations, "I walked all the way down the street, feeling myself a great deal taller." This was the same unconscious feeling of the sublime, which made Bouchardon say that, after reading the Iliad, he fancied himself seven feet high. She modelled very beautifully, and in this talent, which was in a manner intuitive, she displayed a creative as well as an imitative power. Might we not say that in the peculiar character of her genius--in the combination of the _very_ real with the _very_ ideal, of the demonstrative and the visionary, of vastness and symmetry, of the massive material and the grand unearthly forms into which it shaped itself--there was something analogous to sculpture? At all events, it is the opinion of many who knew her, that if she had not been a great actress she would have devoted herself to sculpture. She was never so happy as when occupied with her modelling tools; she would stand at her work eight hours together, scarcely turning her head. Music she passionately loved: in her younger days her voice in singing was exquisitely sweet and flexible. She would sometimes compose verses, and sing them to an extemporaneous air; but I believe she did not perform on any instrument. To complete this sketch I shall add an outline of her professional life. Mrs. Siddons was born in 1755. She might be said, almost without metaphor, to have been "born on the stage." All the family, I believe, for two or three generations, had been players. In her early life she endured many vicissitudes, and was acquainted with misery and hardship in many repulsive forms. On this subject she had none of the pride of a little mind; but alluded to her former situation with perfect simplicity. The description in Mrs. Inchbald's Memoirs of "Mrs. Siddons singing and mending her children's clothes," is from the life, and charming as well as touching, when we consider her peculiar character and her subsequent destinies. She was in her twenty-first year when she made her first attempt in London, (for it was but an attempt,) in the character of Portia. She also appeared as Lady Anne in Richard III. and in comedy as Mrs. Strickland to Garrick's Ranger. She was not successful: Garrick is said to have been jealous of her rising powers: the public did not discover in her the future tragic muse, and for herself--"She felt that she was greater than she knew." She returned to her provincial career; she spent seven years in patient study, in reflection, in contemplation, and in mastering the practical part of her profession; and then she returned at the age of twenty-eight, and burst upon the world in the prime of her beauty and transcendent powers, with all the attributes of confirmed and acknowledged excellence. It appears that, in her first season, she did not play one of Shakspeare's characters: she performed Isabella, Euphrasia, Jane Shore, Calista, and Zara. In a visit she paid to Dr. Johnson, at the conclusion of the season, she informed him that it was her intention, the following year, to bring out some of Shakspeare's heroines, particularly Katherine of Arragon, to which she _then_ gave the preference as a character. Dr. Johnson agreed with her, and added that, when she played Katherine, he would hobble to the theatre himself to see her; but he did not live to pay her this tribute of admiration. He, however, paid her another not less valuable: describing his visitor after her departure, he said, "she left nothing behind her to be censured or despised; neither praise nor money, those two powerful corrupters of mankind, seem to have depraved her."[6] In this interview she seems to have pleased the old critic and moralist, who was also a severe and acute judge of human nature, and not inclined to judge favourably of actresses, by the union of modesty with native dignity which at all times distinguished her;--a rare union! and most delightful in those who are the objects of the public gaze, and when the popular enthusiasm is still in all its first intoxicating effervescence. The first of Shakspeare's characters which Mrs. Siddons performed was Isabella, in Measure for Measure, (1784,) and the next Constance. In the same year Sir Joshua painted her as the tragic Muse.[7] With what a deep interest shall we now visit this her true apotheosis,--now that it has received its last consecration! The rest of Shakspeare's characters followed in this order: Lady Macbeth in 1785, and, soon afterwards, as if by way of contrast, Desdemona, Ophelia, Rosalind. In 1786 she played Imogen; in 1788 Katherine of Arragon; and, in 1789, Volumnia; and in the same season she played Juliet, being then in her thirty-fifth year,--too old for Juliet; nor did this ever become one of her popular parts; she left it to her niece to identify herself for ever with the poetry and sensibility, the youthful grace and fervid passion of Shakspeare's Juliet; and we have as little chance of ever seeing such another Juliet as Fanny Kemble, as of ever seeing such another Lady Macbeth as her magnificent aunt. A good critic, who was also a great admirer of Mrs. Siddons, asserts that there must be something in acting which levels all poetical distinctions, since people talked in the same breath of her Lady Macbeth and Mrs. Beverley as being equally "fine pieces of acting." I think he is mistaken. No one--no one at least but the most vulgar part of her audience--ever equalized these two characters, even as pieces of acting; or imagined for a moment that the same degree of talent which sufficed to represent Mrs. Beverley could have grasped the towering grandeur of such a character as Lady Macbeth;--dived into its profound and gloomy depths--seized and reflected its wonderful gradations--displayed its magnificence--developed its beauties, and revealed its terrors: no such thing. She might have drawn more tears in Isabella than in Constance--thrown more young ladies into hysterics in Belvidera than in Katherine of Arragon; but all with whom I have conversed on the subject of Mrs. Siddons, are agreed in this;--that her finest characters, as pieces of art, were those which afforded the fullest scope for her powers, and contained in themselves the largest materials in poetry, grandeur, and passion: consequently, that her Constance, Katherine of Arragon, Volumnia, Hermione, and Lady Macbeth stood pre-eminent. In playing Jane de Montfort, in Joanna Baillie's tragedy, her audience almost lost the sense of impersonation in the feeling of identity. She _was_ Jane de Montfort--the actress, the woman, the character, blended into each other. It is a mistaken idea that she herself preferred the part of Aspasia (in Rowe's Bajazet) to any of these grand impersonations. She spoke of it as one in which she had produced the most extraordinary effect on the _nerves_ of her audience; and this is true. "I recollect," said a gentleman to me, "being present at one of the last representations of Bajazet: and at the moment when the order is given to strangle Moneses, while Aspasia stands immoveable in front of the stage, I turned my head, unable to endure more, and to my amazement I beheld the whole pit staring ghastly, with upward faces, dilated eyes, and mouths wide open--gasping--fascinated. Nor shall I ever forget the strange effect produced by that sea of human faces, all fixed in one simultaneous expression of stony horror. It realized for a moment the fabled power of the Medusa--it was terrible!" Of all her great characters, Lord Byron, I believe, preferred Constance, to which she gave the preference herself, and esteemed it the most difficult and the most finished of all her impersonations; but the general opinion stamps her Lady Macbeth as the grandest effort of her art; and therefore, as she was the first in her art, as the _ne plus ultra_ of acting. This at least was the opinion of one who admired her with all the fervour of a kindred genius, and could lavish on her praise of such "rich words composed as made the gift more sweet." Of her Lady Macbeth, he says, "nothing could have been imagined grander,--it was something above nature; it seemed almost as if a being of a superior order had dropped from a higher sphere to awe the world with the majesty of her appearance. Power was seated on her brow, passion emanated from her breast as from a shrine. In coming on in the sleeping scene, her eyes were open, but their sense was shut; she was like a person bewildered: her lips moved involuntarily; all her gestures seemed mechanical--she glided on and off the stage like an apparition. To have seen her in that character was an event in every one's life never to be forgotten." By profound and incessant study she had brought her conception and representation of this character to such a pitch of perfection that the imagination could conceive of nothing more magnificent or more finished; and yet she has been heard to say, after playing it for thirty years, that she never read over the part without discovering in it something new; nor ever went on the stage to perform it, without spending the whole morning in studying and meditating it, line by line, as intently as if she were about to act it for the first time. In this character she bid farewell to her profession and the public, (June 29th, 1812.) The audience, on this occasion, paid her a singular and touching tribute of respect. On her going off in the sleeping scene, they commanded the curtain to fall, and would not suffer the play to proceed.[8] The idea that Mrs. Siddons was quite unmoved by the emotions she portrayed--the sorrows and the passions she embodied with such inimitable skill and truth, is altogether false. Fine acting may accidentally be mere impulse; it never can be wholly mechanical. To a late period of her life she continued to be strongly, sometimes painfully, excited by her own acting; the part of Constance always affected her powerfully--she invariably left the stage, her face streaming with tears; and after playing Lady Macbeth, she could not sleep: even after reading the play of Macbeth a feverish, wakeful night was generally the consequence. I am not old enough to remember Mrs. Siddons in her best days; but, judging from my own recollections, I should say that, to hear her _read_ one of Shakspeare's plays, was a higher, a more complete gratification, and a more astonishing display of her powers than her performance of any single character. On the stage she was the perfect actress; when she was reading Shakspeare, her profound enthusiastic admiration of the poet, and deep insight into his most hidden beauties, made her almost a poetess, or at least, like a priestess, full of the god of her idolatry. Her whole soul looked out from her regal brow and effulgent eyes; and then her countenance!--the inconceivable flexibility and musical intonations of her voice! there was no got-up illusion here: no scenes--no trickery of the stage; there needed no sceptred pall--no sweeping train, nor any of the gorgeous accompaniments of tragedy:--SHE was Tragedy! When in reading Macbeth she said, "give me the daggers!" they gleamed before our eyes. The witch scenes in the same play she rendered awfully terrific by the magic of looks and tones; she invested the weird sisters with all their own infernal fascinations; they were the serious, poetical, tragical personages which the poet intended them to be, and the wild grotesque horror of their enchantments made the blood curdle. When, in King John, she came to the passage beginning-- "If the midnight bell, Did with his iron tongue and brazen note," &c. I remember I felt every drop of blood pause, and then run backwards through my veins with an overpowering awe and horror. No scenic representation I ever witnessed produced the hundredth part of the effect of her reading Hamlet. This tragedy was the triumph of her art. Hamlet and his mother, Polonius, Ophelia, were all there before us. Those who ever heard her give Ophelia's reply to Hamlet, _Hamlet._ I loved you not. _Ophelia._ I was the more deceived! and the lines-- And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, That suck'd the honey of his music vows, &c. will never forget their exquisite pathos. What a revelation of love and woe was there!--the very heart seemed to break upon the utterance. Lear was another of her grandest efforts; but her rare talent was not confined to tragedy; none could exceed her in the power to conceive and render witty and humorous character. I thought I had never understood or felt the comic force of such parts as Polonius, Lucio, Gratiano, and Shakspeare's clowns, till I heard the dialogue from her lips: and to hear her read the Merchant of Venice and As You Like It, was hardly a less perfect treat than to hear her read Macbeth. The following short extract from a letter of Mrs. Joanna Baillie, dated about a year before the death of Mrs. Siddons will, I am persuaded, be read with a double interest, for _her_ sake who penned it, not less than hers who is the subject of it. "The most agreeable thing I have to begin with, is a visit we paid last week to Mrs. Siddons. We had met her at dinner at Mr. Rogers's a few days before, and she kindly asked us, our host and his sister, the Thursday following; an invitation which we gladly accepted, though we expected to see much decay in her powers of expression, and consequently to have our pleasure mingled with pain. Judge then of our delight when we heard her read the best scenes of Hamlet, with expression of countenance, voice, and action, that would have done honour to her best days! She was before us as an unconquerable creature, over whose astonishing gifts of nature time had no power.[9] She complained of her voice, which she said was not obedient to her will; but it appeared to my ear to be peculiarly true to nature, and the more so, because it had lost that deep solemnity of tone which she, perhaps, had considered as an excellence. I thought I could trace in the pity and tenderness, mixed with her awe of the ghost, the natural feelings of one who had lost dear friends, and expected to go to them soon; and her reading of that scene, (the noblest which dramatic art ever achieved,) went to my heart as it had never done before. At the end, Mr. Rogers very justly said, 'Oh, that we could have assembled a company of young people to witness this, that they might have conveyed the memory of it down to another generation!' In short, we left her full of admiration, as well as of gratitude, that she had made such an exertion to gratify so small an audience; for, exclusive of her own family, we were but five." She continued to exercise her power of reading and reciting long after the date of this letter, even till within a few days of her death, although her health had long been in a declining state.[10] She died at length on the 8th of June, 1831, after a few hours of acute suffering, having lived nearly seventy-six years, of which forty-six were spent in the constant presence and service of the public. She was an honour to her profession, which was more honoured and honourable in her person and family than it ever was before, or will be hereafter, till the stage becomes something very different from what it now is. And, since it has pleased some writers, (who apparently knew as little of her real situation as of her real character,) to lament over the misfortune of this celebrated woman, in having survived all her children, &c. &c. it may be interesting to add that, a short time before her death, she was seated in a room in her own house, when about thirty of her young relatives, children, grand-children, nephews and nieces, were assembled, and looked on while they were dancing, with great and evident pleasure: and that her surviving daughter, Cecilia Siddons,[11] who had been, for many years, the inseparable friend and companion of her mother, attended upon her with truly filial devotion and reverence to the last moment of existence. Her admirers may, therefore, console themselves with the idea that in "love, obedience, troops of friends," as well as affluence and fame, she had "all that should accompany old age." She died full of years and honours; having enjoyed, in her long life, as much glory and prosperity as any mortal could expect: having imparted more intense and general pleasure than ever mortal did; and having paid the tribute of mortality in such suffering and sorrow as wait on the widowed wife and the bereaved mother. If with such rare natural gifts were blended some human infirmities;--if the cultivation of the imaginative far above the perceptive faculties, hazarded her individual happiness;--if in the course of a professional career of unexampled continuance and splendour, the love of praise ever degenerated into the appetite for applause;--if the worshipped actress languished out of her atmosphere of incense,--is this to be made matter of wonder or of ill-natured comment? Did ever any human being escape more _intacte_ in person and mind from the fiery furnace of popular admiration? Let us remember the severity of the ordeal to which she was exposed; the hard lot of those who pass their lives in the full-noon glare of public observation, where every speck is noted! What a difference too, between the aspiration after immortality and the pursuit of celebrity!--The noise of distant and future fame is like the sound of the far-off sea, and the mingled roll of its multitudinous waves, which, as it swells on the ear, elevates the soul with a sublime emotion; but present and loud applause, flung continually in one's face, is like the noisy dash of the surf upon the rock,--and it requires the firmness of the rock to bear it. SKETCHES OF FANNY KEMBLE IN JULIET. INTRODUCTION AND NOTES TO MR. JOHN HAYTER'S SKETCHES OF FANNY KEMBLE, IN THE CHARACTER OF JULIET.[12] "Non piace a lei che innumerabil turba Viva in atto di fuor, morta di dentro, Le applauda a caso, e mano a man percuota; Ne si rallegra se le rozzi voci Volgano a lei quelle induiti lodi-- --Ma la possanza del divino iugegno Vita di dentro." _Gasparo Gozzi--Sermone xiv._ It would be doing an injustice to the author of these sketches, and something worse than injustice to her who is the subject of them, should more be expected than the pencil could possibly convey, and more required than the artist ever intended to execute. Their merit consists in their fidelity, as far as they go; their interest in conveying a lively and distinct idea of some immediate and transient effects of grace and expression. They do not assume to be portraits of Miss Kemble; they are merely a series of rapid outlines, caught from her action, and exhibiting, at the first glance, just so much of the individual and peculiar character she has thrown into her impersonation of Juliet, as at once to be recognised by those who have seen her. To them alone these isolated passages--linked together in the imagination by all the intervening graces of attitude and sentiment, by the recollection of a countenance where the kindled soul looks out through every feature, and of a voice whose tones tremble into one's very heart--will give some faint reflection of the effect produced by the whole of this beautiful piece of acting,--or rather of nature, for here "each seems either." It will be allowed, even by the most enthusiastic lover of painting, that the merely imitative arts can do but feeble justice to the powers of a fine actress; for what graphic skill can fix the evanescent shades of feeling as they melt one into another?-- "What fine chisel could ever yet cut breath?" --and yet even those who have not witnessed and may never witness Miss Kemble's performance, to whom her name alone can be borne through long intervals of space and time, will not regard these little sketches without curiosity and interest. If any one had thought of transferring to paper a connected series of some of the awe-commanding gestures of Mrs. Siddons in one of her great parts; or caught (flying) some of the inimitable graces of movement and attitude, and sparkling effects of manner, with which Mrs. Charles Kemble once enchanted the world, with what avidity would they now be sought!--they would have served as studies for their successors in art to the end of time. All the fine arts, poetry excepted, possess a limited range of power. Painting and sculpture can convey none of the graces that belong to movement and sound: music can suggest vague sentiments and feelings, but it cannot express incident, or situation, or form, or colour. Poetry alone grasps an unlimited sceptre, rules over the whole visible and intellectual universe, and knows no bounds but those of human genius. And it is here that tragic acting, considered in its perfection, and in its relation to the fine arts, is allied to poetry, or rather is itself living, breathing poetry; made sensible in a degree to the hardest and dullest minds, seizing on the dormant sympathies of our nature, and dismissing us again to the cares of this "working-day world," if not very much wiser, or better, or happier, at least enabled to digest with less bitterness the mixture of our good and evil days. But in the midst of the just enthusiasm which a great actor or actress excites, so long as they exist to minister to our delight;--in the midst of that atmosphere of light and life they shed around them, it is a common subject of repining that such glory should be so transient; that an art requiring in its perfection such a rare combination of mental and external qualities, can leave behind no permanent monument of its own excellence, but must depend on the other fine arts for all it can claim of immortality: that Garrick, for instance, has become a name--no more--his fame the echo of an echo! that Mrs. Siddons herself has bequeathed to posterity only a pictured semblance;--that when the voice of Pasta is heard no longer upon earth, the utmost pomp of words can only attest her powers! The painter and the poet, struggling through obscurity to the heights of fame, and consuming a life in the pursuit of (perhaps) posthumous celebrity, may say to the sublime actress,--"Thou in thy generation hast had thy meed; we have waited patiently for ours: thou art vanished like a lost star from the firmament, into the 'uncomfortable night of nothing'; we have left the light of our souls behind us, and survive to 'blessings and eternal praise!'" And why should it _not_ be so? Were it otherwise, the even-handed distribution of the best gifts of Heaven among favoured mortals might with reason be impugned. Shall the young spirit "dampt by the necessity of oblivion" disdain what is attainable because it cannot grasp all? Conceive for a moment the situation of a woman, in the prime and bloom of existence, with all her youthful enthusiasm, her unworn feelings fresh about her, privileged to step forth for a short space out of the bounds of common life, without o'erstepping the modesty of her feminine nature, permitted to cast off for a while, unreproved and unrestrained, the conventional trammels of form and manner; and called upon to realise in her own presence and person the divinest dreams of poetry and romance; to send forth in a word--a glance,--the electric flash which is felt through a thousand bosoms at once, till every heart beats the same measure with her own! Is there nothing in all this to countervail the dangers, the evils, and the vicissitudes attendant on this splendid and public exercise of talent? It may possibly become, in time, a thing of habitude; it _may_ be degraded into a mere _besoin de l'amour propre_--a necessary, yet palling excitement: but in its outset it is surely a triumph far beyond the mere intoxication of personal vanity; and to the very last, it must be deemed a magnificent and an enviable power. It was difficult to select for graphic delineation any particular points from Miss Kemble's representation of Juliet. These drawings may not, perhaps, justify the enthusiasm she excited: but it ought to add to their value rather than detract from it, that the causes of their imperfection comprehend the very foundation on which the present and future celebrity of this young actress may be said to rest. In the first place, the power by which she seized at once on public admiration and sympathy, was not derived from any thing external. It was not founded in the splendour of her hereditary pretensions, though in them there was much to fascinate: nor in the departed or fading glories of her race: nor in the remembrance of her mother--once the young Euphrosyne of our stage: nor in the name and high talent of her father, with whom, it was _once_ feared the poetical and classical school of acting was destined to perish from the scene: nor in any mere personal advantages, for in these she has been excelled,-- "Though on her eyelids many graces sit Under the shadow of those even brows:" nor in her extreme youth, and delicacy of figure, which tell so beautifully in the character of Juliet: nor in the acclaim of public favour-- "To have all eyes Dazzled with admiration, and all tongues Shouting loud praises; to rob every heart Of love-- This glory round about her hath thrown beams." But _such_ glory has circled other brows ere now, and left them again "shorn of their beams." No! her success was founded on a power superior to all these--in the power of genius superadded to that moral interest which claimed irresistibly the best sympathies of her audience. The peculiar circumstances and feelings which brought Miss Kemble before the public, contrary (as it is understood) to all the previous wishes and intentions of her parents, were such as would have justified less decided talent,--honourable to herself and to her family. The feeling entertained towards her on this score was really delightful; it was a species of homage, which, like the quality of mercy, was "twice blessed;" blessing those who gave and her who received. It produced a feeling between herself and the public, which mere admiration on the one hand, and gratified vanity on the other, could not have excited. She strongly felt this, and no change, no reverse, diminished her feeling of the kindness with which she had once been received; but her own fervid genius and sensibility did as much for her. She was herself a poetess; her mind claimed a natural affinity with all that is feeling, passionate, and imaginative; not her voice only, but her soul and ear were attuned to the harmony of verse; and hence she gave forth the poetry of such parts as Juliet and Portia with an intense and familiar power, as though every line and sentiment in Shakspeare had been early transplanted into her heart,--had long been brooded over in silence,--watered with her tears,--to burst forth at last, like the spontaneous and native growth of her own soul. An excellent critic of our own day has said, that "poetical enthusiasm is the rarest faculty among players:" if so, it cannot be too highly valued. Fanny Kemble possessed this rare faculty; and in it, a power that could not be taught, or analysed, or feigned, or put on and off with her tragic drapery;--it pervaded all she was called upon to do. It was _this_ which in the Grecian Daughter made her look and step so like a young Muse; which enabled her, by a single glance--a tone--a gesture--to elevate the character far above the language--and exalt the most common-place declamation into power and passion. The indisputable fact, that she appeared on the stage without any previous study or tuition, ought in justice to her to be generally known; it is most certain that she was not nineteen when she made her first appearance, and that six weeks before her debût there was no more thought of her becoming an actress, than of her becoming an empress. The assertion must appear superfluous to those who have seen her; for what teaching, or what artificial aids, could endue her with the advantages just described?--"unless _Philosophy_ could make a Juliet!" or what power of pencil, though it were dipped in the rainbow and tempered in the sunbeams, could convey this bright intelligence, or justify the enthusiasm with which it is hailed by her audience? There is a second difficulty which the artist has had to contend with, not less honourable to the actress: the charm of her impersonation of Juliet consisted not so much in any particular points, as in the general conception of the whole part, and in the sustained preservation and gradual development of the individual character, from the first scene to the last. Where the merit lies in the beautiful gradations of feeling, succeeding each other like waves of the sea, till the flood of passion swells and towers and sweeps away all perceptible distinctions, the pencil must necessarily be at fault; for as Madame de Staël says truly, "_l'inexprimable est précisement ce qu'un grand acteur nous fait connaître_." The first drawing is taken from the scene in which Juliet first appears. The actress has little to do, but to look the character;--that is, to convey the impression of a gentle, graceful girl, whose passions and energies lie folded up within her, like gathered lightning in the summer cloud; all her affections "soft as dews on roses," which must ere long turn to the fire-shower, and blast her to the earth. The moment chosen is immediately after Juliet's expostulation to her garrulous old nurse--"I pr'ythee, peace!" The second, third, and fourth sketches are all from the masquerade scene. The manner in which Juliet receives the parting salutations of the guests has been justly admired;--nothing is denied to genius and taste, aided by natural grace, else it might have been thought impossible to throw so much meaning and sentiment into so common an action. The first curtsey is to Benvolio. The second, to Mercutio, is distinctly marked, as though in him she recognised the chosen friend of Romeo. In the third, to Romeo himself, the bashful sinking of the whole figure, the conscious drooping of the eyelids, and the hurried, yet graceful recovery of herself as she exclaims-- "Who's he that follows there that would not dance? Go ask his name!" which is the subject of the third sketch; and lastly, the tone in which she gave the succeeding lines-- "If he be married, My grave is like to be my wedding-bed!" which seems, in its deep quiet pathos, to anticipate "some consequence yet hanging in the stars,"--form one unbroken series of the most beautiful and heart-felt touches of nature. The fourth sketch is from the conclusion of the same scene, where Juliet, with reluctant steps and many a lingering look back on the portal through which her lover has departed, follows her nurse out of the banquet-room. The two next drawings are from the balcony scene, which has usually been considered the criterion of the talent of an actress in this part. The first represents the action which accompanied the line-- "By whose direction found'st thou out this place?" The second is the first "Good night!" "Sweet, good night! This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower, when next we meet." Fanny Kemble's conception of character and sentiment in this scene was peculiarly and entirely her own. Juliet, as she properly felt, is a young impassioned Italian girl, who has flung her heart, and soul, and existence upon one cast. "She was not made Thro' years or moons the inner weight to bear, Which colder hearts endure till they are laid By age in earth." In this view, the pretty coyness, the playful _coquetterie_, which has sometimes been thrown into the balcony scene, by way of making an effect, is out of place, and false to the poetry and feeling of the part: but in Fanny Kemble's delineation, the earnest, yet bashful tenderness; the timid, yet growing confidence; the gradual swelling of emotion from the depths of the heart, up to that fine burst of enthusiastic passion-- "Swear by thy gracious self, That art the god of my idolatry, And I'll believe thee!" were all as true to the situation and sentiment, as they were beautifully and delicately conveyed. The whole of the speech, "Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face," was in truth "like softest music to attending ears," from the exquisite and various modulation of voice with which it was uttered. Perhaps one of the most beautiful and entirely original points in the whole scene, was the accent and gesture with which she gave the lines-- "Romeo, doff thy name; And for that name, which is no part of thee, Take--all myself!" The grace and _abandon_ in the manner, and the softness of accent, which imparted a new and charming effect to this passage, cannot be expressed in words; and it was so delicately touched, and so transitory,--so dependent, like a beautiful chord in music, on that which prepared and followed it, that it was found impossible to seize and fix it in a drawing. From the first scene with the nurse, two drawings have been made. The idea of Juliet discovered as the curtain rises, gazing from the window, and watching for the return of her confidante, is perfectly new. The attitude (or more properly, one of her attitudes, for they are various as they are graceful and appropriate) is given in the seventh sketch, and the artist has conveyed it with peculiar grace and truth. The action chosen for the eighth drawing occurs immediately after Juliet's little moment of petulance, (so justly provoked,) and before she utters in a caressing tone, "Come, what says Romeo?" The first speech in this scene, "O, she is lame! love's heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams, Driving back shadows over low'ring hills: Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid--wings." --and the soliloquy in the second scene of the third act, "Gallop apace, ye fiery-footed steeds!" in which there is no particular point of dramatic effect to be made, are instances of that innate sense of poetical harmony, which enabled her to impart the most exquisite pleasure, merely by her feeling, graceful, animated delivery of these beautiful lines. The most musical intonation of voice, the happiest emphasis, and the utmost refinement, as well as the most expressive grace of action, were here combined to carry passion and poetry at once and vividly to the heart: but this perfect triumph of illusion is more than painting could convey. The ninth and tenth sketches are from the second scene with the nurse, called in theatrical phrase "the Banishment Scene." One of the grandest and most impressive passages in the whole performance was Juliet's reply to her nurse. "_Nurse._ Shame come to Romeo! _Juliet._ Blister'd be thy tongue, For such a wish! he was not born to shame: Upon his brow shame is asham'd to sit; For 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd Sole monarch of the universal earth." The loftiness of look and gesture with which she pronounced the last line, cannot be forgotten: but the effect consisted so much in the action of the arm, as she stepped across the stage, and in the kindling eye and brow, rather than in the attitude only, that it could not well be conveyed in a drawing. The first point selected is from the passage, "O break, my heart!--poor bankrupt, break at once!" in which the gesture is full of expressive and pathetic grace. The tenth drawing represents the action which accompanied her exclamation, "Tybalt is dead--and Romeo--banished!" The tone of piercing anguish in which she pronounced the last word, _banished_, and then threw herself into the arms of her nurse, in all the helplessness of utter desolation, formed one of the finest passages in her performance. The scene in which the lovers part, called the Garden Scene, follows; and the passage selected is-- "Art thou gone so? my love, my lord, my friend? I must hear from thee every day i' the hour!" The subdued and tremulous intonation with which all the speeches in this scene were given, as though the voice were broken and exhausted with excessive weeping; and the manner in which she still, though half insensible in her nurse's arms, signed a last farewell to her husband, were among the most delicate and original beauties of the character. The two next drawings are from the fifth scene of the third act. The latter part of this scene contained many new and beautiful touches of feeling which originated with Miss Kemble herself. It is here that the real character of Juliet is first developed;--it is here that, abandoned by the whole world, and left to struggle alone with her fearful destiny, the high-souled and devoted woman takes place of the tender, trembling girl. The confiding, helpless anguish with which she at first throws herself upon her nurse--("Some comfort, nurse!")--the gradual relaxing of her embrace, as the old woman counsels her to forget Romeo and marry Paris--the tone in which she utters the question-- "Speakest thou from thy heart? _Nurse._ From my soul too, Or else beshrew them both!" And then the gathering up of herself with all the majesty of offended virtue, as she pronounces that grand "Amen!"--the effect of which was felt in every bosom----these were _revelations_ of beauty and feeling which we owed to Fanny Kemble alone. They were points which had never before been felt or conveyed in the same manner. The shrinking up wholly into herself, and the concentrated scorn with which she uttered the lines-- "Go, counsellor! Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain!" are very spiritedly given in the fourteenth drawing. From the scene with the friar, in the fourth act, the action selected is where she grasps her poniard with the resolution of despair-- "Give me some present counsel; or, behold, 'Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife Shall play the umpire!" One of the most original effects of feeling and genius in the whole play occurred in the course of this scene; but, unfortunately, it was not found susceptible of graphic delineation. It was the peculiar manner with which she uttered the words-- "Are you at leisure, holy father, now? Or shall I come to you at evening mass?" The question in itself is nothing; but what a volume of misery and dread suspense was in that look with which she turned from Paris to the friar, and the tone with which she uttered those simple words! This was beyond the pencil's art to convey, and could but be felt and remembered. The next drawing is therefore from the scene in which she drinks the sleeping potion. The idea of speaking the first part of the soliloquy seated, and with the calmness of one settled and bent up "to act a dismal scene alone," until her fixed meditation on the fearful issue, and the horrible images crowding on her mind, work her up to gradual frenzy, was new, and originated with Miss Kemble. The attitude expressed in the drawing--"O look, methinks I see my cousin's ghost,"--was always hailed with an excess of enthusiasm of which I thought many parts of her performance far more deserving. The eighteenth sketch is from the sleeping scene; and the last two drawings are from the tomb scene. The merits of this last scene were chiefly those of attitude, look, and manner; and the whole were at once so graceful and beautiful, as well as terribly impressive, that they afforded some relief from the horrors of the situation, and the ravings of Romeo. The alteration of Shakspeare, in the last act, is certainly founded on the historical tale of the Giulietta: but though the circumstances are borrowed, yet the spirit in which they are related by the ancient novelist, has not been taken into consideration by those who manufactured this additional scene of superfluous horror.[13] In Juliet's death, Miss Kemble seized an original idea, and worked it up with the most powerful and beautiful effect; but this effect consisted not so much in one attitude or look, as in a progressive series of action and expression, so true--so painfully true, that as one of the chief beauties was the rapidity with which the whole passed from the fascinated yet aching sight--the artist has relinquished any attempt to fix it on paper. * * * * * Fanny Kemble made her first appearance in the character of Juliet, October 6th, 1829, and bid a last farewell to her London audience in May, 1832: during these three years she played through a very diversified range of parts, both in tragedy and high comedy.[14] Sustained by her native genius and good taste, and by the kindly feeling of her audience, she could not be said to have failed in any, not even in those which her inexperience and extreme youth rendered _premature_, to say the least. She never--except in one or two instances[15]--had a voice in the selection of her parts, which, I think, was in some cases exceedingly injudicious, as far as her individual powers were concerned. I know that she played in several contrary to her own opinion, taste, and judgment, and from a principle of duty. Not _duty_ only, but a feeling of delicacy, natural to a generous mind, which disdained the appearance of presuming on her real power, rendered her docile, in some instances, to a degree which I regretted while I loved her for it. She had a perception of some of the traditional absurdities of dress, and ridiculous technical anomalies of theatrical arrangements, which she had not power to alter, and which I have seen her endure with wondrous good temper. Had she remained on the stage, her fine taste and original and powerful mind would have carried the public with her in some things which she contemplated: for instance, she had an idea of restoring King Lear, as originally written by Shakspeare, and playing the _real_ Cordelia to her father's Lear. When left to her own judgment, she ever thought more of what was worthy and beautiful in itself, than she calculated on the amount of vulgar applause it might attract, or the sums it might bring to the treasury. Thus, for her first benefit she played Portia, a character which no vain, self-confident actress would have selected for such an occasion, because, as the play is now performed, the part is comparatively short, is always considered of secondary importance, and affords but few effective points: this was represented to her; but she persisted in her choice: and how she played it out of her own heart and soul! how she revelled in the poetry of the part, with a conscious sense and enjoyment of its beauty, which was communicated to her audience! Self, after the first tremor, was forgotten, and vanity lost in her glowing perception of the charm of the character. She lamented over every beautiful line and passage which had been "_cut out_" by profane hands.[16] To those which remained, the rich and mellow tones of her voice gave added power, blending with the music of the verse. It was by her own earnest wish that she played Camiola, in Massinger's Maid of Honour, and this was certainly one of her most exquisite and most finished parts; but the quiet elegance, the perfect delicacy of the delineation were never appreciated. She was aware of this: she said, "The first rows of the pit, and the first few boxes will understand me; for the rest of that great theatre, I ought to play as they paint the scenes--in great splashes of black and white." Bianca, in Millman's Fazio, was another of her finest parts, and as it contained more stage effect, it told more with the public. In this character she certainly took even her greatest admirers by surprise. The expression of slumbering passion, and its gradual developement, were so fervently portrayed, and yet so nicely shaded; the frenzy of jealousy, and the alienation of intellect, so admirably discriminated, and so powerfully given, that when the first emotions had subsided, not admiration only, but wonder seized upon her audience: nor shall I easily forget the pale composure with which she bore this--one of her most intoxicating triumphs. In Constance, in Queen Katherine, in Lady Macbeth, the want of amplitude and maturity of person, of physical weight and power, and a deficiency both of experience and self-confidence, were against her; but her conception of character was so _true_, and her personal resemblance to her aunt so striking, in spite of her comparatively diminutive features and figure, that one of the best and severest of our dramatic critics said, "it was like looking at Mrs. Siddons through the wrong end of an opera-glass."[17] She had conceived the idea of giving quite a new reading, which undoubtedly would have been the _true_ reading, of the character of Katherine of Arragon, and instead of playing it with the splendid poetical colouring in which Mrs. Siddons had arrayed it, bring it down to the prosaic delineation which Shakspeare really gave, and history and Holbein have transmitted to us; but the experiment was deemed too hazardous; and it was so. The public at large would never have understood it. The character of the queen mother, in her own tragedy of Francis I., was another part of which the weight seemed to overwhelm her youthful powers, and after the first few nights she ceased to play it. While on the English stage, she never became so far the finished artist as to be independent of her own emotions, her own individual sentiments. It was not only necessary that she should understand a character, it was necessary that she should _feel_ it. She invariably excelled in those characters in which her sympathies were awakened. In Juliet, in Portia, in Camiola, in Julia,[18] (perhaps the most _popular_ of all her parts,) and I believe I may add, in Bianca, she will not soon or easily be surpassed. For the same reason, if she could be said to have failed in any part, it was in that of Calista, which she abhorred, and never, I believe, could comprehend. Isabella[19] was another part which I think she never really felt; she never could throw her powers into it. The bald style and the prosaic monotonous misery of the first acts, in which her aunt called forth such torrents of tears, wearied her; though the tragic of the situations in the last act roused her, and was given most effectively. She had not, at the time she took leave of us, conquered the mechanical part of her profession--the last, but not the least necessary department of her art, which it had taken her aunt Siddons seven years, and Pasta almost as long, to achieve; she was too much under the influence of her own nerves and moods of feeling; the warm blushes, the hot tears, the sob, the tremor, were at times too real. After playing in Mrs. Beverly, Bianca, and Julia, the physical suffering and excitement were sometimes most painful; and the performance of Constance actually deprived her of her hearing for several hours, and rendered her own voice inaudible to her; this, it will be allowed, was paying somewhat dear for her laurels, even though she had valued them more than in truth she ever did. Fanny Kemble, as one of a gifted race, "the latest born of all Olympus' faded hierarchy," had really a just pride in the professional distinction of her family. She was proud of being a Kemble, and not insensible to the idea of treading in the steps of her aunt. But she had seen the stage desecrated, and never for a moment indulged the thought that she was destined to regenerate it. She felt truly her own position. Her ambition was not professional. She had always the consciousness of a power--of which she has already given evidence--to ensure to herself a higher, a more real immortality than that which the stage can bestow. She had a very high idea, abstractedly, of the capabilities of her art; but the native elegance of her mind, her poetical temperament, her profound sense of the _serious ideal_, rendered her extremely, and at times painfully sensitive, to the prosaic drawbacks which attended its exercise in public, and her strong understanding showed her its possible evils. She feared for the effect that incessant praise, incessant excitement, might at length produce on her temper. "I am in dismay," said she, (I give her _own_ words,) "when I think that all this may become necessary to me. Could I be sure of retaining my love for higher and better occupations, and my desire for a nobler, though more distant fame, I should not have these apprehensions; but I am cut off by constant labour from those pursuits which I love and honour, and neither they, nor any of our capabilities, can outlive long neglect and disuse." Thus she felt, and thus she expressed herself at the age of twenty, and even while enjoying her success with a true girlish buoyancy of spirit, the more delightful, the more interesting, inasmuch as it seemed to tremble at itself. I have actually heard her reproached for not being _sufficiently_ elated and excited by the public homage; but, the truth is, she was grateful for praise, rather than intoxicated by it--more pleased with her success than proud of it.[20] "I dare not," said she, "feel all I _could_ feel: I must watch myself." And by a more exact attention to her religious duties, and by giving as much time as possible to the cultivation of many resources and accomplishments, she endeavoured to preserve the command over her own faculties, and the even balance of her mind. I am persuaded that this lofty tone of feeling, this mixture of self-subjection and self-respect, gave to her general deportment on the stage that indescribable charm, quite apart from any grace of person or action, which all who have seen her must have felt, and none can have forgotten. And now, what shall I say more? If I dared to violate the sacredness of private intercourse, I could indeed say much--_much_ more. That she came forward and devoted herself for her family in times of trial and trouble--that twice she saved them from ruin--that she has achieved two fortunes, besides a brilliant fame, and by her talents won independence for herself and those she loved,--and that she has done all this before the age of five-and-twenty, is known to many; but few are aware how much more admirable, more respectable, than any of her mental gifts and her well-earned distinction, were the moral strength with which she sustained the severest ordeal to which a youthful character could be exposed; the simplicity with which she endured--half recoiling--the incessant adulation which beset her from morn to night;[21] her self-command in success; her gentle dignity in reverse; her straightforward integrity, which knew no turning nor shadow of turning; her noble spirit, which disdained all petty rivalry; her earnest sense of religion, "to which alone she trusted to keep her right."[22] Suddenly she became the idol of the public; suddenly she was transplanted into a sphere of society, where, as long as she could administer excitement to fashionable inanity, she was worshipped. She carried into those circles all the freshness of her vigorous and poetical mind--all the unworn feelings of her young heart. So much genuine simplicity, such perfect innocence and modesty, allied to such rare powers, and to an habitual familiarity with the language of poetry and the delineation of passion, was not _there_ understood, or rather, was _mis_-understood--and no wonder! To the _blasé_ men, the vapid girls, and artificial women, who then surrounded her, her generous feelings, "when the bright soul broke forth on every side," appeared mere acting; they were indeed constrained to believe it such; for if for a moment they had deemed it all real, it must have forced on them comparisons by no means favourable to themselves. If, under these circumstances, her quick sensibility to pleasurable emotion of all kinds, and her ready sympathy with all the _external_ refinement, splendour, and luxury of aristocratic life, conspired for a moment to dazzle her imagination, she recovered herself immediately, and from first to last, her warm and strong affections, the moral texture of her character; the refinement, which was as native to her mind, "as fragrance to the rose," remained unimpaired. These--a rich dower--she is about to carry into the shades of domestic life. Another land will be her future home. By another name shall fame speak of her, who was endeared to us as FANNY KEMBLE: and _she_, who with no steady hand pens this slight tribute to the virtues she loved, bids to that name--farewell! THE FALSE ONE.[23] And give you, mix'd with western sentimentalism, Some samples of the finest orientalism. LORD BYRON. Akbar, the most enlightened and renowned among the sovereigns of the East, reigned over all those vast territories, which extend from the Indus to the Ganges, and from the snowy mountains of the north to the kingdoms of Guzerat and Candeish on the south. After having subdued the factious omrahs, and the hereditary enemies of his family, and made tributary to his power most of the neighbouring kingdoms, there occurred a short period of profound peace. Assisted by able ministers, Akbar employed this interval in alleviating the miseries, which half a century of war and ravage had called down upon this beautiful but ever wretched country. Commerce was relieved from the heavy imposts, which had hitherto clogged its progress; the revenues of the empire were improved and regulated; by a particular decree, the cultivators of the earth were exempted from serving in the imperial armies; and justice was every where impartially administered; tempered, however, with that extreme clemency, which in the early part of his reign, Akbar carried to an excess almost injurious to his interests. India, so long exposed to the desolating inroads of invaders, and torn by internal factions, began, at length, to "wear her plumed and jewelled turban with a smile of peace;" and all the various nations united under his sway--the warlike Afghans, the proud Moguls, the gentle-spirited Hindoos, with one voice blessed the wise and humane government of the son of Baber, and unanimously bestowed upon him the titles of AKBAR, or the GREAT, and JUGGUT GROW, or GUARDIAN of MANKIND. Meantime the happiness, which he had diffused among millions, seemed to have fled from the bosom of the sovereign. Cares far different from those of war, deeper than those of love, (for the love of eastern monarchs is seldom shadowed by anxiety,) possessed his thoughtful soul. He had been brought up in the strictest forms of the Mohammedan religion, and he meditated upon the text, which enjoins the extermination of all who rejected his prophet, till his conscience became like a troubled lake. He reflected that in his vast dominions there were at least fifteen different religions, which were subdivided into about three hundred and fifty sects: to extirpate thousands and tens of thousands of his unoffending subjects, and pile up pyramids of human heads in honour of God and his prophet, as his predecessors had done before him, was, to his mild nature, not only abhorrent, but impossible. Yet as his power had never met with any obstacle, which force or address had not subdued before him, the idea of bringing this vast multitude to agree in one system of belief and worship appeared to him not utterly hopeless. He consulted, after long reflection, his favourite and secretary, Abul Fazil, the celebrated historian, of whom it was proverbially said, that "the monarchs of the East feared more the pen of Abul Fazil than the sword of Akbar." The acute mind of that great man saw instantly the wild impracticability of such a scheme; but willing to prove it to his master without absolutely contradicting his favourite scheme, he proposed, as a preparatory step, that the names of the various sects of religion known to exist in the sultan's dominions should be registered, and the tenets of their belief contained in their books of law, or promulgated by their priests, should be reviewed and compared; thence it would appear how far it was possible to reconcile them one with another. This suggestion pleased the great king: and there went forth a decree from the imperial throne, commanding that all the religions and sects of religion to be found within the boundaries of the empire should send deputies, on a certain day, to the sultan, to deliver up their books of law, to declare openly the doctrines of their faith, and be registered by name in a volume kept for this purpose--whether they were followers of Jesus, of Moses, or of Mohammed; whether they worshipped God in the sun, in the fire, in the image, or in the stream; by written law or traditional practice: true believer or pagan infidel, none were excepted. The imperial mandate was couched in such absolute, as well as alluring terms, that it became as impossible as impolitic to evade it; it was therefore the interest of every particular sect, to represent in the most favourable light the mode of faith professed by each. Some thought to gain favour by the magnificence of their gifts; others, by the splendour of their processions. Some rested their hopes on the wisdom and venerable appearance of the deputies they selected to represent them; and others, (they were but few,) strong in their faith and spiritual pride, deemed all such aids unnecessary, and trusted in the truth of the doctrines they professed, which they only waited an opportunity to assert, secure that they needed only to be heard, to convert all who had ears to hear. On the appointed day, an immense multitude had assembled from all the quarters of the empire, and pressed through the gates and streets of Agra, then the capital and residence of the monarch. The principal durbar, or largest audience-court of the palace, was thrown open on this occasion. At the upper end was placed the throne of Akbar. It was a raised platform, from which sprung twelve twisted pillars of massy gold, all radiant with innumerable gems, supporting the golden canopy, over which waved the white umbrella, the insignia of power; the cushions upon which the emperor reclined, were of cloth of gold, incrusted with rubies and emeralds; six pages, of exquisite beauty, bearing fans of peacocks' feathers, were alone permitted to approach within the silver balustrade, which surrounded the seat of power. On one side stood the vizir Chan Azim, bold and erect of look, as became a warrior, and Abul Fazil, with his tablets in his hand, and his eyes modestly cast down: next to him stood Dominico Cuença, the Portuguese missionary, and two friars of his order, who had come from Goa by the express command of the sultan; on the other side, the muftis and doctors of the law. Around were the great omrahs, the generals, governors, tributary princes, and ambassadors. The ground was spread with Persian carpets of a thousand tints, sprinkled with rose-water, and softer beneath the feet than the velvety durva grass; and clouds of incense, ambergris, and myrrh, filled the air. The gorgeous trappings of eastern splendour, the waving of standards, the glittering of warlike weapons, the sparkling of jewelled robes, formed a scene, almost sublime in its prodigal and lavish magnificence, such as only an oriental court could show. Seven days did the royal Akbar receive and entertain the religious deputies: every day a hundred thousand strangers feasted at his expense; and every night the gifts he had received during the day, or the value of them, were distributed in alms to the vast multitude, without any regard to difference of belief. Seven days did the royal Akbar sit on his musnud, and listen graciously to all who appeared before him. Many were the words spoken, and marvellous was the wisdom uttered; sublime were the doctrines professed, and pure the morality they enjoined: but the more the royal Akbar heard, the more was his great mind perplexed; the last who spoke seemed ever in the right, till the next who appeared turned all to doubt again. He was amazed, and said within himself, like the judge of old, "_What is truth?_" It was observed, that the many dissenting or heterodox sects of the Mohammedan religion excited infinitely more indignation among the orthodox muftis, than the worst among the pagan idolaters. Their hearts burned within them through impatience and wrath, and they would almost have died on the spot for the privilege of confuting those blasphemers, who rejected Abu Becker; who maintained, with Abu Zail, that blue was holier than green; or with Mozar, that a sinner was worse than an infidel; or believed with the Morgians, that in paradise God is beheld only with the eyes of our understanding; or with the Kharejites, that a prince who abuses his power may be deposed without sin. But the sultan had forbidden all argument in his presence, and they were constrained to keep silence, though it was pain and grief to them. The Seiks from Lahore, then a new sect, and since a powerful nation, with their light olive complexions, their rich robes and turbans all of blue, their noble features and free undaunted deportment, struck the whole assembly with respect, and were received with peculiar favour by the sultan. So also were the Ala-ilahiyahs, whose doctrines are a strange compound of the Christian, the Mohammedan, and the Pagan creeds; but the Sactas, or Epicureans of India, met with a far different reception. This sect, which in secret professed the most profane and detestable opinions, endeavoured to obtain favour by the splendid offerings they laid at the foot of the throne, and the graceful and seducing eloquence of their principal speaker. It was, however, in vain, that he threw over the tenets of his religion, as publicly acknowledged, the flimsy disguise of rhetoric and poetry; that he endeavoured to prove, that all happiness consisted in enjoying the world's goods, and all virtue in mere abstaining from evil; that death is an eternal sleep; and therefore to reject the pleasures of this life, in any shape, the extreme of folly; while at every pause of his oration, voices of the sweetest melody chorussed the famous burden: "May the hand never shake which gather'd the grapes! May the foot never slip which press'd them!" Akbar commanded the Sactas from his presence, amid the murmurs and execrations of all parties: and though they were protected for the present by the royal passport, they were subsequently banished beyond the frontiers of Cashmere. The fire-worshippers, from Guzerat, presented the books of their famous teacher, Zoroaster; to them succeeded the Jainas, the Buddhists, and many more, innumerable as the leaves upon the banyan tree--countless as the stars at midnight. Last of all came the deputies of the Brahmans. On their approach there was a hushed silence, and then arose a suppressed murmur of amazement, curiosity, and admiration. It is well known with what impenetrable secrecy the Brahmans guard the peculiar mysteries of their religion. In the reigns of Akbar's predecessors, and during the first invasions of the Moguls, many had suffered martyrdom in the most horrid forms, rather than suffer their sanctuaries to be violated, or disclose the contents of their Vedas or sacred books. Loss of caste, excommunication in this world, and eternal perdition in the next, were the punishments awarded to those, who should break this fundamental law of the Brahminical faith. The mystery was at length to be unveiled; the doubts and conjectures, to which this pertinacious concealment gave rise, were now to be ended for ever. The learned doctors and muftis bent forward with an attentive and eager look--Abul Fazil raised his small, bright, piercing eyes, while a smile of dubious import passed over his countenance--the Portuguese monk threw back his cowl, and the calm and scornful expression of his fine features changed to one of awakened curiosity and interest: even Akbar raised himself from his jewelled couch as the deputies of the Brahmans approached. A single delegate had been chosen from the twelve principal temples and seats of learning, and they were attended by forty aged men, selected from the three inferior castes, to represent the mass of the Indian population--warriors, merchants, and husbandmen. At the head of this majestic procession was the Brahman Sarma, the high priest, and principal _Gooroo_ or teacher of theology at Benares. This singular and venerable man had passed several years of his life in the court of the sultan Baber; and the dignity and austerity, that became his age and high functions, were blended with a certain grace and ease in his deportment, which distinguished him above the rest. When the sage Sarma had pronounced the usual benediction, "May the king be victorious!" Akbar inclined his head with reverence. "Wise and virtuous Brahmans!" he said, "our court derives honour from your illustrious presence. Next to the true faith taught by our holy Prophet, the doctrines of Brahma must exceed all others in wisdom and purity, even as the priests of Brahma excel in virtue and knowledge the wisest of the earth: disclose, therefore, your sacred Sastras, that we may inhale from them, as from the roses of paradise, the precious fragrance of truth and of knowledge!" The Brahman replied, in the soft and musical tones of his people, "O king of the world! we are not come before the throne of power to betray the faith of our fathers, but to die for it, if such be the will of the sultan!" Saying these words, he and his companions prostrated themselves upon the earth, and, taking off their turbans, flung them down before them: then, while the rest continued with their foreheads bowed to the ground, Sarma arose, and stood upright before the throne. No words can describe the amazement of Akbar. He shrunk back and struck his hands together; then he frowned, and twisted his small and beautifully curled mustachios:--"The sons of Brahma mock us!" said he at length; "is it thus our imperial decrees are obeyed?" "The laws of our faith are immutable," replied the old man, calmly, "and the contents of the Vedas were pre-ordained from the beginning of time to be revealed to the TWICE-BORN alone. It is sufficient, that therein are to be found the essence of all wisdom, the principles of all virtue, and the means of acquiring immortality." "Doubtless, the sons of Brahma are pre-eminently wise," said Akbar, sarcastically; "but are the followers of the Prophet accounted as fools in their eyes? The sons of Brahma are excellently virtuous, but are all the rest of mankind vicious? Has the most high God confined the knowledge of his attributes to the Brahmans alone, and hidden his face from the rest of his creatures? Where, then, is his justice? where his all-embracing mercy?" The Brahman, folding his arms, replied: "It is written, Heaven is a palace with many doors, and every man shall enter by his own way. It is not given to mortals to examine or arraign the decrees of the Deity, but to hear and to obey. Let the will of the sultan be accomplished in all things else. In this let the God of all the earth judge between the king and his servants." "Now, by the head of our Prophet! shall we be braved on our throne by these insolent and contumacious priests? Tortures shall force the seal from those lips!" "Not so!" said the old Brahman, drawing himself up with a look of inexpressible dignity. "It is in the power of the Great King to deal with his slaves as seemeth good to him; but fortitude is the courage of the weak; and the twice-born sons of Brahma can suffer more in the cause of truth, than even the wrath of Akbar can inflict." At these words, which expressed at once submission and defiance, a general murmur arose in the assembly. The dense crowd became agitated as the waves of the Ganges just before the rising of the hurricane. Some opened their eyes wide with amazement at such audacity, some frowned with indignation, some looked on with contempt, others with pity. All awaited in fearful expectation, till the fury of the sultan should burst forth and consume these presumptuous offenders. But Akbar remained silent, and for some time played with the hilt of his poniard, half unsheathing it, and then forcing it back with an angry gesture. At length he motioned to his secretary to approach; and Abul Fazil, kneeling upon the silver steps of the throne, received the sultan's commands. After a conference of some length, inaudible to the attendants around, Abul Fazil came forward, and announced the will of the sultan, that the durbar should be presently broken up. The deputies were severally dismissed with rich presents; all, except the Brahmans, who were commanded to remain in the quarter assigned to them during the royal pleasure; and a strong guard was placed over them. Meantime Akbar withdrew to the private apartments of his palace, where he remained for three days inaccessible to all, except his secretary Abul Fazil, and the Christian monk. On the fourth day he sent for the high priest of Benares, and successively for the rest of the Brahmans, his companions; but it was in vain he tried threats and temptations, and all his arts of argument and persuasion. They remained calmly and passively immoveable. The sultan at length pardoned and dismissed them with many expressions of courtesy and admiration. The Brahman Sarma was distinguished among the rest by gifts of peculiar value and magnificence, and to him Akbar made a voluntary promise, that, during his reign, the cruel tax, called the Kerea, which had hitherto been levied upon the poor Indians whenever they met to celebrate any of their religious festivals, should be abolished. But all these professions were hollow and insidious. Akbar was not a character to be thus baffled; and assisted by the wily wit of Abul Fazil, and the bold intriguing monk, he had devised a secret and subtle expedient, which should at once gratify his curiosity, and avenge his insulted power. Abul Fazil had an only brother, many years younger than himself, whom he had adopted as his son, and loved with extreme tenderness. He had intended him to tread, like himself, the intricate path of state policy; and with this view he had been carefully educated in all the learning of the East, and had made the most astonishing progress in every branch of science. Though scarcely past his boyhood, he had already been initiated into the intrigues of the court; above all, he had been brought up in sentiments of the most profound veneration and submission for the monarch he was destined to serve. In some respects Faizi resembled his brother: he possessed the same versatility of talents, the same acuteness of mind, the same predilection for literary and sedentary pursuits, the same insinuating melody of voice and fluent grace of speech; but his ambition was of a nobler cast, and though his moral perceptions had been somewhat blunted by a too early acquaintance with court diplomacy, and an effeminate, though learned education, his mind and talents were decidedly of a higher order. He also excelled Abul Fazil in the graces of his person, having inherited from his mother (a Hindoo slave of surpassing loveliness) a figure of exquisite grace and symmetry, and features of most faultless and noble beauty. Thus fitted by nature and prepared by art for the part he was to perform, this youth was secretly sent to Allahabad, where the deputies of the Brahmans rested for some days on their return to the Sacred City. Here Abul Fazil, with great appearance of mystery and circumspection, introduced himself to the chief priest, Sarma, and presented to him his youthful brother as the orphan son of the Brahman Mitra, a celebrated teacher of astronomy in the court of the late sultan. Abul Fazil had artfully prepared such documents, as left no doubt of the truth of his story. His pupil in treachery played his part to admiration, and the deception was complete and successful. "It was the will of the Great King," said the wily Abul Fazil, "that this fair youth should be brought up in his palace, and converted to the Moslem faith; but, bound by my vows to a dying friend, I have for fourteen years eluded the command of the sultan, and in placing him under thy protection, O most venerable Sarma! I have at length discharged my conscience, and fulfilled the last wishes of the Brahman Mitra. Peace be with him! If it seem good in thy sight, let this remain for ever a secret between me and thee. I have successfully thrown dust in the eyes of the sultan, and caused it to be reported, that the youth is dead of a sudden and grievous disease. Should he discover, that he has been deceived by his slave; should the truth reach his mighty ears, the head of Abul Fazil would assuredly pay the forfeit of his disobedience." The old Brahman replied with many expressions of gratitude and inviolable discretion; and, wholly unsuspicious of the cruel artifice, received the youth with joy. He carried him to Benares, where some months afterwards he publicly adopted him as his son, and gave him the name of Govinda, "the Beloved," one of the titles under which the Indian women adore their beautiful and favourite idol, the god Crishna. Govinda, so we must now call him, was set to study the sacred language, and the theology of the Brahmans as it is revealed in their Vedas and Sastras. In both he made quick and extraordinary progress; and his singular talents did not more endear him to his preceptor, than his docility, and the pensive, and even melancholy sweetness of his temper and manner. His new duties were not unpleasing or unsuited to one of his indolent and contemplative temper. He possibly felt, at first, a holy horror at the pagan sacrifices, in which he was obliged to assist, and some reluctance to feeding consecrated cows, gathering flowers, cooking rice, and drawing water for offerings and libations: but by degrees he reconciled his conscience to these occupations, and became attached to his Gooroo, and interested in his philosophical studies. He would have been happy, in short, but for certain uneasy sensations of fear and self-reproach, which he vainly endeavoured to forget or to reason down. Abul Fazil, who dreaded not his indiscretion or his treachery, but his natural sense of rectitude, which had yielded reluctantly, even to the command of Akbar, maintained a constant intercourse with him by means of an intelligent mute, who, hovering in the vicinity of Benares, sometimes in the disguise of a fisherman, sometimes as a coolie, was a continual spy upon all his movements; and once in every month, when the moon was in her dark quarter, Govinda met him secretly, and exchanged communications with his brother. The Brahman Sarma was rich; he was proud of his high caste, his spiritual office, and his learning; he was of the tribe of Narayna, which for a thousand years had filled the offices of priesthood, without descending to any meaner occupation, or mingling blood with any inferior caste. He maintained habitually a cold, austere, and dignified calmness of demeanour; and flattered himself, that he had attained that state of perfect indifference to all worldly things, which, according to the Brahminical philosophy, is the highest point of human virtue; but, though simple, grave, and austere in his personal habits, he lived with a splendour becoming his reputation, his high rank, and vast possessions. He exercised an almost princely hospitality; a hundred mendicants were fed morning and evening at his gates. He founded and supported colleges of learning for the poorer Brahmans, and had numerous pupils, who had come from all parts of India to study under his direction. These were lodged in separate buildings. Only Govinda, as the adopted son of Sarma, dwelt under the same roof with his Gooroo, a privilege which had unconsciously become most precious to his heart: it removed him from the constrained companionship of those he secretly despised, and it placed him in delicious and familiar intercourse with one, who had become too dearly and fatally beloved. The Brahman had an only child, the daughter of his old age. She had been named, at her birth, Priyamvada; (or _softly speaking_;) but her companions called her Amrà, the name of a graceful tree bearing blossoms of peculiar beauty and fragrance, with which the Camdeo (Indian Cupid) is said to tip his arrows. Amrà was but a child when Govinda first entered the dwelling of his preceptor; but as time passed on, she expanded beneath his eye into beauty and maturity, like the lovely and odoriferous flower, the name of which she bore. The Hindoo women of superior rank and unmixed caste are in general of diminutive size; and accordingly the lovely and high-born Amrà was formed upon the least possible scale of female beauty: but her figure, though so exquisitely delicate, had all the flowing outline and rounded proportions of complete womanhood. Her features were perfectly regular, and of almost infantine minuteness, except her eyes: those soft oriental eyes, not sparkling, or often animated, but large, dark, and lustrous; as if in their calm depth of expression slept unawakened passions, like the bright deity Heri reposing upon the coiled serpent. Her eyebrows were finely arched, and most delicately pencilled; her complexion, of a pale and transparent olive, was on the slightest emotion suffused with a tint, which resembled that of the crimson water-lily as seen through the tremulous wave; her lips were like the buds of the Camàlata, and unclosed to display a row of teeth like seed-pearl of Manar. But one of her principal charms, because peculiar and unequalled, was the beauty and redundance of her hair, which in colour and texture resembled black floss silk, and, when released from confinement, flowed downwards over her whole person like a veil, and swept the ground. Such was Amrà: nor let it be supposed, that so perfect a form was allied to a merely passive and childish mind. It is on record, that, until the invasion of Hindostan by the barbarous Moguls, the Indian women enjoyed comparative freedom: it is only since the occupation of the country by the Europeans, that they have been kept in entire seclusion. A plurality of wives was discouraged by their laws; and, among some of the tribes of Brahmans, it was even forbidden. At the period of our story, that is, in the reign of Akbar, the Indian women, and more particularly the Brahminees, enjoyed much liberty. They were well educated, and some of them, extraordinary as it may seem, distinguished themselves in war and government. The Indian queen Durgetti, whose history forms a conspicuous and interesting episode in the life of Akbar, defended her kingdom for ten years against one of his most valiant generals. Mounted upon an elephant of war, she led her armies in person; fought several pitched battles; and being at length defeated in a decisive engagement, she stabbed herself on the field, rather than submit to her barbarous conqueror. Nor was this a solitary instance of female heroism and mental energy: and the effect of this freedom, and the respect with which they were treated, appeared in the morals and manners of the women. The gentle daughter of Sarma was not indeed fitted by nature either to lead or to govern, and certainly had never dreamed of doing either. Her figure, gestures, and movements, had that softness at once alluring and retiring, that indolent grace, that languid repose, common to the women of tropical regions. "All her affections like the dews on roses, Fair as the flowers themselves; as soft, as gentle." Her spirit, in its "mildness, sweetness, blessedness," seemed as flexible and unresisting as the tender Vasanta creeper. She had indeed been educated in all the exclusive pride of her caste, and taught to regard all who were not of the privileged race of Brahma as _frangi_ (or impure;) but this principle, though so early instilled into her mind as to have become a part of her nature, was rather passive than active; it had never been called forth. She had never been brought into contact with those, whose very look she would have considered as pollution; for she had no intercourse but with those of her own nation, and watchful and sustaining love were all around her. Her learned accomplishments extended no farther than to read and write the Hindostanee tongue. To tend and water her flowers, to feed her birds, which inhabited a gaily gilded aviary in her garden, to string pearls, to embroider muslin, were her employments; to pay visits and receive them, to lie upon cushions, and be fanned asleep by her maids, or listen to the endless tales of her old nurse, Gautami, whose memory was a vast treasure of traditional wonders--these were her amusements. That there were graver occupations, and dearer pleasures, proper to her sex, she knew; but thought not of them, till the young Govinda came to disturb the peace of her innocent bosom. She had been told to regard him as a brother; and, as she had never known a brother, she believed, that, in lavishing upon him all the glowing tenderness of her young heart, she was but obeying her father's commands. If her bosom fluttered when she heard his footsteps; if she trembled upon the tones of his voice; if, while he was occupied in the services of the temple, she sat in her veranda awaiting his return, and, the moment he appeared through the embowering acacias, a secret and unaccountable feeling made her breathe quick, and rise in haste and retire to her inner apartments, till he approached to pay the salutations due to the daughter of his preceptor; what was it, what _could_ it be, but the tender solicitude of a sister for a new-found brother? But Govinda himself was not so entirely deceived. His boyhood had been passed in a luxurious court, and among the women and slaves of his brother's harem; and though so young, he was not wholly inexperienced in a passion, which is the too early growth of an eastern heart. He knew why he languished in the presence of his beautiful sister; he could tell why the dark splendour of Amrà's eyes pierced his soul like the winged flames shot into a besieged city. He could guess, too, why those eyes kindled with a softer fire beneath his glance: but the love he felt was so chastened by the awe which her serene purity, and the dignity of her sweet and feminine bearing shed around her; so hallowed by the nominal relationship in which they stood; so different, in short, from any thing he had ever felt, or seen, or heard of, that, abandoned to all the sweet and dream-like enchantment of a boyish passion, Govinda was scarcely conscious of the wishes of his own heart, until accident in the same moment disclosed his secret aspirations to himself, and bade him for ever despair of their accomplishment. On the last day of the dark half of the moon, it was the custom of the wise and venerable Sarma to bathe at sunset in the Ganges, and afterwards retire to private meditation upon the thousand names of God, by the repetition of which, as it is written, a man insures to himself everlasting felicity. But while Sarma was thus absorbed in holy abstraction, where were Govinda and Amrà? In a spot fairer than the poet's creative pencil ever wrought into a picture for fancy to dwell on--where, at the extremity of the Brahman's garden, the broad and beautiful stream that bounded it ran swiftly to mingle its waves with those of the thrice-holy Ganges; where mangoes raised their huge twisted roots in a thousand fantastic forms, while from their boughs hung suspended the nests of the little Baya birds, which waved to and fro in the evening breeze--there had Amrà and Govinda met together, it might be, without design. The sun had set, the Cistus flowers began to fall, and the rich blossoms of the night-loving Nilica diffused their rich odour. The Peyoo awoke to warble forth his song, and the fire-flies were just visible, as they flitted under the shade of the Champac trees. Upon a bank, covered with that soft and beautiful grass, which, whenever it is pressed or trodden on, yields a delicious perfume, were Amrà and Govinda seated side by side. Two of her attendants, at some little distance, were occupied in twining wreaths of flowers. Amrà had a basket at her feet, in which were two small vessels of porcelain. One contained cakes of rice, honey, and clarified butter, kneaded by her own hand; in the other were mangoes, rose-apples, and musk-melons; and garlands of the holy palàsa blossoms, sacred to the dead, were flung around the whole. This was the votive offering, which Amrà had prepared for the tomb of her mother, who was buried in the garden. And now, with her elbow resting on her knee, and her soft cheek leaning on her hand, she sat gazing up at the sky, where the stars came flashing forth one by one; and she watched the auspicious moment for offering her pious oblation. But Govinda looked neither on the earth, nor on the sky. What to him were the stars, or the flowers, or the moon rising in dewy splendour? His eyes were fixed upon one, who was brighter to him than the stars, lovelier than the moon when she drives her antelopes through the heavens, sweeter than the night-flower which opens in her beam. "O Amrà!" he said, at length, and while he spoke his voice trembled even at its own tenderness, "Amrà! beautiful and beloved sister! thine eyes are filled with the glory of that sparkling firmament! the breath of the evening, which agitates the silky filaments of the Seris, is as pleasant to thee as to me: but the beauty, which I see, thou canst not see; the power of deep joy, which thrills over my heart like the breeze over those floating lotuses--oh! _this_ thou canst not feel!--Let me take away those pearls and gems scattered among thy radiant tresses, and replace them with these fragrant and golden clusters of Champac flowers! If ever there were beauty, which could disdain the aid of ornament, is it not that of Amrà? If ever there were purity, truth, and goodness, which could defy the powers of evil, are they not thine? O, then, let others braid their hair with pearls, and bind round their arms the demon-scaring amulet, my sister needs no spells to guard her innocence, and cannot wear a gem that does not hide a charm!" The blush, which the beginning of this passionate speech had called up to her cheek, was changed to a smile, as she looked down upon the mystic circle of gold, which bound her arm. "It is not a talisman," said she, softly; "it is the Tali, the nuptial bracelet, which was bound upon my arm when I was married." "_Married!_" the word rent away from the heart of Govinda that veil, with which he had hitherto shrouded his secret hopes, fears, wishes, and affections. His mute agitation sent a trouble into her heart, she knew not why. She blushed quick-kindling blushes, and drooped her head. "Married!" he said, after a breathless pause; "when? to whom? who is the possessor of a gem of such exceeding price, and yet forbears to claim it?" She replied, "To Adhar, priest of Indore, and the friend of Sarma. I was married to him while yet an infant, after the manner of our tribe." Then perceiving his increasing disturbance, she continued, hurriedly, and with downcast eyes:--"I have never seen him; he has long dwelt in the countries of the south, whither he was called on an important mission; but he will soon return to reside here in the sacred city of his fathers, and will leave it no more. Why then should Govinda be sad?" She laid her hand timidly upon his arm, and looked up in his face. Govinda would fain have taken that beautiful little hand, and covered it with kisses and with tears; but he was restrained by a feeling of respect, which he could not himself comprehend. He feared to alarm her; he contented himself with fixing his eyes on the hand which rested on his arm; and he said, in a soft melancholy voice, "When Adhar returns, Govinda will be forgotten." "O never! never!" she exclaimed with sudden emotion, and lifting towards him eyes, that floated in tears. Govinda bent down his head, and pressed his lips upon her hand. She withdrew it hastily, and rose from the ground. At that moment her nurse, Gautami, approached them. "My child," said she, in a tone of reproof, "dost thou yet linger here, and the auspicious moment almost past? If thou delayest longer, evil demons will disturb and consume the pious oblation, and the dead will frown upon the abandoned altar. Hasten, my daughter; take up the basket of offerings, and walk before us." Amrà, trembling, leaned upon her maids, and prepared to obey; but when she had made a few steps, she turned back, as if to salute her brother, and repeated in a low emphatic tone the word "_Never!_"--then turned away. Govinda stood looking after the group, till the last wave of their white veils disappeared; and listened till the tinkling of their silver anklets could no longer be distinguished. Then he started as from a dream: he tossed his arms above his head; he flung himself upon the earth in an agony of jealous fury; he gave way to all the pent-up passions, which had been for years accumulating in his heart. All at once he rose: he walked to and fro; he stopped. A hope had darted into his mind, even through the gloom of despair. "For what," thought he, "have I sold myself? For riches! for honour! for power! Ah! what are they in such a moment? Dust of the earth, toys, empty breath! For what is the word of the Great King pledged to me? Has he not sworn to refuse me nothing? All that is most precious between earth and heaven, from the mountain to the sea, lies at my choice! One word, and she is mine! and I hesitate? Fool! she _shall_ be mine!" He looked up towards heaven, and marked the places of the stars. "It is the appointed hour," he muttered, and cautiously his eye glanced around, and he listened; but all was solitary and silent. He then stole along the path, which led through a thick grove of Cadam trees, intermingled with the tall points of the Cusa grass, that shielded him from all observation. He came at last to a little promontory, where the river we have mentioned threw itself into the Ganges. He had not been there above a minute, when a low whistle, like the note of the Chacora, was heard. A small boat rowed to the shore, and Sahib stood before him. Quick of eye and apprehension, the mute perceived instantly that something unusual had occurred. He pointed to the skiff; but Govinda shook his head, and made signs for a light and the writing implements. They were quickly brought; and while Sahib held the lamp, so that its light was invisible to the opposite shore, Govinda wrote, in the peculiar cipher they had framed for that purpose, a few words to his brother, sufficiently intelligible in their import, though dictated by the impassioned and tumultuous feelings of the moment. When he had finished, he gave the letter to Sahib, who concealed it carefully in the folds of his turban, and then, holding up the fingers of both hands thrice over, to intimate, that in thirty days he would bring the answer, he sprung into the boat, and was soon lost under the mighty shadow of the trees, which stretched their huge boughs over the stream. Govinda slowly returned; but he saw Amrà no more that night. They met the next day, and the next; but Amrà was no longer the same: she was silent, pensive; and when pressed or rebuked, she became tearful and even sullen. She was always seen with her faithful Gautami, upon whose arm she leaned droopingly, and hung her head like her own neglected flowers. Govinda was almost distracted: in vain he watched for a moment to speak to Amrà alone; the vigilant Gautami seemed resolved, that they should never meet out of her sight. Sometimes he would raise his eyes to her as she passed, with such a look of tender and sorrowful reproach, that Amrà would turn away her face and weep: but still she spoke not: and never returned his respectful salutation farther than by inclining her head. The old Brahman perceived this change in his beloved daughter; but not for some time: and it is probable, that, being absorbed in his spiritual office and sublime speculations, he would have had neither leisure nor penetration to discover the cause, if the suspicions of the careful Gautami had not awakened his attention. She ventured to suggest the propriety of hastening the return of his daughter's betrothed husband; and the Brahman, having taken her advice in this particular, rested satisfied; persuading himself, that the arrival of Adhar would be a certain and all-sufficient remedy for the dreaded evil, which in his simplicity he had never contemplated, and could scarcely be made to comprehend. A month had thus passed away, and again that appointed day came round, on which Govinda was wont to meet his brother's emissary: even on ordinary occasions he could never anticipate it without a thrill of anxiety,--now every feeling was wrought up to agony; yet it was necessary to control the slightest sign of impatience, and wear the same external guise of calm, subdued self-possession, though every vein was burning with the fever of suspense. It was the hour when Sarma, having risen from his mid-day sleep, was accustomed to listen to Govinda while he read some appointed text. Accordingly Govinda opened his book, and standing before his preceptor in an attitude of profound humility, he read thus: "Garuna asked of the Crow Bushanda, 'What is the most excellent of natural forms? the highest good? the chief pain? the dearest pleasure? the greatest wickedness? the severest punishment? "And the Crow Bushanda answered him: 'In the three worlds, empyreal, terrestrial, and infernal, no form excels the human form. "'Supreme felicity, on earth, is found in the conversation of a virtuous friend. "'The keenest pain is inflicted by extreme poverty. "'The worst of sins is uncharitableness; and to the uncharitable is awarded the severest punishment: for while the despisers of their spiritual guides shall live for a thousand centuries as frogs, and those who contemn the Brahmans as ravens, and those who scorn other men as blinking bats, the uncharitable alone shall be condemned to the profoundest hell, and their punishment shall last for ever.'"[24] Govinda closed his book; and the old Brahman was proceeding to make an elaborate comment on this venerable text, when, looking up in the face of his pupil, he perceived that he was pale, abstracted, and apparently unconscious that he was speaking. He stopped: he was about to rebuke him, but he restrained himself; and after reflecting for a few moments, he commanded the youth to prepare for the evening sacrifice: but first he desired him to summon Amrà to her father's presence. At this unusual command Govinda almost started. He deposited the sacred leaves in his bosom, and, with a beating heart and trembling steps, prepared to obey. When he reached the door of the zenana, he gently lifted the silken curtain which divided the apartments, and stood for a few moments contemplating, with silent and sad delight, the group that met his view. Amrà was reclining upon cushions, and looking wan as a star that fades away before the dawn. Her head drooped upon her bosom, her hair hung neglected upon her shoulders: yet was she lovely still; and Govinda, while he gazed, remembered the words of the poet Calidas: "The water-lily, though dark moss may settle on its head, is nevertheless beautiful; and the moon, with dewy beams, is rendered yet brighter by its dark spots." She was clasping round her delicate wrist a bracelet of gems; and when she observed, that ever as she placed it on her attenuated arm it fell again upon her hand, she shook her head and smiled mournfully. Two of her maids sat at her feet, occupied in their embroidery; and old Gautami, at her side, was relating, in a slow, monotonous recitative, one of her thousand tales of wonder, to divert the melancholy of her young mistress. She told how the demi-god Rama was forced to flee from the demons who had usurped his throne, and how his beautiful and faithful Seita wandered over the whole earth in search of her consort; and, being at length overcome with grief and fatigue, she sat down in the pathless wilderness and wept; and how there arose from the spot, where her tears sank warm into the earth, a fountain of boiling water of exquisite clearness and wondrous virtues; and how maidens, who make a pilgrimage to this sacred well and dip their veils into its wave with pure devotion, ensure themselves the utmost felicity in marriage: thus the story ran. Amrà, who appeared at first abstracted and inattentive, began to be affected by the misfortunes and the love of the beautiful Seita; and at the mention of the fountain and its virtues, she lifted her eyes with an expression of eager interest, and met those of Govinda fixed upon her. She uttered a faint cry, and threw herself into the arms of Gautami. He hastened to deliver the commands of his preceptor, and then Amrà, recovering her self-possession, threw her veil round her, arose, and followed him to her father's presence. As they drew near together, the old man looked from one to the other. Perhaps his heart, though dead to all human passions, felt at that moment a touch of pity for the youthful, lovely, and loving pair who stood before him; but his look was calm, cold, and serene, as usual. "Draw near, my son," he said; "and thou, my beloved daughter, approach, and listen to the will of your father. The time is come, when we must make ready all things for the arrival of the wise and honoured Adhar. My daughter, let those pious ceremonies, with which virtuous women prepare themselves ere they enter the dwelling of their husband, be duly performed: and do thou, Govinda, son of my choice, set my household in order, that all may be in readiness to receive with honour the bridegroom, who comes to claim his betrothed. To-morrow we will sacrifice to Ganesa, who is the guardian of travellers: this night must be given to penance and holy meditation. Amrà, retire: and thou, Govinda, take up that fagot of Tulsi-wood, with the rice and the flowers for the evening oblation, and follow me to the temple." So saying, the old man turned away hastily; and without looking back, pursued his path through the sacred grove. Alas for those he had left behind! Govinda remained silent and motionless. Amrà would have obeyed her father, but her limbs refused their office. She trembled--she was sinking: she timidly looked up to Govinda as if for support; his arms were extended to receive her: she fell upon his neck, and wept unrestrained tears. He held her to his bosom as though he would have folded her into his inmost heart, and hidden her there for ever. He murmured passionate words of transport and fondness in her ear. He drew aside her veil from her pale brow, and ventured to print a kiss upon her closed eyelids. "To-night," he whispered, "in the grove of mangoes by the river's bank!" She answered only by a mute caress; and then supporting her steps to her own apartments, he resigned her to the arms of her attendants, and hastened after his preceptor. He forgot, however, the materials for the evening sacrifice, and in consequence not only had to suffer a severe rebuke from the old priest, but the infliction of a penance extraordinary, which detained him in the presence of his preceptor till the night was far advanced. At length, however, Sarma retired to holy meditation and mental abstraction, and Govinda was dismissed. He had hitherto maintained, with habitual and determined self-command, that calm, subdued exterior, which becomes a pupil in the presence of his religious teacher; but no sooner had he crossed the threshold, and found himself alone breathing the free night-air of heaven, than the smothered passions burst forth. He paused for one instant, to anathematise in his soul the Sastras and their contents, the gods and their temples, the priests and the sacrifices; the futile ceremonies and profitless suffering to which his life was abandoned, and the cruel policy to which he had been made an unwilling victim. Then he thought of Amrà, and all things connected with her changed their aspect. In another moment he was beneath the shadow of the mangoes on the river's brink. He looked round, Amrà was not there: he listened, there was no sound. The grass bore marks of having been recently pressed, and still its perfume floated on the air. A few flowers were scattered round, fresh gathered, and glittering with dew. Govinda wrung his hands in despair, and flung himself upon the bank, where a month before they had sat together. On the very spot where Amrà had reclined, he perceived a lotos-leaf and a palàsa flower laid together. Upon the lotos-leaf he could perceive written, with a thorn or some sharp point, the word AMR�; and the crimson palasa-buds were sacred to the dead. It was sufficient: he thrust the leaf and the flowers into his bosom; and, "swift as the sparkle of a glancing star," he flew along the path which led to the garden sepulchre. The mother of Amrà had died in giving birth to her only child. She was young, beautiful, and virtuous; and had lived happily with her husband notwithstanding the disparity of age. The pride and stoicism of his caste would not allow him to betray any violence of grief, or show his affection for the dead, otherwise than by raising to her memory a beautiful tomb. It consisted of four light pillars, richly and grotesquely carved, supporting a pointed cupola, beneath which was an altar for oblations: the whole was overlaid with brilliant white stucco, and glittered through the gloom. A flight of steps led up to this edifice: upon the highest step, and at the foot of the altar, Amrà was seated alone and weeping. Love--O love! what have I to do with thee? How sinks the heart, how trembles the hand as it approaches the forbidden theme! Of all the gifts the gods have sent upon the earth thou most precious--yet ever most fatal! As serpents dwell among the odorous boughs of the sandal-tree, and alligators in the thrice sacred waters of the Ganges, so all that is sweetest, holiest, dearest upon earth, is mixed up with sin, and pain, and misery, and evil! Thus hath it been ordained from the beginning; and the love that hath never mourned, is not love. How sweet, yet how terrible, were the moments that succeeded! While Govinda, with fervid eloquence, poured out his whole soul at her feet, Amrà alternately melted with tenderness, or shrunk with sensitive alarm. When he darkly intimated the irresistible power he possessed to overcome all obstacles to their union--when he spoke with certainty of the time when she should be his, spite of the world and men--when he described the glorious height to which his love would elevate her--the delights and the treasures he would lavish around her, she, indeed, understood not his words; yet, with all a woman's trusting faith in him she loves, she hung upon his accents--listened and believed. The high and passionate energy, with which his spirit, so long pent up and crushed within him, now revealed itself; the consciousness of his own power, the knowledge that he was beloved, lent such a new and strange expression to his whole aspect, and touched his fine form and features with such a proud and sparkling beauty, that Amrà looked up at him with a mixture of astonishment, admiration, and deep love, not wholly unmingled with fear; almost believing, that she gazed upon some more than mortal lover, upon one of those bright genii, who inhabit the lower heaven, and have been known in the old time to leave their celestial haunts for love of the earth-born daughters of beauty. Amrà did not speak, but Govinda felt his power. He saw his advantage, and, with the instinctive subtlety of his sex, he pursued it. He sighed, he wept, he implored, he upbraided. Amrà, overpowered by his emotion and her own, had turned away her head, and embraced one of the pillars of her mother's tomb, as if for protection. In accents of the most plaintive tenderness she entreated him to leave her--to spare her--and even while she spoke her arm relaxed its hold, and she was yielding to the gentle force with which he endeavoured to draw her away; when at this moment, so dangerous to both, a startling sound was heard--a rustling among the bushes, and then a soft, low whistle. Govinda started up at that well-known signal, and saw the head of the mute appearing just above the altar. His turban being green, was undistinguishable against the leafy back-ground; and his small black eyes glanced and glittered like those of a snake. Govinda would willingly have annihilated him at that moment. He made a gesture of angry impatience, and motioned him to retire; but Sahib stood still, shook his hand with a threatening expression, and made signs, that he must instantly follow him. Amrà, meantime, who had neither seen nor heard any thing, began to suspect, that Govinda was communing with some invisible spirit; she clung to him in terror, and endeavoured to recall his attention to herself by the most tender and soothing words and caresses. After some time he succeeded in calming her fears; and with a thousand promises of quick return, he at length tore himself away, and followed through the thicket the form of Sahib, who glided like a shadow before him. When they reached the accustomed spot, the mute leapt into the canoe, which he had made fast to the root of a mango-tree, and motioning Govinda to follow him, he pushed from the shore, and rowed rapidly till they reached a tall, bare rock near the centre of the stream, beneath the dark shadow of which Sahib moored his little boat, out of the possible reach of human eye or ear. All had passed so quickly, that Govinda felt like one in a dream; but now, awakening to a sense of his situation, he held out his hand for the expected letter from his brother, trembling to learn its import, upon which he felt that more than his life depended. Sahib, meanwhile, did not appear in haste to obey. At length, after a pause of breathless suspense, Govinda heard a low and well-remembered voice repeat an almost-forgotten name: "Faizi!" it said. "O Prophet of God! my brother!" and he was clasped in the arms of Abul Fazil. After the first transports of recognition had subsided, Faizi (it is time to use his real name) sank from his brother's arms to his feet: he clasped his knees. "My brother!" he exclaimed, "what is now to be my fate? You have not lightly assumed this disguise, and braved the danger of discovery! You know all, and have come to save me--to bless me? Is it not so?" Abul Fazil could not see his brother's uplifted countenance, flushed with the hectic of feverish impatience, or his imploring eyes, that floated in tears; but his tones were sufficiently expressive. "Poor boy!" he said, compassionately, "I should have foreseen this. But calm these transports, my brother! nothing is denied to the sultan's power, and nothing will he deny thee." "He knows all, then?" "All--and by his command am I come. I had feared, that my brother had sold his vowed obedience for the smile of a dark-eyed girl--what shall I say?--I feared for his safety!" "O my brother! there is no cause!" "I know it--enough!--I have seen and heard!" Faizi covered his face with his hands. "If the sultan----" "Have no doubts," said Abul Fazil: "nothing is denied to the sultan's power, nothing will be denied to thee." "And the Brahman Adhar?" "It has been looked to--he will not trouble thee." "_Dead?_ O merciful Allah! crime upon crime!" "His life is cared for," said Abul Fazil, calmly: "ask no more." "It is sufficient. O my brother! O Amrà!"-- "She is thine!--Now hear the will of Akbar." Faizi bowed his head with submission. "Speak!" he said; "the slave of Akbar listens." "In three months from this time," continued Abul Fazil, "and on this appointed night, it will be dark, and the pagodas deserted. Then, and not till then, will Sahib be found at the accustomed spot. He will bring in the skiff a dress, which is the sultan's gift, and will be a sufficient disguise. On the left bank of the stream there shall be stationed an ample guard, with a close litter and a swift Arabian. Thou shalt mount the one, and in the other shall be placed this fair girl. Then fly: having first flung her veil upon the river to beguile pursuit; the rest I leave to thine own quick wit. But let all be done with secrecy and subtlety; for the sultan, though he can refuse thee nothing, would not willingly commit an open wrong against a people he has lately conciliated; and the violation of a Brahminee woman were enough to raise a province." "It shall not need," exclaimed the youth, clasping his hands: "she loves me! She shall live for me--only for me--while others weep her dead!" "It is well: now return we in silence, the night wears fast away." He took one of the oars, Faizi seized the other, and with some difficulty they rowed up the stream, keeping close under the overshadowing banks. Having reached the little promontory, they parted with a strict and mute embrace. Faizi looked for a moment after his brother, then sprung forward to the spot where he had left Amrà; but she was no longer there: apparently she had been recalled by her nurse to her own apartments, and did not again make her appearance. Three months more completed the five years which had been allotted for Govinda's Brahminical studies; they passed but too rapidly away. During this time the Brahman Adhar did not arrive, nor was his name again uttered: and Amrà, restored to health, was more than ever tender and beautiful, and more than ever beloved. The old Brahman, who had hitherto maintained towards his pupil and adopted son a cold and distant demeanour, now relaxed from his accustomed austerity, and when he addressed him it was in a tone of mildness, and even tenderness. Alas for Govinda! every proof of this newly-awakened affection pierced his heart with unavailing remorse. He had lived long enough among the Brahmans, to anticipate with terror the effects of his treachery, when once discovered; but he repelled such obtrusive images, and resolutely shut his eyes against a future, which he could neither control nor avert. He tried to persuade himself, that it was now too late; that the stoical indifference to all earthly evil, passion, and suffering, which the Pundit Sarma taught and practised, would sufficiently arm him against the double blow preparing for him. Yet, as the hour approached, the fever of suspense consumed his heart. Contrary passions distracted and bewildered him: his ideas of right and wrong became fearfully perplexed. He would have given the treasures of Istakar to arrest the swift progress of time. He felt like one entangled in the wheels of some vast machine, and giddily and irresistibly whirled along he knew not how nor whither. At length the day arrived: the morning broke forth in all that splendour with which she descends upon "the Indian steep." Govinda prepared for the early sacrifice, the last he was to perform. In spite of the heaviness and confusion which reigned in his own mind, he could perceive that something unusual occupied the thoughts of his preceptor: some emotion of a pleasurable kind had smoothed the old man's brow. His voice was softened; and though his lips were compressed, almost a smile lighted up his eyes, when he turned them on Govinda. The sacrifice was one of unusual pomp and solemnity, in honour of the goddess Parvati, and lasted till the sun's decline. When they returned to the dwelling of Sarma he dismissed his pupils from their learned exercises, desiring them to make that day a day of rest and recreation, as if it were the festival of Sri, the goddess of learning, when books, pens, and paper, being honoured as her emblems, remain untouched, and her votaries enjoy a sabbath. When they were departed, the old Brahman commanded Govinda to seat himself on the ground opposite to him. This being the first time he had ever sat in the presence of his preceptor, the young man hesitated; but Sarma motioned him to obey, and accordingly he sat down at a respectful distance, keeping his eyes reverently cast upon the ground. The old man then spoke these words: "It is now five years since the son of Mitra entered my dwelling. He was then but a child, helpless, orphaned, ignorant of all true knowledge; expelled from the faith of his fathers and the privileges of his high caste. I took him to my heart with joy, I fed him, I clothed him, I opened his mind to truth, I poured into his soul the light of knowledge: he became to me a son. If in any thing I have omitted the duty of a father towards him, if ever I refused to him the wish of his heart or the desire of his eyes, let him now speak!" "O my father!"-- "No more," said the Brahman, gently, "I am answered in that one word; but all that I have yet done seems as nothing in mine eyes: for the love I bear my son is wide as the wide earth, and my bounty shall be as the boundless firmament. Know that I have read thy soul! Start not! I have received letters from the south country. Amrà is no longer the wife of Adhar; for Adhar has vowed himself to a life of penance and celibacy in the temple of Indore, by order of an offended prince;--may he find peace! The writings of divorce are drawn up, and my daughter being already past the age when a prudent father hastens to marry his child, in order that the souls of the dead may be duly honoured by their posterity, I have sought for her a husband, such as a parent might desire; learned in the sciences, graced with every virtue; of unblemished life, of unmixed caste, and rich in the goods of this world." The Brahman stopped short. Faizi, breathing with difficulty, felt his blood pause at his heart. "My son!" continued the old man, "I have not coveted possessions or riches, but the gods have blessed me with prosperity; be they praised for their gifts! Look around upon this fair dwelling, upon those fertile lands, which spread far and wide, a goodly prospect; and the herds that feed on them, and the bondsmen who cultivate them; with silver and gold, and garments, and rich stores heaped up, more than I can count--all these do I give thee freely: possess them! and with them I give thee a greater gift, and one that I well believe is richer and dearer in thine eyes--my daughter, my last and best treasure! Thus do I resign all worldly cares, devoting myself henceforth solely to pious duties and religious meditation: for the few days he has to live, let the old man repose upon thy love! A little water, a little rice, a roof to shelter him, these thou shalt bestow--he asks no more." The Brahman's voice faltered. He rose, and Govinda stood up, trembling in every nerve. The old priest then laid his hand solemnly upon his bowed head and blessed him. "My son! to me far better than many sons, be thou blest as thou hast blessed me! The just gods requite thee with full measure all thou hast done! May the wife I bestow on thee bring to thy bosom all the felicity thou broughtest to me and mine, and thy last hours be calm and bright, as those thy love has prepared for me!" "Ah, curse me not!" exclaimed Govinda, with a cry of horror; for in the anguish of that moment he felt as if the bitter malediction, thus unconsciously pronounced, was already fulfilling. He flung himself upon the earth in an agony of self-humiliation; he crawled to the feet of his preceptor, he kissed them, he clasped his knees. In broken words he revealed himself, and confessed the treacherous artifice of which he was at once the instrument and the victim. The Brahman stood motionless, scarcely comprehending the words spoken. At length he seemed to awaken to the sense of what he heard, and trembled from head to foot with an exceeding horror; but he uttered no word of reproach: and after a pause, he suddenly drew the sacrificial poniard from his girdle, and would have plunged it into his own bosom, if Faizi had not arrested his arm, and without difficulty snatched the weapon from his shaking and powerless grasp. "If yet there be mercy for me," he exclaimed, "add not to my crimes this worst of all--make me not a sacrilegious murderer! Here," he added, kneeling, and opening his bosom, "strike! satisfy at once a just vengeance, and end all fears in the blood of an abhorred betrayer! Strike, ere it be too late!" The old man twice raised his hand, but it was without strength. He dropped the knife, and folding his arms, and sinking his head upon his bosom, he remained silent. "O yet!" exclaimed Faizi, lifting with reverence the hem of his robe and pressing it to his lips, "if there remain a hope for me, tell me by what penance--terrible, prolonged, and unheard-of--I may expiate this sin; and hear me swear, that, henceforth, neither temptation, nor torture, nor death itself, shall force me to reveal the secrets of the Brahmin faith, nor divulge the holy characters in which they are written: and if I break this vow, may I perish from off the earth like a dog!" The Brahman clasped his hands, and turned his eyes for a moment on the imploring countenance of the youth, but averted them instantly with a shudder. "What have I to do with thee," he said, at length, "thou serpent! Well is it written--'Though the upas-tree were watered with nectar from heaven instead of dew, yet would it bear poison.' Yet swear--" "I do--I will--" "Never to behold my face again, nor utter with those guileful and polluted lips the name of my daughter." "My father!" "Father!" repeated the old man, with a flash of indignation, but it was instantly subdued. "Swear!" he repeated, "if vows can bind a thing so vile!" "My father, I embrace thy knees! Not heaven itself can annul the past, and Amrà is mine beyond the power of fate or vengeance to disunite us--but by death!" "Hah!" said the Brahman, stepping back, "it is then as I feared! and this is well too!"--he muttered; "Heaven required a victim!" He moved slowly to the door, and called his daughter with a loud voice: Amrà heard and trembled in the recesses of her apartments. The voice was her father's, but the tones of that voice made her soul sicken with fear; and, drawing her drapery round to conceal that alteration in her lovely form which was but too apparent, she came forth with faltering steps. "Approach!" said the Brahman, fixing his eyes upon her, while those of Faizi, after the first eager glance, remained rivetted to the earth. She drew near with affright, and gazed wildly from one to the other. "Ay! look well upon him! whom dost thou behold?" "My father!--Ah! spare me!" "Is he your husband?" "Govinda! alas!--speak for us!"-- "Fool!"--he grasped her supplicating hands,--"say but the word--are you a wife?" "I am! I am! _his_, before the face of Heaven!" "No!"--he dropped her hands, and spoke in a rapid and broken voice: "No! Heaven disclaims the monstrous mixture! hell itself rejects it! Had he been the meanest among the sons of Brahma, I had borne it: but an Infidel, a base-born Moslem, has contaminated the stream of my life! Accursed was the hour when he came beneath my roof, like a treacherous fox and a ravening wolf, to betray and to destroy! Accursed was the hour, which mingled the blood of Narayna with that of the son of a slave-girl! Shall I live to look upon a race of outcasts, abhorred on earth and excommunicate from heaven, and say, 'These are the offspring of Sarma?' Miserable girl! thou wert preordained a sacrifice! Die! and thine infamy perish with thee!" Even while he spoke he snatched up the poniard which lay at his feet, but this he needed not--the blow was already struck home, and to her very heart. Before the vengeful steel could reach her, she fell, without a cry--a groan--senseless, and, as it seemed, lifeless, upon the earth. Faizi, almost with a shriek, sprang forward; but the old man interposed: and, with the strong grasp of supernatural strength--the strength of despair--held him back. Meantime the women, alarmed by his cries, rushed wildly in, and bore away in their arms the insensible form of Amrà. Faizi strove to follow; but, at a sign from the Brahman, the door was quickly closed and fastened within, so that it resisted all his efforts to force it. He turned almost fiercely--"She will yet live!" he passionately exclaimed; and the Brahman replied, calmly and disdainfully, "If she be the daughter of Sarma, she will die!" Then rending his garments, and tearing off his turban, he sat down upon the sacrificial hearth; and taking up dust and ashes, scattered them on his bare head and flowing beard: he then remained motionless, with his chin upon his bosom, and his arms crossed upon his knees. In vain did Faizi kneel before him, and weep, and supplicate for one word, one look: he was apparently lost to all consciousness, rigid, torpid; and, but that he breathed, and that there was at times a convulsive movement in his eyelids, it might have been thought, that life itself was suspended, or had altogether ceased. Thus did this long and most miserable day wear away, and night came on. Faizi--who had spent the hours in walking to and fro like a troubled demon, now listening at the door of the zenana, from which no sound proceeded, now endeavouring in vain to win, by the most earnest entreaties, some sign of life or recognition from the old man--could no longer endure the horror of his own sensations. He stepped into the open air, and leaned his head against the porch. The breeze, which blew freshly against his parched lips and throbbing temples, revived his faculties. After a few moments he thought he could distinguish voices, and the trampling of men and horses, borne on the night air. He raised his hands in ecstacy. Again he bent his ear to listen: he heard the splash of an oar. "They come!" he exclaimed, almost aloud, "one more plunge, and it is done! This hapless and distracted old man I will save from his own and other's fury, and still be to him a son, in his own despite. And, Amrà! my own! my beautiful! my beloved! oh, how richly shall the future atone for these hours of anguish! In these arms the cruel pride and prejudices of thy race shall be forgotten. At thy feet I will pour the treasures of the world, and lift thee to joys beyond the brightest visions of youthful fancy! But--O merciful Allah!"-- At the same moment a long, loud, and piercing shriek was heard from the women's apartments, followed by lamentable wailings. He made but one bound to the door. It resisted, but his despair was strong. He rushed against it with a force, that burst it from its hinges, and precipitated him into the midst of the chamber. It was empty and dark; so was the next, and the next. At last he reached the inner and most sacred apartment. He beheld the lifeless form of Amrà extended on the ground. Over her face was thrown an embroidered veil: her head rested on the lap of her nurse, whose features appeared rigid with horror. The rest of the women, who were weeping and wailing, covered their heads, and fled at his approach. Faizi called upon the name of her he loved: he snatched the veil from that once lovely face--that face which had never been revealed to him but in tender and soul-beaming beauty. He looked, and fell senseless on the floor. The unhappy Amrà, in recovering from her long swoon, had fallen into a stupor, which her attendants mistook for slumber, and left her for a short interval. She awoke, wretched girl! alone, she awoke to the sudden and maddening sense of her lost state, to all the pangs of outraged love, violated faith, shame, anguish, and despair. In a paroxysm of delirium, when none were near to soothe or to save, she had made her own luxuriant and beautiful tresses the instrument of her destruction, and choked herself by swallowing her hair. When the emissaries of the sultan entered this house of desolation, they found Faizi still insensible at the side of her he had so loved. He was borne away before recollection returned, placed in the litter which had been prepared for Amrà, and earned to Ferrukabad, where the sultan was then hunting with his whole court. What became of the old Brahman is not known. He passed away like a shadow from the earth, "and his place knew him not." Whether he sought a voluntary death, or wore away his remaining years in secret penance, can only be conjectured, for all search was vain. Eastern records tell, that Faizi kept his promise sacred, and never revealed the mysteries intrusted to him. Yet he retained the favour of Akbar, by whose command he translated from the Sanscrit tongue several poetical and historical works into the choicest Persian. He became himself an illustrious poet; and, like other poets of greater fame, created "an immortality of his tears." He acquired the title of _Sheich_, or "the learned," and rose to the highest civil offices of the empire. All outward renown, prosperity, and fame, were his; but there was, at least, retributive justice in his early and tragical death. Towards the conclusion of Akbar's reign, Abul Fazil was sent upon a secret mission into the Deccan, and Faizi accompanied him. The favour which these celebrated brothers enjoyed at court, their influence over the mind of the sultan, and their entire union, had long excited the jealousy of Prince Selim,[25] the eldest son of Akbar, and he had vowed their destruction. On their return from the south, with a small escort, they were attacked by a numerous band of assassins, disguised as robbers, and both perished. Faizi was found lying upon the body of Abul Fazil, whom he had bravely defended to the last. The death of these illustrious brothers was lamented, not only within the bounds of the empire, but through all the kingdoms of the East, whither their fame had extended; and by the sultan's command they were interred together, and with extraordinary pomp. One incident only remains to be added. When the bodies were stripped for burial, there was found within the inner vest of the Sheich Faizi, and close to his heart, a withered Lotus leaf inscribed with certain characters. So great was the fame of the dead for wisdom, learning, and devotion, that it was supposed to be a talisman endued with extraordinary virtues, and immediately transmitted to the sultan. Akbar considered the relic with surprise. It was nothing but a simple Lotus leaf, faded, shrivelled, and stained with blood; but on examining it more closely, he could trace, in ill-formed and scarcely legible Indian letters, the word AMR�. And when Akbar looked upon this tender memorial of a hapless love, and undying sorrow, his great heart melted within him, and he wept. HALLORAN THE PEDLAR.[26] "It grieves me," said an eminent poet once to me, "it grieves and humbles me to reflect how much our moral nature is in the power of circumstances. Our best faculties would remain unknown even to ourselves did not the influences of external excitement call them forth like animalculæ, which lie torpid till awakened into life by the transient sunbeam." This is generally true. How many walk through the beaten paths of every-day life, who but for the novelist's page would never weep or wonder; and who would know nothing of the passions but as they are represented in some tragedy or stage piece? not that they are incapable of high resolve and energy; but because the finer qualities have never been called forth by imperious circumstances; for while the wheels of existence roll smoothly along, the soul will continue to slumber in her vehicle like a lazy traveller. But for the French revolution, how many hundreds--_thousands_--whose courage, fortitude, and devotedness have sanctified their names, would have frittered away a frivolous, useless, or vicious life in the saloons of Paris! We have heard of death in its most revolting forms braved by delicate females, who would have screamed at the sight of the most insignificant reptile or insect; and men cheerfully toiling at mechanic trades for bread, who had lounged away the best years of their lives at the toilettes of their mistresses. We know not of what we are capable till the trial comes;--till it comes, perhaps, in a form which makes the strong man quail, and turns the gentler woman into a heroine. The power of outward circumstances suddenly to awaken dormant faculties--the extraordinary influence which the mere instinct of self-preservation can exert over the mind, and the triumph of mind thus excited over physical weakness, were never more truly exemplified than in the story of HALLORAN THE PEDLAR. The real circumstances of this singular case, differing essentially from the garbled and incorrect account which appeared in the newspapers some years ago, came to my knowledge in the following simple manner. My cousin George C * * *, an Irish barrister of some standing, lately succeeded to his family estates by the death of a near relative; and no sooner did he find himself in possession of independence than, abjuring the bar, where, after twenty years of hard struggling, he was just beginning to make a figure, he set off on a tour through Italy and Greece, to forget the wrangling of courts, the contumely of attornies, and the impatience of clients. He left in my hands a mass of papers, to burn or not, as I might feel inclined: and truly the contents of his desk were no bad illustration of the character and pursuits of its owner. Here I found abstracts of cases, and on their backs copies of verses, sketches of scenery, and numerous caricatures of judges, jurymen, witnesses, and his brethren of the bar--a bundle of old briefs, and the beginnings of two tragedies; with a long list of Lord N----'s best jokes to serve his purposes as occasion might best offer. Among these heterogeneous and confused articles were a number of scraps carefully pinned together, containing notes on a certain trial, the first in which he had been retained as counsel for the crown. The intense interest with which I perused these documents, suggested the plan of throwing the whole into a connected form, and here it is for the reader's benefit. In a little village to the south of Clonmell lived a poor peasant named Michael, or as it was there pronounced Mickle Reilly. He was a labourer renting a cabin and a plot of potatoe-ground; and, on the strength of these possessions, a robust frame which feared no fatigue, and a sanguine mind which dreaded no reverse, Reilly paid his addresses to Cathleen Bray, a young girl of his own parish, and they were married. Reilly was able, skilful, and industrious; Cathleen was the best spinner in the county, and had constant sale for her work at Clonmell: they wanted nothing; and for the first year, as Cathleen said, "There wasn't upon the blessed earth two happier souls than themselves, for Mick was the best boy in the world, and hadn't a fault to _spake_ of--barring he took a drop now and then; an' why wouldn't he?" But as it happened, poor Reilly's love of "_the drop_" was the beginning of all their misfortunes. In an evil hour he went to the Fair of Clonmell to sell a dozen hanks of yarn of his wife's spinning, and a fat pig, the produce of which was to pay half a year's rent, and add to their little comforts. Here he met with a jovial companion, who took him into a booth, and treated him to sundry potations of whiskey; and while in his company his pocket was picked of the money he had just received, and something more; in short, of all he possessed in the world. At that luckless moment, while maddened by his loss and heated with liquor, he fell into the company of a recruiting serjeant. The many-coloured and gaily fluttering cockade in the soldier's cap shone like a rainbow of hope and promise before the drunken eyes of Mickle Reilly, and ere morning he was enlisted into a regiment under orders for embarkation, and instantly sent off to Cork. Distracted by the ruin he had brought upon himself, and his wife, (whom he loved a thousand times better than himself,) poor Reilly sent a friend to inform Cathleen of his mischance, and to assure her that on a certain day, in a week from that time, a letter would await her at the Clonmell post-office: the same friend was commissioned to deliver her his silver watch, and a guinea out of his bounty-money. Poor Cathleen turned from the gold with horror, as the price of her husband's blood, and vowed that nothing on earth should induce her to touch it. She was not a good calculator of time and distance, and therefore rather surprised that so long a time must elapse before his letter arrived. On the appointed day she was too impatient to wait the arrival of the carrier, but set off to Clonmell herself, a distance of ten miles: there, at the post-office, she duly found the promised letter; but it was not till she had it in her possession that she remembered she could not read: she had therefore to hasten back to consult her friend Nancy, the schoolmaster's daughter, and the best scholar in the village. Reilly's letter, on being deciphered with some difficulty even by the learned Nancy, was found to contain much of sorrow, much of repentance, and yet more of affection: he assured her that he was far better off than he had expected or deserved; that the embarkation of the regiment to which he belonged was delayed for three weeks, and entreated her, if she could forgive him, to follow him to Cork without delay, that they might "part in love and kindness, and then come what might, he would demane himself like a man, and die asy," which he assured her he could not do without embracing her once more. Cathleen listened to her husband's letter with clasped hands and drawn breath, but quiet in her nature, she gave no other signs of emotion than a few large tears which trickled slowly down her cheeks. "And will I see him again?" she exclaimed; "poor fellow! poor boy! I knew the heart of him was sore for me! and who knows, Nancy dear, but they'll let me go out with him to the foreign parts? Oh! sure they wouldn't be so hard-hearted as to part man and wife that way!" After a hurried consultation with her neighbours, who sympathised with her as only the poor sympathise with the poor, a letter was indited by Nancy and sent by the carrier that night, to inform her husband that she purposed setting off for Cork the next blessed morning, being Tuesday, and as the distance was about forty-eight miles English, she reckoned on reaching that city by Wednesday afternoon; for as she had walked to Clonmell and back (about twenty miles) that same day, without feeling fatigued at all, "_to signify_," Cathleen thought there would be no doubt that she could walk to Cork in less than two days. In this sanguine calculation she was, however, overruled by her more experienced neighbours, and by their advice appointed Thursday as the day on which her husband was to expect her, "God willing." Cathleen spent the rest of the day in making preparations for her journey: she set her cabin in order, and made a small bundle of a few articles of clothing belonging to herself and her husband. The watch and the guinea she wrapped up together, and crammed into the toe of an old shoe, which she deposited in the said bundle, and the next morning, at "sparrow chirp," she arose, locked her cabin door, carefully hid the key in the thatch, and with a light expecting heart commenced her long journey. It is worthy of remark, that this poor woman, who was called upon to play the heroine in such a strange tragedy, and under such appalling circumstances, had nothing heroic in her exterior: nothing that in the slightest degree indicated strength of nerve or superiority of intellect. Cathleen was twenty-three years of age, of a low stature, and in her form rather delicate than robust: she was of ordinary appearance; her eyes were mild and dove-like, and her whole countenance, though not absolutely deficient in intelligence, was more particularly expressive of simplicity, good temper, and kindness of heart. It was summer, about the end of June: the days were long, the weather fine, and some gentle showers rendered travelling easy and pleasant. Cathleen walked on stoutly towards Cork, and by the evening she had accomplished, with occasional pauses of rest, nearly twenty-one miles. She lodged at a little inn by the road side, and the following day set forward again, but soon felt stiff with the travel of two previous days: the sun became hotter, the ways dustier; and she could not with all her endeavours get farther than Rathcormuck, eighteen miles from Cork. The next day, unfortunately for poor Cathleen, proved hotter and more fatiguing than the preceding. The cross road lay over a wild country, consisting of low bogs and bare hills. About noon she turned aside to a rivulet bordered by a few trees, and sitting down in the shade, she bathed her swollen feet in the stream: then overcome by heat, weakness, and excessive weariness, she put her little bundle under her head for a pillow, and sank into a deep sleep. On waking she perceived with dismay that the sun was declining: and on looking about, her fears were increased by the discovery that her bundle was gone. Her first thought was that the good people, (i. e. _the fairies_) had been there and stolen it away; but on examining farther she plainly perceived large foot-prints in the soft bank, and was convinced it was the work of no unearthly marauder. Bitterly reproaching herself for her carelessness, she again set forward; and still hoping to reach Cork that night, she toiled on and on with increasing difficulty and distress, till as the evening closed her spirits failed, she became faint, foot-sore and hungry, not having tasted any thing since the morning but a cold potatoe and a draught of buttermilk. She then looked round her in hopes of discovering some habitation, but there was none in sight except a lofty castle on a distant hill, which raising its proud turrets from amidst the plantations which surrounded it, glimmered faintly through the gathering gloom, and held out no temptation for the poor wanderer to turn in there and rest. In her despair she sat her down on a bank by the road side, and wept as she thought of her husband. Several horsemen rode by, and one carriage and four attended by servants, who took no farther notice of her than by a passing look; while they went on their way like the priest and the Levite in the parable, poor Cathleen dropped her head despairingly on her bosom. A faintness and torpor seemed to be stealing like a dark cloud over her senses, when the fast approaching sound of footsteps roused her attention, and turning, she saw at her side a man whose figure, too singular to be easily forgotten, she recognized immediately: it was Halloran the Pedlar. Halloran had been known for thirty years past in all the towns and villages between Waterford and Kerry. He was very old, he himself did not know his own age; he only remembered that he was a "tall slip of a boy" when he was one of the ---- regiment of foot, and fought in America in 1778. His dress was strange, it consisted of a woollen cap, beneath which strayed a few white hairs, this was surmounted by an old military cocked hat, adorned with a few fragments of tarnished gold lace; a frieze great coat with the sleeves dangling behind, was fastened at his throat, and served to protect his box of wares which was slung at his back; and he always carried a thick oak stick or _kippeen_ in his hand. There was nothing of the infirmity of age in his appearance: his cheek, though wrinkled and weather-beaten, was still ruddy: his step still firm, his eyes still bright: his jovial disposition made him a welcome guest in every cottage, and his jokes, though not equal to my Lord Norbury's, were repeated and applauded through the whole country. Halloran was returning from the fair of Kilkenny, where apparently his commercial speculations had been attended with success, as his pack was considerably diminished in size. Though he did not appear to recollect Cathleen, he addressed her in Irish, and asked her what she did there: she related in a few words her miserable situation. "In troth, then, my heart is sorry for ye, poor woman," he replied, compassionately; "and what will ye do?" "An' what _can_ I do?" replied Cathleen, disconsolately; "and how will I even find the ford and get across to Cork, when I don't know where I am this blessed moment?" "Musha, then, it's little ye'll get there this night," said the pedlar, shaking his head. "Then I'll lie down here and die," said Cathleen, bursting into fresh tears. "Die! ye wouldn't!" he exclaimed, approaching nearer; "is it to me, Peter Halloran, ye spake that word; and am I the man that would lave a faymale at this dark hour by the way-side, let alone one that has the face of a friend, though I cannot remember me of your name either, for the soul of me. But what matter for that?" "Sure, I'm Katty Reilly, of Castle Conn." "Katty Reilly, sure enough! and so no more talk of dying; cheer up, and see, a mile farther on, isn't there Biddy Hogan's? _Was_, I mane, if the house and all isn't gone: and it's there we'll get a bite and a sup, and a bed, too, please God. So lean upon my arm, ma vourneen, it's strong enough yet." So saying, the old man, with an air of gallantry, half rustic, half military, assisted her in rising; and supporting her on one arm, with the other he flourished his kippeen over his head, and they trudged on together, he singing Cruiskeen-lawn at the top of his voice, "just," as he said, "to put the heart into her." After about half an hour's walking, they came to two crossways, diverging from the high road: down one of these the pedlar turned, and in a few minutes they came in sight of a lonely house, situated at a little distance from the way-side. Above the door was a long stick projecting from the wall, at the end of which dangled a truss of straw, signifying that within there was entertainment (good or bad) for man and beast. By this time it was nearly dark, and the pedlar going up to the door, lifted the latch, expecting it to yield to his hand; but it was fastened within: he then knocked and called, but there was no answer. The building, which was many times larger than an ordinary cabin, had once been a manufactory, and afterwards a farm-house. One end of it was deserted, and nearly in ruins; the other end bore signs of having been at least recently inhabited. But such a dull hollow echo rung through the edifice at every knock, that it seemed the whole place was now deserted. Cathleen began to be alarmed, and crossed herself, ejaculating, "O God preserve us!" But the pedlar, who appeared well acquainted with the premises, led her round to the back part of the house, where there were some ruined out-buildings, and another low entrance. Here, raising his stout stick, he let fall such a heavy thump on the door that it cracked again; and a shrill voice from the other side demanded who was there? After a satisfactory answer, the door was slowly and cautiously opened, and the figure of a wrinkled, half-famished, and half-naked beldam appeared, shading a rush candle with one hand. Halloran, who was of a fiery and hasty temper, began angrily: "Why, then, in the name of the great devil himself, didn't you open to us?" But he stopped suddenly, as if struck with surprise at the miserable object before him. "Is it Biddy Hogan herself, I see!" he exclaimed, snatching the candle from her hand, and throwing the light full on her face. A moment's scrutiny seemed enough, and too much; for, giving it back hastily, he supported Cathleen into the kitchen, the old woman leading the way, and placed her on an old settle, the first seat which presented itself. When she was sufficiently recovered to look about her, Cathleen could not help feeling some alarm at finding herself in so gloomy and dreary a place. It had once been a large kitchen, or hall: at one end was an ample chimney, such as are yet to be seen in some old country houses. The rafters were black with smoke or rottenness: the walls had been wainscoted with oak, but the greatest part had been torn down for firing. A table with three legs, a large stool, a bench in the chimney propped up with turf sods, and the seat Cathleen occupied, formed the only furniture. Every thing spoke utter misery, filth, and famine--the very "abomination of desolation." "And what have ye in the house, Biddy, honey?" was the pedlar's first question, as the old woman set down the light. "Little enough, I'm thinking." "Little! It's nothing, then--no, not so much as a midge would eat have I in the house this blessed night, and nobody to send down to Balgowna." "No need of that, as our good luck would have it," said Halloran, and pulling a wallet from under his loose coat, he drew from it a bone of cold meat, a piece of bacon, a lump of bread, and some cold potatoes. The old woman, roused by the sight of so much good cheer, began to blow up the dying embers on the hearth; put down among them the few potatoes to warm, and busied herself in making some little preparations to entertain her guests. Meantime the old pedlar, casting from time to time an anxious glance towards Cathleen, and now and then an encouraging word, sat down on the low stool, resting his arms on his knees. "Times are sadly changed with ye, Biddy Hogan," said he at length, after a long silence. "Troth, ye may say so," she replied, with a sort of groan. "Bitter bad luck have we had in this world, any how." "And where's the man of the house? And where's the lad, Barny?" "Where are they, is it? Where should they be? may be gone down to Ahnamoe." "But what's come of Barny? The boy was a stout workman, and a good son, though a devil-may-care fellow, too. I remember teaching him the soldier's exercise with this very blessed stick now in my hand; and by the same token, him doubling his fist at me when he wasn't bigger than the turf-kish yonder; aye, and as long as Barny Hogan could turn a sod of turf on my lord's land, I thought his father and mother would never have wanted the bit and sup while the life was in him." At the mention of her son, the old woman looked up a moment, but immediately hung her head again. "Barny doesn't work for my lord now," said she. "And what for, then?" The old woman seemed reluctant to answer--she hesitated. "Ye didn't hear, then, how he got into trouble with my lord; and how--myself doesn't know the rights of it--but Barny had always a bit of wild blood about him; and since that day he's taken to bad ways, and the ould man's ruled by him quite entirely; and the one's glum and fierce like--and t'other's bothered; and, oh! bitter's the time I have 'twixt 'em both!" While the old woman was uttering these broken complaints, she placed the eatables on the table; and Cathleen, who was yet more faint from hunger than subdued by fatigue, was first helped by the good-natured pedlar to the best of what was there: but, just as she was about to taste the food set before her, she chanced to see the eyes of the old woman fixed upon the morsel in her hand with such an envious and famished look, that from a sudden impulse of benevolent feeling, she instantly held it out to her. The woman started, drew back her extended hand, and gazed at her wildly. "What is it then ails ye?" said Cathleen, looking at her with wonder; then to herself, "hunger's turned the wits of her, poor soul! Take it--take it, mother," added she aloud: "eat, good mother; sure there's plenty for us all, and to spare," and she pressed it upon her with all the kindness of her nature. The old woman eagerly seized it. "God reward ye," said she, grasping Cathleen's hand, convulsively, and retiring to a corner, she devoured the food with almost wolfish voracity. While they were eating, the two Hogans, father and son, came in. They had been setting snares for rabbits and game on the neighbouring hills; and evidently were both startled and displeased to find the house occupied; which, since Barny Hogan's disgrace with "my lord," had been entirely shunned by the people round about. The old man gave the pedlar a sulky welcome. The son, with a muttered curse, went and took his seat in the chimney, where, turning his back, he set himself to chop a billet of wood. The father was a lean stooping figure, "bony, and gaunt, and grim:" he was either deaf, or affected deafness. The son was a short, brawny, thickset man, with features not naturally ugly, but rendered worse than ugly by an expression of louring ferocity disgustingly blended with a sort of stupid drunken leer, the effect of habitual intoxication. Halloran stared at them awhile with visible astonishment and indignation, but pity and sorrow for a change so lamentable, smothered the old man's wrath; and as the eatables were by this time demolished, he took from his side pocket a tin flask of whiskey, calling to the old woman to boil some water "screeching hot," that he might make what he termed "a jug of stiff punch--enough to make a cat _spake_." He offered to share it with his hosts, who did not decline drinking; and the noggin went round to all but Cathleen, who, feverish with travelling, and, besides, disliking spirits, would not taste it. The old pedlar, reconciled to his old acquaintances by this show of good fellowship, began to grow merry under the influence of his whiskey-punch: he boasted of his late success in trade, showed with exultation his almost empty pack, and taking out the only two handkerchiefs left in it, threw one to Cathleen, and the other to the old woman of the house; then slapping his pocket, in which a quantity of loose money was heard to jingle, he swore he would treat Cathleen to a good breakfast next morning; and threw a shilling on the table, desiring the old woman would provide "stirabout for a dozen," and have it ready by the first light. Cathleen listened to this rhodomontade in some alarm; she fancied she detected certain suspicious glances between the father and son, and began to feel an indescribable dread of her company. She arose from the table, urging the pedlar good-humouredly to retire to rest, as they intended to be up and away so early next morning: then concealing her apprehensions under an affectation of extreme fatigue and drowsiness, she desired to be shown where she was to sleep. The old woman lighted a lanthorn, and led the way up some broken steps into a sort of loft, where she showed her two beds standing close together; one of these she intimated was for the pedlar, and the other for herself. Now Cathleen had been born and bred in an Irish cabin, where the inmates are usually lodged after a very promiscuous fashion; our readers, therefore, will not wonder at the arrangement. Cathleen, however, required that, if possible, some kind of skreen should be placed between the beds. The old hag at first replied to this request with the most disgusting impudence; but Cathleen insisting, the beds were moved asunder, leaving a space of about two feet between them; and after a long search a piece of old frieze was dragged out from among some rubbish, and hung up to the low rafters, so as to form a curtain or partition half-way across the room. Having completed this arrangement, and wished her "a sweet sleep and a sound, and lucky dreams," the old woman put the lanthorn on the floor, for there was neither chair nor table, and left her guest to repose. Cathleen said her prayers, only partly undressed herself, and lifting up the worn-out coverlet, lay down upon the bed. In a quarter of an hour afterwards the pedlar staggered into the room, and as he passed the foot of her bed, bid God bless her, in a low voice. He then threw himself down on his bed, and in a few minutes, as she judged by his hard and equal breathing, the old man was in a deep sleep. All was now still in the house, but Cathleen could not sleep. She was feverish and restless; her limbs ached, her head throbbed and burned, undefinable fears beset her fancy; and whenever she tried to compose herself to slumber, the faces of the two men she had left below flitted and glared before her eyes. A sense of heat and suffocation, accompanied by a parching thirst, came over her, caused, perhaps, by the unusual closeness of the room. This feeling of oppression increased till the very walls and rafters seemed to approach nearer and close upon her all around. Unable any longer to endure this intolerable smothering sensation, she was just about to rise and open the door or window, when she heard the whispering of voices. She lay still and listened. The latch was raised cautiously,--the door opened, and the two Hogans entered: they trod so softly that, though she saw them move before her, she heard no foot-fall. They approached the bed of Halloran, and presently she heard a dull heavy blow, and then sounds--appalling sickening sounds--as of subdued struggles and smothered agony, which convinced her that they were murdering the unfortunate pedlar. Cathleen listened, almost congealed with horror, but she did not swoon: her turn, she thought, must come next, though in the same instant she felt instinctively that her only chance of preservation was to counterfeit profound sleep. The murderers, having done their work on the poor Pedlar, approached her bed, and threw the gleam of their lanthorn full on her face; she lay quite still, breathing calmly and regularly. They brought the light to her eye-lids, but they did not wink or move;--there was a pause, a terrible pause, and then a whispering;--and presently Cathleen thought she could distinguish a third voice, as of expostulation, but all in so very low a tone that though the voices were close to her she could not hear a word that was uttered. After some moments, which appeared an age of agonising suspense, the wretches withdrew, and Cathleen was left alone, and in darkness. Then, indeed, she felt as one ready to die: to use her own affecting language, "the heart within me," said she, "melted away like water, but I was resolute not to swoon, and I _did not_. I knew that if I would preserve my life, I must keep the sense in me, and _I did_." Now and then she fancied she heard the murdered man move, and creep about in his bed, and this horrible conceit almost maddened her with terror: but she set herself to listen fixedly, and convinced her reason that all was still--that all was over. She then turned her thoughts to the possibility of escape. The window first suggested itself: the faint moon-light was just struggling through its dirty and cobwebbed panes: it was very small, and Cathleen reflected, that besides the difficulty, and, perhaps, impossibility of getting through, it must be some height from the ground: neither could she tell on which side of the house it was situated, nor in what direction to turn, supposing she reached the ground: and, above all, she was aware that the slightest noise must cause her instant destruction. She thus resolved upon remaining quiet. It was most fortunate that Cathleen came to this determination, for without the slightest previous sound the door again opened, and in the faint light, to which her eyes were now accustomed, she saw the head of the old woman bent forward in a listening attitude: in a few minutes the door closed, and then followed a whispering outside. She could not at first distinguish a word until the woman's sharper tones broke out, though in suppressed vehemence, with "If ye touch her life, Barny, a mother's curse go with ye! enough's done." "She'll live, then, to hang us all," said the miscreant son. "Sooner than that, I'd draw this knife across her throat with my own hands; and I'd do it again and again, sooner than they should touch your life, Barny, jewel: but no fear, the creature's asleep or dead already, with the fright of it." The son then said something which Cathleen could not hear; the old woman replied, "Hisht! I tell ye, no,--no; the ship's now in the Cove of Cork that's to carry her over the salt seas far enough out of the way: and haven't we all she has in the world? and more, didn't she take the bit out of her own mouth to put into mine?" The son again spoke inaudibly; and then the voices ceased, leaving Cathleen uncertain as to her fate. Shortly after the door opened, and the father and son again entered, and carried out the body of the wretched pedlar. They seemed to have the art of treading without noise, for though Cathleen saw them move, she could not hear a sound of a footstep. The old woman was all this time standing by her bed, and every now and then casting the light full upon her eyes; but as she remained quite still, and apparently in a deep calm sleep, they left her undisturbed, and she neither saw nor heard any more of them that night. It ended at length--that long, long night of horror. Cathleen lay quiet till she thought the morning sufficiently advanced. She then rose, and went down into the kitchen: the old woman was lifting a pot off the fire, and nearly let it fall as Cathleen suddenly addressed her, and with an appearance of surprise and concern, asked for her friend the pedlar, saying she had just looked into his bed, supposing he was still asleep, and to her great amazement had found it empty. The old woman replied, that he had set out at early daylight for Mallow, having only just remembered that his business called him that way before he went to Cork. Cathleen affected great wonder and perplexity, and reminded the woman that he had promised to pay for her breakfast. "An' so he did, sure enough," she replied, "and paid for it too; and by the same token didn't I go down to Balgowna myself for the milk and the _male_ before the sun was over the tree tops; and here it is for ye, ma colleen:" so saying, she placed a bowl of stirabout and some milk before Cathleen, and then sat down on the stool opposite to her, watching her intently. Poor Cathleen! she had but little inclination to eat, and felt as if every bit would choke her: yet she continued to force down her breakfast, and apparently with the utmost ease and appetite, even to the last morsel set before her. While eating, she inquired about the husband and son, and the old woman replied, that they had started at the first burst of light to cut turf in a bog, about five miles distant. When Cathleen had finished her breakfast, she returned the old woman many thanks for her kind treatment, and then desired to know the nearest way to Cork. The woman Hogan informed her that the distance was about seven miles, and though the usual road was by the high-way from which they had turned the preceding evening, there was a much shorter way across some fields which she pointed out. Cathleen listened attentively to her directions, and then bidding farewell with many demonstrations of gratitude, she proceeded on her fearful journey. The cool morning air, the cheerful song of the early birds, the dewy freshness of the turf, were all unnoticed and unfelt: the sense of danger was paramount, while her faculties were all alive and awake to meet it, for a feverish and unnatural strength seemed to animate her limbs. She stepped on, shortly debating with herself whether to follow the directions given by the old woman. The high-road appeared the safest; on the other hand, she was aware that the slightest betrayal of mistrust would perhaps be followed by her destruction; and thus rendered brave even by the excess of her fears, she determined to take the cross path. Just as she had come to this resolution, she reached the gate which she had been directed to pass through; and without the slightest apparent hesitation, she turned in, and pursued the lonely way through the fields. Often did she fancy she heard footsteps stealthily following her, and never approached a hedge without expecting to see the murderers start up from behind it; yet she never once turned her head, nor quickened nor slackened her pace; Like one that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread. She had proceeded in this manner about three-quarters of a mile, and approached a thick and dark grove of underwood, when she beheld seated upon the opposite stile an old woman in a red cloak. The sight of a human being made her heart throb more quickly for a moment; but on approaching nearer, with all her faculties sharpened by the sense of danger, she perceived that it was no old woman, but the younger Hogan, the murderer of Halloran, who was thus disguised. His face was partly concealed by a blue handkerchief tied round his head and under his chin, but she knew him by the peculiar and hideous expression of his eyes: yet with amazing and almost incredible self-possession, she continued to advance without manifesting the least alarm, or sign of recognition; and walking up to the pretended old woman, said in a clear voice, "The blessing of the morning on ye, good mother! a fine day for travellers like you and me!" "A fine day," he replied, coughing and mumbling in a feigned voice, "but ye see, hugh, ugh! ye see I've walked this morning from the Cove of Cork, jewel, and troth I'm almost spent, and I've a bad cowld, and a cough on me, as ye may hear," and he coughed vehemently. Cathleen made a motion to pass the stile, but the disguised old woman stretching out a great bony hand, seized her gown. Still Cathleen did not quail. "Musha, then, have ye nothing to give a poor ould woman?" said the monster, in a whining, snuffling tone. "Nothing have I in this wide world," said Cathleen, quietly disengaging her gown, but without moving. "Sure it's only yesterday I was robbed of all I had but the little clothes on my back, and if I hadn't met with charity from others, I had starved by the way-side by this time." "Och! and is there no place hereby where they would give a potatoe and a cup of cowld water to a poor old woman ready to drop on her road?" Cathleen instantly pointed forward to the house she had just left, and recommended her to apply there. "Sure they're good, honest people, though poor enough, God help them," she continued, "and I wish ye, mother, no worse luck than myself had, and that's a good friend to treat you to a supper--aye, and a breakfast too; there it is, ye may just see the light smoke rising like a thread over the hill, just fornent ye; and so God speed ye!" Cathleen turned to descend the stile as she spoke, expecting to be again seized with a strong and murderous grasp; but her enemy, secure in his disguise, and never doubting her perfect unconsciousness, suffered her to pass unmolested. Another half-mile brought her to the top of a rising ground, within sight of the high-road; she could see crowds of people on horseback and on foot, with cars and carriages passing along in one direction; for it was, though Cathleen did not then know it, the first day of the Cork Assizes. As she gazed, she wished for the wings of a bird that she might in a moment flee over the space which intervened between her and safety; for though she could clearly see the high-road from the hill on which she stood, a valley of broken ground at its foot, and two wide fields still separated her from it; but with the same unfailing spirit, and at the same steady pace, she proceeded onwards: and now she had reached the middle of the last field, and a thrill of new-born hope was beginning to flutter at her heart, when suddenly two men burst through the fence at the farther side of the field, and advanced towards her. One of these she thought at the first glance resembled her husband, but that it _was_ her husband himself was an idea which never entered her mind. Her imagination was possessed with the one supreme idea of danger and death by murderous hands; she doubted not that these were the two Hogans in some new disguise, and silently recommending herself to God, she steeled her heart to meet this fresh trial of her fortitude; aware, that however it might end, it _must_ be the last. At this moment one of the men throwing up his arms, ran forward, shouting her name, in a voice--a dear and well-known voice, in which she _could_ not be deceived:--it was her husband! The poor woman, who had hitherto supported her spirits and her self-possession, stood as if rooted to the ground, weak, motionless, and gasping for breath. A cold dew burst from every pore; her ears tingled, her heart fluttered as though it would burst from her bosom. When she attempted to call out, and raise her hand in token of recognition, the sounds died away, rattling in her throat; her arm dropped powerless at her side; and when her husband came up, and she made a last effort to spring towards him, she sank down at his feet in strong convulsions. Reilly, much shocked at what he supposed the effect of sudden surprise, knelt down and chafed his wife's temples; his comrade ran to a neighbouring spring for water, which they sprinkled plentifully over her: when, however, she returned to life, her intellects appeared to have fled for ever, and she uttered such wild shrieks and exclamations, and talked so incoherently, that the men became exceedingly terrified, and poor Reilly himself almost as distracted as his wife. After vainly attempting to soothe and recover her, they at length forcibly carried her down to the inn at Balgowna, a hamlet about a mile farther on, where she remained for several hours in a state of delirium, one fit succeeding another with little intermission. Towards evening she became more composed, and was able to give some account of the horrible events of the preceding night. It happened, opportunely, that a gentleman of fortune in the neighbourhood, and a magistrate, was riding by late that evening on his return from the Assizes at Cork, and stopped at the inn to refresh his horse. Hearing that something unusual and frightful had occurred, he alighted, and examined the woman himself, in the presence of one or two persons. Her tale appeared to him so strange and wild from the manner in which she told it, and her account of her own courage and sufferings so exceedingly incredible, that he was at first inclined to disbelieve the whole, and suspected the poor woman either of imposture or insanity. He did not, however, think proper totally to neglect her testimony, but immediately sent off information of the murder to Cork. Constables with a warrant were despatched the same night to the house of the Hogans, which they found empty, and the inmates already fled: but after a long search, the body of the wretched Halloran, and part of his property, were found concealed in a stack of old chimneys among the ruins; and this proof of guilt was decisive. The country was instantly _up_; the most active search after the murderers was made by the police, assisted by all the neighbouring peasantry; and before twelve o'clock the following night, the three Hogans, father, mother, and son, had been apprehended in different places of concealment, and placed in safe custody. Meantime the Coroner's inquest having sat on the body, brought in a verdict of wilful murder. As the judges were then at Cork, the trial came on immediately; and from its extraordinary circumstances, excited the most intense and general interest. Among the property of poor Halloran discovered in the house, were a pair of shoes and a cap which Cathleen at once identified as belonging to herself, and Reilly's silver watch was found on the younger Hogan. When questioned how they came into his possession, he sullenly refused to answer. His mother eagerly, and as if to shield her son, confessed that she was the person who had robbed Cathleen in the former part of the day, that she had gone out on the Carrick road to beg, having been left by her husband and son for two days without the means of support; and finding Cathleen asleep, she had taken away the bundle, supposing it to contain food; and did not recognize her as the same person she had robbed, till Cathleen offered her part of her supper. The surgeon, who had been called to examine the body of Halloran, deposed to the cause of his death;--that the old man had been first stunned by a heavy blow on the temple, and then strangled. Other witnesses deposed to the finding of the body: the previous character of the Hogans, and the circumstances attending their apprehension; but the principal witness was Cathleen. She appeared, leaning on her husband, her face was ashy pale, and her limbs too weak for support; yet she, however, was perfectly collected, and gave her testimony with that precision, simplicity, and modesty, peculiar to her character. When she had occasion to allude to her own feelings, it was with such natural and heart-felt eloquence that the whole court was affected; and when she described her rencontre at the stile, there was a general pressure and a breathless suspense: and then a loud murmur of astonishment and admiration fully participated by even the bench of magistrates. The evidence was clear and conclusive; and the jury, without retiring, gave their verdict, guilty--Death. When the miserable wretches were asked, in the usual forms, if they had any thing to say why the awful sentence should not be passed upon them, the old man replied by a look of idiotic vacancy, and was mute--the younger Hogan answered sullenly, "Nothing:" the old woman, staring wildly on her son, tried to speak; her lips moved, but without a sound--and she fell forward on the bar in strong fits. At this moment Cathleen rushed from the arms of her husband, and throwing herself on her knees, with clasped hands, and cheeks streaming with tears, begged for mercy for the old woman. "Mercy, my lord judge!" she exclaimed. "Gentlemen, your honours, have mercy on her. She had mercy on me! She only did _their_ bidding. As for the bundle, and all in it, I give it to her with all my soul, so it's no robbery. The grip of hunger's hard to bear; and if she hadn't taken it then, where would I have been now? Sure they would have killed me for the sake of the watch, and I would have been a corpse before your honours this moment. O mercy! mercy for her! or never will I sleep asy on this side of the grave!" The judge, though much affected, was obliged to have her forcibly carried from the court, and justice took its awful course. Sentence of death was pronounced on all the prisoners; but the woman was reprieved, and afterwards transported. The two men were executed within forty-eight hours after their conviction, on the Gallows Green. They made no public confession of their guilt, and met their fate with sullen indifference. The awful ceremony was for a moment interrupted by an incident which afterwards furnished ample matter for wonder and speculation among the superstitious populace. It was well known that the younger Hogan had been long employed on the estate of a nobleman in the neighbourhood; but having been concerned in the abduction of a young female, under circumstances of peculiar atrocity, which for want of legal evidence could not be brought home to him, he was dismissed; and, finding himself an object of general execration, he had since been skulking about the country, associating with housebreakers and other lawless and abandoned characters. At the moment the hangman was adjusting the rope round his neck, a shrill voice screamed from the midst of the crowd, "Barny Hogan! do ye mind Grace Power, and the last words ever she spoke to ye?" There was a general movement and confusion; no one could or would tell whence the voice proceeded. The wretched man was seen to change countenance for the first time, and raising himself on tiptoe, gazed wildly round upon the multitude: but he said nothing; and in a few minutes he was no more. The reader may wish to know what has become of Cathleen, our _heroine_, in the true sense of the word. Her story, her sufferings, her extraordinary fortitude, and pure simplicity of character, made her an object of general curiosity and interest: a subscription was raised for her, which soon amounted to a liberal sum; they were enabled to procure Reilly's discharge from the army, and with a part of the money, Cathleen, who, among her other perfections, was exceedingly pious after the fashion of her creed and country, founded yearly masses for the soul of the poor pedlar; and vowed herself to make a pilgrimage of thanksgiving to St. Gobnate's well. Mr. L., the magistrate who had first examined her in the little inn at Balgowna, made her a munificent present; and anxious, perhaps, to offer yet farther amends for his former doubts of her veracity, he invited Reilly, on very advantageous terms, to settle on his estate, where he rented a neat cabin, and a _handsome_ plot of potatoe ground. There Reilly and his Cathleen were living ten years ago, with an increasing family, and in the enjoyment of much humble happiness; and there, for aught I know to the contrary, they may be living at this day. THE INDIAN MOTHER.[27] There is a comfort in the strength of love, Making that pang endurable, which else Would overset the brain--or break the heart. _Wordsworth._ The monuments which human art has raised to human pride or power may decay with that power, or survive to mock that pride; but sooner or later they perish--their place knows them not. In the aspect of a ruin, however imposing in itself, and however magnificent or dear the associations connected with it, there is always something sad and humiliating, reminding us how poor and how frail are the works of man, how unstable his hopes, and how limited his capacity compared to his aspirations! But when man has made to himself monuments of the works of God; when the memory of human affections, human intellect, human power, is blended with the immutable features of nature, they consecrate each other, and both endure together to the end. In a state of high civilization, man trusts to the record of brick and marble--the pyramid, the column, the temple, the tomb: "Then the bust And altar rise--then sink again to dust." In the earlier stages of society, the isolated rock--the mountain, cloud-encircled--the river, rolling to its ocean-home--the very stars themselves--were endued with sympathies, and constituted the first, as they will be the last, witnesses and records of our human destinies and feelings. The glories of the Parthenon shall fade into oblivion; but while the heights of Thermopylæ stand, and while a wave murmurs in the gulph of Salamis, a voice shall cry aloud to the universe--"Freedom and glory to those who can dare to die!--woe and everlasting infamy to him who would enthral the unconquerable spirit!" The Coliseum with its sanguinary trophies is crumbling to decay; but the islet of Nisida, where Brutus parted with his Portia--the steep of Leucadia, still remain fixed as the foundations of the earth; and lasting as the round world itself shall be the memories that hover over them! As long as the waters of the Hellespont flow between Sestos and Abydos, the fame of the love that perished there shall never pass away. A traveller, pursuing his weary way through the midst of an African desert--a barren, desolate, and almost boundless solitude--found a gigantic sculptured head, shattered and half-buried in the sand; and near it the fragment of a pedestal, on which these words might be with pain deciphered: "_I am Ozymandias, King of kings; look upon my works, ye mighty ones, and despair!_" Who was Ozymandias?--where are now his works?--what bond of thought or feeling, links his past with our present? The Arab, with his beasts of burthen, tramples unheeding over these forlorn vestiges of human art and human grandeur. In the wildest part of the New Continent, hidden amid the depths of interminable forests, there stands a huge rock, hallowed by a tradition so recent that the man is not yet grey-headed who was born its contemporary; but that rock, and the tale which consecrates it, shall carry down to future ages a deep lesson--a moral interest lasting as itself--however the aspect of things and the conditions of people change around it. Henceforth no man shall gaze on it with careless eye; but each shall whisper to his own bosom--"What is stronger than love in a mother's heart?--what more fearful than power wielded by ignorance?--or what more lamentable than the abuse of a beneficent name to purposes of selfish cruelty?" Those vast regions which occupy the central part of South America, stretching from Guinea to the foot of the Andes, overspread with gigantic and primeval forests, and watered by mighty rivers--those solitary wilds where man appears unessential in the scale of creation, and the traces of his power are few and far between--have lately occupied much of the attention of Europeans; partly from the extraordinary events and unexpected revolutions which have convulsed the nations round them; and partly from the researches of enterprising travellers who have penetrated into their remotest districts. But till within the last twenty years these wild regions have been unknown, except through the means of the Spanish and Portuguese priests, settled as missionaries along the banks of the Orinoco and the Paraguay. The men thus devoted to utter banishment from all intercourse with civilized life, are generally Franciscan or Capuchin friars, born in the Spanish Colonies. Their pious duties are sometimes voluntary, and sometimes imposed by the superiors of their order; in either case their destiny appears at first view deplorable, and their self-sacrifice sublime; yet, when we recollect that these poor monks generally exchanged the monotonous solitude of the cloister for the magnificent loneliness of the boundless woods and far-spreading savannahs, the sacrifice appears less terrible; even where accompanied by suffering, privation, and occasionally by danger. When these men combine with their religious zeal some degree of understanding and enlightened benevolence, they have been enabled to enlarge the sphere of knowledge and civilization, by exploring the productions and geography of these unknown regions; and by collecting into villages and humanizing the manners of the native tribes, who seem strangely to unite the fiercest and most abhorred traits of savage life, with some of the gentlest instincts of our common nature. But when it has happened that these priests have been men of narrow minds and tyrannical tempers, they have on some occasions fearfully abused the authority entrusted to them; and being removed many thousand miles from the European settlements and the restraint of the laws, the power they have exercised has been as far beyond control as the calamities they have caused have been beyond all remedy and all relief. Unfortunately for those who were trusted to his charge, Father Gomez was a missionary of this character. He was a Franciscan friar of the order of Observance, and he dwelt in the village of San Fernando, near the source of the Orinoco, whence his authority extended as president over several missions in the neighbourhood of which San Fernando was the capital. The temper of this man was naturally cruel and despotic; he was wholly uneducated, and had no idea, no feeling, of the true spirit of christian benevolence: in this respect, the savages whom he had been sent to instruct and civilize were in reality less savage and less ignorant than himself. Among the passions and vices which Father Gomez had brought from his cell in the convent of Angostara, to spread contamination and oppression through his new domain, were pride and avarice; and both were interested in increasing the number of his converts, or rather, of his slaves. In spite of the wise and humane law of Charles the Third, prohibiting the conversion of the Indian natives by force, Gomez, like others of his brethren in the more distant missions, often accomplished his purpose by direct violence. He was accustomed to go, with a party of his people, and lie in wait near the hordes of unreclaimed Indians: when the men were absent he would forcibly seize on the women and children, bind them, and bring them off in triumph to his village. There, being baptized and taught to make the sign of the cross, they were _called_ Christians, but in reality were slaves. In general, the women thus detained pined away and died; but the children became accustomed to their new mode of life, forgot their woods, and paid to their Christian master a willing and blind obedience; thus in time they became the oppressors of their own people. Father Gomez called these incursions, _la conquista espiritual_--the conquest of souls. One day he set off on an expedition of this nature, attended by twelve armed Indians; and after rowing some leagues up the river Guaviare, which flows into the Orinoco, they perceived, through an opening in the trees, and at a little distance from the shore, an Indian hut. It is the custom of these people to live isolated in families; and so strong is their passion for solitude, that when collected into villages they frequently build themselves a little cabin at a distance from their usual residence, and retire to it, at certain seasons, for days together. The cabin of which I speak was one of these solitary _villas_--if I may so apply the word. It was constructed with peculiar neatness, thatched with palm leaves, and overshadowed with cocoa trees and laurels; it stood alone in the wilderness, embowered in luxuriant vegetation, and looked like the chosen abode of simple and quiet happiness. Within this hut a young Indian woman (whom I shall call Guahiba, from the name of her tribe) was busied in making cakes of the cassava root, and preparing the family meal, against the return of her husband, who was fishing at some distance up the river; her eldest child, about five or six years old, assisted her; and from time to time, while thus employed, the mother turned her eyes, beaming with fond affection, upon the playful gambols of two little infants, who, being just able to crawl alone, were rolling together on the ground, laughing and crowing with all their might. Their food being nearly prepared, the Indian woman looked towards the river, impatient for the return of her husband. But her bright dark eyes, swimming with eagerness and affectionate solicitude, became fixed and glazed with terror when, instead of him she so fondly expected, she beheld the attendants of Father Gomez, creeping stealthily along the side of the thicket towards her cabin. Instantly aware of her danger (for the nature and object of these incursions were the dread of all the country round) she uttered a piercing shriek, snatched up her infants in her arms, and, calling on the other to follow, rushed from the hut towards the forest. As she had considerably the start of her pursuers, she would probably have escaped, and have hidden herself effectually in its tangled depths, if her precious burthen had not impeded her flight; but thus encumbered she was easily overtaken. Her eldest child, fleet of foot and wily as the young jaguar, escaped to carry to the wretched father the news of his bereavement, and neither father nor child were ever more beheld in their former haunts. Meantime, the Indians seized upon Guahiba--bound her, tied her two children together, and dragged her down to the river, where Father Gomez was sitting in his canoe, waiting the issue of the expedition. At the sight of the captives his eyes sparkled with a cruel triumph; he thanked his patron saint that three more souls were added to his community; and then, heedless of the tears of the mother, and the cries of her children, he commanded his followers to row back with all speed to San Fernando. There Guahiba and her infants were placed in a hut under the guard of two Indians; some food was given to her, which she at first refused, but afterwards, as if on reflection, accepted. A young Indian girl was then sent to her--a captive convert of her own tribe, who had not yet quite forgotten her native language. She tried to make Guahiba comprehend that in this village she and her children must remain during the rest of their lives, in order that they might go to heaven after they were dead. Guahiba listened, but understood nothing of what was addressed to her; nor could she be made to conceive for what purpose she was torn from her husband and her home, nor why she was to dwell for the remainder of her life among a strange people, and against her will. During that night she remained tranquil, watching over her infants as they slumbered by her side; but the moment the dawn appeared she took them in her arms and ran off to the woods. She was immediately brought back; but no sooner were the eyes of her keepers turned from her than she snatched up her children, and again fled;--again--and again! At every new attempt she was punished with more and more severity; she was kept from food, and at length repeatedly and cruelly beaten. In vain!--apparently she did not even understand why she was thus treated; and one instinctive idea alone, the desire of escape, seemed to possess her mind and govern all her movements. If her oppressors only turned from her, or looked another way, for an instant, she invariably caught up her children and ran off towards the forest. Father Gomez was at length wearied by what he termed her "blind obstinacy;" and, as the only means of securing all three, he took measures to separate the mother from her children, and resolved to convey Guahiba to a distant mission, whence she should never find her way back either to them or to her home. In pursuance of this plan, poor Guahiba, with her hands tied behind her, was placed in the bow of a canoe. Father Gomez seated himself at the helm, and they rowed away. The few travellers who have visited these regions agree in describing a phenomenon, the cause of which is still a mystery to geologists, and which imparts to the lonely depths of these unappropriated and unviolated shades an effect intensely and indescribably mournful. The granite rocks which border the river, and extend far into the contiguous woods, assume strange, fantastic shapes; and are covered with a black incrustation, or deposit, which contrasted with the snow-white foam of the waves breaking on them below, and the pale lichens which spring from their crevices and creep along their surface above, give these shores an aspect perfectly funereal. Between these melancholy rocks--so high and so steep that a landing-place seldom occurred for leagues together--the canoe of Father Gomez slowly glided, though urged against the stream by eight robust Indians. The unhappy Guahiba sat at first perfectly unmoved, and apparently amazed and stunned by her situation; she did not comprehend what they were going to do with her; but after a while she looked up towards the sun, then down upon the stream; and perceiving, by the direction of the one and the course of the other, that every stroke of the oar carried her farther and farther from her beloved and helpless children, her husband, and her native home, her countenance was seen to change and assume a fearful expression. As the possibility of escape, in her present situation, had never once occurred to her captors, she had been very slightly and carelessly bound. She watched her opportunity, burst the withes on her arms, with a sudden effort flung herself overboard, and dived under the waves; but in another moment she rose again at a considerable distance, and swam to the shore. The current, being rapid and strong, carried her down to the base of a dark granite rock which projected into the stream; she climbed it with fearless agility, stood for an instant on its summit, looking down upon her tyrants, then plunged into the forest, and was lost to sight. Father Gomez, beholding his victim thus unexpectedly escape him, sat mute and thunderstruck for some moments, unable to give utterance to the extremity of his rage and astonishment. When, at length, he found voice, he commanded his Indians to pull with all their might to the shore; then to pursue the poor fugitive, and bring her back to him, dead or alive. Guahiba, meantime, while strength remained to break her way through the tangled wilderness, continued her flight; but soon exhausted and breathless, with the violence of her exertions, she was obliged to relax in her efforts, and at length sunk down at the foot of a huge laurel tree, where she concealed herself, as well as she might, among the long, interwoven grass. There, crouching and trembling in her lair, she heard the voices of her persecutors hallooing to each other through the thicket. She would probably have escaped but for a large mastiff which the Indians had with them, and which scented her out in her hiding-place. The moment she heard the dreaded animal snuffing in the air, and tearing his way through the grass, she knew she was lost. The Indians came up. She attempted no vain resistance; but, with a sullen passiveness, suffered herself to be seized and dragged to the shore. When the merciless priest beheld her, he determined to inflict on her such discipline as he thought would banish her children from her memory, and cure her for ever of her passion for escaping. He ordered her to be stretched upon that granite rock where she had landed from the canoe, on the summit of which she had stood, as if exulting in her flight,--THE ROCK OF THE MOTHER, as it has ever since been denominated--and there flogged till she could scarcely move or speak. She was then bound more securely, placed in the canoe, and carried to Javita, the seat of a mission far up the river. It was near sunset when they arrived at this village, and the inhabitants were preparing to go to rest. Guahiba was deposited for the night in a large barn-like building, which served as a place of worship, a public magazine, and, occasionally, as a barrack. Father Gomez ordered two or three Indians of Javita to keep guard over her alternately, relieving each other through the night; and then went to repose himself after the fatigues of his voyage. As the wretched captive neither resisted nor complained, Father Gomez flattered himself that she was now reduced to submission. Little could he fathom the bosom of this fond mother! He mistook for stupor, or resignation, the calmness of a fixed resolve. In absence, in bonds, and in torture, her heart throbbed with but one feeling; one thought alone possessed her whole soul:--her children--her children--and still her children! Among the Indians appointed to watch her was a youth, about eighteen or nineteen years of age, who, perceiving that her arms were miserably bruised by the stripes she had received, and that she suffered the most acute agony from the savage tightness with which the cords were drawn, let fall an exclamation of pity in the language of her tribe. Quick she seized the moment of feeling, and addressed him as one of her people. "Guahibo," she said, in a whispered tone, "thou speakest my language, and doubtless thou art my brother! Wilt thou see me perish without pity, O son of my people? Ah, cut these bonds which enter into my flesh! I faint with pain! I die!" The young man heard, and, as if terrified, removed a few paces from her and kept silence. Afterwards, when his companions were out of sight, and he was left alone to watch, he approached, and said, "Guahiba!--our fathers were the same, and I may not see thee die; but if I cut these bonds, white man will flog me:--wilt thou be content if I loosen them, and give thee ease?" And as he spoke, he stooped and loosened the thongs on her wrists and arms; she smiled upon him languidly, and appeared satisfied. Night was now coming on. Guahiba dropped her head on her bosom, and closed her eyes, as if exhausted by weariness. The young Indian, believing that she slept, after some hesitation laid himself down on his mat. His companions were already slumbering in the porch of the building, and all was still. Then Guahiba raised her head. It was night--dark night--without moon or star. There was no sound, except the breathing of the sleepers around her, and the humming of the mosquitoes. She listened for some time with her whole soul; but all was silence. She then gnawed the loosened thongs asunder with her teeth. Her hands once free, she released her feet; and when the morning came she had disappeared. Search was made for her in every direction, but in vain; and Father Gomez, baffled and wrathful, returned to his village. The distance between Javita and San Fernando, where Guahiba had left her infants, is twenty-five leagues in a straight line. A fearful wilderness of gigantic forest trees, and intermingling underwood, separated these two missions;--a savage and awful solitude, which, probably, since the beginning of the world, had never been trodden by human foot. All communication was carried on by the river; and there lived not a man, whether Indian or European, bold enough to have attempted the route along the shore. It was the commencement of the rainy season. The sky, obscured by clouds, seldom revealed the sun by day; and neither moon nor gleam of twinkling star by night. The rivers had overflowed, and the lowlands were inundated. There was no visible object to direct the traveller; no shelter, no defence, no aid, no guide. Was it Providence--was it the strong instinct of maternal love, which led this courageous woman through the depths of the pathless woods--where rivulets, swollen to torrents by the rains, intercepted her at every step; where the thorny lianas, twining from tree to tree, opposed an almost impenetrable barrier; where the mosquitoes hung in clouds upon her path; where the jaguar and the alligator lurked to devour her; where the rattle-snake and the water-serpent lay coiled up in the damp grass, ready to spring at her; where she had no food to support her exhausted frame, but a few berries, and the large black ants which build their nests on the trees? How directed--how sustained--cannot be told: the poor woman herself could not tell. All that can be known with any certainty is, that the fourth rising sun beheld her at San Fernando; a wild, and wasted, and fearful object; her feet swelled and bleeding--her hands torn--her body covered with wounds, and emaciated with famine and fatigue;--but once more near her children! For several hours she hovered round the hut in which she had left them, gazing on it from a distance with longing eyes and a sick heart, without daring to advance: at length she perceived that all the inhabitants had quitted their cottages to attend vespers; then she stole from the thicket, and approached, with faint and timid steps, the spot which contained her hearths treasures. She entered, and found her infants left alone, and playing together on a mat: they screamed at her appearance, so changed was she by suffering; but when she called them by name, they knew her tender voice, and stretched out their little arms towards her. In that moment, the mother forgot all she had endured--all her anguish, all her fears, every thing on earth but the objects which blessed her eyes. She sat down between her children--she took them on her knees--she clasped them in an agony of fondness to her bosom--she covered them with kisses--she shed torrents of tears on their little heads, as she hugged them to her. Suddenly she remembered where she was, and why she was there: new terrors seized her; she rose up hastily, and, with her babies in her arms, she staggered out of the cabin--fainting, stumbling, and almost blind with loss of blood and inanition. She tried to reach the woods, but too feeble to sustain her burthen, which yet she would not relinquish, her limbs trembled, and sank beneath her. At this moment an Indian, who was watching the public oven, perceived her. He gave the alarm by ringing a bell, and the people rushed forth, gathering round Guahiba with fright and astonishment. They gazed upon her as if upon an apparition, till her sobs, and imploring looks, and trembling and wounded limbs, convinced them that she yet lived, though apparently nigh to death. They looked upon her in silence, and then at each other; their savage bosoms were touched with commiseration for her sad plight, and with admiration, and even awe, at this unexampled heroism of maternal love. While they hesitated, and none seemed willing to seize her, or to take her children from her, Father Gomez, who had just landed on his return from Javita, approached in haste, and commanded them to be separated. Guahiba clasped her children closer to her breast, and the Indians shrunk back. "What!" thundered the monk: "will ye suffer this woman to steal two precious souls from heaven?--two members from our community? See ye not, that while she is suffered to approach them, there is no salvation for either mother or children?--part them, and instantly!" The Indians, accustomed to his ascendancy, and terrified at his voice, tore the children of Guahiba once more from her feeble arms: she uttered nor word nor cry, but sunk in a swoon upon the earth. While in this state, Father Gomez, with a cruel mercy, ordered her wounds to be carefully dressed: her arms and legs were swathed with cotton bandages; she was then placed in a canoe, and conveyed to a mission, far, far off, on the river Esmeralda, beyond the Upper Orinoco. She continued in a state of exhaustion and torpor during the voyage; but after being taken out of the boat and carried inland, restoratives brought her back to life, and to a sense of her situation. When she perceived, as reason and consciousness returned, that she was in a strange place, unknowing how she was brought there--among a tribe who spoke a language different from any she had ever heard before, and from whom, therefore, according to Indian prejudices, she could hope nor aid nor pity;--when she recollected that she was far from her beloved children;--when she saw no means of discovering the bearing or the distance of their abode--no clue to guide her back to it:--_then_, and only then, did the mother's heart yield to utter despair; and thenceforward refusing to speak or to move, and obstinately rejecting all nourishment, thus she died. The boatman, on the river Atabapo, suspends his oar with a sigh as he passes the ROCK OF THE MOTHER. He points it out to the traveller, and weeps as he relates the tale of her sufferings and her fate. Ages hence, when these solitary regions have become the seats of civilization, of power, and intelligence; when the pathless wilds, which poor Guahiba traversed in her anguish, are replaced by populous cities, and smiling gardens, and pastures, and waving harvests,--still that dark rock shall stand, frowning o'er the stream; tradition and history shall preserve its name and fame; and when even the pyramids, those vast, vain monuments to human pride, have passed away, it shall endure, to carry down to the end of the world the memory of the Indian Mother. MUCH COIN, MUCH CARE. A DRAMATIC PROVERB. WRITTEN FOR HYACINTHE, EMILY, CAROLINE, AND EDWARD. CHARACTERS. DICK, the Cobbler, a very honest man, and very merry withal, much given to singing. MARGERY, his wife, simple and affectionate, and one of the best women in the world. LADY AMARANTHE, a fine lady, full of airs and affectation, but not without good feeling. MADEMOISELLE JUSTINE, her French maid, very like other French maids. The SCENE lies partly in the Garret of the Cobbler, and partly in LADY AMARANTHE's Drawing-room. MUCH COIN, MUCH CARE. SCENE I. _A Garret meanly furnished; several pairs of old shoes, a coat, hat, bonnet, and shawl hanging against the Wall. DICK is seated on a low stool in front. He works, and sings._ As she lay on that day In the Bay of Biscay O! Now that's what _I_ call a good song; but my wife, she can't abear them blusteration songs, she says; she likes something tender and genteel, full of fine words. (_Sings in a mincing voice._) Vake, dearest, vake, and again united Ve'll vander by the sea-he-he-e. Hang me, if I can understand a word of it! but when my wife sings it out with her pretty little mouth, it does one's heart good to hear her; and I could listen to her for ever: but, for my own part, what I like is a song that comes thundering out with a meaning in it! (_Sings, and flourishes his hammer with enthusiasm, beating time upon the shoe._) March! march! Eskdale and Tiviotdale, All the blue bonnets are over the border! MARGERY--(_from within._) Dick! Dick! what a noise you do keep! DICK. A noise, eh? Why, Meg, you didn't use to think it a noise: you used to like to hear me sing! MARGERY--(_entering._) And so I did, and so I do. I loves music with all my heart; but the whole parish will hear you if you go for to bawl out so monstrous loud. DICK. And let them! who cares? [_He sings, she laughs._ MARGERY. Nay, sing away if you like it! DICK--(_stopping suddenly._) I won't sing another bit if you don't like it, Meg. MARGERY. Oh, I do like! Lord bless us! not like it! it sounds so merry! Why, Dick, love, every body said yesterday that you sung as well as Mr. Thingumee at Sadler's Wells, and says they, "Who is that young man as sings like any nightingale?" and I says (_drawing herself up_), "That's my husband!" DICK. Ay! flummery!--But, Meg, I say, how did you like the wedding yesterday? MARGERY. Oh, hugeously! such heaps of smart people, as fine as fivepence, I warrant; and such gay gowns and caps! and plenty to eat and drink!--But what I liked best was the walking in the gardens at Bagnigge Wells, and the tea, and the crumpets! DICK. And the punch! MARGERY. Yes--ha! ha! I could see you thought _that_ good! and then the dancing! DICK. Ay, ay; and there wasn't one amongst them that footed it away like my Margery. And folks says to me, "Pray, who is that pretty modest young woman as hops over the ground as light as a feather?" says they; and says I, "Why, that there pretty young woman is my wife, to be sure!" MARGERY. Ah, you're at your jokes, Dick! DICK. I'll be hanged then! MARGERY--(_leaning on his shoulder._) Well, to be sure, we were happy yesterday. It's good to make holiday just now and then, but some how I was very glad to come home to our own little room again. O Dick!--did you mind that Mrs. Pinchtoe, that gave herself such grand airs?--she in the fine lavender silk gown--that turned up her nose at me so, and all because she's a master shoemaker's wife! and you are only--only--a cobbler!--(_sighs_) I wish _you_ were a master shoemaker, Dick. DICK. That you might be a master shoemaker's wife, hay! and turn up your nose like Mrs. Pinchtoe? MARGERY--(_laughing._) No, no; I have more manners. DICK. Would you love me better, Meg, if I were a master shoemaker? MARGERY. No, I couldn't love you better if you were a king; and that you know, Dick; and, after all, we're happy now, and who knows what might be if he were to change? DICK. Ay, indeed! who knows? you might grow into a fine lady like she over the way, who comes home o'nights just as we're getting up in the morning, with the flams flaring, and blazing like any thing; and that puts me in mind---- MARGERY. Of what, Dick? tell me! DICK. Why, cousin Tom's wedding put it all out of my head last night; but yesterday there comes over to me one of those fine bedizened fellows we see lounging about the door there, with a cocked hat, and things like stay laces dangling at his shoulder. MARGERY. What could he want, I wonder! DICK. O! he comes over to me as I was just standing at the door below, a thinking of nothing at all, and singing Paddy O'Raffety to myself, and says he to me, "You cobbler fellor," says he, "don't you go for to keep such a bawling every morning, awakening people out of their first sleep," says he, "for if you do, my lord will have you put into the stocks," says he. MARGERY. The stocks! O goodness gracious me! and what for, pray? DICK--(_with a grin._) Why, for singing, honey! So says I, "Hark 'ee, Mr. Scrape-trencher, there go words to that bargain: what right have you to go for to speak in that there way to me?" says I; and says he, "We'll have you 'dited for a nuisance, fellor," says he. MARGERY--(_clasping her hands._) A nuisance! my Dick a nuisance! O Lord a' mercy! DICK. Never fear, girl; I'm a free-born Englishman, and I knows the laws well enough: and says I, "No more a fellor than yourself; I'm an honest man, following an honest calling, and I don't care _that_ for you nor your lord neither; and I'll sing _when_ I please, and I'll sing _what_ I please, and I'll sing as loud as I please; I will, by jingo!" and so he lifts me up his cane, and I says quite cool, "This house is my castle; and if you don't take yourself out of that in a jiffey, why, I'll give your laced jacket such a dusting as it never had before in its life--I will." MARGERY. O, Dick! you've a spirit of your own, I warrant. Well, and then? DICK. Oh, I promise you he was off in the twinkling of a bed-post, and I've heard no more of him; but I was determined to wake you this morning with a thundering song; just to show 'em I didn't care for 'em--ha! ha! ha! MARGERY. Oh, ho! that was the reason, then, that you bawled so in my ear, and frightened me out of my sleep--was it? Oh, well, I forgive you; but bless me! I stand chattering here, and it's twelve o'clock, as I live! I must go to market--(_putting on her shawl and bonnet._) What would you like to have for dinner, Dick, love? a nice rasher of bacon, by way of a relish? DICK--(_smacking his lips._) Just the very thing, honey. MARGERY. Well, give me the shilling, then. DICK--(_scratching his head._) What shilling? MARGERY. Why, the shilling you had yesterday. DICK--(_feeling in his pockets._) A shilling! MARGERY. Yes, a shilling. (_Gaily._) To have meat, one must have money; and folks must eat as well as sing, Dick, love. Come, out with it! DICK. But suppose I haven't got it? MARGERY. How! what! you don't mean for to say that the last shilling that you put in your pocket, just to make a show, is gone? DICK--(_with a sigh._) But I do, though--it's gone. MARGERY. What shall we do? DICK. I don't know. (_A pause. They look at each other._) Stay, that's lucky. Here's a pair of dancing pumps as belongs to old Mrs. Crusty, the baker's wife at the corner-- MARGERY--(_gaily._) We can't eat _them_ for dinner, I guess. DICK. No, no; but I'm just at the last stitch. MARGERY. Yes-- DICK--(_speaking and working in a hurry._) And so you'll take them home-- MARGERY. Yes-- DICK. And tell her I must have seven-pence halfpenny for them. (_Gives them._) MARGERY--(_examining the shoes._) But, Dick, isn't that some'at extortionate, as a body may say? seven-pence halfpenny! DICK. Why, here's heel-pieces, and a patch upon each toe; one must live, Meg! MARGERY. Yes, Dick, love; but so must other folks. Now I think seven-pence would be enough in all conscience--what do you say? DICK. Well, settle it as you like; only get a bit of dinner for us, for I'm as hungry as a hunter, I know. MARGERY. I'm going. Good bye, Dick! DICK. Take care of theeself--and don't spend the change in caps and ribbons, Meg. MARGERY. Caps and ribbons out of seven-pence! Lord help the man! ha, ha, ha! (_She goes out._) DICK--(_calling after her._) And come back soon, d'ye hear? There she goes--hop, skip, and jump, down the stairs. Somehow, I can't abear to have her out of my sight a minute. Well, if ever there was a man could say he had a good wife, why, that's me myself--tho'f I say it--the cheerfullest, sweetest temperedst, cleanliest, lovingest woman in the whole parish, that never gives one an ill word from year's end to year's end, and deserves at least that a man should work hard for her--it's all I can do--and we must think for to-morrow as well as to-day. (_He works with great energy, and sings at the same time with equal enthusiasm._) Cannot ye do as I do? Cannot ye do as I do ? Spend your money, and work for more; _That's_ the way that I do! Tol de rol lol. _Re-enter MARGERY in haste._ MARG.--(_out of breath._) Oh, Dick, husband! Dick, I say! DICK. Hay! what's the matter now? MARGERY. Here be one of those fine powdered laced fellows from over the way comed after you again. DICK--(_rising._) An impudent jackanapes! I'll give him as good as he brings. MARGERY. Oh, no, no! he's monstrous civil now; for he chucked me under the chin, and says he, "My pretty girl!" DICK. Ho! monstrous civil indeed, with a vengeance! MARGERY. And says he, "Do you belong to this here house?" "Yes, sir," says I, making a curtsy, for I couldn't do no less when he spoke so civil; and says he, "Is there an honest cobbler as lives here?" "Yes, sir," says I, "my husband that is." "Then, my dear," says he, "just tell him to step over the way, for my Lady Amaranthe wishes to speak to him immediately." DICK. A lady? O Lord! MARGERY. Yes, so you must go directly. Here, take off your apron, and let me comb your hair a bit. DICK. What the mischief can a lady want with me? I've nothing to do with ladies, as I knows of. MARGERY. Why, she won't eat you up, I reckon. DICK. And yet I--I--I be afeard, Meg! MARGERY. Afeard of a lady! that's a good one! DICK. Ay, just--if it were a man, I shouldn't care a fig. MARGERY. But we've never done no harm to nobody in our whole lives, so what is there to be afraid of? DICK. Nay, that's true. MARGERY. Now let me help you on with your best coat. Pooh! what is the man about?--Why, you're putting the back to the front, and the front to the back, like Paddy from Cork, with his coat buttoned behind! DICK. My head do turn round, just for all the world like a peg-top.--A lady! what _can_ a lady have to say to me, I wonder? MARGERY. May be, she's a customer. DICK. No, no, great gentlefolks like she never wears patched toes nor heel-pieces, I reckon. MARGERY. Here's your hat. Now let me see how you can make a bow. (_He bows awkwardly._) Hold up your head--turn out your toes. That will do capital! (_She walks round him with admiration._) How nice you look! there's ne'er a gentleman of them all can come up to my Dick. DICK--(_hesitating._) But--a--a--Meg, you'll come with me, won't you, and just see me safe in at the door, eh? MARGERY. Yes, to be sure; walk on before, and let me look at you. Hold up your head--there, that's it! DICK--(_marching._) Come along. Hang it, who's afraid? [_They go out._ _Scene changes to a Drawing-room in the House of LADY AMARANTHE._ _Enter _Lady Amaranthe_, leaning upon her maid, MADEMOISELLE JUSTINE._ LADY AMARANTHE. Avancez un fauteuil, ma chère! arrangez les coussins. (_JUSTINE settles the chair, and places a footstool. LADY AMARANTHE, sinking into the arm-chair with a languid air._) Justine, I shall die, I shall certainly die! I never can survive this! JUSTINE. Mon Dieu! madame, ne parlez pas comme çà! c'est m'enfoncer un poignard dans le coeur! LADY AMARANTHE--(_despairingly._) No rest--no possibility of sleeping-- JUSTINE. Et le medecin de madame, qui a ordonné la plus grande tranquillité--qui a mème voulu que je me taisais--moi, par exemple! LADY AMARANTHE. After fatiguing myself to death with playing the agreeable to disagreeable people, and talking common-place to common-place acquaintance, I return home, to lay my aching head upon my pillow, and just as my eyes are closing, I start--I wake,--a voice that would rouse the dead out of their graves echoes in my ears! In vain I bury my head in the pillow--in vain draw the curtains close--multiply defences against my window--change from room to room--it haunts me! Ah! I think I hear it still! (_covering her ears_) it will certainly drive me distracted! [_During this speech, JUSTINE has made sundry exclamations and gestures expressive of horror, sympathy, and commiseration._] JUSTINE. Vraiment, c'est affreux. LADY AMARANTHE. In any more civilized country it never could have been endured--I should have had him removed at once; but here the vulgar people talk of laws! JUSTINE. Ah, oui, madame, mais il faut avouer que c'est ici un pays bien barbare, où tout le monde parle loi et métaphysique, et où l'on ne fait point de différence entre les riches et les pauvres. LADY AMARANTHE. But what provokes me more than all the rest is this unheard-of insolence! (_rises and walks about the room_,)--a cobbler too--a cobbler who presumes to sing, and to sing when all the rest of the world is asleep! This is the march of intellect with a vengeance! JUSTINE. C'est vrai, il ne chante que des marches et de gros chansons à boire--s'il chantait bien doucement quelque joli roman par exemple--(_She sings_)--_dormez, dormez, mes chers amours_! LADY AMARANTHE. Justine, did you send the butler over to request civilly that he would not disturb me in the morning? JUSTINE. Oui, miladi, dat is, I have send John; de butler he was went out. LADY AMARANTHE. And his answer was, that he would sing in spite of me, and louder than ever? JUSTINE. Oui, miladi, le monstre! il dit comme çà, dat he will sing more louder den ever. LADY AMARANTHE--(_sinking again into her chair._) Ah! the horrid man! JUSTINE. Ah! dere is no politesse, no more den dere is police in dis country. LADY AMARANTHE. If Lord Amaranthe were not two hundred miles off--but, as it is, I must find some remedy--let me think--bribery, I suppose. Have they sent for him? I dread to see the wretch. What noise is that? allez voir, ma chère! JUSTINE--(_goes and returns._) Madame, c'est justement notre homme, voulez-vous qu'il entre? LADY AMARANTHE. Oui, faites entrer. [_She leans back in her chair._ JUSTINE--(_at the door._) Entrez, entrez toujours, dat is, come in, good mister. _Enter DICK. He bows; and, squeezing his hat in his hands, looks round him with considerable embarrassment._ JUSTINE--(_to Lady Amaranthe._) Bah! comme il sent le cuir, n'est-ce pas, madame? LADY AMARANTHE. Faugh! mes sels--ma vinaigrette, Justine--non, l'eau de Cologne, qui est là sur la table. (_JUSTINE brings her some eau de Cologne; she pours some upon her handkerchief, and applies it to her temples and to her nose, as if overcome; then, raising her eye-glass, she examines DICK from head to foot._) Good man--a--pray, what is your name? DICK--(_with a profound bow._) Dick, please your ladyship. LADY AMARANTHE. Hum--a--a--pray, Mr. Dick-- DICK. Folks just call me plain Dick, my lady. I'm a poor honest cobbler, and no mister. LADY AMARANTHE--(_pettishly._) Well, sir, it is of no consequence. You live in the small house over the way, I think? DICK. Yes, ma'am, my lady, I does; I rents the attics. LADY AMARANTHE. You appear a good civil sort of man enough. (_He bows._) I sent my servant over to request that you would not disturb me in the night--or the morning, as you call it. I have very weak health--am quite an invalid--your loud singing in the morning just opposite to my windows---- DICK--(_eagerly._) Ma'am, I--I'm very sorry; I ax your ladyship's pardon; I'll never sing no more above my breath, if you please. JUSTINE. Comment! c'est honnête, par exemple. LADY AMARANTHE--(_surprised._) Then you did not tell my servant that you would sing louder than ever, in spite of me? DICK. Me, my Lady? I never said no such thing. LADY AMARANTHE. This is strange; or is there some mistake? Perhaps you are not the same Mr. Dick? DICK. Why, yes, my lady, for that matter, I be the same Dick. (_Approaching a few steps, and speaking confidentially._) I'll just tell your ladyship the whole truth, and not a bit of a lie. There comes an impudent fellow to me, and he tells me, just out of his own head, I'll be bound, that if I sung o' mornings, he would have me put in the stocks. LADY AMARANTHE. Good heavens! JUSTINE--(_in the same tone._) Grands dieux! DICK--(_with a grin._) Now the stocks is for a rogue, as the saying is. As for my singing, that's neither here nor there; but no jackanapes shall threaten _me_. I _will_ sing if I please, (_sturdily_,) and I won't sing if I don't please; and (_lowering his tone_) I don't please, if it disturbs your ladyship. (_Retreating_) I wish your ladyship a good day, and better health. LADY AMARANTHE. Stay; you are not then the rude uncivil person I was told of? DICK. I hopes I knows better than to do an uncivil thing by a lady. [_Bows and retreats towards the door._ LADY AMARANTHE. Stay, sir--a--a--one word. DICK. Oh, as many as you please, ma'am; I'm in no hurry. LADY AMARANTHE--(_graciously._) Are you married? DICK--(_rubbing his hands with glee._) Yes, ma'am, I be; and to as tight a bit of a wife as any in the parish. JUSTINE. Ah! il parait que ce monsieur Dick aime sa femme! Est-il amusant! LADY AMARANTHE. You love her then? DICK. Oh, then I do! I love her with all my heart! who could help it? LADY AMARANTHE. Indeed! and how do you live? DICK. Why, bless you, ma'am, sometimes well, sometimes ill, according as I have luck and work. When we can get a bit of dinner, we eat it, and when we can't, why, we go without: or, may be, a kind neighbour helps us. LADY AMARANTHE. Poor creatures! DICK. Oh, not so poor neither, my lady; many folks is worser off. I'm always merry, night and day; and my Meg is the good temperedst, best wife in the world. We've never had nothing from the parish, and never will, please God, while I have health and hands. LADY AMARANTHE. And you are happy? DICK. As happy as the day is long. LADY AMARANTHE--(_aside._) This is a lesson to me. Eh bien, Justine! voilà donc notre sauvage! JUSTINE. Il est gentil ce monsieur Dick, et à present que je le regarde--vraiment il a une assez jolie tournure. LADY AMARANTHE--(_with increasing interest._) Have you any children? DICK--(_with a sigh._) No, ma'am; and that's the only thing as frets us. LADY AMARANTHE. Good heavens! you do not mean to say you wish for them, and have scarce enough for yourselves? how would you feed them? DICK. Oh, I should leave Meg to feed them; I should have nothing to do but to work for them. Providence would take care of us while they were little; and, when they were big, they would help us. LADY AMARANTHE--(_aside._) I could not have conceived this. (_She whispers JUSTINE, who goes out._) (_To DICK._) Can I do any thing to serve you? DICK. Only, if your ladyship could recommend me any custom; I mend shoes as cheap as e'er a cobbler in London, though I say it. LADY AMARANTHE. I shall certainly desire that all my people employ you whenever there is occasion. _Re-enter JUSTINE, holding a purse in her hand._ DICK--(_bowing._) Much obliged, my lady; I hopes to give satisfaction, but (_looking with admiration at LADY AMARANTHE's foot as it rests on the footstool_) such a pretty, little, delicate, beautiful foot as yon, I never fitted in all my born days. It can't cost your ladyship much in shoe leather, I guess? LADY AMARANTHE--(_smiling complacently._) Rather more than you would imagine, I fancy, my good friend. JUSTINE. Comment donc--ce Monsieur Dick, fait aussi des complimens à Madame? Il ne manque pas de goût,--(_aside_) et il sait ce qu'il fait, apparemment. LADY AMARANTHE--(_glancing at her foot._) C'est à dire--il a du bon sens, et ne parle pas mal. (_She takes the purse._) As you so civilly obliged me, you must allow me to make you some return. DICK--(_putting his hand behind him._) Me, ma'am! I'm sure I don't want to be paid for being civil. LADY AMARANTHE. But as I have deprived you of a pleasure, my good friend, some amends surely-- DICK. Oh, ma'am, pray don't mention it; my wife's a little tired and sleepy sometimes of a morning, and if I didn't sing her out of bed, I do think she would, by chance, snooze away till six o'clock, like any duchess; but a pinch or a shake or a kiss will do as well, may be: and (_earnestly_) she's, for all that, the best woman in the world. LADY AMARANTHE--(_smiling._) I can believe it, though she _does_ sleep till six o'clock like a duchess. Well, my good friend, there are five guineas in this purse; the purse is my own work; and I request you will present it to your wife from me, with many thanks for your civility. DICK--(_confused._) Much obliged, much obliged, but I can't, I can't indeed, my lady. Five guineas! O Lord! I should never know what to do with such a power of money. LADY AMARANTHE. Your wife will not say the same, depend upon it; she will find some use for it. DICK. My Meg, poor woman! she never had so much money in all her life. LADY AMARANTHE. I must insist upon it; you will offend me. JUSTINE--(_taking the purse out of her lady's hand, and forcing it upon DICK._) Dieux! est-il bête!--you no understand?--It is de gold and de silver money (_laughing._) Comme il a l'air ébahi! DICK--(_putting up the money._) Many thanks, and I pray God bless your ladyship! LADY AMARANTHE--(_gaily._) Good morning, Mr. Dick. Remember me to your wife. DICK. I will, my lady. I wish your ladyship, and you, miss, a good morning. (_To himself._) Five guineas!--what will Meg say?--Now I'll be a master shoemaker. (_Going out in an ecstasy, he knocks his head against the wall._) LADY AMARANTHE. Take care, friend. Montrez-lui la porte, Justine! JUSTINE. Mais venez donc, Monsieur Dick--par ici--et n'allez pas donner le nez contre la porte! [_DICK follows JUSTINE out of the door, after making several bows._ LADY AMARANTHE. Poor man!--well, he's silenced--he does not look as if he would sing, morning or night, for the next twelve months. _Re-enter JUSTINE._ JUSTINE. Voici Madame Mincetaille, qui vient pour essayer la robe-de-bal de madame. LADY AMARANTHE. Ah! allons donc. [_They go out._ _The SCENE changes to the Cobbler's Garret._ _Enter MARGERY, in haste; a basket in her hand. She looks about her._ MARGERY. Not come back yet! what can keep him, I wonder! (_Takes off her bonnet and shawl._) Well, I must get the dinner ready. (_Pauses, and looks anxious._) But, somehow, I feel not easy in my mind. What could they want with him?--Hark! (_Goes to the door_) No--what a time he is! But suppose they should 'dite him for a nuisance--O me! or send him to the watchhouse--O my poor dear Dick! I must go and see after him! I must go this very instant moment! (_Snatches up her bonnet._) Oh, I hear him now; but how slowly he comes up! [_Runs to the door, and leads him in._ _Enter DICK._ MARGERY. Oh, my dear, dear Dick, I am so glad you are come at last! But how pale you look! all I don't know how! What's the matter? why don't you speak to me, Dick, love? DICK--(_fanning himself with his hat._) Let me breathe, wife. MARGERY. But what's the matter? where have you been? who did you see? what did they say to you? Come, tell me quick. DICK. Why, Meg, how your tongue does gallop! as if a man could answer twenty questions in a breath. MARGERY. Did you see the lady herself? Tell me that. DICK--(_looking round the room auspiciously._) Shut the door first. MARGERY. There. [_Shuts it._ DICK. Shut the other. MARGERY. The other?--There. [_Shuts it._ DICK. Lock it fast, I say. MARGERY. There's no lock; and that you know. DICK--(_frightened._) No lock;--then we shall all be robbed! MARGERY. Robbed of what? Sure, there's nothing here for any one to rob! You never took such a thing into your head before. [_DICK goes to the door, and tries to fasten it._ MARGERY--(_aside._) For sartain, he's bewitched--or have they given him something to drink?--or, perhaps, he's ill. (_Very affectionately, and laying her hand on his shoulder._) Are you not well, Dick, love? Will you go to bed, sweetheart? DICK--(_gruffly._) No. Go to bed in the broad day!--the woman's cracked. MARGERY--(_whimpering._) Oh, Dick, what in the world has come to you? DICK. Nothing--nothing but good, you fool. There--there--don't cry, I tell you. MARGERY--(_wiping her eyes._) And did you see the lady? DICK. Ay, I seed her; and a most beautiful lady she is, and she sends her sarvice to you? MARGERY. Indeed! lauk-a-daisy! I'm sure I'm much obliged--but what did she say to you? DICK. Oh, she said this, and that, and t'other--a great deal. MARGERY. But what, Dick? DICK. Why, she said--she said as how I sung so fine, she couldn't sleep o' mornings. MARGERY. Sleep o' mornings! that's a good joke! Let people sleep o' nights, I say. DICK--(_solemnly._) But she can't, poor soul, she's very ill; she has pains here, and pains there, and everywhere. MARGERY. Indeed! poor lady! then you mustn't disturb her no more, Dick, that's a sure thing. DICK. Ay, so I said; and so she gave me this. [_Takes out the purse, and holds it up._ MARGERY--(_clapping her hands._) O goodness! what a fine purse!--Is there any thing in it? DICK--(_chinks the money._) Do ye hear that? Guess now. MARGERY--(_timidly._) Five shillings, perhaps, eh? DICK. Five shillings!--five guineas, girl. MARGERY--(_with a scream._) Five guineas! five guineas! (_skips about_) tal, lal, la! five guineas! (_Runs and embraces her husband._) Oh, Dick! we'll be so rich and so happy. I want a power of things. I'll have a new gown--lavender, shall it be?--Yes, it shall be lavender; and a dimity petticoat; and a lace cap, like Mrs. Pinchtoe's, with pink ribbons--how she will stare! and I'll have two silver spoons, and a nutmeg-grater, and---- DICK. Ho, ho, ho! what a jabber! din, din, din! You'll have this, and you'll have that! First, I'll have a good stock of neat's leather. MARGERY. Well, well, give me the purse; I'll take care of it. [_Snatches at it._ DICK. No, thankee, _I'll_ take care of it. MARGERY--(_coaxing._) You know I always keep the money, Dick! DICK. Ay, Meg, but I'll keep this, do ye mind? MARGERY. What! keep it all to yourself?--No, you won't; an't I your wife, and haven't I a right? I ax you that. DICK. Pooh! don't be bothering me. MARGERY. Come, give it me at once, there's a dear Dick! DICK. What, to waste it all in woman's nonsense and frippery? Don't be a fool! we're rich, and we'll keep it safe. MARGERY. Why, where's the use of money but to spend? Come, come, I _will_ have it. DICK. Hey-day! you will?--You shan't; who's the master here, I say? MARGERY--(_passionately._) Why, if you come to that, who's the mistress here, I say? DICK. Now, Meg, don't you go for to provoke me. MARGERY. Pooh! I defy you. DICK--(_doubling his fist._) Don't you put me in a passion, Meg! MARGERY. Get along; I don't care that for you! (_snaps her fingers._) You used to be my own dear Dick, and now you're a cross, miserly curmudgeon-- DICK--(_quite furious._) You will have it then! Why, then, take it, with a mischief; take that, and that, and that! [_He beats her; she screams._ MARGERY. Oh! oh! oh!--pray don't--pray--(_Breaks from him, and throws herself into a chair._) O Dick! to go for to strike me! O that I should ever see the day!--you cruel, unkind----Oh! oh! [_Covers her face with her apron, sobs, and cries; and he stands looking at her sheepishly. A long pause._ DICK--(_in great agitation._) Eh, why! women be made of eggshells, I do think. Why, Meg, I didn't hurt you, did I? why don't you speak? Now, don't you be sulky, come; it wasn't much. A man is but flesh and blood, after all; come, I say--I'll never get into a passion with you again to my dying day--I won't--come, don't cry; (_tries to remove the apron_,) come, kiss, and be friends. Won't you forgive your own dear Dick, won't you? (_ready to cry_) She won't!--Here, here's the money, and the purse and all--take it, do what you like with it. (_She shakes her head._) What, you won't then? why, then, there--(_throws it on the ground._) Deuce fetch me if ever I touch it again! and I wish my fingers had been burnt before ever I took it,--so I do! (_with feeling._) We were so happy this morning, when we hadn't a penny to bless ourselves with, nor even a bit to eat; and now, since all this money has come to us of a suddent, why, it's all as one as if old Nick himself were in the purse. I'll tell you what, Meg, eh! shall I? Shall I take it back to the lady, and give our duty to her, and tell her we don't want her guineas, shall I, Meg? shall I, dear heart? [_During the last few words MARGERY lets the apron fall from her face, looks up at him, and smiles._ DICK. Oh, that's right, and we'll be happy again, and never quarrel more. MARGERY. No, never! (_They embrace._) Take it away, for I can't bear the sight of it. DICK. Take it _you_ then, for you know, Meg, I said I would never touch it again; and what I says, I says--and what I says, I sticks to. [_Pushes it towards her with his foot._ MARGERY. And so do I: and I vowed to myself that I wouldn't touch it, and I won't. [_Kicks it back to him._ DICK. How shall we manage then? Oh, I have it. Fetch me the tongs here. (_Takes up the purse in the tongs, and holds it at arm's length._) Now I'm going. So, Meg, if you repent, now's the time. Speak--or for ever hold your tongue. MARGERY. Me repent? No, my dear Dick! I feel, somehow, quite light, as if a great weight were gone away from here. (_Laying her hands on her bosom._) Money may be a good thing when it comes little by little, and we gain it honestly by our own hard work; but when it comes this way, in a lump--one doesn't know how or why--it's quite too surprising, as one may say;--it gets into one's head, like--the punch, Dick! DICK. Aye, and worser--turns it all the wrong way; but I've done with both:--I'll have no more to say to drinking, and fine ladies, and purses o' money;--we'll go and live in the stall round the corner, and I'll take to my work and my singing again--eh, Meg? MARGERY. Bless you, my dear, dear Dick! (_kisses him._) DICK. Ay, that's as it should be:--so now come along. We never should have believed this, if we hadn't tried; but it's just what my old mother used to say--MUCH COIN, MUCH CARE.[28] * * * * * THE END. LONDON: IBOTSON AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND. * * * * * FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: Some of the sentences which follow (marked by inverted commas,) are taken from a portrait of Mrs. Siddons, dated 1812, and attributed to Sir Walter Scott.] [Footnote 2: I am permitted to give the following little extract as farther illustrating that tenderness of nature which I have only touched upon. "I owe ---- ---- a letter, but I don't know how it is, now that I am arrived at that time of life when I supposed I should be able to sit down and indulge my natural indolence, I find the business of it thickens and increases around me; and I am now as much occupied about the affairs of others as I have been about my own. I am just now expecting my son George's two babies from India. The ship which took them from their parents, I thank heaven, is safely arrived: _Oh! that they could know it!_ For the present I shall have them near me. There is a school between my little hut and the church, where they will have delicious air, and I shall be able to see the poor dears every day."] [Footnote 3: I believe it _has_ been said; but, like Madlle. de Montpensier my imagination and my memory are sometimes confounded.] [Footnote 4: Ben Jonson.] [Footnote 5: George the Fourth, after conversing with her, said with emphasis, "She is the only _real_ queen!"] [Footnote 6: In a letter to Mrs. Thrale.] [Footnote 7: In the Grosvenor gallery. There is a duplicate of this picture in the Dulwich gallery.] [Footnote 8: She afterwards played Lady Randolph for Mr. Charles Kemble's benefit, and performed Lady Macbeth at the request of the Princess Charlotte in 1816. This was her final appearance. She was then sixty-one, and her powers unabated. I recollect a characteristic passage in one of her letters relating to this circumstance: she says, "The princess honoured me with several gracious (not _graceful_) nods; but the newspapers gave me credit for much more _sensibility_ than I either felt or displayed on the occasion. I was by no means so much _overwhelmed_ by her Royal Highness's kindness, as they were pleased to represent me."] [Footnote 9: "For time hath laid his hand so gently on her As he too had been awed." DE MONTFORT.] [Footnote 10: The last play she read aloud was Henry V. only ten days before she died.] [Footnote 11: Now Mrs. George Combe.] [Footnote 12: These sketches, once intended for publication, are now in the possession of Lord Francis Egerton. The introduction and notes were written in March, 1830--the conclusion in March, 1834.] [Footnote 13: The alteration and interpolations are by Garrick, of whom it was said and believed, that "he never read through a whole play of Shakspeare's except with some nefarious design of cutting and mangling it."] [Footnote 14: She played in London the following parts successively:-- Juliet, Belvidera, the Grecian Daughter, Mrs. Beverley, Portia, Isabella, Lady Townly, Calista, Bianca, Beatrice, Constance, Camiola, Lady Teazle, Donna Sol, (in Lord Francis Egerton's translation of Hemani, when played before the queen at Bridgewater House,) Queen Katherine, Catherine of Cleves, Louisa of Savoy, in Francis I., Lady Macbeth, Julia in the Hunchback.] [Footnote 15: The only parts which, to my knowledge, she chose for herself, were Portia, Camiola, and Julia in the Hunchback. She was accused of having declined playing Inez de Castro in Miss Mitford's tragedy, and I heard her repel that accusation very indignantly. She added--"Setting aside my respect for Miss Mitford, I never, on principle, have refused a part. It is my business to do whatever is deemed advantageous to the whole concern, to do as much good as I can; not to think of myself. If they bid me act Scrubb, I would act it!"] [Footnote 16: At Dresden and at Frankfort I saw the Merchant of Venice played as it stands in Shakspeare, with all the stately scenes between Portia and her suitors--the whole of the character of Jessica--the lovely moon-light dialogue between Jessica and Lorenzo, and the beautiful speeches given to Portia, all which, by sufferance of an English audience, are omitted on our stage. When I confessed to some of the great German critics, that the Merchant of Venice, Romeo and Juliet, King Lear, &c. were performed in England not only with important omissions of the text, but with absolute alterations, affecting equally the truth of character, and the construction of the story, they looked at me, at first, as if half incredulous, and their perception of the barbarism, as well as the absurdity, was so forcibly expressed on their countenances, and their contempt so justifiable, that I confess I felt ashamed for my countrymen.] [Footnote 17: The resemblance was in the brow and eye. When she was sitting to Sir Thomas Lawrence, he said, "These are the eyes of Mrs. Siddons." She said, "You mean _like_ those of Mrs. Siddons." "No," he replied, "they are the _same_ eyes, the construction is the same, and to draw them is the same thing." I have ever been at a loss for a word which should express the peculiar property of an eye like that of Mrs. Siddons, which could not be called piercing or penetrating, or any thing that gives the idea of searching or acute; but it was an eye which, in its softest look, and, to a late period of her life, went straight into the depths of the soul as a ray of light finds the bottom of the ocean. Once, when I was conversing with the celebrated German critic, Böttigar, of Dresden, and he was describing the person of Madame Schirmer, after floundering in a sea of English epithets, none of which conveyed his meaning, he at last exclaimed with enthusiasm--"Madam! her eye was _perforating_!"] [Footnote 18: In the Hunchback.] [Footnote 19: In the Fatal Marriage.] [Footnote 20: I recollect being present when some one was repeating to her a very high-flown and enthusiastic eulogy, of which she was the subject. She listened very quietly, and then said with indescribable _naiveté_--"Perhaps I ought to blush to have all these things thus repeated to my face; but the truth is, I _cannot_. I cannot, by any effort of my own imagination, see myself as people speak of me. It gives no reflection back to my mind. I cannot fancy myself like this. All I can clearly understand is, that you and every body are very much pleased, and I am very glad of it!"] [Footnote 21: It must be remembered that it was not _only_ fashionable incense and public applause; it was the open enthusiastic admiration of such men as Sir Walter Scott, Sir Thomas Lawrence, Moore, Rogers, Campbell, Barry Cornwall, and others of great name, who brought rich flattery in prose and in verse, and laid it at her feet. Just before she came on the stage she had spent about a year in Scotland with her excellent relative and friend, Mrs. Henry Siddons, and always referred to this period as her "Sabbatical year, granted to her to prepare her mind and principles for _this great trial_."] [Footnote 22: Her own words.] [Footnote 23: First published in 1827. The anecdote on which this tale is founded, I met with in the first volume of Dow's Translation of Ferishta's History of Judea.] [Footnote 24: _Vide_ the Heetopadessa.] [Footnote 25: Afterwards the Emperor Jehangire.] [Footnote 26: This little tale was written in March, 1826, and in the hands of the publishers long before the appearance of Bainim's novel of "The Nowlans" which contains a similar incident, probably founded on the same fact.] [Footnote 27: This little tale (written in 1830) is founded on a striking incident related in Humboldt's narrative. The facts remain unaltered.] [Footnote 28: It need hardly be observed that this little trifle was written exclusively for very young actors, to whom the style was adapted; and though below all criticism, it has been included here to gratify those for whom it was originally written, and as a memorial of past times. The subject is imitated from one of Théodore Leclerq's _Proverbes Dramatiques_.] * * * * * [Transcriber's Note: Errata as given in the original have been applied to the text. Other than the most exceedingly obvious typographical errors, all inconsistent spelling, hyphenation, diacriticals, archaic usage, etc. have been preserved as printed in the original.] 
36819	----	VISITS AND SKETCHES AT HOME AND ABROAD. VOL. II. VISITS AND SKETCHES AT HOME AND ABROAD WITH TALES AND MISCELLANIES NOW FIRST COLLECTED. BY MRS. JAMESON, AUTHOR OF "THE CHARACTERISTICS OF WOMEN," "LIVES OF CELEBRATED FEMALE SOVEREIGNS," &c. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. II. SECOND EDITION. LONDON SAUNDERS AND OTLEY, CONDUIT STREET. 1835. LONDON: IBOTSON AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND. CONTENTS OF VOL. II. SKETCHES OF ART, LITERATURE, AND CHARACTER, PART II. (_Continued._) PAGE I. MUNICH--The New Palace--The Beauty of its Decorations--Particular Account of the Modern Paintings on the Walls 1-18 The Frescos of Julius Schnorr from the Nibelungen-Lied 20 The Frescos in the Royal Chapel 37 The Opera--Madame Schechner 42 The Kunstverein 46 Karl von Holtëi 49 Fête of the Obelisk 50 The Gallery--Pictures and Painters 60 Madame de Freyberg--A visit to Thalkirchen 64 Tomb of Eugène Beauharnais 68 The Sculpture in the Glyptothek 75 Plan of the Pinnakothek or National Gallery 79 The Revival of Fresco Painting 92 Bavarian Sculptors 94 The Valhalla 96 Stieler, the Portrait Painter 101 Gallery of the Duc de Leuchtenberg 103 Society at Munich 106 The Liederkranz 110 II. NUREMBERG 118 The Old Fortress 123 Albert Durer 125 Hans Sachs and Peter Vischer 127 The Cemetery 132 Travelling in Germany 134 III. DRESDEN 138 The Opera--Madame Schröder Devrient in the "Capaletti" 145 Ludwig Tieck 148 The Dresden Gallery and the Italian School 155 Rosalba--Violante Siries--Henrietta Walters--Maria von Osterwyck--Elizabeth Sirani--the Sofonisba 171 Thoughts on Female Artists--Louisa and Eliza Sharpe--The Countess Julie von Egloffstein 179 Moritz Retzsch 183 English and German Art 197 Catalogue of German Artists 201 * * * * * A Visit to Hardwicke 213 A Visit to Althorpe 275 SKETCHES OF ART, LITERATURE, AND CHARACTER. (_Continued._) VOL. II. Page 7, line 13, _for_ to _read_ too. 18, -- 2, _for_ Neurather _read_ Neureuther. 68, -- 5, _for_ Scheckner _read_ Schechner. 72, -- 16, ditto. ditto. 94, -- 23, _for_ interior _read_ exterior. 133, -- 1, note, _for_ Frederic Augustus _read_ Anthony. 203, -- 16, _for_ Steiler _read_ Stieler. 204, -- 21, _for_ Neurather _read_ Neureuther. 209, -- 2, _for_ Reitchel _read_ Rietschel. [Illustration] SKETCHES OF ART, LITERATURE, AND CHARACTER. MUNICH (CONTINUED). _Tuesday._--M. de Klenze called this morning and conducted me over the whole of the new palace. The design, when completed, will form a vast quadrangle. It was begun about seven years ago; and as only a certain sum is set apart every year for the works, it will probably be seven years more before the portion now in progress, which is the south side of the quadrangle, can be completed. The exterior of the building is plain, but has an air of grandeur even from its simplicity and uniformity. It reminds me of Sir Philip Sydney's beautiful description--"A house built of fair and strong stone; not affecting so much any extraordinary kind of fineness, as an honourable representing of a firm stateliness; all more lasting than beautiful, but that the consideration of the exceeding lastingness made the eye believe it was exceeding beautiful." When a selfish despot designs a palace, it is for himself he builds. He thinks first of his own personal tastes and peculiar habits, and the arrangements are contrived to suit his exclusive propensities. Thus, for Nero's overwhelming pride, no space, no height, could suffice; so he built his "golden house" upon a scale which obliged its next possessor to pull it to pieces, as only fit to lodge a colossus. George the Fourth had a predilection for low ceilings, so all the future inhabitants of the Pimlico palace must endure suffocation; and as his majesty did not live on good terms with his wife, no accommodation was prepared for a future queen of England. The commands which the king of Bavaria gave De Klenze were in a different spirit. "Build me a palace, in which nothing within or without shall be of transient fashion or interest; a palace for my posterity, and my people, as well as myself; of which the decorations shall be durable as well as splendid, and shall appear one or two centuries hence as pleasing to the eye and taste as they do now." "Upon this principle," said De Klenze, looking round, "I designed what you now see." On the first floor are the apartments of the king and queen, all facing the south: a parallel range of apartments behind contains accommodation for the attendants, ladies of honour, chamberlains, &c.; a grand staircase on the east leads to the apartments of the king, another on the west to those of the queen; the two suites of apartments uniting in the centre, where the private and sleeping rooms communicate with each other. All the chambers allotted to the king's use are painted with subjects from the Greek poets, and those of the queen from the German poets. We began with the king's apartments. The approach to the staircase I did not quite understand, for it appears small and narrow; but this part of the building is evidently incomplete. The staircase is beautiful, but simple, consisting of a flight of wide broad steps of the native marble; there is no gilding; the ornaments on the ceiling represent the different arts and manufactures carried on in Bavaria. Over the door which opens into the apartments is the king's motto in gold letters, GERECHT und BEHARRLICH--Just and Firm. Two Caryatides support the entrance: on one side the statue of Astrea, and on the other the Greek Victory without wings--the first expressing justice, the last firmness or constancy. These figures are colossal, and modelled by Schwanthaler in a grand and severe style of art. I. The first antechamber is decorated with great simplicity. On the cornice round the top is represented the history of Orpheus and the expedition of the Argonauts, from Linus, the earliest Greek poet. The figures are in outline, shaded in brown, but without relief or colour, exactly like those on the Etruscan vases. The walls are stuccoed in imitation of marble. II. The second antechamber is less simple in its decoration. The frieze round the top is broader, (about three feet,) and represents the Theogony, the wars of the Titans, &c. from Hesiod. The figures are in outline, and tinted, but without relief, in the manner of some of the ancient Greek paintings on vases, tombs, &c. The effect is very classical, and very singular. Schwanthaler, by whom these decorations were designed, has displayed all the learning of a profound and accomplished scholar, as well as the skill of an artist. In general feeling and style they reminded me of Flaxman's outlines to Æschylus. The walls of this room are also stuccoed in imitation of marble, with compartments, in which are represented, in the same style, other subjects from the "Weeks and Days," and the "Birth of Pandora." The ornaments are in the oldest Greek style. III. A saloon, or reception room, for those who are to be presented to the king. On this room, which is in a manner public, the utmost luxury of decoration is to be expended; but it is yet unfinished. The subjects are from Homer. In compartments on the ceiling are represented the gods of Greece; the gorgeous ornaments with which they are intermixed being all in the Greek style. Round the frieze, at the top of the room, the subjects are taken from the four Homeric hymns. The walls will be painted from the Iliad and Odyssey, in compartments, mingled with the richest arabesques. The effect of that part of the room which is finished is indescribably splendid; but I cannot pause to dwell upon minutiæ. IV. The throne-room. The decorations of this room combine, in an extraordinary degree, the utmost splendour and the utmost elegance. The whole is adorned with bas-reliefs in white stucco, raised upon a ground of dead gold. The compositions are from Pindar. Round the frieze are the games of Greece, the chariot and foot-race, the horse-race, the wrestlers, the cestus, &c. Immediately over the throne, Pindar, singing to his lyre, before the judges of the Olympic games. On each side a comic and a tragic poet receiving a prize. The exceeding lightness and grace, the various fancy, the purity of style, the vigour of life and movement displayed here, all prove that Schwanthaler has drank deep of classical inspiration, and that he has not looked upon the frieze of the Parthenon in vain. The subjects on the walls are various groups from the same poet; over the throne is the king's motto, and on each side, Alcides and Achilles; the history of Jason and Medea, Castor and Pollux, Deucalion and Pyrrha, &c. occupy compartments, differing in form and size. The decoration of this magnificent room appeared to me a _little_ too much broken up into parts--and yet, on the whole, it is most beautiful; the Graces as well as the Muses presided over the whole of these "fancies, chaste and noble;" and there is excellent taste in the choice of the poet, and the subjects selected, as harmonizing with the destination of the room: all are expressive of power, of triumph, of moral or physical greatness.[1] The walls are of dead gold, from the floor to the ceiling, and the gilding of this room alone cost 72,000 florins. V. A saloon, or antechamber. The ceiling and walls admirably painted, from the tragedies of Æschylus. VI. The king's study, or cabinet de travail. The subjects from Sophocles, equally classical in taste, and rich in colour and effect. In the arch at one end of this room are seven compartments, in which are inscribed in gold letters, the sayings of the seven Greek sages. Schwanthaler furnished the outlines of the compositions from Æschylus and Sophocles, which are executed in colours by Wilhelm Röckel of Schleissheim. VII. The king's dressing-room. The subjects from Aristophanes, painted by Hiltensberger of Suabia, certainly one of the best painters here. There is exquisite fantastic grace and spirit in these designs. "It was fit," said de Klenze, "that the first objects which his majesty looked upon on rising from his bed should be gay and mirth-inspiring." VIII. The king's bedroom. The subjects from Theocritus, by different painters, but principally Professor Heinrich Hess and Bruchmann. This room pleased me least. No description could give an adequate idea of the endless variety, and graceful and luxuriant ornament harmonizing with the various subjects, and the purpose of each room, and lavished on the walls and ceilings, even to infinitude. The general style is very properly borrowed from the Greek decorations at Herculaneum and Pompeii; not servilely copied, but varied with an exhaustless prodigality of fancy and invention, and applied with exquisite taste. The combination of the gayest, brightest colours has been studied with care, their proportion and approximation calculated on scientific principles; so that the result, instead of being gaudy and perplexing to the eye, is an effect the most captivating, brilliant, and harmonious that can be conceived. The material used is the _encaustic_ painting, which has been revived by M. de Klenze. He spent four months at Naples analysing the colours used in the encaustic paintings at Herculaneum and Pompeii, and by innumerable experiments reducing the process to safe practice. Professor Zimmermann explained to me the other day, as I stood beside him while he worked, the general principle, and the advantages of this style. It is much more rapid than oil painting; it is also much less expensive, requiring both cheaper materials and in smaller quantity. It dries more quickly: the surface is not so glazy and unequal, requiring no particular light to be seen to advantage. The colours are wonderfully bright: it is capable of as high a finish, and it is quite as durable as oils. Both mineral and vegetable colours can be used. Now to return. The king's bedchamber opens into the queen's apartments, but to take these in order we must begin at the beginning. The staircase, which is still unfinished, will be in a much richer style of architecture than that on the king's side: it is sustained with beautiful columns of native marble. I. Antechamber; painted from the history and poems of Walther von der Vogelweide, by Gassen of Coblentz, a young painter of distinguished merit. Walther "of the bird-meadow," for that is the literal signification of his name, was one of the most celebrated of the early Suabian Minnesingers,[2] and appears to have lived from 1190 to 1240. He led a wandering life, and was at different times in the service of several princes of Germany. He figured at the famous "strife of poets," at the castle of Wartsburg, which took place in 1207, in presence of Hermann, landgrave of Thuringia and the landgravine Sophia: this is one of the most celebrated incidents in the history of German poetry. He also accompanied Leopold VII. to the Holy Land. His songs are warlike, patriotic, moral, and religious. "Of love he has always the highest conception, as of a principle of action, a virtue, a religious affection; and in his estimation of female excellence, he is below none of his contemporaries."[3] In the centre of the ceiling is represented the poetical contest at Wartsburg, and Walther is reciting his verses in presence of his rivals and the assembled judges. At the upper end of the room Walther is exhibited exactly as he describes himself in one of his principal poems, seated on a high rock in a melancholy attitude, leaning on his elbow, and contemplating the troubles of his desolate country; in the opposite arch, the old poet is represented as feeding the little birds which are fluttering round him--in allusion to his will, which directed that the birds should be fed yearly upon his tomb. Another compartment represents Walther showing to his Geliebte (his mistress) the reflection of her own lovely face in his polished shield. There are other subjects which I cannot recall. The figures in all these groups are the size of life. II. The next room is painted from the poems of Wolfram of Eschenbach, another, and one of the most fertile of the old Minnesingers; he also was present at the contest at Wartsburg, "and wandered from castle to castle like a true courteous knight, dividing his time between feats of arms and minstrelsy." He versified, in the German tongue, the romance of the "Saint-Greal," making it an original production, and the central point, if the expression may be allowed, of an innumerable variety of adventures, which he has combined, like Ariosto, in artful perplexity, in the poems of Percival and Titurel.[4] These adventures furnish the subjects of the paintings on the ceiling and walls, which are executed by Hermann of Dresden, one of the most distinguished of the pupils of Cornelius. The ornaments in these two rooms, which are exceedingly rich and appropriate, are in the old gothic style, and reminded me of the illuminations in the ancient MSS. III. A saloon (salon de service) appropriated to the ladies in waiting: painted from the ballads of Bürger, by Foltz of Bingen. The ceiling of this room is perfectly exquisite--it is formed entirely of small rosettes, (about a foot in diameter,) varying in form, and combining every hue of the rainbow--the delicacy and harmony of the entire effect is quite indescribable. The rest of the decorations are not finished, but the choice of the poet and the subjects, considering the destination of the room, delighted me. The fate of "Lenora," and that of the "Curate's Daughter," will be edifying subjects of contemplation for the maids of honour. IV. The throne-room. Magnificent in the general effect; elegant and appropriate in the design. On the ceiling, which is richly ornamented, are four medallions, exhibiting, under the effigies of four admirable women, the four _feminine_ cardinal virtues. Constancy is represented by Maria Theresa; maternal love, by Cornelia; charity, by St. Elizabeth, (the Margravine of Thuringia;[5]) and filial tenderness, by Julia Pia Alpinula. And there--O sweet and sacred be the name! Julia, the daughter, the devoted, gave Her youth to Heaven; her heart beneath a claim Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. LORD BYRON. "I always avoid emblematical and allegorical figures, wherever it is possible, for they are cold and arbitrary, and do not speak to the heart!" said M. de Klenze, perceiving how much I was charmed with the idea of thus personifying the womanly virtues. The paintings round the room are from the poems of Klopstock, and executed by Wilhelm Kaulbach, an excellent artist. Only the frieze is finished. It consists of a series of twelve compartments: three on each side of the room, and divided from each other by two boys of colossal size, grouped as Caryatides, and in very high relief. These compartments represent the various scenes of the Herman-Schlacht; the sacrifices of the Druids; the adieus of the women; the departure of the warriors; the fight with Varus; the victory; the return of Herman to his wife Thusnelda, &c. Herman, or, as the Roman historians call him, Arminius, was a chieftain of the Cheruscans, a tribe of northern Germany. After serving in Illyria, and there learning the Roman arts of warfare, he came back to his native country, and fought successfully for its independence. He defeated, beside a defile near Detmold, in Westphalia, the Roman legions under the command of Varus, with a slaughter so mortifying, that the proconsul is said to have killed himself, and Augustus to have received the news of the catastrophe with indecorous expressions of grief. It is this defeat of Varus which forms the theme of one of Klopstock's chorus-dramas, entitled, "The Battle of Herman." The dialogue is concise and picturesque; the characters various, consistent, and energetic; a lofty colossal frame of being belongs to them all, as in the paintings of Caravaggio. To Herman, the disinterested zealot of patriotism and independence, a preference of importance is wisely given; yet, perhaps, his wife Thusnelda acts more strongly on the sympathy by the enthusiastic veneration and affection she displays for her hero-consort.[6] V. Saloon, or drawing-room. The paintings from Wieland, by Eugene Neureuther, (already known in England by his beautiful arabesque illustrations of Goethe's ballads.) The frieze only of this room, which is from the Oberon, is in progress. VI. The queen's bedroom. The paintings from Goethe, and chiefly by Kaulbach. The ceiling is exquisite, representing in compartments various scenes from Goethe's principal lyrics; the Herman and Dorothea; Pausias and Glycera, &c., intermixed with the most rich and elegant ornaments in relief. VII. The queen's study, or private sitting-room. A small but very beautiful room, with paintings from Schiller, principally by Lindenschmidt of Mayence. On the ceiling are groups from the Wallenstein; the Maid of Orleans; the Bride of Corinth; Wilhelm Tell; and on the walls, in compartments, mingled with the most elegant ornaments, scenes from the Fridolin, the Toggenburg, the Dragon of Rhodes, and other of his lyrics. VIII. The queen's library. As the walls will be covered with book-cases, all the splendour of decoration is lavished on the ceiling, which is inexpressibly rich and elegant. The paintings are from the works of Ludwig Tieck--from the Octavianus, the Genoneva, Fortunatus, the Puss in Boots, &c., and executed by Von Schwind. The dining-room is magnificently painted with subjects from Anacreon, intermixed with ornaments and bacchanalian symbols, all in the richest colouring. In the compartments on the ceiling, the figures are the size of life--in those round the walls, half-life size. Nothing can exceed the luxuriant fancy, the gaiety, the classical elegance, and amenity of some of these groups. They are all by Professor Zimmermann. One of these paintings, a group representing, I think, Anacreon with the Graces, (it is at the east end of the room,) is usually pointed out as an example of the perfection to which the encaustic painting has been carried: in fact, it would be difficult to exceed it in the mingled harmony, purity, and brilliance of the colouring. M. Zimmermann told me, that when he submitted the cartoons for these paintings to the king's approbation, his majesty desired a slight alteration to be made in a group representing a nymph embraced by a bacchanal; not as being in itself faulty, but "à cause de ses enfans," his eldest daughters being accustomed to dine with himself and the queen. Now it must be remembered that these seventeen rooms form the domestic apartments of the royal family; and magnificent as they are, a certain elegance, cheerfulness, and propriety have been more consulted than parade and grandeur: but on the ground-floor there is a suite of state apartments, prepared for the reception of strangers, &c., on great and festive occasions; and these excited my admiration more than all the rest together. The paintings are entirely executed in fresco, on a grand scale, by Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld, certainly one of the greatest living artists of Europe: and these four rooms will form, when completed, the very triumph of the romantic school of painting. It is not alone the invention displayed in the composition, nor the largeness, boldness, and freedom of the drawing, nor the vigour and splendour of the colouring; it is the enthusiastic sympathy of the painter with his subject; the genuine spirit of the old heroic, or rather Teutonic ages of Germany, breathed through and over his singular creations, which so peculiarly distinguish them. They are the very antipodes of all our notions of the classical--they take us back to the days of Gothic romance, and legendary lore--to the "fiery Franks and furious Huns"--to the heroes, in short, of the Nibelungen Lied, from which all the subjects are taken. To enable the merely English reader to feel, or at least understand, the interest attached to this grand series of paintings, without which it is impossible to do justice to the artist, it is necessary to give a slight sketch of the poem which he has thus magnificently illustrated.[7] "This national epic, as it is justly termed by M. Von der Hagen, has lately attracted a most unprecedented degree of attention in Germany. It now actually forms a part of the philological courses in many of their universities, and it has been hailed with almost as much veneration as the Homeric songs. Some allowance must be made for German enthusiasm, but it cannot be denied that the Nibelungen Lied, though a little too bloody and dolorous, possesses extraordinary merits." The hero and heroine of this poem are Siegfried, (son of Siegmund, king of Netherland, and of Sighelind his queen,) and Chrimhilde, princess of Burgundy. Siegfried, or Sifrit, the Sigurd of the Scandinavian Sagas, is the favourite hero of the northern parts of Germany. His spear, "a mighty pine beam," was preserved with veneration at Worms; and there, in the church of St. Cecilia, he is supposed to have been buried. The German romances do not represent him as being of gigantic proportions, but they all agree that he became invulnerable by bathing in the blood of a dragon, which guarded the treasures of the Nibelungen, and which he overcame and killed; but it happened that as he bathed, a leaf fell and rested between his shoulders, and consequently, that one little spot, about a hand's breadth, still remained susceptible of injury. Siegfried also possesses the wondrous tarn-cap, which had the power of rendering the wearer invisible. This formidable champion, after winning the love and the hand of the fair princess Chrimhilde, and performing a thousand valiant deeds, is treacherously murdered by the three brothers of Chrimhilde, Gunther, king of Burgundy, Ghiseler, Gernot, and their uncle Hagen, instigated by queen Brunhilde, the wife of Gunther. Chrimhilde meditates for years the project of a deep and deadly revenge on the murderers of her husband. This vengeance is in fact the subject of the Nibelungen Lied, as the wrath of Achilles is the subject of the Iliad. The poem opens thus beautifully with a kind of argument of the whole eventful story. "In ancient song and story marvels high are told Of knights of bold emprize and adventures mani-fold; Of joy and merry feasting, of lamenting, woe, and fear; Of champions' bloody battles many marvels shall ye hear. A noble maid and fair, grew up in Burgundy, In all the land about fairer none might be; She became a queen full high, Chrimhild was she hight, But for her matchless beauty fell many a blade of might. For love and for delight was framed that lady gay, Many a champion bold sighed for that gentle May; Beauteous was her form! beauteous without compare! The virgin's virtues might adorn many a lady fair. Three kings of might had the maiden in their care, King Gunther and king Gernot, champions bold they were, And Ghiselar the young, a chosen peerless blade: The lady was their sister, and much they loved the maid." Then follows an enumeration of the heroes in attendance on king Gunther: Haghen, the fierce; Dankwart, the swift; Volker, the minstrel knight; and others; "all champions bold and free;"--and then the poet proceeds to open the argument. "One night the queen Chrimhild dreamt her as she lay, How she had trained and nourished a falcon, wild and gay; When suddenly two eagles fierce the gentle hawk have slain-- Never, in this world felt she such cruel pain! To her mother, Uta, she told her dream with fear. Full mournfully she answered to what the maid did spier, 'The falcon, whom you cherished, a gentle knight is he: God take him to his ward! thou must lose him suddenly.' 'What speak you of the knight? dearest mother, say! Without the love of Champion, to my dying day, Ever thus fair will I remain, nor take a wedded fere To gain such pain and sorrow--though the knight were without peer!' 'Speak not thou too rashly!' her mother spake again. 'If ever in this world, thou heart-felt joy wilt gain, Maiden must thou be no more; Leman must thou have. God will grant thee for thy mate, some gentle knight and brave.' 'O leave thy words, lady mother; speak not of wedded mate, Full many a gentle maiden hath found the truth too late: Still has their fondest love ended with woe and pain; Virgin will I ever be, nor the love of Leman gain.' In virtues high and noble that gentle maiden dwelt, Full many a night and day, nor love for Leman felt. To never a knight or champion would she plight her virgin truth, Till she was gained for wedded fere by a right noble youth. That youth, he was the falcon, she in her dream beheld, Who by the two fierce eagles, dead to the ground was fell'd: But since right dreadful vengeance she took upon his foen; For the death of that bold hero, died full many a mother's son." After this exordium the story commences, the first half ending with the assassination of Siegfried. Some years after the murder of Siegfried, Chrimhilde gives her hand to Etzel, (or Attila,) king of the Huns, in order that through his power and influence she may be enabled to execute her long-cherished schemes of vengeance. The assassins accordingly, and all their kindred and followers, are induced to visit King Etzel at Vienna, where, by the instigation of Chrimhilde, a deadly feud arises; in the course of which almost the whole army on both sides are cruelly slaughtered. By the powerful, but reluctant aid of Dietrich of Bern,[8] Hagen, the murderer of Siegfried, is at last vanquished, and brought bound to the feet of the queen, who at once raises the sword of her departed hero, and with her own hand strikes off the head of his enemy. Hildebrand instantly avenges the atrocious and unhospitable act, by stabbing the queen, who falls exulting on the body of her hated victim. When Gunther's arms, and those of his brothers and champions, are brought to Worms, Brunhilde repents too late of her treachery to Siegfried, and the old queen Uta dies of grief. As to King Etzel, the poet professes himself ignorant, "whether he died in battle, or was taken up to heaven, or fell out of his skin, or was swallowed up by the devil;" leaving to his reader the choice of these singular catastrophes;--and thus the story ends.[9] The rivalry between Chrimhilde and her amazonian sister-in-law, Brunhilde, forms the most interesting and amusing episode in the poem; and the characters of the two queens--the fierce haughty Brunhilde, and the impassioned, devoted, confiding Chrimhilde--(whom the very excess of conjugal love converts into a relentless fury,) are admirably discriminated. "The work is divided into thirty-eight books, or _adventures_; and besides a liberal allowance of sorcery and wonders, contains a great deal of clear and animated narrative, and innumerable curious and picturesque traits of the manners of the age. The characters of the different warriors, as well as those of the two queens, and their heroic consorts, are very naturally and powerfully drawn--especially that of Hagen, the murderer of Siegfried, in whom the virtues of an heroic and chivalrous leader are strangely united with the atrocity and impenitent hardihood of an assassin. "The author of the Lay of the Nibelungen has not been ascertained. In its present form it must have existed between the twelfth and thirteenth centuries;--this is proved by the language; but the manners, tone, thoughts, and actions, which are all in perfect keeping, bear testimony to an antiquity far beyond that of the present dress of the poem." Here then was a boundless, an inexhaustible fund of inspiration for such a painter as Julius Schnorr; and his poetical fancy appears to have absolutely revelled in the grand, the gay, the tragic subjects afforded to his creative pencil. In the first room, immediately over the entrance, he has represented the poet, or presumed author of the Nibelungen--an inspired figure, attended by two listening genii. On each side, but a little lower down, are two figures looking towards him; on one side a beautiful female, striking a harp, and attended by a genius crowned with roses--represents song or poesy. On the other side, a sybil listening to the voice of Time, represents tradition. The figures are all colossal. Below, on each side of this door, are two beautiful groups. That to the right of the spectator represents Siegfried and Chrimhilde. She is leaning on the shoulder of her warlike husband with an air of the most inimitable and graceful abandonment in her whole figure: a falcon sits upon her hand, on which her eyes are turned with the most profound expression of tenderness and melancholy; she is thinking upon her dream, in which was foreshadowed the early and terrible doom of her husband. It is said at Munich, that the wife of Schnorr, an exquisitely beautiful woman, whom he married under romantic circumstances, was the model of his Chrimhilde, and that one of her spontaneous attitudes furnished the idea of this exquisite group, on which I never look without emotion. The depth and splendour of the colouring adds to the effect. The figures are rather above the size of life. On the opposite side of the door, as a _pendant_, we have Gunther, and his queen, Brunhilde. He holds one of her hands, with a deprecating expression. She turns from him with an averted countenance, exhibiting in her whole look and attitude, grief, rage, and shame. It is evident that she has just made the fatal discovery of her husband's obligations to Siegfried, which urges her to the destruction of the latter. I have heard travellers ignorantly criticise the grand, and somewhat exaggerated forms of Brunhilde, as being "really quite coarse and unfeminine." In the poem she is represented as possessing the strength of twelve men; and when Hagen sees her throw a spear, which it required four warriors to lift, he exclaims to her alarmed suitor, King Gunther, "Aye! how is it, King Gunther? here must you tine your life! The lady you would gain, well might be the devil's wife!" It is by the secret assistance of Siegfried, and his tarn-cap, that Gunther at length vanquishes and humbles this terrible heroine, and she avenges her humiliation by the murder of Siegfried. Around the room are sixteen full-length portraits of the other principal personages who figure in the Nibelungen Lied--_portraits_ they may well be called, for their extraordinary spirit, and truth of character. In one group we have the fierce Hagen, the courteous Dankwart, and between them, Volker tuning his viol; of him it is said-- Bolder and more knight-like fiddler, never shone the sun upon, and he plays a conspicuous part in the catastrophe of the poem. Opposite to this group, we have queen Uta, the mother of Chrimhilde, between her sons, Gernot and Ghiselar: in another compartment, Siegmund and Sighelind, the father and mother of Siegfried. Over the window opposite to the entrance, Hagen is consulting the mermaids of the Danube, who foretell the destruction which awaits him at the court of Etzel: and lower down on each side of the window, King Etzel with his friend Rudiger, and those faithful companions in arms, old Hildebrand and Dietrich of Bern. The power of invention, the profound feeling of character, and extraordinary antiquarian knowledge displayed in these figures, should be seen to be understood. Those which most struck me (next to Chrimhilde and her husband) were the figures of the daring Hagen and the venerable queen Uta. On the ceiling, which is vaulted, and enriched with most gorgeous ornaments, intermixed with heraldic emblazonments, are four small compartments in fresco: in which are represented, the marriage of Siegfried and Chrimhilde, the murder of Siegfried, the vengeance of Chrimhilde, and the death of Chrimhilde. These are painted in vivid colours on a black ground. On the whole, on looking round this most splendid and interesting room, I could find but one fault: I could have wished that the ornaments on the walls and ceiling (so rich and beautiful to the eye) had been more completely and consistently gothic in style; they would then have harmonized better with the subjects of the paintings. In the next room, the two sides are occupied by two grand frescos, each about five-and-twenty feet in length, and covering the whole wall. In the first, Siegfried brings the kings of Saxony and Denmark prisoners to the court of king Gunther. The second represents the reception of the victorious Siegfried by the two queens, Uta and Chrimhilde. This is the first interview of the lovers, and furnishes one of the most admired passages in the poem. "And now the beauteous lady, like the rosy morn, Dispersed the misty clouds; and he who long had borne In his heart the maiden, banish'd pain and care, As now before his eyes stood the glorious maiden fair. From her embroidered garment, glittered many a gem, And on her lovely cheek, the rosy red did gleam; Whoever in his glowing soul had imaged lady bright, Confessed that fairer maiden never stood before his sight. And as the moon at night, stands high the stars among, And moves the mirky clouds above, with lustre bright and strong; So stood before her maidens, that maid without compare: Higher swelled the courage of many a champion there." Between the two doors there is the marriage of Siegfried and Chrimhilde. The second of these frescos is nearly finished; of the others I only saw the cartoons, which are magnificent. The third room will contain, arranged in the same manner, three grand frescos, representing 1st. the scene in which the rash curiosity of Chrimhilde prevails over the discretion of her husband, and he gives her the ring and the girdle which he had snatched as trophies from the vanquished Brunhilde.[10] 2ndly. The death of Siegfried, assassinated by Hagen, who stabs the hero in the back, as he stoops to drink from the forest-well. And 3rdly. The body of Siegfried exposed in the cathedral at Worms, and watched by Chrimhilde, "who wept three days and three nights by the corse of her murdered lord, without food and without sleep." The fourth room will contain the second marriage of Chrimhilde; her complete and sanguinary vengeance; and her death. None of these are yet in progress. But the three cartoons of the death of Siegfried; the marriage of Siegfried and Chrimhilde; and the fatal curiosity of Chrimhilde, I had the pleasure of seeing in Professor Schnorr's studio at the academy; I saw at the same time his picture of the death of the emperor Frederic Barbarossa, which has excited great admiration here, but I confess I do not like it; nor do I think that Schnorr paints as well in oils as in fresco--the latter is certainly his forte. Often have I walked up and down these superb rooms, looking up at Schnorr and his assistants, and watching intently the preparation and the process of the fresco painting--and often I thought, "What would some of our English painters--Etty, or Hilton, or Briggs, or Martin--O what would they give to have two or three hundred feet of space before them, to cover at will with grand and glorious creations,--scenes from Chaucer, or Spenser, or Shakspeare, or Milton, proudly conscious that they were painting for their country and posterity, spurred on by the spirit of their art and national enthusiasm, and generously emulating each other!" Alas! how different!--with us such men as Hilton and Etty illustrate annuals, and the genius of Turner shrinks into a vignette! I should add, before I throw down my weary pen, that every part of the new palace, from the _ensemble_ down to the minutest details of the ornaments (the paintings excepted) has been designed by De Klenze, who executed seven hundred drawings with his own hand for this palace alone, without reckoning his designs for the Glyptothek and the Pinakothek. This has been a busy and exciting day. Then in the evening a _soirée_--music-- * * * * * O quite tired in spirits, in voice, in mind, in heart, in frame! _Oct. 14th._--Accompanied by my kind friend, Madame de K----, and conducted by Roekel, the painter, I visited the unfinished chapel adjoining the new palace. It is painted (or rather _painting_) in fresco, on a gold ground, with extraordinary richness and beauty, uniting the old Greek, or rather Byzantine manner, with the old Italian style of decoration. It reminded me, in the general effect, of the interior of St. Mark's at Venice,--but, of course, the details are executed in a grander feeling, and in a much higher style of art. The pillars are of the native marble, and the walls will be covered with a kind of Mosaic of various marbles, intermixed with ornaments in relief, in gilding, in colours--all combined, and harmonizing together. The ceiling is formed of two large domes or cupolas. In the first is represented the Old Testament: in the very centre, the Creator; in a circle round him, the six days' creation. Around this again, in a larger circle, the building of the ark; the Deluge; the sacrifice of Noah; and the first covenant. In the four corners, the colossal figures of the patriarchs, Noah, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. These are designed in a very grand and severe style. The second cupola is dedicated to the New Testament. In the centre, the Redeemer: around him four groups of cherubs, three in each group. We were on the scaffold erected for the painters--near enough to remark the extreme beauty and various expression in these heads, which must, I am afraid, be lost when viewed from below. Around, in a circle, the twelve apostles; and in the four corners, the four evangelists, corresponding with the four patriarchs in the other dome. In the arch between the two domes, as connecting the Old and New Testaments, we have the Nativity and other scenes from the life of the Virgin. In the arch at the farthest end will be placed the Crucifixion, as the consummation of all. The painter to whom the direction of the whole work has been entrusted, is professor Heinrich Häss, (or Hess,) one of the most celebrated of the German historical painters. He was then employed in painting the Nativity, stretched upon his back on a sort of inclined chair. Notwithstanding the inconvenience and even peril of leaving his work while the plaster was wet, he came down from his giddy height to speak to us, and explained the general design of the whole. I expressed my honest admiration of the genius, and the grand feeling displayed in many of the figures; and, in particular, of the group he was then painting, of which the extreme simplicity charmed me; but as honestly, I expressed my surprise that nothing _new_ in the general style of the decoration had been attempted; a representation of the Omnipotent Being was merely excusable in more simple and unenlightened times, when the understandings of men could only be addressed through their senses--and merely tolerable, when Michael Angelo gave us that grand personification of Almighty Power moving "on the wings of the wind" to the creation of the first man. But now, in these thinking, reasoning times, it is not so well to venture into those paths, upon which daring Genius, supported by blind Faith, rushed without fear, because without a doubt. The theory of religion belongs to poetry, and its practice to painting. I was struck by the wonderful stateliness of the ornaments and borders used in decorating these sacred subjects: they are neither Greek, nor gothic, nor arabesque--but composed merely of simple forms and straight lines, combined in every possible manner, and in every variety of pure colour. One might call them _Byzantine_; at least, they reminded me of what I had seen in the old churches at Venice and Pisa. I was pleased by the amiable and open manners of professor Hess. Much of his life has been spent in Italy, and he speaks Italian well, but no French. In general, the German artists absolutely detest and avoid the language and literature of France, but almost all speak Italian, and many can read, if they do not speak, English. He told me that he had spent two years on the designs and cartoons for this chapel; he had been painting here daily for the last two years, and expected to be able to finish the whole in about two years and a half more: thus giving six years and a half, or more probably seven years, to this grand task. He has four pupils, or assistants, besides those employed in the decorations only. _Oct. 15th._--After dinner we drove through the beautiful English garden--a public promenade--which is larger and more diversified than Kensington Gardens; but the trees are not so fine, being of younger growth. A branch of the Isar rolls through this garden, sometimes an absolute torrent, deep and rapid, foaming and leaping along, between its precipitous banks,--sometimes a strong but gentle stream, flowing "at its own sweet will" among smooth lawns. Several pretty bridges cross it with "airy span;" there are seats for repose, and cafés and houses where refreshment may be had, and where, in the summer-time, the artisans and citizens of Munich assemble to dance on the Sunday evenings;--altogether it was a beautiful day, and a delightful drive. In the evening at the opera with the ambassadress and a large party. It was the queen's fête, and the whole court was present. The theatre was brilliantly illuminated--crowded in every part: in short, it was all very gay and very magnificent; as to hearing a single note of the opera, (the Figaro,) that was impossible; so I resigned myself to the conversation around me. "Are you fond of music?" said I, innocently, to a lady whose volubility had ceased not from the moment we entered the box. "Moi! si je l'aime!--mais avec passion!" And then without pause or mercy continued the same incessant flow of _spirituel_ small-talk while Scheckner-Wagen and Meric, now brought for the first time into competition, and emulous of each other,--one pouring forth her full _sostenuto_ warble, like a wood-lark,--the other trilling and running divisions, like a nightingale--were uniting their powers in the "Sull' Aria;" but though I could not hear I could see. I was struck to-night more than ever by the singular dignity of the demeanour of Madame Scheckner-Wagen. She is not remarkable for beauty, nor is there any thing of the common made-up theatrical grace in her deportment--still less does she remind us of queen Medea--queen Pasta, I should say--the imperial syren who drowned her own identity and ours together in her "cup of enchanted sounds;"--no--but Scheckner-Wagen treads the stage with the air of a high-bred lady, to whom applause or censure are things indifferent--and yet with an exceeding modesty. In short, I never saw an actress who inspired such an immediate and irresistible feeling of respect and interest for the individual _woman_. I do not say that this is the _ne plus ultra_ of good acting--on the contrary; though it is a mistake to imagine that the moral character of an actress or a singer goes for nothing with an audience--but of this more at some future time. Madame Scheckner's style of singing has the same characteristic simplicity and dignity: her voice is of a fine full quality, well cultivated, well managed. I have known her a little indolent and careless at times, but never forced or affected; and I am told that in some of the grand classical German operas, Gluck's Iphigenia, for instance, her acting as well as her singing is admirable. I wish, if ever we have that charming Devrient-Schröeder, and her vocal suite, again in England, they would give us the Iphigenia, or the Armida, or the Idomeneo. She is another who must be heard in her native music to be justly appreciated. Madame Milder _was_ a third, but her reign is past. This extraordinary creature absolutely could not, or would not, sing the modern Italian music; no one, I believe, ever heard her sing a note of Rossini in her life. Madame Vespermann is here, but she sings no more in public. She was formed by Winter, and was a fine classical singer, though no original genius like the Milder; and her voice, if I may judge by what remains of it, could never have been of first-rate quality. Well--after the opera--while scandal, and tea, and refreshments were served up together--I had a long conversation with Count ---- on the politics and statistics of Bavaria, the tone of feeling in the court, the characters and revenues of some of the leading nobles--particularly Count d'Armansberg, the former minister, (now in Greece taking care of the young King Otho,) and Prince Wallerstein, the present minister of the interior. He described the king's extremely versatile character, and his _vivacités_, and lamented his present unpopularity with the liberal party in Germany, the disputes between him and the Chambers, and the opinions entertained of the recent conferences between the king and his brother-in-law, the Emperor of Austria, at Lintz, &c. I learnt much that was new, much that was interesting to me, but do not understand these matters sufficiently to say any thing more about them. The two richest families in Bavaria are the Tour-and-Taxis, and the Arco family. The annual revenue of the Prince of Tour-and-Taxis amounts to upwards of five millions of florins, and he lays out about a million and a half yearly in land. He seldom or never comes to Munich, but resides chiefly on his enormous estates, or at Ratisbon, which is _his_ metropolis,--in fact, this rich and powerful noble is little less than a sovereign prince. * * * * * _16th._--I went with Madame von A---- and her daughters to the =Kunstverein=, or "Society of Arts." A similar institution of amateurs and artists, maintained by subscription, exists, I believe, in all the principal cities of Germany. The young artists exhibit their works here, whether pictures, models, or engravings. Some of these are removed and replaced by others almost every day, so that there is a constant variety. As yet, however, I have seen no _very_ striking, though many pleasing pictures; but I have added several names to my list of German artists.[11] To-day at the Kunstverein, there was a series of small pictures framed together, the subjects from Victor Hugo's romance of Notre Dame. These attracted general attention, partly as the work of a stranger, partly from their own merit, and the popularity of Victor Hugo. The painter, M. Couder, is a young Frenchman, now on his return from Italy to Paris. I understand that he has obtained leave to paint one of the frescos in the Pinakothek, as a trial of skill. Of the designs from Notre Dame, the central and largest picture is the scene in the garret between Phoebus and Esmeralda, when the former is stabbed by the priest Frollo: one can hardly imagine a more admirable subject for painting, if properly treated; but this is a failure in effect and in character. It fails in effect because the light is too generally diffused:--it is day-light, not lamp-light. The monk ought to have been thrown completely into shadow, only _just_ visible, terribly, mysteriously visible, to the spectator. It fails in character because the figure of Esmeralda, instead of the elegant, fragile, almost etherial creature she is described, rather reminds us of a coarse Italian contadina; and, for the expression--a truly poetical painter would have averted the face, and thrown the whole expression into the attitude. It will hardly be believed that of such a subject, the painter has made a _cold_ picture, merely by not feeling the bounds within which he ought to have kept. The small pictures are much better, particularly the Sachet embracing her child, and the tumult in front of Notre Dame. There were some other striking pictures by the same artist, particularly Chilperic and Fredegonde strangling the young queen Galsuinde, painted with shocking skill and truth. That taste for horrors, which is now the reigning fashion in French art and French literature, speaks ill for French _sensibilité_--a word they are so fond of--for that sensibility cannot be great which requires such extravagant _stimuli_. Painters and authors, all alike! They remind me of the sentimental negresses of queen Carathis, in the Tale of Vathek--"qui avaient un gout particulier pour les pestilences." Couder, however, has undoubted talent. His portrait of De Klenze, painted since he came here, is all but _alive_. In the evening at the theatre with M. and Mad. S----. We had Karl von Holtëi's melo-drama of Lenore, founded on Bürger's well-known ballad;--but with the omission of the spectre, which was something like acting Hamlet "with the part of Hamlet left out, by particular desire." Lenore is, however, one of the prettiest and most effective of the _petites pièces_ I have seen here--very tragical and dolorous of course. Madlle. Schöller acted Lenore with more feeling and power than I thought was in her. There is a mad scene, in which she fancies her lover at her window, calling to her, as the spectre calls in the ballad-- "Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, Leonore?" And which was so fine as a picture, and so well acted, that it quite thrilled me--no easy matter. Holtëi is one of the first dramatists in Germany for comedies, melo-dramas, farces, and musical pieces. In this particular department he has no rival. He played to-night himself, being for his own benefit, and sung his popular Mantel Lied, or _cloak-song_, which, like his other songs, may be heard from one end of Germany to the other. _18th._--A grand military fête. The consecration of the great bronze obelisk, which the king has erected in the Karoline-Platz, to the _glory_ and the memory of the thirty-seven thousand Bavarian conscripts who followed, or rather were dragged by, Napoleon to the fatal Russian campaign in 1812. Of these, about six thousand returned alive: most of them mutilated, or with diseases which shortened their existence. Of many thousands no account ever reached home. They perished, God knows how or where. There was, in particular, a detachment, or a battery of six thousand Bavarians, so completely destroyed that it was as if the earth had swallowed them, or the snows had buried them, for not one remained to tell the tale of how or where they died. Of those who did return, about one thousand one hundred survive, of whom four hundred continue in the army; the rest had returned to their civil pursuits, and had become peasants or tradesmen in different parts of the kingdom. Now, it appears, that several hundreds of these men have arrived in Munich within the last few days in order to be present at the ceremony: and some, from the mere sentiment of honour, have travelled from afar--even from Upper Bavaria and the Flemish Provinces, a distance of more than eighty leagues, (two hundred and fifty miles.) On this occasion, according to the arrangements previously made, the veteran soldiers who remained in the army, were alone to be admitted within the enclosure round the monument. The others, I believe about five hundred in number, who had quitted the service, but who had equally fought, suffered, bled, in the same disastrous expedition, demanded, very naturally, the same privilege. It was refused; because forsooth they had no uniforms, and the unseemly intrusion of drab coats and blue worsted stockings among epaulettes and feathers and embroidered facings, would certainly spoil the symmetry--the effect of the _coup d'oeil_! They complained, murmured aloud, resisted; and all night there was fighting in the streets and taverns between them and the police. This morning they went up in a body to Marshal Wrede, (who is said to have betrayed the army,) and were _renvoyés_. They then went up to the palace; and at last, at a late hour this morning, the king gave orders that they should be admitted within the circle; but it was too late--the affront had sunk deep. The permission, which in the first instance ought indeed to have been rather an invitation, now seemed forced, ungraceful, and ungracious. There was a palpable cloud of discontent over all; for the popular feeling was with them. For myself, a mere stranger, such was my indignation, the whole proceeding appeared to me so heartless, so unkingly, so unkind, and my sympathy with these brave men was so profound, that I could scarce persuade myself to go;--however, I went. I had been invited to view the ceremony from the balcony of the French ambassador's house, which is exactly opposite to the obelisk. I had indulged my ill-humour till it was late; already all the avenues leading to the Karoline-Platz were occupied by the military, and my carriage was stopped. As I was within fifty yards of the ambassador's house, it did not much signify, and I dismissed the carriage; but they would not allow the lacquais to pass. Wondering at all these precautions I dismissed _him_ too. A little further on I was myself stopped, and civilly _commanded_ to turn back. I pleaded that I only wished to enter the house to which I pointed. "It was impossible." Now, what I had not cared for a moment before became at once an object to be attained, and which I was resolved to attain. I was really curious and anxious to see how all this would end, for the indifferent or lowering looks of the crowd had struck me. I observed to a well-dressed man, who politely tried to make way for me, that it was strange to see so much severity of discipline at a public fête. "Public fête!" he repeated with scornful bitterness; "Je vous demande pardon, madame! c'est une fête pour quelques uns, mais ce n'est pas une fête pour nous, ce n'est pas pour le peuple!" At length I fortunately met an officer, with whom I was slightly acquainted, who immediately conducted me to the door. The spectacle, merely as a _spectacle_, was not striking; but to me it had a peculiar interest. There was a raised platform on one side for the queen and her children, who, attended by a numerous court, were spectators. An outer circle was formed by several regiments of guards, and within this circle the soldiers who had served in Russia were drawn up near the obelisk, which was covered for the present with a tarpauling. But all my attention was fixed on the disbanded soldiers without uniforms, who stood together in a dark dense column, contrasting with the glittering and gorgeous array of those around them. The king rode into the circle, accompanied by his brother, Prince Charles, the arch-duke Francis of Austria, Marshal Wrede, and followed by a troop of generals, equerries, &c. There was a dead silence, and not a shout was raised to greet him. A few of the disbanded soldiers, who were nearest to him, took off their hats, others kept them on. The trumpets sounded a salute: the bands struck up our "God save the King," which is nationalized as _the_ loyal anthem all over Germany. The canvass covering fell at once, and displayed the obelisk, which is entirely of bronze, raised upon four granite steps. It bears a simple inscription. I think it is "Ludwig I., king, to the soldiers of Bavaria who fell in the Russian campaign;" or nearly to that purpose. Marshal Wrede then alighted from his horse and addressed the soldiers. This was a striking moment; for while the outer circle of military remained immovable as statues, the soldiers within, both those with, and those without uniforms, finding themselves out of ear-shot, advanced a few steps, and then breaking their ranks, pressed forward in a confused mass, surrounding the king and his officers, in the most eager but respectful manner. I could not distinguish one sentence of the harangue, which, as I afterwards heard, was any thing rather than satisfactory. I heard it remarked round me that the Duke de Leuchtenberg, (the son of Eugène Beauharnais,) was not present, neither as one of the royal cortège nor as a spectator. The whole lasted about twenty minutes. The day was cold; and, in truth, the ceremony was _cold_, in every sense of the word. The Karoline-Platz is so large that not a third part of the open space was occupied. Had the people, who lingered sullen and discontented outside the military barrier, been admitted under proper restrictions, it had been a grand and imposing sight; but, perhaps the king is following the Austrian tactics, and seeking to crush systematically every thing like feeling or enthusiasm in his people. I know not how he will manage it; for he is himself the very antipodes of Austrian carelessness and sluggishness: a restless enthusiast--fond of intellectual excitement--fond of novelty--with no natural taste, one would think, for Metternich's _vieilleries_. If he adopt Austrian principles, his theory and his practice, his precept and example, will always be at variance. At the conclusion of the ceremony the king and his suite rode up to the platform and saluted the queen: and when she--who is so universally and truly beloved here that I believe the people would die for her at anytime--rose to depart, I heard a cheer, the first and last this day! The disbanded soldiers approached the platform, at first timidly by twos and threes, and then in great numbers, taking off their hats. She stood up, leaning on the princess Matilda, and bowed. The royal cortège then disappeared. The military bands struck up, and one battalion after another filed off. I expected that the crowd would have rushed in, but the people seemed completely chilled and disgusted. Only a few appeared. In about half an hour the obelisk was left alone in its solitude. I spent the rest of the day with Madame de V----, and returned home quite tired and depressed. I understand this morning (Saturday) that the king has ordered a gratuity and dinner to be given to the disbanded soldiers. I hope it is true, King Louis! You ought at least to understand your _metier de Roi_ better than to degrade the "pomp and circumstance of _glorious_ war" in the eyes of your people, and make them feel for what a poor recompence they may fight, bleed, die--be made at once victims and executioners in the contests of royal and ambitious gamblers! I saw to-day, at the house of the court banker, Eichthal, a most charming picture by the Baroness de Freyberg, the sister of my good friend, M. Stuntz. It is a Madonna and child--loveliest of subjects for a woman and a mother!--she is sure to put her heart into it, at least; but, in this particular picture, the surpassing delicacy of touch, the softness and purity of the colouring, the masterly drawing in the hands of the Virgin, and the limbs of the child, equalled the feeling and the expression--and, in truth, _surprised_ me. Madame de Freyberg gave this picture to her father, who is not rich, and, unhappily, blind. Of him, the present possessor purchased it for fifteen hundred florins, (about 140_l._) and now values it at twice the sum. In the possession of her brother, I have seen others of her productions, and particularly a head of one of his children, of exceeding beauty, and very much in the old Italian style. In the evening, a very lively and amusing _soirée_ at the house of Dr. Martius. We had some very good music. Young Vieux-temps, a pupil of De Beriot, was well accompanied by an orchestra of amateurs. I met here also a young lady of whom I had heard much--Josephine Lang, looking so gentle, so unpretending, so imperturbable, that no one would have accused or suspected her of being one of the Muses in disguise, until she sat down to the piano, and sang her own beautiful and original compositions in a style peculiar to herself. She is a musician by nature, by choice, and by profession, exercising her rare talent with as much modesty as good-nature. The painter Zimmermann, who has a magnificent bass voice, sung for me Mignon's song--"Kennst du das Land!" And, lastly, which was the most interesting amusement of the evening, Karl von Holtei read aloud the second act of Goethe's Tasso. He read most admirably, and with a voice which kept attention enchained, enchanted; still it was genuine reading. He kept equally clear of acting and of declamation. _Oct. 20th. Sunday._--I went with M. Stuntz to hear a grand mass at the royal chapel. * * * * * _21st._--It rained this morning:--went to the gallery, and amused myself for two hours walking up and down the rooms, sometimes pausing upon my favourite pictures, sometimes abandoned to the reveries suggested by these glorious creations of the human intellect. 'Twas like the bright procession Of skiey visions in a solemn dream, From which men wake as from a paradise, And draw fresh strength to tread the thorns of life! While looking at the Castor and Pollux of Rubens, I remembered what the biographers asserted of this most wonderful man--that he spoke fluently seven languages, besides being profoundly skilled in many sciences, and one of the most accomplished diplomatists of his time. Before he took up his palette in the morning, he was accustomed to read, or hear read, some fine passages out of the ancient poets; and thus releasing his soul from the trammels of low-thoughted care, he let her loose into the airy regions of imagination. What Goethe says of poets, must needs be applicable to painters. He says, "If we look only at the principal productions of a poet, and neglect to study himself, his character, and the circumstances with which he had to contend, we fall into a sort of atheism, which forgets the Creator in his creation." I think most people admire pictures in this sort of atheistical fashion; yet next to loving pictures, and all the pleasure they give, and revelling in all the feelings they awaken, all the new ideas with which they enrich our mental hoard--next to this, or equal with it, is the inexhaustible interest of studying the painter in his works. It is a lesson in human nature. Almost every picture (which is the production of mind) has an individual character, reflecting the predominant temperament--nay, sometimes, the occasional mood of the artist, its creator. Even portrait painters, renowned for their exact adherence to nature, will be found to have stamped upon their portraits a general and distinguishing character. There is, besides the physiognomy of the individual represented, the physiognomy, if I may so express myself, of the picture; detected at once by the mere connoisseur as a distinction of manner, style, execution: but of which the reflecting and philosophical observer might discover the key in the mind or life of the individual painter. In the heads of Titian, what subtlety of intellect mixed with sentiment and passion! In those of Velasquez, what chivalrous grandeur, what high-hearted contemplation! When Ribera painted a head--what power of sufferance! In those of Giorgione, what profound feeling! In those of Guido, what elysian grace! In those of Rubens what energy of intellect--what vigorous life! In those of Vandyke, what high-bred elegance! In those of Rembrandt, what intense individuality! Could Sir Joshua Reynolds have painted a vixen without giving her a touch of sentiment? Would not Sir Thomas Lawrence have given refinement to a cook-maid? I do believe that Opie would have made even a calf's head look sensible, as Gainsborough made our queen Charlotte look picturesque. If I should whisper that since I came to Germany I have not seen one really fine modern portrait, the Germans would never forgive me; they would fall upon me with a score of great names--Wach, Stieler, Vogel, Schadow--and beat me, like Chrimhilde, "black and blue." But before they are angry, and absolutely condemn me, I wish they would place one of their own most admired portraits beside those of Titian or Vandyke, or come to England, and look upon our school of portraiture here! I think they would allow, that with all their merits, they are in the wrong road. Admirable, finished drawing; wonderful dexterity of hand; exquisite and most conscientious truth of imitation, they have; but they abuse these powers. They do not seem to feel the application of the highest, grandest principles of art to portrait painting--they think too much of the accessories. Are not these clever and accomplished men aware that imitation may be carried so far as to cease to be nature--to be error, not truth? For instance, by the common laws of vision I can behold perfectly only one thing at a time. If I look into the face of a person I love or venerate, do I see _first_ the embroidery of the canezou or the pattern on the waistcoat? if not--why should it be so in a picture? The vulgar eye alone is caught by such misplaced skill--the vulgar artist only ought to seek to captivate by such means. These would sound in England as the most trite and impertinent remarks--the most self-evident propositions: nevertheless they are truths which the generality of the German portrait painters and their admirers have not yet felt. * * * * * I drove with my kind-hearted friends, M. and Madame Stuntz, to Thalkirchen, the country-house of the Baron de Freyberg. The road pursued the banks of the rapid, impetuous Isar, and the range of the Tyrolian alps bounded the prospect before us. An hour's drive brought us to Thalkirchen, where we were obviously quite unexpected, but that was nothing:--I was at once received as a friend, and introduced without ceremony to Madame de Freyberg's painting-room. Though now the fond mother of a large _little_ family, she still finds some moments to devote to her art. On her easel was the portrait of the Countess M---- (the sister of De Freyberg) with her child, beautifully painted--particularly the latter. In the same room was an unfinished portrait of M. de Freyberg, evidently painted _con amore_, and full of spirit and character; a head of Cupid, and a piping boy, quite in the Italian manner and feeling; and a picture of the birth of St. John, exquisitely finished. I was most struck by the heads of two Greeks--members, I believe, of the deputation to King Otho--painted with her peculiar delicacy and transparency of colour, and, at the same time, with a breadth of style and a freedom in the handling, which I have not yet seen among the German portrait painters. A glance over a portfolio of loose sketches and unfinished designs added to my estimation of her talents. She excels in children--her own serving her as models. I do not hesitate to say of this gifted woman, that while she equals Angelica Kauffman in grace and delicacy, she far exceeds her in _power_, both of drawing and colouring. She reminded me more of the Sofonisba,[12] but it is a different, and, I think, a more delicate style of colour, than I have observed in the pictures of the latter. We had coffee, and then strolled through the grounds--the children playing around us. If I was struck by the genius and accomplishments of Madame de Freyberg, I was not less charmed by the frank and noble manners of her husband, and his honest love and admiration of his wife, whom he married in despite of all prejudices of birth and rank. In this truly German dwelling there was an extreme simplicity, a sort of negligent elegance, a picturesque and refined homeliness, the presiding influence of a most poetical mind and eye every where visible, and a total indifference to what we English denominate _comfort_; yet with the obvious presence of that crowning comfort of all comforts--cordial domestic love and union--which impressed me altogether with pleasant ideas, long after borne in my mind, and not yet, nor ever to be, effaced. How little is needed for happiness, when we have not been spoiled in the world, nor our tastes vitiated by artificial wants and habits! When the hour of departure came, and De Freyberg was handing me to the carriage, he made me advance a few steps, and pause to look round; he pointed to the western sky, still flushed with a bright geranium tint, between the amber and the rose; while against it lay the dark purple outline of the Tyrolian mountains. A branch of the Isar, which just above the house overflowed and spread itself into a wide still pool, mirrored in its clear bosom not only the glowing sky and the huge dark mountains, and the banks and trees blended into black formless masses, but the very stars above our heads;--it was a heavenly scene!--"You will not forget this," said De Freyberg, seeing I was touched to the heart; "you will think of it when you are in England, and in recalling it, you will perhaps remember us--who will not forget _you_! Adieu, madame!" Afterwards to the opera: it was Herold's "Zampa:" noisy, riotous music, which I hate. I thought Madame Schechner's powers misplaced in this opera--yet she sang magnificently. Spent the morning with Dr. Martius, looking over the beautiful plates and illustrations of his travels and scientific works. It appears from what he told me, that the institution of the botanic garden is recent, and is owing to the late king Max-Joseph, who was a generous patron of scientific and benevolent institutions--as munificent as his son is magnificent. One of the most interesting monuments in Munich, is the tomb of Eugene Beauharnais, in the church of St. Michael. It is by Thorwaldson, and one of his most celebrated works. It is finely placed, and all the parts are admirable: but I think it wants completeness and entireness of effect, and does not tell its story well. Upon a lofty pedestal, there is first, in the centre, the colossal figure of the duke stepping forward; one hand is pressed upon his heart, and the other presents the civic crown--(but to whom?)--his military accoutrements lie at his feet. The drapery is admirably managed, and the attitude simple and full of dignity. On his left is the beautiful and well-known group of the two genii, Love and Life, looking disconsolate. On the right, the seated muse of History is inscribing the virtues and exploits of the hero; and as, of all the satellites of Napoleon, Eugene has left behind the fairest name, I looked at her, and her occupation, with complacency. The statue is, moreover, exceedingly beautiful and expressive--so are the genii; and the figure of Eugene is magnificent; and yet the combination of the whole is not effective. Another fault is, the colour of the marble, which has a grey tinge, and ought at least to have been relieved by constructing the pedestal and accompaniments of black marble; whereas they are of a reddish hue. The widow of Eugene, the eldest sister of the king of Bavaria, raised this monument to her husband, at an expense of eighty thousand florins. As the whole design is classical, and otherwise in the purest taste and grandest style of art, I exclaimed with horror at the sight of a vile heraldic crown, which is lying at the feet of the muse of History. I was sure that Thorwaldson would never voluntarily have committed such a solecism. I was informed that the princess-widow insisted on the introduction of this piece of barbarity as emblematical of the vice-royalty of Italy; any royalty being apparently better than none. I remember that when travelling in the Netherlands, at a time when the people were celebrating the _Fête-Dieu_, I saw a village carpenter busily employed in erecting a _réposoir_ for the Madonna, of painted boards and draperies and wreaths of flowers. In the mean time, as if to deprecate criticism, he had chalked in large letters over his work, "_La critique est aisée, mais l'art est difficile_." I could not help smiling at this application of one of those undeniable truisms which no one thinks it necessary to remember. When I recall the pleasure I derived from this noble work of Thorwaldson, all the genius, all the skill, all the patience, all the time, expended on its production, I think the foregoing trifling criticisms appear very ungrateful and impertinent; and yet, as a friend of mine insisted, when I was once upon a time pleading for mercy on certain defects and deficiencies in some other walk of art, "Toleration is the nurse of mediocrity." Artists themselves, as I often observe,--even the vainest of them--prefer discriminating admiration to wholesale praise. In the Frauen Kirche, there is another most admirable monument, a _chef d'oeuvre_, in the Gothic style. It is the tomb of the Emperor Louis of Bavaria, who died excommunicated in 1347; a stupendous work, cast in bronze. At the four corners are four colossal knights kneeling, in complete armour, each bearing a lance and ensign, and guarding the recumbent effigy of the emperor, which lies beneath a magnificent Gothic canopy. At the two sides are standing colossal figures, and I suppose about eight or ten other figures on a smaller scale, all of admirable design and workmanship.[13] It should seem, that in the sixteenth century the art of casting in bronze was not only brought to the highest perfection in Germany, but found employment on a very grand scale. In the evening there was a concert at the Salle de l'Odeon--the third I have attended since I came here. This concert room is larger than any public room in London, and admirably constructed for music. Over the orchestra, in a semi-circle, are the busts of the twelve great German composers who have flourished during the last hundred years, beginning with Handel and Bach, and ending with Weber and Beethoven. On this occasion the hall was crowded. We had all the best performers of Munich, led by the Kapelmeister Stuntz, and Schechner and Meric, who sang _à l'envie l'une de l'autre_. The concert began at seven, and ended a little after nine; and much as I love music, I felt I had had enough. They certainly manage these social pleasures much better here than in London, where a grand concert almost invariably proves a most awful bore, from which we return wearied, yawning, jarred, satiated. Count ---- amused me this evening with his laconic summing up of the rise, progress, and catastrophe of a Polish amour;--se passioner, se battre, se ruiner, enlever, épouser, et divorcer; and so ends this six-act tragico-comico-heroico pastoral. _23rd._--To-day went over the Pinakothek (the new grand national picture gallery) with M. de Klenze, the architect, and Comtesse de V----. This is the second time; but I have not yet a clear and connected idea of the general design, the building being still in progress. As far as I can understand the arrangements, they will be admirable. The destination of the edifice seems to have been the first thing kept in view. The situation of particular pictures has been calculated, and accurate experiments have been made for the arrangement of the light, &c. Professor Zimmermann has kindly promised to take me over the whole once more. He has the direction of the fresco paintings here. * * * * * Society is becoming so pleasant, and engagements of every kind so multifarious, that I have little time for scribbling memoranda. New characters unfold before me, new scenes of interest occupy my thoughts. I find myself surrounded with friends, where only a few weeks ago I had scarcely one acquaintance. Time ought not to linger--and yet it does sometimes. Our circumstances alter; our opinions change; our passions die; our hopes sicken, and perish utterly:--our spirits are broken; our health is broken, and even our hearts are broken; but WILL survives--the unconquerable strength of will, which is in later life what passion is when young. In this world, there is always something to be done or suffered, even when there is no longer any thing to be desired or attained. The Glyptothek is, at certain hours, open to strangers _only_, and strangers do not at present abound: hence it has twice happened that I have found myself in the gallery alone--to-day for the second time. I felt that, under some circumstances, an hour of solitude in a gallery of sculpture may be an epoch in one's life. There was not a sound, no living thing near, to break the stillness; and lightly, and with a feeling of awe, I trod the marble pavements, looking upon the calm, pale, motionless forms around me, almost expecting they would open their marble lips and speak to me--or, at least, nod--like the statue in Don Giovanni: and still, as the evening shadows fell deeper and deeper, they waxed, methought, sadder, paler, and more life-like. A dim, unearthly glory effused those graceful limbs and perfect forms, of which the exact outline was lost, vanishing into shade, while the sentiment--the _ideal_--of their immortal loveliness, remained distinct, and became every moment more impressive: and thus they stood; and their melancholy beauty seemed to melt into the heart. As the Graces round the throne of Venus, so music, painting, sculpture, wait as handmaids round the throne of Poetry. "They from her golden urn draw light," as planets drink the sunbeams; and in return they array the divinity which created and inspired them, in those sounds, and hues, and forms, through which she is revealed to our mortal senses. The pleasure, the illusion, produced by music, when it is the _voice_ of poetry, is, for the moment, by far the most complete and intoxicating, but also the most transient. Painting, with its lovely colours blending into life, and all its "silent poesy of form," is a source of pleasure more lasting, more intellectual. Beyond both, is sculpture, the noblest, the least illusive, the most enduring of the imitative arts, because it charms us not by what it seems to be, but by what it is; because if the pleasure it imparts be less exciting, the impression it leaves is more profound and permanent; because it is, or ought to be, the abstract idea of power, beauty, sentiment, made visible in the cold, pure, impassive, and almost eternal marble. It seems to me that the grand secret of that grace of repose which we see developed in the antique statues, may be defined as _the presence_ _of thought, and the absence of volition_. The moment we have, in sculpture, the expression of will, or effort, we have the idea of something fixed in its place by an external cause, and a consequent diminution of the effect of internal power. This is not well expressed, I fear. Perhaps I might illustrate the thought thus: the Venus de Medici looks as if she were content to stand on her pedestal and be worshipped; Canova's Hebe looks as if she would fain step off the pedestal--if she could: the Apollo Belvedere, as if he could step from his pedestal--if he would. Among the Greeks, in the best ages of sculpture, and in all their very finest statues, this seems to be the presiding principle--viz. that in sculpture the repose of suspended motion, or of subsided motion, is graceful; but arrested motion, and all effort, to be avoided. When the ancients did express motion, they made it flowing or continuous, as in the frieze of the Parthenon. ALONE. IN THE GALLERY OF SCULPTURE AT MUNICH. Ye pale and glorious forms, to whom was given All that we mortals covet under heaven-- Beauty, renown, and immortality, And worship!--in your passive grandeur, ye. There's nothing new in life, and nothing old; The tale that we might tell hath oft been told. Many have look'd to the bright sun with sadness, Many have look'd to the dark grave with gladness; Many have griev'd to death--have lov'd to madness! What has been, is;--what is, will be;--I know, Even while the heart drops blood, it must be so. I live and smile--for O the griefs that kill, Kill slowly--and I bear within me still My conscious self, and my unconquer'd will! And knowing what I have been--what has made My misery, I will be no more betray'd By hollow mockeries of the world around, Or hopes and impulses, which I have found Like ill-aim'd shafts, that kill by their rebound. Complaint is for the feeble, and despair For evil hearts. Mine still can hope--still bear-- Still hope for others what it never knew Of truth and peace; and silently pursue A path beset with briers, "and wet with tears like dew!" * * * * * To-day I devoted to the Pinakothek--for the last time! Just before I left England our projected national gallery had excited much attention. Those who were usually indifferent to such matters were roused to interest; and I heard the merits of different designs, so warmly, even so violently discussed in public and in private, that for a long time the subject kept possession of my mind. On my arrival here, the Pinakothek (for that is the designation given to the new national gallery of Munich) became to me a principal object of interest. I have been most anxious to comprehend both the general design and the nature of the arrangements in detail; but I might almost doubt my own competency to convey an exact idea of what I understand and admire, to the comprehension of another. I must try, however, while the impressions remain fresh and strong, and the memory not yet encumbered and distracted, as it must be, even a few hours hence, by the variety, and novelty, and interest, of all I see and hear around me. The Pinakothek was founded in 1826; the king himself laying the first stone with much pomp and ceremony on the 7th of April, the birthday of Rafaelle. It is a long, narrow edifice, facing the south, measuring about five hundred feet from east to west, and about eighty or eighty-five feet in depth. At the extremities are two wings, or rather projections. The body of the building is of brick, but not of common brickwork: for the bricks, which are of a particular kind of clay, have a singular tint, a kind of greenish yellow; while the friezes, balustrades, architraves of the windows, in short, all the ornamental parts, are of stone, the colour of which is a fine warm grey; and as the stone workmanship is extremely rich, and the brickwork of unrivalled elegance and neatness, and the colours harmonize well, the combination produces a very handsome effect, rendering the exterior as pleasing to the eye, as the scientific adaptation of the building to its peculiar purpose is to the understanding. Along the roof runs a balustrade of stone, adorned with twenty-four colossal statues of celebrated painters. A public garden, which is already in preparation, will be planted around, beautifully laid out with shady walks, flower-beds, fountains, urns, and statues. I believe the enclosure of this garden will be about a thousand feet each way, and that it will ultimately be bounded (at least on three sides) with rows of houses forming a vast square, of which the Pinakothek will occupy the centre. It consists of a ground-floor and an upper-story. The ground-floor will comprise, 1st, the collection of the Etruscan vases; 2ndly, the Mosaics, ancient and modern, of which there are here some rare and admirable specimens; 3rdly, the cabinet of drawings by the old masters; 4thly, the cabinet of engravings, which is said to be one of the richest in Europe; 5thly, a library of all works pertaining to the fine arts; lastly, a noble entrance-hall: a private entrance; with accommodations for students, and other offices. The upper-story is appropriated to the pictures, and is calculated to contain not less than fifteen hundred specimens, selected from various galleries, and arranged according to the schools of art. We ascend from the entrance-hall by a wide and handsome staircase of stone, very elegantly carved, which leads first to a kind of vestibule, where the attendants and keepers of the gallery are in waiting. Thence, to a splendid reception-room, about fifty feet in length: this will contain the full-length portraits of the founders of the gallery of Munich--the Palatine John William; the Elector, Maximilian Emanuel of Bavaria; the Duke Charles of Deuxponts; the Palatine Charles Theodore; Maximilian Joseph I., king of Bavaria; and his son, (the present monarch,) Louis I. The ceiling and the frieze of this room are splendidly decorated with groups of figures and ornaments in white relief, on a gold ground, and the walls will be hung with crimson damask. Along the south front of the building from east to west runs a gallery or corridor about four hundred feet in length, and eighteen in width, lighted on one side by twenty-five lofty arched windows, having on the other side ten doors, opening into the suite of picture galleries, or rather halls. These occupy the centre of the building, and are lighted from above by vast lanthorns. They are eight in number, varying in length from fifty to eighty feet, but all forty feet in width and fifty feet in height from the floor to the summit of the lanthorn. The walls will be hung with silk damask, either of a dark crimson or a dark green--according to the style of art for which the room is destined. The ceilings are vaulted, and the decorations are inexpressibly rich, composed of magnificent arabesques, intermixed with the effigies of celebrated painters, and groups illustrative of the history of art, &c., all moulded in white relief upon a ground of dead gold. Mayer, one of the best sculptors in Munich, has the direction of these works. Behind these vast galleries, or saloons, there is a range of cabinets, twenty-three in number, appropriated to the smaller pictures of the different schools: these are each about nineteen feet by fifteen in size, and lighted from the north, each having one high lateral window. The ceilings and upper part of the walls are painted in fresco, (or distemper, I am not sure which,) with very graceful arabesques of a quiet colour;--the hangings will also be of silk damask. Of the principal saloons, the first is appropriated to the productions of modern and living artists, and has three cabinets attached to it. The second will contain the old German pictures, including the famous Boisserée gallery, and has four cabinets attached to it. The third, fourth, and fifth saloons (of which the central one, the hall of Rubens, is eighty feet in length) are devoted, with the nine adjoining cabinets, to the Flemish and Dutch schools. The sixth, with four cabinets, will contain the French and Spanish pictures; and the seventh and eighth, with three cabinets, will contain the Italian school of painting. All these apartments communicate with each other by ample doors; but from the corridor already mentioned, which opens into the whole suite, the visitor has access to any particular gallery, or school of painting, without passing through the others: an obvious advantage, which will be duly estimated by those who, in visiting a gallery of painting, have felt their eyes dazzled, their heads bewildered, their attention distracted, by too much variety of temptation and attraction, before they have reached the particular object or school of art to which their attention was especially directed. To this beautiful and most convenient corridor, or, as it is called here, _loggia_, we must now return. I have said that it is four hundred feet in length, and lighted by five-and-twenty arched windows,--which, by the way, command a splendid prospect, bounded by the far-off mountains of the Tyrol. The wall opposite to these windows is divided into twenty-five corresponding compartments, arched, and each surmounted by a dome; these compartments are painted in fresco with arabesques, something in the style of Rafaelle's Loggie in the Vatican; while every arch and cupola contains (also painted in fresco) scenes from the life of some great painter, arranged chronologically: thus, in fact, exhibiting a graphic history of the rise and progress of modern painting--from Cimabue down to Rubens. Of this series of frescos, which are now in progress, a few only are finished, from which, however, a very satisfactory idea may be formed, of the whole design. The first cupola is painted from a poem of A. W. Schlegel "Der Bund der Kirche mit den Künsten," which celebrates the alliance between religion (or rather the church) and the fine arts. The second cupola represents the Crusades, because from these wild expeditions (for so Providence ordained that good should spring from evil) arose the regeneration of art in Europe. With the third cupola commences the series of painters. In the arch, or lunette, is represented the Madonna of Cimabue carried in triumphal procession through the streets of Florence to the church of Santa Maria Novella; and in the dome above, various scenes from the painter's life. In the next cupola is the history of Giotto; then follows Angelico da Fesole, who, partly from humility and partly from love for his art, refused to be made Archbishop of Florence; then, fourthly, Masaccio; fifthly, Bellini: in one compartment he is represented painting the favourite sultana of Mahomet II. Several of the succeeding cupolas still remain blank, so we pass them over and arrive at Leonardo da Vinci, painting the queen Joanna of Arragon; then Michael Angelo, meditating the design of St. Peter's; then the history of Rafaelle: in the dome are various scenes from his life. The lunette represents his death: he is extended on a couch, beside which sits his virago love, the Fornarina "in disperato dolor;" Pope Leo X. and Cardinal Bembo are looking on overwhelmed with grief;--in the background is the Transfiguration. I wonder, if Rafaelle had survived this fatal illness, which of the two alternatives he would have chosen--the cardinal's hat or the niece of Cardinal Bibbiena? M. de Klenze gave us, the other night, a most picturesque and animated description of the opening of Rafaelle's tomb,--at which he had himself assisted--the discovery of his remains, and those of his betrothed bride, the niece of Cardinal Bibbiena, deposited near him. She survived him several years, but in her last moments requested to be buried in the same tomb with him. This was at least quite in the _genre romantique_. "Charming!" exclaimed one of the ladies present. "_Et genereux!_" exclaimed another. The series of the Italian painters will end with the Carracci. Those of the German painters will begin with Van Eyck, and end with Rubens. Of many of the frescos which are not yet executed, I saw the cartoons in professor Zimmermann's studio. Though the general decoration of this gallery was planned by Cornelius, the designs for particular parts, and the direction of the whole, have been confided to Zimmermann, who is assisted in the execution by five other painters. One particular picture, which represents Giotto exhibiting his Madonna to the pope, was pointed out to my especial admiration as the most finished specimen of fresco painting which has yet been executed here; and in truth, for tenderness and freshness of colour, softness in the shadows, and delicacy in the handling, it might bear comparison with any painting in oils. We were standing near it on a high scaffold, and it endured the closest and most minute consideration; but when seen from below, it may possibly be less effective. It shows, however, the extreme finish of which the fresco painting is susceptible. This was executed by Hiltensperger, of Swabia, from the cartoon of Zimmermann. At one end of this gallery there is to be a large fresco, representing his majesty King Louis, introduced by the muse of Poetry to the assembled poets and painters of Germany. Now, this species of allegorical adulation appears to me flat and out of date. I well remember that long ago the famous picture of Voltaire, introduced into the Elysian fields by Henri Quatre, and making his best bow to Racine and Molière, threw me into a convulsion of laughter: and the cartoon of this royal apotheosis provoked the same irrepressible feeling of the ridiculous. I wish somebody would hint to King Louis that this is not in good taste, and that there are many, many ways in which the compliment (which he truly merits) might be better managed. On the whole, however, it may truly be said that the luxuriant and appropriate decorations of this gallery, the variety of colour and ornament lavished on it, agreeably prepare the eye and the imagination for that glorious feast of beauty within, to which we are immediately introduced: and thus the overture to the Zauberflöte, (which we heard last night,) with its rich involved harmonies, its brilliant and exciting movements, attuned the ear and the fancy to enjoy the grand, thrilling, bewitching, love-breathing melodies of the opera which followed. I omitted to mention that there are also on the upper floor of the Pinakothek two rooms, each about forty feet square; one called the _Reserve-Saal_, is intended for the reception of those pictures which are temporarily removed from their places, new acquisitions, &c. The other room is fitted up with every convenience for students and copyists. The whole of this immense edifice is warmed throughout by heated air; the stoves being detached from the body of the building, and so managed as to preclude the possibility of danger from fire. It does not appear to be yet decided whether the floors will be of the Venetian stucco, or of parquet. Such, then, is the general plan of the Pinakothek, the national gallery of Bavaria. I make no comment, except that I felt and recognised in every part the presence of a directing mind, and the absence of all narrow views, all truckling to the interests, or tastes, or prejudices, or convenience, of any particular class of persons. It is very possible that when finished it will be found by scientific critics not absolutely _perfect_, which, as we know, all human works are at least intended and expected to be; but it is equally clear that an honest anxiety for the glory of art, and the benefit of the public--not the caprices of the king, nor the individual vanity of the architect--has been the moving principle throughout. * * * * * Fresco painting, or, as the Italians call it, _buon fresco_, had been entirely discontinued since the time of Raphael Mengs. It was revived at Rome in 1809-10, when the late M. Bartholdy, the Prussian consul-general, caused a saloon in his house to be painted in fresco by Peter Cornelius, Overbeck, and Philip Veith, all German artists, then resident at Rome. The subjects are taken from the Scriptures, and one of the admirable cartoons of Overbeck, (Joseph sold by his brethren,) I saw at Frankfort. These first essays are yet to be seen in Bartholdy's house, in the Via Sistina at Rome. They are rather hard, but in a grand style of composition. The success which attended this spirited undertaking, excited much attention and enthusiasm, and induced the Marchese Massimi to have his villa near the Lateran adorned in the same style. Accordingly, he had three grand halls or saloons, painted with subjects from Dante, Ariosto, and Tasso. The first was given to Philip Veith, the second to Julius Schnorr, and the third to Overbeck. Veith did not finish his work, which was afterwards terminated by Koch; the two other painters completed their task, much to the satisfaction of the Marchese, and to the admiration of all Rome. But these were mere experiments--mere attempts, compared to what has since been executed in the same style at Munich. It is true that the art of fresco-painting had never been entirely lost. The theory of the process was well known, and also the colours formerly used; only practice, and the opportunity of practice, were wanting. This has been afforded; and there is now at Munich a school of fresco painting, under the direction of Cornelius, Julius Schnorr, and Zimmermann, in which the mechanical process has been brought to such perfection, that the neatness of the execution may vie with oils, and they can even cut out a feature, and replace it if necessary. The palette has also been augmented by the recent improvements in chemistry, which have enabled the fresco painter to apply some most precious colours, unknown to the ancient masters: only earths and metallic colours are used. I believe it is universally known that the colours are applied while the plaster is wet, and that the preparation of this plaster is a matter of much care and nicety. A good deal of experience and manual dexterity is necessary to enable the painter to execute with rapidity, and calculate the exact degree of humidity in the plaster, requisite for the effect he wishes to produce. It has been said that fresco painting is unfitted for our climate, damp and sea-coal fires being equally injurious; but the new method of warming all large buildings, either by steam or heated air, obviates, at least, _this_ objection. _26th._--The morning was spent in the ateliers of two Bavarian sculptors, Mayer and Bandel. To Mayer, the king has confided the decoration of the exterior of the Pinakothek, of which he showed me the drawings and designs. He has also executed the colossal statue of Albert Durer, in stone, for the interior of that building. It appears that the pediment of the Glyptothek, now vacant, will be adorned by a group of fourteen or fifteen figures, representing all the different processes in the art of sculpture; the modeller in clay, the hewer of the marble, the caster in bronze, the carver in wood or ivory, &c. all in appropriate attitudes, all colossal, and grouped into a whole. The general design was modelled, I believe, by Eberhardt, professor of sculpture in the academy here; and the execution of the different figures has been given to several young sculptors, among them Mayer and Bandel. This has produced a strong feeling of emulation. I observed that notwithstanding the height and the situation to which they are destined, nearly one-half of each figure being necessarily turned from the spectator below, each statue is wrought with exceeding care, and perfectly finished on every side. I admired the purity of the marble, which is from the Tyrol. Mayer informs me, that about three years ago enormous quarries of white marble were discovered in the Tyrol, to the great satisfaction of the king, as it diminishes, by one-half, the expense of the material. This native marble is of a dazzling whiteness, and to be had in immense masses without flaw or speck; but the grain is rather coarse. More than twenty years ago, when the king of Bavaria was Prince Royal, and could only anticipate at some distant period the execution of his design, he projected a building, of which, at least, the name and purpose must be known to all who have ever stepped on German ground. This is the VALHALLA, a temple raised to the national glory, and intended to contain the busts or statues of all the illustrious characters of Germany, whether distinguished in literature, arts, or arms, from their ancient hero and patriot Herman, or Arminius, down to Goethe, and those who will succeed him. The idea was assuredly noble, and worthy of a sovereign. The execution--never lost sight of--has been but lately commenced. The Valhalla has been founded on a lofty cliff, which rises above the Danube, not far from Ratisbon.[14] It will form a conspicuous object to all who pass up and down the Danube, and the situation, nearly in the centre of Germany, is at least well chosen. But I could hardly express (or repress) my surprise, when I was shown the design for this building. The first glance recalled the Theseum at Athens; and then follows the very natural question, why should a Greek model have been chosen for an edifice, the object, and purpose, and name of which are so completely, essentially, exclusively gothic? What, in Heaven's name, has the Theseum to do on the banks of the Danube? It is true that the purity of forms in the Greek architecture, the effect of the continuous lines and the massy Doric columns, must be grand and beautiful to the eye, place the object where you will; and in the situation designed for it, particularly imposing; but surely it is not appropriate;--the name, and the form, and the purpose, are all at variance--throwing our most cherished associations into strange confusion. Nor could the explanations and eloquent reasoning with which my objections were met, succeed in convincing me of the propriety of the design, while I acknowledged its magnificence. The sculptor Mayer showed me a group of figures for one of the pediments of this Greek Valhalla, admirably appropriate to the purpose of the building--but not to the building itself. It represents Herman introduced by Hermoda (or Mercury) into the Valhalla, and received by Odin and Freya. Iduna advances to meet the hero, presenting the apples of immortality, and one of the Vahlküre pours out the mead, to refresh the soul of the Einheriar.[15] To the right of this group are several figures representing the chief epochs in the history of Germany. This design wants unity; and it is a manifest incongruity to allude to the introduction of Christianity, where the mythological Valhalla forms the chief point of interest; notwithstanding, it gave me exceeding pleasure, as furnishing an unanswerable proof of the possible application of sculpture on a grand scale, to the forms of romantic or gothic poetry: all the figures, the accompaniments, attributes, are strictly Teutonic; the effect of the whole is grand and interesting; but what would it be on a Greek temple? would it not appear misplaced and discordant? I am informed, that of the two pediments of the Valhalla, one will be given to Rauch of Berlin, and the other to Schwanthaler. The sculptor Bandel, with his quick eye, his ample brow, his animated, benevolent face, and his rapid movements, looks like what he is--a genius. In his atelier I saw some things, just like what I see in all the ateliers of young sculptors--cold imitations, feeble versions of mythological subjects--but I saw some other things so fresh and beautiful in feeling, as to impress me with a high idea of his poetical and creative power. I longed to bring to England one or two casts of his charming Cupid Penseroso, of which the original marble is at Hanover. There is also a very exquisite bas-relief of Adam and Eve sleeping: the good angel watching on one side, and the evil angel on the other. This lovely group is the commencement of a series of bas-reliefs, designed, I believe, for a frieze, and not yet completed, representing the four ages of the world: the age of innocence; the heroic age, or age of physical power; the age of poetry, and the age of philosophy. This new version of the old idea interested me, and it is developed and treated with much grace and originality. Bandel told us that he is just going, with his beautiful wife and two or three little children, to settle at Carrara for a few years. The marble quarries there are now colonised by young sculptors of every nation. * * * * * The king of Bavaria has a gallery of beauties, (the portraits of some of the most beautiful women of Germany and Italy,) which he shuts up from the public eye, like any grand Turk--and neither bribery nor interest can procure admission. A lovely woman, to whom I was speaking of it yesterday, and who has been admitted in effigy into this harem, seemed to consider the compliment rather equivocal. "Depend upon it, my dear," said she, "that fifty years hence we shall be all confounded together, as the king's _very_ intimate friends; and, to tell you the truth, I am not ambitious of the honour, more particularly as there are some of my illustrious _companions in charms_ who are enough to throw discredit on the whole set!" I saw in Stieler's atelier two portraits for this collection: one, a woman of rank--a dark beauty; the other, a servant girl here, with a head like one of Raffaelle's angels, almost divine; she is painted in the little filagree silver cap, the embroidered boddice, and silk handkerchief crossed over the bosom, the costume of the women of Munich, to which the king is extremely partial. I am assured that this young girl, who is not more than seventeen, is as remarkable for her piety, simplicity, and spotless reputation, as for her singular beauty. I have seen her, and the picture merely does her justice. Several other women of the _bourgeoisie_ have been pointed out to me as included in the king's collection. One of these, the daughter, I believe, of an herb-woman, is certainly one of the most exquisite creatures I ever beheld. On the whole, I should say, that the lower orders of the people of Munich are the handsomest race I have seen in Germany. Stieler is the court and fashionable portrait painter here--the Sir Thomas Lawrence of Munich--that is, in the estimation of the Germans. He is an accomplished man, with amiable manners, and a talent for rising in the world; or, as I heard some one call it, the organ of _getting-oniveness_. For the elaborate finish of his portraits, for expertness and delicacy of hand, for resemblance and exquisite drawing, I suppose he has few equals; but he has also, in perfection, what I consider the faulty peculiarities of the German school. Stieler's artificial roses are _too_ natural: his caps, and embroidered scarfs, and jewelled bracelets, are more real than the things themselves--or seem so; for certainly I never gave to the real objects the attention and the admiration they challenge in his pictures. The famous bunch of grapes, which tempted the birds to peck, could be nothing compared to the felt of Prince Charles's hat in Stieler's portrait: it actually invites the hat-brush. Strange perversion of power in the artist! stranger perversion of taste in those who admire it!--_Ma pazienza!_ * * * * * The Duc de Leuchtenberg opens his small but beautiful gallery twice a week: Mondays and Thursdays. The doors are thrown open and every respectable person may walk in, without distinction or ceremony. It is a delightful morning lounge; there are not more than one hundred and fifty pictures--enough to excite and gratify, not satiate, admiration. The first room contains a collection of paintings by modern and living artists of France, Germany, and Italy. There is a lovely little picture by Madame de Freyberg of the Maries at the sepulchre of Christ; and by Heinrich Hess, a group of the three Christian graces--Faith, Hope, and Charity, seated under the German oak, and painted with great simplicity and sentiment; of his celebrated brother, Peter Hess, and Wagenbauer, and Jacob Dorner, and Quaglio, there are beautiful specimens. The French pictures did not please me: Girodet's picture of Ossian and the French heroes is a monstrous combination of all manner of affectations. I should not forget a fine portrait of Napoleon, by Appiani, crowned with laurel; and another picture, which represents him throned, with all the insignia of state and power, and supported on either side by Victory and Peace. For a moment we pause before that proud form, to think of all he was, all he might have been--to draw a moral from the fate of selfishness. He rose by blood, he built on man's distress, And th'inheritance of desolation left To great expecting hopes.[16] Among the pictures of the old masters there are many fine ones, and three or four of peculiar interest. There is the famous head by Bronzino, generally entitled, Petrarch's Laura, but assuredly without the slightest pretensions to authenticity. The face is that of a prim, starched _précieuse_, to which the peculiar style of this old portrait painter, with his literal nature, his hardness, and leaden colouring, imparts additional coldness and rigidity. But the finest picture in the gallery--perhaps one of the finest in the world--is the Madonna and Child of Murillo: one of those rare productions of mind which baffle the copyist, and defy the engraver,--which it is worth making a pilgrimage but to gaze on. How true it is that "a thing of beauty is a joy for ever!" When I look at Murillo's roguish, ragged beggar-boys in the royal gallery, and then at the Leuchtenberg gallery turn to contemplate his Madonna and his ascending angel, both of such unearthly and inspired beauty, a feeling of the wondrous grasp and versatility of the man's mind almost makes me giddy. The lithographic press of Munich is celebrated all over Europe. Aloys Senefelder, the inventor of the art, has the direction of the works, with a well-merited pension, and the title of Inspector of Lithography.[17] * * * * * The people of Munich are not only a well-dressed and well-looking, but a social, kind-hearted race. The number of unions, or societies, instituted for benevolent or festive purposes, is, for the size of the place, almost incredible.[18] I had a catalogue of more than forty given to me this morning; they are for all ranks and professions, and there is scarcely a person in the city who is not enlisted into one or more of these communities. Some have reading-rooms, and well-furnished libraries, to which strangers are at once introduced, gratis; they give balls and concerts during the winter, which not only include their own members and their friends, but one society will sometimes invite and entertain another. The young artists of Munich, who constitute a numerous body, formed themselves into an association, and gave very elegant balls and concerts, at first among themselves and their immediate friends and connexions; but the circle increased--these balls became more and more splendid--even the king and the royal family frequently honoured them with their presence. It became a point of honour to exceed in elegance and profusion all the entertainments given by the other societies of Munich. Every body danced, praised, and enjoyed themselves. At length it occurred to some of the most considerate and kind-hearted of the people, that these young men were going beyond their means to entertain their friends and fellow-citizens. It had evidently become a matter of great expense, and perhaps ostentation, and they resolved to put down this competition at once. An association was formed of persons of all classes, and they gave a fête to the painters of Munich, which eclipsed in magnificence every thing of the kind before or since. It was a ball and supper, on the most ample and splendid scale, and took place at the Odeon. Each lady's ticket contained the name of the cavalier, to whose especial protection and gallantry she was consigned for the evening; and so much _tacte_ was shown in this arrangement, that I am told very few were discontented with their lot. Nearly three thousand persons were present, and it was the month of February; yet every lady on entering the room was presented by her cavalier with a bouquet of hot-house flowers; and the Salle de l'Odeon was adorned with a profusion of plants and flowering shrubs, collected from all the conservatories, private and public, within twenty miles of the capital. The king, the queen, their family and suite, and many of the principal nobles were invited, with, of course, a large portion of the gentry and trades-people of Munich; but, notwithstanding the miscellaneous nature of the assemblage, and the immense number of persons present, all was harmony, and good-breeding, and gaiety. This fête produced the desired result; the young painters took the hint, and though they still give balls, which are exceedingly pleasant, they are on a more modest scale than heretofore. The Liederkranz (literally, the circle, or garland of song) is a society of musicians--amateurs and professors--who give concerts here, at which the compositions of the members are occasionally performed. One of these concerts (Fest-Production) took place this evening at the Odeon; and having duly received, as a stranger, my ticket of invitation, I went early with a very pleasant party. The immense room was crowded in every part, and presented a most brilliant spectacle, from the number of military costumes, and the glittering head-dresses of the Munich girls. Our hosts formed the orchestra. The king and queen had been invited, and had signified their gracious intention of being present. The first row of seats was assigned to them; but no other distinction was made between the royal family and the rest of the company. The king is generally punctual on these occasions, but from some accident he was this evening delayed, and we had to wait his arrival about ten minutes; the company were all assembled--servants were already parading up and down the room with trays, heaped with ices and refreshments--the orchestra stood up, with fiddle-sticks suspended; the chorus, with mouths half open--and the conductor, Stuntz, brandished his roll of music. At length a side door was thrown open: a voice announced "the king;" the trumpets sounded a salute; and all the people rose and remained standing until the royal guests were seated. The king entered first, the queen hanging on his arm. The duke Bernard of Saxe-Weimar, and his duchess,[19] followed; then the princess Matilda, leading her younger brother and sister, prince Luitpold and the princess Adelgonde;--the former a fine boy of about twelve years old, the latter a pretty little girl of about seven or eight: a single lady of honour; the baron de Freyberg, as principal equerry; the minister von Schencke, and one or two other officers of the household were in attendance. The king bowed to the gentlemen in the orchestra, then to the company, and in a few moments all were seated. The music was entirely vocal, consisting of concerted pieces only, for three or more voices, and all were executed in perfection. I observed several little boys and young girls, of twelve or fourteen, singing in the chorusses, apparently much to their own satisfaction--certainly to ours. Their voices were delicious, and perfectly well managed, and their merry laughing faces were equally pleasant to look upon. We had first a grand loyal anthem, composed for the occasion by Lenz, in which the king and queen, and their children, were separately apostrophized. Prince Maximilian, now upon his travels, and young king Otto, "far off upon the throne of Hellas," were not forgotten; and as the princess Matilda has lately been _verlobt_ (betrothed) to the hereditary prince of Hesse-Darmstadt, they put the _Futur_ into a couplet, with great effect. It seems that this marriage has been for some time in negociation; its course did not "run quite smooth," and the heart of the young princess is supposed to be more deeply interested in the affair than is usual in royal alliances. She is also very generally beloved, so that when the chorus sang, "Hoch lebe Ludwig und Mathilde! Ein Herz stets Brautigam und Braut!" all eyes were turned towards her with a smiling expression of sympathy and kindness, which really touched me. As I sat, I could only see her side-face, which was declined. There was also an allusion to the late king Max-Joseph, "das beste Herz," who died about five years ago, and who appears to have been absolutely adored by his people. All this passed off very well, and was greatly applauded. At the conclusion the king rose from his seat, and said something courteous and good-natured to the orchestra, and then sat down. The other pieces were by old Schack, (the intimate friend of Mozart,) Stuntz, Chelard, and Marschner; a drinking song by Hayden, and one of the chorusses in the _Cosi fan Tutte_ were also introduced. The whole concluded with the "song of the heroes in the Valhalla," composed by Stuntz. Between the acts there was an interval of at least half an hour, during which the queen and the princess Matilda walked up and down in front of the orchestra, entered into conversation with the ladies who were seated near, and those whom the rules of etiquette allowed to approach unsummoned and pay their respects. The king, meanwhile, walked round the room unattended, speaking to different people, and addressing the young bourgeoises, whose looks or whose toilette pleased him, with a bow and a smile; while they simpered and blushed, and drew themselves up when he had passed. As I see the king frequently, his face is familiar to me, but to-night he looked particularly well, and had on a better coat than he usually condescends to wear,--quite plain, however, and without any order or decoration. He is now in his forty-seventh year, not handsome, with a small well-formed head, an intelligent brow, and a quick penetrating eye. His figure is slight and well-made, his movements quick, and his manner lively--at times even abrupt and impatient. His utterance is often so rapid as to be scarcely intelligible to those who are most accustomed to him. I often meet him walking arm-in-arm with M. de Schenke, M. de Klenze, and others of his friends--for apparently this eccentric, accomplished sovereign has _friends_, though I believe he is not so popular as his father was before him. The queen (Theresa, princess of Saxe-Hilburghausen) has a sweet open countenance, and a pleasing, elegant figure. The princess Matilda, who is now nineteen, is the express image of her mother, whom she resembles in her amiable disposition, as well as her person; her figure is very pretty, and her deportment graceful. She looked pensive this evening, which was attributed by the good people around me to the recent departure of the prince of Hesse-Darmstadt, who has been here for some time paying his court. About ten, the concert was over. The king and queen remained a few minutes in conversation with those around them, without displaying any ungracious hurry to depart; and the whole scene left a pleasant impression upon my fancy. To an English traveller in Germany nothing is more striking than the easy familiar terms on which the sovereign and his family mingle with the people on these and the like occasions; it certainly would not answer in England: but as they say in this expressive language--_Ländlich, sittlich_.[20] _Munich, Oct. 28th, 1833._ II. NUREMBERG. Nuremberg--with its long, narrow, winding, involved streets, its precipitous ascents and descents, its completely gothic physiognomy--is by far the strangest old city I ever beheld; it has retained in every part the aspect of the middle ages. No two houses resemble each other; yet, differing in form, in colour, in height, in ornament, all have a family likeness; and with their peaked and carved gabels, and projecting central balconies, and painted fronts, stand up in a row, like so many tall, gaunt, stately old maids, with the toques and stomachers of the last century. In the upper part of the town, we find here and there a new house, built, or rebuilt, in a more modern fashion; and even a gay modern theatre, and an unfinished modern church; but these, instead of being embellishments, look ill-favoured and mean, like patches of new cloth on a rich old brocade. Age is here, but it does not suggest the idea of dilapidation or decay, rather of something which has been put under a glass-case, and preserved with care from all extraneous influences. The buildings are so ancient, the fashions of society so antiquated, the people so penetrated with veneration for themselves and their city, that in the few days I spent there, I began to feel quite old too--my mind was _wrinkled up_, as it were, with a reverence for the past. I wondered that people condescended to talk of any event more recent than the thirty years' war, and the defence of Gustavus Adolphus;[21] and all names of modern date, even of greatest mark, were forgotten in the fame of Albert Durer, Hans Sachs, and Peter Vischer: the trio of worthies, which, in the estimation or imagination of the Nurembergers, still live with the freshness of a yesterday's remembrance, and leave no room for the heroes of to-day. My enthusiasm for Albert Durer was all ready prepared, and warm as even the Nurembergers could desire; but I confess, that of that renowned cobbler and meister-singer, Hans Sachs, I knew little but what I had learnt from the pretty comedy bearing his name, which I had seen at Manheim; and of the illustrious Peter Vischer I could only remember that I had seen, in the academy at Munich, certain casts from his figures, which had particularly struck me. Yet to visit Nuremberg without some previous knowledge of these luminaries of the middle ages, is to lose much of that pleasure of association, without which the eye wearies of the singular, and the mind becomes satiated with change. Nuremberg was the gothic Athens: it was never the seat of government, but as a free imperial city it was independent and self-governed, and took the lead in arts and in literature. Here it was that clocks and watches, maps and musical instruments, were manufactured for all Germany; here, in that truly German spirit of pedantry and simplicity, were music, painting, and poetry, at once honoured as sciences, and cultivated as handicrafts, each having its guild, or corporation, duly chartered, like the other trades of this flourishing city, and requiring, by the institution of the magistracy, a regular apprenticeship. It was here that, on the first discovery of printing, a literary barber and meister-singer (Hans Foltz) set up a printing-press in his own house; and it was but the natural consequence of all this industry, mental activity, and social cultivation, that Nuremberg should have been one of the first cities which declared for the Reformation. But what is most curious and striking in this old city, is to see it stationary, while time and change are working such miracles and transformations every where else. The house where Martin Behaim, four centuries ago, invented the sphere, and drew the first geographical chart, is still the house of a map-seller. In the house where cards were first manufactured, cards are now sold. In the very shops where clocks and watches were first seen, you may still buy clocks and watches. The same families have inhabited the same mansions from one generation to another for four or five centuries. The great manufactories of those toys, commonly called Dutch toys, are at Nuremberg. I visited the wholesale depot of Pestelmayer, and it is true that it would cut a poor figure compared to some of our great Birmingham show-rooms; but the enormous scale on which this commerce is conducted, the hundreds of waggon-loads and ship-loads of these trifles and gimcracks, which find their way to every part of the known world, even to America and China, must interest a thinking mind. Nothing gave me a more comprehensive idea of the value of the whole, than a complaint which I heard from a Nuremberger, (and which, though seriously made, sounded not a little ludicrous,) of the falling off in the trade of _pill-boxes_! he said that since the fashionable people of London and Paris had taken to paper pill-boxes, the millions of wooden or chip boxes which used to be annually sent from Nuremberg to all parts of Europe were no longer required; and he computed the consequent falling off of the profits at many thousand florins. Nuremberg was rendered so agreeable to me by the kindness and hospitality I met with, that instead of merely passing through it, I spent some days wandering about its precincts; and as it is not very frequently visited by the English, I shall note a few of the objects which have dwelt on my memory, premising, that for the artist and the antiquary it affords inexhaustible materials. The whole city, which is very large, lies crowded and compact within its walls; but the fortifications, once the wonder of all Germany, and their three hundred and sixty-five towers, once the glory and safeguard of the inhabitants, exist no longer. Four huge circular towers stand at the principal gates,--four huge towers of almost dateless antiquity, and blackened with age, but of such admirable construction, that the masonry appears, from its entireness and smoothness, as if raised yesterday. The old castle or fortress, which stands on a height commanding the town and a glorious view, is a strange, dismantled, incongruous heap of buildings. It happened, that in the summer of 1833, the king of Bavaria, accompanied by the queen and the princess Matilda, had paid his good city of Nuremberg a visit, and had been most royally entertained by the inhabitants. The apartments in the old castle, long abandoned to the rats and spiders, had been prepared for the royal guests, and, when I saw it, three or four months afterwards, nothing could be more uncouth and fantastical than the effect of these irregular rooms, with all manner of angles, with their carved worm-eaten ceilings, their curious latticed and painted windows, and most preposterous stoves, now all tricked out with fresh paint here and there, and hung with gay glazed papers of the most modern fashion, and the most gaudy patterns. Even the chapel, with its four old pillars, which, according to the legend, had been brought by Old Nick himself from Rome, and the effigy of the monk who had cheated his infernal adversary, by saying the Litanies faster than had ever been known before or since, had, in honour of the king's visit, received a new coat of paint. There are some very curious old pictures in the castle, (which luckily were not repainted for the same grand occasion,) among them an original portrait of Albert Durer. In the courtyard of the fortress stands an extraordinary relic--the old lime-tree planted by the Empress Cunegunde, wife of the Emperor Henry III.; every thing is done to preserve it from decay, and it still bears its leafy honours, after beholding the revolution of seven centuries. From the fortress we look down upon the house of Albert Durer, which is preserved with religious care; it has been hired by a society of artists, who use it as a club-room: his effigy in stone is over the door. In every house there is a picture or print of him; or copies, or engravings from his works, and his head hangs in every print shop. The street in which he lived is called by his name; and the inhabitants have moreover built a fountain to his honour, and planted trees around it;--in short, Albert Durer is wherever we look--wherever we move. What can Fuseli mean by saying that Albert Durer "was a man of extreme ingenuity without being a genius?" Does the man of mere ingenuity step before his age as Albert Durer did, not as an artist only, but as a man of science? Is not genius the creative power? and did not Albert Durer possess this power in an extraordinary degree? Could Fuseli have seen his four apostles, now in the gallery of Munich, when he said that Albert Durer never had more than an occasional _glimpse_ of the sublime? Fuseli, as an _artist_, is an example of what I have seen in other minds, otherwise directed. The stronger the faculties, the more of original power in the mind, the less diffused is the sympathy, and the more is the judgment swayed by the individual character. Thus Fuseli, in his remarks on painters--excellent and eloquent as they are--scarcely ever does justice to those who excel in colour. He perceives and admits the excellence, but he shows in his criticisms, as in his pictures, that the faculty was wanting to feel and appreciate it: his remarks on Correggio and Rubens are a proof of this. In listening to the criticisms of an author on literature--of a painter on pictures--and, generally, to the opinion which one individual expresses of the character and actions of another, it is wise to take into consideration the modification of mind in the person who speaks, and how far it may, or _must_, influence, even where it does not absolutely distort, the judgment; so many minds are what the Germans call _one-sided_! The education, habits, mental existence of the individual, are the refracting medium through which the rays of truth pass to the mind, more or less bent or absorbed in their passage. We should make philosophical allowance for different degrees of density. Hans Sachs,[22] the old poet of Nuremberg, did as much for the Reformation by his songs and satires, as Luther and the doctors by their preaching; besides being one of the worshipful company of meister-singers, he found time to make shoes, and even enrich himself by his trade: he informs us himself that he had composed and written with his own hand "four thousand two hundred mastership songs; two hundred and eight comedies, tragedies, and farces; one thousand seven hundred fables, tales, and miscellaneous poems; and seventy-three devotional, military, and love songs." It is said he excelled in humour, but it was such as might have been expected from the times--it was vigorous and coarse. "Hans," says the critic, "tells his tale like a convivial burgher, fond of his can, and still fonder of his drollery."[23] If this be the case, his house has received a very appropriate designation: it is now an ale-house, from which, as I looked up, the mixed odours of beer and tobacco, and the sound of voices singing in chorus, streamed through the old latticed windows. "Drollery" and "the can" were as rife in the dwelling of the immortal shoemaker as they would have been in his own days, and in his own jovial presence. In the church of St. Sibbald, now the chief Protestant church, I was surprised to find that most of the Roman Catholic symbols and relics remained undisturbed: the large crucifix, the old pictures of the saints and Madonnas had been reverentially preserved. The perpetual light which had been vowed four centuries ago by one of the Tucher family, was still burning over his tomb; no puritanic zeal had quenched that tiny flame in its chased silver lamp; and through successive generations, and all revolutions of politics and religion, maintained and fed by the pious honesty of the descendants, it still shone on, Like the bright lamp that lay in Kildare's holy fane, And burned through long ages of darkness and storm! In this Protestant church, even the shrine of St. Sibbald has kept its place, if not to the honour and glory of the saint, at least to the honour and glory of the city of Nuremberg; it is considered as the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of Peter Vischer, a famous sculptor and caster in bronze, cotemporary with Albert Durer. It was begun in 1506, and finished in 1519, and is adorned with ninety-six figures, among which the twelve apostles, all varying in character and attitude, are really miracles of grace, power, and expression; the base of the shrine rests upon six gigantic snails, and the whole is cast in bronze, and finished with exquisite skill and fancy. At one end of this extraordinary composition the artificer has placed his own figure, not obtrusively, but retired, in a sort of niche; he is represented in his working dress, with his cap, leather apron, and tools in his hand. According to tradition, he was paid for his work by the pound weight, twenty gulden (or florins) for every hundred weight of metal; and the whole weighs one hundred and twenty centners, or hundred weight. The man who showed us this shrine was descended from Peter Vischer, lived in the same house which he and his sons had formerly inhabited, and carried on the same trade, that of a smith and brass-founder. The Moritz-Kapel, near the church, is an old gothic chapel once dedicated to St. Maurice, now converted into a public gallery of pictures of the old German school. The collection is exceedingly curious; there are about one hundred and forty pictures, and besides specimens of Mabuse, Albert Durer, Van Eyck, Martin Schoen, Lucas Kranach, and the two Holbeins, I remember some portraits by a certain Hans Grimmer, which impressed me by their truth and fine painting. It appears from this collection that for some time after Albert Durer, the German painters continued to paint on a gold ground. Kulmbach, whose heads are quite marvellous for finish and expression, generally did so. This gallery owes its existence to the present king, and has been well arranged by the architect Heideldoff and professor von Dillis of Munich. In the market-place of Nuremberg stands the Schönebrunnen, that is, the beautiful fountain; it bears the date 1355, and in style resembles the crosses which Edward I. erected to Queen Eleanor, but is of more elaborate beauty; it is covered with gothic figures, carved by one of the most ancient of the German sculptors, Schonholfer, who modestly styles himself a stone-cutter. Here we see, placed amicably close, Julius Cæsar, Godfrey of Boulogne, Judas Maccabæus, Alexander the Great, Hector of Troy, Charlemagne, and king David: all old acquaintances, certainly, but whom we might have supposed that nothing but the day of judgment could ever have assembled together in company. Talking of the day of judgment reminds me of the extraordinary cemetery of Nuremberg, certainly as unlike every other cemetery, as Nuremberg is unlike every other city. Imagine upon a rising ground, an open space of about four acres, completely covered with enormous slabs, or rather blocks of solid stone, about a foot and a half in thickness, seven feet in length, and four in breadth, laid horizontally, and just allowing space for a single person to move between them. The name, and the armorial bearings of the dead, cast in bronze, and sometimes rich sculpture, decorate these tombs: I remember one, to the memory of a beautiful girl, who was killed as she lay asleep in her father's garden by a lizard creeping into her mouth. The story is represented in bronze bas-relief, and the lizard is so constructed as to move when touched. From this I shrunk with disgust, and turned to the sepulchre of a famous worthy, who measured the distance from Nuremberg to the holy sepulchre with his garter: the implement of his pious enterprise, twisted into a sort of true-love knot, is carved on his tomb. Two days afterwards I entered the dominions of a reigning monarch, who is at this present moment performing a journey to Jerusalem round the walls of his room.[24] How long-lived are the follies of mankind! Have, then, five centuries made so little difference? The tombs of Albert Durer, Hans Sachs, and Sandraart, were pointed out to me, resembling the rest in size and form. I was assured that these huge sepulchral stones exceed three thousand in number, and the whole aspect of this singular burial-place is, in truth, beyond measure striking--I could almost add, appalling. I was not a little surprised and interested to find that the principal Gazette of Nuremberg, which has a wide circulation through all this part of Germany, extending even to Frankfort, Munich, Dresden, and Leipsig, is entirely in female hands. Madame de Schaden is the proprietor, and the responsible editor of the paper; she has the printing apparatus and offices under her own roof, and though advanced in years, conducts the whole concern with a degree of activity, spirit, and talent, which delighted me. The circulation of this paper amounts to about four thousand: a trifling number compared to our papers, but a large number in this economical country, where the same paper is generally read by fifty or sixty persons at least. * * * * * All travellers agree that benevolence and integrity are the national characteristics of the Germans. Of their honesty I had daily proofs: I do not consider that I was ever imposed upon or overcharged during my journey, except once, and then it was by a Frenchman. Their benevolence is displayed in the treatment of animals, particularly of their horses. It was somewhere between Nuremberg and Hof, that, for the first and only time, I saw a postilion flog his horse unmercifully, or at least unreasonably. The Germans very seldom beat their horses: they talk to them, remonstrate, encourage, or upbraid them. I have frequently known a voiturier, or a postilion, go a whole stage--which is seldom less than fifteen English miles--at a very fair pace, without once even raising the whip; and have often witnessed, not without amusement, long conversations between a driver and his steed--the man, with his arm thrown over the animal's neck, discoursing in a strange jargon, and the intelligent brute turning his eye on his master with such a responsive expression! In this part of Germany there is a popular verse repeated by the postilions, which may be called the German _rule of the road_. It is the horse who speaks-- Berg auf, ubertrieb mich nicht; Berg ab, ubereil mich nicht; Auf ebenen Weg, vershöne mich nicht; Im Stahl, vergiss mich nicht. which is, literally, Up hill, overdrive me not; Down hill, hurry me not; On level ground, spare me not; In the stable, forget me not. The German postilions form a very numerous and distinct class; they wear a half-military costume--a laced or embroidered jacket, across which is invariably slung the bugle-horn, with its parti-coloured cord and tassels: huge jack-boots, and a smart glazed hat, not unfrequently surmounted with a feather (as in Hesse Cassel and Saxe Weimer) complete their appearance. They are in the direct service and pay of the government; they must have an excellent character for fidelity and good conduct before they are engaged, and the slightest failing in duty or punctuality, subjects them to severe punishment; thus they enjoy some degree of respectability as a body, and Marschner thought it not unworthy of his talents to compose a fine piece of music, which he called The Postilion's "Morgen-lied," or morning song. I found them generally a good-humoured, honest set of men; obliging, but not servile or cringing; they are not allowed to smoke without the express leave of the traveller, nor to stop or delay on the road on any pretence whatever. In short, though the burley German postilions do not present the neat compact turn-out of an English post-boy, nor the horses any thing like the speed of "Newman's greys," or the Brighton Age, and though the traveller must now and then submit to arbitrary laws and individual inconvenience; still the travelling regulations all over Germany, more especially in Prussia, are so precise, so admirable, and so strictly enforced, that no where could an unprotected female journey with more complete comfort and security. This I have proved by experience, after having tried every different mode of conveyance in Prussia, Bavaria, Baden, Saxony, and Hesse. My road expenses, for myself and an attendant, seldom exceeded a Napoleon a-day. III. MEMORANDA AT DRESDEN.[25] Beautiful, stately Dresden! if not the queen, the fine lady of the German cities! Surrounded with what is most enchanting in nature, and adorned with what is most enchanting in art, she sits by the Elbe like a fair one in romance, wreathing her towery diadem--so often scathed by war--with the vine and the myrtle, and looking on her own beauty imaged in the river flood, which, after rolling an impetuous torrent through the mountain gorges, here seems to pause and spread itself into a lucid mirror to catch the reflection of her airy magnificence. No doubt misery and evil dwell in Dresden, as in all the congregated societies of men, but no where are they less obtrusive. The city has all the advantages, and none of the disadvantages, of a capital; the treasures of art accumulated here, the mild government, the delightful climate, the beauty of the environs, and the cheerfulness and simplicity of social intercourse, have rendered it a favourite residence for artists and literary characters, and to foreigners one of the most captivating places in the world. How often have I stood in the open space in front of the gorgeous Italian church, or on the summit of the flight of steps leading to the public walk, gazing upon the noble bridge which bestrides the majestic Elbe, and connects the new and the old town; or, pursuing with enchanted eye the winding course of the river to the foot of those undulating purple hills, covered with villas and vineyards, till a feeling of quiet grateful enjoyment has stolen over me, like that which Wordsworth describes:-- Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart, And passing even into my purer mind With tranquil restoration. But it is not only the natural beauties of the scene which strike a stranger; the city itself has this peculiarity in common with Florence, to which it has been so often compared, that instead of being an accident in the landscape--a dim, smoky, care-haunted spot upon the all-lovely face of nature--a discord in the soothing harmony of that quiet enchanting scene which steals like music over the fancy;--it is rather a charm the more--an ornament--a crowning splendour--a fulfilling and completing chord. Its unrivalled elegance and neatness, a general air of cheerfulness combined with a certain dignity and tranquillity, the purity and elasticity of the atmosphere, the brilliant shops, the well-dressed women, and the lively looks and good-humoured alertness of the people, who, like the Florentines, are more remarkable for their tact and acuteness than for their personal attractions;--all these advantages render Dresden, though certainly one of the smallest, and by no means one of the richest capitals in Europe, one of the most delightful residences on the continent. I am struck, too, by the silver-toned voices of the women, and the courtesy and vivacity of the men; for in Bavaria the intonation is broad and harsh, and the people, though frank, and honest, and good-natured, are rather slow, and not particularly polished in their demeanour. It is the general aspect of Dresden which charms us: it is not distinguished by any vast or striking architectural decorations, if we except the Italian church, which, with all its thousand faults of style, pleases from its beautiful situation and its exceeding richness. This is the only Roman Catholic church in Dresden: for it is curious enough, that while the national religion, or, if I may so use the word, the state religion, is Protestant--the court religion is Catholic; the royal family having been for several generations of that persuasion;[26] but this has caused neither intolerance on the one hand, nor jealousy on the other. The Saxons, the first who hailed and embraced the doctrines of Luther, seem quite content to allow their anointed king to go to heaven his own way; and though the priests who surround him are, of course, mindful to keep up their own influence, there is no spirit of proselytism; and I believe the most perfect equality with regard to religious matters prevails here. The Catholic church is almost always half full of Protestants, attracted by the delicious music, for all the corps d'opera sing in the choir. High mass begins about the time that the sermon is over in the other churches, and you see the Protestants hurrying from their own service, crowding in at the portals of the Catholic church, and taking their places, the men on one side and the women on the other, with looks of infinite gravity and devotion: the king being always present, it would here be a breach of etiquette to behave as I have often seen the English behave in the Catholic churches--precisely as if in a theatre. But if the good old monarch imagines that his heretic subjects are to be converted by Cesi's[27] divine voice, he is wonderfully mistaken. The people of Dresden have always been distinguished by their love of music; I was therefore rather surprised to find here a little paltry theatre, ugly without, and mean within; a new edifice has been for some time in contemplation, therefore to decorate or repair the old one may seem superfluous. That it is not nearly large enough for the place is its worst fault. I have never been in it that it was not crowded to suffocation. At this time Bellini's opera, _I Capelletti_, is the rage at Dresden, or rather Madame Devrient's impersonation of the Romeo, has completely turned all heads and melted all hearts--that are fusible. The Capelletti is only the last of the thousand-and-one versions of Romeo and Juliet, and though the last, not the best of Bellini's operas; and Devrient is not generally heard to the greatest advantage in the modern Italian music; but her _conception_ of the part of Romeo is new and belongs to herself; like a woman of feeling and genius she has put her stamp upon it: it is quite distinct from the same character as represented by Pasta and Malibran--_character_ perhaps I should not say, for in the lyrical drama there is properly no room for any such gradual development of individual sentiments and motives; a powerful and graceful sketch, of which the outline is filled up by music, is all that the artist is required to give; and within this boundary a more beautiful delineation of youthful fervid passion I never beheld: if Devrient must yield to Pasta in grandeur, and to Malibran in versatility of power and liquid flexibility of voice, she yields to neither in pathos, to neither in delicious modulation, to neither in passion, power, and originality, though in her, in a still greater degree, the talent of the artist is modified by individual temperament. Like other gifted women, who are blessed or cursed with a most excitable nervous system, Devrient is a good deal under the influence of moods of feeling and temper, and in the performance of her favourite parts, (as this of Romeo, the Armida, Emmeline in the Sweitzer Familie,) is subject to inequalities, which are not caprices, but arise from an exuberance of soul and power, and only render her performance more interesting. Every night that I have seen her since my arrival here, even in parts which are unworthy of her, as in the "Eagle's Nest,"[28] has increased my estimate of her talents; and last night, when I saw her for the third time in the Romeo, she certainly surpassed herself. The duet with Juliet, (Madlle. Schneider,) at the end of the first act, threw the whole audience into a tumult of admiration; they invariably encore this touching and impassioned scene, which is really a positive cruelty, besides being a piece of stupidity; for though it _may_ be as well sung the second time, it _must_ suffer in effect from the repetition. The music, though very pretty, is in itself nothing, without the situation and sentiment; and after the senses and imagination have been wound up to the most thrilling excitement by tones of melting affection and despair, and Romeo and Juliet have been finally torn asunder by a flinty-hearted stick of a father, with a black cloak and a bass voice--_selon les regles_--it is ridiculous to see them come back from opposite sides of the stage, bow to the audience, and then, throwing themselves into each other's arms, pour out the same passionate strains of love and sorrow. As to Devrient's acting in the last scene, I think even Pasta's Romeo would have seemed colourless beside hers; and this arises perhaps from the character of the music, from the very different style in which Zingarelli and Bellini have treated their last scene. The former has made Romeo tender and plaintive, and Pasta accordingly subdued her conception to this tone; but Bellini has thrown into the same scene more animation, and more various effect.[29] Devrient, thus enabled to colour more highly, has gone beyond the composer. There was a flush of poetry and passion, a heartbreaking struggle of love and life against an overwhelming destiny, which thrilled me. Never did I hear any one sing so completely from her own soul as this astonishing creature. In certain tones and passages her voice issued from the depths of her bosom as if steeped in tears; and her countenance, when she hears Juliet sigh from the tomb, was such a sudden and divine gleam of expression as I have never seen on any face but Fanny Kemble's. I was not surprised to learn that Madame Devrient is generally ill after her performance, and unable to sing in this part more than once or twice a week. * * * * * Tieck is the literary Colossus of Dresden; perhaps I should say of Germany. There are those who dispute his infallibility as a critic; there are those who will not walk under the banners of his philosophy; but since the death of Goethe, I believe Ludwig Tieck holds undisputed the first rank as an original poet, and powerful writer, and has succeeded, by right divine, to the vacant throne of genius. His house in the Altmarkt, (the tall red house at the south-east corner,) henceforth consecrated by that power which can "hallow in the core of human hearts even the ruin of a wall,"[30] is the resort of all the enlightened strangers who flock to Dresden: even those who know nothing of Tieck but his name, deem an introduction to him as indispensable as a visit to the Madonna del Sisto. To the English, he is particularly interesting: his knowledge of our language and literature, and especially of our older writers, is profound. Endued with an imagination which luxuriates in the world of marvels, which "dwells delightedly midst fays and talismans," and embraces in its range of power what is highest, deepest, most subtle, most practical--gifted with a creative spirit, for ever moving and working within the illimitable universe of fancy, Tieck is yet one of the most poignant satirists and profound critics of the age. He has for the last twenty years devoted his time and talents, in conjunction with Schlegel, to the study, translation, and illustration of Shakspeare. The combination of these two minds has done perhaps what no single mind could have effected in developing, elucidating, and clothing in a new language the creations of that mighty and inspired being. It is to be hoped that some translator will rise up among us to do justice in return to Tieck. No one tells a fairy tale like him: the earnest simplicity of style and manner is so exquisite that he always gives the idea of one whose hair was on end at his own wonders, who was entangled by the spell of his own enchantments. A few of these lighter productions (his Volksmärchen, or popular Tales) have been rendered into our language; but those of his works which have given him the highest estimation among his own countrymen still remain a sealed fountain to English readers.[31] It was with some trepidation I found myself in the presence of this extraordinary man. Notwithstanding his profound knowledge of our language, he rarely speaks English, and, like Alfieri, he _will not_ speak French. I addressed him in English, and he spoke to me in German. The conversation in my first visit fell very naturally upon Shakspeare, for I had been looking over his admirable new translation of Macbeth, which he had just completed. Macbeth led us to the English theatre and English acting--to Mrs. Siddons and the Kembles, and the actual character and state of our stage. While he spoke I could not help looking at his head, which is wonderfully fine; the noble breadth and amplitude of his brow, and his quiet, but penetrating eye, with an expression of latent humour hovering round his lips, formed altogether a striking physiognomy. The numerous prints and portraits of Tieck which are scattered over Germany are very defective as resemblances. They have a heavy look; they give the weight and power of his head, but nothing of the _finesse_ which lurks in the lower part of his face. His manner is courteous, and his voice particularly sweet and winning. He is apparently fond of the society of women; or the women are fond of his society, for in the evening his room is generally crowded with fair worshippers. Yet Tieck, like Goethe, is accused of entertaining some unworthy sentiments with regard to the sex; and is also said, like Goethe, not to have upheld us in his writings, as the true philosopher, to say nothing of the true poet, ought to have done. It is a fact upon which I shall take an opportunity of enlarging, that almost all the greatest men who have lived in the world, whether poets, philosophers, artists, or statesmen, have derived their mental and physical organization, more from the mother's than the father's side; and the same is true, unhappily, of those who have been in an extraordinary degree perverted. And does not this lead us to some awful considerations on the importance of the moral and physical well-being of women, and their present condition in society, as a branch of legislation and politics, which must ere long be modified? Let our lords and masters reflect, that if an extensive influence for good or for evil be not denied to us, an influence commencing not only with, but before the birth of their children, it is time that the manifold mischiefs and miseries lurking in the bosom of society, and of which woman is at once the wretched instrument and more wretched victim, be looked to. Sometimes I am induced to think that Tieck is misinterpreted or libelled by those who pretend to take the tone from his writings and opinions: it is evident that he delights in being surrounded by a crowd of admiring women, therefore he must in his heart honour and reverence us as being morally equal with man,--for who could suspect the great Tieck of that paltry coxcombry which can be gratified by the adulation of inferior beings? Tieck's extraordinary talent for reading aloud is much and deservedly celebrated: he gives dramatic readings two or three times a week when his health and his avocations allow this exertion; the company assemble at six, and it is advisable to be punctual to the moment; soon afterwards tea is served: he begins to read at seven precisely, when the doors are closed against all intrusion whatever, and he reads through a whole play without pause, rest, omission, or interruption. Thus I heard him read Julius Cæsar and the Midsummer Night's Dream, (in the German translation by himself and Schlegel,) and except Mrs. Siddons, I never heard any thing comparable as dramatic reading. His voice is rich, and capable of great variety of modulation. I observed that the humorous and declamatory passages were rather better than the pathetic and tender passages: he was quite at home among the elves and clowns in the Midsummer Night's Dream, of which he gave the fantastic and comic parts with indescribable humour and effect. As to the translation, I could only judge of its marvellous fidelity, which enabled me to follow him, word for word,--but the Germans themselves are equally enchanted by its vigour, and elegance, and poetical colouring. * * * * * The far-famed gallery of Dresden is, of course, the first and grand attraction to a stranger. The regulation of this gallery, and the difficulty of obtaining admission, struck me at first as rather inhospitable and ill-natured. In the summer months it is open to the public two days in the week; but during the winter months, from September to March, it is closed. In order to obtain admittance, during this _recess_, you must pay three dollars to one of the principal keepers on duty, and a gratuity to the porter,--in all about half-a-guinea. Having once paid this sum, you are free to enter whenever the gallery has been opened for another party. The ceremony is, to send the laquais-de-place at nine in the morning to inquire whether the gallery will be open in the course of the day; if the answer be in the affirmative, it is advisable to make your appearance as early as possible, and I believe you may stay as long as you please; (at least _I_ did;) nothing more is afterwards demanded, though something may perhaps be expected--if you are a _very_ frequent visitor. All this is rather ungracious. It is true that the gallery is not a national, but a royal gallery,--that it was founded and enriched by princes for their private recreation; that Augustus III. purchased the Modena gallery for his kingly pleasure; that from the original construction of the building it is impossible to heat it with stoves, without incurring some risk, and that to oblige the poor professors and attendants to linger benumbed and shivering in the gallery from morning to night is cruel. In fact, it would be difficult to give an idea of the deadly cold which prevails in the inner gallery, where the beams of the sun scarcely ever penetrate. And it may happen that only a chance visitor, or one or two strangers, may ask admittance in the course of the day. But poor as Saxony now is,--drained, and exhausted, and maimed by successive wars, and trampled by successive conquerors, this glorious gallery, which Frederic spared, and Napoleon left inviolate, remains the chief attraction to strangers; and it may be doubted whether there is good policy in making admittance to its treasures a matter of difficulty, vexation, and expense. There would be little fear, if all strangers were as obstinate and enthusiastic as myself,--for, to confess the truth, I know not what obstacle, or difficulty, or inconvenience, could have kept me out; if all legal avenues had been hermetically sealed, I would have prayed, bribed, persevered, till I had attained my purpose, and after travelling three hundred miles to achieve an object, what are a few dollars? But still it _is_ ungracious, and methinks, in this courteous and liberal capital these regulations ought to be reformed or modified. On entering the gallery for the first time, I walked straight forward, without pausing, or turning to the right or the left, into the Raffaelle-room, and looked round for the Madonna del Sisto,--literally with a kind of misgiving. Familiar as the form might be to the eye and the fancy, from numerous copies and prints, still the unknown original held a sanctuary in my imagination, like the mystic Isis behind her veil: and it seemed that whatever I beheld of lovely, or perfect, or soul-speaking in art, had an unrevealed rival in my imagination: something was beyond--there was a criterion of possible excellence as yet only conjectured--for I had not seen the Madonna del Sisto. Now, when I was about to lift my eyes to it, I literally hesitated--I drew a long sigh, as if resigning myself to disappointment, and looked----Yes! there she was indeed! that divinest image that ever shaped itself in palpable hues and forms to the living eye! What a revelation of ineffable grace, and purity, and truth, and goodness! There is no use attempting to say any thing about it; too much has already been said and written--and what are words? After gazing on it again and again, day after day, I feel that to attempt to describe the impression is like measuring the infinite, and sounding the unfathomable. When I looked up at it today it gave me the idea, or rather the feeling, of a vision descending and floating down upon me. The head of the virgin is quite superhuman: to say that it is beautiful, gives no idea of it. Some of Correggio's and Guido's virgins--the virgin of Murillo at the Leuchtenberg palace--have more beauty, in the common meaning of the word; but every other female face, however lovely, however majestic, would, I am convinced, appear either trite or exaggerated, if brought into immediate comparison with this divine countenance. There is such a blessed calm in every feature! and the eyes, beaming with a kind of internal light, look straight out of the picture--not at you or me--not at any thing belonging to this world,--but through and through the universe. The unearthly Child is a sublime vision of power and grandeur, and seems not so much supported as enthroned in her arms, and what fitter throne for the Divinity than a woman's bosom full of innocence and love? The expression in the face of St. Barbara, who looks down, has been differently interpreted: to me she seems to be giving a last look at the earth, above which the group is raised as on a hovering cloud. St. Sixtus is evidently pleading in all the combined fervour of faith, hope, and charity, for the congregation of sinners, who are supposed to be kneeling before the picture--that is, for _us_--to whom he points. Finally, the cherubs below, with their upward look of rapture and wonder, blending the most childish innocence with a sublime inspiration, complete the harmonious whole, uniting heaven with earth. While I stood in contemplation of this all-perfect work, I felt the impression of its loveliness in my deepest heart, not only without the power, but without the thought or wish to give it voice or words, till some lines of Shelley's--lines which were not, but, methinks, ought to have been, inspired by the Madonna--came, uncalled, floating through my memory-- Seraph of Heaven! too gentle to be human, Veiling beneath that radiant form of woman All that is insupportable in thee, Of light, and love, and immortality! Sweet Benediction in the eternal curse! Veil'd Glory of this lampless universe! Thou Harmony of Nature's art! I measure The world of fancies, seeking one like thee, And find--alas! mine own infirmity![32] On the first morning I spent in the gallery, a most benevolent-looking old gentleman came up to me, and half lifting his velvet cap from his grey hairs, courteously saluted me by name. I replied, without knowing at the moment to whom I spoke. It was Böttigar, the most formidable--no, not _formidable_--but the most erudite scholar, critic, antiquarian, in Germany. Böttigar, I do believe, has read every book that ever was written; knows every thing that ever was known; and is acquainted with every body, who is _any body_, in the four quarters of the world. He is not the author of any large work, but his writings, in a variety of form, on art, ancient and modern,--on literature, on the classics, on the stage, are known over all Germany; and in his best days few have exercised so wide an influence over opinion and literature. It is _said_, that in his latter years his criticism has been too vague, his praise too indiscriminate, to be trusted; but I know not why this should excite indignation, though it may produce mistrust; in Böttigar's conformation, benevolence must always have been prominent, and in the decline of his life--for he is now seventy-eight--this natural courtesy combining with a good deal of vanity and imagination, would necessarily produce the result of extreme mildness,--a disposition to see, or try to see, all _en beau_. The happier for him, and the pleasanter for others. We were standing together in the room with the Madonna, but I did not allude to it, nor attempt to express by a word the impression it had made on me; but he seemed to understand my silence; he afterwards told me that it is ascertained that Raffaelle employed only three months in executing this picture: it was thrown upon his canvas in a glow of inspiration, and is painted very lightly and thinly. When Palmeroli, the Italian restorer, was brought here at an expense of more than three thousand ducats, he ventured to clean and retouch the background and accessories, but dared not touch the figures of the Virgin and the Child, which retain their sombre tint. This has perhaps destroyed the harmony of the general effect, but if the man mistrusted himself he was right: in such a case, however, he had better have let the background alone. In taking down the picture for the purpose of cleaning, it was discovered that a part of the original canvas, about a quarter of a yard, was turned back in order to make it fit the frame. Every one must have observed, that in Müller's engraving, and all the known copies of this Madonna, the head is too near the top of the picture, so as to mar the just proportion. This is now amended: the veil, or curtain, which appears to have been just drawn aside to disclose the celestial vision, does not now reach the boundary of the picture, as heretofore; the original effect is restored, and it is infinitely better. As if to produce a surfeit of excellence, the five Correggios hang together in the same room with the Raffaelle.[33] They are the Madonna di San Georgio; the Madonna di San Francisco; the Madonna di Santo Sebastiano; the famous Nativity, called La Notte; and the small Magdalene reading, of which there exist an incalculable number of copies and prints. I know not that any thing can be added to what has been said a hundred times over of these wondrous pieces of poetry. Their excellence and value, as unequalled productions of art, may not perhaps be understood by all,--the poetical charm, the something more than meets the eye, is not perhaps equally felt by all,--but the sentiment is intelligible to every mind, and goes at once to every heart; the most uneducated eye, the merest tyro in art, gazes with delight on the Notte; and the Magdalene reading has given perhaps more pleasure than any known picture,--it is so quiet, so simple, so touching, in its heavenly beauty! Those who may not perfectly understand what artists mean when they dwell with rapture on Correggio's wonderful chiaro-scuro, should look close into this little picture, which hangs at a convenient height: they will perceive that they can look through the shadows into the substance,--as it might be, into the flesh and blood;--the shadows seem accidental--as if between the eye and the colours, and not incorporated with them; in this lies the inimitable excellence of this master. The Magdalene was once surrounded by a rich frame of silver gilt, chased, and adorned with gems, turquoises, and pearls: but some years ago a thief found means to enter at the window, and carried off the picture for the sake of the frame. A reward of two hundred ducats and a pardon were offered for the picture only, and in a fortnight afterwards it was happily restored to the gallery uninjured; but I did not hear that the frame and jewels were ever recovered. Of Correggio's larger pictures, I think the Madonna di San Georgio pleased me most. The Virgin is seated on a throne, holding the sacred Infant, who extends his arms and smiles out upon the world he has come to save. On the right stands St. George, his foot on the dragon's head; behind him St. Peter Martyr; on the left, St. Geminiano and St. John the Baptist. In the front of the picture two heavenly boys are playing with the sword and helmet of St. George, which he has apparently cast down at the foot of the throne. All in this picture is grand and sublime, in the feeling, the forms, the colouring, the expression. But what, says a wiseacre of a critic, rubbing up his school chronology, what have St. Francis, and St. George, and St. John the Baptist, to do in the same picture with the Virgin Mary? Did not St. George live nine hundred years after St. John? and St. Francis five hundred years after St. George? and so on. Yet this is properly no anachronism--no violation of the proprieties of action, place, or time. These and similar pictures, as the St. Jerome at Parma, and Raffaelle's Madonna, are not to be considered as historical paintings, but as grand pieces of lyrical and sacred poetry. In this particular picture, which was an altarpiece in the church of Our Lady at Parma, we have in St. George the representation of religious magnanimity; in St. John, religious enthusiasm; in St. Geminiani, religious munificence; in St. Peter Martyr, religious fortitude; and these are grouped round the most lovely impersonation of innocence, chastity, and heavenly love. Such, as it appears to me, is the true intention and signification of this and similar pictures. But in the "Notte" (the Nativity) the case is different. It is properly an historical picture; and if Correggio had placed St. George, or St. Francis, or the Magdalene, as spectators, we might then exclaim at the absurdity of the anachronism; but here Correggio has converted the literal representation of a circumstance in sacred history into a divine piece of poetry, when he gave us that emanation of supernatural light, streaming from the form of the celestial Child, and illuminating the extatic face of the virgin mother, who bends over her infant undazzled; while another female draws back, veiling her eyes with her hand, as if unable to endure the radiance. Far off, through the gloom of night, we see the morning just breaking along the eastern horizon--emblem of the "day-spring from on high." This is precisely one of those pictures of which no copy or engraving could convey any adequate idea; the sentiment of maternity (in which Correggio excelled) is so exquisitely tender, and the colouring so inconceivably transparent and delicate. I suppose it is a sort of treason to say that in the Madonna di San Francisco, the face of the virgin is tinctured with affectation; but such was and _is_ my impression. If I were to plan a new Dresden gallery, the Madonna del Sisto and the "Notte" should each have a sanctuary apart, and be lighted from above; at present they are ill-placed for effect. When I could move from the Raffaelle room, I took advantage of the presence and attendance of Professor Matthaï, (who is himself a painter of eminence here,) and went through a regular course of the Italian schools of painting, beginning with Giotto. The collection is extremely rich in the early Ferarese and Venetian painters, and it was most interesting thus to trace the gradual improvement and development of the school of colourists through Squarcione, Mantegna, the Bellini, Giorgione, Paris Bordone, Palma, and Titian; until richness became exuberance, and power verged upon excess in Paul Veronese and Tintoretto. Certainly, I feel no inclination to turn my notebook into a catalogue; but I must mention Titian's Christo della Moneta:--such a head!--so pure from any trace of passion!--so refined, so intellectual, so benevolent! The only head of Christ I ever entirely approved. Here they have Giorgione's master-piece--the meeting of Rachel and Jacob; and the three daughters of Palma, half-lengths, in the same picture. The centre one, Violante, is a most lovely head. There is here an extraordinary picture by Titian, representing Lucrezia Borgia, presented by her husband to the Madonna. The portraits are the size of life, half-lengths. I looked in vain in the countenance of Lucrezia for some trace, some testimony of the crimes imputed to her; but she is a fair, golden-haired, gentle-looking creature, with a feeble and vapid expression. The head of her husband, Alphonso, is fine and full of power. There are, I suppose, not less than fourteen or fifteen pictures by Titian. The Concina family, by Paul Veronese, esteemed his finest production, is in the Dresden gallery, with ten others of the same master. Of Guido, there are ten pictures, particularly that extraordinary one, _called_ Ninus and Semiramis, life size. Of the Carracci, at least eight or nine, particularly the genius of Fame, which should be compared with that of Guido. There are numerous pictures of Albano and Ribera; but very few specimens of Salvator Rosa and Domenichino. On the whole, I suppose that no gallery, except that of Florence, can compete with the Dresden gallery in the treasures of Italian art. In all, there are five hundred and thirty-four Italian pictures. I pass over the Flemish, Dutch, and French pictures, which fill the outer gallery: these exceed the Italian school in number, and many of them are of surpassing merit and value, but, having just come from Munich, where the eye and fancy are both satiated with this class of pictures, I gave my attention principally to the Italian masters. There is one room here entirely filled with the crayon paintings of Rosalba, including a few by Liotard. Among them is a very interesting head of Metastasio, painted when he was young. He has fair hair and blue eyes, with small features, and an expression of mingled sensibility and acuteness: no power. Rosalba Carriera, perhaps the finest crayon painter who ever existed, was a Venetian, born at Chiozza in 1675. She was an admirable creature in every respect, possessing many accomplishments, besides the beautiful art in which she excelled. Several anecdotes are preserved which prove the sweetness of her disposition, and the clear simplicity of her mind. Spence, who knew her personally, calls her "the most modest of painters;" yet she used to say playfully, "I am charmed with every thing I do, for eight hours after it is done!" This was natural while the excitement of conception was fresh upon the mind. No one, however, could be more fastidious and difficult about their own works than Rosalba. She was not only an observer of countenance by profession, but a most acute observer of character, as revealed in all its external indications. She said of Sir Godfrey Kneller, after he had paid her a visit, "I concluded he could not be religious, for he has no modesty." The general philosophical truth comprised in these few words is not less admirable than the acuteness of the remark, as applied to Kneller--a professed sceptic, and the most self-sufficient coxcomb of his time. Rosalba was invited at different times to almost all the courts of Europe, and painted most of the distinguished persons of her time at Vienna, Dresden, Berlin, and Paris; the lady-like refinements of her mind and manners, which also marked her style of painting, recommended her not less than her talents. She used, after her return to Italy, to say her prayers in German, "because the language was so expressive."[34] Rosalba became blind before her death, which occurred in 1757. Her works in the Dresden gallery amount to at least one hundred and fifty--principally portraits--but there are also some exquisite fancy heads. Thinking of Rosalba, reminds me that there are some pretty stories told of women, who have excelled as professed artists. In general the conscious power of maintaining themselves, habits of attention and manual industry, the application of our feminine superfluity of sensibility and imagination to a tangible result--have produced fine characters. The daughter of Tintoretto, when invited to the courts of Maximilian and Philip II. refused to leave her father. Violante Siries of Florence gave a similar proof of filial affection; and when the grand duke commanded her to paint her own portrait for the Florentine gallery, where it now hangs, she introduced the portrait of her father, because he had been her first instructor in art. When Henrietta Walters, the famous Dutch miniature painter, was invited by Peter the Great and Frederic, to their respective courts, with magnificent promises of favour and patronage, she steadily refused; and when Peter, who had no idea of giving way to obstacles, particularly in the female form, pressed upon her in person the most splendid offers, and demanded the reason of her refusal, she replied, that she was contented with her lot, and could not bear the idea of living out of a free country. Maria von Osterwyck, one of the most admirable flower painters, had a lover, to whom she was a little partial, but his idleness and dissipation distressed her. At length she promised to give him her hand on condition that during one year he would work regularly ten hours a day, observing that it was only what she had done herself from a very early age. He agreed; and took a house opposite to her that she might witness his industry; but habit was too strong, his love or his resolution failed, and he broke the compact. She refused to be his wife; and no entreaties could afterwards alter her determination never to accept the man who had shown so little strength of character, and so little real love. She was a wise woman, and as the event showed, not a heartless one. She died unmarried, though surrounded by suitors. It was the fate of Elizabeth Sirani, one of the most beautiful women, as well as one of the most exquisite painters of her time, to live in the midst of those deadly feuds between the pupils of Guido and those of Domenichino, and she was poisoned at the age of twenty-six. She left behind her one hundred and fifty pictures, an astonishing number if we consider the age at which the world was deprived of this wonderful creature, for they are finished with the utmost care in every part. Madonnas and Magdalenes were her favourite subjects. She died in 1526. Her best pictures are at Florence. Sofonisba Angusciola had two sisters, Lucia and Europa, almost as gifted, though not quite so celebrated as herself: these three "virtuous gentlewomen," as Vasari calls them, lived together in the most delightful sisterly union. One of Sofonisba's most beautiful pictures represents her two sisters playing at chess, attended by the old duenna, who accompanied them every where. When Sofonisba was invited to the court of Spain, in 1560, she took her sisters with her--in short, they were inseparable. They were all accomplished women. "We hear," said the pope, in a complimentary letter to Sofonisba, on one of her pictures, "that this your great talent is among the least you possess:" which letter is said by Vasari to be a _sufficient_ proof of the genius of Sofonisba--as if the holy Father's infallibility extended to painting! Luckily we have proofs more undeniable in her own most lovely works--glowing with life like those of Titian; and in the testimony of Vandyke, who said of her in her later years, that "he had learned more from one old blind woman in Italy than from all the masters of his art." It is worth remarking, that almost all the women who have attained celebrity in painting, have excelled in portraiture. The characteristic of Rosalba is an exceeding elegance; of Angelica Kauffman exceeding grace; but she wants nerve. Lavinia Fontana threw a look of sensibility into her most masculine heads--she died broken-hearted for the loss of an only son, whose portrait is her masterpiece.[35] The Sofonisba had most dignity, and in her own portrait[36] a certain dignified simplicity in the air and attitude strikes us immediately. Gentileschi has most power: she was a gifted, but a profligate woman. All those whom I have mentioned were women of undoubted genius; for they have each a style apart, peculiar, and tinted by their individual character: but all, except Gentileschi, were _feminine_ painters. They succeeded best in feminine portraits, and when they painted history they were only admirable in that class of subjects which came within the province of their sex; beyond that boundary they became _fade_, insipid, or exaggerated: thus Elizabeth Sirani's Annunciation is exquisite, and her Crucifixion feeble; Angelica Kauffman's Nymphs and Madonnas are lovely; but her picture of the warrior Herman, returning home after the defeat of the Roman legions, is cold and ineffective. The result of these reflections is, that there is a walk of art in which women may attain perfection, and excel the other sex; as there is another department from which they are excluded. You must change the physical organization of the race of women before we produce a Rubens or a Michael Angelo. Then, on the other hand, I fancy, no _man_ could paint like Louisa Sharpe, any more than write like Mrs. Hemans. Louisa Sharpe, and her sister, are, in painting, just what Mrs. Hemans is in poetry; we see in their works the same characteristics--no feebleness, no littleness of design or manner, nothing vapid, trivial, or affected,--and nothing masculine; all is super-eminently, essentially feminine, in subject, style, and sentiment. I wish to combat in every way that oft-repeated, but most false compliment unthinkingly paid to women, that genius is of no sex; there may be equality of power, but in its quality and application there will and must be difference and distinction. If men would but remember this truth, they would cease to treat with ridicule and jealousy the attainments and aspirations of women, knowing that there never could be real competition or rivalry. If women would admit this truth, they would not presume out of their sphere:--but then we come to the necessity for some key to the knowledge of ourselves and others--some scale for the just estimation of our own qualities and powers, compared with those of others--the great secret of self-regulation and happiness--the beginning, middle, and end of all education. But to return from this tirade. I wish my vagrant pen were less discursive. In the works of art, the presence of a power, felt rather than perceived, and kept subordinate to the sentiment of grace, should mark the female mind and hand. This is what I love in Rosalba, in our own Mrs. Carpenter, in Madame de Freyberg, and in Eliza and Louisa Sharpe: in the latter there is a high tone of moral as well as poetical feeling. Thus her picture of the young girl coming out of church after disturbing the equanimity of a whole congregation by her fine lady airs and her silk attire, is a charming and most graceful satire on the foibles of her sex. The idea, however, is taken from the Spectator. But Louisa Sharpe can also create. Of another lovely picture,--that of the young, forsaken, disconsolate, repentant mother, who sits drooping over her child, "with looks bowed down in penetrative shame," while one or two of the rigidly-righteous of her own sex turn from her with a scornful and upbraiding air--I believe the subject is original; but it is obviously one which never could have occurred, except to the most consciously pure as well as the gentlest and kindest heart in the world. Never was a more beautiful and Christian lesson conveyed by woman to woman; at once a warning to our weakness, and a rebuke to our pride.[37] _Apropos_ of female artists: I met here with a lady of noble birth and high rank, the Countess Julie von Egloffstein,[38] who in spite of the prejudices still prevailing in Germany, has devoted herself to painting as a profession. Her vocation for the art was early displayed; but combated and discouraged as derogatory to her rank and station; she was for many years _demoiselle d'honneur_ to the grand Duchess Luise of Weimar. Under all these circumstances, it required real strength of mind to take the step she has taken; but a less decided course could not well have emancipated her from trammels, the force of which can hardly be estimated out of Germany. A recent journey to Italy, undertaken on account of her health, fixed her determination, and her destiny for life. In looking over her drawings and pictures, I was particularly struck by one singularity, which yet, on reflection, appears perfectly comprehensible. This high-born and court-bred woman shows a decided predilection for the picturesque in humble life, and seems to have turned to simple nature in perfect simplicity of heart. Being self-taught and self-formed, there is nothing mannered or conventional in her style; and I do hope she will assert the privilege of genius, and, looking only into nature out of her own heart and soul, form and keep a style to herself. I remember one little picture, painted either for the queen of England or the queen of Bavaria, representing a young Neapolitan peasant, seated at her cottage door, contemplating her child, cradled at her feet, while the fishing bark of her husband is sailing away in the distance. In this little bit of natural poetry there was no seeking after effect, no prettiness, no pretension; but a quiet genuine simplicity of feeling, which surprised while it pleased me. When I have looked at the Countess Julie in her painting-room, surrounded by her drawings, models, casts--all the powers of her exuberant enthusiastic mind flowing free in their natural direction, I have felt at once pleasure, and admiration, and respect. It should seem that the energy of spirit and real magnanimity of mind which could trample over social prejudices, not the less strong because manifestly absurd, united to genius and perseverance, may, if life be granted, safely draw upon futurity both for success and for fame. * * * * * I consider my introduction to Moritz Retzsch as one of the most memorable and agreeable incidents of my short sojourn at Dresden. This extraordinary genius, who is almost as popular and interesting in England as in his own country, seems to have received from Nature a double portion of the inventive faculty--that rarest of all her good gifts, even to those who are her especial favourites. As his published works by which he is principally known in England (the Outlines to the Faust, to Shakspeare, to Schiller's Song of the Bell, &c.) are illustrations of the ideas of others, few but those who may possess some of his original drawings are aware, that Retzsch is himself a poet of the first order, using his glorious power of graphic delineation to throw into form the conceptions, thoughts, aspirations, of his own glowing imagination and fertile fancy. Retzsch was born at Dresden in 1779, and has never, I believe, been far from his native place. From childhood he was a singular being, giving early indications of his imitative power by drawing or carving in wood, resemblances of the objects which struck his attention, without the slightest idea in himself or others of becoming eventually an artist; and I have even heard that, when he was quite a youth, his enthusiastic mind, labouring with a power which he felt rather than knew, his love of the wilder aspects of nature, and impatience of the restraints of artificial life, had nearly induced him to become a huntsman or forester (Jäger) in the royal service. However, at the age of twenty, his love of art became a decided vocation. The little property he had inherited or accumulated was dissipated during that war, which swept like a whirlwind over all Germany, overwhelming prince and peasant, artist, mechanic, in one wide-spreading desolation. Since that time Retzsch has depended on his talents alone--content to live poor in a poor country. He has, by the exertion of his talents, achieved for himself a small independence, and contributed to the support of a large family of relations, also ruined by the casualties of war. His usual residence is at his own pretty little farm or vineyard a few miles from Dresden. When in the town, where his duties as professor of the Academy frequently call him, he lodges in a small house in the Neustadt, close upon the banks of the Elbe, in a retired and beautiful situation. Thither I was conducted by our mutual friend, N----, whose appreciation of Retzsch's talents, and knowledge of his peculiarities, rendered him the best possible intermediator on this occasion. The professor received us in a room which appeared to answer many purposes, being obviously a sleeping as well as a sitting-room, but perfectly neat. I saw at once that there was every where a woman's superintending eye and thoughtful care; but did not know at the moment that he was married. He received us with open-hearted frankness, at the same time throwing on the stranger one of those quick glances which seemed to look through me: in return, I contemplated him with inexpressible interest. His figure is rather larger, and more portly than I had expected; but I admired his fine Titanic head, so large, and so sublime in its expression; his light blue eye, wild and wide, which seemed to drink in meaning and flash out light; his hair profuse, grizzled, and flowing in masses round his head: and his expanded brow full of poetry and power. In his deportment he is a mere child of nature, simple, careless, saying just what he feels and thinks at the moment, without regard to forms; yet pleasing from the benevolent earnestness of his manner, and intuitively polite without being polished. After some conversation, he took us into his painting room. As a colourist, I believe his style is criticised, and open to criticism; it is at least singular; but I must confess that while I was looking over his things I was engrossed by the one conviction;--that while his peculiar merits, and the preference of one manner to another may be a matter of argument or taste, it is certain, and indisputable, that no one paints _like_ Retzsch, and that, in the original power and fertility of _conception_, in the quantity of _mind_ which he brings to bear upon his subject, he is in his own style unequalled and inimitable. I was rather surprised to see in some of his designs and pencil drawings, the most elaborate delicacy of touch, and most finished execution of parts, combined with a fancy which seems to run wild over his paper or his canvas; but only _seems_--for it must be remarked, that with all this luxuriance of imagination, there is no exaggeration, either of form or feeling; he is peculiar, fantastic, even extravagant--but never false in sentiment or expression. The reason is, that in Retzsch's character the moral sentiments are strongly developed; where _they_ are deficient, let the artist who aims at the highest poetical department of excellence, despair; for no possession of creative talent, nor professional skill, nor conventional taste, will supply that main deficiency. I saw in Retzsch's atelier many things novel, beautiful, and interesting; but will note only a few, which have dwelt upon my memory, as being characteristic of the man as well as the artist. There was, on a small pannel, the head of an angel smiling. He said he was often pursued by dark fancies, haunted by melancholy forebodings, desponding over himself and his art, "and he resolved to create an angel for himself, which should smile upon him out of heaven." So he painted his most lovely head, in which the radiant spirit of joy seems to beam from every feature at once; and I thought while I looked upon it, that it were enough to exorcise a whole legion of blue devils. It is rarely that we can associate the mirthful with the beautiful and the sublime--even I could have deemed it next to impossible; but the effulgent cheerfulness of this divine face corrected that idea, which, after all, is not in bright lovely Nature, but in the shadow which the mighty spirit of Humanity casts from his wings, as he hangs brooding over her between heaven and earth. Afterwards he placed upon his easel a wondrous face, which made me shrink back--not with terror, for it was perfectly beautiful--but with awe, for it was unspeakably fearful: the hair streamed back from the pale brow--the orbs of sight appeared at first two dark, hollow, unfathomable spaces, like those in a skull; but when I drew nearer, and looked attentively, two lovely living eyes looked at me again out of the depth of shadow, as of from the bottom of an abyss. The mouth was divinely sweet, but sad, and the softest repose rested on every feature. This, he told me, was the ANGEL OF DEATH: it was the original conception of a head for the large picture now at Vienna, representing the Angel of Death bearing aloft two children into the regions of the blessed: the heavens opening above, and the earth and stars sinking beneath his feet. The next thing which struck me was a small picture--two satyrs butting at each other, while a shepherd carries off the nymph for whom they are contending. This was most admirable for its grotesque power and spirit, and, moreover, extremely well coloured. Another in the same style represented a satyr sitting on a wine-skin, out of which he drinks; two arch-looking nymphs are stealing on him from behind, and one of them pierces the wine-skin with her hunting-spear. There was a portrait of himself, but I would not laud it--in fact, he has not done himself justice. Only a colossal bust, in the same style, and wrought with the same feeling as Dannecker's bust of Schiller, could convey to posterity an adequate idea of the head and countenance of Retzsch. I complimented him on the effect which his Hamlet had produced in England; he told me, that it had been his wish to illustrate the Midsummer Night's Dream, or the Tempest, rather than Macbeth: the former he will still undertake, and, in truth, if any one succeeds in embodying a just idea of a Miranda, a Caliban, a Titania, and the poetical burlesque of the Athenian clowns, it will be Retzsch, whose genius embraces at once the grotesque, the comic, the wild, the wonderful, the fanciful, the elegant! A few days afterwards we accepted Retzsch's invitation to visit him at his _campagna_--for whether it were farm-house, villa, or vineyard, or all together, I could not well decide. The drive was delicious. The road wound along the banks of the magnificent Elbe, the gently-swelling hills, all laid out in vineyards, rising on our right; and though it was in November, the air was soft as summer. Retzsch, who had perceived our approach from his window, came out to meet us--took me under his arm as if we had been friends of twenty years standing, and leading me into his picturesque _domicile_, introduced me to his wife--as pretty a piece of domestic poetry as one shall see in a summer's day. She was the daughter of a vine-dresser, whom Retzsch fell in love with while she was yet almost a child, and educated for his wife--at least so runs the tale. At the first glance I detected the original of that countenance which, more or less idealized, runs through all his representations of female youth and beauty: here was the model, both in feature and expression; she smiled upon us a most cordial welcome, regaled us with delicious coffee and cakes prepared by herself, then taking up her knitting sat down beside us; and while I turned over admiringly the beautiful designs with which her husband had decorated her album, the looks of veneration and love with which she regarded him, and the expression of kindly, delighted sympathy with which she smiled upon me, I shall not easily forget. As for the album itself, queens might have envied her such homage: and what would not a dilettante collector have given for such a possession! I remember two or three of these designs which must serve to give an idea of the rest:--1st. The good Genius descending to bless his wife.--2nd. The birthday of his wife--a lovely female infant is asleep under a vine, which is wreathed round the tree of life; the spirits of the four elements are bringing votive gifts with which they endow her.--3rd. The Enigma of Human Life.--The Genius of Humanity is reclining on the back of a gigantic sphinx, of which the features are averted, and partly veiled by a cloud; he holds a rose half-withered in his hand, and looks up with a divine expression towards two butterflies which have escaped from the chrysalis state, and are sporting above his head; at his feet are a dead bird and reptile--emblematical of sin and death.--4th. The genius of art, represented as a young Apollo, turns, with a melancholy, abstracted air, the handle of a barrel-organ, while Vulgarity, Ignorance, and Folly, listen with approbation; meantime his lyre and his palette lie neglected at his feet, together with an empty purse and wallet: the mixture of pathos, poetry, and satire, in this little drawing, can hardly be described in words.--5th. Hope, represented by a lovely group of playful children, who are peeping under a hat for a butterfly, which they fancy they have caught, but which has escaped, and is hovering above their reach.--6th. Temptation presented to youth and innocence by an evil spirit, while a good genius warns them to beware.--In this drawing, the figures of the boy and girl, but more particularly of the latter, appeared to me of the most consummate and touching beauty.--7th. His wife walking on a windy day: a number of little sylphs are agitating her drapery, lifting the tresses of her hair, playing with her sash; while another party have flown off with her hat, and are bearing it away in triumph. After spending three or four hours delightfully, we drove home in silence by the gleaming, murmuring river, and beneath the light of the silent stars. On a subsequent visit, Retzsch showed me many more of these delicious _phantasie_, or fancies, as he termed them,--or more truly, little pieces of moral and lyrical poetry, thrown into palpable form, speaking in the universal language of the eye to the universal heart of man. I remember, in particular, one of striking and even of appalling interest. The Genius of Humanity and the Spirit of Evil are playing at chess for the souls of men: the Genius of Humanity has lost to his infernal adversary some of his principal pieces,--love, humility, innocence, and lastly, peace of mind;--but he still retains faith, truth, and fortitude; and is sitting in a contemplative attitude, considering his next move; his adversary, who opposes him with pride, avarice, irreligion, luxury, and a host of evil passions, looks at him with a _Mephistophiles'_ expression, anticipating his devilish triumph. The pawns on the one side are prayers--on the other, doubts. A little behind stands the Angel of conscience as arbitrator. In this most exquisite allegory, so beautifully, so clearly conveyed to the heart, there lurked a deeper moral than in many a sermon. There was another beautiful little allegory of Love in the character of a Picklock, opening, or trying to open, a variety of albums, lettered, the "Human Heart, No. 1; Human Heart, No. 2;" while Philosophy lights him with her lanthorn. There were besides many other designs of equal poetry, beauty, and moral interest--I think, a whole portfolio full of them. I endeavoured to persuade Retzsch that he could not do better than publish some of these exquisite _Fancies_, and when I left him he entertained the idea of doing so at some future period. To adopt his own language, the Genius of Art could not present to the Genius of Humanity a more delightful and a more profitable gift.[39] * * * * * The following list of German painters comprehends those _only_ whose works I had an opportunity of considering, and who appeared to me to possess decided merit. I might easily have extended this catalogue to thrice its length, had I included all those whose names were given to me as being distinguished and celebrated among their own countrymen. From Munich alone I brought a list of two hundred artists, and from other parts of Germany nearly as many more. But in confining myself to those whose productions I _saw_, I adhere to a principle which, after all, seems to be the best--viz. never to speak but of what we _know_; and then only of the individual impression: it is necessary to know so many things before we can give, with confidence, an opinion about any one thing! While the literary intercourse between England and Germany increases every day, and a mutual esteem and understanding is the natural consequence of this approximation of mind, there is a singular and mutual ignorance in all matters appertaining to art, and consequently, a good deal of injustice and prejudice on both sides. The Germans were amazed and incredulous, when I informed them that in England there are many admirers of art, to whom the very names of Schnorr, Overbeck, Rauch, Peter Hess, Wach, Wagenbauer, and even their great Cornelius, are unknown; and I met with very clever, well-informed Germans, who had, by some chance, _heard_ of Sir Thomas Lawrence, and knew _something_ of Wilkie, Turner, and Martin, from the engravings after their works; who thought Sir Joshua Reynolds and his engraver Reynolds one and the same person; and of Callcott, Landseer, Etty, and Hilton, and others of our shining lights, they knew nothing at all. I must say, however, that they have generally a more just idea of English art than we have of German art, and their veneration for Flaxman, like their veneration for Shakspeare, is a sort of enthusiasm all over Germany. Those who have contemplated the actual state of art, and compared the prevalent tastes and feelings in both countries, will allow that much advantage would result from a better mutual understanding. We English accuse the German artists of mannerism, of a formal, hard, and elaborate execution,--a pedantic style of composition and sundry other sins. The Germans accuse us, in return, of excessive coarseness and carelessness, a loose sketchy style of execution, and a general inattention to truth of character.[40] "You English have no school of art," was often said to me; I could have replied--if it had not been a solecism in grammar--"You Germans have _too much_ school." The "esprit de secte," which in Germany has broken up their poetry, literature, and philosophy into schisms and schools, descends unhappily to art, and every professor, to use the Highland expression, has _his tail_. At the same time, we cannot deny to the Germans the merit of great earnestness of feeling, and that characteristic integrity of purpose which they throw into every thing they undertake or perform. Art with them, is oftener held in honour, and pursued truly for its own sake, than among us: too many of our English artists consider their lofty and noble vocation, simply as the means to an end, be that end fame or gain. Generally speaking, too, the German artists are men of superior cultivation, so that when the creative inspiration falls upon them, the material on which to work is already stored up: "nothing can come of nothing," and the sun-beams descend in vain on the richest soil, where the seed has not been sown. It is certain that we have not in England any historical painters who have given evidence of their genius on so grand a scale as some of the historical painters of Germany have recently done. _We_ know that it is not the genius, but the opportunity which has been wanting, but we cannot ask foreigners to admit this,--they can only judge from results, and they must either suppose us to be without eminent men in the higher walks of art,--or they must wonder, with their magnificent ideas of the incalculable wealth of our nobles, the prodigal expenditure of our rulers, and the grandeur of our public institutions, that painting has not oftener been summoned in aid of her eldest sister architecture. On the other hand, their school of portraiture and landscape is decidedly inferior to ours. Not only have they no landscape painters who can compare with Callcott and Turner, but they do not appear to have _imagined_ the kind of excellence achieved by these wonderful artists. I should say, generally, that their most beautiful landscapes want atmosphere. I used to feel while looking at them as if I were in the exhausted receiver of an air-pump. Of their portraits I have already spoken; the eye which has rested in delight upon one of Wilkie's or Phillips's fine manly portraits, (not to mention Reynolds, Gainsborough, Romney, and Lawrence,) cannot easily be reconciled to the hard, frittered manner of some of the most admired of the German painters; it is a difference of taste, which I will not call natural but national;--the remains of the old gothic school which, as the study of Italian art becomes more diffused, will be modified or pass away. * * * * * HISTORY. Peter Cornelius, born at Dusseldorf in 1778, was for a considerable time the director (president) of the academy there, and is now the director of the academy of art at Munich: much of his time, however, is spent in Italy. The Germans esteem him their best historical painter. He has invention, expression, and power, but appears to me rather deficient in the feeling of beauty and tenderness. His grand works are the fresco painting in the Glyptothek at Munich, already described. Friedrich Overbeck, born at Lubeck in 1789: he excels in scriptural subjects, which he treats with infinite grandeur and simplicity of feeling. Wilhelm Wach, born at Berlin in 1787: first painter to the king of Prussia and professor in the academy of Berlin: esteemed one of the best painters and most accomplished men in Germany. Not having visited Berlin, where his finest works exist, I have as yet seen but one picture by this painter--the head of an angel, at the palace of Peterstein, sublimely conceived, and most admirably painted. In the style of colour, in the singular combination of grand feeling and delicate execution, this picture reminded me of Leonardo da Vinci. Professor Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld, born at Leipsig in 1794. His frescos from the Nibelungen Lied in the new palace at Munich have been already mentioned at length. Professor Heinrich Hesse: the frescos in the Royal Chapel at Munich, already described. Wilhelm Tischbein, born at Heyna in 1751. He is director of the academy at Naples, and highly celebrated. He must not be confounded with his uncle, a mediocre artist, who was the court painter of Hesse Cassel, and whose pictures swarm in all the palaces there. Philip Veit, of Frankfort--fresco painter. Joseph Schlotthauer, professor of historical and fresco painting at Munich. (I believe this artist is dead. He held a high rank.) Clement Zimmermann, now employed in the Pinakothek, and in the new palace at Munich, where he takes a high rank as painter, and is not less distinguished by his general information, and his frank and amiable character. Moritz Retzsch of Dresden. Professor Vogel, of Dresden, principal painter to the king of Saxony. He paints in fresco and history, but excels in portraits. Stieler, of Munich, court painter to the king of Bavaria, esteemed one of the best portrait painters in Germany. Goetzenberger, fresco painter. He is employed in painting the University Hall at Bonn. Eduard Bendeman, of Berlin. I saw at the exhibition of the Kunstverein at Dusseldorf, a fine picture by this painter--"The Hebrews in Exile." "By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept." The colouring I thought rather hard, but the conception and drawing were in a grand style. Wilhelm Schadow, director of the academy at Dusseldorf. Hetzsch of Stuttgardt. The brothers Riepenhausen, of Göttingen, resident at Rome. They are celebrated for their designs of the pictures of Polygnotus, as described by Pausanius. Koehler. He exhibited at the Kunstverein at Dusseldorf a picture of "Rebecca at the well," very well executed. Ernst Förster, of Altenburg, employed in the palace at Munich. This clever young painter married the daughter of Jean Paul Richter. Gassen, of Goblentz; Hiltensberger, of Suabia; Hermann, of Dresden; Foltz, of Bingen; Kaulbach, of Munich; Eugene Neureuther, of Munich; Wilhelm Röckel, of Schleissheim; Von Schwind, of Vienna; Wilhelm Lindenschmidt, of Mayence. All these painters are at present in the service of the king of Bavaria. Julius Hübner; Hildebrand; Lessing; Sohn; history and portraits;--these four painters are the most distinguished scholars of the Dusseldorf school. SMALL SUBJECTS AND CONVERSATION PIECES. Peter Hess, of Munich, one of the most eminent painters in Germany. In his choice of subjects he reminded me sometimes of Eastlake, and sometimes of Wilkie, and his style is rather in Wilkie's first manner. His pictures are full of spirit, truth, and character. Dominique Quaglio, of Munich. Interiors, &c. He also ranks very high: he reminds me of Fraser. Major-General von Heydeck, of Munich, an amateur painter of merited celebrity. In the collection of M. de Klenze, and in the Leuchtenberg Gallery, there are some small battle pieces, scenes in Greece and Spain, and other subjects by Von Heydeck, very admirably painted. F. Müller, of Cassel. At the exhibition at Dusseldorf I saw a picture by this artist, "A rustic bridal procession in the Campagna," painted with a freedom and lightness of pencil not common among the German artists. Plüddeman, of Colberg. T. B. Sonderland, of Dusseldorf. Fairs and merrymakings. H. Rustige. The same subjects. Both are good artists. H. Kretzschmar, of Pomerania. His picture of "Little Red Ridinghood," (Rothkäppchen,) at the Kunstverein, at Dusseldorf, had great merit. Adolf Scrötte. Rustic scenes in the Dutch manner. LANDSCAPE. Dahl, a Norwegian settled at Dresden, esteemed one of the best landscape painters in Germany. There is a very fine sea-piece by this artist in the possession of the Countess von Seebach at Dresden, with, however, all the characteristic _peculiarities_ of the German school. T. D. Passavant, of Frankfort. Friedrich, of Dresden, one of the most _poetical_ of the German landscape painters. He is rather a mannerist in colour, like Turner, but in the opposite excess: his genius revels in gloom, as that of Turner revels in light. Professor von Dillis, of Munich. Max Wagenbauer, of Munich. He is called most deservedly, the German Paul Potter. Jacob Dorner, of Munich. A charming painter; perhaps a little too minute in his finishing. Catel, of Dusseldorf. Scenes on the Mediterranean. This painter resides chiefly in Italy; but in the collection of M. de Klenze I saw some admirable specimens of his works. Biermann, of Berlin, is a fine landscape painter. Prëyer, certainly the most exquisite of modern flower painters. I believe he is from Dusseldorf. Rothman, of Heidelberg. I saw some pictures and sketches by this young painter, full of genius and feeling. Fries, of Munich, a young painter of great promise. He put an end to his own life, while I was at Munich, in a fit of delirium, caused by fever, and was very generally lamented. Wilhelm Schirmer, of Juliers, an exceedingly fine landscape painter. Audeas Achenbach, of Dusseldorf: he has also great merit. * * * * * There are several female artists in Germany, of more or less celebrity. The Baroness von Freyberg (born Electrina Stuntz) holds the first rank in original talent. She resides near Munich, but no longer paints professionally. The Countess Julie von Egloffstein has also the rare gift of original and creative genius. Luise Seidler, of Weimar; Madlle. de Winkel and Madame de Loqueyssie, of Dresden, are distinguished in their art. The two latter are exquisite copyists. In architecture, Leo von Klenze and Professor Girtner, of Munich; and Heideloff of Nuremberg, are deservedly celebrated in Germany. The most distinguished sculptors in Germany are Christian Rauch, and Christian Friedrich Tieck, of Berlin; Johan Heinrich von Dannecker, of Stuttgardt; Schwanthaler, Eberhardt, Bandel, Kirchmayer, Mayer, all of Munich; Reitschel of Dresden; and Imhoff, of Cologne. Those of their works which I had an opportunity of seeing have been mentioned in the course of these sketches. [Illustration] HARDWICKE. Who that has exulted over the heroic reign of our gorgeous Elizabeth, or wept over the fate of Mary Stuart, but will remember the name of the only woman whose high and haughty spirit out-faced the lion port of one queen, and whose audacity trampled over the sorrows of the other-- "Brow-beating her fair form, and troubling her sweet pride!" But this is anticipation. If it be so laudable, according to the excellent, oft quoted advice of the giant Moulineau, to _begin at the beginning_,[41] what must it be to improve upon the precept? for so, in relating the fallen and fading glories of Hardwicke, do I intend to exceed even "mon ami le Belier," in historic accuracy, and take up our tale at a period ere Hardwicke itself--the Hardwicke that now stands--had a beginning. There lived, then, in the days of queen Bess, a woman well worthy to be her majesty's namesake,--Elizabeth Hardwicke, more commonly called, in her own country, Bess of Hardwicke, and distinguished in the page of history as the _old_ Countess of Shrewsbury. She resembled Queen Elizabeth in all her best and worst qualities, and, putting royalty out of the scale, would certainly have been more than a match for that sharp-witted virago, in subtlety of intellect, and intrepidity of temper and manner. She was the only daughter of John Hardwicke, of Hardwicke,[42] and being early left an orphan and an heiress, was married ere she was fourteen to a certain Master Robert Barley, who was about her own age. Death dissolved this premature union within a few months, but her husband's large estates had been settled on her and her heirs; and at the age of fifteen, dame Elizabeth was a blooming widow, amply dowered with fair and fertile lands, and free to bestow her hand again where she listed. Suitors abounded, of course: but Elizabeth, it should seem, was hard to please. She was beautiful, if the annals of her family say true,--she had wit, and spirit, and, above all, an infinite love of independence. After taking the management of her property into her own hands, she for some time reigned and revelled (with all decorum be it understood) in what might be truly termed, a state of single blessedness; but at length, tired of being lord and lady too--"master o'er her vassals," if not exactly "queen o'er herself"--she thought fit, having reached the discreet age of four-and-twenty, to bestow her hand on Sir William Cavendish. He was a man of substance and power, already enriched by vast grants of abbey lands in the time of Henry VIII.,[43] all which, by the marriage contract, were settled on the lady. After this marriage, they passed some years in retirement, having the wisdom to keep clear of the political storms and factions which intervened between the death of Henry VIII. and the accession of Mary, and yet the sense to profit by them. While Cavendish, taking advantage of those troublous times, went on adding manor after manor to his vast possessions, dame Elizabeth was busy providing heirs to inherit them; she became the mother of six hopeful children, who were destined eventually to found two illustrious dukedoms, and mingle blood with the oldest nobility of England--nay, with royalty itself. "Moreover," says the family chronicle, "the said dame Elizabeth persuaded her husband, out of the great love he had for her, to sell his estates in the south and purchase lands in her native county of Derby, wherewith to endow her and her children, and at her farther persuasion he began to build the noble seat of Chatsworth, but left it to her to complete, he dying about the year 1559." Apparently this second experiment in matrimony pleased the lady of Hardwicke better than the first, for she was not long a widow. We are not in this case informed how long--her biographer having discreetly left it to our imagination; and the Peerages, though not in general famed for discretion on such points, have in this case affected the same delicate uncertainty. However this may be, she gave her hand, after no long courtship, to Sir William St. Loo, captain of Elizabeth's guard, and then chief butler of England--a man equally distinguished for his fine person and large possessions, but otherwise not superfluously gifted by nature. So well did the lady manage _him_, that with equal hardihood and rapacity, she contrived to have all his "fair lordships in Gloucestershire and elsewhere" settled on herself and her children, to the manifest injury of St. Loo's own brothers, and his daughters by a former union: and he dying not long after without any issue by her, she made good her title to his vast estates, added them to her own, and they became the inheritance of the Cavendishes. But three husbands, six children, almost boundless opulence, did not yet satisfy this extraordinary woman--for extraordinary she certainly was, not more in the wit, subtlety, and unflinching steadiness of purpose with which she amassed wealth and achieved power, but in the manner in which she used both. She ruled her husband, her family, her vassals, despotically, needing little aid, suffering no interference, asking no counsel. She managed her immense estates, and the local power and political weight which her enormous possessions naturally threw into her hands, with singular capacity and decision. She farmed the lands; she collected her rents; she built; she planted; she bought and sold; she lent out money on usury; she traded in timber, coals, lead: in short, the object she had apparently proposed to herself, the aggrandisement of her children by all and any means, she pursued with a wonderful perseverance and good sense. Power so consistently wielded, purposes so indefatigably followed up, and means so successfully adapted to an end, are, in a female, very striking. A slight sprinkling of the softer qualities of her sex, a little more elevation of principle, would have rendered her as respectable and admirable as she was extraordinary; but there was in this woman's mind the same "fond de vulgarité" which we see in the character of Queen Elizabeth, and which no height of rank, or power, or estate, could do away with. In this respect the lady of Hardwicke was much inferior to that splendid creature, Anne Clifford, Countess of Dorset, Pembroke, and Cumberland, another masculine spirit in the female form, who had the same propensity for building castles and mansions, the same passion for power and independence, but with more true generosity and magnanimity, and a touch of poetry and genuine nobility about her which the other wanted: in short, it was all the difference between the amazon and the heroine. It is curious enough that the Duke of Devonshire should be the present representative of both these remarkable women. But to return: Bess of Hardwicke was now approaching her fortieth year; she had achieved all but nobility--the one thing yet wanting to crown her swelling fortunes. About the year 1565 (I cannot find the exact date) she was sought in marriage by George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury. There is no reason to doubt what is asserted, that she had captivated the earl by her wit and her matronly beauty.[44] He could hardly have married her from motives of interest: he was himself the richest and greatest subject in England; a fine chivalrous character, with a reputation as unstained as his rank was splendid, and his descent illustrious. He had a family by a former wife, (Gertrude Manners,) to inherit his titles, and _her_ estates were settled on her children by Cavendish. It should seem, therefore, that mutual inclination alone could have made the match advantageous to either party; but Bess of Hardwicke was still Bess of Hardwicke. She took advantage of her power over her husband in the first days of their union. "She induced Shrewsbury by entreaties or threats to sacrifice, in a measure, the fortune, interest, and happiness of himself and family to the aggrandisement of her and her family."[45] She contrived in the first place to have a large jointure settled on herself; and she arranged a double union, by which the wealth and interests of the two great families should be amalgamated. She stipulated that her eldest daughter, Mary Cavendish, should marry the earl's son, Lord Talbot; and that his youngest daughter, Grace Talbot, should marry her eldest son, Henry Cavendish. The French have a proverb worthy of their gallantry--"_Ce que femme veut, Dieu veut_:" but even in the feminine gender we are sometimes reminded of another proverb equally significant--"_L'homme propose et Dieu dispose_." Now was Bess of Hardwicke queen of the Peak; she had built her erie so high, it seemed to dally with the winds of heaven; her young eaglets were worthy of their dam, ready plumed to fly at fortune; she had placed the coronet of the oldest peerage in England on her own brow, she had secured the reversion of it to her daughter, and she had married a man whose character was indeed opposed to her own, but who, from his chivalrous and confiding nature was calculated to make her happy, by leaving her mistress of herself. In 1568 Mary Stuart, flying into England, was placed in the custody of the Earl of Shrewsbury, and remained under his care for sixteen years, a long period of restless misery to the unhappy earl not less than to his wretched captive. In this dangerous and odious charge was involved the sacrifice of his domestic happiness, his peace of mind, his health, and great part of his fortune, His castle was converted into a prison, his servants into guards, his porter into a turnkey, his wife into a spy, and himself into a jailor, to gratify the ever-waking jealousy of Queen Elizabeth.[46] But the earl's greatest misfortune was the estrangement, and at length enmity, of his violent, high-spirited wife. She beheld the unhappy Mary with a hatred for which there was little excuse, but many intelligible reasons: she saw her, not as a captive committed to her womanly mercy, but as an intruder on her rights. Her haughty spirit was continually irritated by the presence of one in whom she was forced to acknowledge a superior, even in that very house and domain where she herself had been used to reign as absolute queen and mistress. The enormous expenses which this charge entailed on her household were distracting to her avarice; and, worse than all, jealousy of the youthful charms and winning manners of the Queen of Scots, and of the constant intercourse between her and her husband, seem at length to have driven her half frantic, and degraded her, with all her wit, and sense, and spirit, into the despicable treacherous tool of the more artful and despotic Elizabeth, who knew how to turn the angry and jealous passions of the countess to her own purposes. It was not, however, all at once that matters rose to such a height: the fire smouldered for some time ere it burst forth. There is a letter preserved among the Shrewsbury Correspondence[47] which the countess addressed to her husband from Chatsworth, at a time when the earl was keeping guard over Mary at Sheffield castle. It is a most curious specimen of character. It treats chiefly of household matters, of the price and goodness of malt and hops, iron and timber, and reproaches him for not sending her money which was due to her, adding, "I see out of sight out of mind with you;" she sarcastically inquires "how his charge and _love_ doth;" she sends him "some _letyss_ (lettuces) for that he loves them," (this common sallad herb was then a rare delicacy;) and she concludes affectionately, "God send my juill helthe." The incipient jealousy betrayed in this letter soon after broke forth openly with a degree of violence towards her husband, and malignity towards his prisoner, which can hardly be believed. There is distinct evidence that Shrewsbury was not only a trustworthy, but a rigorous jailor; that he detested the office forced upon him; that he often begged in the most abject terms to be released from it; and that harassed on every side by the tormenting jealousy of his wife, the unrelenting severity and mistrust of Elizabeth, and the complaints of Mary, he was seized with several fits of illness, and once by a mental attack, or "phrenesie," as Cecil terms it, brought on by the agitation of his mind; yet the idea of resigning his office, except at the pleasure of Queen Elizabeth, never seems to have entered his imagination. On one occasion Lady Shrewsbury went so far as to accuse her husband openly of intriguing with his prisoner, in every sense of the word; and she at the same time abused Mary in terms which John Knox himself could not have exceeded. Mary, deeply incensed, complained of this outrage: the earl also appealed to Queen Elizabeth, and the countess and her daughter, Lady Talbot, were obliged to declare upon oath, that this accusation was false, scandalous, and malicious, and that they were not the authors of it. This curious affidavit of the mother and daughter is preserved in the Record Office. In a letter to Lord Leicester, Shrewsbury calls his wife "his wicked and malicious wife," and accuses her and "her imps," as he irreverently styles the whole brood of Cavendishes, of conspiring to sow dissensions between him and his eldest son. These disputes being carried to Elizabeth, she set herself with heartless policy to foment them in every possible way. She deemed that her safety consisted in employing one part of the earl's family as spies on the other. In some signal quarrel about the property round Chatsworth, she commanded the earl to submit to his wife's pleasure: and though no "tame snake" towards his imperious lady, as St. Loo and Cavendish had been before him, he bowed at once to the mandate of his unfeeling sovereign--such was the despotism and such the loyalty of those days. His reply, however, speaks the bitterness of his heart. "Sith that her majesty hath set down this hard sentence against me to my perpetual infamy and dishonour, that I should be ruled and overrunne by my wife, so bad and wicked a woman; yet her majesty shall see that I will obey her majesty's commandment, though no curse or plague on the earth could be more grievous to me." * * "It is too much," he adds, "to be made my wife's pensioner." Poor Lord Shrewsbury! Can one help pitying him? Not the least curious part of this family history is the double dealing of the imperious countess. While employed as a spy on Mary, whom she detested, she, from the natural fearlessness and frankness of her temper, not unfrequently betrayed Elizabeth, whom she also detested. While in attendance on Mary, she often gratified her own satirical humour, and amused her prisoner by giving her a coarse and bitter portraiture of Elizabeth, her court, her favourites, her miserable temper, her vanity, and her personal defects. Some report of these conversations soon reached the queen, (who is very significantly drawn in one of her portraits in a dress embroidered over with eyes and ears,) and she required from Mary an account of whatever Lady Shrewsbury had said to her prejudice. Mary, hating equally the rival who oppressed her and the domestic harpy who daily persecuted her, was nothing loath to indulge her feminine spite against the two, and sent Elizabeth such a circumstantial list of the most gross and hateful imputations, (all the time politely assuring her good sister that she did not believe a word of them,) that the rage and mortification of the queen must have exceeded all bounds.[48] She kept the letter secret; but Lady Shrewsbury never was suffered to appear at court after the death of Mary had rendered her services superfluous. Through all these scenes, the Lady of Hardwicke still pursued her settled purpose. Her husband complained that he was "never quiet to satisfy her greedie appetite for money for purchases to set up her children." Her ambition was equally insatiate, and generally successful: but in one memorable instance she overshot her mark. She contrived (unknown to her lord) to marry her favourite daughter, Elizabeth Cavendish, to Lord Lennox, the younger brother of the murdered Darnley, and consequently standing in the same degree of relationship to the crown. Queen Elizabeth, in the extremity of her rage and consternation, ordered both the dowager Lady Lennox and Lady Shrewsbury to the Tower, where the latter remained for some months; we may suppose, to the great relief of her husband. He used, however, all his interest to excuse her delinquency, and at length procured her liberation. But this was not all. Elizabeth Cavendish, the young Lady Lennox, while yet in all her bridal bloom, died in the arms of her mother, who appears to have suffered that searing, lasting grief which stern hearts sometimes feel. The only issue of this marriage was an infant daughter, that unhappy Arabella Stuart, who was one of the most memorable victims of jealous tyranny which our history has recorded. Her very existence, from her near relationship to the throne, was a crime in the eyes of Elizabeth and James I. There is no evidence that Lady Shrewsbury indulged in any ambitious schemes for this favourite granddaughter, "her dear jewel, Arbell," as she terms her;[49] but she did not hesitate to enforce her claims to royal blood by requiring 600_l._ a year from the treasury for her board and education as became the queen's kinswoman. Elizabeth allowed her 200_l._ a year, and this pittance Lady Shrewsbury accepted. Her rent-roll was at this time 60,000_l._ a year, equal to at least 200,000_l._ at the present day. The Earl of Shrewsbury died in 1590, at enmity to the last moment with his wife and son; and the Lady of Hardwicke having survived four husbands, and seeing all her children settled and prosperous, still absolute mistress over her family, resided during the last seventeen years of her life in great state and plenty at Hardwicke, her birth place. Here she superintended the education of Arabella Stuart, who, as she grew up to womanhood, was kept by her grandmother in a state of seclusion, amounting almost to imprisonment, lest the jealousy of Elizabeth should rob her of her treasure.[50] Next to the love of money and power, the chief passion of this magnificent old beldam, was building. It is a family tradition, that some prophet had foretold that she should never die as long as she was building, and she died at last, in 1607, during a hard frost, when her labourers were obliged to suspend their work. She built Chatsworth, Oldcotes, and Hardwicke; and Fuller adds in his quaint style that she left "two sacred (besides civil) monuments of her memory; one that I hope will not be taken away, (her splendid tomb, erected by herself,[51]) and one that I am sure cannot be taken away, being registered in the court of heaven, viz. her stately almshouses for twelve poor people at Derby." Of Chatsworth, the hereditary palace of the Dukes of Devonshire, all its luxurious grandeur, all its treasures of art, it is not here "my hint to speak." It has been entirely rebuilt since the days of its founder. Oldcotes was once a magnificent place. There is a tradition at Hardwicke that old Bess, being provoked by a splendid mansion which the Suttons had lately erected within view of her windows, declared she would build a finer dwelling for the owlets, (hence Owlcots or Oldcotes.) She kept her word, more truly perhaps than she intended, for Oldcotes has since become literally a dwelling for the owls; the chief part of it is in ruins, and the rest converted into a farmhouse. Her younger daughter, Frances Cavendish, married Sir Henry Pierrepoint, of Holme-Pierpoint, and one of the granddaughters married another Pierrepoint--through one of these marriages, but I know not which, Oldcotes has descended to the present Earl Manvers. The mansion of Hardwicke was commenced about the year 1592, and finished in 1597. It stands about a stone's throw from the old house in which the old countess was born, and which she left standing, as if, says her biographer, she intended to construct her bed of state close by her cradle. This fine old ruin remains, grey, shattered, and open to all the winds of heaven, almost overgrown with ivy, and threatening to tumble about the ears of the bats and owls which are its sole inhabitants. One majestic room remains entire. It is called the "Giant's Chamber" from two colossal figures in Roman armour which stand over the huge chimney-piece. This room has long been considered by architects as a perfect specimen of grand and beautiful proportion, and has been copied at Chatsworth and at Blenheim.[52] It must have been in this old hall, and not in the present edifice, that Mary Stuart resided during her short stay at Hardwicke. I am sorry to disturb the fanciful or sentimental tourists and sight-seers; but so it is, or rather, so it must have been. Yet it is not surprising that the memory of Mary Stuart should now form the principal charm and interest of Hardwicke, and that she should be in a manner the tutelary genius of the place. Chatsworth has been burned and rebuilt. Tutbury, Sheffield castle, Wingfield, Fotheringay, and the old house of Hardwicke, in short, every place which Mary inhabited during her captivity, all lie in ruins, as if struck with a doleful curse. But Hardwicke Hall exists just as it stood in the reign of Elizabeth. The present Duke of Devonshire, with excellent taste and feeling, keeps up the old costume within and without. The bed and furniture which had been used by Mary, the cushions of her oratory, the tapestry wrought by her own hands, have been removed hither, and are carefully preserved. There can be no doubt of the authenticity of these relics, and there is enough surely to consecrate the whole to our imagination. Moreover, we have but to go to the window and see the very spot, the very walls which once enclosed her, the very casements from which she probably gazed with a sigh over the far hills; and indulge, without one intrusive doubt, in all the romantic and fascinating, and mysterious, and sorrowful associations, which hang round the memory of Mary Stuart. With what different eyes may people view the same things! "We receive but what we give," says the poet; and all the light, and glory, and beauty, with which certain objects are in a manner _suffused_ to the eye of fancy, must issue from our own souls, and be reflected back to us, else 'tis all in vain. "We may not hope from outward forms to win, The passion and the life, whose fountains are within!" When Gray, the poet, visited Hardwicke, he fell at once into a very poet-like rapture, and did not stop to criticise pictures, and question authorities. He says in one of his letters to Dr. Wharton, "of all the places I have seen in my return from you, Hardwicke pleased me most. One would think that Mary queen of Scotts was but just walked down into the park with her guard for half an hour: her gallery, her room of audience, her ante-chamber, with the very canopies, chair of state, footstool, _lit de repos_, oratory, carpets, hangings, just as she left them, a little tattered indeed, but the more venerable," &c. &c. Now let us hear Horace Walpole, antiquarian, virtuoso, dilettante, filosofastro--but, in truth, no poet. He is, however, in general so good-natured, so amusing, and so tasteful, that I cannot conceive what put him into such a Smelfungus humour when he visited Hardwicke, with a Cavendish too at his elbow as his cicerone! He says, "the duke sent Lord John with me to Hardwicke, where I was again disappointed; but I will not take relations from others; they either don't see for themselves, or can't see for me. How I had been promised that I should be charmed with Hardwicke, and told that the Devonshires ought to have established themselves there! Never was I less charmed in my life. The house is not gothic, but of that _betweenity_ that intervened when Gothic declined, and Palladian was creeping in; rather, this is totally naked of either. It has vast chambers--aye, vast, such as the nobility of that time delighted in, and did not know how to furnish. The great apartment is exactly what it was when the Queen of Scots was kept there.[53] Her council-chamber (the council-chamber of a poor woman who had only two secretaries, a gentleman usher, an apothecary, a confessor, and three maids) is so outrageously spacious that you would take it for King David's, who thought, contrary to all modern experience, that in the multitude of counsellors there is wisdom. At the upper end is the State, with a long table, covered with a sumptuous cloth, embroidered and embossed with gold--at least what was gold; so are all the tables. Round the top of the chamber runs a monstrous frieze, ten or twelve feet deep, representing a stag-hunt in miserable plastered relief.[54] "The next is her dressing-room, hung with patchwork on black velvet; then her state bed-chamber. The bed has been rich beyond description, and now hangs in costly golden tatters; the hangings, part of which they say her majesty worked, are composed of figures as large as life, sewed and embroidered on black velvet, white satin, &c., and represent the virtues that were necessary to her, or that she was found to have--as patience, temperance,[55] &c. The fire-screens are particular;--pieces of yellow velvet, fringed with gold, hung on a cross-bar of wood, which is fixed on the top of a single stick that rises from the foot.[56] The only furniture which has any appearance of taste are the table and cabinets, which are of oak, richly carved." (I must observe _en passant_, that I wonder Horace did not go mad about the chairs, which are exactly in the Strawberry Hill taste, only infinitely finer, crimson velvet, with backs six feet high, and sumptuously carved.) "There is a private chamber within, where she lay: her arms and style over the door. The arras hangs over all the doors. The gallery is sixty yards in length, covered with bad tapestry and wretched pictures of Mary herself, Elizabeth in a gown of sea-monsters, Lord Darnley, James the Fifth and his queen, (curious,) and a whole history of kings of England not worth sixpence a-piece."[57] "There is a fine bank of old oaks in the park over a lake: nothing else pleased me there." Nothing else! Monsieur Traveller?--certes, this is one way of seeing things! Yet, perhaps, if I had only visited Hardwicke as a casual object of curiosity--had merely walked over the place--I had left it, like Gray, with some vague impression of pleasure, or like Walpole, with some flippant criticisms, according to the mood of the moment; or, at the most, I had quitted it as we generally leave show-places, with some confused recollections of state-rooms, and blue-rooms, and yellow-rooms, and storied tapestries, and nameless, or mis-named pictures, floating through the muddled brain; but it was far otherwise: I was ten days at Hardwicke--ten delightful days--time enough to get it by heart; aye, and what is more, ten _nights_; and I am convinced that to feel all the interest of such a place one should sleep in it. There is much, too, in first impressions, and the circumstances under which we approached Hardwicke were sufficiently striking. It was on a gusty, dark autumnal evening; and as our carriage wound slowly up the hill, we could but just discern an isolated building, standing above us on the edge of the eminence, a black mass against the darkening sky. No light was to be seen, and when we drove clattering under the old gateway, and up the paved court, the hollow echoes broke a silence which was almost awful. Then we were ushered into a hall so spacious and lofty that I could not at the moment discern its bounds; but I had glimpses of huge escutcheons, and antlers of deer, and great carved human arms projecting from the walls, intended to sustain lamps or torches, but looking as if they were stretched out to clutch one. Thence up a stone staircase, vast, and grand, and gloomy--leading we knew not where, and hung with pictures of we knew not what--and conducted into a chamber fitted up as a dining-room, in which the remnants of antique grandeur, the rich carved oak wainscoting, the tapestry above it, the embroidered chairs, the collossal armorial bearings above the chimney and the huge recessed windows, formed a curious contrast with the comfortable modern sofas and easy chairs, the blazing fire, and table hospitably spread in expectation of our arrival. Then I was sent to repose in a room hung with rich faded tapestry. On one side of my bed I had king David dancing before the ark, and on the other, the judgment of Solomon. The executioner in the latter piece, a grisly giant, seven or eight feet high, seemed to me, as the arras stirred with the wind, to wave his sword, and looked as if he were going to eat up the poor child, which he flourished by one leg; and for some time I lay awake, unable to take my eyes from the figure. At length fatigue overcame this unpleasant fascination, and I fell asleep. The next morning I began to ramble about, and so day after day, till every stately chamber, every haunted nook, every secret door, curtained with heavy arras, and every winding stair, became familiar to me. What a passion our ancestors must have had for space and light! and what an ignorance of comfort! Here are no ottomans of eider down, no spring cushions, no "boudoirs etroits, où l'on ne boude point," no "demijour de rendezvous;" but what vast chambers! what interminable galleries! what huge windows pouring in floods of sunshine! what great carved oak-chests, such as Iachimo hid himself in! now stuffed full of rich tattered hangings, tarnished gold fringes, and remnants of embroidered quilts! what acres--not yards--of tapestries, once of "sky-tinctured woof," now faded and moth-eaten! what massy chairs and immovable tables! what heaps of portraits, the men looking so grim and magnificent, and the women so formal and faded! Before I left the place I had them all by heart; there was not one among them who would not have bowed or curtsied to me out of their frames. But there were three rooms in which I especially delighted, and passed most of my time. The first was the council-chamber described by Walpole: it is sixty-five feet in length, by thirty-three in width, and twenty-six feet high. Rich tapestry, representing the story of Ulysses, runs round the room to the height of fifteen or sixteen feet, and above it the stag-hunt in ugly relief. On one side of this room there is a spacious recess, at least eighteen or twenty feet square; and across this, from side to side, to divide it from the body of the room, was suspended a magnificent piece of tapestry, (real Gobelin's,) of the time of Louis Quatorze, still fresh and even vivid in tint, which from its weight hung in immense wavy folds; above it we could just discern the canopy of a lofty state-bed, with nodding ostrich plumes, which had been placed there out of the way. The effect of the whole, as I have seen it, when the red western light streamed through the enormous windows, was, in its shadowy beauty and depth of colour, that of a "realized Rembrandt"--if, indeed, even Rembrandt ever painted any thing at once so elegant, so fanciful, so gorgeous, and so gloomy. From this chamber, by a folding-door, beautifully inlaid with ebony, but opening with a common latch, we pass into the library, as it is called. Here the Duke of Devonshire generally sits when he visits Hardwicke, perhaps on account of the glorious prospect from the windows. It contains a grand piano, a sofa, and a range of book-shelves, on which I found some curious old books. Here I used to sit and read the voluminous works of that dear, half-mad, absurd, but clever and good-natured Duchess of Newcastle,[58] and yawn and laugh alternately; or pore over Guillim on Heraldry;--fit studies for the place! In this room are some good pictures, particularly the portrait of Lady Anne Boyle, daughter of the first Earl of Burlington, the Lady Sandwich of Charles the Second's time. This is, without exception, the finest specimen of Sir Peter Lely I ever saw--so unlike the usual style of his half-dressed, leering women--so full of pensive grace and simplicity--the hands and arms so exquisitely drawn, and the colouring so rich and so tender, that I was at once surprised and enchanted. There is also a remarkably fine picture of a youth with a monkey on his shoulder, said to be Jeffrey Hudson, (Queen Henrietta's celebrated dwarf,) and painted by Vandyke. I doubt both. Over the chimney of this room there is a piece of sculptured bas-relief, in Derbyshire marble, representing Mount Parnassus, with Apollo and the Muses; in one corner the arms of Queen Elizabeth, and in the other her cypher, E. R., and the royal crown. I could neither learn the meaning of this nor the name of the artist. Could it have been a gift from Queen Elizabeth? There is (I think in the next room) another piece of sculpture representing the Marriage of Tobias; and I remember a third, representing a group of Charity. The workmanship of all these is surprisingly good for the time, and some of the figures very graceful. I am surprised that they escaped the notice of Horace Walpole, in his remarks on the decorations of Hardwicke.[59] Richard Stephens, a Flemish sculptor and painter, and Valerio Vicentino, an Italian carver in precious stones, were both employed by the munificent Cavendishes of that time; and these pieces of sculpture were probably the work of one of these artists. When tired of turning over the old books, a door concealed behind the arras admitted me at once into the great gallery--my favourite haunt and daily promenade. It is near one hundred and eighty feet in length, lighted along one side by a range of stupendous windows, which project outwards from so many angular recesses. In the centre pier is a throne, or couch of state, on a raised platform, under a canopy of crimson and gold, surmounted by plumes of ostrich feathers. The walls are partly tapestried, and covered with some hundreds of family pictures; none indeed of any superlative merit--none that emulate within a thousand degrees the matchless Vandykes and glorious Titians of Devonshire House; but among many that are positively bad, and more that are lamentably mediocre as works of art, there are several of great interest. At each end of this gallery is a door, and, according to the tradition of the place, every night, at the witching hour of twelve, Queen Elizabeth enters at one door, and Mary of Scotland at the other; they advance to the centre, curtsey profoundly, then sit down together under the canopy and converse amicably,--till the crowing of the cock breaks up the conference, and sends the two majesties back to their respective hiding-places. Somebody who was asked if he had ever seen a ghost? replied, gravely, "No; but I was once _very near_ seeing one!" In the same manner I was once _very near_ being a witness to one of these ghostly confabs. Late one evening, having left my sketch-book in the gallery, I went to seek it. I made my way up the great stone staircase with considerable intrepidity, passed through one end of the council-chamber without casting a glance through the palpable obscure, the feeble ray of my wax-light just spreading about a yard around me, and lifting aside the tapestry door, stepped into the gallery. Just as the heavy arras fell behind me, with a dull echoing sound, a sudden gust of wind came rushing by, and extinguished my taper. Angels and ministers of grace defend us!--not that I felt afraid--O no! but just a little what the Scotch call "eerie." A thrill, not altogether unpleasant, came over me: the visionary turn of mind which once united me in fancy "with the world unseen," had long been sobered and reasoned away. I heard no "viewless paces of the dead," nor "airy skirts unseen that rustled by;" but what I did see and hear was enough. The wind whispering and moaning along the tapestried walls, and every now and then rattling twenty or thirty windows at once, with such a crash!--and the pictures around just sufficiently perceptible in the faint light to make me fancy them staring at me. Then immediately behind me was the very recess, or rather abyss, where Queen Elizabeth was at that moment settling her farthingale, to sally out upon me; and before me, but lost in blackest gloom, the spectral door, where Mary--not that I should have minded encountering poor Mary, provided always that she had worn her own beautiful head where heaven placed it, and not carried it, as Bertrand de Born carried _his_ "a guisa di lanterna."[60] As to what followed, it is a secret. Suffice it that I found myself safe by the fireside in my bedroom, without any very distinct recollection of how I got there. Of all the scenes in which to moralize and meditate, a picture gallery is to me the most impressive. With the most intense feeling of the beauty of painting, I cannot help thinking with Dr. Johnson, that as far as regards portraits, their chief excellence and value consist in the likeness and the authenticity,[61] and not in the merit of the execution. When we can associate a story or a sentiment with every face and form, they almost live to us--they do in a manner speak to us. There is speculation in those fixed eyes--there is eloquence in those mute lips--and, O! what tales they tell! One of the first pictures which caught my attention as I entered the gallery was a small head of Arabella Stuart, when an infant. The painting is poor enough: it is a little round rosy face in a child's cap, and she holds an embroidered doll in her hand. Who could look on this picture, and not glance forward through succeeding years, and see the pretty playful infant transformed into the impassioned woman, writing to her husband--"In sickness, and in despair, wheresoever thou art, or howsoever I be, it sufficeth me always that thou art mine!" Arabella Stewart was not clever; but not Heloise, nor Corinne, nor Madlle. De l'Espinasse ever penned such a dear little morsel of touching eloquence--so full of all a woman's tenderness! Her stern grandmother, the lady and foundress of Hardwicke, hangs near. There are three pictures of her: all the faces have an expression of sense and acuteness, but none of them the beauty which is attributed to her. There are also two of her husbands, Cavendish and Shrewsbury. The former a grave, intelligent head; the latter very striking from the lofty furrowed brow, the ample beard, and regular but care-worn features. A little farther on we find his son Gilbert, seventh earl of Shrewsbury, and Mary Cavendish, wife of the latter and daughter of Bess of Hardwicke. She resembled her mother in features as in character. The expression is determined, intelligent, and rather cunning. Of her haughty and almost fierce temper, a curious instance is recorded. She had quarrelled with her neighbours, the Stanhopes, and not being able to defy them with sword and buckler, she sent one of her gentlemen, properly attended, with a message to Sir Thomas Stanhope, to be delivered in presence of witnesses, in these words--"My lady hath commanded me to say thus much to you: that though you be more wretched, vile, and miserable than any creature living, and for your wickedness become more ugly in shape than the vilest toad in the world; and one to whom none of any reputation would vouchsafe to send any message; yet she hath thought good to send thus much to you, that she be contented you should live, (and doth noways wish your death,) but to this end: that all the plagues and miseries that may befall any man, may light on such a caitiff as you are," &c.; (and then a few anathemas, yet more energetic, not fit to be transcribed by "pen polite," but ending with _hell-fire_.) "With many other opprobrious and hateful words which could not be remembered, because the bearer would deliver it but once, as he said he was commanded; but said, if he had failed in any thing, it was in speaking it more mildly, and not in terms of such disdain as he was commanded." We are not told whether the gallantry of Stanhope suffered him to throw the herald out of the window, who brought him this gentle missive. As for the termagant countess, his adversary, she was afterwards imprisoned in the Tower for upwards of two years, on account of Lady Arabella Stuart's stolen match with Lord Seymour. She ought assuredly to have "brought forth men-children only;" but she left no son. Her three daughters married the earls of Pembroke, of Arundel, and of Kent. The portraits of James V. of Scotland and his Queen, Mary of Guise, are extremely curious. There is something ideal and elegant about the head of James V.--the look we might expect to find in a man who died from wounded feeling. His more unhappy daughter, poor Mary, hangs near--a full length in a mourning habit, with a white cap, (of her own peculiar fashion,) and a veil of white gauze. This, I believe, is the celebrated picture so often copied and engraved. It is dated 1578, the thirty-sixth of her age, and the tenth of her captivity. The figure is elegant, and the face pensive and sweet.[62] Beside her, in strong contrast, hangs Elizabeth, in a most preposterous farthingale, and a superabundance of all her usual absurdities and enormities of dress. The petticoat is embroidered over with snakes, crocodiles, and all manner of creeping things. We feel almost inclined to ask whether the artist could possibly have intended them as emblems, like the eyes and ears in her picture at Hatfield; but it may have been one of the three thousand gowns, in which Spenser's Gloriana, Raleigh's Venus, loved to array her old wrinkled, crooked carcase. Katherine of Arragon is here--a small head in a hood: the face not only harsh, as in all her pictures, but vulgar, a characteristic I never saw in any other. There is that peculiar expression round the mouth, which might be called either decision or obstinacy. And here too is the famous Lucy Harrington, Countess of Bedford, the friend and patroness of Ben Jonson, looking sentimental in a widow's dress, with a white pocket handkerchief. There is character enough in the countenance to make us turn with pleasure to Ben Jonson's exquisite eulogium on her. "I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet, Hating that solemn vice of greatness, _pride_: I meant each softest virtue there should meet, Fit in that softer bosom to reside. Only a learned and a manly soul I purposed her; that should with even powers The rock, the spindle, and the sheers controul Of destiny, and spin her own free hours!" Farther on is another more celebrated woman, Christian Bruce, the second Countess of Devonshire, so distinguished in the reigns of Charles I. and Charles II. She had all the good qualities of Bess of Hardwicke: her sense, her firmness, her talents for business, her magnificent and independent spirit, and none of her faults. She was as feminine as she was generous and high-minded; fond of literature, and a patroness of poets and learned men:--altogether a noble creature. She was the mother of that lovely Lady Rich, "the wise, the fair, the virtuous, and the young,"[63] whose picture by Vandyke is at Devonshire-house, and there are two pictures at Hardwicke of her handsome, gallant, and accomplished son, Charles Cavendish, who was killed at the battle of Gainsborough. Many fair eyes almost wept themselves blind for his loss, and his mother never recovered the "sore heart-break of his death." There are several pictures of her grandson, the first Duke of Devonshire--the patriot, the statesman, the munificent patron of letters, the poet, the man of gallantry, and, to crown all, the handsomest man of his day. He was one of the leaders in the revolution of 1688--for be it remembered that the Cavendishes, from generation to generation, have ennobled their nobility by their love of liberty, as well as their love of literature and the arts. One picture of this duke on horseback, _en grand costume à la Louis Quatorze_, is so embroidered and bewigged, so plumed, and booted, and spurred, that he is scarcely to be discerned through his accoutrements. A cavalier of those days in full dress must have been a ponderous concern; but then the ladies were as formidably vast and aspiring. The petticoats at this time were so discursive, and the head-dresses so ambitious, that I think it must have been to save in canvass what they expended in satin or brocade, that so many of the pretty women of that day were painted _en bergère_. Apropos to the first Duke of Devonshire: I cannot help remarking the resemblance of the present duke to his illustrious ancestor, as well as to several other portraits, and particularly to a very distant relative--the first Countess of Burlington, who was, I believe, the great-grandmother of his grace's grandmother;--in both these instances the likeness is so striking as to be recognized at once, and not without a smiling exclamation of surprise. Another interesting picture is that of Rachael Russell, the second Duchess of Devonshire, daughter of that heroine and saint, Lady Russell: the face is very beautiful, and the air elegant and high-bred--with rather a pouting expression in the full red lips. Here is also the third duchess, Miss Hoskins, a great city heiress. The painter, I suspect, has flattered her, for she had not in her day the reputation of beauty. When I looked at this picture, so full of delicate, and youthful, and smiling loveliness, I could not help recurring to a passage in Horace Walpole's letters, in which he alludes to this sylph-like being, as the "ancient grace," and congratulates himself on finding her in good-humour. But of all the female portraits, the one which struck me most was that of Lady Charlotte Boyle, the young Marchioness of Hartington, in a masquerade habit of purple satin, embroidered with silver; a fanciful little cap and feathers, thrown on one side, and the dark hair escaping in luxuriant tresses; she holds a mask in her hand, which she has just taken off, and looks round upon us in all the consciousness of happy and high-born loveliness. She was the daughter and heiress of Richard Boyle, the last Earl of Burlington and Cork, and Baroness Clifford in her own right. The merits of the Cavendishes were their own, but their riches and power, in several instances, were brought into the family by a softer influence. Through her, I believe, the vast estates of the Boyles and Cliffords in Ireland and the north of England, including Chiswick and Bolton Abbey, have descended to her grandson, the present duke.[64] There are several pictures of her here--one playing on the harpsichord, and another, small and very elegant, in which she is mounted on a spirited horse. There are two heads of her in crayons, by her mother, Lady Burlington,[65] ill-executed, but said to be like her. And another picture, representing her and her beautiful but ill-fated sister, Lady Dorothy, who was married very young to Lord Euston, and died six months afterwards, in consequence of the brutal treatment of her husband.[66] All the pictures of Lady Hartington have the same marked character of pride, intellect, vivacity, and loveliness. But short was her gay and splendid career! She died of a decline in the sixth year of her marriage, at the age of four-and-twenty. Here is also her father, Lord Burlington, celebrated by Pope, (who has dedicated to him the second of his epistles "on the use of riches,") and styled by Walpole, "the Apollo of the Arts," which he not only patronised, but studied and cultivated; his enthusiasm for architecture was such, that he not only designed and executed buildings for himself, (the villa at Chiswick, for example,) but contributed great sums to public works; and at his own expense published an edition of the designs of Palladio and of Inigo Jones. In one picture of Lord Burlington there is a head of his idol, Inigo Jones, in the background. There is also a good picture of Robert Boyle, the philosopher, a spare, acute, contemplative, interesting face, in which there is as much sensibility as thought. He is said to have died of grief for the loss of his favourite sister, Lady Ranelagh; and when we recollect who and what _she_ was--the sole friend of his solitary heart--the partner of his studies, and with qualities which rendered her the object of Milton's enthusiastic admiration, and almost tender regard, we scarce think less of her brother's philosophy, that it afforded him no consolation for the loss of _such_ a sister. On the other side hangs another philosopher, Thomas Hobbes, of Malmsbury, whose bold speculations in politics and metaphysics, and the odium they drew on him, rendered his whole life one continued warfare with established prejudices and opinions. He was tutor in the family of the first Earl of Devonshire, in 1607--remained constantly attached to the house of Cavendish--and never lost their countenance and patronage in the midst of all the calumnies heaped upon him. He died at Hardwicke under the protection of the first Duke of Devonshire, in 1678. This curious portrait represents him at the age of ninety-two. The picture is not good as a picture, but striking from the evident truth of the expression--uniting the last lingering gleam of thought with the withered, wrinkled, and almost ghastly decrepitude of extreme age. It has, I believe, been engraved by Hollar. I looked round for Henry Cavendish, the great chemist and natural philosopher--another bright ornament of a family every way ennobled--but there is no portrait of him at Hardwicke. I was also disappointed not to find the "limned effigy," as she would call it, of my dear Margaret of Newcastle. There are plenty of kings and queens, truly not worth "sixpence a-piece," as Walpole observes; but there is one picture I must not forget--that of the brave and accomplished Earl of Derby, who was beheaded at Bolton-le-Moor, the husband of the heroic "Lady of Lathom," who figures in Peveril of the Peak. The head has a grand melancholy expression, and I should suppose it to be a copy from Vandyke. Besides these, were many others calculated to awaken in the thoughtful mind both sweet and bitter fancies. How often have I walked up and down this noble gallery lost in "commiserating reveries" on the vicissitudes of departed grandeur!--on the nothingness of all that life could give!--on the fate of youthful beauties who lived to be broken-hearted, grow old, and die!--on heroes that once walked the earth in the blaze of their fame, now gone down to dust, and an endless darkness!--on bright faces, "petries de lis et de roses," since time-wrinkled!--on noble forms since mangled in the battle-field!--on high-born heads that fell beneath the axe of the executioner!--O ye starred and ribboned! ye jewelled and embroidered! ye wise, rich, great, noble, brave, and beautiful, of all your loves and smiles, your graces and excellencies, your deeds and honours--does then a "painted board circumscribe all?" ALTHORPE. A FRAGMENT. It was on such a day as I have seen in Italy in the month of December, but which, in our chill climate, seemed so unseasonably, so ominously beautiful, that it was like the hectic loveliness brightening the eyes and flushing the cheek of consumption,--that I found myself in the domains of Althorpe. Autumn, dying in the lap of Winter, looked out with one bright parting smile;--the soft air breathed of Summer; the withered leaves, heaped on the path, told a different tale. The slant, pale sun shone out with all heaven to himself; not a cloud was there, not a breeze to stir the leafless woods--those venerable woods, which Evelyn loved and commemorated:[67] the fine majestic old oaks, scattered over the park, tossed their huge bare arms against the blue sky; a thin hoar frost, dissolving as the sun rose higher, left the lawns and hills sparkling and glancing in its ray; now and then a hare raced across the open glade-- "And with her feet she from the plashy earth Raises a mist, which glittering in the sun, Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run." Nothing disturbed the serene stillness except a pheasant whirring from a neighbouring thicket, or at intervals the belling of the deer--a sound so peculiar, and so fitted to the scene, that I sympathized in the taste of one of the noble progenitors of the Spencers, who had built a hunting-lodge in a sequestered spot, that he might hear "the harte bell." This was a day, an hour, a scene, with all its associations, its quietness and beauty, "felt in the blood, and felt along the heart." All worldly cares and pains were laid asleep; while memory, fancy, and feeling waked. Althorpe does not frown upon us in the gloom of remote antiquity; it has not the warlike glories of some of the baronial residences of our old nobility; it is not built like a watch-tower on a hill, to lord it over feudal vassals; it is not bristled with battlements and turrets. It stands in a valley, with the gradual hills undulating round it, clothed with rich woods. It has altogether a look of compactness and comfort, without pretension, which, with the pastoral beauty of the landscape, and low situation, recall the ancient vocation of the family, whose grandeur was first founded, like that of the patriarchs of old, on the multitude of their flocks and herds.[68] It was in the reign of Henry the Eighth that Althorpe became the principal seat of the Spencers, and no place of the same date can boast so many delightful, romantic, and historical associations. There is Spenser the poet, "high-priest of all the Muses' mysteries," who modestly claimed, as an honour, his relationship to those Spencers who now, with a just pride, boast of _him_, and deem his Faery Queen "the brightest jewel in their coronet;" and the beautiful Alice Spencer, countess of Derby, who was celebrated in early youth by her poet-cousin, and for whom Milton, in her old age, wrote his "Arcades." At Althorpe, in 1603, the queen and son of James the First were, on their arrival in England, nobly entertained with a masque, written for the occasion by Ben Jonson, in which the young ladies and nobles of the country enacted nymphs and fairies, satyrs and hunters, and danced to the sound of "excellent soft music," their scenery the natural woods, their stage the green lawn, their canopy the summer sky. What poetical picturesque hospitality! In these days it would have been a dinner, with French cooks and confectioners express from London to dress it. Here lived Waller's famous Sacharissa, the first Lady Sunderland--so beautiful and good, so interesting in herself, she needed not his wit nor his poetry to enshrine her. Here she parted from her young husband,[69] when he left her to join the king in the field; and here, a few months after, she received the news of his death in the battle of Newbury, and saw her happiness wrecked at the age of three-and-twenty. Here plotted her distinguished son, that Proteus of politics, the second Lord Sunderland. Charles the First was playing at bowls on the green at Althorpe, when Colonel Joyce's detachment surprised him, and carried him off to imprisonment and to death. Here the excellent and accomplished Evelyn used to meditate in the "noble gallerie," and in the "ample gardens," of which he has left us an admiring and admirable description, which would be as suitable today as it was a hundred and fifty years ago, with the single exception of the great proprietor, deservedly far more honoured in this generation than was his apostate time-serving ancestor, the Lord Sunderland of Evelyn's day.[70] When the Spencers were divided, the eldest branch of the family becoming Dukes of Marlborough and the youngest Earls Spencer--if the former inherited glory, Blenheim, and poverty--to the latter have belonged more true and more substantial distinctions: for the last three generations the Spencers have been remarked for talents, for benevolence, for constancy, for love of literature, and patronage of the fine arts. The house retains the form described by Evelyn--that of a half H: a slight irregularity is caused by the new gothic room, built by the present earl, to contain part of his magnificent library, which, like the statue in the Castle of Otranto, had grown "too big for what contained it." We entered by a central door the large and lofty hall, or vestibule, hung round with pictures of fox-chases and those who figured in them, famous hunters, quadruped and biped, all as large as life, spread over as much canvass as would make a mainsail for a man-of-war. These huge perpetrations are of the time of Jack Spencer, a noted Nimrod in his day; and are very fine, as we were told, but they did not interest me. I had caught a glimpse of the superb staircase, hung round with pictures above and below, and not the less interesting as having been erected by Sacharissa herself during the few years she was mistress of Althorpe. A face looked at us from over an opposite door, which there was no resisting. Does the reader remember Horace Walpole's pleasant description of a party of _seers_ posting through the apartments of a show-place? "They come; ask what such a room is called?--write it down; admire a lobster or cabbage in a Dutch market piece; dispute whether the last room was green or purple; and then hurry to the inn, for fear the fish should be over-dressed."[71] We were not such a party; but with imaginations ready primed to take fire, and memories enriched with all the associations the place could suggest, to us every portrait was a history. The orthodox style of seeing the house is to turn to the left, and view the ground-floor apartments first; but the face I have mentioned seemed to beckon me straight-forward, and I could not choose but obey the invitation: it was that of Lady Bridgewater, the loveliest of the four lovely daughters of the Duke of Marlborough: she had the misfortune to be painted by Jervas, and the good fortune to be celebrated by Pope as the "tender sister, daughter, friend, and wife;" and again-- "Thence Beauty, waking, all her forms supplies-- An angel's sweetness--or Bridgewater's eyes." Jervas was supposed to have been presumptuously and desperately in love with this beautiful woman, who died at the age of five-and-twenty: hence Pope has taken the liberty--by a poetical licence, no doubt--to call her, in his Epistle to Jervas, "_thy_ Bridgewater." Two of her fair sisters, the Duchess of Montagu and Lady Godolphin, hung near her; and above, her fairer sister, Lady Sunderland. Ascending the magnificent staircase, a hundred faces look down upon us, in a hundred different varieties of expression, in a hundred different costumes. Here are Queen Anne and Sarah Duchess of Marlborough placed amicably side by side, as in the days of their romantic friendship, when they conversed and corresponded as Mrs. Morley and Mrs. Freeman: the beauty, the intellect, the spirit, are all on the side of the imperious duchess; the poor queen looks like what she was, a good-natured fool. On the left is the cunning abigail, who supplanted the duchess in the favour of Queen Anne--Mrs. Masham. Proceeding along the gallery, we are met by the portrait of that angel-devil, Lady Shrewsbury,[72] whose exquisite beauty fascinates at once and shocks the eye like the gorgeous colours of an adder. I believe the story of her holding the Duke of Buckingham's horse while he shot her husband in a duel, has been disputed; but her attempt to assassinate Killegrew, while she sat by in her carriage,[73] is too true. So far had her depravities unsexed her! ----"Lorsque la vertu, avec peine abjurée, Nous fait voir une femme à ses fureurs livrée, S'irritant par l'effort que ce pas a couté, Son âme avec plus d'art a plus de cruauté." She was even less famous for the number of her lovers, than the catastrophes of which she was the cause. "Had ever nymph such reason to be glad? Two in a duel fell, and one ran mad." Not two, but half a dozen fell in duels; and if her lovers "ran mad," it was in despite, not in despair. Lady Shrewsbury is past jesting or satire; and after a first involuntary pause of admiration before her matchless beauty, we turn away with horror. For the rest of the portraits on this vast staircase, it would take a volume to give a _catalogue raisonnée_ of them. We pass, then, into a corridor hung with two large and very mediocre landscapes, representing Tivoli and Terni. Any attempt, even the best, to paint a cataract _must_ be abortive. How render to the fancy the two grandest of its features--sound and motion? the thunder and the tumult of the headlong waters? We will pass on to the gallery, and lose ourselves in its enchantments. Where shall we begin?--Any where. Throw away the catalogue: all are old acquaintances. We are tempted to speak to them, and they look as if they could curtsey to us. The very walls breathe around us. What Vandykes--what Lelys--what Sir Joshuas! what a congregation of all that is beauteous and noble!--what Spencers, Sydneys, Digbys, Russells, Cavendishes, and Churchills!--O what a scene to moralize, to philosophize, to sentimentalize in!--what histories in those eyes, that look, yet see not!--what sermons on those lips, that all but speak; I would rather reflect in a picture-gallery, than elegize in a churchyard. The "poca polvere che nulla sente," can only tell us we must die; these, with a more useful and deep-felt morality, tell us how to live. Yet I cannot say I felt thus pensive and serious the first time I looked round the gallery at Althorpe. Curiosity, excitement, interest, admiration--a crowd of quick successive images and recollections fleeting across the memory--left me no time to think. I remember being startled, the moment I entered, by a most extraordinary picture,--the second Prince of Orange, and his preceptor Katts, by Flinck. The eyes of the latter are really shockingly alive; they stare out of the canvass, and glitter and fascinate like those of a serpent. If I had been a Roman Catholic, I should have crossed myself, as I looked at them, to shield me from their evil and supernatural expression.[74] The picture of the two Sforzas, Maximilian and his brother Francis, by Albert Durer, is quite a curiosity; and so is another, by Holbein, near it, containing the portraits of Henry the Eighth, his daughter Mary, and his jester, Will Somers,--all full of individuality and truth. The expression in Mary's face, at once saturnine, discontented and vulgar, is especially full of character. These last three pictures are curious and valuable as specimens of art; but they are not pleasing. We turn to the matchless Vandykes, at once admirable as paintings, and yet more interesting as portraits. A full-length of his master and friend, Rubens, dressed in black, is magnificent; the attitude particularly graceful. Near the centre of the gallery is the charming full-length of Queen Henrietta Maria, a well-known and celebrated picture. She is dressed in white satin, and stands near a table on which is a vase of white roses, and, more in the shade, her regal crown. Nothing can be in finer taste than the contrast between the rich, various, but subdued colours of the carpet and background, and the delicate, and harmonious, and brilliant tints which throw out the figure. None of the pictures I had hitherto seen of Henrietta, either in the king's private collection, or at Windsor, do justice to the sparkling grace of her figure, or the vivacity and beauty of her eyes, so celebrated by all the contemporary poets. Waller, for instance:-- "Could Nature then no private woman grace, Whom we might dare to love, with such a face, Such a complexion, and so radiant eyes, Such lovely motion, and such sharp replies?" Davenant styles her, very beautifully, "The rich-eyed darling of a monarch's breast." Lord Holland, in the description he sent from Paris, dwells on the charm of her eyes, her smile, and her graceful figure, though he admits her to be rather _petite_; and if the poet and the courtier be distrusted, we have the authority of the puritanic Sir Symond d'Ewes, who allows the influence of her "excellent and sparkling black eyes." Henrietta could be very seductive, and had all the French grace of manner; but, as is well known, she could play the virago, "and cast such a scowl, as frightened all the lords and ladies in waiting." Too much importance is attached to her character and her influence over her husband, in the histories of that time. She was a fascinating, but a superficial and volatile Frenchwoman. With all her feminine love of sway, she had not sufficient energy to govern; and with all her disposition to intrigue, she never had discretion enough to keep her own or the king's secrets. When she rushed through a storm of bullets to save a favourite lap-dog; or when, amid the shrieks and entreaties of her terrified attendants, she commanded the captain of her vessel to "blow up the ship rather than strike to the Parliamentarian,"--it was more the spirit and wilfulness of a woman, who, with all her faults, had the blood of Henri Quatre in her veins, than the mental energy and resolute fortitude of a heroine. Near her hangs her daughter, who inherited her grace, her beauty, her petulance,--the unhappy Henriette d'Orleans,[75] fair, radiant, and lively, with a profusion of beautiful hair; it is impossible to look from the mother to the daughter, without remembering the scene in Retz's memoirs, when the queen said to him, in excuse for her daughter's absence, "My poor Henrietta is obliged to lie in bed, for I have no wood to make a fire for her--et la pauvre enfant était transie de froid." Another picture by Vandyke hangs at the top of the room, one of the grandest and most spirited of his productions. It represents William, the first Duke of Bedford, the father of Lord William Russell, when young, and his brother-in-law, the famous (and infamous) Digby, Earl of Bristol. How admirably Vandyke has caught the characters of the two men!--the fine commanding form of the duke, as he steps forward, the frank, open countenance, expressive of all that is good and noble, speak him what he was--not less than that of Digby, which, though eminently handsome, has not one elevated or amiable trait in the countenance; the drapery, background, and more especially the hands, are magnificently painted. On one side of this superb picture, hangs the present Earl Spencer when a youth; and on the other, his sister, Georgiana Duchess of Devonshire, at the age of eighteen, looking all life and high-born loveliness, and reminding one of Coleridge's beautiful lines to her:-- "Light as a dream your days their circlets ran From all that teaches brotherhood to man, Far, far removed! from want, from grief, from fear! Obedient music lull'd your infant ear; Obedient praises soothed your infant heart; Emblazonments and old ancestral crests, With many a bright obtrusive form of art, Detain'd your eye from nature. Stately vests, That veiling strove to deck your charms divine, Rich viands and the pleasurable wine, Were yours unearn'd by toil."---- And he thus beautifully alludes to her maternal character; for this accomplished woman set the example to the highest ranks, of nursing her own children:-- "You were a mother! at your bosom fed The babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye, Each twilight thought, each nascent feeling read, Which you yourself created." Alas, that such a beginning should have such an end! Both these are whole-lengths, by Sir Joshua Reynolds: the middle tints are a little flown, else they were perfect; they suffer by being hung near the glowing yet mellowed tints of Vandyke. We have here a whole bevy of the heroines of De Grammont, delightful to those who have what Walpole used to call the "De Grammont madness" upon them. Here is that beautiful, audacious termagant, Castlemaine, very like her picture at Windsor, and with the same characteristic bit of storm gleaming in the background.--Lady Denham,[76] the wife of the poet, Sir John Denham, and niece of that Lord Bristol who figures in Vandyke's picture above mentioned--a lovely creature, and a sweet picture.--Louise de Querouaille, Duchess of Portsmouth, who so long ruled the heart and councils of Charles the Second, in Lely's finest style; the face has a look of blooming innocence, soon exchanged for coarseness and arrogance.--The indolent, alluring Middleton, looking from under her sleepy eyelids, "trop coquette pour rebuter personne."--"La Belle Hamilton," the lovely prize of the volatile De Grammont; very like her portrait at Windsor, with the same finely formed bust and compressed ruby lips, but with an expression more vivacious and saucy, and less elevated.--Two portraits of Nell Gwyn, with the fair brown air and small bright eyes they ought to have; _au reste_, with such prim, sanctified mouths, and dressed with such elaborate decency, that instead of reminding us of the "parole sciolte d'ogni freno, risi, vezzi, giuochi"--they are more like Beck Marshall, the puritan's daughter, on her good behaviour.[77] Here is that extraordinary woman Hortense Mancini, Duchess of Mazarin, the fame of whose beauty and gallantries filled all Europe, and once the intended wife of Charles the Second, though she afterwards intrigued in vain for the less (or more) eligible post of _maitresse en titre_. What an extraordinary, wild, perverted, good-for-nothing, yet interesting set of women, were those four Mancini sisters! all victims, more or less, to the pride, policy, or avarice, of their cardinal uncle; all gifted by nature with the fervid Italian blood and the plotting Italian brain; all really _aventuriéres_, while they figured as duchesses and princesses. They wore their coronets and ermine as strolling players wear their robes of state--with a sort of picturesque awkwardness--and they proved rather too scanty to cover a multitude of sins. This head of Hortense Mancini, as Cleopatra dissolving the pearl, is the most spirited, but the least beautiful portrait I have seen of her. An appropriate pendant on the opposite side is her lover, philosopher, and eulogist, the witty St. Evremond--Grammont's "Caton de Normandie;" but instead of looking like a good-natured epicurean, a man "who thought as he liked, and liked what he thought,"[78] his nose is here wrinkled up into an expression of the most supercilious scorn, adding to his native ugliness.[79] Both these are by Kneller. Farther on, is another of Charles's beauties, whose _sagesse_ has never been disputed--Elizabeth Wriothesley, Countess of Northumberland, the sister of that half saint, half heroine, and _all_ woman--Lady Russell. There is also a lovely picture of that magnificent brunette, Miss Bagot. "Elle avait," says Hamilton, "ce teint rembruni qui plait tant quand il plait." She married Berkeley Lord Falmouth, a man who, though unprincipled, seems to have loved her; at least, was not long enough her husband to forget to be her lover: he was killed, shortly after his marriage, in the battle of Southwold-bay. This is assuredly one of the most splendid pictures Lely ever painted; and it is, besides, full of character and interest. She holds a cannon-ball in her lap, (only an airy emblematical cannon-ball, for she poises it like a feather,) and the countenance is touched with a sweet expression of melancholy: hence it is plain that she sat for it soon after the death of her first husband, and before her marriage with the witty Earl of Dorset.--Near her hangs another fair piece of witchcraft, "La Belle Jennings," who in her day played with hearts as if they had been billiard balls; and no wonder, considering what _things_ she had to deal with:[80] there was a great difference between her vivacity and that of her vivacious sister, the Duchess of Marlborough.--Old Sarah hangs near her. One would think that Kneller, in spite, had watched the moment to take a characteristic likeness, and catch, not the Cynthia, but the Fury of the minute; as for instance, when she cut off her luxuriant tresses, so worshipped by her husband, and flung them in his face; for so she tosses back her disdainful head, and curls her lip like an insolent, pouting, spoiled, grown-up baby. The life of this woman is as fine a lesson on the emptiness of all worldly advantages, boundless wealth, power, fame, beauty, wit, as ever was set forth by moralist or divine. "By spirit robb'd of power--by warmth, of friends-- By wealth, of followers! without one distress, Sick of herself through very selfishness."[81] And yet I suspect that the Duchess of Marlborough has never met with justice. History knows her only as Marlborough's wife, an intriguing dame d'honneur, and a cast-off favourite. Vituperated by Swift, satirized by Pope, ridiculed by Walpole--what angel could have stood such bedaubing, and from such pens? "O she has fallen into a pit of ink!" But glorious talents she had, strength of mind, generosity, the power to feel and inspire the strongest attachment,--and all these qualities were degraded, or rendered useless, by _temper_! Her avarice was not the love of money for its own sake, but the love of power; and her bitter contempt for "knaves and fools" may be excused, if not justified. Imagine such a woman as the Duchess of Marlborough out-faced, out-plotted by that crowned cypher, that sceptred commonplace, queen Anne! It should seem that the constant habit of being forced to serve, outwardly, where she really ruled,--the consciousness of her own brilliant and powerful faculties brought into immediate hourly comparison with the confined trifling understanding of her mistress, a disdain of her own forced hypocrisy, and a perception of the heartless baseness of the courtiers around her, disgusting to a mind naturally high-toned, produced at length that extreme of bitterness and insolence which made her so often "an embodied storm." She was always a termagant--but of a very different description from the vulgar Castlemaine. Though the picture of Colonel Russell, by Dobson, is really fine as a portrait, the recollection of the scene between him and Miss Hamilton[82]--his love of dancing, to prove he was not old and asthmatical,--and his attachment to his "_chapeau pointu_," make it impossible to look at him without a smile--but a good-humoured smile, such as his lovely mistress gave him when she rejected him with so much politeness.--Arabella Churchill, the sister of the great Duke of Marlborough, and mistress of the Duke of York, has been better treated by the painter than by Hamilton; instead of "La grande créature, pale et decharnée," she appears here a very lovely woman. But enough of these equivocal ladies. No--before we leave them, there are yet two to be noticed, more equivocal, more interesting, and more extraordinary than all the rest put together--Bianca di Capello, who, from a washerwoman, became Grand Duchess of Florence, with less beauty than I should have expected, but as much _countenance_; and the beautiful, but appalling picture of Venitia Digby, painted after she was dead, by Vandyke: she was found one morning sitting up in her bed, leaning her head on her hand, and lifeless; and thus she is painted. Notwithstanding the ease and grace of the attitude, and the delicacy of the features, there is no mistaking this for slumber: a heavier hand has pressed upon those eyelids, which will never more open to the light: there is a leaden lifelessness about them, too shockingly true and real-- "It thrills us with mortality, And curdles to the gazer's heart." Her picture at Windsor is the most perfectly beautiful and impressive female portrait I ever saw. How have I longed, when gazing at it, to conjure her out of her frame, and bid her reveal the secret of her mysterious life and death!--Nearly opposite to the dead Venitia, in strange contrast, hangs her husband, who loved her to madness, or was mad before he married her, in the very prime of life and youth. This picture, by Cornelius Jansen, is as fine as any thing of Vandyke's: the character expresses more of intellectual power and physical strength, than of that elegance of face and form we should have looked for in such a fanciful being as Sir Kenelm Digby: he looks more like one of the Athletæ than a poet, a metaphysician, and a "squire of dames." There are three pictures of Waller's famed Sacharissa, the first Lady Sunderland: one in a hat, at the age of fifteen or sixteen, gay and blooming; the second, far more interesting, was painted about the time of her marriage with the young Earl of Sunderland, or shortly after--very sweet and lady-like. I should say that the high-breeding of the face and air was more conspicuous than the beauty; the neck and hands exquisite. Both these are Vandyke's. A third picture represents her about the time of her second marriage: the expression wholly changed--cold, sad, faded, but pretty still: one might fancy her contemplating, with a sick heart, the portrait of Lord Sunderland, the lover and husband of her early youth, who hangs on the opposite side of the gallery, in complete armour: he fell in the same battle with Lord Falkland, at the age of three-and-twenty. The brother of Sacharissa, the famous Algernon Sidney, is suspended near her; a fine head, full of contemplation and power. Among the most interesting pictures in the gallery is an undoubted original of Lady Jane Grey. After seeing so many hideous, hard, prim-looking pictures and prints of this gentle-spirited heroine, it is consoling to trust in the genuineness of a face which has all the sweetness and dignity we look for, and ought to find. Then, by way of contrast, we have that most curious picture of Diana of Poitiers, once in the Crawfurd collection: it is a small half-length; the features fair and regular; the hair is elaborately dressed with a profusion of jewels; but there is no drapery whatever--"force pierreries et trés peu de linge," as Madame de Sevigné described the two Mancini.[83] Round the head is the legend from the 42d Psalm--"Comme le cerf braie après le décours des eaues, ainsi brait mon ame après toi, O Dieu," which is certainly an extraordinary application. In the days of Diana of Poitiers, the beautiful mistress of Henry the Second of France, it was the court fashion to sing the Psalms of David to dance and song tunes;[84] and the courtiers and beauties had each their favourite psalm, which served as a kind of _devise_: this may explain the very singular inscription on this very singular picture. Here are also the portraits of Otway and Cowley, and of Montaigne; the last from the Crawfurd collection. I had nearly omitted to mention a magnificent whole-length of the Duc de Guise--who was stabbed in the closet of Henry the Third--whose life contains materials for ten romances and a dozen epics, and whose death has furnished subjects for as many tragedies. And not far from him that not less daring, and more successful chief, Oliver Cromwell: a page is tying on his sash. There is a vulgar power and boldness about this head, in fine contrast with the high-born, fearless, chivalrous-looking Guise. In the library is the splendid picture of Sofonisba Angusciola, by herself: she is touching the harpsichord, for like many others of her craft, she excelled in music. Angelica Kauffman had nearly been an opera-singer. The instances of great painters being also excellent musicians are numerous; Salvator Rosa could have led an orchestra, and Vernet could not exist without Pergolesi's piano. But I cannot recollect an instance of a great musician by profession, who has also been a painter: the range of faculties is generally more confined. Rembrandt's large picture of his mother, which is, I think, the most magnificent specimen of this master now in England, hangs over the chimney in the same room with the Sofonisba. The last picture I can distinctly remember is a portrait by Sir Joshua Reynolds, with all his perfections combined in their perfection. It is that of a beautiful Frenchwoman, an intimate friend of the last Lady Spencer--with as much intellect, sentiment, and depth of feeling as would have furnished out twenty ordinary heads; all harmony in the colouring, all grace in the drawing. Here then was food for the eye and for the memory--for sweet and bitter fancy--for the amateur, and for the connoisseur--for antiquary, historian, painter, and poet. Well might Horace Walpole say that the gallery at Althorpe was "endeared to the pensive spectator." He tells us in his letters, that when here, (about seventy years since,) he surprised the housekeeper by "his intimate acquaintance with all the faces in the gallery." I was amused at the thought that we caused a similar surprise in our day. I hope his female cicerone was as civil and intelligent as ours; as worthy to be the keeper of the pictorial treasures of Althorpe. When we lingered and lingered, spell-bound, and apologized for making such unconscionable demands on her patience, she replied, "that she was flattered; that she felt affronted when any visitor hurried through the apartments." Old Horace would have been delighted with her; and not less with the biblical enthusiasm of a village glazier, whom we found dusting the books in the library, and who had such a sublime reverence for old editions, unique copies, illuminated MSS., and rare bindings, that it was quite edifying. * * * * * [Illustration] END OF VOL. II. LONDON: IBOTSON AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND. * * * * * FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: In the throne-room at the Buckingham Palace the idea of grandeur is suggested by a vile heraldic crown, stuck on the capitals of the columns. Conceive the flagrant, the vulgar barbarity of taste!! It cannot surely be attributed to the architect?] [Footnote 2: There is a very pretty little edition of his lyrical poems, rendered into the modern German by Karl Simrock, and published at Berlin in 1833.] [Footnote 3: See a very interesting account of Walther von der Vogelweide, with translations of some of his poems in "The Lays of the Minnesingers," published in 1825.] [Footnote 4: See a very learned and well-written article on the ancient German and northern poetry in the Edinburgh Review, vol. 26.] [Footnote 5: The legend of this charming saint, one of the most popular in Germany, is but little known among us. She was the wife of a margrave of Thuringia, who was a fierce, avaricious man, while she herself was all made up of tenderness and melting pity. She lived with her husband in his castle on the Wartsburg, and was accustomed to go out every morning to distribute alms among the poor of the valley: her husband, jealous and covetous, forbade her thus to exercise her bounty; but as she regarded her duty to God and the poor, even as paramount to conjugal obedience, she secretly continued her charitable offices. Her husband encountered her one morning at sunrise, as she was leaving the castle with a covered basket containing meat, bread, and wine, for a starving family. He demanded, angrily, what she had in her basket! Elizabeth, trembling, not for herself, but for her wretched protegés, replied, with a faltering voice, that she had been gathering roses in the garden. The fierce chieftain, not believing her, snatched off the napkin, and Elizabeth fell on her knees.--But, behold, a miracle had been operated in her favour!--The basket was full of roses, fresh gathered, and wet with dew.] [Footnote 6: See Taylor's "Historic Survey of German Poetry." Herman was afterwards murdered by a band of conspirators, and Thusnelda, on learning the fate of her husband, died brokenhearted.] [Footnote 7: The notices which follow are abridged from the essay "on Ancient German and Northern Poetry," before mentioned--from the preface to the edition of the Nibelungen Lied, by M. Von der Hagen--and the analysis of the poem in the Illustrations of Northern Antiquities. My own first acquaintance with the Nibelungen Lied, I owed to an accomplished friend, who gave me a detailed and lively analysis of the story and characters; and certainly no child ever hung upon a tale of ogres and fairies with more intense interest than I did upon her recital of the adventures of the Nibelungen.] [Footnote 8: Dietrich of Bern (i. e. Theodoric of Verona,) is the great hero of South Germany--the King Arthur of Teutonic romance, who figures in all the warlike lays and legends of the middle ages.] [Footnote 9: See the Illustrations of Northern Antiquities, p. 213.] [Footnote 10: In the altercation between the two queens, Chrimhilde boasts of possessing these trophies, and displays them in triumph to her mortified rival; for which indiscretion, as she afterwards complains, "her husband was in high anger, and _beat her black and blue_." This treatment, however, which seems to have been quite a matter of course, does not diminish the fond idolatry of the wife,--rather increases it.] [Footnote 11: This list will be subjoined at the end of these Sketches.] [Footnote 12: Sofonisba Augusciola, one of the most charming of portrait painters. She died in 1626, at the age of ninety-three.] [Footnote 13: I regret that I omitted to note the _name_ of the artist of this magnificent work. There is a still more admirable monument of the same period in the church at Inspruck, the tomb of the archduke, Ferdinand of Tyrol, consisting, I believe, of twelve colossal statues in bronze.] [Footnote 14: The first stone of the Valhalla was laid by the King of Bavaria, on the 18th of October 1830.] [Footnote 15: The Einheriar are the souls of heroes admitted into the Valhalla.] [Footnote 16: Daniel.] [Footnote 17: Lithography was invented at Munich between 1795 and 1798, for so long were repeated experiments tried before the art became useful or general. Senefelder, the inventor, was an actor, and the son of an actor. The first occasion of the invention was his wish to print a little drama of his own, in some manner less expensive than the usual method of type. The first successful experiment was the printing of some music, published (1796) by Gleissner, one of the king of Bavaria's band: the first drawing attempted was a vignette to a sheet of music. In the course of his attempts to pursue and perfect his discovery, Senefelder was reduced to such poverty, that he offered himself to enlist for a common soldier, and, luckily, was refused. He again took heart, and, supported through every difficulty and discouragement by his own strong and enthusiastic mind, he at length overcame all obstacles, and has lived to see his invention established and spread over the whole civilized world. Hitherto, I believe, the stone used by lithographers is found only in Bavaria, whence it is sent to every part of Europe and America, and forms a most profitable article of commerce. The principal quarries are at Solenholfen, on the Danube, about fifty miles from Munich. Senefelder has published a little memoir of the origin and progress of the invention, in which he relates with great simplicity the hardship, and misery, and contumely, he encountered before he could bring it into use. He concludes with an earnest prayer, "that it may contribute to the benefit and improvement of mankind, and that it may never be abused to any dishonourable or immoral purpose." If I remember rightly, a detailed history of the art was given in one of the early numbers of the Foreign Review.] [Footnote 18: The population of Munich is estimated at about 60,000. It does not enter into my plan, at present, to give any detailed account of the public institutions, whether academies, schools, hospitals, or prisons; yet I cannot but mention the prison at Munich, which more than pays its own expenses, instead of being a burthen to the state; the admirable hospital for the poor, in which all who cannot find work elsewhere, are provided with occupation; two large hospitals for the sick poor, in which rooms and attendance are also provided for those who do not choose to be a burthen to their friends, nor yet dependent on charity; the orphan school; the female school, endowed by the king; the foundling and lying-in hospitals, establishments unhappily most _necessary_ in Munich, and certainly most admirably conducted. These, and innumerable private societies for the assistance, the education, and the improvement of the lower classes, ought to receive the attention of every intelligent traveller. There are no poor laws in operation at Munich, no mendicity societies, no tract, and soup and blanket charities; yet pauperism, mendicity, and starvation, are nearly unknown. For the system of regulations by which these evils have been repressed or altogether remedied, I believe Bavaria is indebted to the celebrated American, Count Rumford, who was in the service of the late king, Max-Joseph, from 1790 to 1799. Several new manufactories have lately been established, particularly of glass and porcelain, and the latter is carried to a high degree of perfection.] [Footnote 19: Ida of Saxe-Meiningen, sister of the queen of England.] [Footnote 20: It is difficult to translate this laconic proverb, because we have not the corresponding words in English: the meaning may be rendered--"_according to the country, so are the manners_."] [Footnote 21: When the city was besieged by Wallenstein in 1632.] [Footnote 22: Born at Nuremberg in 1494.] [Footnote 23: See the admirable "Essay on the Early German and Northern Poetry," already alluded to.] [Footnote 24: Anthony, the present king of Saxony. He is, however, in his dotage, being now in his eighty-fifth year.] [Footnote 25: The description of Dresden and its environs, in Russel's Tour in Germany, is one of the best written passages in that amusing book--so admirably graphic and faithful, that nothing can be added to it _as a description_, therefore I have effaced those notes which it has rendered superfluous. It must, however, be remembered by those who refer to Mr. Russel's work, that a revolution has taken place, by which the king, now fallen into absolute dotage, has been removed from the direct administration of the government, and a much more popular and liberal tone prevails in the Estates: the two princes, nephews of the king, whom Mr. Russel mentions as "persons of whom scarcely any body thinks of speaking at all," have since made themselves extremely conspicuous;--Prince Frederic has been declared regent, and is apparently much respected and beloved; and Prince John has distinguished himself as a speaker in the Assembly of the States, and takes the liberal side on most occasions. A spirit of amelioration is at work in Dresden, as elsewhere, and the ten or twelve years which have elapsed since Mr. Russel's visit have not passed away without some salutary changes, while more are evidently at hand. Mr. Russel speaks of the secrecy with which the sittings of the Chambers were then conducted: they are now public, and the debates are printed in the Gazette at considerable length.] [Footnote 26: Augustus II. abjured the Protestant religion in 1700, in order to obtain the crown of Poland.] [Footnote 27: The first tenor at Dresden in 1833.] [Footnote 28: An opera by Franz Glazer of Berlin. The subject, which is the well-known story of the mother who delivers her infant when carried away by the eagle, or rather vulture of the Alps, might make a good melodrama, but is not fit for an opera--and the music is _trainante_ and monotonous.] [Footnote 29: Zingarelli composed his _Romeo e Giulietta_ in 1797: Bellini produced the Capelletti at Venice in 1832, for our silver-voiced Caradori and the contr'alto Giudita Grisi, sister of that accomplished singer, Giulietta Grisi. Thirty-five years are an age in the history of music. Of the two operas, Bellini's is the most effective, from the number of the conceited pieces, without containing a single air which can be placed in comparison with five or six in Zingarelli's opera.] [Footnote 30: Lord Byron.] [Footnote 31: "Tieck," says Carlyle, "is a poet _born_ as well as made.--He is no mere observist and compiler, rendering back to us, with additions or subtractions, the beauty which existing things have of themselves presented to him; but a true Maker, to whom the actual and external is but the _excitement_ for ideal creations, representing and ennobling its effects. His feeling or knowledge, his love or scorn, his gay humour or solemn earnestness; all the riches of his inward world are pervaded and mastered by the living energy of the soul which possesses them, and their finer essence is wafted to us in his poetry, like Arabian odours, on the wings of the wind. But this may be said of all true poets; and each is distinguished from all, by his individual characteristics. Among Tieck's, one of the most remarkable is his combination of so many gifts, in such full and simple harmony. His ridicule does not obstruct his adoration; his gay southern fancy lives in union with a northern heart; with the moods of a longing and impassioned spirit, he seems deeply conversant; and a still imagination, in the highest sense of that word, reigns over all his poetic world."] [Footnote 32: Vide Shelley's Epipsychidion.] [Footnote 33: Mr. Russel is quite right in his observation that the Correggios are hung too near together: the fact is, that in the Dresden gallery, the pictures are not well hung, nor well arranged; there is too little light in the inner gallery, and too much in the outer gallery. Lastly, the numbers are so confused that I found the catalogue of little use. A new arrangement and a new catalogue, by Professor Matthaï, are in contemplation.] [Footnote 34: Spence.] [Footnote 35: Lanzi says, that many of the works of Lavinia Fontana might easily pass for those of Guido;--her best works are at Bologna. She died in 1614.] [Footnote 36: At Althorpe.] [Footnote 37: The Miss Sharpes were at Dresden while I was there, and their names and some of their works were fresh in my mind and eye when I wrote the above; but I think it fair to add, that I had not the opportunity I could have wished of cultivating their acquaintance. These three sisters, all so talented, and so inseparable,--all artists, and bound together in affectionate communion of hearts and interests, reminded me of the Sofonisba and her sisters.] [Footnote 38: She is the "Julie" celebrated in some of Goethe's minor poems.] [Footnote 39: Since this was written, in November 1833, Retzsch has sent over to England a series of these _Fancies_ for publication.] [Footnote 40: We have among us a young German painter, (Theodor von Holst,) who, uniting the exuberant enthusiasm and rich imagination of his country, with a just appreciation of the style of English art, is likely to achieve great things.] [Footnote 41: "Belier! mon ami! commence par le commencement!"--_Contes de Hamilton._] [Footnote 42: A manor situated on the borders of Derbyshire, between Chesterfield and Mansfield.] [Footnote 43: The Cavendishes were originally of Suffolk. Whether this William Cavendish was the same who was gentleman usher and secretary to Cardinal Wolsey, is, I believe, a disputed point.] [Footnote 44: Bishop Kennel's memoirs of the family of Cavendish.] [Footnote 45: Lodge's Illustrations of British History.] [Footnote 46: Scott's Memoir of Sir Ralph Sadler.] [Footnote 47: Lodge's "Illustrations."] [Footnote 48: This celebrated letter is yet preserved, and well known to historians and antiquarians. It is sufficient to say that scarce any part of it would bear transcribing.] [Footnote 49: See two of her letters in Sir Henry Ellis's Collection.] [Footnote 50: See some letters in Ellis's Collection, vol. ii. series 1, which show with what constant jealousy Lady Shrewsbury and her charge were watched by the court.] [Footnote 51: In All Hallows, in Derby. After leaving Hardwicke, I went, of course, to pay my respects to it. It is a vast and gorgeous shrine of many coloured marbles, covered with painting, gilding, emblazonments, and inscriptions, within which the lady lies at full length in a golden ruff, and a most sumptuous farthingale.] [Footnote 52: As the measurements are interesting from this fact, I took care to note them exactly; as follows:--length 55 ft. 6 inches; breadth 30 ft. 6 inches; height 24 ft. 6 inches.] [Footnote 53: Horace Walpole, as an antiquarian, should have known that Mary was never kept _there_.] [Footnote 54: It had formerly been richly painted, and must then have had an effect superior to tapestry; the colours are still visible here and there.] [Footnote 55: Mary's own account of her occupations displays the natural elegance of her mind. "I asked her grace, since the weather did cut off all exercises abroad, how she passed her time within? She sayd that all day she wrought with her needle, and that the diversitie of the colours made the work appear less tedious, and that she continued at it till pain made her to give o'er: and with that laid her hand on her left side, and complayned of an old grief newly increased there. Upon this occasion she, the Scottish queen, with the agreeable and lively wit natural to her, entered into a pretty disputable comparison between carving, painting, and working with the needle, affirming painting, in her opinion, for the most commendable quality."--_Letter of Nicholas White to Cecil._] [Footnote 56: I was as much delighted by these singular fire-screens as Horace himself could have been; they are about seven feet high. The yellow velvet suspended from the bar is embossed with black velvet, and intermingled with embroidery of various colours and gold--something like a Persian carpet--but most dazzling and gorgeous in the effect. I believe there is nothing like them any where.] [Footnote 57: Now replaced by the family portraits brought from Chatsworth.] [Footnote 58: Margaret Cavendish, wife of the first Duke of Newcastle.] [Footnote 59: Anecdotes of Painting. Reigns of Elizabeth and James I.] [Footnote 60: Dante. Inferno, Canto 28.] [Footnote 61: Life of Johnson, vol. ii. p. 144. Boswell asked, "Are you of that opinion as to the portraits of ancestors one has never seen?" JOHNSON. "It then becomes of still _more_ consequence that they should be like."] [Footnote 62: This picture and the next are said to be by Richard Stevens, of whom there is some account in Walpole, (Anecdotes of Painting.) Mary also sat to Hilliard and to Zucchero. The lovely picture by Zucchero is at Chiswick. There is another small head of her at Hardwicke, said to have been painted in France, in a cap and feather. The turn of the head is airy and graceful. As to the features, they have been so marred by some _soi-disant_ restorer, it is difficult to say what they may have been originally.] [Footnote 63: Waller's lines on Lady Rich.] [Footnote 64: William, sixth Duke of Devonshire.] [Footnote 65: "Lady Dorothy Savile, daughter of the Marquis of Halifax: she had no less attachment to the arts than her husband; she drew in crayons, and succeeded admirably in likenesses, but working with too much rapidity, did not do justice to her genius; she had an uncommon talent too for caricature."--_Anecdotes of Painting._] [Footnote 66: He was a monster; and no wife of the coarsest plebeian profligate could have suffered more than did this lovely, amiable being, of the highest blood and greatest fortune in England. "She was," says the affecting inscription on her picture at Chiswick, "the comfort and joy of her parents, the delight of all who knew her angelic temper, and the admiration of all who saw her beauty. She was married October 10th, 1741, and delivered by death from misery, May 2nd, 1742. But how did it happen that from a condition like this, there was no release but by _death_?--See Horace Walpole's Correspondence to Sir Horace Mann, vol. i. p. 328.] [Footnote 67: I was much struck with the inscription on a stone tablet, in a fine old wood near the house: "This wood was planted by Sir William Spencer, Knighte of the Bathe, in the year of our Lord 1624:"--on the other side, "Up and bee doing, and God will prosper." It is mentioned in Evelyn's "Sylva."] [Footnote 68: See the accounts of Sir John Spencer, in Collins's Peerage, and prefixed to Dibdin's "Ædes Althorpianæ."] [Footnote 69: Henry, first Earl of Sunderland.] [Footnote 70: This Lord Sunderland not only changed his party and his opinions, but his religion, with every breath that blew from the court.] [Footnote 71: Horace Walpole's Correspondence, vol. ii. p. 227.] [Footnote 72: Anne Brudenel.] [Footnote 73: See Pepys's Diary.] [Footnote 74: I was told that a female servant of the family was so terrified by this picture that she could never be prevailed on to pass through the door near which it hangs, but made a circuit of several rooms to avoid it.] [Footnote 75: She is supposed to have been poisoned by her husband, at the instigation of the Chevalier de Lorraine.] [Footnote 76: Elizabeth Brooke, poisoned at the age of twenty.] [Footnote 77: See the scene between Beck Marshall and Nell Gwyn, in "Pepys."] [Footnote 78: Walpole.] [Footnote 79: The gay, gallant St. Evremond, besides being naturally ugly, had a wen between his eye-brows. There is a fine picture of him and Hortense as Vertumnus and Pomona, in the Stafford gallery.] [Footnote 80: The pictures of Miss Jennings are very rare. This one at Althorpe was copied for H. Walpole, and I have heard of another in Ireland. Miss Jennings was afterwards Duchess of Tyrconnel.] [Footnote 81: Pope. One hates him for taking a thousand pounds to suppress this character of Atossa, and publishing it after all; yet who for a thousand pounds would have lost it?] [Footnote 82: See his declaration of love--"Je suis frère du Comte de Bedford; je commande le regiment des gardes," &c.] [Footnote 83: The Princess Colonna and the Duchesse de Mazarin.] [Footnote 84: Clement Marot had composed a version of the Psalms, then very popular. See _Bayle_, and the Curiosities of Literature.] * * * * * [Transcriber's Note: Errata as given in the original have been applied to the text. Other than the most exceedingly obvious typographical errors, all inconsistent spelling, hyphenation, diacriticals, archaic usage, etc. have been preserved as printed in the original. The equals signs used to bracket the name "Kunstverein" in the entry for the 16th in the first section indicate characters in a Fraktur typeface.] 
36818	----	VISITS AND SKETCHES AT HOME AND ABROAD. VOL. I. [Illustration: SIGFRIED KRIMHILDE _Engraved by C. E. Wagstaff._ _Group from the Fresco in the King of Bavaria's Palace at Munich. Painted by Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld._ _Published by Saunders & Otley 1834._] VISITS AND SKETCHES AT HOME AND ABROAD WITH TALES AND MISCELLANIES NOW FIRST COLLECTED. BY MRS. JAMESON, AUTHOR OF THE "CHARACTERISTICS OF WOMEN," "LIVES OF CELEBRATED FEMALE SOVEREIGNS," &c. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. SECOND EDITION. LONDON SAUNDERS AND OTLEY, CONDUIT STREET. 1835. LONDON: IBOTSON AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND. CONTENTS OF VOL. I. PAGE Preface vii SKETCHES OF ART, LITERATURE, AND CHARACTER, PART I. IN THREE DIALOGUES. I. A Scene in a Steam Boat 4 A Singular Character 20 Gallery at Ghent 25 The Prince of Orange's Pictures 27 A Female Gambler 38 Cologne--the Medusa 44 Professor Walraf 51 Schlegel and Madame de Staël 55 Story of Archbishop Gerard 64 Heidelberg--Elizabeth Stuart 68 An English Fanner's idea of the Picturesque 85 II. Frankfort 88 The Theatre, Madame Haitzinger 92 The Versorgung Haus 98 The Städel Museum 103 Dannecker, Memoir of his Life and Works 106 German Sculpture--Rauch, Tieck, Schwanthaler 147 III. Goethe and his daughter-in-law 160 The German Women 167 German Authoresses 177 German Domestic Life and Manners 187 German Coquetterie and German Romance 199 The Story of a Devoted Sister 205 SKETCHES OF ART, LITERATURE, AND CHARACTER, PART II. _Memoranda at Munich, Nuremberg, and Dresden._ I. MUNICH 241 The Theatre--representation of "Egmont" 245 Leo von Klenze 250 The Glyptothek--its general arrangement--Egina Marbles--Account of the Frescos of Cornelius--Canova's Paris and Thorwaldson's Adonis 252-273 The Opera at Munich, the Kapel Meister Stuntz 274 The Poems of the King of Bavaria 279 A public day at the New Palace 281 Thoughts on Female Singers--Their condition and destiny 284 The Munich Gallery--Thoughts on Pictures--their moral influence 287 Rubens and the Flemish Masters 295 The Gallery of Schleissheim 304 The Boisserée Gallery--The old German School of Painting--Its Effects on the Modern German School of Art 304 Representation of the Braut von Messina 310 The Hofgarten at Munich 313 The King's passion for Building 316 THE AUTHOR TO THE READER. It seems a foolish thing to send into the world a book requiring a preface of apologies; and yet more absurd, to presume that any deprecation on the part of the author could possibly win indulgence for what should be in itself worthless. For this reason, and with a very deep feeling of the kindness I have already experienced from the public, I should now abandon these little volumes to their destiny without one word of preface or remark, but that a certain portion of their contents seems to require a little explanation. It was the wish and request of my friends, many months ago, that I should collect various literary trifles which were scattered about in print or in manuscript, and allow them to be published together. My departure for the continent set aside this intention for the time. I had other and particular objects in view, which still keep full possession of my mind, and which have been suspended not without reluctance, in order to prepare these volumes for the press;--neither had I, while travelling in Germany, the slightest idea of writing any thing of that country: so far from it, that except during the last few weeks at Munich, I kept no regular notes: but finding on my return to England, that many particulars which had strongly excited my interest, with regard to the relative state of art and social existence in the two countries, appeared new to those with whom I conversed,--after some hesitation, I was induced to throw into form the few memoranda I had made on the spot. They are now given to the public in the first and second volumes of this little collection, with a very sincere feeling of their many imperfections, and much anxiety with regard to the reception they are likely to meet with; yet in the earnest hope that what has been written in perfect simplicity of heart, may be perused both by my English and German friends, particularly the artists, with indulgence; that those who read and doubt may be awakened to inquiry, and those who read and believe may be led to reflection; and that those who differ from, and those who agree with the writer, may both find some interest and amusement in the literal truth of the facts and impressions she has ventured to record. It was difficult to give sketches of art, literature, and character, without making now and then some _personal_ allusions; but though I have often sketched from the life, I have adhered throughout to this principle--never to give publicity to any name not already before the public, and in a manner public property. Two of the tales of the third volume, "The False One," and "The Indian Mother," were written at different times, to prove that I could write in a style which should not be recognised as mine even by my most intimate friends, and the _ruse_ so far succeeded, that both, as I am informed, have been attributed to other writers. A. J. May 1834. SKETCHES OF ART, LITERATURE, AND CHARACTER. PART I. IN THREE DIALOGUES. [Illustration] I. MEDON--ALDA. MEDON. And so we are to have no "_Sentimental Travels in Germany_" on hot-pressed paper, illustrated with views taken on the spot? ALDA. No. MEDON. You have unloaded Time of his wallet only to deal out his "scraps of things past," his shreds of remembrance, in beggarly, indolent fashion, over your own fire-side? You are afraid of being termed an egotist; you, who within these ten minutes have assured me that not any opinion of any human being should prevent you from doing, saying, writing--any thing-- ALDA. Finish the sentence--any thing, _for truth's sake_. But how is the cause of truth to be advanced by the insolent publication of a mass of crude thoughts and hasty observations picked up here and there, "as pigeons pick up peas," and which now lie safe within the clasps of those little green books? You need not look at them; they do not contain another Diary of an Ennuyée, thank Heaven! nor do I feel much inclined to play the _Ennuyeuse_ in public. MEDON. "Take any form but _that_, and my firm nerves shall never tremble;" but with eyes to see, a heart to feel, a mind to observe, and a pen to record those observations, I do not perceive why you should not contribute one drop to that great ocean of thought which is weltering round the world! ALDA. If I could. MEDON. There are people, who when they travel open their eyes and their ears, (aye, and their mouths to some purpose,) and shut up their hearts and souls. I have heard such persons make it their boast, that they have returned to old England with all their old prejudices thick upon them; they have come back, to use their own phrase, "with no foreign ideas--just the same as they went:" they are much to be congratulated! I hope you are not one of these? ALDA. I hope not; it is this cold impervious pride which is the perdition of us English, and of England. I remember that in one of my several excursions on the Rhine, we had, on board the steamboat, an English family of high rank. There was the lordly papa, plain and shy, who never spoke to any one except his own family, and then only in the lowest whisper. There was the lady mamma, so truly lady-like, with fine-cut patrician features, and in her countenance a kind of passive _hauteur_, softened by an appearance of suffering, and ill-health. There were two daughters, proud, pale, fine-looking girls, dressed _à ravir_, with that indescribable air of high pretension, so elegantly impassive--so self-possessed--which some people call _l'air distingué_, but which, as extremes meet, I would rather call the refinement of vulgarity--the polish we see bestowed on debased material--the plating over the steel--the stucco over the brick-work! MEDON. Good; you _can_ be severe then! ALDA. I spoke generally: bear witness to the general truth of the picture, for it will fit others as well as the personages I have brought before you, who are, indeed, but specimens of a species. This group, then, had designedly or instinctively entrenched themselves in a corner to the right of the steersman, within a fortification of tables and benches, so arranged as to forbid all approach within two or three yards; the young ladies had each their sketch-book, and wielded pencil and Indian rubber, I know not with what effect,--but I know that I never saw either countenance once relax or brighten, in the midst of the divine scenery through which we glided. Two female attendants, seated on the outer fortifications, formed a kind of piquet guard; and two footmen at the other end kept watch over the well-appointed carriages, and came and went as their attendance was required. No one else ventured to approach this aristocratic Olympus; the celestials within its precincts, though not exactly seated "on golden stools at golden tables," like the divinities in the song of the Parcæ,[1] showed as supreme, as godlike an indifference to the throng of mortals in the nether sphere: no word was exchanged during the whole day with any of the fifty or sixty human beings who were round them; nay, when the rain drove us down to the pavilion, even there, amid twelve or fourteen others, they contrived to keep themselves aloof from contact and conversation. In this fashion they probably pursued their tour, exchanging the interior of their travelling carriage for the interior of an hotel; and every where associating only with those of their own caste. What do they see of all that is to be seen? What can they know of what is to be known? What do they endure of what is to be endured? I can speak from experience--I have travelled in that same style. As they went, so they return; happily, or rather pitifully, unconscious of the narrow circle in which move their factitious enjoyments, their confined experience, their half-awakened sympathies! And I should tell you, that in the same steam-boat were two German girls, under the care of an elderly relative, I think an aunt, and a brother, who was a celebrated _jurisconsulte_ and judge: their rank was equal to that of my countrywomen; their blood, perhaps, more purely noble, that is, older by some centuries; and their family more illustrious, by God knows how many quarterings; moreover, their father was a minister of state. Both these girls were beautiful;--fair, and fair-haired, with complexions on which "the rose stood ready with a blush;" and one, the youngest sister, was exquisitely lovely--in truth, she might have sat for one of Guido's angels. They walked up and down the deck, neither seeking nor avoiding the proximity of others. They accepted the telescopes which the gentlemen, particularly some young Englishmen, pressed on them when any distant or remarkable object came in view, and repaid the courtesy with a bright kindly smile; they were natural and easy, and did not deem it necessary to mount guard over their own dignity. Do you think I did not observe and feel the contrast? MEDON. If nations begin at last to understand each other's true interests--morally and politically, it will be through the agency of gifted men; but if ever they learn to love and sympathize with each other, it will be through the medium of you women. You smile, and shake your head; but in spite of a late example, which might seem to controvert this idea, I still think so;--our prejudices are stronger and bitterer than yours, because they are those which perverted reason builds up on a foundation of pride; but yours, which are generally those of fancy and association, soon melt away before your own kindly affections. More mobile, more impressible, more easily yielding to external circumstances, more easily lending yourselves to different manners and habits, more quick to perceive, more gentle to judge;--yes, it is to you we must look, to break down the outworks of prejudice--you, the advanced guard of humanity and civilization! "The gentle race and dear, By whom alone the world is glorified!" Every feeling, well educated, generous, and truly refined woman, who travels, is as a dove sent out on a mission of peace; and should bring back at least an olive-leaf in her hand, if she bring nothing else. It is her part to soften the intercourse between rougher and stronger natures; to aid in the interfusion of the gentler sympathies; to speed the interchange of art and literature from pole to pole: not to pervert wit, and talent, and eloquence, and abuse the privileges of her sex, to sow the seeds of hatred where she might plant those of love--to embitter national discord and aversion, and disseminate individual prejudice and error. ALDA. Thank you! I need not say how entirely I agree with you. MEDON. Then tell me, what have _you_ brought home? if but an olive-leaf, let us have it; come, unpack your budget. Have you collected store of anecdotes, private, literary, scandalous, abundantly interspersed with proper names of grand-dukes and little dukes, counts, barons, ministers, poets, authors, actors, and opera dancers? ALDA. Me? MEDON. Cry you mercy!--I did but jest, so do not look so indignant! But have you then traced the cause and consequences of that undercurrent of opinion which is slowly but surely sapping the foundations of empires? Have you heard the low booming of that mighty ocean which approaches, wave after wave, to break up the dikes and boundaries of ancient power? ALDA. I? no; how should I--skimming over the surface of society with perpetual sunshine and favouring airs--how should I sound the gulfs and shoals which lie below? MEDON. Have you, then, analysed that odd combination of poetry, metaphysics, and politics, which, like the three primeval colours, tinge in various tints and shades, simple and complex, all literature, morals, art, and even conversation, through Germany? ALDA. No, indeed! MEDON. Have you decided between the different systems of Jacobi and Schelling? ALDA. You know I am a poor philosopher; but when Schelling was introduced to me at Munich, I remember I looked up at him with inexpressible admiration, as one whose giant arm had cut through an isthmus, and whose giant mind had new modelled the opinions of minds as gigantic as his own. MEDON. Then you are of this new school, which reveals the union of faith and philosophy? ALDA. If I am, it is by instinct. MEDON. Well, to descend to your own peculiar sphere, have you satisfied yourself as to the moral and social position of the women in Germany? ALDA. No, indeed!--at least, not yet. MEDON. Have you examined and noted down the routine of the _domestic_ education of their children? (we know something of the public and national systems.) Can you give some accurate notion of the ideas which generally prevail on this subject? ALDA. O no! you have mentioned things which would require a life to study. Merely to have thought upon them, to have glanced at them, gives me no right to discuss them, unless I could bring my observations to some tangible form, and derive from them some useful result. MEDON. Yet in this last journey you had an object--a purpose? ALDA. I had--a purpose which has long been revolving in my mind--an object never lost sight of;--but give me time!--time! MEDON. I see;--but are you prepared for consequences? Can you task your sensitive mind to stand reproach and ridicule? Remember your own story of Runckten the traveller, who, when about to commence his expedition into the desarts of Africa, prepared himself, by learning beforehand to digest poisons; to swallow without disgust reptiles, spiders, vermin---- ALDA. "Thou hast the most unsavoury similes!" MEDON. Take a proverb then--"Bisogna coprirsi bene il viso innanzi di struzzicare il vespaio." ALDA. I will _not_ hide my face; nor can I answer you in this jesting vein, for to me it is a serious thought. There is in the kindly feeling, the spontaneous sympathy of the public towards me, something which fills me with gratitude and respect, and tells me to respect myself; which I would not exchange for the greater _éclat_ which hangs round greater names;--which I will not forfeit by writing one line from an unworthy motive; nor flatter, nor invite, by withholding one thought, opinion, or sentiment, which I believe to be true, and to which I can put the seal of my heart's conviction. MEDON. Good! I love a little enthusiasm now and then; so like Britomart in the enchanter's palace, the motto is, "Be bold, be bold, and every where be bold!" ALDA. I should rather say, be gentle, be gentle, every where be gentle; and then we cannot _be too bold_.[2] MEDON. Well, then, I return once more to the charge. Have you been rambling about the world for these six months--yet learned nothing? ALDA. On the contrary. MEDON. Then what, in Heaven's name, _have_ you learned? ALDA. Not much; but I have learned to sweep my mind of some ill-conditioned cobwebs. I have learned to consider my own acquired knowledge but as a torch flung into an abyss, making the darkness visible, and showing me the extent of my own ignorance. MEDON. Then give us--give _me_, at least--the benefit of your ignorance; only let it be all your own. I honour a profession of ignorance--if only for its rarity--in these all-knowing times. Let me tell you, the ignorance of a candid and not uncultivated mind is better than the second-hand wisdom of those who take all things for granted; who are the echoes of others' opinions, the utterers of others' words; who _think_ they know, and who _think_ they think: I am sick of them all. Come, refresh me with a little ignorance--and be serious. ALDA. You make me smile; after all, 'tis only going over old ground, and I know not what pleasure, what interest it can impart, beyond half an hour's amusement. MEDON. Sceptic! is that nothing? In this harsh, cold, working-day world, is half an hour's amusement nothing? Old ground!--as if you did not know the pleasure of going over old ground with a new companion to refresh half-faded recollections--to compare impressions--to correct old ideas and acquire new ones? O I can suck knowledge out of ignorance, as a weazel sucks eggs!--Begin. ALDA. Where shall I begin? MEDON. Where, but at the beginning? and then diverge as you will. Your first journey was one of mere amusement? ALDA. Merely, and it answered its purpose; we travelled _à la milor Anglais_--a _partie carrée_--a barouche hung on the most approved principle--double-cushioned--luxurious--rising and sinking on its springs like a swan on the wave--the pockets stuffed with new publications--maps and guides _ad infinitum_; English servants for comfort, foreign servants for use; a chess-board, backgammon tables--in short, surrounded with all that could render us entirely independent of the amusements we had come to seek, and of the people among whom we had come to visit. MEDON. Admirable--and English! ALDA. Yes, and pleasant. I thought, not without gratitude, of the contrast between present feelings and those of a former journey. To abandon oneself to the quickening influence of new objects without care or thought of to-morrow, with a mind awake in all its strength; with restored health and cheerfulness; with sensibility tamed, not dead; possessing one's soul in quiet; not seeking, nor yet shrinking from excitement; not self-engrossed, nor yet pining for sympathy; was not this much? Not so interesting, perhaps, as playing the _Ennuyée_; but, oh! you know not how sad it is to look upon the lovely through tearful eyes, and walk among the loving and the kind, wrapped as in a death-shroud; to carry into the midst of the most glorious scenes of nature, and the divinest creations of art, perceptions dimmed and troubled with sickness and anguish: to move in the morning with aching and reluctance--to faint in the evening with weariness and pain; to feel all change, all motion, a torment to the dying heart; all rest, all delay, a burthen to the impatient spirit; to shiver in the presence of joy, like a ghost in the sunshine, yet have no sympathy to spare for suffering. How could I remember that all this _had been_, and not bless the miracle-worker--Time? And _apropos_ to the miracles of time--I had on this first journey, one source of amusement, which I am sorry I cannot share with you at full length; it was the near contemplation of a very singular character, of which I can only afford you a sketch. Our CHEF _de voyage_, for so we chose to entitle him who was the planner and director of our excursion, was one of the most accomplished and most eccentric of human beings: even courtesy might have termed him old, at seventy; but old age and he were many miles asunder, and it seemed as though he had made some compact with Time, like that of Faust with the devil, and was not to surrender to his inevitable adversary till the very last moment. Years could not quench his vivacity, nor "stale his infinite variety." He had been one of the prince's wild companions in the days of Sheridan and Fox, and could play alternately blackguard and gentleman, and both in perfection; but the high-born gentleman ever prevailed. He had been heir to an enormous income, most of which had slipped through his fingers _unknownst_, as the Irish say, and had stood in the way of a coronet, which, somehow or other, had slipped over his head to light on that of his eldest son. He had lived a life which would have ruined twenty iron constitutions, and had suffered what might well have broken twenty hearts of common stuff; but his self-complacency was invulnerable, his animal spirits inexhaustible, his activity indefatigable. The eccentricities of this singular man have been matter of celebrity; but against each of these stories it would be easy to place some act of benevolence, some trait of lofty gentlemanly feeling, which would at least neutralize their effect. He often told me that he had early in life selected three models, after which to form his own conduct and character; namely, De Grammont, Hotspur, and Lord Herbert of Cherbury; and he certainly _did_ unite, in a greater degree than he knew himself, the characteristics of all three. Such was our CHEF, and thus led, thus appointed, away we posted on, from land to land, from city to city-- MEDON. Stay--stay. This is galloping on at the rate of Lenora, and her phantom lover-- "Tramp, tramp across the land we go, Splash, splash across the sea!" Take me with you, and a little more leisurely. ALDA. I think Bruges was the first place which interested me, perhaps from its historical associations. Bruges, where monarchs kissed the hand to merchants, now emptied of its former splendour, reminded me of the improvident steward in scripture, that could not dig, and to beg was ashamed. It had an air of grave idleness and threadbare dignity; and its listless, thinly-scattered inhabitants looked as if they had gone astray among the wide streets and huge tenantless edifices. There is one thing here which you must see--the tomb of Charles the Bold, and his daughter, Mary of Burgundy. The tomb is of the most exquisite workmanship, composed of polished brass and enamelled escutcheons; and there the fiery father and the gentle daughter lie, side by side, in sculptured bronze, equally still, cold, and silent. I remember that I stood long gazing on the inscription, which made me smile, and made me think. There was no mention of defeat and massacre, disgraceful flight, or obscure death. "But," says the epitaph, after enumerating his titles, his exploits, and his virtues, "fortune, who had hitherto been his good lady, ungently turned her back upon him on such a day of such a year, and _oppressed_ him"--an amusing instance of mingled courtesy and _naïveté_. Ghent was our next resting place. The aspect of Ghent, so familiarized to us of late by our travelled artists, made a strong impression upon me, and I used to walk about for hours together, looking at the strange picturesque old buildings coëval with the Spanish dominion, with their ornamented fronts and peaked roofs. There is much trade here, many flourishing manufactories, and the canals and quays often exhibited a lively scene of bustle, of which the form, at least, was new to us. The first exposition, or exhibition, of the newly-founded Royal Academy of the Netherlands was at this season open. You will allow it was a fair opportunity of judging of the present state of painting, in the self-same land, where she had once found, if not a temple, at least a home. MEDON. And learned to be homely--but the result? ALDA. I can scarce express the surprise I felt at the time, though it has since diminished on reflection. All the attempts at historical painting were bad, without exception. There was the usual assortment of Virgins, St. Cecilias, Cupids and Psyches, Zephyrs and Floras;--but such incomparable atrocities! There were some cabinet pictures in the same style in which their Flemish ancestors excelled--such as small interior conversation pieces, battle pieces, and flowers and fruit; some of these were really excellent, but the proportion of bad to good was certainly fifty to one. MEDON. Something like our own Royal Academy. ALDA. No; because with much which was quite as bad, quite as insipid, as coarse in taste, as stupidly presumptuous in attempt, and ridiculous in failure, as ever shocked me on the walls of Somerset House, there was nothing to be compared to the best pictures I have seen there. As I looked and listened to the remarks of the crowd around me, I perceived that the taste for art is even as low in the Netherlands as it is here and elsewhere. MEDON. And, surely, not from the want of models, nor from the want of facility in the means of studying them. You visited, of course, Schamp's collection? ALDA. Surely; there were miracles of art crowded together like goods in a counting-house, with wondrous economy of space, and more lamentable economy of light. Some were nailed against doors, inside and out, or suspended from screens and window-shutters. Here I saw Rubens' picture of Father Rutseli, the confessor of Albert and Isabella: one of those heads more suited to the crown than to the cowl--grand, sagacious, intellectual, with such a world of meaning in the eye, that one almost shrunk away from the expression. Here, too, I found that remarkable picture of Charles the First, painted by Lely during the king's imprisonment at Windsor--the only one for which he sat between his dethronement and his death: he is still melancholy and gentlemanlike, but not quite so dignified as on the canvass of Vandyke. This is the very picture that Horace Walpole mentions as lost or abstracted from the collection at Windsor. How it came into Schamp's collection, I could not learn. A very small head of an Italian girl by Correggio, or in his manner, hung close beside a Dutch girl by Mieris: equally exquisite as paintings, they gave me an opportunity of contrasting two styles, both founded in nature--but the nature, how different! the one all life, the other life and soul. Schamp's collection is liberally open to the public, as well as many others; if artists fail, it is not for want of models. MEDON. Perhaps for want of patronage? Yet I hear that the late king of the Netherlands sent several young artists to Italy at his own expense, and that the Prince of Orange was liberal and even munificent in his purchases--particularly of the old masters. ALDA. When I went to see the collection of the Prince of Orange at Brussels, I stepped from the room in which hung the glorious Vandykes, perhaps unequalled in the world, into the adjoining apartment, in which were two unfinished portraits disposed upon easels. They represented members of the prince's family; and were painted by a native artist of fashionable fame, and royally patronised. These were pointed out to my admiration as universally approved. What shall I say of them? Believe me, that they were contemptible beyond all terms of contempt! Can you tell me why the Prince of Orange should have sufficient taste to select and appropriate the finest specimens of art, and yet purchase and patronize the vilest daubs ever perpetrated by imbecility and presumption? MEDON. I know not, unless it be that in the former case he made use of others' eyes and judgment, and in the latter, of his own. ALDA. I might have anticipated the answer; but be that as it may, of all the galleries I saw in the Netherlands, the small but invaluable collection he had formed in his palace pleased me most. I remember a portrait of Sir Thomas More, by Holbein. A female head, by Leonardo da Vinci, said to be one of the mistresses of Francis I., but this is doubtful; that most magnificent group, Christ delivering the keys to St. Peter, by Rubens, once in England; about eight or ten Vandykes, masterpieces--for instance, Philip IV. and his minister Olivarez, and a Chevalier le Roy and his wife: all that you can imagine of chivalrous dignity, and lady-like grace. But there was one picture, a family group, by Gonsalez, which struck me more than all the rest put together. I had never seen any production of this painter, whose works are scarcely known out of Spain; and I looked upon this with equal astonishment and admiration. There was also a small, but most curious collection of pictures, of the ancient Flemish and German schools, which it is now the fashion to admire, and, what is worse, to imitate. The word _fashion_ does not express the national enthusiasm on this subject which prevails in Germany. I can understand that these pictures are often most interesting as historic documents, and often admirable for their literal transcripts of nature and expression, but they can only possess comparative excellence and relative value; and where the feeling of ideal beauty and classic grace has been highly cultivated, the eye shrinks involuntarily from these hard, grotesque, and glaring productions of an age when genius was blindly groping amid the darkness of ignorance. To confess the truth, I was sometimes annoyed, and sometimes amused, by the cant I heard in Germany about those schools of painting which preceded Albert Durer. Perhaps I should not say _cant_--it is a vile expression; and in German affectation there is something so very peculiar--so poetical, so--so _natural_, if I might say so, that I would give it another name if I could find one. In this worship of their old painters, I really could sympathize sometimes, even when it most provoked me. Retzsch, whom I had the delight of knowing at Dresden, showed me a sketch, in which he had ridiculed this mania with the most exquisite humour: it represented the torso of an antique Apollo (emblematical of ideal grace), mutilated and half buried in the earth, and subject to every species of profanation; it serves as a stool for a German student, who, with his shirt-collar turned down, and his hair dishevelled, and his cap stuck on one side, _à la_ Rafaelle, is intently copying a stiff, hard, sour-looking old Madonna, while Ignorance looks on, gaping with admiration. No one knows better than Retzsch the value of these ancient masters--no one has a more genuine feeling for all that is admirable in them; but no one feels more sensibly the gross perversion and exaggeration of the worship paid to them. I wish he would publish this good-humoured little bit of satire, which is too just and too graceful to be called a caricature. I must tell you, however, that there were two most curious old pictures in the Orange Gallery, which arrested my attention, and of which I have retained a very distinct and vivid recollection; and that is more than I can say of many better pictures. They tell, in a striking manner, a very interesting story: the circumstances are said to have occurred about the year 985, but I cannot say that they rest on any very credible authority. Of these two pictures, each exhibits two scenes. A certain nobleman, a favourite of the Emperor Otho, is condemned to death by his master on the false testimony of the Empress (a sort of Potiphar's wife), who has accused him of having tempted her to break her marriage vow. In the back-ground we see the unfortunate man led to judgment; he is in his shirt, bare-footed and bare-headed. His wife walks at his side, to whom he appears to be speaking earnestly, and endeavouring to persuade her of his innocence. A friar precedes them, and a crowd of people follow after. On the walls of the city stand the Emperor and his wicked Empress, looking down on the melancholy procession. In the foreground, we have the dead body of the victim, stretched upon the earth, and the executioner is in the act of delivering the head to his wife, who looks grim with despair. The severed head and flowing blood are painted with such a horrid and literal fidelity to nature, that it has been found advisable to cover this portion of the picture. In the foreground of the second picture, the Emperor Otho is represented on his throne surrounded by his counsellors and courtiers. Before him kneels the widow of the Count: she has the ghastly head of her husband in her lap, and in her left-hand she holds firmly and unhurt the red-hot iron, the fiery ordeal by which she proves to the satisfaction of all present the innocence of her murdered lord. The Emperor looks thunderstruck; the Empress stands convicted, and is condemned to death; and in the back-ground, we have the catastrophe. She is bound to a stake, the fire is kindled, and she suffers the terrible penalty of her crime. These pictures, in subject and execution, might be termed tragico-comico-historical; but in spite of the harshness of the drawing, and the thousand defects of style and taste, they fix the attention by the vigour of the colouring and the expression of the heads, many of which are evidently from the life. The story is told in a very complete though very inartificial manner. The painter, Derick Steuerbout, was one of the very earliest of the Flemish masters, and lived about 1468, many years before Albert Durer and Holbein. I have heard that they were painted for the city of Lorraine, and until the invasion of the French, they remained undisturbed, and almost unnoticed, in the Hotel-de-Ville. MEDON. Does this collection of the Prince of Orange still exist at Brussels? ALDA. I am told that it does--that the whole palace, the furniture, the pictures, remain precisely as the prince and his family left them: that even down to the princess's work-box, and the portraits of her children which hang in her boudoir, nothing has been touched. This does not speak well for king Leopold's gallantry; and, in his place, I think I would have sent the private property of my rival after him. MEDON. So would not I, for this is not the age of chivalry, but of common sense. As to the pictures, the Belgians might plead that they were purchased with the public money, therefore justly public property. No, no; he should not have a picture of them--"If a Vandyke would save his soul, he should not; I'd keep them, by this hand!" that is, as long as I had a plausible excuse for keeping them; but the princess should have had her work-box and her children by the first courier. What more at Brussels? ALDA. I can recollect no more. The weather was sultry: we dressed, and dined, and ate ices, and drove up and down the Allée Verte, and saw I believe all that is to be seen--churches, palaces, hospitals, and so forth. We went from thence to Aix-la-Chapelle and Spa. As it was the height of the season, and both places were crowded with gay invalids, perhaps I ought to have been very much amused, but I confess I was _ennuyée_ to death. MEDON. This I can hardly conceive; for though there might have been little to amuse one of your turn of mind, there should have been much to observe. ALDA. There might have been matter for observation, or ridicule, or reflexion, at the moment, but nothing that I remember with pleasure. Spa I disliked particularly. I believe I am not in my nature cold or stern; but there was something in the shallow, tawdry, vicious gaiety of this place, which disgusted me. In all watering-places extremes meet; sickness and suffering, youth and dissipation, beggary and riches, collect together; but Spa being a very small town, a mere village, the approximation is brought immediately under the eye at every hour, every moment; and the beauty of the scenery around only rendered it more disagreeable: to me, even the hill of Annette and Lubin was polluted. Our Chef de voyage, who had visited Spa fifty years before, when on his _grand tour_, walked about with great complacency, recalling his youthful pleasures, and the days when he used to gallant his beautiful cousin, the Duchess of Rutland, of divine memory. While the rest of the party were amused, I fell into my old, habit of thinking and observing, and my contemplations were not agreeable. But instead of dealing in these general remarks, I will sketch you one or two pictures which have dwelt upon my memory. We had a well-dressed laquais-de-place, whose honesty and good-humour rendered him an especial favourite. His wife being ill, I went to see her; to my great surprise he conducted me to a little mud hovel, worse than the worst Irish cabin I ever heard described, where his wife lay stretched upon some straw, covered with a rug, and a little neglected ragged child was crawling about the floor, and about her bed. It seems then, that, this poor man, who every day waited at our luxurious table, dressed in smiles, and must habitually have witnessed the wasteful expenditure of the rich, returned every night to his miserable home, if home it could be called, to feel the stings of want with double bitterness. He told me that he and his wife lived the greater part of the year upon water-gruel, and that the row of wretched cabins, of which his own formed one, was inhabited by those who, like himself, were dependent upon the rich, extravagant, and dissipated strangers for the little pittance which was to support them for a twelvemonth. Was not this a fearful contrast? I should tell you that the benevolence of our Chef rendered this poor couple independent of change or chance for the next year. My other picture is in a different style. You know that at Spa the theatre immediately joins the ball-room. As soon as the performances are over, the parterre is laid down with boards, and in a few minutes metamorphosed into a gambling saloon. One night curiosity led me to be a spectator at one of the _rouge et noir_ tables. While I was there, a Flemish lady of rank, the Baroness B----, came in, hanging on the arm of a gentleman; she was not young, but still handsome. I had often met her in our walks, and had been struck by her fine eyes, and the amiable expression of her countenance. After one or two turns up and down the room, laughing and talking, she carelessly, and as if from a sudden thought, seated herself at the table. By degrees she became interested in the game, her stakes became deeper, her countenance became agitated, and her brow clouded. I left her playing. The next evening when I entered, I found her already seated at the table, as indeed I had anticipated. I watched her for some time with a painful interest. It was evident that she was not an habitual gambler, like several others at the same table, whose hard impassive features never varied with the variations of the game. There was one little old withered skeleton of a woman, like a death's head in artificial flowers, who stretched out her harpy claws upon the rouleaus of gold and silver, without moving a muscle or a wrinkle of her face,--with hardly an additional twinkle in her dull grey eye. Not so my poor baroness, who became every moment more agitated and more eager: her eyes sparkled with an unnatural keenness, her teeth became set, and her lips drawn away from them, wore, instead of the sweet smile which had at first attracted my attention, a grin of desperation. Gradually, as I looked at her, her countenance assumed so hideous, and, I may add, so vile an expression, that I could no longer endure the spectacle. I hastened from the room--more moved, more shocked than I can express; and often, since that time, her face has risen upon my day and night dreams like a horrid supernatural mask. Her husband, for this wretched woman was a wife and a mother, came to meet her a few days afterwards, and accompany her home; but I heard that in the interval she had attempted self-destruction, and failed. MEDON. The case is but too common; and even you, who are always seeking reasons and excuses for the delinquencies of your sex, would hardly find them here. ALDA. And unless I could know what were the previous habits and education of the victim, through what influences, blest or unblest, her mind had been trained, her moral existence built up--should I condemn? Who had taught this woman self-knowledge?--who had instructed her in the elements of her own being, and guarded her against her own excitable temperament?--what friendly voice had warned her ignorance?--what secret burden of misery--what joyless emptiness of heart--what fever of the nerves--what weariness of spirit--what "thankless husband or faithless lover" had driven her to the edge of the precipice? In this particular case I know that the husband bore the character of being both negligent and dissipated; and where was _he_,--what were his haunts and his amusements, while his wife staked with her gold, her honour, her reason, and her life? Tell me all this before we dare to pass judgment. O it is easy to compute what is done! and yet, who but the Being above us all, can know what is resisted? MEDON. You would plead then for a _female_ gambler? ALDA. Why do you lay such an emphasis upon _female_ gambler? In what respect is a female gambler worse than one of your sex? The case is more pitiable;--more rare--therefore, perhaps, more shocking; but why more hateful? MEDON. You pose me. ALDA. Then I will leave you to think;--or shall I go on? for at this rate we shall never arrive at the end of our journey. I was at Aix-la-Chapelle, was I not? Well, I spare you the relics of Charlemagne, and if you have any dear or splendid associations with that great name, spare your imagination the shock it may receive in the cathedral at Aix, and leave "Yarrow unvisited."[3] Luckily the theatre at Aix is beautiful, and there was a fine opera, and a very perfect orchestra; the singers tolerable. It was here I first heard the Don Juan and the Freyschutz performed in the German fashion, and with German words. The Freyschutz gave me unmixed pleasure. In the Don Juan I missed the recitative, and the soft Italian flow of syllables, from which the music had been divorced; so that the ear, long habituated to that marriage of sweet sounds, was disappointed; but to listen without pleasure and excitement was impossible. I remember that on looking round, after Donna Anna's song, I was surprised to see our Chef de voyage bathed in tears; but, no whit disconcerted, he merely wiped them away, saying, with a smile, "It is the very prettiest, softest thing to cry to one's self!" Afterwards, when we were in the carriage, he expressed his surprise that any man should be ashamed of tears. "For my own part," he added, "when I wish to enjoy the very high sublime of luxury, I dine alone, order a mutton cutlet, _cuite à point_, with a bottle of Burgundy on one side, and Ovid's epistle of Penelope to Ulysses on the other; and so I read, and eat, and cry to myself. And then he repeated with enthusiasm-- "Hanc tua Penelope lento tibi mittit Ulysse: Nil mihi rescribas attamen ipse veni;" his eyes glistening as he recited the lines; he made me feel their beauty without understanding a word of their sense. "Strangest, and happiest of men!" I thought as I looked at him, "that after living seventy years in this world, can still have tears to spare for the sorrows of Penelope!" Well, our next resting place was Cologne. MEDON. You pause?--you have nothing to say of Cologne? No English traveller, except your professed tourists and guide-book makers, ever has; of the crowds who pass through the place, on their way up or down the Rhine, how few spend more than a night or a day there! their walk is between the Rheinberg and the cathedral; they look, perhaps, with a sneering curiosity at the shrine of the Three Kings; cut the usual jests on the Leda and the Cupid and Psyche;[4] glance at the St. Peter of Rubens; lounge on the bridge of boats; stock themselves with eau-de-Cologne, and then away! And yet this strange old city, which a bigoted priesthood, a jealous magistracy, and a variety of historical causes, have so long kept isolated in the midst of Europe, with its Roman origin, its classical associations, the wild gothic superstitions of which it has been the theatre; its legion of martyrs, its three kings and eleven thousand virgins, and the peculiar manners and physiognomy of the people, strangely take the fancy. What has become of its three hundred and fifty churches, and its thirty thousand beggars?--Thirty thousand beggars! Was there ever such a splendid establishment of licensed laziness, and consecrated rags and wallets! What a magnificent idea does it give one of the inexhaustible charity, and the incalculable riches of the inhabitants! but the French came with their besom of purification and destruction; and lo! the churches were turned into arsenals, the convents into barracks; and from its old-accustomed haunts, "the genius of beggary was with sighing sent." I really believe, that were I again to visit Cologne, I would not be content with a mere superficial glance, as heretofore. ALDA. And you would do well. To confess the truth, our first impressions of the place were exceedingly disagreeable; it appeared a huge, rambling, gloomy old city, whose endless narrow dirty streets, and dull dingy-looking edifices, were any thing but inviting. Nor on a second and a third visit were we tempted to prolong our stay. Yet Cologne has since become most interesting to me from a friendship I formed with a Colonese, a descendant of one of the oldest families of the place. How she loved her old city!--how she worshipped every relic with the most poetical, if not the most pious veneration!--how she looked down upon Berlin with scorn, as an upstart city, "_une ville ma chére, qui n'a ni histoire, ni antiquité_." The cathedral she used to call "_mon Berceau_," and the three kings "_mes trois pères_." Her profound knowledge of general history, her minute acquaintance with the local antiquities, the peculiar customs, the wild legends, the solemn superstitions of her birth-place, added to the most lively imagination and admirable descriptive powers, were to me an inexhaustible source of delight and information. It appears that the people of Cologne have a distinct character, but little modified by intercourse with the surrounding country, and preserved by continual intermarriages among themselves. They have a dialect, and songs, and ballads, and music, peculiar to their city; and are remarkable for an original vein of racy humour, a revengeful spirit, an exceeding superstition, a blind attachment to their native customs, a very decided contempt for other people, and a surpassing hatred of all innovations. They never admitted the jurisdiction of the electors of Cologne, and, although the most bigoted people in the world, were generally at war with their archbishops. Even Napoleon could not make them comformable. The city is now attached to Prussia, but still retains most of its ancient privileges, and all its ancient spirit of insubordination and independence. When, in 1828, the king of Prussia wished to force upon them an unpopular magistrate, the whole city rose, and obliged the obnoxious president to resign; the government, armed with all its legal and military terrors, could do nothing against the determined spirit of this half-civilized, fearless, reckless, yet merry, good-humoured populace. A history of this grotesque revolution, which had the same duration as the celebrated _trois jours de Paris_, and exhibited in its progress and issue some of the most striking, most characteristic, most farcical scenes you can imagine, were worthy of a Colonese Walter Scott. How I wish I could give you some of my friend's rich graphic sketches and humorous pictures of popular manner! but I feel that their peculiar spirit would evaporate in my hands. The event is celebrated in their local history as "_la Revolution du Carnaval_:" and this reminds me of another peculiarity of Cologne. The carnival is still celebrated there with a degree of splendour and fantastic humour, exceeding even the festivities of Rome and Naples in the present day; but as the season of the carnival is not the season for flight with our English birds of passage, few have ever witnessed these extraordinary Saturnalia. Such is the general ignorance or indifference relative to Cologne, that I met the other day with a very accomplished man, and a lover of art, who had frequently visited the place, and yet he had never seen the Medusa. MEDON. Nor I, by this good light!--I never even heard of it! ALDA. And how shall I attempt to describe it? Unless I had the "large utterance of the early gods," or could pour forth a string of Greek or German compounds, I know not in what words I could do justice to the effect it produced upon me. This wondrous mask measures about two feet and a half in height;[5] the colossal features, and I may add, the colossal expression, grand without exaggeration--so awfully vast, and yet so gloriously beautiful; the full rich lips curled with disdain--the mighty wings overshadowing the knit and tortured brow--the madness in the large dilated eyes--the wreathing and recoiling snakes, came upon me like something supernatural, and impressed me at once with astonishment, horror, and admiration. I was quite unprepared for what I beheld. As I stood before it my mind seemed to elevate and enlarge itself to admit this new vision of grandeur. Nothing but the two Fates in the Elgin marbles, and the Torso of the Vatican, ever affected me with the same inexpressible sense of the sublime: and this is not a fragment of some grand mystery, of which the remainder has been "to night and chaos hurled;" it is entire, in admirable preservation, and the workmanship as perfect as the conception is magnificent. I know not if it would have affected another in the same manner. For me, the ghastly allegory of the Medusa has a peculiar fascination. I confess that I have never wholly understood it, nor have any of the usual explanations satisfied me; it appears to me, that the Greeks, in thus blending the extremes of loveliness and terror, had a meaning, a purpose, more than is dreamt of by our philosophy. MEDON. But, how came this wonderful relic to Cologne, of all places in the world? ALDA. It stopped there on its road to England. MEDON. By what perverse destiny?--was it avarice on our part, or force or fraud on that of others? ALDA. It was, as Desdemona says, "our wretched fortune:" but the story, with all its circumstances, does so much honour to human nature, that it has half reconciled me to our loss. You must have heard of Professor Wallraf of Cologne, one of the canons of the cathedral, who, with his professorship and his canonship together, may have possessed from five to seven hundred francs a year. He was one of those wonderful and universal scholars, of whom we read in former times--men who concentrated all their powers and passions, and intellectual faculties, in the acquirement and advancement of knowledge, without any selfish aim or object, and from the mere abstract love of science. Early in life this man formed the resolution to remove from his native city the reproach of self-satisfied ignorance and monastic prejudices, which had hitherto characterized it; and in the course of a long existence of labour and privation, as professor and teacher, he contrived to collect together books, manuscripts, pictures, gems, works of art, and objects of natural history, to an immense amount. In the year 1818, on recovering from a dangerous illness, he presented his whole collection to his native city; and the magistracy, in return, bestowed on him a pension of three thousand francs for the remainder of his life. He was then more than seventy. About the same time a dealer in antiquities arrived from Rome, bringing with him this divine Medusa, with various other busts and fragments: he was on his way to England, where he hoped to dispose of them. He asked for his whole collection twelve thousand francs, and refused to sell any part of it separately. The city refused to make the purchase, thinking it too dear, and Wallraf, in despair at the idea of this glorious relic being consigned to other lands, mortgaged his yearly pension in order to raise the money, purchased the Medusa, presented it to the city, and then cheerfully resumed his accustomed life of self-denial and frugality. His only dread was lest he should die before the period was expired. He lived, however, to pay off his debt, and in three months afterwards he died.[6] Was not this admirable? The first time I saw the Medusa I did not know this anecdote; the second time, as I looked at it, I thought of Wallraf, and felt how much a moral interest can add to the charm of what is in itself most perfect. MEDON. I will certainly make a pilgrimage to this Medusa. She must be worth all the eleven thousand virgins together. What next? ALDA. Instead of embarking in the steam-boat, we posted along the left bank of the Rhine, spending a few days at Bonn, at Godesberg, and at Ehrenbreitstein; but I should tell you, as you allow me to diverge, that on my second journey, I owed much to a residence of some weeks at Bonn. There I became acquainted with the celebrated Schlegel, or I should rather say, M. le Chevalier de Schlegel, for I believe his titles and his "starry honours" are not indifferent to him; and in truth he wears them very gracefully. I was rather surprised to find in this sublime and eloquent critic, this awful scholar, whose comprehensive mind has grasped the whole universe of art, a most agreeable, lively, social being. Of the judgments passed on him in his own country, I know little, and understand less; I am not deep in German literary polemics. To me he was the author of the lectures on "Dramatic Literature," and the translator of Shakspeare, and, moreover, all that was amiable and polite: and was not this enough? MEDON. Enough for you, certainly; but, I believe that at this time Schlegel would rather found his fame on being one of the greatest oriental critics of the age, than on being the interpreter of the beauties of Calderon and Shakspeare. ALDA. I believe so; but for my own part, I would rather hear him talk of Romeo and Juliet, and of Madame de Staël, than of the Ramayana, the Bhagvat-Gita, or even the "eastern Con-fut-zee." This, of course, is only a proof of my own ignorance. Conversation may be compared to a lyre with seven chords--philosophy, art, poetry, politics, love, scandal, and the weather. There are some professors, who, like Paganini, "can discourse most eloquent music" upon one string only; and some who can grasp the whole instrument, and with a master's hand sound it from the top to the bottom of its compass. Now, Schlegel is one of the latter: he can thunder in the bass or caper in the treble; he can be a whole concert in himself. No man can trifle like him, nor, like him, blend in a few hours' converse, the critic, philologist, poet, philosopher, and man of the world--no man narrates more gracefully, nor more happily illustrates a casual thought. He told me many interesting things. "Do you know," said he one morning, as I was looking at a beautiful edition of Corinne, bound in red morocco, the gift of Madame de Staël; "do you know that I figure in that book?" I asked eagerly in what character? He bid me guess. I guessed playfully, the Comte d'Erfeuil. "No! no!" said he, laughing, "I am immortalized in the Prince Castel-Forte, the faithful, humble, unaspiring, friend of Corinne." MEDON. To any man but Schlegel, such an immortality were worth a life. Nay, there is no man, though his fame extended to the ends of the earth, whom the pen of Madame de Staël could not honour. ALDA. He seemed to think so, and I liked him for the self-complacency with which he twined her little myrtle leaf with his own palmy honours. Nor did he once refer to what I believe every body knows, her obligations to him in her De l'Allemagne. MEDON. Apropos--do tell me what is the general opinion of that book among the Germans themselves. ALDA. I think they do not judge it fairly. Some speak of it as eloquent, but superficial:[7] others denounce it altogether as a work full of mistakes and flippant, presumptuous criticism: others again affect to speak of it, and even of Madame de Staël herself, as things of another era, quite gone by and forgotten; this appeared to me too ridiculous. They forget, or do not know, what _we_ know, that her De l'Allemagne was the first book which awakened in France and England a lively and general interest in German art and literature. It is now five-and-twenty years since it was published. The march of opinion, and criticism, and knowledge of every kind, has been so rapid, that much has become old which then was new; but this does not detract from its merit. Once or twice I tried to convince my German friends that they were exceedingly ungrateful in abusing Madame de Staël, but it was all in vain; so I sat swelling with indignation to hear my idol traduced, and called--O profanation!-- "_cette Staël_." MEDON. But do you think the Germans could at all appreciate or understand such a phenomenon as Madame de Staël must have appeared in those days? She whisked through their skies like a meteor, before they could bring the telescope of their wits to a right focus for observation. How she must have made them open their eyes!--and you see in the correspondence between Goethe and Schiller what _they_ thought of her. ALDA. Yes, I know that with her lively egotism and Parisian volubility, she stunned Schiller and teased Goethe: but while our estimate of _manner_ may be allowed to be relative and comparative, our estimate of _character_ should be positive and abstract. Madame de Staël was in manner the Frenchwoman, accustomed to be the cynosure of a salon, but she was not ridiculous or egoiste in character. She was, to use Schlegel's expression, "femme grande et magnanime jusque dans les replis de son âme." The best proof is the very spirit in which she viewed Germany, in spite of all her natural and national prejudices. To apply your own expression, she went forth, in the spirit of peace, and brought back, not only an olive leaf, but a whole tree, and it has flourished. She had a universal mind. I believe she never thought, and still less _made_, any one ridiculous in her life.[8] At Bonn much of my time was spent in intimate and almost hourly intercourse with two friends, one of whom I have already mentioned to you--a rare creature!--the other, who was herself the daughter of a distinguished authoress,[9] was one of the most generally accomplished women I ever met with. Opposed to each other in the constitution of their minds--in all their views of literature and art, and all their experience of life--in their tastes, and habits, and feelings--yet mutually appreciating each other: both were distinguished by talents of the highest order and by great originality of character, and both were German, and very essentially _German_: English society and English education would never have produced two such women. Their conversation prepared me to form correct ideas of what I was to see and hear, and guarded me against the mistakes and hasty conclusions of vivacious travellers. At Bonn I also saw, for the first time, a specimen of the fresco painting, lately revived in Germany with such brilliant success. By command of the Prussian Board of Education the hall of the university of Bonn is to be painted in fresco, and the work has been entrusted to C. Hermann, Götzenberger, and Förster--all, I believe, pupils of Cornelius. The three sides of the hall are to represent the three faculties--Theology, Jurisprudence, and Philosophy; the first of these is finished, and here is an engraving of it. You see Theology is throned in the centre. The four evangelists, with St. Peter and St. Paul, stand on the steps of the throne; around her are the fathers and doctors of the church, and (which is the chief novelty of the composition) grouped together with a very liberal disregard to all religious differences; for there you see pope Gregory, and Ignatius Loyola, and St. Bernard, and Abelard, and Dante; and here we have Luther, and Melanchthon, and Calvin, and Wickliff, and Huss. On the opposite side of the hall, Philosophy, under which head are comprised all science, poetry, and art, is represented surrounded by the great poets, philosophers, and artists, from Homer, Aristotle, and Phideas, down to Shakspeare, Raffaelle, Goethe, and Kant. Jurisprudence, which is not begun, is to occupy the third side. The cartoons pleased me better than the paintings, for the drawing and grouping are really fine; but the execution struck me as somewhat hard and mannered. I shall have much to say hereafter of the fresco painting in Germany; for the present, proceed we on our journey. Tell me, had you a full moon while you were on the Rhine? MEDON. Truly, I forget. ALDA. Then you had _not_; for it would so have blended with your recollections, that as a circumstance it could not have been forgotten; and take my advice, when next you are off on your annual flight, consult the calendar, and propitiate the fairest of all the fair Existences of heaven to give you the light of her countenance. If you never took a solitary ramble, or, what is better, a _tête-à-tête_ drive through the villages and vineyards between Bonn and Plittersdorf, when the moon hung over the Drachenfels, when the undulating outlines of the Seven Mountains seemed to dissolve into the skies, and the Rhine was spread out at their feet like a lake--so ample, and so still;--if you have never seen the stars shine through the ruined arch of the Rolandseck, and the height of Godesberg, with its single giant tower, stand out of the plain,--black, and frowning against the silvery distance, then you have not beheld one of the loveliest landscapes ever presented to a thoughtful worshipper of nature. There is a story, too, connected with the ruins of Godesberg:--one of those fine tragedies of real life, which distance all fiction. It is not so popular as the celebrated legend of the brave Roland, and his cloistered love; but it is at least as authentic. You know that, according to tradition, the castle of Godesberg was founded by Julian the Apostate; another, and a more interesting apostate, was the cause of its destruction. Gerard[10] de Truchses, Count Waldbourg, who was archbishop and elector of Cologne in 1583, scandalized his see, and all the Roman Catholic powers, by turning Protestant. According to himself, his conversion was owing to "the goodness of God, who had revealed to him the darkness and the errors of popery;" but according to his enemies, it was owing to his love for the beautiful Agnes de Mansfeld, canoness of Gersheim; she was a daughter of one of the greatest Protestant houses in Germany; and her two brothers, bigoted Calvinists, and jealous of the honour of their family, conceived themselves insulted by the public homage which a Catholic priest, bound by his vows, dared to pay to their sister. They were yet more incensed on discovering that the love was mutual, and loudly threatened vengeance to both. Gerard renounced the Catholic faith, and the lovers were united. He was excommunicated and degraded, of course; but he insisted on his right to retain his secular dominions and privileges, and refused to resign the electorate, which the emperor, meantime, had awarded to Ernest of Bavaria, bishop of Liege. The contest became desperate. The whole of that beautiful and fertile plain, from the walls of Cologne to the Godesberg, grew "familiar with bloodshed as the morn with dew;" and Gerard displayed qualities which showed him more fitted to win and wear a bride, than to do honour to any priestly vows of sanctity and temperance. Attacked on all sides,--by his subjects, who had learned to detest him as an apostate, by the infuriated clergy, and by the Duke of Bavaria, who had brought an army to enforce his brother's claims,--he carried on the struggle for five years, and at last, reduced to extremity, threw himself, with a few faithful friends, into the castle of Godesberg. After a brave defence, the castle was stormed and taken by the Bavarians, who left it nearly in the state we now see it--a heap of ruins. Gerard escaped with his wife, and fled to Holland, where Maurice, Prince of Orange, granted him an asylum. Thence he sent his beautiful and devoted wife to the court of Queen Elizabeth, to claim a former promise of protection, and supplicate her aid, as the great support of the Protestant cause, for the recovery of his rights. He could not have chosen a more luckless ambassadress; for Agnes, though her beauty was somewhat impaired by the persecutions and anxieties which had followed her ill-fated union, was yet most lovely and stately, in all the pride of womanhood; and her misfortunes and her charms, as well as the peculiar circumstances of her marriage, excited the enthusiasm of all the English chivalry. Unhappily the Earl of Essex was among the first to espouse her cause with all the generous warmth of his character, and his visits to her were so frequent, and his admiration so indiscreet, that Elizabeth's jealousy was excited even to fury. Agnes was first driven from the court, and then ordered to quit the kingdom. She took refuge in the Netherlands, where she died soon afterwards; and Gerard, who never recovered his dominions, retired to Strasbourg, where he died. So ends this sad eventful history, which, methinks, would make a very pretty romance. The tower of Godesberg, lasting as their love and ruined as their fortunes, still remains one of the most striking monuments in that land, where almost every hill is crowned with its castle, and every castle has its tale of terror, or of love.[11] Another beautiful picture, which, merely as a picture, has dwelt on my remembrance, was the city of Coblentz and the fort of Ehrenbreitstein, as viewed from the bridge of boats under a cloudless moon. The city, with its fantastic steeples and masses of building, relieved against the clear deep blue of the summer sky--the lights which sparkled in the windows reflected in the broad river, and the various forms and tall masts of the craft anchored above and opposite--the huge hill, with its tiara of fortifications, which, in the sunshine and in the broad day, had disappointed me by its formality, now seen under the soft moonlight, as its long lines of architecture and abrupt angles were projected in brightness or receded in shadow, had altogether a most sublime effect. But _apropos_ to moonlights and pictures--of all the enchanted and enchanting scenes ever lighted by the full round moon, give me Heidelberg! Not the Colosseum of Rome--neither in itself, nor yet in Lord Byron's description, and I have both by heart--can be more grand; and in moral interest, in poetical associations, in varying and wondrous beauty, the castle of Heidelberg has the advantage. In the course of many visits, Heidelberg became to me familiar as the face of a friend, and its remembrance still "haunts me as a passion." I have known it under every changeful aspect which the seasons, and the hours, and the changeful moods of my own mind, could lend it. I have seen it when the sun, rising over the Geisberg, first kindled the vapours as they floated away from the old towers, and when the ivy and the wreathed verdure on the walls sparkled with dewy light: and I have seen it when its huge black masses stood against the flaming sunset; and its enormous shadow, flung down the chasm beneath, made it night there, while daylight lingered around and above. I have seen it when mantled in all the bloom and foliage of summer, and when the dead leaves were heaped on the paths, and choked the entrance to many a favourite nook. I have seen it when crowds of gay visitors flitted along its ruined terraces,[12] and music sounded near; and with friends, whose presence endeared every pleasure; and I have walked alone round its desolate precincts, with no companions but my own sad and troubled thoughts. I have seen it when clothed in calm and glorious moonlight. I have seen it when the winds rushed shrieking through its sculptured halls, and when grey clouds came rolling down the mountains, folding it in their ample skirts from the view of the city below. And what have I seen to liken to it by night or by day, in storm or in calm, in summer or in winter! Then its historical and poetical associations-- MEDON. There now!--will you not leave the picture, perfect as it is, and not for ever seek in every object something more than is there? ALDA. I do not seek it--I find it. You will say--I have _heard_ you say--that Heidelberg wants no beauty unborrowed of the eye; but if history had not clothed it in recollections, fancy must have invested it in its own dreams. It is true, that it is a mere modern edifice compared with all the classic, and most of the gothic ruins; yet over Heidelberg there hangs a terror and a mystery peculiar to itself: for the mind which acquiesces in decay, recoils from destruction. Here ruin and desolation make mocks with luxurious art and gay magnificence. Here it is not the equal, gradual power of time, adorning and endearing what yet it spares not, which has wrought this devastation, but savage war and elemental rage. Twice blasted by the thunderbolt, three times consumed by fire, ten times ravaged, plundered, desecrated by foes, and at last dismantled and abandoned by its own princes, it is still strong to endure and mighty to resist all that time, and war, and the elements may do against it--and, mutilated rather than decayed, may still defy centuries. The very anomalies of architecture and fantastic incongruities of this fortress-palace, are to me a fascination. Here are startling and terrific contrasts. That huge round tower--the tower of Frederic the Victorious--now "deep trenched with thunder fires," looks as if built by the Titans or the Huns; and those delicate sculptures in the palace of Otho-Henry, as if the genius of Raffaelle or Correggio had breathed on the stone. What flowing grace of outline! what luxuriant life! what endless variety and invention in those half-defaced fragments! These are the work of Italian artists, whose very names have perished;--all traces of their existence and of their destinies so utterly lost, that one might almost believe, with the peasantry, that these exquisite remains are not the work of mortal hands, but of fairies and spirits of air, evoked to do the will of an enchanter. The old palatines, the lords of Heidelberg, were a magnificent and magnanimous race. Louis III., Frederic the Victorious, Frederic II., Otho-Henry, were all men who had stepped in advance of their age. They could think as well as fight, in days when fighting, not thinking, was the established fashion among potentates and people. A liberal and enlightened spirit, and a love of all the arts that humanise mankind, seem to have been hereditary in this princely family. Frederic I. lay under the suspicion of heresy and sorcery, in consequence of his tolerant opinions, and his love of mathematics and astronomy. His personal prowess, and the circumstance of his never having been vanquished in battle, gave rise to the report, that he was assisted by evil demons; and for years, both before and after his accession, he was under the ban of the secret tribunal. Heidelberg was the scene of some of the mysterious attacks on his life, but they were constantly frustrated by the fidelity of his friends, and the watchful love of his wife. It was at Heidelberg this prince celebrated a festival, renowned in German history, and, for the age in which it occurred, most extraordinary. He invited to a banquet all the factious barons whom he had vanquished at Seckingen, and who had previously ravaged and laid waste great part of the palatinate. Among them were the Bishop of Metz and the Margrave of Baden. The repast was plentiful and luxurious, but there was no bread. The warrior guests looked round with surprise and inquiry. "Do you ask for bread?" said Frederic, sternly; "you, who have wasted the fruits of the earth, and destroyed those whose industry cultivates it? There is no bread. Eat and be satisfied; and learn henceforth mercy to those who put the bread into your mouths." A singular lesson from the lips of an iron-clad warrior of the middle ages. It was Frederic II. and his nephew Otho-Henry, who enriched the library, then the first in Europe next to the Vatican, with treasures of learning, and who invited painters and sculptors from Italy to adorn their noble palace with the treasures of art. In less than one hundred years those beautiful creations were defaced or utterly destroyed, and all the memorials and records of their authors are supposed to have perished at the time when the ruthless Tilly stormed the castle, and the archives and part of the library of precious MSS. were taken to litter his dragoons' horses, during a transient scarcity of straw.[13]--You groan! MEDON. The anecdote is not new to me; but I was thinking, at the moment, of a pretty phrase in the letters of the Prince de Ligne, "la guerre--c'est un malheur--mais c'est le plus beau des malheurs." ALDA. O if there be any thing more terrific, more disgusting, than war and its consequences, it is that perversion of all human intellect--that depravation of all human feeling--that contempt or misconception of every Christian precept, which has permitted the great, and the good, and the tenderhearted, to admire war as a splendid game--a part of the poetry of life--and to defend it as a glorious evil, which the very nature and passions of man have ever rendered, and will ever render, necessary and inevitable. Perhaps the idea of human suffering--though when we think of it in detail it makes the blood curdle--is not so bad as the general loss to humanity, the interruption to the progress of thought in the destruction of the works of wisdom or genius. Listen to this magnificent sentence out of the volume now lying open before me--"Who kills a man, kills a reasonable creature--God's image; but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself. Many a man lives a burthen to the earth, but a good book is the precious life-blood of a master-spirit embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life. It is true, no age can restore a life, whereof perhaps there is no great loss: and revolutions of ages do not oft recover the loss of rejected truth, for the want of which whole nations fare the worse; therefore we should be wary how we spill the seasoned life of man preserved and stored up in books." MEDON. "Methinks we do know the fine Roman hand." Milton, is it not? ALDA. Yes; and after this, think of Milton's Areopagitica, or his Paradise Lost, under the hoofs of Tilly's dragoon horses, or feeding the fishes in the Baltic! It might have happened had he written in Germany instead of England. MEDON. Do you forget that the cause of the thirty years war was a woman? ALDA. A woman and religion; the two best or worst things in the world, according as they are understood and felt, used and abused. You allude to Elizabeth of Bohemia, who was to Heidelberg what Helen was to Troy? One of the most interesting monuments of Heidelberg, at least to an English traveller, is the elegant triumphal arch raised by the palatine Frederic V. in honour of his bride--this very Elizabeth Stuart. I well remember with what self-complacency and enthusiasm our Chef walked about in a heavy rain, examining, dwelling upon every trace of this celebrated and unhappy woman. She had been educated at his country-seat, and one of the avenues of his magnificent park yet bears her name. On her fell a double portion of the miseries of her fated family. She had the beauty and the wit, the gay spirits, the elegant tastes, the kindly disposition, of her grandmother, Mary of Scotland. Her very virtues as a wife and a woman, not less than her pride and feminine prejudices, ruined herself, her husband, and her people. When Frederick hesitated to accept the crown of Bohemia, his high-hearted wife exclaimed--"Let me rather eat dry bread at a king's table than feast at the board of an elector;" and it seemed as if some avenging demon hovered in the air, to take her literally at her word, for she and her family lived to eat dry bread--aye, and to beg it before they ate it; but she _would_ be a queen. Blest as she was in love, in all good gifts of nature and fortune, in all means of happiness, a kingly crown was wanting to complete her felicity, and it was cemented to her brow with the blood of two millions of men. And who was to blame? Was not her mode of thinking the fashion of her time, the effect of her education? Who had "Put in her tender heart the aspiring flame Of golden sovereignty?" For how many ages will you men exclaim against the mischiefs and miseries, caused by the influence of women; thus allowing the influence, yet taking no thought how to make that influence a means of good, instead of an instrument of evil! Elizabeth had brought with her from England some luxurious tastes, as yet unknown in the palatinate; she had been familiarized with the dramas of Shakspeare and Fletcher, and she had figured in the masques of Ben Jonson. To gratify her, Frederic added to the castle of Heidelberg the theatre and banqueting-room, and all that beautiful group of buildings at the western angle, the ruins of which are still called the _English palace_. She had inherited from her grandmother, or had early imbibed from education, a love of nature and of amusements in the open air, and a passion for gardening; and it was to please her, and under her auspices, that Frederic planned those magnificent gardens, which were intended to unite within their bounds, all that nature could contribute or art devise; had they been completed, they would have rendered Heidelberg a pleasure-palace, fit for fairy-land. Nor were those designs unworthy of a prosperous and pacific sovereign, whose treasury was full, whose sway was just and mild, whose people had long enjoyed in tranquillity the fruits of their own industry. When I had the pleasure of spending a few days with the Schlossers, at their beautiful seat on the Necker, (Stift Neuburg,) I went over the ground with Madame de Schlosser, who had seen and studied the original plans. Her description of the magnitude and the sumptuous taste of these unfinished designs, while we stood together amid a wilderness of ruins, was a commentary on the vicissitudes of this world, worth fifty moral treatises, and as many sermons. "For in the wreck of IS and WAS, Things incomplete and purposes betray'd, Make sadder transits o'er Truth's mystic glass, Than noblest objects utterly decay'd." Close to the ruins of poor Elizabeth's palace, there where the effigies of her handsome husband, and his bearded ancestor Louis V. look down from the ivy-mantled wall, you remember the beautiful terrace towards the west? It is still,--after four centuries of changes, of disasters, of desolation,--the garden of Clara. When Frederic the Victorious assumed the sovereignty, in a moment of danger and faction, he took, at the same time, a solemn vow never to marry, that the rights of his infant nephew, the son of the late palatine, should not be prejudiced, nor the peace of the country endangered by a disputed succession. He kept his oath religiously, but at that very time he loved Clara Dettin de Wertheim, a young girl of plebeian origin, and a native of Augsburg, whose musical talents and melody of voice had raised her to a high situation in the court of the late princess palatine. Frederick, with the consent of his nephew, was united to Clara by a left-hand marriage, an expedient still in use in Germany, and, I believe, peculiar to its constitution; such a marriage is valid before God and man, yet the wife has no acknowledged rights, and the offspring no supposed existence. Clara is celebrated by the poets and chroniclers of her time, and appears to have been a very extraordinary being in her way. In that age of ignorance, she had devoted herself to study--she could sympathize in her husband's pursuits, and share the toils of government--she collected round her the wisest and most learned men of the time--she continued to cultivate the beautiful voice which had won the heart of Frederic, and her song and her lute were always ready to soothe his cares. Tradition points out the spot where it is said she loved to meditate, and, looking down upon the little hamlet, on the declivity of the hill, to recall her own humble origin; that little hamlet, embowered in foliage, and the remembrance of Clara, have survived the glories of Heidelberg. Her descendants became princes of the empire, and still exist in the family of Lowenstein. Then, for those who love the marvellous, there is the wild legend of the witch Jetta, who still flits among the ruins, and bathes her golden tresses in the Wolfsbrunnen; but why should I tell you of these tales--you, whose head is a sort of black-letter library? MEDON. True; but it is pleasant to have one's old recollections taken down from their shelves and dusted, and placed in a new light; only do not require, even if I again visit Heidelberg, that I should see it as you have beheld it, with your quick spirit of association, and clothed in the hues of your own individual mind. While you speak, it is not so much the places and objects you describe, as their reflection in your own fancy, which I see before me; and every different mind will reflect them under a different aspect. Then, where is truth? you say. If we want information as to mere facts--the situation of a town, the measurement of a church, the date of a ruin, the catalogue of a gallery--we can go to our dictionaries and our _guides des voyageurs_. But if, besides form and outline, we must have colouring too, we should remember that every individual mind will paint the scene with its own proper hues; and if we judge of the mind and the objects it represents relatively to each other, we may come at the truth, not otherwise. I would ask nothing of a traveller, but accuracy and sincerity in the expression of his opinions and feelings. I have then a page out of the great book of human nature--the portrait of a particular mind; when that is fairly before me I have a standard by which to judge: I can draw my own inferences. Will you not allow that it is possible to visit Heidelberg, and to derive the most intense pleasure from its picturesque beauty, without dreaming over witches and warriors, palatines and princes? Can we not admire and appreciate the sculpture in the palace of Otho-Henry, without losing ourselves in vague, wondering reveries over the destinies of the sculptors? ALDA. Yes; but it is amusing, and not less instructive, to observe the manner in which the individual character and pursuits shall modify the impressions of external things; only we should be prepared for this, as the pilot makes allowance for the variation of the needle, and directs his course accordingly. It is a mistake to suppose that those who cannot see the imaginative aspect of things, see, therefore, the only true aspect; they only see one aspect of the truth. _Vous étes orfêvre, Monsieur Josse_, is as applicable to travellers as to every other species of egotist. Once, in an excursion to the north, I fell into conversation with a Sussex farmer, one of that race of sturdy, rich, and independent English yeomen, of which I am afraid few specimens remain: he was quite a character in his way. I must sketch him for you; but only Miss Mitford could do him justice. His coat was of the finest broad-cloth; his shirt-frill, in which was stuck a huge agate pin, and his neckcloth, were both white as the snow; his good beaver shone in all its pristine gloss, and an enormous bunch of gold seals adorned his watch-chain; his voice was loud and dictatorial, and his language surprisingly good and flowing, though tinctured with a little coarseness and a few provincialisms. He had made up his mind about the Reform Bill--the Catholic Question--the Corn Laws--and about things in general, and things in particular; he had doubts about nothing: it was evident that he was accustomed to lay down the law in his own village--that he was the tyrant of his own fire-side--that his wife was "his horse, his ox, his ass, his any thing," while his sons went to college, and his daughters played on the piano. London was to him merely a vast congregation of pestilential vapours--a receptacle of thieves, cut-throats and profligates--a place in which no sensible man, who had a care for his life, his health, or his pockets, would willingly set his foot; he thanked God that he never spent but two nights in the metropolis, and at intervals of twenty-seven years: the first night he had passed in the streets, in dread of fire and vermin; and on the last occasion, he had not ventured beyond Smithfield. What he did not know, was to him not worth knowing; and the word _French_, which comprised all that was foreign, he used as a term, expressing the most unbounded abhorrence, pity, and contempt. I should add, that though rustic, and arrogant, and prejudiced, he was not vulgar. We were at an inn, on the borders of Leicestershire, through which we had both recently travelled; my farmer was enthusiastic in his admiration of the country. "A fine country, madam--a beautiful country--a splendid country!" "Do you call it a fine country?" said I, absently, my head full of the Alps and Appenines, the Pyrenean, and the river Po. "To be sure I do; and where would you see a finer?" "I did not see any thing very picturesque," said I. "_Picturesque!_" he repeated with some contempt; "I don't know what _you_ call picturesque; but _I_ say, give me a soil, that when you turn it up you have something for your pains; the fine soil makes the fine country, madam!" SKETCHES OF ART, LITERATURE AND CHARACTER. II. MEDON. I observed the other evening, that in making a sort of imaginative bound from Coblentz to Heidelberg, you either skipped over Frankfort, or left it on one side. ALDA. Did I?--if I had done _either_, in my heart or my memory, I had been most ungrateful; but I thought you knew Frankfort well. MEDON. I was there for two days, on my way to Switzerland, and it rained the whole time from morning till night. I have a vision in my mind of dirty streets, chilly houses, dull shops, dingy-looking Jews, dripping umbrellas, luxurious hotels, and exorbitant charges,--and this is all I can recollect of Frankfort. ALDA. Indeed!--I pity you. To me it was associated only with pleasant feelings, and, in truth, it is a pleasant place. Life, there, appears in a very attractive costume: not in a half-holiday, half-beggarly garb, as at Rome and Naples; nor in a thin undress of superficial decency as at Berlin; nor in a court domino, hiding, we know not what--as at Vienna and Munich; nor half motley, half military, as at Paris; nor in rags and embroidery, as in London; but at Frankfort all the outside at least is fair, substantial, and consistent. The shops vie in splendour with those of London and Paris; the principal streets are clean, the houses spacious and airy, and there is a general appearance of cheerfulness and tranquillity, mingled with the luxury of wealth and the bustle of business, which, after the misery, and murmuring, and bitterness of faction, we had left in London, was really a relief to the spirits. It is true, that during my last two visits, this apparent tranquillity concealed a good deal of political ferment. The prisons were filled with those unfortunate wretches who had endeavoured to excite a popular tumult against the Prussian and Austrian governments. The trials were going forward every day, but not a syllable of the result transpired beyond the walls of the Römer Saal. Although the most reasonable and liberal of the citizens agreed in condemning the rashness and folly of these young men, the tide of feeling was evidently in their favour: for instance, it was not the _fashion_ to invite the Prussian officers, and I well remember that when Goethe's Egmont was announced at the theatre, it was forbidden by the magistracy, from a fear that certain scenes and passages in that play might call forth some open and decided expression of the public feeling; in fact, only a few evenings before, some passages in the Massaniello had been applied and applauded by the audience, in a manner so _ill-bred_, that the wife of one of the ministers of the Holy Alliance, rose and left her box, followed by some other old women,--male and female. The theatre is rather commodious than splendid; the established company, both for the opera and the regular drama, excellent, and often varied by temporary visits of great actors and singers from the other theatres of Germany. On my first visit to Frankfort, which was during the fair of 1829, Paganini, then in the zenith of his glory, was giving a series of concerts; but do not ask me any thing about him, for it is a worn-out subject, and you know I am not one of the enthusiastic, or even the orthodox, with regard to his merits. MEDON. You do not mean--you will not tell me--that with all your love of music, you were insensible to the miraculous powers of that man? ALDA. I suppose they were miraculous, as I heard every one say so round me; but I listened to him as to any other musician, for the sake of the pleasure to be derived from music, not for the sake of wondering at difficulties overcome, and impossibilities made possible--they might have remained impossibilities for me. But insensible I was _not_ to the wondrous charm of his tone and expression. I was thrilled, melted, excited, at the moment, but it left no relish on the palate, if I may use the expression. To throw me into such _convulsions_ of enthusiasm, as I saw this man excite here and on the continent, I must have the orchestra with all its various mingling world of sound, or the _divine_ human voice breathing music and passion together; but this is a matter of feeling, habit, education, like all other tastes in art. I think it was during our third visit to Frankfort that Madame Haitzinger-Neumann was playing the _gast-rolles_, for so they courteously denominate the parts filled by occasional visitors, to whom, as guests, the precedence is always given. Madame Haitzinger is the wife of Haitzinger, the tenor singer, who was in London, and sung in the Fidelio, with Madame Devrient-Schroeder. She is one of the most celebrated actresses in Germany for light comedy, if any comedy in Germany can be called light, in comparison with the same style of acting in France or England. Her figure is rather large-- MEDON. Like most of the German actresses--for I never yet saw one who had attained to celebrity, who was not much too _embonpoint_ for our ideas of a youthful or sentimental heroine-- ALDA. Not Devrient-Schroeder? MEDON. Devrient is all impassioned grace; but I think that in time even _she_ will be in danger of becoming a little--how shall I express it with sufficient delicacy?--a _little_ too substantial. ALDA. No, not if a soul of music and fire, informing a feverish, excitable temperament, which is to the mantling spirit within, what the high-pitched instrument is to the breeze which sweeps over its chords,--not if these can avert the catastrophe; but what if you had seen Mademoiselle Lindner, with a figure like Mrs. Liston's--all but spherical--enacting Fenella and Clärchen? MEDON. I should have said, that only a German imagination could stand it! It is one of Madame de Staël's clever aphorisms, that on the stage, "Il faut menager les caprices des yeux avec le plus grand scrupule, car ils peuvent detruire, sans appel tout effet sérieux;" but the Germans do not appear to be subject to these _caprices des yeux_; and have not these fastidious scruples about corporeal grace; for them sentiment, however clumsy, is still sentiment. Perhaps they are in the right. ALDA. And Mademoiselle Lindner _has_ sentiment; she must have been a fine actress, and is evidently a favourite with the audience. But to return to Madame Haitzinger;--she is handsome, with a fair complexion, and no very striking expression; but there is a heart and soul, and mellowness in her acting, which is delicious. I could not give you an idea of her manner by a comparison with any of our English actresses, for she is essentially German; she never aimed at making points; she was never broadly arch or comic, but the general effect was as rich as it was true to nature. I saw her in some of her favourite parts: in the comedy of "Stille Wasser sind tief;" (our Rule a Wife and Have a Wife, admirably adapted to the German stage by Schroeder;) in the "Mirandolina," (the famous Locandiera of Goldoni,) and in the pretty lively vaudeville composed for her by Holtei, "Die Wiener in Berlin," in which the popular waltzes and airs, sung in the genuine national spirit, and enjoyed by the audience with a true national zest, delighted us _foreigners_. Herr Becker is an excellent actor in tragedy and high comedy. Of their singers I could not say so much--there were none I should account first-rate, except Dobler, whom you may remember in England. One of the most delightful peculiarities of Frankfort, one that most struck my fancy, is the public garden, planted on the site of the ramparts; a girdle of verdure and shade--of trees and flowers circling the whole city; accessible to all and on every side,--the promenade of the rich, the solace of the poor. Fifty men are employed to keep it in order, and it is forbidden to steal the flowers, or to kill the singing birds which haunt the shrubberies. MEDON. And does this prohibition avail much in a population of sixty thousand persons? ALDA. It does generally. A short time before we arrived some mischievous wretch had shot a nightingale, and was caught in the fact. His punishment was characteristic; his hands were tied behind him, and a label setting forth his crime was fixed on his breast: in this guise, with a police officer on each side, he was marched all round the gardens, and made the circuit of the city, pursued by the hisses of the populace and the abhorrent looks of the upper classes; he was not otherwise punished, but he never again made his appearance within the walls of the city. This was the only instance which I could learn of the infraction of a law which might seem at least nugatory. Of the spacious, magnificent, well-arranged cemetery, its admirable apparatus for restoring suspended animation, and all its beautiful accompaniments and memorials of the dead, there was a long account published in London, at the time that a cemetery was planned for this great overgrown city; and in truth I know not where we could find a better model than the one at Frankfort; it appeared to me perfection. The institutions at Frankfort, both for charity and education, are numerous as becomes a rich and free city; and those I had an opportunity of examining appeared to me admirably managed. Besides the orphan schools, and the Burger schule, and the school for female education, established and maintained by the wives of the citizens, there are several infant schools, where children of a year old and upwards are nursed, and fed, and kept out of mischief and harm, while their parents are at work. These are also maintained by subscription among the ladies, who take upon them in turns the task of daily superintendence; and I shall not easily forget the gentle-looking, elegant, well-dressed girl, who, defended from the encroachments of dirty little paws by a large apron, sat in the midst of a swarm of thirty or forty babies, (the eldest not four years old,) the very personification of feminine charity! But the hospital for the infirm poor--Das Versorgung Haus--pleased me particularly; 'tis true, that the cost was not a third--what do I say? not a sixth of the expense of some of our institutions for the same purpose. There was no luxury of architecture, nor huge gates shutting in wretchedness, and shutting out hope; nor grated windows; nor were the arrangements on so large a scale as in that splendid edifice, the Hopital des Vieillards, at Brussels;--a house for the poor need not be either a prison or a palace. But here, I recollect, the door opened with a latch; we entered unannounced, as unexpected. Here there was perfect neatness, abundance of space, of air, of light, of water, and also of occupation. I found that, besides the inmates of the place, many poor old creatures, who could not have the facilities or materials for work in their own dwellings, or whose relatives were busied in the daytime, might find here employment of any kind suited to their strength or capacity,--for which, observe, they were paid; thus leaving them to the last possible moment the feeling of independence and usefulness. I observed that many of those who seemed in the last stage of decrepitude had hung round their beds sundry little prints and pictures, and slips of paper, on which were written legibly, texts from scripture, moral sentences, and scraps of poetry. The ward of the superannuated and the sick was at a distance from the working and eating rooms; and all breathed around that peace and quiet which should accompany old age, instead of that "life-consuming din" I _have_ heard in such places. On the pillow of one bed, there was laid by some chance a bouquet of flowers. In this ward there was an old man nearly blind and lethargic; another old man was reading to him. I remarked a poor bed-ridden woman, utterly helpless, but not old, and with good and even refined features; and another poor woman, seated by her, was employed in keeping the flies from settling on her face. To one old woman, whose countenance struck me, I said a few words in English--I could speak no German, unluckily. She took my hand, kissed it, and turning away, burst into tears. No one asked for any thing even by a look, nor apparently wanted any thing; and I felt that from the unaffected good-nature of the lady who accompanied us, we had not so much the appearance of coming to look at the poor inmates as of paying them a kind visit;--and this was as it should be. The mild, open countenances of the two persons who managed the establishment, pleased me particularly; and the manner of the matron superintendent, as she led us over the rooms, was so simple and kind, that I was quite at ease: I experienced none of that awkward shyness and reluctance I have felt when ostentatiously led over such places in England--feeling ashamed to stare upon the misery I could not cure. In such cases I have probably attributed to the sufferers a delicacy or a sensibility, long blunted, if ever possessed; but I was in pain for them and for myself. One thing more: there was a neat chapel; and we were shown with some pride the only piece of splendour in the establishment. The communion plate of massy silver was the gift of two brothers, who had married on the same day two sisters; and these two sisters had died nearly at the same time--I believe it was actually on the same day. The widowed husbands presented this plate in memory of their loss and the virtues of their wives; and I am sorry I did not copy the simple and affecting inscription in which this is attested. There was also a silver vase, which had been presented as an offering by a poor miller whom an unexpected legacy had raised to independence. I might give you similar sketches of other institutions, here and elsewhere, but I did not bestow sufficient attention on the practical details, and the comparative merits of the different methods adopted, to render my observations useful. Though deeply interested, as any feeling, thinking being must be on such subjects, I have not studied them sufficiently. There are others, however, who are doing this better than I could:--blessings be on them, and eternal praise!--My general impression was, pleasure from the benevolence and simplicity of heart with which these institutions were conducted and superintended, and wonder, not to be expressed, at their extreme cheapness. The day preceding my visit to the Versorgung Haus, I had been in a fever of indignation at the fate of poor R----, one of the conspirators, who had become insane from the severity of his confinement. I had descanted with great complacency on our open tribunals and our trials by jury, and yet I could not help thinking to myself, "Well, if _we_ have not their state-prisons, neither have _they_ our poor-houses!" MEDON. It is plain that the rich, charitable, worldly prosperous, self-seeking, Frankfort, would be your chosen residence after all! ALDA. No--as a fixed residence I should not prefer Frankfort. There is a little too much of the pride of purse--too much of the aristocracy of wealth--too much dressing and dinnering--and society is too much broken up into sets and circles to please me: besides, it must be confessed, that the arts do not flourish in this free imperial city. The Städel Museum was opened just before our last visit to Frankfort. A rich banker of that name bequeathed, in 1816, his collection of prints and pictures, and nearly a million and a half of florins, for the commencement and maintenance of this institution, and they have certainly begun on a splendid scale. The edifice in which the collection is arranged is spacious, fitted up with great cost, and generally with great taste, except the ceilings, which, being the glory and admiration of the good people of Frankfort, I must endeavour to describe to you particularly. The elaborate beauty of the arabesque ornaments, their endless variety, and the vivid colouring and gilding, reminded me of some of the illuminated manuscripts; but I was rather amused than pleased, and rather surprised to see art and ornament so misplaced--invention, labour, money, time, lavished to so little purpose. No effect was aimed at--none produced. The strained and wearied eye wandered amid a profusion of unmeaning forms, and of gorgeous colours, which never harmonized into a whole: and after I had half broken my neck by looking up at them through an opera glass, in order to perceive the elegant interlacing of the minute patterns and exquisite finish of the workmanship, I turned away laughing and provoked, and wondering at such a strange perversion, or rather sacrifice, of taste. MEDON. But the collection itself?-- ALDA. It is not very interesting. It contains some curious old German pictures; Städel having been, like others, smitten with the mania of buying Van Eyks and Hemlings and Schoréels. Here, however, these old masters, as part of a school, or history of art, are well placed. There are a few fine Flemish paintings--and, in particular, a wondrous portrait by Flinck, which you must see. It is a lady in black, on the left side of the door--of--I forget which room--but you cannot miss it: those soft eyes will look out at you, till you will feel inclined to ask her name, and wonder the lips do not unclose to answer you. Of first-rate pictures there are none--I mean none of the historical and Italian schools: the collection of casts from the antique is splendid and well-selected. MEDON. But Bethmann, the banker, had already set an example of munificent patronage of art: when he shamed kings, for instance, by purchasing Dannecker's Ariadne--one of the chief lions of Frankfort, if fame says true. ALDA. How! have you not seen it? MEDON. No--unhappily. The weather, as I have told you, was dreadful. I was discouraged--I procrastinated. That flippant observation I had read in some English traveller, that "Dannecker's Ariadne looked as if it had been cut out of old Stilton cheese," was floating in my mind. In short, I was careless, as we often are, when the means of gratifying curiosity appear secure, and within our reach. I repent me now. I wish I had settled to my own satisfaction, and with mine own eyes, the disputed merits of this famous statue; but I will trust to you. It ought to be something admirable. I do not know much of Dannecker, or his works, but by all accounts he has not to complain of the want of patronage. To him cannot be applied the pathetic common-place, so familiar in the mouths of our young artists, about "chill penury," the struggle to live, the cares that "freeze the genial current of the soul," the efforts of unassisted genius, and so forth. Want never came to him since he devoted himself to art. He appears to have had leisure and freedom to give full scope to his powers, and to work out his own creations. ALDA. Had he? Had he indeed? His own story would be different, I fancy. Dannecker, like every patronized artist I ever met with, would execrate patronage if he dared. Good old man! The thought of what he might have done, and could have done, breaks out sometimes in the midst of all his self-complacent _naïve_ exultation over what he _has_ done. I will endeavour to give you a correct idea of the Ariadne, and then I will tell you something of Dannecker himself. His history is a good commentary upon royal patronage. I had heard so much of this statue, that my curiosity was strongly excited. A part of its fame may be owing to its situation, and the number of travellers who go to visit Bethmann's Museum, as a matter of course. I used to observe that all travellers, who were on the road to Italy, praised it, and all who were on their way home criticised it. As I ascended the steps of the pavilion in which it is placed, the enthusiasm of expectation faded away from my mind: I said to myself, "I shall be disappointed!"--Yet I was not disappointed. The Ariadne occupied the centre of a cabinet, hung with a dark grey colour, and illuminated by a high lateral window, so that the light and shade, and the relief of the figure, were perfectly well managed and effective. Dannecker has not represented Ariadne in her more poetical and picturesque character, as, when betrayed and forsaken by Theseus, she stood alone on the wild shore of Naxos, "her hair blown by the winds, and all about her expressing desolation." It is Ariadne, immortal and triumphant, as the bride of Bacchus. The figure is larger than life. She is seated, or rather reclined, on the back of a panther. The right arm is carelessly extended: the left arm rests on the head of the animal, and the hand supports the drapery, which appears to have just dropped from her limbs. The head is turned a little upwards, as if she already anticipated her starry home; and her tresses are braided with the vine leaves. The grace and ease of the attitude, so firm, and yet so light; the flowing beauty of the form, and the position of the head, enchanted me. Perhaps the features are not sufficiently _Greek_: for, though I am not one of those who think all beauty comprised in the antique models, and that nothing can be orthodox but the straight nose and short upper lip, still to Ariadne the pure _classical_ ideal of beauty, both in form and face, are properly in character. A cast from that divine head, the Greek Ariadne, is placed in the same cabinet, and I confess to you, that the contrast being immediately brought before the eye, Dannecker's Ariadne seemed to want refinement, in comparison. It is true, that the moment chosen by the German sculptor required an expression altogether different. In the Greek bust, though already circled by the viny crown, and though all heaven seems to repose on the noble arch of that expanded brow, yet the head is declined, and a tender melancholy lingers round the all-perfect mouth, as if the remembrance of a mortal love--a mortal sorrow--yet shaded her celestial bridal hours, and made pale her immortality. But, Dannecker's Ariadne is the flushed queen of the Bacchante, and, in the clash of the cymbals and the mantling cup, she has already forgotten Theseus. There is a look of life, an individual truth in the beauty of the form, which distinguishes it from the long-limbed vapid pieces of elegance called nymphs and Venuses, which "Stretch their white arms, and bend their marble necks," in the galleries of our modern sculptors. One objection struck me, but not till after a second or third view of the statue. The panther seemed to me rather too bulky and ferocious. It is true, it is not a natural, but a mythological panther, such as we see in the antique basso-relievos, and the arabesques of Herculaneum: yet, methinks if he appeared a little more conscious of his lovely burthen, more tamed by the influence of beauty, it would have been better. However, the sculptor may have had a design, a feeling, in this very point, which has escaped me: I regret now that I did not ask him. One thing is certain, that the extreme massiveness of the panther's limbs serves to give a firmness to the support of the figure, and sets off to advantage its lightness and delicacy. It is equally certain that if the head of the animal had been ever so slightly turned, the pose of the right arm, and with it the whole attitude, must have been altered. The window of the cabinet is so contrived, that by drawing up a blind of stained glass, a soft crimson tint is shed over the figure, as if the marble blushed. This did not please me: partly from a dislike to all trickery in art; partly because, to my taste, the pale colourless purity of the marble is one of the beauties of a fine statue. It is true that Dannecker has been unfortunate in his material. The block from which he cut his figure is imperfect and streaky; but how it could possibly have suggested the idea of _Stilton cheese_ I am at a loss to conceive. It is not worse than Canova's Venus, in the Pitti palace, who has a terrible black streak across her bosom. M. Passavant,[14] who was standing by when I paid my last visit to the Ariadne, assured me, that when the statue was placed on its pedestal, about sixteen years ago, these black specks were scarcely visible, and that they seemed to multiply and grow darker with time. This is a lamentable, and, to me, an unaccountable fact. MEDON. And, I am afraid, past cure: but now tell me something of the sculptor himself. After looking on a grand work of art, we naturally turn to look into the mind which conceived and created it. ALDA. Dannecker, like all the great modern sculptors, sprung from the people. Thorwaldson, Flaxman, Chantrey, Canova, Schadow, Ranch--I believe we may go farther back, to Cellini, Bandinelli, Bernini, Pigalle--all I can at this moment recollect, were of plebeian origin. When I was at Dresden, I was told of a young count, of noble family, who had adopted sculpture as a profession. This, I think, is a solitary instance of any person of noble birth devoting himself to this noblest of the arts. MEDON. Do you forget Mrs. Darner and Lady Dacre? ALDA. No; but I do not think that either the exquisite modelling of Lady Dacre, or the meritorious _attempts_ of Mrs. Damer, come under the head of sculpture in its grand sense. By-the-bye, when Horace Walpole said that Mrs. Damer was the first female sculptor who had attained any celebrity, he forgot the Greek girl, Lala,[15] and the Properzia Rossi of modern times. Dannecker was born at Stuttgardt in 1758. On him descended no hereditary mantle of genius; it was the immediate gift of Heaven, and apparently heaven-directed. His father was a groom in the duke's stable, and appears to have been merely an ill-tempered, thick-headed boor. How young Dannecker picked up the rudiments of reading and writing, he does not himself remember; nor by what circumstances the bent of his fancy and genius was directed to the fine arts. Like other great men, who have been led to trace the progress of their own minds, he attributed to his mother the first promptings to the fair and good, the first softening and elevating influences which his mind acknowledged. He had neither paper nor pencils; but next door to his father there lived a stone-cutter, whose blocks of marble and free-stone were every day scrawled over with rude imitations of natural objects in chalk or charcoal--the first essays of the infant Dannecker. When he was beaten by his father for this proof of idleness, his mother interfered to protect or to encourage him. As soon as he was old enough, he assisted his father in the stable; and while running about the precincts of the palace, ragged and bare-foot, he appears to have attracted, by his vivacity and alertness, the occasional notice of the duke himself. Duke Charles, the grandfather of the present king of Wurtemburg, had founded a military school, called the Karl Schüle, (Charles' School,) annexed to the Hunting Palace of the Solitude. At this academy, music and drawing were taught as well as military tactics. One day, when Dannecker was about thirteen, his father returned home in a very ill-humour, and informed his family that the duke intended to admit the children of his domestics into his new military school. The boy, with joyful eagerness, declared his intention of going immediately to present himself as a candidate. The father, with a stare of astonishment, desired him to remain at home, and mind his business; on his persisting, he resorted to blows, and ended by locking him up. The boy escaped by jumping out of the window; and, collecting several of his comrades, he made them a long harangue in praise of the duke's beneficence, then placing himself at their head, marched them up to the palace, where the whole court was assembled for the Easter festivities. On being asked their business, Dannecker replied as spokesman--"Tell his highness the duke we want to go to the Karl-schüle." One of the attendants, amused, perhaps, with this juvenile ardour, went and informed the duke, who had just risen from table. He came out himself and mustered the little troop before him. He first darted a rapid scrutinizing glance along the line, then selecting one from the number, placed him on his right-hand; then another, and another, till only young Dannecker and two others remained on his left. Dannecker has since acknowledged that he suffered for a few moments such exquisite pain and shame at the idea of being rejected, that his first impulse was to run away and hide himself; and that his surprise and joy, when he found that he and his two companions were the accepted candidates, had nearly overpowered him. The duke ordered them to go the next morning to the Solitude, and then dismissed them. When Dannecker returned home, his father, enraged at losing the services of his son, turned him out of the house, and forbade him ever more to enter it; but his mother (mother like) packed up his little bundle of necessaries, accompanied him for some distance on his road, and parted from him with blessings, and tears, and words of encouragement and love. At the Karl-schüle Dannecker made but little progress in his studies. Nothing could be worse managed than this royal establishment. The inferior teachers were accustomed to employ the poorer boys in the most servile offices, and in this, so called, academy, he was actually obliged to learn by stealth: but here he formed a friendship with Schiller, who, like himself, was an ardent genius pining and writhing under a chilling system; and the two boys, thrown upon one another for consolation, became friends for life. Dannecker must have been about fifteen when the Karl-schüle was removed from the Solitude to Stuttgard. He was then placed under the tuition of Grubel, a professor of sculpture, and in the following year he produced his first original composition. It was a Milo of Crotona modelled in clay, and was judged worthy of the first prize. Dannecker was at this time so unfriended and little known, that the duke, who appears to have forgotten him, learnt with astonishment that this nameless boy, the son of his groom, had carried off the highest honours of the school from all his competitors. For a few years he was employed in the duke's service in carving cornices, Cupids, and caryatides, to ornament the new palaces at Stuttgard and Hohenheim: this task-work, over which he often sighed, may possibly have assisted in giving him that certainty and mechanical dexterity in the use of his tools for which he is remarkable. About ten years were thus passed; he then obtained permission to travel for his improvement with an allowance of three hundred florins a-year from the duke. With these slender means Dannecker set off for Paris on foot. There, for the first time, he had opportunities of studying the living model. His enthusiasm for his art enabled him to endure extraordinary privations of every kind; for out of his little pension of £23 a-year he had not only to feed and clothe himself, but to purchase all the materials for his art, and the means of instruction; and this in an expensive capital, surrounded with temptations which an artist and an enthusiastic young man finds it difficult to withstand. He told me himself that day after day he has studied in the Louvre dinnerless, and dressed in a garb which scarce retained even the appearance of decency. He left Paris, after a two years' residence, as simple in mind and heart as when he entered it, and considerably improved in his knowledge of anatomy and in the technical part of his profession. The treasures of the Louvre, though far inferior to what they now are, had let in a flood of ideas upon his mind, among which (as he described his own feelings) he groped as one bewildered and intoxicated, amazed rather than enlightened. MEDON. But Dannecker must have been poor in spirit as in pocket--simple, indeed, if he did not profit by the opportunities which Paris afforded of studying human nature, noting the passions and their physiognomy, and gaining other experiences most useful to an artist. ALDA. There I differ from you. Would you send a young artist--more particularly a young sculptor--to study the human nature of London or Paris?--to seek the ideal among shop-girls and opera-dancers? Or the sublime and beautiful among the frivolous and degraded of one sex, the money-making or the brutalized of the other? Is it from the man who has steeped his youthful prime in vulgar dissipation, by way of "seeing life," as it is called, who has courted patronage at the convivial board, that you shall require that union of lofty enthusiasm and patient industry, which are necessary, first to conceive the grand and the poetical, then consume long years in shaping out his creation in the everlasting marble? MEDON. But how is the sculptor himself to live during those long years? It must needs be a hard struggle. I have heard young artists say, that they have been forced on a dissipated life merely as a means of "getting on in the world," as the phrase is. ALDA. So have I. It is so base a plea, that when I hear it, I generally regard it as the excuse for dispositions already perverted. The men who talk thus are doomed: they will either creep through life in mediocrity and dependence to their grave; or, at the best, if they have parts, as well as cunning and assurance, they may make themselves the fashion, and make their fortune; they may be clever portrait-painters and bust-makers, but when they attempt to soar into the historical and ideal department of their art, they move the laughter of gods and men; to them the higher, holier fountains of inspiration are thenceforth sealed. MEDON. But think of the temptations of society! ALDA. I think of those who have overcome them. "Great men have been among us," though they be rare. Have we not had a Flaxman? But the artist must choose where he will worship. He cannot serve God and Mammon. That man of genius who thinks he can tamper with his glorious gifts, and for a season indulge in social excesses, stoop from his high calling to the dregs of earth, abandon himself to the stream of common life, and trust to his native powers to bring him up again;--O believe it, he plays a desperate game!--one that in nearly ninety-nine cases out of a hundred is fatal. MEDON. I begin to see your drift; but you would find it difficult to prove that the men who executed those works, on which we now look with wonder and despair, lived like anchorites, or were unexceptionable moral characters. ALDA. Will you not allow that they worked in a different spirit? Or do you suppose that it was by the possession of some sleight-of-hand that these things were performed?--That it was by some knack of chiselling, some secret of colouring now lost, that a Phidias or a Correggio still remain unapproached, and, as people will tell you, unapproachable? MEDON. They had a different nature to work from. ALDA. A different modification of nature, but not a different nature. Nature and truth are one, and immutable, and inseparable as beauty and love. I do maintain that, in these latter times, we have artists, who in genius, in the power of looking at nature, and in manual skill, are not beneath the great ancients, but their works are found wanting in comparison; they have fallen short of the models their early ambition set before them; and why?--because, having genius, they want the moral grandeur that should accompany it, and have neglected the training of their own minds from necessity, or from dissipation or from pride, so that having imagination and skill, they have yet wanted the materials out of which to work. Recollect that the great artists of old were not mere painters or mere sculptors, who were nothing except with the pencil or the chisel in their hand. They were philosophers, scholars, poets, musicians, noble beings, whose eyes were not ever on themselves, but who looked above, before, and after. Our modern artists turn coxcombs, and then fancy themselves like Rafaelle; or they are greedy of present praise, or greedy of gain; or they will not pay the price for immortality; or they have sold their glorious birthright of fame for a mess of pottage. Poor Dannecker found his mess of pottage bitter now and then, as you shall hear. He set off for Italy, in 1783, with his pension raised to four hundred florins a year, that is, about thirty pounds: he reached Rome, on foot, and he told me that, for some months after his arrival, he suffered from a terrible depression of spirits, and a painful sense of loneliness: like Thorwaldson, when he too visited that city some years afterwards, a friendless youth, he was often home-sick and heart-sick. At this time he used to wander about among the ruins and relics of almighty Rome, lost in the sense of their grandeur, depressed by his own vague aspirations--ignorant, and without courage to apply himself. Luckily for him, Herder and Goethe were then residing at Rome; he became known to them, and their conversation directed him to higher sources of inspiration in his art than he had yet contemplated--to the very well-heads and mother-streams of poetry. They showed him the distinction between the _spirit_ and the _form_ of ancient art. Dannecker felt, and afterwards applied some of the grand revelations of these men, who were at once profound critics and inspired poets. He might have grasped at more, but that his early nurture was here against him, and his subsequent destinies as a court sculptor seldom left him sufficient freedom of thought or action to follow out his own conceptions. While at Rome he also became acquainted with Canova, who, although only one year older than himself, had already achieved great things. He was now at work on the monument of the Pope Ganganelli. The courteous, kind-hearted Italian would sometimes visit the poor German in his studio, and cheer him by his remarks and encouragement. Dannecker remained five years at Rome; he was then ordered to return to Stuttgard. As he had already greatly distinguished himself, the Duke of Wurtemburg received him with much kindness, and promised him his protection. Now, the protection and the patronage which a sovereign accords to an artist generally amounts to this: he begins by carving or painting the portrait of his patron, and of some of the various members of his patron's family. If these are approved of, he is allowed to stick a ribbon in his button-hole, and is appointed professor of fine arts, with a certain stipend, and thenceforth his time, his labour, and his genius belong as entirely to his master as those of a hired servant; his path is marked out for him. It was thus with Dannecker; he received a pension of eight hundred florins a year and his professorship, and upon the strength of this he married Henrietta Rapp. From this period his life has passed in a course of tranquil and uninterrupted occupation, yet, though constantly employed, his works are not numerous; almost every moment being taken up with the duties of his professorship, in trying to teach what no man of genius can teach, and in making drawings and designs after the fancies of the Grand Duke. He was required to compose a basso-relievo for the duke's private cabinet. The subject which he chose was as appropriate as it was beautifully treated--Alexander pressing his seal upon the lips of Parmenio. He modelled this in bas-relief, and the best judges pronounced it exquisite; but it did not please the duke, and instead of receiving an order to finish it in marble, he was obliged to throw it aside, and to execute some design dictated by his master. The original model remained for many years in his studio; but a short time before my last visit to him he had presented it as a birth-day gift to a friend. The first great work which gave him celebrity as a sculptor, was the mausoleum of Count Zeppelin, the duke's favourite, in which the figure of Friendship has much simplicity and grace: this is now at Louisberg. While he was modelling this beautiful figure, the first idea of the Ariadne was suggested to his fancy, but some years elapsed before it came into form. At this time he was much employed in executing busts, for which his fine eye for living nature and manly simplicity of taste peculiarly fitted him. In this particular department of his art he has neither equal nor rival, except our Chantrey. The best I have seen are those of Schiller, Gluck, and Lavater. Never are the fine arts, never are great artists, better employed than when they serve to illustrate and to immortalize each other! About the year 1808, Dannecker was considered, beyond dispute, the first sculptor in Germany; for as yet Rauch, Tieck, and Schwanthaler had not worked their way up to their present high celebrity. He received, in 1811, an intimation, that if he would enter the service of the king of Bavaria, he should be placed at the head of the school of sculpture at Munich, with a salary three times the amount of that which he at present enjoyed.-- MEDON. Which Dannecker declined? ALDA. He did. MEDON. I could have sworn to it--_extempore_! What is more touching in the history of men of genius than that deep and constant attachment they have shown to their early patrons! Not to go back to the days of Horace and Mecænas, nor even to those of Ariosto and Tasso and the family of Este, or Cellini and the Duke of Florence, or Lucas Kranach, and the Elector John Frederic--[16] do you remember Mozart's exclamation, when he was offered the most magnificent remuneration if he would quit the service of Joseph II. for that of the Elector of Saxony--"Shall I leave my good Emperor?" In the same manner Metastasio rejected every inducement to quit the service of Maria Theresa,---- ALDA. Add Goethe and the Duke of Weimar, and a hundred other instances. The difficulty would be to find _one_, in which the patronage of the great has not been repaid ten thousand fold in gratitude and fame. Dannecker's love for his native city, and his native princes, prevailed over his self-interest; his decision was honourable to his heart; but it is not less certain that at Munich he would have found more enlightened patronage, and a wider scope for his talents. Frederic, the late king of Wurtemburg, who had married our princess royal, was a man of a coarse mind and profligate habits. Napoleon had gratified his vulgar ambition by making him a king, and thereupon he stuck a huge, tawdry gilt crown on the top of his palace, the impudent sign of his subservient _majesty_. I never looked at it without thinking of an overgrown child and its new toy; he also, to commemorate the acquisition of his kingly titles, instituted the order of the Wurtemburg crown, and Dannecker was gratified by this new order of merit, and a bit of ribbon in his button-hole. But in the mean time the model of the Ariadne remained in his studio, and it was not till the year 1809 that he could afford to purchase a block of marble, and begin the statue on speculation. It occupied him for seven years, but in the interval he completed other beautiful works. The king ordered him to execute a Cupid in marble, for which he gave him the design. It was a design which displeased the pure mind and high taste of Dannecker; he would not so desecrate his divine art: "c'etait travailler pour le diable!" said he to me, in telling the story. He therefore only half fulfilled his commission; and changing the purpose and sentiment of the figure, he represented the Greek Cupid at the moment that he is waked by the drop of burning oil from Psyche's lamp. An English general, I believe Sir John Murray, saw this charming statue, in 1814, and immediately commanded a work from the sculptor's hands: he wished, but did not absolutely require, a duplicate of the statue he so admired. Dannecker, instead of repeating himself, produced his Psyche, whom he has represented--not as the Greek allegorical Psyche, the bride of Cupid, "with lucent fans, fluttering"--but as the abstract personification of the human soul; or, to use Dannecker's own words, "Ein rein, sittlich, sinniges Wesen,"--a pure, moral, intellectual being. As he had an idea that Love had become moral and sentimental after he had been waked by the drop of burning oil, so I could not help asking him whether this was Psyche, grown reasonable after she had beheld the wings of Love? He has not in this beautiful statue quite accomplished his own idea. It has much girlish grace and simplicity, but it wants elevation; it is not sufficiently ideal, and will not stand a comparison either with the Psyche of Westmacott, or that of Canova. The Ariadne was finished in 1816, but the sculptor was disappointed in his hope that this, his masterpiece, would adorn his native city. The king showed no desire to possess it, and it was purchased by M. Bethmann, of Frankfort, for a sum equal to about one thousand pounds. Soon after the Ariadne was finished, Dannecker conceived, in a moment of pious enthusiasm, his famous statue of the Redeemer, which has caused a great deal of discussion in Germany. This was standing in his work-room when we paid our first visit to him. He told me what I had often heard, that the figure had visited him in a dream three several times; and the good old man firmly believed that he had been divinely inspired, and predestined to the work. While the visionary image was fresh in his imagination, he first executed a small clay model, and placed it before a child of five or six years old;--there were none of the usual emblematical accompaniments--no cross--no crown of thorns to assist the fancy--nothing but the simple figure roughly modelled; yet the child immediately exclaimed, "The Redeemer!" and Dannecker was confirmed in his design. Gradually the completion of this statue became the one engrossing idea of his enthusiastic mind: for eight years it was his dream by night, his thought by day; all things else, all the affairs and duties of life, merged into this. He told me that he frequently felt as if pursued, excited by some strong, irresistible power, which would even visit him in sleep, and impel him to rise from his bed and work. He explained to me some of the difficulties he encountered, and which he was persuaded that he had perfectly overcome only through divine aid, and the constant study of the Scriptures. They were not few nor trifling. Physical power, majesty, and beauty, formed no part of the character of the Saviour of the world: the glory that was around him was not of this earth, nor visible to the eye; "there was nothing in him that he should be desired;" therefore to throw into the impersonation of exceeding humility and benignity a superhuman grace, and from material elements work out a manifestation of abstract moral grandeur--this was surely not only a new and difficult, but a bold and sublime enterprize. You remember Michael Angelo's statue of Christ in the church of Santa Maria sopra Minerva at Rome? MEDON. Perfectly; and I never looked at it without thinking of Neptune and his trident. ALDA. The same thought occurred to me, and must inevitably have occurred to others. Dannecker is not certainly so great a man as Michael Angelo, but here he has surpassed him. Instead of emulating the antique models, he has worked in the antique spirit--the spirit of faith and enthusiasm. He has taken a new form in which to clothe a grand poetical conception. Whether the being he has represented be a fit subject for the plastic art, has been disputed; but it appears to me that Dannecker has more nearly approached the christian ideal than any of his predecessors; there is nothing to be compared to it, except Titian's Christo della Moneta, and that is a head merely. The sentiment chosen by the sculptor is expressed in the inscription on the pedestal: "Through me, to the Father." The proportions of the figure are exceedingly slender and delicate; the attitude a little drooping; one hand is pressed on the bosom, the other extended; the lips are unclosed as in the act to speak. In the head and facial line, by carefully throwing out every indication of the animal propensities, and giving added importance and development to all that indicates the moral and intellectual faculties, he has succeeded in embodying a species of ideal, of which there is no other example in art. I have heard, (not from Dannecker himself,) that when the head of the Jupiter Tonans was placed beside the Christ, the merely physical grandeur of the former, compared with the purely intellectual expression of the latter, reminded every one present of a lion's head erect and humanized. MEDON. But what were your own impressions? After all this eulogium, which I believe to be just, tell me frankly, were you satisfied yourself? ALDA. No--not quite. The expression of the mouth in the last finished statue (he has repeated the subject three times) is not so fine as in the model, and the simplicity of the whole bordered on meagreness. This, I think, is a general fault in all Dannecker's works. He has of course avoided nudity, but the flowing robe, which completely envelopes the figure, is so managed as to disclose the exact form of the limbs. One little circumstance will give you an idea of the attention and accuracy with which he seized and embodied every touch of individual character conveyed in Holy Writ. In the original model he had made the beard rather full and thick, and a little curled, expressing the prime of manhood; but recollecting that in the gospel the Saviour is represented as sinking under the weight of the cross, which the first man they met accidentally was able to carry, he immediately altered his first conception, and gave to the beard that soft, flowing, downy texture which is supposed to indicate a feeble and delicate temperament. I shall not easily forget the countenance of the good and gifted old man, as, leaning on the pedestal, with his cap in his hand, and his long grey hair waving round his face, he looked up at his work with a mixture of reverence and exultation, saying, in his imperfect and scarce intelligible French, "Oui, quand on a fait comme cela, on reste sur la terre!" meaning, I suppose, that this statue had ensured his immortality on earth. He added, "They ask me often where are the models after which I worked? and I answer, _here_, and _here_;" laying his hand first on his head, then on his heart. I remember that when we first entered his room he was at work on one of the figures for the tomb of the late Queen Catherine of Wurtemburg. You perhaps recollect her in England when only Duchess of Oldenburg? MEDON. Yes; I remember, as a youngster, joining the mob who shouted before the windows of the Pulteney-hotel, and hailed her and her brother Alexander as if they had been a newly descended Jupiter and Juno! O verily, times are changed! ALDA. But in that woman there were the elements of a fine nature. She had the talents, the strength of mind, and far-reaching ambition of her grandmother, Catherine of Russia, but was not so perverted. During her short reign as Queen of Wurtemburg, the influence of her active mind was felt through the whole government. She founded, among other institutions, a school for the daughters of the nobility connected with the court,--in plain English, a charity-school for the nobility of Wurtemburg, who are among the most indigent and most ignorant of Germany. There are a few, very few, brilliant exceptions. One lady of rank said to me, "As to an English governess, _that_ is an advantage I can never hope to have for my daughters. The princesses have an English governess, but _we_ cannot dream of such a thing." The late queen really deserved the regrets of her people. The king, whose sluggish mind she ruled or stimulated, is now devoted to his stables and hunting. He has married another wife, but he has erected to the honour of Catherine a splendid mausoleum, on the peak of a high hill, which can be seen from almost every part of the city; and on the summer evenings when the red sun-set falls upon its white columns it is a beautiful object. The figure on which Dannecker was occupied, represented Prayer, or what he called, "La triomphe de la Prière;" it recalled to my mind Flaxman's lovely statue of the same subject,--the "Our Father which art in Heaven," but suffered by the involuntary comparison. On the rough base of the statue he had tried to spell the name of Chantrey, but not very successfully. I took up a bit of chalk and wrote underneath, in distinct characters, FRANCIS CHANTREY. "I grow old," said he, looking from his work to the bust of the late queen which stood opposite. "I have carved the effigies of three generations of poets, and as many of princes. Twenty years ago I was at work on the tomb of the Duke of Oldenburg, and now I am at work upon _her's_ who gave me that order. All die away: soon I shall be left alone. Of my early friends none remain but Goethe. I shall die before him, and perhaps he will write my epitaph." He spoke with a smile, not foreseeing that he would be the survivor. Three years afterwards[17] I again paid Dannecker a visit, but a change had come over him: his feeble, trembling hand could no longer grasp the mallet, or guide the chisel; his eyes were dim; his fine benevolent countenance wore a childish, vacant smile, now and then crossed by a gleam of awakened memory or thought--and yet he seemed so perfectly happy! He walked backwards and forwards, from his Christ to his bust of Schiller, with an unwearied self-complacency, in which there was something mournful, and yet delightful. While I sat looking at the magnificent head of Schiller, the original of the multifarious casts and copies which are dispersed through all Germany, he sat down beside me, and taking my hands between his own, which trembled with age and nervous emotion, he began to speak of his friend. "Nous etions amis dès l'enfance; aussi j'y ai travaillé avec amour, avec douleur--on ne peut pas plus faire." He then went on--"When Schiller came to Louisberg, he sent to tell me that he was very ill--that he should not live very long, and that he wished me to execute his bust. It was the first wish of my own heart. I went immediately. When I entered the house, I found a lady sitting on the _canapé_--it was Schiller's wife, and I did not know her; but she knew me. She said, 'Ah! you are Dannecker!--Schiller expects you;'--then she ran into the next room, where Schiller was lying down on a couch, and in a moment after he came in, exclaiming as he entered, 'Where is he? where is Dannecker?' That was the moment--the expression I caught--you see it here--the head raised, the countenance full of inspiration, and affection, and bright hope! I told him that to keep up this expression he must have some of his best friends to converse with him while I took the model, for I could not talk and work too. O if I could but remember what glorious things then fell from those lips! Sometimes I stopped in my work--I could not go on--I could only listen." And here the old man wept; then suddenly changing his mood, he said--"But I must cut off that long hair; he never wore it so; it is not in the fashion, you know!" I begged him for heaven's sake not to touch it; he then, with a sad smile, turned up the sleeve of his coat and showed me his wrist, swelled with the continual use of his implements--"You see I _cannot_!" And I could not help wishing at the moment, that while his mind was thus enfeebled, no transient return of physical strength might enable him to put his wild threat in execution. What a noble bequest to posterity is the effigy of a great man, when executed in such a spirit as this of Schiller! I assure you I could not look at it, without feeling my heart "overflow in silent worship" of moral and intellectual power, till the deification of great men in the old times appeared to me rather religion than idolatry. I have been affected in the same manner by the busts of Goethe, Scott, Homer, Milton, Howard, Newton;--never by the painted portraits of the same men, however perfect in resemblance and admirable in execution. MEDON. Painting gives us the material, sculpture the abstract, ethical aspect of the man. In the bust, whatever is common-place, familiar, and actual, is thrown out or kept down: in a picture it is not only retained, but, in most cases, it is necessarily obtrusive. Goethe, in a blue coat and metal buttons, and a white neckcloth, would not recall the author of the "Iphigenia;" still less does that wrinkled, decrepit-looking face, in the gallery at Hardwicke, portray Boyle, the philosopher. ALDA. Dannecker told me that he first modelled the head of Schiller the exact size of life, and conscientiously rendered each, even the slightest, individual trait; yet this head appeared to every one smaller than nature, and to himself almost _mesquin_.[18] He was in despair. He repeated the bust in a colossal size; and the development of the intellectual organization, on a larger scale, immediately gave what was wanting:--it appeared to the eye or to the mind's eye as only the size of life. He showed me a beautiful basso-relievo of the Muse of Tragedy, listening with an inspired look to the revelations of the Muse of History. This admirable little group struck me the more, because long ago I had clothed nearly the same idea in imperfect words. I took leave of Dannecker with emotion: I shall never see him again! But he is one of those who cannot die; to use his own expression--"Quand on a fait _comme cela_, on reste sur la terre." When Canova, then a melancholy invalid, paid him a visit, he was so struck by the child-like simplicity, the pure unworldly nature, the genuine goodness, and lively happy temperament of the German sculptor, that he gave him the surname of _il Beato_; and if the epithet _blessed_ can, with propriety, be bestowed on any mortal, it is on him whose long life has been one of labour and of love; who has left behind him lasting memorials of his genius; who has never profaned the talents which God has given him to any unworthy purpose:--but in the midst of all the beautiful and exciting influences of poetry and art, has kept from youth to age a soul serene, a conscience and a life pure in the sight of God and man. Such was our own Flaxman--such is Dannecker! MEDON. Who are now the principal sculptors in Germany? ALDA. Rauch, of Berlin; Christian Frederic Tieck, the brother of the celebrated poet and critic, Ludwig Tieck; and Schwanthaler, of Munich. Rauch is the court sculptor of Berlin. He has, like Dannecker,[19] his professorship, his order of merit,[20] and, I believe, one or two places under the government, besides constant employment in his art. He works _by the piece_, as the labourers say. But though he too has yoked his genius to the car of power and patronage, he has done great things. The statue of the late queen of Prussia is reckoned his _chef-d'oeuvre_, and is not, perhaps, exceeded in modern sculpture. It was conceived and worked out in all the inspiration of love and grief; as Dannecker would say, "Mit Lieb und Schmerzen." He had been attached to the queen's personal service, and shared, in an intense degree, the enthusiastic, devoted affection with which all her subjects regarded that beautiful and amiable woman. This statue he executed at Carrara; and a living eagle, which had been taken captive among the Appenines, was the original of that magnificent eagle he has placed at her feet:--nothing, you see, like going at once to nature! In the course of twenty-five years Rauch has executed sixty-nine busts, of which twenty are colossal. Among his numerous other works, designed or executed within the same time, there is the colossal statue of Blucher, now at Breslau; this is in bronze, upon a granite pedestal. There is another statue of Blucher at Berlin, of which the pedestal, rich with bas-reliefs, is also in bronze. Rauch has been employed for the last twenty years in modelling field-marshals and generals, and has devoted his best powers to vanquish the difficulties presented by monotonous faces, drilled figures, military uniforms, and regimental boots and buttons; and all that man _can_ do, I am told he has done. I have seen some of his busts, which are quite admirable. At Peterstein, near Munich, I saw his statue of a little girl, about ten years old, which, in its simplicity, truth, and elegance, reminded me of Chantrey's Lady Louisa Russell, though in conception and _manner_ as distinct as possible. The full length of Goethe, in his dressing-gown, of which there is such an infinitude of casts and copies throughout Germany, is also by Rauch. Christian Tieck is the old and intimate friend of Rauch. They live, or did live, under the same roof, and it is not known that a moment of jealousy or rivalship ever disturbed the union between these two celebrated and gifted men, who, starting nearly at the same time,[21] have run their brilliant career together in the self-same path, and, whatever judgment the world or posterity may form of their comparative merits, seem determined to enter the temple of immortality hand in hand. Tieck's works are dispersed from one end of Germany to the other. His statue of Neckar; his busts of Madame de Staël, of her second husband Rocca, of the Duke and Duchess de Broglie, and of A. W. Schlegel, I have seen; and all, particularly the busts of Rocca and Schlegel are exceedingly fine. At Munich, at Dresden, and at Weimar, I saw many of his works; and at Manheim the bust of Madame de Heygendorf,[22] full of beauty, and life, and expression. At Berlin, Tieck has been employed for many years in designing and executing the sculptured ornaments of the new theatre. There is a colossal Apollo; a Pegasus, striking the fountain of Helicon from the rock, colossal Muses, and a variety of other heathen perpetrations--all (as I am assured) exceedingly fine in their way. I believe his seated statue of Iffland (the Garrick of Germany) is considered one of his _chef-d'oeuvres_. He also, like Rauch, has been much employed in modelling generals and trophies, in memory of the late war. Schwanthaler, the son of a statuary of Munich, is still a young man; his works first began to create a sensation in Germany in the year 1823. In spirit and fire, and creative talent, in a fine classic feeling for his art, he appeared to me to be treading in the steps of Flaxman, and like _him_, he is a profound and accomplished scholar, who has sought inspiration at the very fountain of Greek poetry. His basso-relievo of the battle of the ships in the Iliad, his games of Greece, his designs from the Theogony of Hesiod, and a variety of other works which I have seen, appeared to me full of imagination, and in a pure and vigorous style of art. Of him, and some other sculptors, you will find more particulars in the note-book I kept at Munich; we will look over it together one of these days. MEDON. Thank you; but I must needs ask you a question. In the works you have enumerated, nothing has struck me as new, or in a new spirit, except perhaps the Christ of Dannecker, and the statue of the queen of Prussia. Now, why should not sculpture have its Gothic (or romantic) school, as well as its antique, or classical school? ALDA. And has it not? MEDON. If you allude to the sculpture of the middle ages, _that_ has not become a school of art, like their architecture and their painting: yet can it be true that there is something in our modern institutions, our northern descent, our christian faith, inimical to the spirit of sculpture?--and, while poetry in every other form is regenerate around us, that in sculpture alone we are doomed to imitate, never to create?--doomed to the servile reproduction of the same ideas? that this alone, of all the fine arts, is to belong to some peculiar mode of existence, some peculiar mode of thinking, feeling, and believing? "Qui me delivrera des Grecs et des Remains?"--who will deliver me from gods and goddesses, and from all these "Repetitions, wearisome of sense, Where soul is dead, and feeling hath no place?" ALDA. You are little better than a heretic in these matters. But I will admit thus much--that the classical and mythological sculpture of our modern artists, is to the ancient marbles, what Racine's tragedies are to those of Sophocles; that we are so far condemned to the "repetition wearisome of _forms_," from which the ancient spirit has evaporated; but that is not the fault of the subjects, but of the manner of treating them, for never can the beautiful mythology of ancient Greece, which has woven itself into our earliest dreams of poetry, become a "creed out-worn." Its forms, and its symbols, and its imagery, have mingled with every branch of art, and become a universal language. It is the deification of the material world; and therefore, that art, which in its perfection may be called the apotheosis of form, finds there its proper region and element. MEDON. You do not suppose that, with all my Gothic tastes, I am such a Goth as not to feel the truth of what you say? But I am an enemy to the exclusive in every thing; and--pardon me--your worship of the Elgin marbles and the Niobe, is, I think, a little too exclusive. All I ask is, that modern sculpture should be allowed, like painting and poetry, to have its romantic, as well as its classical school. ALDA. It has been otherwise decided. MEDON. But it has not been otherwise proved. There has been much theoretical eloquence and criticism expended on the subject, but I deny that the experiment has been fairly and practically brought before us. I know very well you are ready with a thousand instances of attempt and failure, but may we not seek the cause in the mistaken application of certain classical, or, I should say, pedantic ideas on the subject? If I ask for Milton's Satan, standing like a tower in his spiritual might, his thunder-scarred brow wreathed with the diadem of hell, why am I to be presented with an Athlete, or an Achilles? Why would Canova give us for the head of Dante's Beatrice that of a muse, or an Aspasia? and for Petrarch's Laura, a mere _tête de nymphe_? I contend that to apply the forms suggested by the modern poetry demands a different spirit from that of classic art. How to apply or modify the example bequeathed to us by the great masters of old, Flaxman has shown us in his Dante. And why should we not have in sculpture a Lear as well as a Laocoon? a Constance as well as a Niobe? a Gismunda as well as a Cleopatra?---- ALDA. Or a Tam o'Shanter as well as a laughing Faun? MEDON. When I am serious and poetical, which is not often, I will not allow you to be perverse and ironical! ALDA. See, here is a passage which I have just found among Mrs. Austin's beautiful specimens of translation: "The critic of art ought to keep in view, not only the capabilities, but the proper objects of art. Not all that art can accomplish ought she to attempt. It is from this cause alone, and because we have lost sight of these principles, that art among us has become more extensive and difficult, and less effective and perfect."[23] MEDON. Very well,--and very true:--but who shall bring a rule and compass to measure the capabilities of art, and define its proper objects? May there not exist in the depths or heights of philosophy and art, truths yet to be revealed, as there are stars in heaven, whose light has not yet reached the naked eye? and why should not criticism have its telescope for truth, as well as its microscope for error? Art may be finite; but who shall fix its limits, and say, "thus far shalt thou go?" There are those who regard the distant as the unattainable, the unknown as the unexisting, the actual as the necessary;--are you one of such, O you of little faith! For my own part, I look forward to a new era in sculpture. I believe that the purely natural and the purely ideal are _one_, and susceptible of forms and modifications as yet untried. For Nature, the infinite, sits within her tabernacle, not made by human hands, and Genius and Love are the cherubim, to whom it is permitted to look into her unveiled eyes, and reflect their light; Art is the priestess of her divine mysteries, and Criticism, the door-keeper of her temple, should be Janus-headed, looking forward as well as backward. Reason estimates what has been done; Imagination alone divines what _may_ be done. But I am losing myself in these reveries. To attempt something new,--perfectly new in style and conception--and spend, like Dannecker, eight years in working out that conception--and then perhaps eight years more waiting for a purchaser, and this in a country where one must eat and pay taxes--truly, it is not easy. SKETCHES OF ART, LITERATURE, AND CHARACTER. III. MEDON. You have been frowning and musing in your chair for the last half-hour, with your fore-finger between the leaves of your book--where were your thoughts? ALDA. They were far--very far! I am afraid that I appear very stupid? MEDON. O not at all! you know there are stars which appear dim and fixed to the eye, while they are taking flights and making revolutions, which imagination cannot follow nor science compute. ALDA. Upon my word, you are very sublimely ironical--my thoughts were not quite so far. MEDON. May one beg, or borrow them?--What is your book? ALDA. Mrs. Austin's "Characteristics of Goethe." I came upon a passage which sent back my thoughts to Weimar. I was again in his house; the faces, the voices of his grandchildren were around me; the room in which he studied, the bed in which he slept, the old chair in which he died,--and, above all, _her_ in whose arms he died--from whose lips I heard the detail of his last moments-- * * * * * MEDON. What! all this emotion for Goethe? ALDA. For Goethe!--I should as soon think of weeping because the sun set yesterday, which now is pouring its light around me! Our tears are for those who suffer, for those who die, for those who are absent, for those who are cold or lost--not for those who cannot die, who cannot suffer,--who must be, to the end of time, a presence and an existence among us! No. But I was reading here, among the Characteristics of Goethe, who certainly "knew all qualities, with a learned spirit in human dealings," that he was not only the quick discerner and most cordial hater of all affectation;--but even the unconscious affectation--the _nature de convention_,--the taught, the artificial, the acquired in manner or character, though it were meritorious in itself, he always detected, and it appeared to impress him disagreeably. Stay, I will read you the passage--here it is. "Even virtue, laboriously and painfully acquired, was distasteful to him. I might almost affirm, that a faulty but vigorous character, if it had any real native qualities as its basis, was regarded by him with more indulgence and respect than one which, at no moment of its existence, is genuine; which is incessantly under the most unamiable constraint, and consequently imposes a painful constraint on others. 'Oh,' said he, sighing, on such occasions, 'if they had but the heart to commit some absurdity, that would be something, and they would at least be restored to their own natural soil, free from all hypocrisy and acting: wherever that is the case, one may entertain the cheering hope that something will spring from the germ of good which nature implants in every individual. But on the ground they are now upon, nothing can grow.' 'Pretty dolls,' was his common expression when speaking of them. Another phrase was, 'That's a piece of nature,' (literally, _das ist eine Natur_, that is a nature,) which from Goethe's lips was considerable praise."[24] This last phrase threw me back upon my remembrances. I thought of the daughter-in-law of the poet,--the trusted friend, the constant companion, the devoted and careful nurse of his last years. It accounted for the unrivalled influence which apparently she possessed--I will not say _over_ his mind--but _in_ his mind, in his affections; for in her he found truly _eine Natur_--a piece of nature, which could bear even _his_ microscopic examination. All other beings who approached Goethe either were, or had been, or might be, more or less modified by the action of that universal and master spirit. Consciously, or unconsciously, in love or in fear, they bowed down before him, and gave up their individuality, or forgot it, in his presence; they took the bent he chose to impress, or the colour he chose to throw upon them. Their minds, in presence of his, were as opake bodies in the sun, absorbing in different degrees, reflecting in various hues, his vital beams; but HER'S was, in comparison, like a transparent medium, through which the rays of that luminary passed,--pervading and enlightening, but leaving no other trace. Conceive a woman, a young, accomplished, enthusiastic woman, who had qualities to attach, talents to amuse, and capacity to appreciate, GOETHE; who, for fourteen or fifteen years, could exist in daily, hourly communication with that gigantic spirit, yet retain, from first to last, the most perfect simplicity of character, and this less from the strength than from the purity and delicacy of the original texture. Those oft-abused words, _naïve_, _naïveté_, were more applicable to her in their fullest sense than to any other woman I ever met with. Her conversation was the most untiring I ever enjoyed, because the stores which fed that flowing eloquence were all native and unborrowed: you were not borne along by it as by a torrent--_bongré_, _malgré_,--nor dazzled as by an artificial _jet d'eau_ set to play for your amusement. There was the obvious wish to please--a little natural _coquetterie_-- vivacity without effort, sentiment without affectation, exceeding mobility, which yet never looked like caprice; and the most consummate refinement of thought, and feeling, and expression. From that really elegant and highly-toned mind, nothing flippant nor harsh could ever proceed; slander died away in her presence; what was evil she would not hear of; what was malicious she would not understand; what was ridiculous she would not see. Sometimes there was a wild, artless fervour in her impulses and feelings, which might have become a feather-cinctured Indian on her savannah; then, the next moment, her bearing reminded you of the court-bred lady of the bed-chamber. Quick in perception, yet femininely confiding, uniting a sort of restless vivacity with an indolent gracefulness, she appeared to me by far the most poetical and genuine being of my own sex I ever knew in highly-cultivated life: one to whom no wrong could teach mistrust; no injury, bitterness; one to whom the common-place realities, the vulgar necessary cares of existence, were but too indifferent;--who was, in reality, all that other women try to appear, and betrayed, with a careless independence, what they most wish to conceal. I draw from the life,--now, what would you say to such a woman if you met with her in the world? MEDON. I should say--she had no business there. ALDA. How? MEDON. I repeat that the woman you have just portrayed is hardly fit for the world. ALDA. Say rather, the world is not fitted for her. As the Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath, so the world was made for man, not man for the world--still less woman. MEDON. Do you know what you mean? ALDA. I think I do, though I am afraid I can but ill-explain myself. By the world, I mean that system of social life in all its complicate bearings by which we are surrounded; which was, I suppose, devised at first with a reference to the wants, the happiness, and the benefit of men, but for which no _man_ was specifically created; his being has a high and individual purpose beyond the world. Now, it seems to me one reason of the low average of what we call _character_, that we judge a human soul, not as it is abstractedly, but simply in relation to others, and to the circumstances around it. If it be in harmony with the world, and worldly, we praise it--it is a very respectable soul; if so constituted, that it is in discord with a world, (which, observe, all our philosophers, our pastors, and our masters, unite to assure us, is a sad wicked place, and must be reformed or renounced forthwith,) then--I pray your attention to this point--_then_ the fault, the bitter penalty, lies not upon this said wicked world,--O no!--but on that unlucky "piece of nature," which in its power, its goodness, its purity, its truth, its faith, and its tenderness, stands aloof from it. Is it not so? MEDON. Do you apply this personally? ALDA. No, generally; but I return to her who suggested the thought, and whom I ought not, perhaps, to have made the subject of such a conversation as this: it is against all my principles, contrary to my custom; and, in truth, I speak of one in whom there is so much to love, that we cannot praise without being accused of partiality; and so much to admire, that we could not censure without being suspected of envy. I might as well be silent therefore. Yet shall such a woman bear such a name, and hold such a position as the mother of Goethe's posterity;[25]--shall she be rendered by both a mark for observation, from one end of Europe to the other;--shall she be "condemned to celebrity," and shall it be allowed to ignorance, or ill-nature, or vanity, to prate of her;--and shall it be forbidden to friendship even to speak?--that were hardly just. Of those effusions of her creative and poetical talents, which charm her friends, I say nothing, because in all probability neither you nor the public will ever benefit by them. I met with several other women in Germany who possessed striking poetical genius, and whose compositions were equally destined to remain unknown, except to the circle of their immediate friends and relatives. MEDON. Mr. Hayward, in his notes to his translation of Faust, remarks on the strong prejudice against female authorship, which still exists in Germany; but he has hopes that it will not endure, and that something may be done "to unlock the stores of fancy and feeling which the Ottilies and the Adèles have hived up." Tell me--did you find this prejudice entertained by the women themselves, or existing chiefly on the part of the men? ALDA. It was expressed most strongly by the women, but it must have originated with the men. All your prejudices you instil into us; and then we are not satisfied with adopting them, we exaggerate them--we mix them up with our fancies and affections, and transmit them to your children. You are "the mirrors in which we dress ourselves." MEDON. For which you dress yourselves! ALDA. Psha!--I mean that your minds and opinions are the mirrors in which we form our own. You legislate for us, mould us, form us as you will. If you prefer slaves and playthings to companions and helpmates, is that our fault? In Germany I met with some men who, perhaps out of compliment, descanted with enthusiasm on female talent, and in behalf of female authorship; but the women almost uniformly spoke of the latter with dread, as something formidable, or with contempt, as of something beneath them: what is an unworthy prejudice in your sex, becomes, when transplanted into ours, a _feeling_;--a mistaken, but a genuine, and even a generous feeling. Many women, who have sufficient sense and simplicity of mind to rise above the mere _prejudice_, would not contend with the _feeling_: they would not scruple to encounter the public judgment in a cause approved by their own hearts, but they have not courage to brave or to oppose the opinions of friends and kindred-- MEDON. Or risk the loss of a lover. You remember the axiom of that clever Frenchman,[26] who certainly spoke the existing opinions of his country only a few years ago, when he said--"Imprimer, pour une femme de moins de cinquante ans c'est mettre son bonheur à la plus terrible des lotteries; si elle a un amant elle commencera par le perdre." ALDA. I really believe that in Germany the latter catastrophe would be in most cases inevitable; and where is the woman who knowingly would risk it? MEDON. All, however, have not lovers to lose, or husbands to displease, or friends to affront; and if the women, in compliance with our self-revolving egotism, affect to prostrate themselves, and undervalue one another--do the men allow it to this extent? Do not the Germans most justly boast, that in their land arose the first feeling of veneration for women, the result of the Christian dispensation, grafted on the old German manners? Do they not point to their literature and their institutions, as more favourable to your sex than any other? Does not even Madame de Staël exalt the fine earnestness of the German feeling towards you, infinitely above the system of French gallantry?--that flimsy veil of conventional good-breeding, under which we seek to disguise the demoralization of one sex, and the virtual slavery of the other? Have I not heard you say, that it is the present fashion among the poets, artists, and writers of Germany, to defer in all things to the middle ages? Are not the maxims and sentiments of chivalry ready on their lips, the forms and symbols of the old chivalrous times to be traced in every department of literature and art among them? ALDA. All this is true; and I will believe that all this is something more than mere theory, when I see the Germans less slovenly in their interior, and less egotistical in their domestic relations. The theme is unwelcome, unpleasant, ungraceful,--in fact, I can scarcely persuade myself to say one word against those high-minded, benevolent, admirable, and "most-thinking people;" so I will not dwell upon it: but I must confess that the personal negligence of the men, and the forbearance of the women on this point, astonished me. I longed to remind these worshippers of the age of chivalry of that advice of St. Louis to his son--"Il faut être toujours propre et bien proprement habillé, afin d'être _mieux aimé de sa femme_;" the really good-natured and well-bred Germans will, I am sure, forgive this passing remark, and allow its truth: they _did_ at once agree with me, that the tavern-life of the men, more particularly the clever professional men in the south of Germany, (another remnant, I presume, either of the age of chivalry, or the Bürschen-sitten--I know not which,) was calculated to retard the social improvement and refinement of both sexes. And, apropos to chivalry, the fact is, that the institutions of a generous but barbarous period, invented to shield our helplessness, when women were exposed to every hardship, every outrage, have been much abused, and must be considerably modified to suit a very different state of society. That affectation of poetical homage, which your strength paid to our weakness, when the laws were not sufficient to defend us, we would now gladly exchange for more real honour, more real protection, more equal rights. I speak thus, knowing that, however open to perversion these expressions may be, _you_ will not misapprehend me; you know that I am no vulgar, vehement arguer about the "rights of women;" and, from my habitual tone of feeling and thought, the last to covet any of your masculine privileges. MEDON. I do perfectly understand you; but, pray what are our strictly masculine privileges, that you should covet them? Fighting! getting drunk! and keeping a mistress!--I beg your pardon if I shock your delicacy; but certainly, upon the score of masculine privileges, the less that is said the better: there are nations in which it is a masculine privilege to sit and smoke, while women draw the plough. It was some time ago,--and now, in some countries, it is still a masculine privilege to cultivate the mind at all; and in Germany, apparently, it is still a masculine privilege to publish a book without losing _caste_ in society; whereas here, in England, we have fallen into the opposite extreme; female authorship is in danger of becoming a fashion,--which Heaven avert! I should be sorry to see you women taking the pen you have hitherto so honoured, in the same spirit in which you used to make filigree, cobble shoes, and paint velvet. ALDA. It is too true that mere vanity and fashion have lately made some women authoresses;--more write for money, and by this employment of their talents earn their own independence, add to the comforts of a parent, or supply the extravagance of a husband. Some, who are unhappy in their domestic relations, yet endowed with all that feminine craving after sympathy, which was intended to be the charm of our sex, the blessing of yours, and somehow or other has been turned to the bane of both, look abroad for what they find not at home; fling into the wide world the irrepressible activity of an overflowing mind and heart, which can find no other unforbidden issue,--and to such "fame is love disguised." Some write from the mere energy of intellect and will; some few from the pure wish to do good, and to add to the stock of happiness and the progress of thought; and many from all these motives combined in different degrees. MEDON. And have none of these motives produced authoresses in Germany? ALDA. Yes; but fashion and vanity, and the love of excitement, have not as yet tempted the German women to print their effusions; their most distinguished authoresses have become so, either from real enthusiasm or from necessity; and in the lighter departments of literature they boast at present some brilliant names. I will run over a few. There is Helmina von Chezy--but before I speak of _her_, I should tell you of her famous grandmother, Anna Louisa Karshin, though _she_ belonged to the last century. The Karshin was the daughter of a poor innkeeper and brewer, in a little village of Silesia. She spent her early years in herding cows. She learned to read by stealth, by stealth she became a poetess; was first married to a boorish sulky weaver, secondly to a drunken tailor, and suffered for years every extremity of poverty and misery; at one time she travelled about the neighbouring country, the first example of an itinerant poetess, declaiming her own verses, and always ready with an ode or a sonnet to celebrate a wedding, or hail a birthday. In this strange profession she excited much astonishment--went through some singular, but not disreputable adventures--and earned considerable sums of money, which her husband spent in drink and profligacy. Gifted with as much energy as genius, she struggled through all, and gradually became known to several of the critics and poets of the last century, particularly Count Stolberg and Gleim, and obtained the title of the German Sappho. She found means to reach Berlin, where she worked her way up to distinction, and supported herself, two children, and an orphan brother, by her talents. She was recommended to Frederick the Great as worthy of a pension, and--would you believe it?--that _munificent_ patron of his country's genius, sent her a gratuity of two dollars, in a piece of paper. This extraordinary and spirited woman, who had probably subsisted for half her life on charity, instantly returned them to the niggardly despot, after writing in the envelope four lines impromptu, which are yet repeated in Germany. I am not quite sure that I remember them accurately, and it is no matter, for they have not much either of poetry or point. "Zwey Thaler sind zu wenig; Zwey Thaler macht kein Glück; Zwey Thaler gebt kein König; Fritz, hier send ich sie zurück." She died in 1791, and a selection of her poems was published in the following year. The granddaughter of the Karshin, the more celebrated Helmina von Chezy, is likewise a poetess; her principal work is a tale of chivalry, in verse, _Die drei Weissen Rosen_, (The three White Roses) which was published in 18--, and she wrote the opera of Euryanthe, for Weber to set to music. Her songs and lighter poems are, I am told, exceedingly beautiful. Caroline Pichler, of Vienna, I need only mention. I believe her historical romances have been translated into half-a-dozen languages. The Siege of Vienna is reckoned her best. Madame Schoppenhauer, the daughter of a senator of Dantzic, is celebrated for her novels, travels, and works on art. She resided for many years at Weimar, where she drew round her a brilliant literary circle, which the talents of her daughter farther adorned. Since Goethe's death she has fixed her residence at Bonn, where it is probable the remainder of her life will be spent. One of the best of her novels, "Die Tante," has been translated by Madame de Montolieu, under the title of "La Tante et la Nièce." Another very pretty little book of hers, "Ausflucht an dem Rhein," I should like to see translated. Beside being an excellent writer on art, Madame Schoppenhauer is herself no mean artist. Moreover, she is a kind-hearted, excellent old lady, with a few old lady-like prejudices about England and the English, which I forgave her,--the more easily as I had to thank her in my own person for many and kind attentions. Madame von Helvig, of Weimar, (born Amalia von Imhoff,) was the friend of Schiller, under whose auspices her first poems were published. Her rare knowledge of languages, her learning and critical taste in works of arts, have distinguished her almost as much as her genius for poetry. The second wife of the Baron de la Motte-Fouquet, was a very accomplished woman, and the author of several poems and romances. Frederica Brun, (born Münter,) the daughter of a learned ecclesiastic of Gotha, is celebrated for her prose writings, and particularly her travels in Italy, where she resided at different periods. Madame Brun was a friend of Madame de Staël, who mentions her in her de l'Allemagne, and describes the extraordinary talents for classical pantomime possessed by her daughter Ida Brun. Louisa Brachmann is, I believe, more renowned for her melancholy death than her poetical talents; both together have procured her the name of the "German Sappho." The wretched woman threw herself into the river at Halle, and perished, as it was said, for the sake of some faithless Phaon. This was in 1822, when she must have been between forty and fifty; and pray observe, I do not notice this fact of her age in ridicule. A woman's heart may overflow _inwardly_ for long, long years, till at last the accumulated sorrow bursts the bounds of reason, and then all at once we see the result of causes to which none gave heed, and of secret agonies to which none gave comfort--in folly, madness, destruction. Whatever might have been the cause,--thus she died. Her works in prose and verse may be found in every bookseller's shop in Germany. There is also a life of this unhappy and gifted woman by professor Schutz. Fanny Tarnow is one of the most remarkable and most fertile of all the modern German authoresses. Her genius was developed by misfortune and suffering: while yet an infant, she fell from a window two stories high, and was taken up, to the amazement of the assistants, without any apparent injury, except a few bruises; but all the vital functions suffered, and during ten or twelve years she was extended on a couch, neither joining in any of the amusements of childhood, nor subjected to the usual routine of female education. She educated herself. She read incessantly, and, as it was her only pleasure, books of every description, good and bad, were furnished her without restraint. She was about eleven years old when she made her first _known_ poetical attempt, inspired by her own feelings and situation. It was a dialogue between herself and the angel of death. In her seventeenth year she was sufficiently recovered to take charge of her father's family, after he had lost, by some sudden misfortune, his whole property. He held subsequently, a small office under government, the duties of which were principally performed by his admirable daughter. Her first writings were anonymous, and for a long time her name was unknown. Her most celebrated novel, the "Thekla," was published in 1815; and from this time she has enjoyed a high and public reputation. Fanny Tarnow resides, or did reside, in Dresden. I have yet another name here, and not the least interesting, that of Johanna von Weissenthurn, one of the most popular dramatic writers in Germany. She was educated for the stage, even from infancy, her parents and relations being, I believe, strolling players. She lived, for many years, a various life of toil, and adventure, and excitement; such, perhaps, as Goethe describes in the Wilhelm Meister; a life which does sometimes blunt the nicer feelings, but is sure to develop talent where it exists. Johanna at length rose through all the grades of her profession, and became the first actress at the principal theatre at Vienna. She played in the "Phoedra," before Napoleon, when he occupied the Austrian capital in 1806, and the conqueror sent to her, after the performance, a complimentary message, and a gratuity of three thousand francs; but her lasting reputation is founded on her dramatic works, which are played in every theatre in Germany. The plots, which, I am told, are remarkable for fancy and invention, have been borrowed, without acknowledgment, both by French and English playwrights. I was quite charmed with one of her pieces which I saw at Munich, (Die Erben--the Heirs,) and with another which was represented at Frankfort. Johanna von Weissenthurn has also written poems and tales. I have come to the end of my memoranda on this subject, and regret it much. I might easily give you more names, and quote second-hand the opinions I heard of the merits and characteristics of these authoresses; but I speak of nothing but what I _know_, and not being able to form any judgment myself, I will give none. Only it appears to me that the Germans themselves assign to no female writer the same rank which here we proudly give to Joanna Baillie and Mrs. Hemans. I could hear of none who had ever exercised any thing like the moral influence possessed by Maria Edgeworth and Harriet Martineau, in their respective departments; nor could learn that any German woman had yet given _public_ proof that the most feminine qualities were reconcilable with the highest scientific attainments--like Mrs. Marcet and Mrs. Somerville. MEDON. You said the other night, that you had not formed any opinion as to the moral and social position of the women in Germany; but you must have brought away some general impressions of manner and character;--frankly, were they favourable or unfavourable? ALDA. Frankly, they were most favourable. Remember that I am not prepared with any general sweeping conclusions: I cannot assure you from my own knowledge, that among my own sex the proportion of virtue and happiness is greater in Germany than in England. On the contrary-- ----In every land I saw, wherever light illumineth, Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand, The downward slope to death. In every land I thought that, more or less, The stronger, sterner nature overbore The softer, uncontroll'd by gentleness, And selfish evermore![27] --Why do you smile? MEDON. You amuse me with the perseverance with which you ring the changes on your favourite text, in prose and in verse; and yet, to adopt Voltaire's witty metaphor, _we_ are the hammers and _you_ the anvils all the world over. But is that all? You need not have gone to Germany to verify that! ALDA. No, sir; it is not _all_. In the first place, you know I have a sufficient contempt for our English intolerance, with regard to manners-- MEDON. Why, yes; with reason. The influence of mere _manner_ among our fashionable people, and the stress laid upon it as a distinction, have become so vulgarized and abused, that I should be relieved even by a reaction which should throw us out of the insipidity of conventional manner into primeval rudeness. ALDA. No, no, no!--no extremes: but though so sensible to the ridicule of referring the social habits, opinions, customs, of other nations, to the arbitrary standard of our own, still I could not help falling into comparisons; certain distinctions between the German and the English women struck me involuntarily. In the highest circles a stranger finds society much alike every where. A court-ball--the _soirée_ of an ambassadress--a minister's dinner--present nearly the same physiognomy. It is in the second class of society, which is also every where, and in every sense, the best, that we behold the stamp of national character. I was not condemned to see my German friends always _en grande toilette_; I had better opportunities of judging and appreciating their domestic habits and manners, than most travellers enjoy. I thought the German women, of a certain rank, more _natural_ than we are. The moral education of an English girl is, for the most part, _negative_; the whole system of duty is thus presented to the mind. It is not "this you must do;" but always "you must not do this--you must not say that--you must not think so;" and if by some hardy, expanding nature, the question be ventured, "Why?"--the mamma or the governess are ready with the answer--"It is not the custom--it is not lady-like--it is ridiculous!" But is it wrong?--why is it wrong?--and then comes answer, pat--"My dear, you must not argue--young ladies never argue." "But, mamma, I was thinking----" "My dear, you must not think--go write your Italian exercise," and so on! The idea that certain passions, powers, tempers, feelings, interwoven with our being by our almighty and all-wise Creator, are to be put down by the fiat of a governess, or the edict of fashion, is monstrous. Those who educate us imagine that they have done every thing, if they have silenced controversy, if they have suppressed all external demonstration of an excess of temper or feeling; not knowing, or not reflecting, that unless our nature be self-governed and self-directed by an appeal to those higher faculties, which link us immediately with what is divine, their labour is lost. Now, in Germany the women are less educated to suit some particular fashion; the cultivation of the intellect, and the forming of the manners, do not so generally supersede the training of the moral sentiments--the affections--the impulses; the latter are not so habitually crushed or disguised; consequently the women appeared to me more natural, and to have more individual character. MEDON. But the English women pique themselves on being natural, at least they have the word continually in their mouths. Do you know that I once overheard a well-meaning mother instructing her daughter how to be natural? You laugh, but I assure you it is a simple fact. Now, I really do not object to natural insipidity, but I do object to conventional insipidity: I object to a rule of elegance which makes the negative the test of the natural. It seems hard that those who have hearts and souls must needs put them into a strait-waistcoat, in order to oblige those who choose to have none; and be guilty of the grossest affectation, to escape the imputation of being affected! ALDA. I think there is less of this among the Germans; more of the individual character is brought into the daily intercourse of society--more of the poetry of existence is brought to bear on the common realities of life. I saw a freshness of feeling--a genuine (not a taught) simplicity, which charmed me. Sometimes I have seen affectation, but it amused me; it consisted in the exaggeration of what is in itself good, not in the mean renunciation of our individuality--the immolation of our soul's truth to a mere fashion of behaviour. As Rochefoucauld called hypocrisy, (that last extreme of wickedness,) "_the homage which vice pays to virtue_;" so the _nature de convention_, that last and worst excess of affectation, is the homage which the artificial pays to the natural. The German women are much more engrossed by the cares of housekeeping than women of a similar rank of life in England. They carry this too far in many instances, as we do the opposite extreme. In England, with our false, conventional refinement, we attach an idea of vulgarity to certain cares and duties, in which there is nothing vulgar. To see the young and beautiful daughter of a lady of rank running about, busied in household matters, with the keys of the wine-cellar and the store-room suspended to her sash, would certainly surprise a young Englishwoman, who, meantime, is netting a purse, painting a rose, or warbling some "Dolce mio Bene," or "Soavi Palpiti," with the air of a nun at penance. The description of Werther's Charlotte, cutting bread and butter, has been an eternal subject of laughter among the English, among whom fine sentiment must be garnished out with something finer than itself; and no princess can be suffered to go mad, or even be in love, except in white satin. To any one who has lived in Germany, the union of sentiment and bread and butter, or of poetry with household cares, excites no laughter. The wife of a state minister once excused herself from going with me to a picture gallery, because on that day she was obliged to reckon up the household linen; she was one of the most charming, truly elegant, and accomplished women I ever met with. At another time, I remember that a very accomplished woman, who had herself figured in a court, could not do something or other--I forget what--because it was the "grösse Wäsche," (the great wash,) an event by the way which I often found very mal-a-propos, and which never failed to turn a German household upside down. You must remember that I am not speaking of tradesmen and mechanics, but of people of my own, or even a superior rank of life. It is true that I met with cases in which the women had, without necessity, sunk into mere domestic drudges--women whose souls were in their kitchen and their household stuff--whose talk was of dishes and of condiments; but then the same species of women in England would have been, instead of busy with the idea of being useful, frivolous and silly, without any idea at all. MEDON. And whether a woman put her soul into an apple tart, or a new bonnet, signifies little, if there be no capacity there for any thing better. I hate mere fine ladies; but equally avoid those who seem born to "suckle fools and chronicle small beer." The accomplishments which embellish social life--the cultivation which raises you to a companionship with men--I cannot spare these to make mere nurses and housewifes, as I conceive the generality of the German women aim to be, and which I have been told the opinions of the men approve. ALDA. As to what we term accomplishments, there was certainly much less exhibition and parade of them in society; they formed less an established and necessary part of education than with us; but, of really accomplished, well-informed women, believe me I found no deficiency--far otherwise: if the inclination or the talent existed, means and opportunity were not wanting for mental culture of a very high species. I met with fewer women who drew badly, sang tolerably, or rather intolerably, scratched the harp, and quoted Metastasio; but I met with quite as many women who, without pretension, were finished musicians, painted like artists, possessed an extensive acquaintance with their own literature, and an uncommon knowledge of languages; and were, besides, very good housewives after the German fashion. More or less acquaintance with the French language was a matter of course, but English was preferred: every where I met with women who had cultivated with success, not our language merely, but our literature. Shakspeare, whether studied in English, or in some of their excellent translations, I found a species of household god, whose very name was breathed with reverence, as if it were that of a supernatural being. Lord Byron, and Sir Walter Scott, and Campbell, are familiar names. Wordsworth and Shelley are beginning to be known, but they are pronounced more difficult of comprehension than Shakspeare himself; yet I met with a German lady who could repeat Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner" by heart. Of our great modern poets, Crabbe appeared the least understood and appreciated in Germany, for the obvious reason, that his subjects and portraits are almost exclusively national. There are, however, several German editions of his works. The men read him as a study. The only German lady I met with who had read his works through, pronounced them "not poetry." Bulwer is exceedingly popular among the women; so is Moore. Some of those who most admired the latter, gave as one reason that "his English style was so easy." MEDON. Of all our poets, Moore should seem the least allied to a German taste. Shall I confess to you? He reminds me perpetually of Prince Potemkin's larder, in which you could always have _petits-patés_ and champagne, _ad libitum_, but never a morsel of bread or a drop of water! ALDA. The simile is e'en too wickedly just; but I except his Irish ballads: by the way, I was pleased to find some of our beautiful Irish melodies almost naturalized in Germany, and sung either with Moore's words, or German versions of them. I remember that at Stift-Neuberg I heard the air of Ally Croker sung to an excellent translation of Moore's words,[28] and with as much of the national spirit and feeling as if we had been on the banks of the Shannon instead of the banks of the Neckar. The singer, an amateur, and a most extraordinary musical genius, who had joined our circle from Heidelberg, did not understand, or at least did not speak, English; yet there was no Irish, or Scotch, or English air which he had not at the ends of his fingers; and when he struck up, "Of noble race was Shenkin," it was as if all the souls of all the Welsh harpers since High-born Hoel had inspired him. This gifted person was, however, of your sex, and our discourse, at present, is of mine. I heard an English lady, who had resided for some time in Germany, remark, that the "German mothers _spoiled_ their children terribly;" in other words, the children lived more habitually with the mothers, were under little restraint, and behaved in the drawing-room much as if they were in the nursery, and were treated, as they grew up, on more equal terms. That high exterior polish, those brilliant conversational talents, which I have seen in many English and French women, must be rare among the Germans: they are too simple, and too much in earnest. The trifling of a polished French woman is often most graceful; the trifling of an Englishwoman gracious and graceful; but the trifling of a German woman is, in comparison, heavy work; to use a common expression, it is not _in them_. I met with _one_ satirical woman. You know I once ventured to assert that no woman is _naturally_ satirical, and to touch upon the causes which foster this artificial vice--and here was a case in point. It was that of a mind which had originally been a piece of nature's noblest handiwork, first bruised, then gradually festered by the action of all evil influences. MEDON. And, "lilies that fester are far worse than weeds," so singeth the poet; but do you make the cause also the excuse? How many minds have endured the most withering influences of misery and mischief, if not untouched, at least uninjured--unembittered! ALDA. I grant you: but before we assume the power of judging, of computing the degree of virtue in the latter case, of vice in the former, we should look to the original conformation of the human being--the material exposed to these influences. Fire hardens the clay and dissolves the metal. This plate of tempered steel, on which I am going to etch, shall corrode, effervesce, be absolutely decomposed by the action of a few drops of nitrous acid, which has no effect whatever on this lump of wax. Now, carry this analogy into the consideration of the human character--it will spare us a long argument. As to the chapter of coquettes-- MEDON. Ah! _glissez, mortel, n'appuyez pas!_ ALDA. And why not?--Don't you know that I meditate, with the assistance of certain _professorins_, a complete Natural History of Coquettes, (in quarto,) which shall rival the famous Dutch treatise on Butterflies, in heaven knows how many folio volumes? In the first part of this stupendous work we intend to treat systematically of every known species, from the _coquetterie instinctive_, which may be termed the wild genus, indigenous in all females, up to the _coquetterie calculée et philosophique_, the most refined specimen reared in the hot-bed of artificial life. In the second part, we shall treat the whole history of _Coquetterie_, from that first pretty experiment of dear Mamma Eve, when she turned away from Adam, "----As conscious of her worth, That would be woo'd and not unsought be won," down to--to--how shall I avoid being personal?--down to the Lady Adeline Amundevilles of our own day. With some women _coquetterie_ is an instinct; with others, an amusement; with others, a pursuit; with others, a science. With the German women it is a passion: they play the coquette as they do every thing else, with sentiment, with good faith, with enthusiasm. MEDON. Why then it is no longer _coquetterie_--it is love! ALDA. I beg your pardon; it is something very different. True, perhaps, "that thin partitions do the bounds divide;" but, to a nice observer, the division is not the less complete. In short, you can imagine nothing more distinct than an English coquette and a German coquette; in the first case, one is reminded of Dryden's fanciful simile-- "So cold herself, while she such warmth express'd, 'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream!" But, in the latter case, it is Diana bending the bow, and brandishing the darts of Cupid; and with an unsuspicious _gaucherie_, which now and then turns the point against her own bosom. I observed, and I verified my own observations, by the information of some intelligent medical men, that there is less ill-health among the superior rank of women, in Germany, than with us; all that class of diseases, which we call nervous, which in England have increased, and are increasing in such a fearful ratio, are far less prevalent; doubtless, because the habits of social life are more natural. The use of noxious stimulants among the better class of women is almost unknown, and rare among the very lowest classes--would to heaven we could say the same! No where, not even at Munich, one of the most profligate of the German capitals, was I ever shocked by the exhibition of female suffering and depravity in another form, as in the theatres and the streets of London. I have been asked twenty times since my return to England, whether the German women are not very _exaltée_--very romantic? I could only answer, that they appeared to me less calculating, less the slaves of artificial manners and modes of thinking; more imaginative, more governed by natural feeling, more enthusiastic in love and religion, than with us. If this is what my English friends term _exaltée_, I certainly cannot think the German women would have reason to be offended by the application of the word to them, however satirically meant. Perhaps it may be from necessity, that they are generally more simple in their tastes, and more frugal in their expenses; they had certainly a most formidable idea of the extravagance of fashionable English women, and of our luxurious habits. I believe that they are sometimes difficult of access, and apparently inhospitable, because they suspect us of scoffing at their simplicity, at the homeliness of their accommodations, and their housewively occupations. For my own part I slipped so quietly and naturally into all their social and domestic habits, and cared so little about the differences and distinctions, which some of the English thought it fine to be always remarking and lamenting, that my German friends used to express their surprise, by saying--"Savez vous, ma chère, que vous ne me faites pas de tout l'effet d'une Anglaise!"--an odd species of compliment, but certainly meant as such. It is true that I was sometimes a little tired of the everlasting knitting and cross-stitch; and it is true I may at times have felt the want of certain external luxuries, with which we are habitually pampered in this prodigal land, till they become necessaries; but I would be well content to exchange them all a thousand times over, for the cheap mental and social pleasures--the easy intercourse of German life. MEDON. Apropos to German romance. I met with a striking instance of it even in my short and rapid journey across part of the country. A lady of birth and rank, who had been _dame d'honneur_ in the court of a sovereign princess, (a princess by the way of very equivocal reputation,) on the death of a lover, to whom she had been betrothed, devoted herself thenceforth to the service of the sick in the hospitals; she could not enter a religious order, being a Protestant, but she fulfilled all the offices of a vowed Sister of Charity. When she applied to the physician for leave to attend the hospital at ----, he used every endeavour to dissuade her from her undertaking--all in vain! Then he tried to disgust her by imposing, in the first instance, duties the most fearful and revolting to a delicate woman; she stood this test, and persisted. It is now five years since I saw her; perhaps she may by this time be tired of her charitable, or rather her romantic, self-devotion. ALDA. No, _that_ she is not. I know to whom you allude. She follows steadily and quietly the same pious vocation in which she has persevered for fifteen years, and in which she seems resolved to die. Now, in return for your story, though I knew it all before, I will tell you another; but lest you should suspect me of absolute invention and romancing, I must tell you how I came by it. I was travelling from Weimar to Frankfort, and had stopped at a little town, one or two stages beyond Fulda; I was standing at the window of the inn, which was opposite to the post-house, and looking at a crowd of travellers who had just been disgorged from a huge Eil-wagen or post-coach, which was standing there. Among them was one female, who, before I was aware, fixed my attention. Although closely enveloped in a winter dress from head to foot, her height, and the easy decision with which she moved, showed that her figure was fine and well-proportioned; and as the wind blew aside her black veil, I had a glimpse of features which still farther excited my curiosity. I had time to consider her, as she alighted and walked over to the inn alone. She entered at once the room--it was a sort of public saloon--in which I was; summoned the waiter, whom she addressed in a good-humoured, but rather familiar style, and ordered breakfast; not a cup of chocolate or _caffee au lait_, as became a heroine, for you see I was resolved that she should be one, but a very substantial German breakfast--soup, a cutlet, and a pint (eine halbe flasche) of good wine: it was then about ten o'clock. While this was preparing, she threw off her travelling accoutrements; first a dark cloak, richly lined with fur; one or two shawls; a sort of pelisse, or rather surtout, reaching to the knees, with long loose sleeves, such as you may see in the prints of Tartar or Muscovite costumes; this was made of beautiful Indian shawl, lined with blue silk, and trimmed with sables: under these splendid and multifarious coverings she wore a dress of deep mourning. Her figure, when displayed, excited my admiration: it was one of the most perfect I ever beheld. Her feet, hands, and head, were small in proportion to her figure; her face was not so striking--it was pretty, rather than handsome; her small mouth closed firmly, so as to give a marked and singular expression of resolution and decision, to a physiognomy otherwise frank and good-humoured. Her eyes, also small, were of a dark hazel, bright, and with long blonde eyelashes. Her abundant fair hair was plaited in several bands, and fastened on the top of her head, in the fashion of the German peasant girls. Her voice would have been deemed rather high-pitched, for "ears polite," but it was not deficient in melody; and though her expression was grave, and even sad, upon our first encounter, I soon found that mirth, and not sadness, was the natural character of her mind, as of her countenance. When any thing ridiculous occurred, she burst at once into a laugh--such a merry, musical peal, that it was impossible not to sympathize in it. Her whole appearance and manner gave me the idea of a farmer's buxom daughter: nothing could be more distinct from our notions of the lady-like, yet nothing could be more free from impropriety, more expressive of native innocence and modesty; but the splendour of her dress did not exactly suit with her deportment--it puzzled me. I observed, when she drew off her glove, that she wore a number of silver rings of a peculiar fashion, and among them a fine diamond. She walked up and down while her breakfast was preparing, seemingly lost in painful meditations; but when it appeared, she sat down and did justice to it, as one who had been many hours without food. While she was thus engaged, the conducteur of the Eil-wagen and one of the passengers came in, and spoke to her with interest and respect. Soon afterwards came the mistress of the inn, (who had never deigned to notice me, for it is not the fashion in Germany;) she came with an offer of particular services, and from the conversation I gathered, to my astonishment, that this young creature--she seemed not more than two or three and twenty--was on her way home, alone and unprotected, from--can you imagine?--even from the wilds of Siberia! But then what had brought her there? I listened, in hopes of discovering, but they all spoke so fast that I could make out nothing more. Afterwards, I had occasion to go over to a little shop to make some purchase. On my return, I found her crying bitterly, and my maid, also in tears, was comforting her with great volubility. Now, though my _having_ in German, like Orlando's beard, was not considerable, and my heroine spoke still less French, I could not help assisting in the task of consolation--never, certainly, were my curiosity and interest more strongly excited! Subsequently we met at Frankfort, where she was lodged in the same hotel, and I was enabled to offer her a seat in my vehicle to Mayence. Thus, I had opportunities of hearing her whole history related at different times, and in parts and parcels; and I will now endeavour to give it to you in a connected form. I may possibly make some mistake with regard to the order of events, but I promise you faithfully, that where my recollection of names, or dates, or circumstances, may fail me, I will not, like Mademoiselle de Montpensier, make use of my imagination to supply the defects of my memory. You shall have, if not the whole truth, at least as much of it as I can remember, and with no fictitious interpolations and improvements. Of the animation of voice and manner, the vivid eloquence, the graphic spirit, the quick transitions of feeling, and the grace and vivacity of gesture and action with which the relation was made to me by this fine untutored child of nature, I can give you no idea--it was altogether a study of character, I shall never forget. My heroine--truly and in every sense does she deserve the name--was the daughter of a rich brewer and wine merchant of Deuxponts.[29] She was one of five children, two much older and two much younger than herself. Her eldest brother was called Henri: he had early displayed such uncommon talents, and such a decided inclination for study, that his father was determined to give him all the advantages of a learned education, and sent him to the university of Erlangen, in Bavaria, whence he returned to his family, with the highest testimonies of his talents and good conduct. His father now destined him for the clerical profession, with which his own wishes accorded. His sister fondly dwelt upon his praises, and described him, perhaps with all a sister's partiality, as being not only the pride of his family, but of all his fellow-citizens, "tall, and handsome, and good," of a most benevolent enthusiastic temper, and devoted to his studies. When he had been at home for some time, he attracted the notice of one of the princes in the north of Germany, with whom he travelled, I believe, in the capacity of secretary. The name of the prince, and the particulars of this part of his life, have escaped me; but it appeared that, through the recommendation of this powerful patron, he became professor of theology in a university of Courland, I think at Riga, or somewhere near it, for the name of this city was continually recurring in her narrative. Henri was at this time about eight-and-twenty. While here, it was his fate to fall passionately in love with the daughter of a rich Jew merchant. His religious zeal mingled with his love; he was as anxious to convert his mistress as to possess her--and, in fact, the first was a necessary preliminary to the second; the consequences were all in the usual style of such matters. The relations discovered the correspondence, and the young Jewess was forbidden to see or to speak to her lover. They met in secret. What arguments he might use to convert this modern Jessica, I know not, but they prevailed. She declared herself convinced, and consented to fly with him beyond the frontiers, into Silesia, to be baptized, and to become his wife. Apparently their plans were not well-arranged, or were betrayed; for they were pursued by her relations and the police, and overtaken before they reached the frontiers. The young man was accused of carrying off his Jewish love by force, and this, I believe, at Riga, where the Jews are protected, is a capital crime. The affair was brought before the tribunal, and the accused defended himself by declaring that the girl had fled with him by her own free will; that she was a Christian, and his betrothed bride, as they had exchanged rings, or had gone through some similar ceremony. The father Jew denied this on the part of his daughter, and Henri desired to be confronted with the lady who was thus said to have turned his accuser. Her family made many difficulties, but by the order of the judge she was obliged to appear. She was brought into the court of justice pale, trembling, and supported by her father and others of her kindred. The judge demanded whether it was by her own will that she had fled with Henri Ambos? She answered in a faint voice, "_No_." Had then violence been used to carry her off? "_Yes._" Was she a Christian? "_No._" Did she regard Henri as her affianced husband? "_No._" On hearing these replies, so different from the truth,--from all he could have anticipated, the unfortunate young man appeared for a few minutes stupified; then, as if seized with a sudden frenzy, he made a desperate effort to rush upon the young Jewess. On being prevented, he drew a knife from his pocket, which he attempted to plunge into his own bosom, but it was wrested from him; in the scuffle he was wounded in the hands and face, and the young lady swooned away. The sight of his mistress insensible, and his own blood flowing, restored the lover to his senses. He became sullenly calm, offered not another word in his own defence, refused to answer any questions, and was immediately conveyed to prison. These particulars came to the knowledge of his family after the lapse of many months, but of his subsequent fate they could learn nothing. Neither his sentence nor his punishment could be ascertained; and although one of his relations went to Riga, for the purpose of obtaining some information--some redress--he returned without having effected either of the purposes of his journey. Whether Henri had died of his wounds, or languished in a perpetual dungeon, remained a mystery. Six years thus passed away. His father died: his mother, who persisted in hoping, while all others despaired, lingered on in heart-wearing suspense. At length, in the beginning of last year, (1833,) a travelling merchant passed through the city of Deuxponts, and inquired for the family of Ambos. He informed them that in the preceding year he had seen and spoken to a man in rags, with a long beard, who was working in fetters with other criminals, near the fortress of Barinska, in Siberia; who described himself as Henri Ambos, a pastor of the Lutheran church, unjustly condemned, and besought him with tears, and the most urgent supplications, to convey some tidings of him to his unhappy parents, and beseech them to use every means to obtain his liberation. You must imagine--for I cannot describe as she described--the feelings which this intelligence excited. A family counsel was held, and it was determined at once that application should be made to the police authorities at St. Petersburgh, to ascertain beyond a doubt the fate of poor Henri--that a petition in his favour must be presented to the Emperor of Russia; but who was to present it? The second brother offered himself, but he had a wife and two children; the wife protested that she should die if her husband left her, and would not hear of his going; besides, he was the only remaining hope of his mother's family. The sister then said that she would undertake the journey, and argued that as a woman she had more chance of success in such an affair than her brother. The mother acquiesced. There was, in truth, no alternative; and being amply furnished with the means, this generous, affectionate, and strong-minded girl, set off alone, on her long and perilous journey. "When my mother gave me her blessing," said she, "I made a vow to God and my own heart, that I would not return alive without the pardon of my brother. I feared nothing; I had nothing to live for. I had health and strength, and I had not a doubt of my own success, because I was _resolved_ to succeed; but ah! _liebe madame!_ what a fate was mine! and how am I returning to my mother!--my poor old mother!" Here she burst into tears, and threw herself back in the carriage; after a few minutes she resumed her narrative. She reached the city of Riga without mischance. There she collected the necessary documents relative to her brother's character and conduct, with all the circumstances of his trial, and had them properly attested. Furnished with these papers, she proceeded to St. Petersburgh, where she arrived safely in the beginning of June, 1833. She had been furnished with several letters of recommendation, and particularly with one to a German ecclesiastic, of whom she spoke with the most grateful enthusiasm, by the title of M. le Pasteur. She met with the utmost difficulty in obtaining from the police the official return of her brother's condemnation, place of exile, punishment, &c.; but at length, by almost incredible boldness, perseverance, and address, she was in possession of these, and with the assistance of her good friend the pastor, she drew up a petition to the emperor. With this she waited on the minister of the interior, to whom, with great difficulty, and after many applications, she obtained access. He treated her with great harshness, and absolutely refused to deliver the petition. She threw herself on her knees, and added tears to entreaties; but he was inexorable, and added brutally--"Your brother was a _mauvais sujet_; he _ought_ not to be pardoned, and if I were the emperor I would not pardon him." She rose from her knees, and stretching her arms towards heaven, exclaimed with fervour--"I call God to witness that my brother was innocent! and I thank God that you are not the emperor, for I can still hope!" The minister, in a rage, said--"Do you dare to speak thus to me! Do you know who I am?" "Yes," she replied; "you are his excellency the minister C----; but what of that? you are a cruel man! but I put my trust in God and the emperor; and then," said she, "I left him, without even a curtsey, though he followed me to the door, speaking very loud and very angrily." Her suit being rejected by all the ministers, (for even those who were most gentle, and who allowed the hardship of the case, still refused to interfere, or deliver her petition,) she resolved to do, what she had been dissuaded from attempting in the first instance--to appeal to the emperor in person: but it was in vain she lavished hundreds of dollars in bribes to the inferior officers; in vain she beset the imperial suite, at reviews, at the theatre, on the way to the church: invariably beaten back by the guards, or the attendants, she could not penetrate to the emperor's presence. After spending six weeks in daily ineffectual attempts of this kind, hoping every morning, and almost despairing every evening--threatened by the police, and spurned by the officials--Providence raised her up a friend in one of her own sex. Among some ladies of rank, who became interested in her story, and invited her to their houses, was a Countess Elise, something or other, whose name I am sorry I did not write down. One day, on seeing her young _protegée_ overwhelmed with grief, and almost in despair, she said, with emotion, "I cannot dare to present your petition myself, I might be sent off to Siberia, or at least banished the court; but all I can do I will. I will lend you my equipage and servants. I will dress you in one of my robes; you shall drive to the palace the next levee day, and obtain an audience under my name; when once in the presence of the emperor you must manage for yourself. If I risk thus much, will you venture the rest?" "And what," said I, "was your answer?" "Oh!" she replied, "I could not answer; but I threw myself at her feet, and kissed the hem of her gown!" I asked her whether she had not feared to risk the safety of her generous friend? She replied, "That thought did strike me--but what would you have?--I cast it from me. I was _resolved_ to have my brother's pardon--I would have sacrificed my own life to obtain it--and, God forgive me, I thought little of what it might cost another." This plan was soon arranged, and at the time appointed my resolute heroine drove up to the palace in a splendid equipage, preceded by a running footman, with three laced laquais in full dress, mounted behind. She was announced as the Countess Elise ----, who supplicated a particular audience of his majesty. The doors flew open, and in a few minutes she was in the presence of the emperor, who advanced one or two steps to meet her, with an air of gallantry, but suddenly started back---- Here I could not help asking her, whether in that moment she did not feel her heart sink? "No," said she firmly; "on the contrary, I felt my heart beat quicker and higher!--I sprang forward and knelt at his feet, exclaiming, with clasped hands--'Pardon, imperial majesty!--Pardon!'" "Who are you?" said the emperor, astonished; "and what can I do for you?" He spoke gently, more gently than any of his ministers, and overcome, even by my own hopes, I burst into a flood of tears, and said--"May it please your imperial majesty, I am not Countess Elise ----, I am only the sister of the unfortunate Henri Ambos, who has been condemned on false accusation. O pardon!--pardon! Here are the papers--the proofs. O imperial majesty!--pardon my poor brother!" I held out the petition and the papers, and at the same time, prostrate on my knees, I seized the skirt of his embroidered coat, and pressed it to my lips. The emperor said, "Rise--rise!" but I would not rise; I still held out my papers, resolved not to rise till he had taken them. At last the emperor, who seemed much moved, extended one hand towards me, and took the papers with the other, saying--"Rise, mademoiselle--I command you to rise." I ventured to kiss his hand, and said, with tears, "I pray of your majesty to read that paper." He said, "I will read it." I then rose from the ground, and stood watching him while he unfolded the petition and read it. His countenance changed, and he exclaimed once or twice, "Is it possible?--This is dreadful!" When he had finished, he folded the paper, and without any observation, said at once--"Mademoiselle Ambos, your brother is pardoned." The words rung in my ears, and I again flung myself at his feet, saying--and yet I scarce know what I said--"Your imperial majesty is a god upon earth; do you indeed pardon my brother? Your ministers would never suffer me to approach you; and even yet I fear----!" He said, "Fear nothing: you have my promise." He then raised me from the ground, and conducted me himself to the door. I tried to thank and bless him, but could not; he held out his hand for me to kiss, and then bowed his head as I left the room. "Ach ja! the emperor is a good man,--ein schöner, feiner, Mann! but he does not know how cruel his ministers are, and all the evil they do, and all the justice they refuse, in his name!" I have given you this scene as nearly as possible in her own words. She not only related it, but almost acted it over again; she imitated alternately, her own and the emperor's voice and manner; and such was the vivacity of her description that I seemed to hear and behold both, and was more profoundly moved than by any scenic representation I can remember. On her return she received the congratulations of her benefactress, the Countess Elise, and of her good friend the pastor, but both advised her to keep her audience and the emperor's promise a profound secret. She was the more inclined to this; because, after the first burst of joyous emotion, her spirits sank. Recollecting the pains that had been taken to shut her from the emperor's presence, she feared some unforeseen obstacle, or even some knavery on the part of the officers of government. She described her sufferings during the next few days, as fearful; her agitation, her previous fatigues, and the terrible suspense, apparently threw her into a fever, or acted on her excited nerves so as to produce a species of delirium, though, of course, she would not admit this. After assuring me very gravely that she did not believe in ghosts, she told me that one night, after her interview with the emperor, she was reading in bed, being unable to sleep; and on raising her eyes from her book she saw the figure of her brother, standing at the other end of the room; she exclaimed, "My God, Henri! is that you!" but without making any reply, the form approached nearer and nearer to the bed, keeping its melancholy eyes fixed on her's, till it came quite close to the bed side, and laid a cold heavy hand upon her. MEDON. The night-mare, evidently. ALDA. Without doubt; but her own impression was as of a reality. The figure, after looking at her sadly for some minutes, during which she had no power either to move or speak, turned away; she then made a desperate effort to call out to the daughter of her hostess, who slept in the next room--"Luise! Luise!" Luise ran in to her. "Do you not see my brother standing there?" she exclaimed with horror, and pointing to the other end of the room, whither the image, conjured up by her excited fancy and fevered nerves, appeared to have receded. The frightened, staring Luise, answered, "Yes." "You see," said she, appealing to me--"that though I might be cheated by my own senses, I could not doubt those of another. I thought to myself, _then_, my poor Henri is dead, and God has permitted him to visit me. This idea pursued me all that night, and the next day; but on the following day, which was Monday, just five days after I had seen the Emperor, a _laquais_, in the imperial livery, came to my lodging, and put into my hands a packet, with the "Emperor's _compliments_ to Mademoiselle Ambos." It was the pardon for my brother, with the Emperor's seal and signature: then I forgot every thing but joy!" Those mean, official animals, who had before spurned her, now pressed upon her with offers of service, and even the Minister C---- offered to expedite the pardon himself to Siberia, _in order to save her trouble_; but she would not suffer the precious paper out of her hands: she determined to carry it herself--to be herself the bearer of glad tidings:--she had resolved that none but herself should take off those fetters, the very description of which had entered her soul; so, having made her arrangements as quickly as possible, she set off for Moscow, where she arrived in three days. According to her description, the town in Siberia, to the governor of which she carried an official recommendation, was nine thousand versts beyond Moscow; and the fortress to which the wretched malefactors were exiled was at a great distance beyond that. I could not well make out the situation of either, and, unluckily, I had no map with me but a road map of Germany, and it was evident that my heroine was no geographer. She told me that, after leaving Moscow, she travelled post seven days and seven nights, only sleeping in the carriage. She then reposed for two days, and then posted on for another seven days and nights. MEDON. Alone? ALDA. Alone! and wholly unprotected, except by her own innocence and energy, and a few lines of recommendation, which had been given to her at St. Petersburgh. The roads were every where excellent, the post-houses at regular distances, the travelling rapid; but often, for hundreds of miles, there were no accommodations of any kind--scarce a human habitation. She even suffered from hunger, not being prepared to travel for so many hours together without meeting with any food she could touch without disgust. She described, with great truth and eloquence, her own sensations as she was whirled rapidly over those wide, silent, solitary, and apparently endless plains. "Sometimes," said she, "my head seemed to turn--I could not believe that it was a waking reality--I could not believe that it was myself. Alone, in a strange land,--so many hundred leagues from my own home, and driven along as if through the air, with a rapidity so different from any thing I had been used to, that it almost took away my breath." "Did you ever feel fear?" I asked. "Ach ja! when I waked sometimes in the carriage, in the middle of the night, wondering at myself, and unable immediately to collect my thoughts. Never at any other time." I asked her if she had ever met with insult? She said she had twice met with "wicked men;" but she had felt no alarm--she knew how to protect herself; and as she said this, her countenance assumed an expression which showed that it was not a mere boast. Altogether, she described her journey as being _grausam_, (horrible,) in the highest degree, and, indeed, even the recollection of it made her shudder; but at the time there was the anticipation of an unspeakable happiness, which made all fatigues light, and all dangers indifferent. At length, in the beginning of August, she arrived at the end of her journey, and was courteously received by the commandant of the fortress. She presented the pardon with a hand which trembled with impatience and joy, too great to be restrained, almost to be borne. The officer looked very grave, and took, she thought, a long time to read the paper, which consisted only of six or eight lines. At last he stammered out, "I am sorry--but the Henri Ambos mentioned in this paper--_is dead_!" Poor girl! she fell to the earth. When she reached this part of her story she burst into a fresh flood of tears, wrung her hands, and for some time could utter nothing but passionate exclamations of grief. "Ach! lieber Gott! was für ein schreckliches Schicksal war das meine!" "What a horrible fate was mine! I had come thus far to find--not my brother--_nur ein Grab_!" (only a grave!) she repeated several times, with an accent of despair. The unfortunate man had died a year before. The fetters in which he worked had caused an ulcer in his leg, which he neglected, and, after some weeks of horrid suffering, death released him. The task-work, for nearly five years, of this accomplished, and even learned man, in the prime of his life and mental powers, had been to break stones upon the road, chained hand and foot, and confounded with the lowest malefactors. In giving you thus conscientiously, the mere outline of this story, I have spared you all comments. I see, by those indignant strides majestical, that you are making comments to yourself; but sit down and be quiet, if you can: I have not much more to tell! She found, on inquiry, that some papers and letters, which her unhappy brother had drawn up by stealth, in the hope of being able at some time to convey them to his friends, were in the possession of one of the officers, who readily gave them up to her; and with these she returned, half broken-hearted, to St. Petersburgh. If her former journey, when hope cheered her on the way, had been so fearful, what must have been her return? I was not surprised to hear that, on her arrival, she was seized with a dangerous illness, and was for many weeks confined to her bed. Her story excited much commiseration; and a very general interest and curiosity was excited about herself. She told me that a great many persons of rank invited her to their houses, and made her rich presents, among which were the splendid shawls and the ring, which had caught my attention, and excited my surprise, in the first instance. The Emperor expressed a wish to see her, and very graciously spoke a few words of condolence. "But they could not bring my brother back to life!" said she, expressively. He even presented her to the Empress. "And what," I asked, "did the Empress say to you?" "_Nothing_; but she looked _so_,"--drawing herself up. On receiving her brother's pardon from the Emperor, she had written home to her family; but she confessed that since that time she had not written--she had not courage to inflict a blow which might possibly affect her mother's life; and yet the idea of being obliged to _tell_ what she dared not write, seemed to strike her with terror. But the strangest event of this strange story remains to be told; and I will try to give it in her own simple words. She left Petersburgh in October, and proceeded to Riga, where those who had known her brother received her with interest and kindness, and sympathized in her affliction. "But," said she, "there was one thing I had resolved to do, which yet remained undone. I was resolved to see the woman who had been the original cause of all my poor brother's misfortunes. I thought if once I could say to her, 'Your falsehood has done this!' I should be satisfied; but my brother's friends dissuaded me from this idea. They said it was better not; that it could do my poor Henri no good; that it was wrong; that it was unchristian; and I submitted. I left Riga with a voiturier. I had reached Pojer, on the Prussian frontiers, and there I stopped at the Douane, to have my packages searched. The chief officer looked at the address on my trunk, and exclaimed, with surprise, 'Mademoiselle Ambos! Are you any relation of the Professor Henri Ambos?'--'I am his sister.' 'Good God! I was the intimate friend of your brother! What has become of him?' I then told him all I have now told you, liebe madame!--and when I came to an end, this good man burst into tears, and for some time we wept together. The kutscher, (driver,) who was standing by, heard all this conversation, and when I turned round, he was crying too. My brother's friend pressed on me offers of service and hospitality, but I could not delay; for, besides that my impatience to reach home increased every hour, I had not much money in my purse. Of three thousand dollars, which I had taken with me to St. Petersburgh, very little remained, so I bade him farewell, and I proceeded. At the next town, where my kutscher stopped to feed his horses, he came to the door of my calèche, and said, 'You have just missed seeing the Jew lady, whom your brother was in love with; that calèche which passed us by just now, and changed horses here, contained Mademoiselle S----, her sister, and her sister's husband!' Good God! imagine my surprise! I could not believe my fortune: it seemed that Providence had delivered her into my hands, and I was resolved that she should not escape me. I knew they would be delayed at the Custom-house. I ordered the man to turn, and drive back as fast as possible, promising him a reward of a dollar if he overtook them. On reaching the Custom-house, I saw a calèche standing at a little distance. I felt myself tremble, and my heart beat so--but not with fear. I went up to the calèche--two ladies were sitting in it. I addressed the one who was the most beautiful, and said, 'Are you Mademoiselle Emilie S----?' I suppose I must have looked very strange, and wild, and resolute, for she replied, with a frightened manner--'I am; who are you, and what do you want with me?' I said, 'I am the sister of Henri Ambos, whom you murdered!' She shrieked out; the men came running from the house; but I held fast the carriage-door, and said, 'I am not come to hurt you, but you are the murderess of my brother, Henri Ambos. He loved you, and your falsehood has killed him. May God punish you for it! May his ghost pursue you to the end of your life!' I remember no more. I was like one mad. I have just a recollection of her ghastly, terrified look, and her eyes wide open, staring at me. I fell into fits; and they carried me into the house of my brother's friend, and laid me on a bed. When I recovered my senses, the calèche and all were gone. When I reached Berlin, all this appeared to me so miraculous--so like a dream--I could not trust to my own recollection, and I wrote to the officer of Customs, to beg he would attest that it was really true, and what I had said when I was out of my senses, and what _she_ had said; and at Leipsic I received his letter, which I will show you." And at Mayence she showed me this letter, and a number of other documents; her brother's pardon, with the Emperor's signature; a letter of the Countess Elise ----; a most touching letter from her unfortunate brother; (over this she wept much;) and a variety of other papers, all proving the truth of her story, even to the minutest particulars. The next morning we were to part. I was going down the Rhine, and she was to proceed to Deuxponts, which she expected to reach in two days. As she had travelled from Berlin almost without rest, except the night we had spent at Frankfort, she appeared to me ready to sink with fatigue; but she would not bid me farewell that night, although I told her I should be obliged to set off at six the next morning; but kissing my hand, with many expressions of gratitude, she said she would be awake and visit me in my room to bid me a last adieu. As there was only a very narrow passage between the two rooms, she left her door a little open that she might hear me rise. However, on the following morning she did not appear. When dressed, I went on tiptoe into her room, and found her lying in a deep calm sleep, her arm over her head. I looked at her for some minutes, and thought I had never seen a finer creature. I then turned, with a whispered blessing and adieu, and went on my way. This is all I can tell you. If at the time I had not been travelling _against_ time, and with a mind most fully and painfully occupied, I believe I should have been tempted to accompany my heroine to Deuxponts--at least I should have retained her narrative more accurately. Not having made any memoranda till many days afterwards, all the names have escaped my recollection; but if you have any doubts of the general truth of this story, I will at least give you the means of verifying it. Here is her name, in her own handwriting, on one of the leaves of my pocket-book--you can read the German character; =Bety Ambos von Zweibruken.= SKETCHES OF ART, LITERATURE, AND CHARACTER. PART II. MEMORANDA AT MUNICH, NUREMBURG, AND DRESDEN. I. MEMORANDA AT MUNICH. SEPT. 28th.--A week at Munich! and nothing done! nothing seen! My first _excursions_ I made to-day--from my bed to the sofa--from the sofa to the window. Every one told me to be prepared against the caprices of the climate, but I did not imagine that it would take a week or a fortnight to be _acclimatée_. What could induce the princes of Bavaria to plant their capital in the midst of these wide, marshy, bleak, barren plains, and upon this rough unmanageable torrent,--"the Isar rolling rapidly,"--when they might have seated themselves by the majestic Danube? The Tyrolean Alps stretching south and west, either form a barrier against the most genial airs of heaven, or if a stray zephyr find his way from Italy, his poor little wings are frozen to his back among the mountain snows, and he drops shivering among us, wrapt in a misty cloud. I never saw such fogs: they are as dense and as white as a fleece, and look, and feel too, like rarefied snow;--but as no one else complains, I think it must be indisposition which makes me so peevish and so chilly. Sitting at the window being my best amusement, I do not like to find the only objects which are to give me a foretaste of the splendour of Munich, quite veiled from sight, and shrouded in mist, even for a few morning hours. I am lodged in the Max-Joseph's-Platz, opposite to the theatre: a situation at once airy, quiet, and cheerful. The theatre is in itself a beautiful object; the portico, of the Corinthian order, is supported by eight pillars; the ascent is by a noble flight of steps, with four gigantic bronze candelabras at the corners; and nothing, at least to my unlearned eyes, could be more elegant--more purely classical and Greek, than the whole, were it not for the hideous roof _upon the roof_,--one pediment, as it were, riding on the back of the other. Some internal arrangement of the theatre may render this deformity necessary, but it _is_ a deformity, and one that annoys me whenever I look at it. On the right, I have the new palace, which forms one side of the square: a long range of plain, almost rustic, architecture; altogether a striking, but rather a pleasing contrast, to the luxuriant grace of the theatre. Just now, when I looked out, what a beautiful scene! The full moon, rising over the theatre, lights up half the white columns, and half are lost in shade. The performances are just over; (half-past nine!) crowds of people emerging from the portico into the brilliant moonshine, (many of them military, in glittering accoutrements,) descend the steps, and spread themselves through the square, single, or in various groups; carriages are drawing up and drawing off,--and all this gay confusion is without the least noise or tumult. Except the occasional low roll of the carriage-wheels over the well-gravelled road, I hear no sound, though within a few yards of the spot. It looks like some lovely optical or scenic illusion; a moving picture, magnified. _Oct. 4th._--To my great consternation--summoned in form before the police, and condemned to pay a fine of ten florins for having omitted to fill up specifically a certain paper which had been placed in my hands on my arrival. In the first place, I did not understand it; secondly, I never thought about it; and thirdly, I had been too ill to attend to it. I made a show of resistance, but it was all in vain, of course;--my permission to reside here is limited to six weeks, but may be renewed. Last night I was induced, but only upon great persuasion, to venture over to the theatre. I had been tantalised _so_ long by looking at the exterior! Then it was a pleasant evening--broad daylight; and the whole theatre being heated by stoves to an even regulated warmth according to the season, I was assured that once within the doors there would be no danger of fresh indisposition from draughts or cold. Entering the box, my first glance was of course at the stage. The drop-scene, or curtain, a well painted copy of Guido's Aurora, pleased me infinitely more than the beautiful drop-curtain at Manheim: _that_ was very elegant, but this is more than elegant. It harmonized with the place, and in my own mind it touched certain chords of association, which had long been silent. It was as if the orchestre had suddenly welcomed me with some delicious, often-heard, and well-remembered piece of music: the effect upon the senses was similar--nor can I describe it;--but, surprised and charmed, I kept my eyes fixed for some minutes upon the picture: the light being thrown full upon it, while the rest of the theatre was comparatively in deep shade, like all the foreign theatres, rendered it more effective. The rest of the decorations corresponded in splendour; the two colossal muses, as Caryatides supporting the king's state box, the noble columns of white and gold, and the Caryatides on each side of the proscenium, were all in fine taste. The size and proportions of the interior seemed most happily calculated for seeing and hearing. On the whole, I never beheld a theatre which so entirely _satisfied_ me--no one more easily pleased, and no one less easily satisfied! When I looked down on the _parterre_, I beheld a motley assemblage in various costumes: there were a great number of the military; there were the well-dressed daughters of people of some condition, in the French fashion of two or three years back; there were girls in the Tyrolean costume, with their scarlet boddices and silver chains; and the women of Munich, with their odd little two-horned caps of rich gold or silver brocade,--forming altogether a singular spectacle. As for the scenery, it was very well, but would bear no comparison to Stanfield's glorious illusions. The inducement held out to me to-night was to see Ferdinand Eslair play the Duke of Alva in "Egmont." Eslair, formerly one of the first actors at Manheim, when Manheim boasted the first theatre in Germany, is esteemed the finest tragedian here, and the Duke of Alva is one of his best characters. It appeared to me a superb piece of acting; so quietly stern, so fearfully hard and composed: it was a fine conception cast in bronze:--in this consisted its beauty and truth as a whole. Some of his _silent_ passages, and his by-play, were admirable. He gave us, in the scene with Egmont, an exact living transcript of Titian's famous picture of the Duke of Alva; the dress, the attitude, the position of the helmet and the glove on the table beside him, every thing was so well calculated, at once so unobtrusive and so unexpected, that it was like a recognition. Egmont was well played by Racke, but did not strike me so much. Mademoiselle Schöller, who plays the young heroines here, is a pupil of Madame Schröder, (the German Siddons,) and promises well; but she wants development; she wants the power, the passion, the tenderness, the energy of Clärchen. Clärchen is a plebeian girl, but an impassioned and devoted woman--she is a sort of Flemish Juliet. There is the same truth of nature and passion, the same impress of intense and luxuriant life--but then it is a different life--it is a Rubens compared to a Titian--and such Clärchen ought to be. Now to give all the internal power and poetry, yet preserve all the external simplicity and homeliness of the character,--to give all the _abandon_, yet preserve all the delicacy,--to give the delicacy, yet keep clear of all super-refinement, and in the concentrated despair of her last scene (where she poisons herself) to be calm without being cold, and profoundly tragic without the usual tragedy airs, must be difficult--exceedingly difficult; in short, to play Clärchen, as I conceive the character ought to be played, would require a young actress, uniting sufficient genius to conceive it aright, with sufficient delicacy and judgment not to colour it too highly: there was no danger of the latter mistake with Mademoiselle Schöller, in whose hands Clärchen became a mere pretty affectionate girl. In that lovely scene with Egmont in the third act, which might be contrasted with Juliet's balcony scene, as a test of the powers of a young actress, Mademoiselle Schöller was timid even to feebleness; the change of manner, when Clärchen substitutes the tender familiarity of the second person singular (Du) for the tone of respect in which she before addressed her lover, should have been felt and marked, so as to have been _felt_ and _remarked_: but this was not the case. In short, I was disappointed by this scene. The Flemish costumes were correct and beautiful. The Prince of Orange, in particular, looked as if he had just walked out of one of Vandyke's pictures. After seeing this fine tragedy--surely enough for one evening's amusement--I was at home and in bed by half-past ten. They manage these things better here than in England. _Friday._--Dinner at the French ambassador's _five_ o'clock. I mark this, because extraordinarily late at Munich. The plebeian dinner hour is twelve, or earlier; the general hour, one; the genteel hour, two; the fashionable hour, _three_; but five is super-elegant--in the very extreme of finery--like a nine o'clock dinner in London. There were present some French and Austrians of high rank, who had all visited England; and the conversation turning on our English aristocratic society--the only society they knew any thing about--I had another proof of the ridicule with which foreigners treat our assumption of superior morality and domestic happiness. But the person who fixed my attention was Leo von Klenze, the celebrated architect, and deservedly a favourite of the king, who has, I believe, bestowed on him the superfluous honours of nobility. With the others, I had no sympathies--with him a thousand, though he knew it not. I looked at him with curiosity--with interest. I liked his plain, but marked and clever countenance, and his easy manners. I felt an unconscious desire to be agreeable, and longed to make him talk; but I knew that this was not the place or the moment for us to see each other to the greatest advantage. We had, however, some little conversation--a kind of beginning. He told me at dinner that the Glypthothek, (the gallery of sculpture here,) was planned and built by the present king, when only prince royal, and the expenses liquidated from his private purse, out of his yearly savings. He spoke with modesty of himself--with gratitude and admiration of the king, of whose talent, vivacity, impatience, and enthusiasm for art and artists I had already heard some characteristic anecdotes. After coffee, part of the company dispersed to the opera, or elsewhere; others remained to lounge and converse. After the opera, we re-assembled with additions, and then tea, and cards, and talk, till past eleven. Madame de Vaudreuil receives almost every evening, and this seems to be the general routine. _Oct. 6._--They are now celebrating here the _Volksfest_, (literally the "_people's feast_,") or annual fair of Munich, and this has been a grand day of festivity. There have been races, a military review, &c.; but, except the race-horses in their embroidered trappings, which were led past my window, and a long cavalcade of royal carriages and crowds of people, in gay and grotesque costumes, hurrying by, I have seen nothing, being obliged to keep my room; so I listened to the firing of the cannon, and the shouts of the populace, and thought. * * * * * _Oct. 8._--First visit to the Glypthothek--just returned--my imagination, still filled with "the blaze, the splendour, and the symmetry,"--excited as I never thought it could be again excited after seeing the Vatican; but this is the Vatican in miniature. Can it be possible that this glorious edifice was planned by a young prince, and erected out of his yearly savings? I am wonder-struck! I was not prepared for any thing so spacious, so magnificent, so perfect in taste and arrangement. I do not yet know the exact measurement of the building; but it contains twelve galleries, the smallest about fifty, and the largest about one hundred and thirty feet in length. It consists of a square, built round an open central court, and the approach is by a noble portico of eight Ionic columns, raised on a flight of steps. As it stands in an open space, a little out of the town, with trees planted on either side, the effect is very imposing and beautiful. There are no exterior windows, they all open into the central court. From the portico we enter a hall, paved with marble. Over the principal door is the name of the king, and the date of the erection. Two side doors lead to the galleries. Over the door on the left there is an inscription to the honour of Leo von Klenze, the architect of the building. Over the door on the right, is the name of Peter Cornelius, the painter, by whom the frescos were designed and chiefly executed. Thus the king, with a noble magnanimity, uniting truth and justice, has associated in his glory those to whom he chiefly owes it--and this charmed me. It is in much finer feeling, much higher taste, than those eternal (no, not _eternal_!) great N's of that imperial egotist, Napoleon, whose vulgar appetite for vulgar fame would allow no participation. I walked slowly through the galleries so excited by the feeling of admiration, that I could make no minute or particular observations. The floors are all paved with marbles of various colours--the walls, to a certain height, are stuccoed in imitation of grey or dark green marble, so as to throw out the sculpture, and give it the full effect. The utmost luxury of ornament has been lavished on the walls and ceilings, some in painting, some in relief; but in each, the subjects and ornaments are appropriate to the situation, and as each gallery has been originally adapted to its destination, every where the effect to be produced has been judiciously studied. The light is not too great, nor too generally diffused--it is poured in from high semicircular windows on one side only, so as to throw the sculpture into beautiful relief. Two lofty and spacious halls are richly painted in fresco, with subjects from the Greek mythology, and the whole building would contain, I suppose, six times, or ten times, the number of works of art now there; at the same time all are so arranged that there appears no obvious deficiency. The collection was begun only in 1808, and since that time the king has contrived to make some invaluable acquisitions. I found here many of the most far-famed relics of ancient art, many that I had already seen in Italy; for instance, the Egina marbles, the Barberini Faun, the Barberini Muse, or Apollo, the Leucothoë, the Medusa Rondanini above all, the Ilioneus; but I cannot now dwell on these. I must go again and again before I can methodise my impressions and recollections. _Oct. 11._--Yesterday and to-day, at the Glypthothek, where the cushioned seats, though rather more classical than comfortable, enabled me to lounge away the time, unwearied in body as in mind. The arrangement of the galleries is such as to form not only a splendid exhibition and school of art, but a regular progressive history of the rise and decline of sculpture. Thus we step from the vestibule into the Egyptian gallery, of which the principal treasure is the colossal Antinous of Rossoantico, with the attributes of Osiris. I admired in this room the exquisite beauty and propriety of the basso-relievo over the door, designed and modelled by Schwanthaler. It is of course intended to be symbolical of the birth of art among the Egyptians. Isis discovers the body of her lost husband Osiris, concealed in a sarcophagus: she strikes it with the mystic wand, and he stands revealed, and restored to her. The imitation of the Egyptian style is perfect. From the Egyptian, we step into the Etruscan gallery, of which the ceiling is painted in the most vivid and beautiful colours. The third room contains the famous Egina marbles, which I had seen at Rome when Thorwaldson was engaged in restoring them. To appreciate the classical beauty and propriety of the arrangement of these singular relics, we must call to mind their history, their subject, and their original destination. Thus Æacus, the first king of the Island of Ægina, was the son of Jupiter, or rather Zeus, (for the Greek designations are infinitely more elegant and expressive than the Roman.) The temple was dedicated to Zeus, and the groups which adorned the pediments represented the history of the two branches of the Æacidæ, descended from Telamon and Peleus, sons of Æacus. On two long tables or stands of marble, supported by griffins, imitated from those which originally ornamented the temple, are ranged the two groups of figures: neither group is quite entire. Of that which represents the fight of Telamon and Hercules with Laomedon, King of Troy, there are only five figures remaining; and of the other group, the conflict for the body of Patroclus, there are ten figures. Along the walls, on tables of marble, are ranged a variety of fragments from the same temple, which must have been splendidly rich in sculpture, within and without. On the ceiling of this room, the four Æacidæ, Æacus, Peleus, Achilles, and Neoptolemus, are represented in relief, by Schwanthaler. There is also a small model of the western front of the temple restored, and painted as it is proved to have been originally; (for instance, the field of the Tympanum was of a sky blue.) This model is fixed in the wall opposite to the window. It is extremely curious and interesting, but I thought not well placed as an ornament.[30] I remember asking W----, who has been in every part of the world, what was the most beautiful scene he had ever beheld, taking natural beauty and poetical associations together? He replied, after a little thought, "A sunset from the temple of Ægina;"--and I can conceive this. Lord Byron introduces it into his Grecian Sunset--but as an object-- "On old Ægina's steep and Idra's Isle, The god of gladness sheds his parting smile." From the Ægina gallery we enter the Hall of Apollo. The ceiling of this room, splendidly decorated in white and gold, represents the emblems of the four principal cities of Greece, viz. the Athenian owl, the winged-horse of Corinth, the Chimera of Sicyon, and the wolf of Argos. The chief glory of this apartment is that celebrated colossal statue, once known as the Barberini muse, now considered by antiquarians as an Apollo, and supposed to be the work of Ageladas, the master of Phidias. It is certainly older than the sculptures of the Parthenon. In its severe massy grandeur, there is something of the heaviness and formality of the most ancient Greek school, and in point of style it forms a link between the Ægina marbles and the Elgin marbles. It should seem that the eyes of this statue were once represented by gems--the orifices remain, surrounded by a ring of bronze. In the same room are those two sublime busts which almost take away one's breath--the colossal head of Pallas, resembling that of the Minerva of Velletri, now in the Vatican; and the Achilles. The next room is the Hall of Bacchus. The ceiling is richly ornamented with all the festive emblems of the god, in white and gold relief. In the centre we have that wondrous statue, the gigantic Sleeping Satyr, called by some the Barberini Faun. Antiquaries and connoisseurs refer this work either to Scopas or Praxiteles, and, from the situation in which it was discovered, suppose it to have once ornamented the tomb of Adrian. I cannot tell how this may be, but here we behold with astonishment the grotesque, the elegant, and the sublime mingled together, and each in perfection: _how_, I know not; but I feel it is so. I once saw a drawing of this statue, which gave me the idea of something coarse and heavy; whereas, in the original, the delicate beauty of the workmanship, and the inimitable sleepy abandonment of the attitude, soften the effect of the colossal forms. I would place this statue immediately after the Elgin marbles; it is, with all its excellence, a degree lower in style. In this gallery I found the famous head of the laughing faun, called from the greenish stain on the cheek, the fauno colla macchia, and also a sarcophagus, representing in the most exquisite sculpture, the marriage of Bacchus and Ariadne. The blending of the idea of death with the fullness of life, and even with the most luxuriant and festive associations of life, is common among the Greeks, and, from one or two known instances, appears to have been carried to an extreme which makes one shrink; still, any thing rather than our detestable death's head and cross bones! In nature, and in poetry, death is beautiful. It is the diseases and vices of artificial life which have rendered it lamentable, terrible, disgusting. Fixed in the wall, opposite to the window, there is a bas relief of amazing beauty--the marriage of Neptune and Amphitrite. It is a piece of lyric poetry. The Hall of Niobe contains few objects; but among them some of the most perfect specimens of Grecian art; and first, the ILIONEUS. It was because the Grecian sculptors were themselves poets and creators, that "marble grew divine" beneath their hands, and became so instinct with the indestructible spirit of life, that their half-defaced ruins retain their immortality: else how should we stand shivering with awe before those tremendous fragments--the sister Fates in the Elgin marbles! Or, how should I, who am incapable of estimating the technical perfection of art, stand entranced--as to-day I stood--before the Ilioneus? It was not merely admiration; it was the overpowering sentiment of harmonious and pathetic beauty running along every nerve--such a feeling as music has sometimes awakened. I suppose the Ilioneus stands alone, like the Torso of the Vatican--the _ne plus ultra_ of grace, as the latter is of grandeur. The first time I ever saw a cast of this divine statue was in the vestibule of Goethe's house, at Weimar. It immediately fixed my attention. Afterwards I saw another in Dannecker's studio, and from him I learned its history. It was discovered about ten years ago at Prague, in the possession of a stone-mason, and is supposed to have formed part of the collection of ancient works of art which the Emperor Rodolph collected in Italy about 1600.[31] A certain Dr. Barth purchased it for a trifle, and brought it to Vienna, where Dannecker happened to be at that time, and was called upon with others to pronounce on its merits and value. It was at once attributed to the hand, either of Praxiteles or Scopas, and on farther and minute examination, the style, the proportions, and the evident purport of the figure, have decided that it belongs to the group of Niobe and her children. It has attained the appellation of Ilioneus, which Ovid gives to the youngest of her sons. It represents a youth kneeling. The head and arms are wanting; but the supplicatory expression of the attitude, the turn of the body, so deprecating, so imploring; the bloom of adolescence, which seems absolutely shed over the cold marble, the unequalled delicacy and elegance of the whole, touched me unspeakably. The King of Bavaria is said to have paid for this exquisite relic 15,000 florins--a large sum for a little potentate; but for the object itself, its value is not to be computed by money. Its weight in gold were poor in comparison. In the same room is the Medusa Rondanini, the common model of almost all the Medusa heads, but certainly not equal to the sublime colossal mask at Cologne. There is also an antique duplicate of the Mercury of the Belvidere; another of the Venus of Cnidos; another (most beautiful) of one of the sons of Niobe, recumbent, lifeless; and some other master-pieces. These six rooms occupy one side of the building, and contain altogether one hundred and forty-seven specimens of ancient art. I do not quite understand Flaxman's division of ancient art into three periods--the heroic age, the philosophic age, and the age of perfection. Perhaps if he had lived to correct his essays, he would have made this more clear. According to his distinction, would not the group of the Niobe belong to the age of perfection?--and the Parthenon to the philosophic age? which, allowing his definition of the two styles, I cannot grant. I suppose these six galleries include a period of about seven hundred years; (putting the dateless antiquity of some of the Egyptian relics out of the question.) We begin with the heavy motionless forms, "looking tranquillity," which yet have often a certain dignity; then the stiff hard elaborate figures of the earliest Greek school, with their curled heads and perpendicular draperies, in some of which dawns the first feeling of vigour and grace, as in the Ægina marbles; the next is the union of grandeur and elegance; and the next is the utmost poetical refinement. I recollect that somewhere in Boswell's life of Johnson, a conversation is recorded as taking place at the table of Sir Joshua Reynolds; in the course of which Sir Joshua remarked, that it was impossible to conceive what the ancient writers meant, when they represented sculpture as having passed its zenith when the Apollo and the Laocoon were produced. None of the great scholars or artists then present could explain the mystery--now no longer a mystery. When Sir Joshua made this remark, the Elgin marbles were unknown in England. Between this range of galleries, and a corresponding range on the opposite side, are two immense halls, called the Fest-Saale, or banqueting halls, and as yet containing no sculpture. Here the painter Cornelius has found "ample space and verge enough" for his grand conceptions, and the subjects are appropriate to the general destination of the whole building. The frescos in the first hall, (Götter-Saal, or hall of the gods,) present a magnificent view of the whole Greek mythology. Whatever may be thought of the conception and execution of certain parts, on minute examination the grand, yet simple arrangement of the whole design addresses itself to the understanding, while the splendour of colour, and variety of the grouping, seize on the imagination: certainly, when we look round, the first feeling is not critical. But this beautiful, progressive, and pictorial development of the old mythology, as it must have been the result of profound learning and study, ought to be considered methodically to understand all its merit; for instance, in the centre of the roof we have the primeval god, Eros, in four compartments; first, with the dolphin, representing water; secondly, with the eagle, representing light or fire; thirdly, with the peacock, representing air; and lastly, with Cerberus, representing earth. Disposed around these primeval elements, we have the seasons of the year, and the day. The spring, as Psyche, is followed by the history of Aurora, (the morning,) in four compartments. The summer, as Ceres, is followed by the noon, i. e. the history of Helios or Apollo, in four compartments. The autumn, as Bacchus; and then evening, expressed in the history of Diana. Winter, as Saturn, and the history of night, and the divinities which preside over it. These twenty-four compartments, of various forms and sizes, compose the ceiling, intermingled with ornaments of rich and rare device, and appropriate arabesques, combining, with much fancy and invention, all the classical emblems and allegories, such as satyrs, fauns, syrens, dryads, Graces, Furies, &c. &c. But the grand summary is reserved for the walls. On one side is represented the kingdom of Olympus, with Jove in his state, the assemblage of the gods, and the apotheosis of Psyche. The opposite side represents the domain of Pluto, with the infernal gods, and the story of Orpheus. The third side, over against the window, is the triumph of Neptune and Amphitrite, surrounded by the sea-gods. The figures in these three frescos are colossal, about eight feet in height. The colouring of the flesh is a little too red and dingy, and in some of the attitudes I thought that the energy was strained into contortion; but through the whole there is a grand poetic feeling. All the designs are by Peter Cornelius, executed by himself, with the aid of professor Zimmerman, Schlotthauer, Heinrich Hess, and a number of pupils and assistants. There are also along the frieze some beautiful bas-reliefs; and over the two doors are two alto-relievos by Schwanthaler, the one representing Cupid and Psyche in each others arms, the symbol of immortal love: the other, the re-union of Ceres and Proserpine, emblematical of eternal life after death. This is all I can remember, except that the painting of this hall occupied six years, and was finished in 1826. _Oct. 11._--A small vestibule divides the two great halls. This is painted with the history of Prometheus and Pandora; but, owing to the unavoidable disposition of the light, much of the beauty is lost. From this vestibule we enter the second great banqueting hall, or the Hall of the Trojans, painted like the former in fresco, and on the same enormous scale, but with a different distribution of the parts. It represents chiefly the history of those demigods and heroes who contended in the Trojan war. Thus, in the centre of the ceiling we have first the original cause of the war, the marriage of Peleus and Thetis, and the appearance of the goddess of Discord, with her fatal apple. Around this are the twelve gods who were present at the feast, modelled in relief by Schwanthaler. Then follow twelve compartments, containing the most striking scenes of the Iliad, divided and adorned by the most rich and fanciful arabesques, combining the exploits or histories of the Grecian heroes, which are not included in the Iliad. The figures in these compartments are the size of life. On the walls we have the three principal incidents of the Trojan war; first, the wrath of Achilles; secondly, opposite to the window, the fight for the body of Patrocles, and Achilles shouting to the warriors. There is wonderful energy and movement in this picture. The third is the destruction of Troy. The figure of Hecuba sitting in motionless horror and despair, with her dishevelled grey hair, her daughters clinging to her;--the beautiful attitudes of Polyxena and Cassandra; the silent remorse of Helen; the wild fury of the conquerors, and the vigour and splendour of the whole painting, render this composition exceedingly striking:--I did not quite like the figure of Priam. All these designs are by Cornelius, and executed partly by him, and partly under his direction by Zimmermann, Schlotthauer, and their pupils. The arabesques are by Eugene Neureuther: and there are two admirable and spirited bas-reliefs by Schwanthaler--one representing the battle of the ships, and the other the combat of Achilles with the river gods. The paintings in this hall were finished in 1830. We then enter the range of galleries, devoted to the later Greek, and the Roman sculpture. The first, corresponding in size and situation with the Hall of Niobe, contains nothing peculiarly interesting, except the famous figure of the young warrior anointing himself after the bath, and called the Alexander. The next gallery is the Roman Hall, about one hundred and thirty feet in length, and forms a glorious _coup d'oeil_. The utmost luxury of architectural decoration has been lavished on the ceilings; and the effect of the marble pavement, with the disposition of the busts, candelabræ, altars, as seen in perspective, is truly and tastefully magnificent. I particularly admired the ceiling, which is divided into three domes, adorned with bas-reliefs, taken from the Roman history and manners: these were designed by Schwanthaler. I cannot remember any thing remarkable in this gallery; or rather, there were too many things deserving of notice, for me to note all. The standing Agrippina has, however, dwelt on my mind; and an exceeding fine bust of Octavius Cæsar, crowned with the oak leaves. A small room contains the sculpture in coloured marble, porphyry, and bronze; and the last is the hall of modern sculpture. In the centre of the ceiling is a phoenix, rising from its ashes, and around it the heads of four distinguished sculptors--Nicolo da Pisa, the restorer of the art in the fourteenth century; Michael Angelo, Canova, and Thorwaldson. Two of the most celebrated productions of modern sculpture are here:--the Paris of Canova, and the Adonis of Thorwaldson. As they are placed near to each other, and the aim is alike in both to exhibit the utmost perfection of youthful and effeminate beauty, the merits of the two artists were fairly brought into comparison. Thorwaldson's statue reminded me of the Antinous; Canova's recalled the young Apollo. I hardly know which to prefer as a conception; but the material and workmanship of the Paris pleased me most. The marble of Thorwaldson's statue, though faultless in purity of tint, has a coarse _gritty_ grain, and glitters disagreeably in certain lights, as if it were spar or lump-sugar; whereas the smooth close compact grain of Canova's marble, which is something of a creamy white, seemed to me infinitely preferable to the eye. This, however, is hyper-criticism: in both, the feeling is classically and beautifully true. The soft melancholy of the countenance and attitude of Adonis, as if anticipative of his early death, and the languid self-sufficiency of Paris, appeared to me equally admirable. There is also in this room a duplicate by Canova of his Venus, in the Pitti palace; a girl tying her sandal, by Rodolph Schadow--a pendant, I presume, to his charming Filatrice, now at Chatsworth; and some fine busts. I looked round in vain for a single specimen of English art. I thought it just possible that some work of Flaxman, or Chantrey, or Gibson, might have found its way hither--but no!-- _Oct. 12._--Last night to the opera with a pleasant party; but, tired and over-excited with my morning at the Glyptothek, I wanted soothing, and was not in a humour for the noisy florid music of Wilhelm Tell. It is an opera which, as it becomes familiar, tires, and does not attach--just like some clever people I have met with. Pellegrini (not the Pelligrini we had in England, but a fixture here, and their best male singer--a fine _basso cantante_) acted Tell. I say _acted_, because he did not merely sing his part--he acted it, and well; so well, that once I felt my eyes moisten. Madame Spitzeder sang in Matilda von Hapsburg tolerably. Their first tenor, Bayer, I do not like; his intonation is defective. The decorations and dresses are beautiful. As for the dancing, it is not fair to say any thing about it. Unfortunately the first bars of the Tyrolienne brought Taglioni before my mind's eye, and who or what could stand the comparison? How she leapt like a stag! bounded like a young faun! floated like the swan-down on the air! Yet even Taglioni, though she makes the nearest approach to it, does not complete my idea of a poetical dancer; but as she improved upon Herbelet, we may find another to improve upon _her_. One more such _artist_--I use the word in the general and German sense, not in the French meaning--one more such artist, who should bring modesty, and sense, and feeling, into this lovely and most desecrated art, might do something to retrieve it--might introduce the necessity for dancers having heads as well as heels, and in time revolutionize the whole _corps de ballet_. _Wednesday._--This morning, M. Herman Stuntz, the King's chapel-master, called on me. I had heard of him as a fine composer, and also much of his opera, produced for the Scala at Milan, the Costantino il Grande. I was pleased to find him not a musician only, like most musicians, but intelligent and enthusiastic on other subjects, and with that childlike simplicity of mind and manner, so often combined with talent. We touched upon every thing from the high sublime to the deep absurd--ran round the whole circle of art in a sort of touch-and-go style, and his _naïveté_ and originality pleased me more and more. He said some true and delightful things about music; but would insist that of all languages the English is the most difficult to ally to musical sounds--infinitely worse than German. He complained of the shut mouth, the _claquement des dents_, and the predominance of aspirates in our pronunciation. I objected to the guttural sounds, and the open mouths, and the _yaw yaw_ of the Germans. Then followed an animated discussion on vocal sounds and musical expression, and we parted, I believe, mutually pleased. The father of Stuntz is a Swiss--a man of letters, an enthusiast, a philosopher, an artist; in short, a most extraordinary and eccentric character. He entirely educated his two children, of whom the son, Herman Stuntz, takes a high rank as a composer; and the daughter is a distinguished female artist, but, being nobly married, she now only paints pictures to give them away, and those who possess them are, with reason, extremely proud of the possession. In the evening, Madame Meric, _prima-donna aus London_, as the play-bills set forth, made her first appearance in the Gazza Ladra. She is engaged here for a limited time, and takes the _gast-rolles_--that is, she plays the first parts as a matter of course--in short, she is a STAR. The regular prima-donna is Madame Scheckner-Wagen. Meric has talent, voice, style, and unwearied industry; but she has not _genius_, neither is her organ first-rate. Comparisons in some cases are unjust as well as odious. Yet was it my fault that I remembered in the same part the syren Sontag, and the enchantress Malibran? Meric, besides being a fine singer, is an amiable woman;--married to an extravagant, dissipated husband, and working to provide for her child--a common fate among the women of her profession. * * * * * ----Sat up late reading, for the third or fourth time, a chance volume of Madame Roland's works. What a complete French woman! but then, what a mind! how large in capacity! how stored with knowledge! how strong in conscious truth! how finely toned! how soft, and yet how firm! What wonderful industry united to the quickest talent! Some things written at eighteen and twenty have most surprised me; some passages in the "Vie privée," and the "Appel," have most charmed me. She is not very eloquent, and I should think had not a playful or poetic fancy. There is an almost total want of imagery in her style; but great power, unaffected elegance, with a sort of negligence at times, which adds to its beauty. Then, to remember that all I have just read was written in a prison, in daily, hourly expectation of death! but _that_ excites more interest than surprise, for a situation of strong excitement of mind and passion, with external repose and solitude, must be favourable to this development of the faculties, where there is character as well as talent. Some of her disclosures are a little too _naïve_. I am amused by the quantity of feminine vanity which is mixed up with all this loftiness of spirit, this real independence of soul. Madame de Staël had not _more_ vanity, whatever they may say; but it was less balanced by self-esteem--it required more sympathy. Then we have those two admirable women * * and * *. What exquisite feminine vanity is there! Yet, happily, in both instances how far removed from all ill-nature and presumption, and how unconsciously betrayed! I should think Joanna Baillie, among our great women, must be most exempt from this failing, perhaps, because, of all the five, she has the most profound sense of religion. Lavater said, that "the characteristic of _every_ woman's physiognomy was vanity." A phrenologist would say that it was the characteristic of every woman's head. How far, then, may a woman be vain with a good grace and betray it without ridicule? By vanity, I mean _now_, a great wish to please, mingled with a consciousness of the powers of pleasing, and not what Madame Roland describes,--"cette ambition constante, ce soin perpetuel d'occuper de soi, et de paraitre autre ou meilleur que l'on n'est en effet," for this is diseased vanity. * * * * * Dr. Martius[32] lent me two pretty little volumes of "Poems, by Louis I. king of Bavaria," the present king--the first royal author we have had, I believe, since Frederic of Prussia--the best since James I. of Scotland. These poems are chiefly lyrical, consisting of odes, sonnets, epigrams. Some are addressed to the queen, others to his children, others to different ladies of the court, whom he is said to have particularly admired, and a great number were composed during his tour in Italy in 1817. Of the merit of these poems I cannot judge; and when I appealed to two different critics, both accomplished men, one assured me they were admirable; the other shrugged up his shoulders--"Que voulez vous? c'est un Roi!" The earnest feeling and taste in some of these little poems pleased me exceedingly--of that alone I could judge: for instance, there is an address to the German artists, which contains the following beautiful lines: he is speaking of art-- "In der Stille muss es sich gestalten, Wenn es kräftig wirkend soll ersteh'n; Aus dem Herzen nur kann sich entfalten, Das was wahrhaft wird zum Herzen geh'n. Ja! ihr nehmet es aus reinen Tiefen, Fromm und einfach, wie die Vorweit war, Weckend die Gefühle, welche schliefen, Ehrend zeugt's von Euch und immerdar. Sklavisch an das Alte euch zu halten, Eures Strebens Zweck ist dieses nicht Seyd gefasst von himmlischen Gewalten, Dringet rastlos zu dem hehren Licht!" Which may be thus literally rendered-- "To rise into vigorous, active influence, it (art) must spring up and develop itself in secrecy and in silence; out of the heart alone can that unfold itself which shall truly go to the heart again. "Yes! pious and simple as the old world was, ye draw it (art) from the same pure depths, awakening the feelings which slumber! and it shall bear honourable witness of ye--and for ever! "Slavishly to cling to antiquity, this is not the end of your labours! Be ye, therefore, upheld by heavenly power; press on, and rest not, to the high and holy light!" Methinks this magnificent prince deserves, even more than his ancestor, Maximilian I., to be styled the Lorenzo de' Medici of Bavaria. The power to patronize, the sentiment to feel, the genius to celebrate art, are rarely united, even in individuals. He must be a noble being--a genius _born in the purple_, on whose laurels there rests not a bloodstain, perhaps not even a tear! This is a holiday. I was sitting at my window, translating some of these poems, when I saw a crowd round the doors of the new palace; for it is a day of public admission. Curiosity tempted me to join this crowd;--no sooner thought than done. I had M. de Klenze's general order for admittance in my pocket-book, but wished to see how this was managed, and mingled with the crowd, which was waiting to be admitted _en masse_. I was at once recognized as a stranger, and every one with simple civility made way for me. Groups of about twenty or thirty people were admitted at a time, at intervals of a quarter of an hour, and each group placed under the guidance of one of the workmen as cicerone. He led them through the unfinished apartments, explaining to his open-mouthed auditors the destination of each room, the subjects of the pictures on the walls and ceilings, &c. &c. There were peasants from the south, in their singular dresses, mechanics and girls of Munich, soldiers, travelling students. I was much amused. While the cicerone held forth, some merely wondered with foolish faces, some admired, some looked intelligent, and asked various questions, which were readily answered--all seemed pleased. Every thing was done in order: two groups were never in the same apartment; but as one went out, another entered. Thus many hundreds of these poor people were gratified in the course of the day. It seemed to me a wise as well as benevolent policy in the king thus to appeal to the sympathy, and gratify the pride, of his subjects of all classes, by allowing them--inviting them, to take an interest in his magnificent undertakings, to consider them _national_ as well as royal. I am informed that these works are carried on without any demands on the Staatskasse, (the public treasury,) and without any additional taxes: so far from it, that the Bavarian House of Representatives curtailed the supplies by 300,000 florins only last year, and refused the king an addition to the civil list, which he had requested for the travelling expenses of two of his sons. The king is said to be economical in the _extreme_ in his domestic expenses, and not very generous in money to those around him--unlike his open-hearted, open-handed father, Max-Joseph; in short, there are grumblers here as elsewhere, but strangers and posterity will not sympathize with them. This is the fourth time I have seen this splendid and truly royal palace, but will make no memoranda till I have gone over the whole with Leo von Klenze. He has promised to be my cicerone himself, and I feel the full value of the compliment. Count V---- told me last night, that he (De Klenze) has made for this building alone upwards of seven hundred drawings and designs with his own hand. _Oct. 13._--Called on my English friends, the C * * s, and found them pleasantly settled in a beautiful furnished lodging near the Hofgarten, for which they pay twenty-four florins (or about two pounds) a month. We had some conversation about music, (they are all musicians,) and the opera, and Malibran, whom they have lately seen in Italy; and Pasta, whom they had visited at Como; and they confirmed what Mr. J. M. Stuntz and M. K. had all told me of her benevolence and excellent character. I could not find that any new genius had arisen in Italy to share the glory of our three queens of the lyrical drama,--Pasta, Malibran, and Schröder Devrient. Other singers have more or less talent and feeling, more or less compass of voice, facility, or agility; but these three women possess _genius_, and stamp on every thing they do their own individual character. Of the three, Pasta is the grandest and most finished artist; Malibran the most versatile in power and passion; while Schröder Devrient has that energy of heart and soul--that capacity for exciting, and being excited, which gives her such unbounded command over the feelings and senses of her audience.[33] So far we were agreed; but as the conversation went on, I was doomed to listen to a torrent of commonplace and sarcastic criticism on the private habits of these and other women of the same profession: one was accused of vulgarity, another of bad temper, and another of violence and caprice: one was suspected of a _penchant_ for porter, another had been heard to swear, or--something very like it. Even pretty lady-like Sontag was reproached with some trifling breach of mere conventional manner,--she had used her fingers where she should have taken a spoon, or some such nonsense. My God! to think of the situation of these women! and then to look upon _those_ women, who, fenced in from infancy by all the restraints, the refinements, the comforts, the precepts of good society,--the one arranging a new cap, the other embroidering a purse, the third reading a novel, all satisfied with petty occupations and amusements, "far, far removed from want and grief and fear,"--now sitting in judgment, and passing sentence of excommunication on others of their sex, who have been steeped in excitement from childhood, their nerves for ever in a state of tension between severest application and maddening flattery; cast on the world without chart or compass--with energies misdirected, passions uncontrolled, and all the inflammable and imaginative part of their being cultivated into excess as a part of their profession--of their material! O when will there be charity in the world? When will human beings, women especially, show mercy and justice to each other, and not judge of results, without a reference to causes? and when will reflection upon these causes lead to their removal? They are evils which press upon few, but are reflected on many, inasmuch as they degrade art and the pursuit of art;--but all can sneer, and few can think. * * * * * I begin at length to feel my way among the pictures here. Hitherto I have been bewildered. I have lounged away morning after morning at the gallery of the Hofgarten, at Schleissheim, and at the Duc de Leuchtenberg's; and returned home with dazzled eyes and a mind overflowing, like one "oppressed with wealth, and with abundance sad," unable to recall or to methodize my own impressions. Professor Zimmermann tells me that the king of Bavaria possesses upwards of three thousand pictures: of these about seventeen hundred are at Schleissheim; nine hundred in the Munich gallery; and the rest distributed through various palaces. The national gallery, or Pinakothek, which is now building under the direction of Leo von Klenze, is destined to contain a selection from these multifarious treasures, of which the present arrangement is only temporary. The king of Bavaria unites in his own person the three branches of the House of Wittelsbach: the palatines of the Rhine, the dukes of Deuxponts, and the electors of Bavaria, all sovereign houses, and descended from Otto von Wittelsbach, who received the investiture of the dukedom of Bavaria in 1180. Thus it is that the celebrated gallery once at Dusseldorf, formed under the auspices of the elector John William; the various collections at Manheim, Deuxponts, and Heidelberg, are now concentrated at Munich, where, from the days of Duke Albert V. (1550) up to the present time, works of art have been gradually accumulated by successive princes. Somebody calls the gallery at Munich, the court of Rubens; and Sir Joshua Reynolds says that no one should judge of Rubens who had not studied him at Antwerp and Dusseldorf. I begin to feel the truth of this. My devoted worship of the Italian school of art rendered me long--I will not say _blind_ to the merits of the Flemish painters--for that were to be "sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing!" but, in truth, without that full feeling of their power which I have since acquired. Certainly we have in these days mean ideas about painting--mean and false ideas! It has become a mere object of luxury and connoisseurship, or _virtù_: unless it be addressed to our personal vanity, or to the puerile taste for ornament, show, furniture,--it is nothing. The noble art which was once recognized as the priestess of nature, as a great moral power capable of acting on the senses and the imagination of assembled human beings--as such applied by the lawgivers of Greece, and by the clergy of the Roman Catholic church,--how is it now vulgarized in its objects! how narrowed in its application! And if it be said, that in the present state of society, in these calculating, money-making, political, intellectual times, we are acted upon by far different influences, rendering us infinitely less sensible to the power of painting, then I think it is _not true_, and that the cultivated susceptibility to other moral or poetical excitements--as politics or literature--does not render us less sensible to the moral influence of painting; on the contrary: but she has fallen from her high estate, and there are none to raise her. The public--the national spirit, is wanting; individual patronage is confined, is misdirected, is arbitrary, demanding of the artist any thing rather than the highest and purest intellectual application of his art, and affording nor space nor opportunity for him to address himself to the grand universal passions, principles, and interests of human nature! Suppose a Michael Angelo to be born to us in England: we should not, perhaps, set him to make a statue of snow, but where or how would his gigantic genius, which revelled in the great deeps of passion and imagination, find scope for action? He would struggle and gasp like a stranded Leviathan! But this is digressing: the question is, may not the moral effect of painting be still counted on, if the painter be himself imbued with the right spirit?[34] There is, in the academy at Antwerp, a picture by Rubens, which represents St. Theresa kneeling before Christ, and interceding for the souls in purgatory. The treatment of the subject is exceedingly simple; the upper part of the picture is occupied by the Redeemer, with his usual attributes, and the saint, habited as a nun. In the lower part of the picture, instead of a confused mob of tormented souls, and flames, and devils with pitchforks, the painter has represented a few heads as if rising from below. I remember those of Adam, Eve, and Mary Magdalene. I remember--and never shall forget--the expression of each! The extremity of misery in the countenance of Adam; the averted, disconsolate, repentant wretchedness of Eve, who hides her face in her hair; the mixture of agony, supplication, hope, in the face of the Magdalene, while a cherub of pity extends his hand to her, as if to aid her to rise, and at the same time turns an imploring look towards the Saviour. As I gazed upon this picture, a feeling sank deep into my heart, which did not pass away with the tears it made to flow, but has ever since remained there, and has become an abiding principle of action. This is only one instance out of many, of the _moral_ effect which has been produced by painting. To me it is amusing, and it cannot but be interesting and instructive to the philosopher and artist, to observe how various people, uninitiated into any of the technicalities of art, unable to appreciate the amount of difficulties overcome, are affected by pictures and sculpture. But in forming our judgment, our taste in art, it is unsafe to listen to opinions springing from this vague kind of enthusiasm; for in painting, as in music--"just as the soul is pitched, the _eye_ is pleased." I amuse myself in the gallery here with watching the countenances of those who look at the pictures. I see that the uneducated eye is caught by subjects in which the individual mind sympathizes, and the educated taste seeks abstract excellence. Which has the most enjoyment? The last, I think. Sensibility, imagination, and quick perception of form and colour, are not alone necessary to feel a work of art; there must be the power of association; the mind trained to habitual sympathy with the beautiful and the good; the knowledge of the meaning, and the comprehension of the object of the artist. In the gallery here there are eighty-eight pictures of Rubens--some among the very finest he ever painted; for instance, that splendid picture, Castor and Pollux carrying off the daughters of Leucippus, so full of rich life and movement; the destruction of Sennacherib's host; Rubens and his wife, full lengths, seated in a garden; that wonderful picture of the defeat of the Amazons; the meeting of Jacob and Laban; the picture of the Earl of Arundel and his wife, with other figures, full lengths;[35] and a series of the designs for the large paintings of the history of Marie de' Medici, now in the Louvre. His group of boys with fruits and flowers, exhibits the richest, loveliest combination of colours ever presented to the eye; and on that wonderful picture of the fallen (or rather _falling_) angels, he has lavished such endless variety of form, attitude, and expression, that it would take a day to study it. It is not a large picture: the eye, or rather the imagination, easily takes in the general effect of tumult, horror, destruction, but the understanding dwells on the detail with still increasing astonishment and admiration. These are a few that struck me, but it is quite in vain to attempt to particularize. One may begin by disliking Rubens in general, (I think I did,) but one must end by standing before him in ecstacy and wonder. It is true, that always luxuriant, he is often gross and sensual--he can sometimes be brutally so. His bacchanalian scenes are not like those of Poussin, classical, godlike debauchery, but the abandoned drunken revelry of animals--the very sublime of brute licentiousness; and painted with a breadth of style, a magnificent luxuriance of colour, which renders them more revolting. The _physique_ predominates in all his pictures, and not only to grossness, even to ferocity. His picture here of the slaughter of the Innocents, makes me sick--it has absolutely polluted my imagination. Surely this is not the vocation of high art.--And as for his martyrdoms--they are worse than Spagnoletto's. For all this, he is the TITAN of painting: his creations are "of the earth and earthy," but he has called down fire and light from heaven, wherewith to animate and to illumine them. Rubens is just such a painter as Dryden is a poet, and _vice versâ_: his women are just like Dryden's women, gross, exaggerated, unrefined animals: his men, like Dryden's men, grand, thinking, acting animals. Like Dryden, he could clothe his genius in thunder, dip his pencil in the lightning and the sunbeams of heaven, and rush fearlessly upon a subject which others had trembled to approach. In both we see a singular and extraordinary combination of the plainest, coarsest realities of life, with the loftiest imagery, the most luxurious tints of poetry. Both had the same passion for allegory, and managed it with equal success. "The thoughts that breathe and words that burn" of Dryden, may be compared to the living, moving forms, the glowing, melting, dazzling hues of Rubens, under whose pencil "Desires and adorations, Winged persuasions and wild destinies, Splendours, and glooms, and glimmering incarnations Of hopes, and fears, and twilight fantasies,--" took form and being--became palpable existences: and yet with all this inventive power, this love of allegorical fiction, it is _life_, the spirit of animal life, diffused through and over their works; it is the blending of the plain reasoning with splendid creative powers;--of wonderful fertility of conception with more wonderful facility of execution; it is the combination of truth, and grandeur, and masculine vigour, with a general coarseness of taste, which may be said to characterise both these great men. Neither are, or can be, favourites of the women, for the same reasons. There must have been something analogous in the genius of Rubens and Titian. The distinction was of climate and country. They appear to have looked at nature under the same aspect, but it was a different nature,--the difference between Flanders and Venice. They were both painters of flesh and blood: by nature, poets; by conformation, colourists; by temperament and education, magnificent spirits, scholars, and gentlemen, lovers of pleasure and of fame. The superior sentiment and grace, the refinement and elevation of Titian he owed to the poetical and chivalrous spirit of his age and country. The delicacy of taste which reigned in the Italian literature of that period influenced the arts of design. As to the colouring--we see in the pictures of Rubens the broad daylight effects of a northern climate, and in those of Titian, the burning fervid sun of a southern clime, necessarily modified by shade, before the objects could be seen: hence the difference between the _glow_ of Rubens, and the _glow_ of Titian: the first "i' the colours of the rainbow lived," and the other bathed himself in the evening sky; the one dazzles, the other warms. I can bring before my fancy at this moment, the Helen Forman of Rubens, and Titian's "La Manto;" the "man with a hawk" of Rubens, and Titian's "Falconer;" can any thing in heaven or earth be more opposed? Yet in all alike, is it not the intense feeling of life and individual nature which charms, which fixes us? I know not which I admire most; but I adore Titian--his men are all made for power, and his women for love. And Rembrandt--king of shadows! ----Earth-born And sky-engendered--son of mysteries! was not he a poet? He reminds me often of the Prince Sorcerer, nurtured "in the cave of Domdaniel, under the roots of the sea."[36] Such an enchanted "den of darkness" was his mill and its skylight to him; and there, magician-like, he brooded over half-seen forms, and his imagination framed strange spells out of elemental light and shade. Thence he brought his unearthly shadows; his dreamy splendours; his supernatural gleams; his gems flashing and sparkling with internal light; his lustrous glooms; his wreaths of flaming and embossed gold; his wicked wizard-like heads--turbaned, wrinkled, seared, dusky; pale with forbidden studies--solemn with thoughtful pain--keen with the hunger of avarice--and furrowed with an eternity of years! I have seen pictures of his in which the shadowy background is absolutely peopled with life. At first all seems palpable darkness, apparent vacancy; but figure after figure emerges--another and another; they glide into view, they take shape and colour, as if they grew out of the canvass even while we gaze; we rub our eyes, and wonder whether it be the painter's work or our own fancy! Of all the great painters Rembrandt is perhaps least understood; the admiration bestowed on him, the enormous prices given for his pictures, is in general a fashion--a mere matter of convention--like the price of a diamond. To feel Rembrandt truly, it is not enough to be an artist or an amateur picture-fancier--one should be something of a poet too. There are nineteen of his pictures here; of these "Jesus teaching the doctors in the temple," though a small picture, impressed me with awe,--the portraits of the painter Flinck and his wife, with wonder. All are ill-hung, with their backs against the light--for them the worst possible situation. Van Dyck is here in all his glory: there are thirty-nine of his pictures. The celebrated full-length, "the burgomaster's wife in black," so often engraved, does not equal, in its inexpressible, unobtrusive elegance, the "Lady Wharton," at Devonshire House.[37] Then we have Wallenstein with his ample kingly brow; fierce Tilly; the head of Snyders; the lovely head of the painter's wife, Maria Ruthven,--sweet-looking, delicate, golden-haired, and holding the theorbo, (she excelled in music, I believe,) and virgins, holy families, and other scriptural subjects. His famous picture of Susanna does not strike me much. The four apostles of Albert Durer--wonderful! In expression, in calm religious majesty, in suavity of pencilling, and the grand, pure style of the heads and drapery, quite like Raffaelle. I compared, yesterday, the three portraits--that of Raffaelle, by himself; (the famous head once in the Altaviti palace, and engraved by Morghen;) Albert Durer, by himself; and Giorgione, by himself. Raffaelle is the least handsome, and rather disappointed me; the eyes, in particular, rather project, and have an expression which is not pleasing; the mouth and the brow are full of power and passion. Albert Durer is beautiful, like the old heads of our Saviour; and the predominant expression is calm, dignified, intellectual, with a tinge of melancholy. This picture was painted at the age of twenty-eight: he was then suffering from that bitter domestic curse, a shrewish, avaricious wife, who finally broke his heart. Giorgione is not handsome, but it is a sublime head, with such a large intellectual development, such a profound expression of sentiment! Giorgione died of a faithless mistress, as Albert Durer died of a scolding wife.[38] By Paris Bordone, of Trevigi, there is a head of a Venetian lady, in a dress of crimson velvet, with dark splendid eyes which tell a whole history. By Murillo, there are eight pictures--not one in his most elevated style, but all perfect miracles of painting and of nature. There are thirty-three pictures of Vander Werff, a number sufficient to make one's blood run cold. One, a Magdalene, is of the size of life; the only large picture by this elegant, elaborate, soulless painter I ever saw: he is to me detestable. By Joseph Vernet there are two delicious landscapes, a morning and an evening. I cannot farther particularize; but there are specimens of almost every known painter; those, however, of Titian, Correggio, Julio Romano, and Nicolo Poussin, are very few and not of a very high class, while those of the early German painters, and the Dutch, and the Flemish schools, are first-rate. There is one English picture--Wilkie's "Opening of the Will:" it is very much admired here, and looked upon as a sort of curiosity. I wish the artists of the two countries were better known to each other: both would benefit by such an intercourse. At the palace of Schleissheim[39] there are nearly two thousand pictures: of these some hundreds are positively _bad_; some hundreds are curious and valuable, as illustrating the history and progress of art; some few are really and intrinsically admirable. But the grand attraction here is the far-famed Boisserée Gallery, which is arranged at Schleissheim, until the Pinakothek is ready for its reception. This is the collection about which so many volumes have been written, and which has excited such a general enthusiasm throughout Germany. This enthusiasm, as a fashion, a mania, is beginning to subside, but the impress it has left upon art, and the tone it has given to the pursuit, the feeling of art, will not so soon pass away. The gallery derives its name from two brothers, Sulpitz and Melchior Boisserée,[40] who, with a friend (Bertram) were employed for many years in collecting from various convents, and old churches, and obscure collections of family relics, the productions of the early painters of Germany, from William of Cologne, called by the Germans "Meister Wilhelm," down to Albert Durer and Holbein. The productions of the Greek or Byzantine painters found their way into Germany, as into Italy, in the thirteenth century, and Wilhelm of Cologne appeared to have been the Cimabue of the north--the founder of that school of painting called the _Byzantine-Niederrheinische_, or Flemish school, and the precursor of Rubens, as Cimabue was the precursor of Michael Angelo. Out of this stiff, and rude, and barbarous style of art, arose and spread the Alt-Deutsche, or Gothic school of painting, which produced successively, Van Eyck, (1370,) Hemling, Wohlgemuth,[41] Martin Schoen, Mabuse, Johan Schoreel, Lucas Kranach, Kulmbach, Albert Altorffer, Hans Asper, Johan von Mechlem, Behem, Albert Durer, and the two Holbeins. I mention here only those artists whose pictures fixed my attention; there are many others, and many pictures by unknown authors. Albert Durer was born exactly one hundred years after Van Eyck. The Boisserée gallery contains about three hundred and fifty pictures; but I did not count them; and no official catalogue has yet been published. The subjects are generally sacred; the figures are heads of saints, and scenes from Scripture. A few are portraits; and there are a few, but very few, subjects from profane history. The painters whose works I at once distinguished from all others, were Van Eyck, Johan Schoreel, Hemling, and Lucas Kranach. I can truly say that the two pictures of Van Eyck, representing St. Luke painting the portrait of the Virgin, and the offering of the three kings; and that of Johan Schoreel, representing the death of the Virgin Mary, perfectly amazed me. I remember also several wondrous heads by Lucas Kranach; one by Behem, called, I know not why, "Helena:" and a picture of Christ and the little children, differing from all the rest in style, with something of the Italian grace of drawing, and suavity of colour. The artist, Sedlar, had studied in Lombardy, probably under Correggio; (one of the children certainly might call Correggio father.) The date on this extraordinary production is 1530. Of the painter I know nothing. The general and striking faults, or rather deficiencies of the old German school of art, are easily enumerated. The most flagrant violations of taste and costume,[42] bad drawing of the figure and extremities, faulty perspective; stiff, hard meagre composition, negligence or ignorance of all effect of chiaro-scuro. But what, then, is the secret of the interest which these old painters inspire, of the enthusiasm they excite, even in these cultivated days? It arises from a perception of the _mind_ they brought to bear upon their subjects, the simplicity and integrity of feeling with which they worked, and the elaborate marvellous beauty of the execution of parts. I could give no idea in words of the intense nature and expression in some of the heads, of the grand feeling united to the most finished delicacy in the conception and painting of _countenance_, of the dazzling splendour of colouring in the draperies, and the richness of fancy in the ornaments and accessories. But I _do_ fear that the just admiration excited by this kind of excellence, and a great deal of national enthusiasm, has misled the modern German artists to a false, at least an exaggerated estimate, and an injudicious imitation, of their favourite models. It has produced or encouraged that general hardness of manner, that tendency to violent colour, and high glazy finish, which interfere too often with the beauty, and feeling, and effect of their compositions, at least in the eyes of those who are accustomed to the free broad style of English art.[43] _Thursday Evening._--At the theatre. Schiller's "Braut von Messina." This was the first time I had ever seen the tragic choruses brought on the stage, in the genuine style of the Greek drama; and the deep sonorous voice and measured recitation (I could almost say _recitative_) of Eslair, who was at the head of the chorus of Don Manuel--the emphatic lines being repeated or echoed by his followers--as well as the peculiar style of the whole representation, impressed me with a kind of solemn terror. It was wholly different from any thing I had ever witnessed, and was rather like a poem declaimed on the stage, than what we are accustomed to call a play. I was fortunate in seeing Madame Schröder in Donna Isabella, for she does not often perform, and it is one of the finest parts of this grand actress. Don Manuel and Don Cæsar were played by Forst and Schunke--both were young, very well looking, and good actors. Beatrice was played by Madll. Shöller. The costumes were beautiful, and all the arrangements of the stage contrived with the most poetical effect. One scene in the first act, where Donna Isabella stands between her two sons, a hand on the shoulder of each, beseeching them to be reconciled; while they remain silent, turning from each other with folded arms, and dark averted faces;--the chorusses drawn up on each side, all dressed alike, all precisely in the same attitude, leaning on their shields, with lowering looks fixed on the group in the centre, was admirably managed; and, from the effect that it produced, made me feel that uniformity may be one element of the sublime. Afterwards, a very lively soirée. * * * * * _Friday._--The Hofgarten at Munich is a square, planted with trees, and gravelled, and serving as a public promenade. On one side is the royal palace; opposite to it, the picture gallery; on the east, the king's riding house, and on the west, a long arcade, open towards the garden which connects the palace and the picture gallery; under this arcade are shops, cafés, restaurateurs, &c. as in the _Palais Royal_ at Paris. But what distinguishes this arcade from all others, is the peculiar style of decoration. It is painted in fresco by the young artists who studied under Cornelius. There is, first, a series of sixteen compartments, about eleven feet in length, containing subjects from the history of Bavaria. They are all by various artists, and of course of different degrees of merit, generally better in the composition than the painting, but some have great vigour and animation in both respects. For instance, Otho von Wittelsbach receiving from the emperor, Frederic Barbarossa, the investiture of the dukedom of Bavaria in 1180, painted by Zimmermann. The marriage of Otho the Illustrious, to Agnes, Countess Palatine of the Rhine, in 1225, painted by my friend, Wilhelm Röckel, of Schleissheim, to whom I am indebted for many polite attentions. The engagement between Louis the Severe, of Bavaria, and the fierce fiery Ottocar, king of Bohemia, upon the bridge at Mühldorf, in 1258, painted by Stürmer of Berlin. This is very animated and terrific. I think the artist had Rubens' defeat of the Amazons full in his mind. The victory of the emperor, Louis of Bavaria, over Frederic of Austria, his competitor for the empire in 1322, painted by Hermann of Dresden. The storming of Godesberg, when the unfortunate Archbishop Gerard, and Agnes of Mansfield had taken refuge there in 1583,[44] painted by Gassen of Coblentz. Maximilian I. in 1623, invested with the forfeit electorate of the Palatine Frederic V.[45] painted by Eberle of Dusseldorf. Maximilian Joseph I. father of the present king, bestowing on his people a new constitution and representative government in 1818, painted by Monten of Dusseldorf. These have dwelt on my memory. Over all the pictures, the name of the subject and the date are inscribed in large gold letters, so that those who walk may read. The costumes and manners of each epoch have been attended to with the most scrupulous accuracy; and I see every day groups of soldiers, and of the common people, with their children, standing before these paintings, spelling the titles, and discussing the various subjects represented. The further end of the arcade is painted with a series of Italian scenes, selected by the king after his return from Italy, and executed by Rottmann of Heidelberg, a young landscape-painter of great merit, as De Klenze assures me, and he is a judge of _genius_. Under each picture is a distich, composed by the king himself. These are in distemper, I believe: freely, but rather hastily executed, and cold and ineffective in colour, perhaps the fault of the vehicle. The ceilings and pillars are also gaily painted with arabesques, and other ornaments; and at the upper end there is a grand seated figure, looking magnificent and contemplative, and calling herself BAVARIA. This is well painted by Kaulbach. I walk through these arcades once or twice every day, as I have several friends lodged over them; and can seldom arrive at the end without pausing two or three times. I learn that the king's passion for building, and the forced encouragement given to the enlargement and decoration of his capital, has been carried to an excess, and, like all extremes, has proved mischievous, at least for the time. He has rendered it too much a fashion among his subjects, who are suffering from rash speculations of this kind. Many beautiful edifices in the Ludwig's Strasse, and the neighbourhood of the Maximilian's Platz, and the Karoline's Platz, remain untenanted. A suite of beautiful unfurnished apartments, and even a pretty house in the finest part of Munich may be had for a trifle. Some of these new houses are enormous. Madame M. told me that she has her whole establishment on one floor, but then she has twenty-three rooms. Though the country round Munich is flat and ugly, a few hours' journey brings us into the very midst of the Tyrolian Alps. In June or July all the people fly to the mountains, and baths, and lakes in South Bavaria, and rusticate among the most glorious scenery in the world. "Come to us," said my friend, Luise K----; "come to us in the summer months, _and we will play at Arcadia_." And truly, when I listened to her description of her mountain life, and all its tranquil, primitive pleasures, and all the beauty and grandeur which lie beyond that giant-barrier which lifts itself against the evening sky, and when I looked into those clear affectionate eyes--"dieser Blick voll Treu und Gute," and beheld the expression of a settled happiness, the light of a heart at peace with itself and all the world, reflected on the countenances of her children--a recollection of the unquiet destiny which drives me in an opposite direction came over me-- Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire, which mine own tears Do scald like molten lead. [Illustration] END OF VOL. I. LONDON: IBOTSON & PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND. ADDENDA _To Page 179, Vol._ i. Therese Huber, who died in 1829, was a woman every way remarkable, in her domestic history, in her position, her writings, and her character. She was employed by Cotta to edit his famous "Morgenblatt," in her time the most esteemed and the most influential of the literary periodicals of Germany, and which she conducted for many years with extraordinary energy and success; she wrote also several romances, published under her husband's name, and long attributed to him even by her most intimate friends. Therese Huber is distinguished by a profound knowledge of her own sex, and by her just and admirable views of our destination and situation in society. Some of her private letters have been published, since her death, with those of Caroline Woltmann, in the "Deutsche Briefe," and they place in yet stronger light the fine original powers of this gifted woman. VOL. I. Page 2, line 16, _for_ great, _read_ green. 43 -- 14, _for_ altamen, _read_ attamen. 46 -- 5, omit _patrician_. 47 -- 2, _for_ 'vengeful, _read_ revengeful. 95 -- 2, _for_ Haitsinger, _read_ Haitzinger. 95 -- 12, _for_ tiefe, _read_ tief. 95 -- 21, _for_ Becher, _read_ Becker. 147 -- 2, in the note, _for_ Hienrich, _read_ Heinrich. 147 -- 3, in the note, _for_ Wladimer, _read_ Wladimir. 181 -- 1, _for_ first, _read_ second. 184 -- 17, _for_ Erden, _read_ Erben. 193 -- 5, _for_ wsäche, _read_ wäsche. 197 -- 14, _after_ since, _insert_ "High-born Hoel." 211 -- 9, _for_ Elangau, _read_ Erlangen. 230 -- 10, _for_ liebe, _read_ lieber. 230 -- 11, _for_ schrecklich Schichsal, _read_ schreckliches Schicksal. 230 -- 13, _for_ grab, _read_ Grab. 252 -- 19, _for_ twelve, _read_ eight. 270 -- 16, _for_ Neurather, _read_ Neureuther. 291 -- 1, in the note, _for_ par, _read_ pas; and _for_ pas _read_ par. * * * * * FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: In Goethe's Iphigenia.] [Footnote 2: Over another iron door was writt, _Be not too bold._ FAIRY QUEEN, Book iii. Canto XI.] [Footnote 3: See Wordsworth's Poems.] [Footnote 4: Two celebrated antique gems which adorn the relics of the Three Kings.] [Footnote 5: It is nearly twice the size of the famous and well known Medusa Rondinelli, now in the Glyptothek at Munich.] [Footnote 6: Professor Wallraff died on the 18th of March, 1824.] [Footnote 7: Amongst others, Jean Paul, in the "Heidelberger Jahrbücher der Literatur," 1815.] [Footnote 8: Since the above passage was written, Mrs. Austin has favoured me with the following note: "Goëthe admired, but did not like, still less esteem, Madame de Staël. He begins a sentence about her thus--'As she had no idea what duty meant,' &c. "However, after relating a scene which took place at Weimar, he adds, 'Whatever we may say or think of her, her visit was certainly followed by very important results. Her work upon Germany, which owed its rise to social conversations, is to be regarded as a mighty engine which at once made a wide breach in that Chinese wall of antiquated prejudices, which divided us from France; so that the people across the Rhine, and afterwards those across the channel, at length came to a nearer knowledge of us; whence we may look to obtain a living influence over the distant west. Let us, therefore, bless that conflict of national peculiarities which annoyed us at the time, and seemed by no means profitable.'"--_Tag- und Jahres Hefte_, vol. 31, last edit. To that WOMAN who had sufficient strength of mind to break through a "Chinese wall of antiquated prejudices," surely something may be forgiven.] [Footnote 9: Johanna Schopenhauer, well known in Germany for her romances and her works on art. Her little book, "Johan van Eyk und seine Nachfolger," has become the manual of those who study the old German schools of painting.] [Footnote 10: Or Gebhard, for so the name is spelt in the German histories.] [Footnote 11: For the story of Archbishop Gebhard and Agnes de Mansfeld, see Schiller's History of the Thirty Years' War, and Coxe's History of the House of Austria.] [Footnote 12: The gardens and plantations round the castle are a favourite promenade of the citizens of Heidelberg, and there are in summer bands of music, &c.] [Footnote 13: When Gustavus Adolphus took Mayence, during the same war, he presented the whole of the valuable library to his chancellor, Oxenstiern; the chancellor sent it to Sweden, intending to bestow it on one of the colleges; but the vessel in which it was embarked foundered in the Baltic sea, and the whole went to the bottom.] [Footnote 14: M. Passavant is a landscape-painter of Frankfort, an intelligent, accomplished man, and one of the few German artists who had a tolerably correct idea of the state of art in England. He is the author of "Kunstreise durch England und Belgium."] [Footnote 15: She was cotemporary with Cleopatra, (B. C. 33,) and was particularly celebrated for her busts in ivory. The Romans raised a statue to her honour, which was in the Guistiniani collection.--V. PLINY.] [Footnote 16: Lucas Kranach (1472) was one of the most celebrated of the old German painters; from a principle of gratitude and attachment, he shared the imprisonment of the elector John Frederic, during five years.] [Footnote 17: In September, 1833.] [Footnote 18: His own expression.] [Footnote 19: Dannecker has been ennobled; his proper titles run thus--Johan Heinrich von Dannecker, Hofrath, (court counsellor,) knight of the orders of the Wurtemburg crown, and of Wladimir, and professor of sculpture at Stuttgardt.] [Footnote 20: Rauch is knight of the Red Eagle, and member of the senate.] [Footnote 21: Christian Rauch was born in 1777, and Christian Frederic Tieck in 1776.] [Footnote 22: Formerly Madame Jageman, the principal actress of the theatre at Weimar. Her talents were developed under the auspices of Goethe and Schiller. She was the original Thekla of the Wallenstein, and the original Princess Leonora of the Tasso. In these two characters she has never yet been equalled. The quietness, amounting to passiveness, in the _external_ delineation of the Princess in Tasso, affords so little _material_ for the stage, that Madame Wolff, then the first actress, preferred the character of Leonora Sanvitale, and Madame Jageman was supposed to derogate in accepting that of the Princess. Such is the consummate, but evanescent delicacy of the conception, that Goethe never expected to see it developed on the stage; and at the rehearsal he threw himself back in his chair, and shut his eyes, that the image which lived in his imagination might not be profaned by any tasteless exaggeration of action or expression. He soon opened them, however, and before the rehearsal was finished, started off the chair, and nearly embraced the actress. She looked and felt the part as only a woman of exceeding taste and delicacy would have done; the very tone of her mind, and the character of her beauty, fitted her to represent the fair, gentle, fragile, but dignified Leonora.] [Footnote 23: Lessing.] [Footnote 24: Characteristics of Goethe, vol. i. p. 29.] [Footnote 25: I believe it was in allusion to this distinction, and her own noble birth, that her father-in-law used to call her playfully, "_die kleine Ahnfrau_," (the little ancestress.)] [Footnote 26: M. Besle, otherwise the Comte de Stendhal, and, I believe, he has half a dozen other _aliases_.] [Footnote 27: Alfred Tennyson.] [Footnote 28: "Thro' Erin's isle, to sport awhile," &c.] [Footnote 29: In the German maps, Zweibrücken; the capital of those provinces of the kingdom of Bavaria, which lie on the left bank of the Rhine.] [Footnote 30: The entire grouping of these figures is from the design of Mr. Robert Cockerell, one of the original discoverers, who in ascertaining their relative position has been guided in some measure by the situation in which their fragments were found strewed in front of the temple, and overwhelmed with masses of the frieze and pediment; but has been much more indebted to his own artist-like feeling, and architectural skill. He is of opinion that the western pediment contained several other figures besides the ten which have been restored.] [Footnote 31: The character of the Emperor Rodolph would be one of the most interesting speculations in philosophical history. He was evidently a fine artist, degraded into a bad sovereign--a man whose constructive and imaginative genius was misplaced upon a throne. The melancholy, and incipient madness which hovered over him, was possibly the result of the natural faculties suppressed or perverted.] [Footnote 32: The celebrated traveller, natural philosopher, and botanist. He has the direction of most of the scientific institutions at Munich.] [Footnote 33: I remember Madame Devrient, in describing the effect which music had upon herself, pressing her hand upon her bosom, and saying, with simple but profound feeling, "_Ah! cela use la vie!_"] [Footnote 34: "A l'exposition de Paris (1822) on a vu un millier de tableaux représentant des sujets de l'Ecritoire Sainte, peints par des peintres qui n'y croient pas du tout: admirés et jugés par des gens qui n'y croient pas beaucoup, et enfin payés par des gens qui, apparemment, n'y croient pas, non plus. "L'on cherche après cela le pourquoi de la décadence de l'art!"] [Footnote 35: Of this celebrated picture, Sir Joshua Reynolds says, that it is miscalled, and certainly does _not_ contain the portraits of the Earl and Countess of Arundel. Perhaps he is mistaken. It appears that the Earl of Arundel, of James the First's time, (the collector of the Arundelian marbles,) with his Countess, sat to Rubens in 1620, and that "Robin the Dwarf" was introduced into this picture, which was not painted in England, but at Brussels. Rubens was at this time at the height of his reputation, and when requested to paint the portrait of the Countess of Arundel, he replied, "Although I have refused to execute the portraits of many princes and noblemen, especially of his lordship's rank yet from the Earl I am bound to receive the honour he does me in commanding my services, regarding him as I do, in the light of an evangelist to the world of art, and the great supporter of our profession."--(See Tierney's History and Antiquities of the Castle and Town of Arundel.)] [Footnote 36: In Southey's Thalaba.] [Footnote 37: Now removed with the other Vandykes to Chatsworth.] [Footnote 38: See a curious letter of Pirkheimer on the death of Albert Durer, quoted in the Foreign Quarterly Review, No. 21. "In Albert I have truly lost one of the best friends I had in the whole world, and nothing grieves me deeper than that he should have died so painful a death, which, under God's providence, I can ascribe to nobody but his huswife, who gnawed into his very heart, and so tormented him that he departed hence the sooner; for he was dried up to a faggot, and might nowhere seek him a jovial humour or go to his friends." (After much more, reflecting on this intolerable woman, he concludes with edifying _naïveté_;) "She and her sister are not queans; they are, I doubt not, in the number of honest, devout, and altogether God-fearing women, but a man might better have a quean who was otherwise kindly, than such a gnawing, suspicious, quarrelsome, _good_ woman, with whom he can have no peace or quiet neither by day nor by night."] [Footnote 39: Schleissheim is a country palace of the king of Bavaria, about six miles from Munich; it has originally been a beautiful building, but is not now inhabited, and looks forlorn and dilapidated. The pictures are distributed, without any attempt at arrangement, through forty-five rooms.] [Footnote 40: Natives, I believe, of Cologne.] [Footnote 41: Albert Durer was the scholar of Wohlgemuth.] [Footnote 42: I particularly recollect a picture, containing many hundred figures, all painted with the elaborate finish of a miniature, and representing the victory of Alexander over Darius. All the Persians are dressed like Turks, while Alexander and his host are armed to the teeth, in the full costume of chivalry, with heraldic banners, displaying the different devices of the old Germanic nobles, the cross, the black eagle, &c. &c.] [Footnote 43: The observations of Mr. Phillips, (Lectures on the History and Principles of Painting,) on Giotto, and the earliest Italian school, apply in a great measure to the early German painters, and I cannot refuse myself the pleasure of quoting them.--"As it appears to me, that painting at the present time, is swerving among us from the true point of interest, tending to ornament, to the loss of truth and sentiment, I think I cannot do better than endeavour to restrain the encroachment of so insidious a foe, to prevent, if possible, our advance in so erroneous and fatal a course, by showing how strong is the influence of art where truth and simplicity prevail; and that, where no ornament is to be found--nay, where imperfections are numerous; where drawing is frequently defective, perspective violated, colouring employed without science, and chiaro-scuro rarely, if ever thought of. The natural question then is, what can excite so much interest in pictures, where so much is wanting to render them perfect? I answer, that which leads to the forgetfulness of the want of those interesting and desirable qualities in the pictures of Giotto, is the excitation caused by their fulness of feeling--well-directed, ardent, concentrated feeling! by which his mind was engaged in comprehending the points most worthy of display in the subject he undertook to represent, and led to the clearness and intelligence with which he has selected them; add to this the simplicity and ability with which he has displayed that feeling." * * * "This is the first true step in the natural system of the art, or of the application of it, and this was Giotto's more especially. The rest is useful, as it assists the influence of this, the _indispensable_. This, to continue the figure, taken from the stage, (in a previous part of the Lecture,) is as Garrick acting Macbeth or Lear in a tie-wig and a general's uniform of his day; the passion and the character reaching men's hearts, notwithstanding the absurd costume. If the art be found thus strong to attract the mind, to excite feeling and thought, and to engage the heart, by the mere force of unadorned truth in the important points, and without the aid of the valuable auxiliaries I have above alluded to, is it not manifest that in its basis it is correct? and that the utmost force of historical painting is to be sought by continual emendation of this system, maintaining the spirit of its simplicity, supplying its wants, calling in the aid of those auxiliaries within reasonable bounds, not permitting them to usurp the throne of taste and attraction, but rather requiring them to assist in humbler guise to maintain and strengthen the legitimate authority of feeling. After reading these beautiful passages, written by a man who unites the acute discriminative judgment of a practical artist with the finest feeling of the ultimate object and aim of high poetical art, I felt almost tempted to expunge my own superficial and imperfect notes, (above written,) and should have done so, but for the hope that my deficiencies will induce some one more competent in taste and knowledge to take up the subject of the early German painters. It is certain that the modern historical painters of Germany are working on the principle here laid down by Mr. Phillips, particularly Overbeck and Wach, which they have derived from a study of their national school of art; but other enthusiasts should remember that the redeeming excellence of this school was feeling, and that feeling can never be a matter of mere imitation. I cannot understand why the omissions of ignorance should be confounded with the achievements of native genius, by those for whom "knowledge has unlocked her ample stores," and to whom the recovery of those "rich spoils of time," the antique marbles, must have revealed the wide difference between "the simplicity of elegance" and "the simplicity of indigence."] [Footnote 44: See p. 56.] [Footnote 45: See p. 66.] * * * * * [Transcriber's Note: Errata as given in the original have been applied to the text. Other than the most exceedingly obvious typographical errors, all inconsistent spelling, hyphenation, diacriticals, archaic usage, etc. have been preserved as printed in the original. The equals signs used to bracket the signature at the end of part I indicate characters in a Fraktur typeface.] 
16445	----	Produced from images generously made available by gallica (Bibliothèque nationale de France) at http://gallica.bnf.fr. OBSERVATIONS AND REFLECTIONS MADE IN THE COURSE OF A JOURNEY THROUGH _FRANCE, ITALY, AND GERMANY_. By HESTER LYNCH PIOZZI. IN TWO VOLUMES Vol. I. LONDON: Printed for A. STRAHAN; and T. CADELL in the Strand, MDCCLXXXIX. PREFACE. I was made to observe at Rome some vestiges of an ancient custom very proper in those days--it was the parading of the streets by a set of people called _Preciæ_, who went some minutes before the _Flamen Dialis_ to bid the inhabitants leave work or play, and attend wholly to the procession; but if ill omens prevented the pageants from passing, or if the occasion of the show was deemed scarcely worthy its celebration, these _Preciæ_ stood a chance of being ill-treated by the spectators. A Prefatory introduction to a work like this, can hope little better usage from the Public than they had; it proclaims the approach of what has often passed by before, adorned most certainly with greater splendour, perhaps conducted too with greater regularity and skill: Yet will I not despair of giving at least a momentary amusement to my countrymen in general, while their entertainment shall serve as a vehicle for conveying expressions of particular kindness to those foreign individuals, whose tenderness softened the sorrows of absence, and who eagerly endeavoured by unmerited attentions to supply the loss of their company on whom nature and habit had given me stronger claims. That I should make some reflections, or write down some observations, in the course of a long journey, is not strange; that I should present them before the Public is I hope not too daring: the presumption grew up out of their acknowledged favour, and if too kind culture has encouraged a coarse plant till it runs to seed, a little coldness from the same quarter will soon prove sufficient to kill it. The flattering partiality of private partisans sometimes induces authors to venture forth, and stand a public decision; but it is often found to betray them too; not to be tossed by waves of perpetual contention, but rather to sink in the silence of total neglect. What wonder! He who swims in oil must be buoyant indeed, if he escapes falling certainly, though gently, to the bottom; while he who commits his safety to the bosom of the wide-embracing ocean, is sure to be strongly supported, or at worst thrown upon the shore. On this principle it has been still my study to obtain from a humane and generous Public that shelter their protection best affords from the poisoned arrows of private malignity; for though it is not difficult to despise the attempts of petty malice, I will not say with the Philosopher, that I mean to build a monument to my fame with the stones thrown at me to break my bones; nor yet pretend to the art of Swift's German Wonder-doer, who promised to make them fall about his head like so many pillows. Ink, as it resembles Styx in its colour, should resemble it a little in its operation too; whoever has been once _dipt_ should become _invulnerable_: But it is not so; the irritability of authors has long been enrolled among the comforts of ill-nature, and the triumphs of stupidity; such let it long remain! Let me at least take care in the worst storms that may arise in public or in private life, to say with Lear, --I'm one More sinn'd against, than sinning. For the book--I have not thrown my thoughts into the form of private letters; because a work of which truth is the best recommendation, should not above all others begin with a lie. My old acquaintance rather chose to amuse themselves with conjectures, than to flatter me with tender inquiries during my absence; our correspondence then would not have been any amusement to the Public, whose treatment of me deserves every possible acknowledgment; and more than those acknowledgments will I not add--to a work, which, such as it is, I submit to their candour, resolving to think as little of the event as I can help; for the labours of the press resemble those of the toilette, both should be attended to, and finished with care; but once complete, should take up no more of our attention; unless we are disposed at evening to destroy all effect of our morning's study. OBSERVATIONS AND REFLECTIONS MADE IN A JOURNEY THROUGH France, Italy, and Germany. * * * * * FRANCE. CALAIS. September 7, 1784. Of all pleasure, I see much may be destroyed by eagerness of anticipation: I had told my female companion, to whom travelling was new, how she would be surprized and astonished, at the difference found in crossing the narrow sea from England to France, and now she is not astonished at all; why should she? We have lingered and loitered six and twenty hours from port to port, while sickness and fatigue made her feel as if much more time still had elapsed since she quitted the opposite shore. The truth is, we wanted wind exceedingly; and the flights of shaggs, and shoals of maycril, both beautiful enough, and both uncommon too at this season, made us very little amends for the tediousness of a night passed on ship-board. Seeing the sun rise and set, however, upon an unobstructed horizon, was a new idea gained to me, who never till now had the opportunity. It confirmed the truth of that maxim which tells us, that the human mind must have something left to supply for itself on the sight of all sublunary objects. When my eyes have watched the rising or setting sun through a thick crowd of intervening trees, or seen it sink gradually behind a hill which obstructed my closer observation, fancy has always painted the full view finer than at last I found it; and if the sun itself cannot satisfy the cravings of a thirsty imagination, let it at least convince us that nothing on this side Heaven can satisfy them, and _set our affections_ accordingly. Pious reflections remind one of monks and nuns; I enquired of the Franciscan friar who attended us at the inn, what was become of Father Felix, who did the duties of the quête; as it is called, about a dozen years ago, when I recollect minding that his manners and story struck Dr. Johnson exceedingly, who said that so complete a character could scarcely be found in romance. He had been a soldier, it seems, and was no incompetent or mean scholar: the books we found open in his cell, shewed he had not neglected modern or colloquial knowledge; there was a translation of Addison's Spectators, and Rapin's Dissertation on the contending Parties of England called Whig and Tory. He had likewise a violin, and some printed music, for his entertainment. I was glad to hear he was well, and travelling to Barcelona on foot by orders of the superior. After dinner we set out to see Miss Grey, at her convent of Dominican Nuns; who, I hoped, would have remembered me, as many of the ladies there had seized much of my attention when last abroad; they had however all forgotten me, nor could call to mind how much they had once admired the beauty of my eldest daughter, then a child, which I thought impossible to forget: one is always more important in one's own eyes than in those of others; but no one is of importance to a Nun, who is and ought to be employed in other speculations. When the Great Mogul showed his splendour to a travelling dervise, who expressed his little admiration of it--"Shall you not often be thinking of me in future?" said the monarch. "Perhaps I might," replied the religieux, "if I were not always thinking upon God." The women spinning at their doors here, or making lace, or employing themselves in some manner, is particularly consolatory to a British eye; yet I do not recollect it struck me last time I was over: industry without bustle, and some appearance of gain without fraud, comfort one's heart; while all the profits of commerce scarcely can be said to make immediate compensation to a delicate mind, for the noise and brutality observed in an English port. I looked again for the chapel, where the model of a ship, elegantly constructed, hung from the top, and found it in good preservation: some scrupulous man had made the ship, it seems, and thought, perhaps justly too, that he had spent a greater portion of time and care on the workmanship than he ought to have done; so resolving no longer to indulge his vanity or fondness, fairly hung it up in the convent chapel, and made a solemn vow to look on it no more. I remember a much stronger instance of self-denial practised by a pretty young lady of Paris once, who was enjoined by her confessor to wring off the neck of her favourite bullfinch, as a penance for having passed too much time in teaching him to pipe tunes, peck from her hand, &c.--She obeyed; but never could be prevailed on to see the priest again. We are going now to leave Calais, where the women in long white camblet clokes, soldiers with whiskers, girls in neat slippers, and short petticoats contrived to show them, who wait upon you at the inn;--postillions with greasy night-caps, and vast jack-boots, driving your carriage harnessed with ropes, and adorned with sheep-skins, can never fail to strike an Englishman at his first going abroad:--But what is our difference of manners, compared to that prodigious effect produced by the much shorter passage from Spain to Africa; where an hour's time, and sixteen miles space only, carries you from Europe, from civilization, from Christianity. A gentleman's description of his feelings on that occasion rushes now on my mind, and makes me half ashamed to sit here, in Dessein's parlour, writing remarks, in good time!--upon places as well known as Westminster-bridge to almost all those who cross it at this moment; while the custom-house officers intrusion puts me the less out of humour, from the consciousness that, if I am disturbed, I am disturbed from doing _nothing_. CHANTILLY. Our way to this place lay through Boulogne; the situation of which is pleasing, and the fish there excellent. I was glad to see Boulogne, though I can scarcely tell why; but one is always glad to see something new, and talk of something old: for example, the story I once heard of Miss Ashe, speaking of poor Dr. James, who loved profligate conversation dearly,--"That man should set up his quarters across the water," said she; "why Boulogne would be a seraglio to him." The country, as far as Montreuil, is a coarse one; _thin herbage in the plains and fruitless fields_. The cattle too are miserably poor and lean; but where there is no grass, we can scarcely expect them to be fat: they must not feed on wheat, I suppose, and cannot digest tobacco. Herds of swine, not flocks of sheep, meet one's eye upon the hills; and the very few gentlemen's feats that we have passed by, seem out of repair, and deserted. The French do not reside much in private houses, as the English do; but while those of narrower fortunes flock to the country towns within their reach, those of ampler purses repair to Paris, where the rent of their estate supplies them with pleasures at no very enormous expence. The road is magnificent, like our old-fashioned avenue in a nobleman's park, but wider, and paved in the middle: this convenience continued on for many hundred miles, and all at the king's expence. Every man you meet, politely pulls off his hat _en passant_; and the gentlemen have commonly a good horse under them, but certainly a dressed one. Sporting season is not come in yet, but, I believe the idea of sporting seldom enters any head except an English one: here is prodigious plenty of game, but the familiarity with which they walk about and sit by our road-side, shews they feel no apprehensions. Harvest, even in France, is extremely backward this year, I see; no crops are yet got in, nor will reaping be likely to pay its own charges. But though summer is come too late for profit, the pleasure it brings is perhaps enhanced by delay: like a life, the early part of which has been wasted in sickness, the possessor finds too little time remaining for work, when health _does_ come; and spends all that he has left, naturally enough, in enjoyment. The pert vivacity of _La Fille_ at Montreuil was all we could find there worth remarking: it filled up my notions of French flippancy agreeably enough; as no English wench would so have answered one to be sure. She had complained of our avant-coureur's behaviour. "_Il parle sur le bant ton, mademoiselle_" (said I), "_mais il à le coeur bon_[A]:" "_Ouydà_" (replied she, smartly), "_mais c'est le ton qui fait le chanson_[B]." FOOTNOTES: [Footnote A: He sets his talk to a sounding tune, my dear, but he is an honest fellow.] [Footnote B: But I always thought it was the tune which made the musick.] The cathedral at Amiens made ample amends for the country we passed through to see it; the _Nef d'Amiens_ deserves the fame of a first-rate structure: and the ornaments of its high altar seem particularly well chosen, of an excellent taste, and very capital execution. The vineyards from thence hither shew, that either the climate, or season, or both, improve upon one: the grapes climbing up some not very tall golden-pippin trees, and mingling their fruits at the top, have a mighty pleasing effect; and I observe the rage for Lombardy poplars is in equal force here as about London: no tolerable house have I passed without seeing long rows of them; all young plantations, as one may perceive by their size. Refined countries always are panting for speedy enjoyment: the maxim of _carpe diem_[Footnote: Seize the present moment.] came into Rome when luxury triumphed there; and poets and philosophers lent their assistance to decorate and dignify her gaudy car. Till then we read of no such haste to be happy; and on the same principle, while Americans contentedly wait the slow growth of their columnal chesnut, our hot-bed inhabitants measure the slender poplar with canes, anxiously admiring its quick growth and early elegance; yet are often cut down themselves, before their youthful favourite can afford them either pleasure or advantage. This charming palace and gardens were new to neither of us, yet lovely to both: the tame fish, I remember so well to have fed from my hand eleven or twelve years ago, are turned almost all white; can it be with age I wonder? the naturalists must tell. I once saw a carp which weighed six pounds and an half taken out of a pond in Hertfordshire, where the owners knew it had resided forty years at least; and it was not white, but of the common colour: Quere, how long will they live? and when will they begin to change? The stables struck me as more magnificent this time than the last I saw them; the hounds were always dirtily and ill kept; but hunting is not the taste of any nation now but ours; none but a young English heir says to his estate as Goliah did to David, _Come to me, and I will give thee to the beasts of the field, and to the fowls of the air_; as some of our old books of piety reproach us. Every trick that money can play with the most lavish abundance of water is here exhibited; nor is the sight of a _jet d'eau_, or the murmur of an artificial cascade, undelightful in a hot day, let the Nature-mongers say what they please. The prince's cabinet, for a private collection, is not a mean one; but I was sorry to see his quadrant rusted to the globe almost, and the poor planetarium out of all repair. The great stuffed dog is a curiosity however; I never saw any of the canine species so large, and withal so beautiful, living or dead. The theatre belonging to the house is a lovely one; and the truly princely possessor, when he heard once that an English gentleman, travelling for amusement, had called at Chantilly too late to enjoy the diversion, instantly, though past twelve o'clock at night, ordered a new representation, that his curiosity might be gratified. This is the same Prince of Condè, who going from Paris to his country-seat here for a month or two, when his eldest son was nine years old, left him fifty louis d'ors as an allowance during his absence. At his return to town, the boy produced his purse, crying "_Papa! here's all the money safe, I have never touched it once_"--The Prince, in reply, took him gravely to the window, and opening it, very quietly poured all the louis d'ors into the street; saying, "Now, if you have neither virtue enough to give away your money, nor spirit enough to spend it, always _do this_ for the future, do you hear; that the poor may at least have a _chance for it_." PARIS. The fine paved road to this town has many inconveniencies, and jars the nerves terribly with its perpetual rattle; the approach however always strikes one as very fine, I think, and the boulevards and guingettes look always pretty too: as wine, beer, and spirits are not permitted to be sold there, one sees what England does not even pretend to exhibit, which is gaiety without noise, and a crowd without a riot. I was pleased to go over the churches again too, and re-experience that particular sensation which the disposition of St. Rocque's altars and ornaments alone can give. In the evening we looked at the new square called the Palais Royal, whence the Due de Chartres has removed a vast number of noble trees, which it was a sin and shame to profane with an axe, after they had adorned that spot for so many centuries.--The people were accordingly as angry, I believe, as Frenchmen can be, when the folly was first committed: the court, however, had wit enough to convert the place into a sort of Vauxhall, with tents, fountains, shops, full of frippery, brilliant at once and worthless, to attract them; with coffeehouses surrounding it on every side; and now they are all again _merry_ and _happy_, synonymous terms at Paris, though often disunited in London; and _Vive le Duc de Chartres_! The French are really a contented race of mortals;--precluded almost from possibility of adventure, the low Parisian leads a gentle humble life, nor envies that greatness he never can obtain; but either wonders delightedly, or diverts himself philosophically with the sight of splendours which seldom fail to excite serious envy in an Englishman, and sometimes occasion even suicide, from disappointed hopes, which never could take root in the heart of these unaspiring people. Reflections of this cast are suggested to one here in every shop, where the behaviour of the matter at first sight contradicts all that our satirists tell us of the _supple Gaul_, &c. A mercer in this town shews you a few silks, and those he scarcely opens; _vous devez choisir_[Footnote: Chuse what you like.], is all he thinks of saying, to invite your custom; then takes out his snuff-box, and yawns in your face, fatigued by your inquiries. For my own part, I find my natural disgust of such behaviour greatly repelled, by the recollection that the man I am speaking to is no inhabitant of A happy land, where circulating pow'r Flows thro' each member of th'embodied state-- S. JOHNSON. and I feel well-inclined to respect the peaceful tenor of a life, which likes not to be broken in upon, for the sake of obtaining riches, which when gotten must end only in the pleasure of counting them. A Frenchman who should make his fortune by trade tomorrow, would be no nearer advancement in society or situation: why then should he solicit, by arts he is too lazy to delight in the practice of, that opulence which would afford so slight an improvement to his comforts? He lives as well as he wishes already; he goes to the Boulevards every night, treats his wife with a glass of lemonade or ice, and holds up his babies by turns, to hear the jokes of _Jean Pottage_. Were he to recommend his goods, like the Londoner, with studied eloquence and attentive flattery, he could not hope like him that the eloquence he now bestows on the decorations of a hat, or the varnish of an equipage, may one day serve to torment a minister, and obtain a post of honour for his son; he could not hope that on some future day his flattery might be listened to by some lady of more birth than beauty, or riches perhaps, when happily employed upon a very different subject, and be the means of lifting himself into a state of distinction, his children too into public notoriety. Emulation, ambition, avarice, however, must in all arbitrary governments be confined to the great; the _other_ set of mortals, for there are none there of _middling_ rank, live, as it should seem, like eunuchs in a seraglio; feel themselves irrevocably doomed to promote the pleasure of their superiors, nor ever dream of sighing for enjoyments from which an irremeable boundary divides them. They see at the beginning of their lives how that life must necessarily end, and trot with a quiet, contented, and unaltered pace down their long, straight, and shaded avenue; while we, with anxious solicitude, and restless hurry, watch the quick turnings of our serpentine walk; which still presents, either to sight or expectation, some changes of variety in the ever-shifting prospect, till the unthought-of, unexpected end comes suddenly upon us, and finishes at once the fluctuating scene. Reflections must now give way to facts for a moment, though few English people want to be told that every hotel here, belonging to people of condition, is shut out from the street like our Burlington-house, which gives a general gloom to the look of this city so famed for its gaiety: the streets are narrow too, and ill-paved; and very noisy, from the echo made by stone buildings drawn up to a prodigious height, many of the houses having seven, and some of them even eight stories from the bottom. The contradictions one meets with every moment likewise strike even a cursory observer--a countess in a morning, her hair dressed, with diamonds too perhaps, a dirty black handkerchief about her neck, and a flat silver ring on her finger, like our ale-wives; a _femme publique_, dressed avowedly for the purposes of alluring the men, with not a very small crucifix hanging at her bosom;--and the Virgin Mary's sign at an alehouse door, with these words, Je suis la mere de mon Dieu, Et la gardienne de ce lieu[C]. [Footnote C: The mother of my God am I, And keep this house right carefully. ] I have, however, borrowed Bocage's Remarks upon the English nation, which serve to damp my spirit of criticism exceedingly: She had more opportunities than I for observation, not less quickness of discernment surely; and her stay in London was longer than mine in Paris.--Yet, how was she deceived in many points! I will tell nothing that I did not _see_; and among the objects one would certainly avoid seeing if it were possible, is the deformity of the poor.--Such various modes of warping the human figure could hardly be observed in England by a surgeon in high practice, as meet me about this country incessantly.--I have seen them in the galleries and outer-courts even of the palace itself, and am glad to turn my eyes for relief on the Duke of Orleans's pictures; a glorious collection! The Italian noblemen, in whose company we saw it, acknowledged with candour the good taste of the selection; and I was glad to see again what had delighted me so many years before: particularly, the three Marys, by Annibale Caracci; and Rubens's odd conceit of making Juno's Peacock peck Paris's leg, for having refused the apple to his mistress. The manufacture at the Gobelins seems exceedingly improved; the colouring less inharmonious, the drawing more correct; but our Parisians are not just now thinking about such matters; they are all wild for love of a new comedy, written by Mons. de Beaumarchais, and called, "Le Mariage de Figaro," full of such wit as we were fond of in the reign of Charles the Second, indecent merriment, and gross immorality; mixed, however, with much acrimonious satire, as if Sir George Etherege and Johnny Gay had clubbed their powers of ingenuity at once to divert and to corrupt their auditors; who now carry the verses of this favourite piece upon their fans, pocket-handkerchiefs, &c. as our women once did those of the Beggar's Opera. We have enjoyed some very agreeable society here in the company of Comte Turconi, a Milanese Nobleman who, desirous to escape all the frivolous, and petty distinction which birth alone bestows, has long fixed his residence in Paris, where talents find their influence, and where a great city affords that unobserved freedom of thought and action which can scarcely be expected by a man of high rank in a smaller circle; but which, when once tasted, will not seldom be preferred to the attentive watchfulness of more confined society. The famous Venetian too, who has written so many successful comedies, and is now employed upon his own Memoirs, at the age of eighty-four, was a delightful addition to our Coterie, _Goldoni_. He is garrulous, good-humoured, and gay; resembling the late James Harris of Salisbury in person not manner, and seems justly esteemed, and highly, by his countrymen. The conversation of the Marquis Trotti and the Abate Bucchetti is likewise particularly pleasing; especially to me, who am naturally desirous to live as much as possible among Italians of general knowledge, good taste, and polished manners, before I enter their country, where the language will be so very indispensable. Mean time I have stolen a day to visit my old acquaintance the English Austin Nuns at the Fossée, and found the whole community alive and cheerful; they are many of them agreeable women, and having seen Dr. Johnson with me when I was last abroad, enquired much for him: Mrs. Fermor, the Prioress, niece to Belinda in the Rape of the Lock, taking occasion to tell me, comically enough, "That she believed there was but little comfort to be found in a house that harboured _poets_; for that she remembered Mr. Pope's praise made her aunt very troublesome and conceited, while his numberless caprices would have employed ten servants to wait on him; and he gave one" (said she) "no amends by his talk neither, for he only sate dozing all day, when the sweet wine was out, and made his verses chiefly in the night; during which season he kept himself awake by drinking coffee, which it was one of the maids business to make for him, and they took it by turns." These ladies really live here as comfortably for aught I see as peace, quietness, and the certainty of a good dinner every day can make them. Just so much happier than as many old maids who inhabit Milman Street and Chapel Row, as they are sure not to be robbed by a treacherous, or insulted by a favoured, servant in the decline of life, when protection is grown hopeless and resistance vain; and as they enjoy at least a moral certainty of never living worse than they do to-day: while the little knot of unmarried females turned fifty round Red Lion Square _may_ always be ruined by a runaway agent, a bankrupted banker, or a roguish steward; and even the petty pleasures of six-penny quadrille may become by that misfortune too costly for their income.--_Aureste_, as the French say, the difference is small: both coteries sit separate in the morning, go to prayers at noon, and read the chapters for the day: change their neat dress, eat their little dinner, and play at small games for small sums in the evening; when recollection tires, and chat runs low. But more adventurous characters claim my present attention. All Paris I think, myself among the rest, assembled to see the valiant brothers, Robert and Charles, mount yesterday into the air, in company with a certain Pilâtre de Rosier, who conducted them in the new-invented flying chariot fastened to an air-balloon. It was from the middle of the Tuilleries that they set out, a place very favourable and well-contrived for such public purposes. But all was so nicely managed, so cleverly carried on somehow, that the order and decorum of us who remained on firm ground, struck me more than even the very strange sight of human creatures floating in the wind: but I have really been witness to ten times as much bustle and confusion at a crowded theatre in London, than what these peaceable Parisians made when the whole city was gathered together. Nobody was hurt, nobody was frighted, nobody could even pretend to feel themselves incommoded. Such are among the few comforts that result from a despotic government. My republican spirit, however, boiled up a little last Monday, when I had to petition Mons. de Calonne for the restoration of some trifles detained in the custom-house at Calais. His politeness, indeed, and the sight of others performing like acts of humiliation, reconciled me in some measure to the drudgery of running from subaltern to subaltern, intreating, in pathetic terms, the remission of a law which is at last either just or unjust; if just, no felicitation should, methinks, be permitted to change it; if unjust, what can be so grating as the obligation to solicit? We mean to quit Paris to-morrow; I therefore enquired this evening, what was become of our aërial travellers. A very grave man replied, "_Je crois, Madame, qu'ils sont dejá arrivès ces Messieurs là, au lieu ou les vents se forment_[D]." [Footnote D: I fancy, Ma'am, the gentlemen are gone to see the place where all the winds blow from.] LYONS. Sept. 25, 1784. We left the capital at our intended time, and put into the carriage, for amusement, a book seriously recommended by Mr. Goldoni; but which diverted me only by the fanfaronades that it contained. The author has, however, got the premium by this performance, which the Academy of Berlin promised to whoever wrote best this year on any Belles Lettres subject. This gentleman judiciously chose to give reasons for the universality of the French language, and has been so gaily insolent to every other European nation in his flimsy pamphlet, that some will probably praise, many reply to, all read, and all forget it. I will confess myself so seized on by his sprightly impertinence, that I wished for leisure to translate, and wit to answer him at first, but the want of one solid thought by which to recollect his existence has cured me; and I now find that he was deliciously cool and sharp, like the ordinary wine of the country we are passing through, which having _no body_, can neither keep its little power long, nor even use it while fresh to any sensible effect. The country is really beautiful; but descriptions are _so_ fallacious, one half despairs of communicating one's ideas as they are: for either well-chosen words do not present themselves, or being well-chosen they detain the reader, and fix his mind on _them_, instead of the things described. Certain it is that I had formed no adequate notion of the fine river called the Yonne, with cattle grazing on its fertile banks: those banks not clothed indeed with our soft verdure, but with royal purple, proceeding from an autumnal daisy of that colour that enamels every meadow at this season. Here small enclosures seem unknown to the inhabitants, who are strewed up and down expansive views of a most productive country; where vineyards swell upon the rising grounds, and young wheat ornaments the valleys below: while clusters of aspiring poplars, or a single walnut-tree of greater size and dignity unite in attracting attention, and inspiring poetical ideas. Here is no tedious uniformity to fatigue the eye, nor rugged asperities to disgust it; but ceaseless variety of colouring among the plants, while the cærulean willow, the yellow walnut, the gloomy beech, and silver theophrastus, seem scattered by the open hand of lavish Nature over a landscape of respectable extent, uniting that sublimity which a wide expanse always conveys to the mind, with that distinctness so desired by the eye; which cultivation alone can offer and fertility bestow. Every town that should adorn these lovely plains, however, exhibits, upon a nearer approach, misery; the more mortifying, as it is less expected by a spectator, who requires at least some days experience to convince him that the squallid scenes of wretchedness and dirt in which he is obliged to pass the night, will prove more than equivalent to the pleasures he has enjoyed in the day-time, derived from an appearance of elegance and wealth--elegance, the work of Nature, not of man; and opulence, the immediate gift of God, and not the result of commerce. He who should fix his residence in France, lives like Sir Gawaine in our old romance, whose wife was bound by an enchantment, that obliged her at evening to lay down the various beauties which had charmed admiring multitudes all day, and become an object of odium and disgust. The French do seem indeed an idle race; and poverty, perhaps for that reason, forces her way among them, through a climate that might tempt other mortals to improve its blessings; but, as the motto to the arms they are so proud of expresses it--"they _toil not, neither do they spin_." Content, the bane of industry, as Mandeville calls it, renders them happy with what Heaven has unsolicited shaken into their lap; and who knows but the spirit of blaming such behaviour may be less pleasing to God that gives, than is the behaviour itself? Let us not, mean time, be forward to suppose, that whatever one sees done, is done upon principle, as such fancies will for ever mislead one: much must be left to chance, when we are judging the conduct either of nations or individuals. And surely I never knew till now, that so little religion could exist in any Christian country as in this, where they drive their carts, and keep their little shops open on a Sunday, forbearing neither pleasure nor business, as I see, on account of observing that day upon which their Redeemer rose again. They have a tradition among the meaner people, that when Christ was crucified, he turned his head towards France, over which he pronounced his last blessing; but we must accuse them, if so, of being very ungrateful favourites. This stately city, Lyons, is very happily and finely situated; the Rhone, which flows by its side, inviting mills, manufactures, &c. seems resolved to contradict and wash away all I have been saying; but we must remember, it is five days journey from Paris hither, and I have been speaking only of the little places we passed through in coming along. The avenue here, which leads to one of the greatest objects in the nation, is most worthy of that object's dignity indeed: the marriage of two rivers, which having their sources at a prodigious distance from each other, meet here, and together roll their beneficial tribute to the sea. Howell's remark, "That the Saone resembles a Spaniard in the slowness of its current, and that the Rhone is emblematic of French rapidity," cannot be kept a moment out of one's head: it is equally observable, that the junction adds little in appearance to their strength and grandeur, and that each makes a better figure _separate_ than _united_. La Montagne d'Or is a lovely hill above the town, and I am told that many English families reside upon it, but we have no time to make minute enquiries. L'Hotel de la Croix de Malthe affords excellent accommodations within, and a delightful prospect without. The Baths too have attracted my notice much, and will, I hope, repair my strength, so as to make me no troublesome fellow-traveller. How little do those ladies consult their own interest, who make impatience of petty inconveniences their best supplement for conversation!--fancy themselves more important as less contented; and imagine all delicacy to consist in the difficulty of being pleased! Surely a dip in this delightful river will restore my health, and enable me to pass the mountains, of which our present companions give me a very formidable account. The manufacturers here, at Lyons, deserve a volume, and I shall scarcely give them a page; though nothing I ever saw at London or Paris can compare with the beauty of these velvets, or with the art necessary to produce such an effect, while the wrong side is smooth, not struck through. The hangings for the Empress of Russia's bed-chamber are wonderfully executed; the design elegant, the colouring brilliant: A screen too for the Grand Signor is finely finished here; he would, I trust, have been contented with magnificence in the choice of his furniture, but Mr. Pernon has added taste to it, and contrived in appearance to sink an urn or vase of crimson velvet in a back ground of gold tissue with surprising ingenuity. It is observable, that the further people advance in elegance, the less they value splendour; distinction being at last the positive thing which mortals elevated above competency naturally pant after. Necessity must first be supplied we know, convenience then requires to be contented; but as soon as men can find means after that period to make themselves eminent for taste, they learn to despise those paltry distinctions which riches alone can bestow. Talking of Taste leads one to speak of gardening; and having passed yesterday between two villas belonging to some of the most opulent merchants of Lyons, I gained an opportunity of observing the disposal of those grounds that are appropriated to pleasure; where the shade of straight long-drawn alleys, formed by a close junction of ancient elm trees, kept a dazzling sun from incommoding our sight, and rendering the turf so mossy and comfortable to one's tread, that my heart never felt one longing wish for the beauties of a lawn and shrubbery--though I should certainly think such a manner of laying out a Lancashire gentleman's seat in the north of England a mad one, where the heat of the sun ought to be invited in, not shut out; and where a large lake of water is wanted for his beams to sparkle upon, instead of a fountain to trickle and to murmur, and to refresh one with the idea of coolness which it excites. Here, however, where the Rhone is navigable up to the very house, I see not but it is rational enough to form jet d'eaux of the superfluous water, and to content one's self with a Bird Cage Walk, when we are sure at the end of it to find ourselves surrounded by an horizon, of extent enough to give the eye full employment, and of a bright colouring which affords it but little relief. That among the gems of Europe our island holds the rank of an _emerald_, was once suggested to me, and I could never part with the idea; surely France must in the same scale be rated as the _ruby_; for here is no grass, no verdure to repose the sight upon, except that of high forest trees, the vineyards being short cut, and supported by white sticks, the size of those which in our flower gardens support a favourite carnation; and these placed close together by thousands on a hill rather perplex than please a spectator of the country, who must wait till he recollects the superiority of their produce, before he prefers them to a Herefordshire orchard or a Kentish hop-ground. Well! well! it is better to waste no more words on places however, where the people have done so much to engage and to deserve our attention. Such was the hospitality I have here been witness to, and such the luxuries of the Lyonnois at table, that I counted six and thirty dishes where we dined, and twenty-four where we supped. Every thing was served up in silver at both places, and all was uniformly magnificent, except the linen, which might have been finer. We were not a very numerous company--from eighteen to twenty-two, as I remember, morning and evening; but the ladies played upon the pedal harp, the gentlemen sung gaily, if not sweetly after supper: I never received more kindness for my own part in any fortnight of my life, nor ever heard that kindness more pleasingly or less coarsely expressed. These are merchants, I am told, with whom I have been living; and perhaps my heart more readily receives and repays their caresses for having heard so. Let princes dispute, and soldiers reciprocally support their quarrels; but let the wealthy traders of every nation unite to pour the oil of commerce over the too agitated ocean of human life, and smooth down those asperities which obstruct fraternal concord. The Duke and Duchess of Cumberland lodge here at our hotel; I saw them treated with distinguished respect to-night at the theatre, where _a force de danser_[Footnote: By dint of dancing alone], I actually was moved to shed many tears over the distresses of _Sophie de Brabant_. Surely these pantomimes will very soon supplant all poetry, when, as Gratiano says, "Our words will suddenly become superfluous, and discourse grow commendable in none but parrots." Some conversation here, however, struck me as curious; the more so as I had heard the subject slightly touched upon at Paris; but faintly there, as the last sounds of an echo, while here they are all loud, all in earnest, and all their heads seemed turned, I think, about something, or nothing, which they call _animal magnetism_. I cannot imagine how it has seized them so: a man who undertakes to cure disorders by the touch, is no new thing; our Philosophical Transactions make mention of Gretrex the stroaker, in Charles the Second's reign. The present mountebank, it is true, seems more hardy in his experiments, and boasts of being able to cause disorders in the human frame, as well as to remove them. A gentleman at yesterday's dinner-party mentioned, that he took pupils; and, before I had expressed the astonishment I felt, professed himself a disciple; and was happy to assure us, he said, that though he had not yet attained the desirable power of putting a person into a catalepsy at pleasure, he could throw a woman into a deep swoon, from which no arts but his own could recover her. How difficult is it to restrain one's contempt and indignation from a buffoonery so mean, or a practice so diabolical!--This folly may possibly find its way into England--I should be very sorry. To-morrow we leave Lyons. I should have liked to pass through Switzerland, the Derbyshire of Europe; but I am told the season is too far advanced, as we mean to spend Christmas at Milan. ITALY TURIN. October 17, 1784. We have at length passed the Alps, and are safely arrived at this lovely little city, whence I look back on the majestic boundaries of Italy, with amazement at his courage who first profaned them: surely the immediate sensation conveyed to the mind by the sight of such tremendous appearances must be in every traveller the same, a sensation of fulness never experienced before, a satisfaction that there is something great to be seen on earth--some object capable of contenting even fancy. Who he was who first of all people pervaded these fortifications, raised by nature for the defence of her European Paradise, is not ascertained; but the great Duke of Savoy has wisely left his name engraved on a monument upon the first considerable ascent from Pont Bonvoisin, as being author of a beautiful road cut through the solid stone for a great length of way, and having by this means encouraged others to assist in facilitating a passage so truly desirable, till one of the great wonders now to be observed among the Alps, is the ease with which even a delicate traveller may cross them. In these prospects, colouring is carried to its utmost point of perfection, particularly at the time I found it, variegated with golden touches of autumnal tints; immense cascades mean time bursting from naked mountains on the one side; cultivated fields, rich with vineyards, on the other, and tufted with elegant shrubs that invite one to pluck and carry them away to where they would be treated with much more respect. Little towns flicking in the clefts, where one would imagine it was impossible to clamber; light clouds often sailing under the feet of the high-perched inhabitants, while the sound of a deep and rapid though narrow river, dashing with violence among the insolently impeding rocks at the bottom, and bells in thickly-scattered spires calling the quiet Savoyards to church upon the steep sides of every hill--fill one's mind with such mutable, such various ideas, as no other place can ever possibly afford. I had the satisfaction of seeing a chamois at a distance, and spoke with a fellow who had killed five hungry bears that made depredation on his pastures: we looked on him with reverence as a monster-tamer of antiquity, Hercules or Cadmus; he had the skin of a beast wrapt round his middle, which confirmed the fancy--but our servants, who borrowed from no fictitious records the few ideas that adorned their talk, told us he reminded _them_ of _John the Baptist_. I had scarce recovered the shock of this too sublime comparison, when we approached his cottage, and found the felons nailed against the wall, like foxes heads or spread kites in England. Here are many goats, but neither white nor large, like those which browze upon the steeps of Snowdon, or clamber among the cliffs of Plinlimmon. I chatted with a peasant in the Haute Morienne, concerning the endemial swelling of the throat, which is found in seven out of every ten persons here: he told me what I had always heard, but do not yet believe, that it was produced by drinking the snow water. Certain it is, these places are not wholesome to live in; most of the inhabitants are troubled with weak and sore eyes: and I recollect Sir Richard Jebb telling me, more than seven years ago, that when he passed through Savoy, the various applications made to him, either for the cure or prevention of blindness by numberless unfortunate wretches that crowded round him, hastened his quitting a province where such horrible complaints prevailed. One has heard it related that the goîstre or gozzo of the throat is reckoned a beauty by those who possess it; but I spoke with many, and all agreed to lament it as a misfortune. That it does really proceed merely from living in a snowy country, would be well confirmed by accounts of a similar sickness being endemial in Canada; but of an American goîstre I have never yet heard--and Wales, methinks, is snowy enough, and mountainous enough, God knows; yet were such an excrescence to be seen _there_, the people would never have done wondering, and blessing themselves. The mines of Derbyshire, however, do not very unfrequently exhibit something of the same appearance among those who work in _them_; and as Savoy is impregnated with many minerals, I should be apter to attribute this extension of the gland to their influence over the constitution, than to that of snow water, which can scarcely be efficacious in a degree of power equal to the producing so very violent an effect. The wolves do certainly come down from these mountains in large troops, just as Thomson describes them: Burning for blood; boney, and gaunt, and grim.-- But it is now the fashionable philosophy every where to consider this creature as the original of our domestic friend, the dog. It was a long time before my heart assented to its truth, yet surely their hunting thus in packs confirms it; and the Jackall's willingness to connect with either race, shews one that the species cannot be far removed, and that he makes the shade between the wolf and rough haired shepherd's cur. Of the longevity of man this district affords us no pleasing examples. The peasants here are apparently unhealthy, and they say--short-lived. We are told by travellers of former days, that there is a region of the air so subtle as to extinguish the two powers of taste and smell; and those who have crossed the Cordilleras of the Andes say, that situations have been explored among their points in South America, where those senses have been found to suffer a temporary suspension. Our _voyageurs aeriens_[Footnote: Our aerostatic travellers] may now be useful to settle that question among others, and Pambamarca's heights may remain untrodden. As for Mount Cenis, I never felt myself more hungry, or better enjoyed a good dinner, than I did upon it's top: but the trout in the lake there have been over praised; their pale colour allured me but little in the first place, nor is their flavour equal to that of trout found in running water. Going down the Italian side of the Alps is, after all, an astonishing journey; and affords the most magnificent scenery in nature, which varying at every step, gives new impression to the mind each moment of one's passage; while the portion of terror excited either by real or fancied dangers on the way, is just sufficient to mingle with the pleasure, and make one feel the full effect of sublimity. To the chairmen who carry one though, nothing can be new; it is observable that the glories of these objects have never faded--I heard them speak to each other of their beauties, and the change of light since they had passed by last time, while a fellow who spoke English as well as a native told us, that having lived in a gentleman's service twenty years between London and Dublin, he at length begged his discharge, chusing to retire and finish his days a peasant upon these mountains, where he first opened his eyes upon scenes that made all other views of nature insipid to his taste. If impressions of beauty remain, however, those of danger die away by frequent reiteration; the men who carried me seemed amazed that I should feel any emotions of fear. _Qu'est ce donc, madame_?[Footnote: What's the matter, my lady?] was the coldly-asked question to my repeated injunction of _prenez garde_[Footnote: Take care.]: not very apparently unnecessary neither, where the least slip must have been fatal both to them and me. Novalesa is the town we stopped at, upon entering Piedmont; where the hollow sound of a heavy dashing torrent that has accompanied us hitherto, first grows faint, and the ideas of common life catch hold of one again; as the noise of it is heard from a greater distance, its stream grows wider, and its course more tranquil. For compensation of danger, ease should be administered; but one's quiet is here so disturbed by insects, and polluted by dirt, that one recollects the conduct of the Lapland rein-deer, who seeks the summit of the hill at the hazard of his life, to avoid those gnats which sting him to madness in the valley. Suza shewed nothing that I took much interest in, except its name; and nobody tells me why it is honoured with that old Asiatick appellation. At the next town, called St. Andrè, or St. Ambroise, I forget which, we got an admirable dinner; and saw our room decorated with a large map of London, which I looked on with sensations different from those ever before excited by the same object, Amsterdam and Constantinople covered the other sides of the wall; and over the door of the chamber itself was written, as our people write the Lamb or the Lion, "_Les trois Villes Heretiques_[Footnote: The three Heretical Cities]." The avenue to Turin, most magnificently planted, and drawn in a wide straight line, shaded like the Bird-cage walk in St. James's Park, for twelve miles in length, is a dull work, but very useful and convenient in so hot a country; it has been completed by the taste, and at the sole expence, of his Sardinian majesty, that he may enjoy a cool shady drive from one of his palaces to the other. The town to which this long approach conveys one does not disgrace its entrance. It is built in form of a star, with a large stone in its centre, on which you are desired to stand, and see the streets all branch regularly from it, each street terminating with a beautiful view of the surrounding country, like spots of ground seen in many of the old-fashioned parks in England, when the etoile and vista were the mode. I think there is[5] still one subsisting even now, if I remember right, in Kensington Gardens. Such symmetry is really a soft repose for the eye, wearied with following a soaring falcon through the half-sightless regions of the air, or darting down immeasurable precipices, to examine if the human figure could be discerned at such a depth below one. Model of elegance, exact Turin! where Italian hospitality first consoled, and Italian arts first repaid, the fatigues of my journey: how shall I bear to leave my new-obtained acquaintance? how shall I consent to quit this lovely city? where, from the box put into my possession by the Prince de la Cisterna, I first saw an Italian opera acted in an Italian theatre; where the wonders of Porporati's hand shewed me that our Bartolozzi was not without a competitor; and where every pleasure which politeness can invent, and kindness can bestow, was held out for my acceptance. Should we be seduced, however, to waste time here, we should have reason in a future day to repent our choice; like one who, enamoured of Lord Pembroke's great hall at Wilton, should fail to afford himself leisure for looking over the better-furnished apartments. This charming town is the _salon_ of Italy; but it is a finely-proportioned and well-ornamented _salon_ happily constructed to call in the fresh air at the end of every street, through which a rapid stream is directed, that _ought_ to carry off all nuisances, which here have no apology from want of any convenience purchasable by money; and which must for that reason be the choice of inhabitants, who would perhaps be too happy, had they a natural taste for that neatness which might here be enjoyed in its purity. The arches formed to defend passengers from the rain and sun, which here might have even serious effects from their violence, deserve much praise; while their architecture, uniting our ideas of comfort and beauty together, form a traveller's taste, and teach him to admire that perfection, of which a miniature may certainly be found at Turin, when once a police shall be established there to prevent such places being used for the very grossest purposes, and polluted with smells that poison all one's pleasure. It is said, that few European palaces exceed in splendour that of Sardinia's king; I found it very fine indeed, and the pictures dazzling. The death of a dropsical woman well known among all our connoisseurs detained my attention longest: the value set on it here is ten thousand pounds. The horse cut out of a block of marble at the stairs-foot attracted me not a little; but we are told that the impression it makes will soon be effaced by the sight of greater wonders. Mean time I go about like Stephano and his ignorant companions, who longed for all the glittering furniture of Prospero's cell in the Tempest, while those who know the place better are vindicated in crying, "_Let it alone, thou fool, it is but trash_." Some letters from home directed me to enquire in this town for Doctor Charles Allioni, who kindly received, and permitted me to examine the rarities, of which he has a very capital collection. His fossil fish in slate--blue slate, are surprisingly well preserved; but there is in the world, it seems, a chrystalized trout, not flat, nor the flesh eaten away, as I understand, but round; and, as it were, cased in chrystal like our _aspiques_, or _fruit in jelly_: the colour still so perfect that you may plainly perceive the spots upon it, he says. To my enquiries after this wonderful petrefaction, he replied, "That it might be bought for a thousand pounds;" and added, "that if he were a _Ricco Inglese_[Footnote: Rich Englishman], he would not hesitate for the price:" "Where may I see it, Sir?" said I; but to that question no intreaties could produce an answer, after he once found I had no mind to buy. That fresh-water fish have been known to remain locked in the flinty bosom of Monte Uda in Carnia, the Academical Discourse of Cyrillo de Cremona, pronounced there in the year 1749, might have informed us; and we are all familiar, I suppose, with the anchor named in the fifteenth book of Ovid's Metamorphoses. Strabo mentions pieces of a galley found three thousand stadii from any sea; and Dr. Allioni tells me, that Monte Bolca has been long acknowledged to contain the fossils, now diligently digging out under the patronage of some learned naturalists at Verona.--The trout, however, is of value much beyond these productions certainly, as it is closed round as if in a transparent case we find, hermetically sealed by the soft hand of Nature, who spoiled none of her own ornaments in preserving them for the inspection of her favourite students. The amiable old professor from whom these particulars were obtained, and who endured my teizing him in bad Italian for intelligence he cared not to communicate, with infinite sweetness and patience grew kinder to me as I became more troublesome to him: and shewing me the book upon botany to which he had just then put the last line; turned his dim eyes from me, and said, as they filled with tears, "You, Madam, are the last visitor I shall ever more admit to talk upon earthly subjects; my work is done; I finished it as you were entering:--my business now is but to wait the will of God, and die; do you, who I hope will live long and happily, seek out your own salvation, and pray for mine." Poor dear Doctor Allioni! My enquiries concerning this truly venerable mortal ended in being told that his relations and heirs teized him cruelly to sell his manuscripts, insects, &c. and divide the money amongst _them_ before he died. An English scholar of the same abilities would be apt enough to despise such admonitions, and dispose at his own liking and leisure of what his industry alone had gained, his learning only collected; but there seems to be much more family fondness on the Continent than in our island; more attention to parents, more care for uncles, and nephews, and sisters, and aunts, than in a commercial country like ours, where, for the most part, each one makes his own way separate; and having received little assistance at the beginning of life, considers himself as little indebted at the close of it. Whoever takes a long journey, however he may at his first commencement be tempted to accumulate schemes of convenience and combinations of travelling niceties, will cast them off in the course of his travels as incumbrances; and whoever sets out in life, I believe, with a crowd of relations round him, will, on the same principle, feel disposed to drop one or two of them at every turn, as they hang about and impede his progress, and make his own game single-handed. I speak of _Englishmen_, whose religion and government inspire rather a spirit of public benevolence, than contract the social affections to a point; and co-operate, besides, to prompt that genius for adventure, and taste of general knowledge, which has small chance to spring up in the inhabitants of a feudal state; where each considers his family as himself, and having derived all the comfort he has ever enjoyed from his relations, resolves to return their favours at the end of a life, which they make happy, in proportion as it _is_ so: and this accounts for the equality required in continental marriages, which are avowedly made here without regard to inclination, as the keeping up a family, not the choice of a companion, is considered as important; while the lady bred up in the same notions, complies with her _first_ duties, and considers the _second_ as infinitely more dispensable. GENOA. Nov. 1, 1784. It was on the twenty-first of last month that we passed from Turin to Monte Casale; and I wondered, as I do still, to see the face of Nature yet without a wrinkle, though the season is so far advanced. Like a Parisian female of forty years old, dressed for court, and stored with such variety of well-arranged allurements, that the men say to each other as she passes.--"Des qu'elle à cessée d'estre jolie, elle n'en devient que plus belle, ce me semble[E]." [Footnote E: She's grown handsomer, I think, since she has left off being pretty.] The prospect from St. Salvadore's hill derives new beauties from the yellow autumn; and exhibits such glowing proofs of opulence and fertility, as words can with difficulty communicate. The animals, however, do not seem benefited in proportion to the apparent riches of the country: asses, indeed, grow to a considerable size, but the oxen are very small, among pastures that might suffice for Bakewell's bulls; and these are all little, and almost all _white_; a colour which gives unfavourable ideas either of strength or duration. The blanche rose among vegetables scatters a less powerful perfume than the red one; whilst in the mineral kingdom silver holds but the second place to gold, which imbibing the bright hues of its parent-sun, becomes the first and greatest of all metallic productions. One may observe too, that yellow is the earliest colour to salute the rising year, the last to leave it: crocuses, primroses, and cowslips give the first earnest of resuscitating summer; while the lemon-coloured butterfly, whose name I have forgotten, ventures out, before any others of her kind can brave the parting breath of winter's last storms; stoutest to resist cold, and steadiest in her manner of flying. The present season is yellow indeed, and nothing is to be seen now but sun-flowers and African marygolds around us; _one_ bough besides, on every tree we pass--_one_ bough at least is tinged with the golden hue; and if it does put one in mind of that presented to Proserpine, we may add the original line too, and say, Uno avulfo, non deficit alter[F]. [Footnote F: Pluck one away, another still remains. ] The sure-footed and docile mule, with which in England I was but little acquainted, here claims no small attention, from his superior size and beauty: the disagreeable noise they make so frequently, however, hinders one from wishing to ride them--it is not braying somehow, but worse; it is neighing out of tune. I have put nothing down about eating since we arrived in Italy, where no wretched hut have I yet entered that does not afford soup, better than one often tastes in England even at magnificent tables. Game of all sorts--woodcocks in particular. Porporati, the so justly-famed engraver, produced upon his hospitable board, one of the pleasant days we passed with him, a couple so exceedingly large, that I hesitated, and looked again, to see whether they were really woodcocks, till the long bill convinced me. One reads of the luxurious emperors that made fine dishes of the little birds brains, phenicopter's tongues, &c. and of the actor who regaled his guests with nightingale-pie, with just detestation of such curiosity and expence: but thrushes, larks, and blackbirds, are so _very_ frequent between Turin and Novi, I think they might serve to feed all the fantastical appetites to which Vitellius himself could give encouragement and example. The Italians retain their tastes for small birds in full force; and consider beccafichi, ortolani, &c. as the most agreeable dainties: it must be confessed that they dress them incomparably. The sheep here are all lean and dirty-looking, few in number too; but the better the soil the worse the mutton we know, and here is no land to throw away, where every inch turns to profit in the olive-yards, vines, or something of much higher value than letting out to feed sheep. Population seems much as in France, I think: but the families are not, in either nation, disposed according to British notions of propriety; all stuffed together into little towns and large houses, _entessées_, as the French call it; one upon another, in such a strange way, that were it not for the quantity of grapes on which the poor people live, with other acescent food enjoined by the church, and doubtless suggested by the climate, I think putrid fevers must necessarily carry off crowds of them at once. The head-dress of the women in this drive through some of the northern states of Italy varied at every post; from the velvet cap, commonly a crimson one, worn by the girls in Savoia, to the Piedmontese plait round the bodkin at Turin, and the odd kind of white wrapper used in the exterior provinces of the Genoese dominions. Uniformity of almost any sort gives a certain pleasure to the eye, and it seems an invariable rule in these countries that all the women of every district should dress just alike. It is the best way of making the men's task easy in judging which is handsomest; for taste so varies the human figure in France and England, that it is impossible to have an idea how many pretty faces and agreeable forms would lose and how many gain admirers in those nations, were a sudden edict to be published that all should dress exactly alike for a year. Mean time, since we left Deffeins, no such delightful place by way of inn have we yet seen as here at Novi. My chief amusement at Alexandria was to look out upon the _huddled_ marketplace, as a great dramatic writer of our day has called it; and who could help longing there for Zoffani's pencil to paint the lively scene? Passing the Po by moon-light near Casale exhibited an entertainment of a very different nature, not unmixed with ill-concealed fear indeed; though the contrivance of crossing it is not worse managed than a ferry at Kew or Richmond used to be before our bridges were built. Bridges over the rapid Po would, however, be truly ridiculous; when swelled by the mountain snows it tears down all before it in its fury, and inundates the country round. The drive from Novi on to Genoa is so beautiful, so grand, so replete with imagery, that fancy itself can add little to its charms: yet, after every elegance and every ornament have been justly admired, from the cloud which veils the hill, to the wild shrubs which perfume the valley; from the precipices which alarm the imagination, to the tufts of wood which flatter and sooth it; the sea suddenly appearing at the end of the Bocchetta terminates our view, and takes from one even the hope of expressing our delight in words adequate to the things described. Genoa la Superba stands proudly on the margin of a gulph crowded with ships, and resounding with voices, which never fail to animate a British hearer--the Tailor's shout, the mariner's call, swelled by successful commerce, or strengthened by newly-acquired fame. After a long journey by land, such scenes are peculiarly delightful; but description tangles, not communicates, the sensations imbibed upon the spot. Here are so many things to describe! such churches! such palaces! such pictures! one would imagine the Genoese possessed the empire of the ocean, were it not well known that they call but fix galleys their own, and seventy years ago suffered all the horrors of a bombardment. The Dorian palace is exceedingly fine; the Durazzo palace, for ought I know, is finer; and marble here seems like what one reads of silver in King Solomon's time, which, says the Scripture, "_was nothing counted on in the days of Solomon_" Casa Brignoli too is splendid and commodious; the terraces and gardens on the house-tops, and the fresco paintings outside, give one new ideas of human life; and exhibits a degree of luxury unthought-on in colder climates. But here we live on green pease and figs the first day of November, while orange and lemon trees flaunt over the walls more common than pears in England. The Balbi mansion, filled with pictures, detained us from the churches filled with more. I have heard some of the Italians confess that Genoa even pretends to vie with Rome herself in ecclesiastical splendour. In devotion I should think she would be with difficulty outdone: the people drop down on their knees in the street, and crowd to the church doors while the benediction is pronouncing, with a zeal which one might hope would draw down stores of grace upon their heads. Yet I hear from the inhabitants of other provinces, that they have a bad character among their neighbours, who love not the _base Ligurian_ and accuse them of many immoralities. They tell one too of a disreputable saying here, how there are at Genoa men without honesty, women without modesty, a sea with no fish, and a wood with no birds. Birds, however, here certainly are by the million, and we have eaten fish since we came every day; but I am informed they are neither cheap nor plentiful, nor considered as excellent in their kinds. Here is macaroni enough however!--the people bring in such a vast dish of it at a time, it disgusts one. The streets of the town are much too narrow for beauty or convenience--impracticable to coaches, and so beset with beggars that it is dreadful. A chair is therefore, above all things, necessary to be carried in, even a dozen steps, if you are likely to feel shocked at having your knees suddenly clasped by a figure hardly human; who perhaps holding you forcibly for a minute, conjures you loudly, by the sacred wounds of our Lord Jesus Christ, to have compassion upon _his_; shewing you at the same time such undeniable and horrid proofs of the anguish he is suffering, that one must be a monster to quit him unrelieved. Such pathetic misery, such disgusting distress, did I never see before, as I have been witness to in this gaudy city--and that not occasionally or by accident, but all day long, and in such numbers that humanity shrinks from the description. Sure, charity is not the virtue that they pray for, when begging a blessing at the church-door. One should not however speak unkindly of a people whose affectionate regard for our country shewed itself so clearly during the late war: a few days residence with the English consul here at his country seat gave me an opportunity of hearing many instances of the Republic's generous attachment to Great Britain, whose triumphs at Gibraltar over the united forces of France and Spain were honestly enjoyed by the friendly Genoese, who gave many proofs of their sincerity, more solid than those clamorous ones of huzzaing our minister about wherever he went, and crying _Viva il General_ ELIOTT; while many young gentlemen of high station offered themselves to go volunteers aboard our fleet, and were with difficulty restrained. We have been shewed some beautiful villas belonging to the noblemen of this city, among which Lomellino's pleased me best; as the water there was so particularly beautiful, that he had generously left it at full liberty to roll unconducted, and murmur through his tasteful pleasure grounds, much in the manner of our lovely Leasowes; happily uniting with English simplicity, the glowing charms that result from an Italian sky. My eyes were so wearied with square edged basons of marble, and jets d'eaux, surrounded by water nymphs and dolphins, that I felt vast relief from Lomellino's garden, who, like me, Tir'd with the joys parterres and fountains yield, Finds out at last he better likes a field. Such felicity of situation I never saw till now, when one looks upon the painted front of this gay mansion, commanding from its fine balcony a rich and extensive view at once of the sea, the city, and the snow-topt mountains; while from the windows on the other side the house, one's eye sinks into groves of cedar, ilex, and orange trees, not apparently cultivated with incessant care, or placed in pots, artfully sunk under ground to conceal them from one's sight, but rising into height truly respectable. The sea air, except in particular places where the land lies in some direction that counteracts its influence, is naturally inimical to timber; though the green coasts of Devonshire are finely fringed with wood; and here, at Lomellino's villa, in the Genoese state, I found two plane trees, of a size and serious dignity, that recalled to my mind the solemn oak before our duke of Dorset's seat at Knowle--and chesnuts, which would not disgrace the forests of America. A rural theatre, cut in turf, with a concealed orchestra and sod seats for the audience, with a mossy stage, not incommodious neither, and an admirable contrivance for shifting the scenes, and savouring the exits, entrances, &c. of the performers, gave me a perfect idea of that refined luxury which hot countries alone inspire--while another elegantly constructed spot, meant and often used for the entertainment of tenants and dependants who come to rejoice on the birth or wedding day of a kind landlord, make one suppress one's sighs after a free country--at least suspend them; and fill one's heart with tenderness towards men, who have skill to soften authority with indulgence, and virtue to reward obedience with protection. A family coming last night to visit at a house where I had the honour of being admitted as an intimate, gave me another proof of my present state of remoteness from English manners. The party consisted of an old nobleman, who could trace his genealogy unblemished up to one of the old Roman emperors, but whose fortune is now in a hopeless state of decay:--his lady, not inferior to himself in birth or haughtiness of air and carriage, but much impaired by age, ill health, and pecuniary distress; these had however no way lessened her ideas of her own dignity, or the respect of her cavalier servente and her son, who waited on her with an unremitted attention; presenting her their little dirty tin snuff-boxes upon one knee by turns; which ceremony the less surprised me, as having seen her train made of a dyed and watered lutestring, borne gravely after her up stairs by a footman, the express image of Edgar in the storm-scene of king Lear--who, as the fool says, "_wisely reserv'd a blanket, else had we all been 'shamed_." Our conversation was meagre, but serious. There was music; and the door being left at jar, as we call it, I watched the wretched servant who staid in the antichamber, and found that he was listening in spight of sorrow and starving. With this slight sketch of national manners I finish my chapter, and proceed to the description of, or rather observations and reflections made during a winter's residence at MILAN. For we did not stay at Pavia to see any thing: it rained so, that no pleasure could have been obtained by the sight of a botanical garden; and as to the university, I have the promise of seeing it upon a future day, in company of some literary friends. Truth to tell, our weather is suddenly become so wet, the roads so heavy with incessant rain, that king William's departure from his own foggy country, or his welcome to our gloomy one, where this month is melancholy even, to a proverb, could not have been clouded with a thicker atmosphere surely, than was mine to Milan upon the fourth day of dismal November, 1784. Italians, by what I can observe, suffer their minds to be much under the dominion of the sky; and attribute every change in their health, or even humour, as seriously to its influence, as if there were no nearer causes of alteration than the state of the air, and as if no doubt remained of its immediate power, though they are willing enough here to poison it with the scent of wood-ashes within doors, while fires in the grate seem to run rather low, and a brazier full of that pernicious stuff is substituted in its place, and driven under the table during dinner. It is surprising how very elegant, not to say magnificent, those dinners are in gentlemen's or noblemen's houses; such numbers of dishes at once; not large joints, but infinite variety: and I think their cooking excellent. Fashion keeps most of the fine people out of town yet; we have therefore had leisure to establish our own household for the winter, and have done so as commodiously as if our habitation was fixed here for life. This I am delighted with, as one may chance to gain that insight into every day behaviour, and common occurrences, which can alone be called knowing something of a country: counting churches, pictures, palaces, may be done by those who run from town to town, with no impression made but on their bones. I ought to learn that which before us lies in daily life, if proper use were made of my demi-naturalization; yet impediments to knowledge spring up round the very tree itself--for surely if there was much wrong, I would not tell it of those who seem inclined to find all right in me; nor can I think that a fame for minute observation, and skill to discern folly with a microscopic eye, is in any wise able to compensate for the corrosions of conscience, where such discoveries have been attained by breach of confidence, and treachery towards unguarded, because unsuspecting innocence of conduct. We are always laughing at one another for running over none but the visible objects in every city, and for avoiding the conversation of the natives, except on general subjects of literature--returning home only to tell again what has already been told. By the candid inhabitants of Italian states, however, much honour is given to our British travellers, who, as they say, _viaggiono con profitto_[Footnote: Travel for improvement], and scarce ever fail to carry home with them from other nations, every thing which can benefit or adorn their own. Candour, and a good humoured willingness to receive and reciprocate pleasure, seems indeed one of the standing virtues of Italy; I have as yet seen no fastidious contempt, or affected rejection of any thing for being what we call _low_; and I have a notion there is much less of those distinctions at Milan than at London, where birth does so little for a man, that if he depends on _that_, and forbears other methods of distinguishing himself from his footman, he will stand a chance of being treated no better than him by the world. _Here_ a person's rank is ascertained, and his society settled, at his immediate entrance into life; a gentleman and lady will always be regarded as such, let what will be their behaviour.--It is therefore highly commendable when they seek to adorn their minds by culture, or pluck out those weeds, which in hot countries will spring up among the riches of the harvest, and afford a sure, but no immediately pleasing proof of the soil's natural fertility. But my country-women would rather hear a little of our _interieur_, or, as we call it, family management; which appears arranged in a manner totally new to me; who find the lady of every house as unacquainted with her own, and her husband's affairs, as I who apply to her for information.--No house account, no weekly bills perplex _her_ peace; if eight servants are kept, we will say, six of these are men, and two of those men out of livery. The pay of these principal figures in the family, when at the highest rate, is fifteen pence English a day, out of which they find clothes and eating--for fifteen pence includes board-wages; and most of these fellows are married too, and have four or five children each. The dinners drest at home are, for this reason, more exactly contrived than in England to suit the number of guests, and there are always half a dozen; for dining _alone_ or the master and mistress _tête-à-tête_ as _we_ do, is unknown to them, who make society very easy, and resolve to live much together. No odd sensation then, something like shame, such as _we_ feel when too many dishes are taken empty from table, touches them at all; the common courses are eleven, and eleven small plates, and it is their sport and pleasure, if possible, to clear all away. A footman's wages is a shilling a day, like our common labourers, and paid him, as they are paid, every Saturday night. His livery, mean time, changed at least _twice a year_, makes him as rich a man as the butler and valet--but when evening comes, it is the comicallest sight in the world to see them all go gravely home, and you may die in the night for want of help, though surrounded by showy attendants all day. Till the hour of departure, however, it is expected that two or three of them at least sit in the antichamber, as it is called, to answer the bell, which, if we confess the truth, is no light service or hardship; for the stairs, high and wide as those of Windsor palace, all stone too, run up from the door immediately to that apartment, which is very large, and very cold, with bricks to set their feet on only, and a brazier filled with warm wood ashes, to keep their fingers from freezing, which in summer they employ with cards, and seem but little inclined to lay them down when ladies pass through to the receiving room. The strange familiarity this class of people think proper to assume, half joining in the conversation, and crying _oibò_[Footnote: Oh dear!], when the master affirms something they do not quite assent to, is apt to shock one at beginning, the more when one reflects upon the equally offensive humility they show on being first accepted into the family; when it is exposed that they receive the new master, or lady's hand, in a half kneeling posture, and kiss it, as women under the rank of Countess do the Queen of England's when presented at our court.--This obsequiousness, however, vanishes completely upon acquaintance, and the footman, if not very seriously admonished indeed, yawns, spits, and displays what one of our travel-writers emphatically terms his flag of abomination behind the chair of a woman of quality, without the slightest sensation of its impropriety. There is, however, a sort of odd farcical drollery mingled with this grossness, which tends greatly to disarm one's wrath; and I felt more inclined to laugh than be angry one day, when, from the head of my own table, I saw the servant of a nobleman who dined with us cramming some chicken pattés down his throat behind the door; our own folks humorously trying to choak him, by pretending that his lord called him, while his mouth was full. Of a thousand comical things in the same way, I will relate one:--Mr. Piozzi's valet was dressing my hair at Paris one morning, while some man sate at an opposite window of the same inn, singing and playing upon the violoncello: I had not observed the circumstance, but my perrucchiere's distress was evident; he writhed and twisted about like a man pinched with the cholic, and pulled a hundred queer faces: at last--What is the matter, Ercolani, said I, are you not well? Mistress, replies the fellow, if that beast don't leave off soon, I shall run mad with rage, or else die; and so you'll see an honest Venetian lad killed by a French dog's howling. The phrase of _mistress_ is here not confined to servants at all; gentlemen, when they address one, cry, _mia padrona_[Footnote: My mistress], mighty sweetly, and in a peculiarly pleasing tone. Nothing, to speak truth, can exceed the agreeableness of a well-bred Italian's address when speaking to a lady, whom they alone know how to flatter, so as to retain her dignity, and not lose their own; respectful, yet tender; attentive, not officious; the politeness of a man of fashion _here_ is _true_ politeness, free from all affectation, and honestly expressive of what he really feels, a true value for the person spoken to, without the smallest desire of shining himself; equally removed from foppery on one side, or indifference on the other. The manners of the men here are certainly pleasing to a very eminent degree, and in their conversation there is a mixture, not unfrequent too, of classical allusions, which strike one with a sort of literary pleasure I cannot easily describe. Yet is there no pedantry in their use of expressions, which with us would be laughable or liable to censure: but Roman notions here are not quite extinct; and even the house-maid, or _donna di gros_, as they call her, swears by _Diana_ so comically, there is no telling. They christen their boys _Fabius_, their daughters _Claudia_, very commonly. When they mention a thing known, as we say, to _Tom o'Styles and John o'Nokes_, they use the words, _Tizio and Sempronio_. A lady tells me, she was at a loss about the dance yesterday evening, because she had not been instructed in the _programma_; and a gentleman, talking of the pleasures he enjoyed supping last night at a friend's house, exclaims, _Eramo pur jeri sera in Appolline[G]!_ alluding to Lucullus's entertainment given to Pompey and Cicero, as I remember, in the chamber of Apollo. But here is enough of this--more of it, in their own pretty phrase, _seccarebbe pur Nettunno_[H]. It was long ago that Ausonius said of them more than I can say, and Mr. Addison has translated the lines in their praise better than I could have done. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote G: We passed yester evening as if we had been in the Apollo.] [Footnote H: Would dry up old Neptune himself.] "Et Mediolani mira omnia copia rerum: Innumeræ cultæque domus facunda virorum Ingenia et mores læti." Milan with plenty and with wealth overflows, And numerous streets and cleanly dwellings shows; The people, bless'd by Nature's happy force, Are eloquent and cheerful in discourse. What I have said this moment will, however, account in some measure for a thing which he treats with infinite contempt, not unjustly perhaps; yet does it not deserve the ridicule handed down from his time by all who have touched the subject. It is about the author, who before his theatrical representation prefixes an odd declaration, that though he names Pluto, and Neptune, and I know not who, upon the stage, yet he believes none of those fables, but considers himself as a Christian, a Catholick, &c. All this _does_ appear very absurdly superfluous to _us_; but as I observed, _they_ live nearer the original feats of paganism; many old customs are yet retained, and the names not lost among them, or laid up merely for literary purposes as in England. They swear _per Bacco_ perpetually in common discourse; and once I saw a gentleman in the heat of conversation blush at the recollection that he had said _barba Fove_, where he meant God Almighty. It is likewise unkind enough in Mr. Addison, perhaps unjust too, to speak with scorn of the libraries, or state of literature, at Milan. The collection of books at Brera is prodigious, and has been lately much increased by the Pertusanian and Firmian libraries falling into it: a more magnificent repository for learning, a more comfortable situation for students, so complete and perfect a disposition of the books, will scarcely be found in any other city not professedly a university, I believe; and here are professors worthy of the highest literary stations, that do honour to learning herself. I will not indulge myself by naming any one, where all deserve the highest praise; and it is so difficult to restrain one's pen upon so favourite a subject, that I shall only name some rarities which particularly struck me, and avoid further temptations, where the sense of obligation, and the recollection of partial kindness, inspire an inclination to praises which appear tedious to those readers who could not enter into my feelings, and of course would scarcely excuse them. Thirteen volumes of MS. Psalms, written with wonderful elegance and manual nicety, struck me as very curious: they were done by the Certosini monks lately eradicated, and with beautiful illuminations to almost every page. A Livy, printed here in 1418, fresh and perfect; and a Pliny, of the Parma press, dated 1472; are extremely valuable. But the pleasure I received from observing that the learned librarian had not denied a place to Tillotson's works, was counteracted by finding Bolingbroke's philosophy upon the same shelf, and enjoying exactly the same reputation as to the truth of the doctrine contained in either; for both were English, and of course _heretical_. But I must not live longer at Milan without mentioning the Duomo, first in all Europe of the Gothic race; whose solemn sadness and gloomy dignity make it a most magnificent cathedral; while the rich treasures it conceals below exceeded my belief or expectation. We came here just before the season of commemorating the virtues of the immortal Carlo Borromeo, to whose excellence all Italy bears testimony, and Milan _most_; while the Lazaretto erected by him remains a standing monument of his piety, charity, and peculiar regard to this city, which he made his residence during the dreadful plague that so devasted it; tenderly giving to its helpless inhabitants the consolation of seeing their priest, provider, and protector, all united under one incomparable character, who fearless of death remained among them, and comforted their sorrows with his constant presence. It would be endless to enumerate the schools, hospitals, infirmaries, erected by this surprising man. The peculiar excellence of his lazaretto, however, depends on each habitation being nicely separated from every other, so as to keep infection aloof; while uniformity of architecture is still preserved, being built in a regular quadrangle, with a chapel in the middle, and a fresh stream flowing round, so as to benefit every particular house, and keep out all necessity of connection between the sick. I am become better acquainted with these matters, as this is the precise time when the immortal Carlo Borromeo's actions are rehearsed, and his praises celebrated, by people appointed in every church to preach his example and record his excellence. A statue of solid silver, large as life, and resembling, as they hope, his person, decorated with rings, &c. of immense value, is now exposed in church for people to venerate; and the subterranean chapel, where his body lies, is all wainscoted, as I may say, with silver; every separate compartment chased, like our old-fashioned watch-cases, with some story out of his life, which lasted but forty-seven years, after having done more good than any other person in ninety-four; as a capuchin friar said this morning, who mounted the pulpit to praise him, and seemed to be well thought on by his auditors. The chanting tone in which he spoke displeased me, however, who can be at last no competent judge of eloquence in any language but my own. There is a national rhetoric in every country, dependant on national manners; and those gesticulations of body, or depressions of voice, which produce pity and commiseration in one place, may, without censure of the orator or of his hearers, excite contempt and oscitancy in another. The sentiments of the preacher I heard were just and vigorous; and if that suffices not to content a foreign ear, woe be to me, who now live among those to whom I am myself a foreigner; and who at best can but be expected to forgive, for the sake of the things said, that accent and manner with which I am obliged to express them. By the indulgence of private friendship, I have now enjoyed the uncommon amusement of seeing a theatrical exhibition performed by friars in a convent for their own diversion, and that of some select friends. The monks of St. Victor had, it seems, obtained permission, this carnival, to represent a little odd sort of play, written by one of their community chiefly in the Milanese dialect, though the upper characters spoke Tuscan. The subject of this drama was taken, naturally enough, from some events, real or fictitious, which were supposed to have happened in, the environs of Milan, about a hundred years ago, when the Torriani and Visconti families disputed for superiority. Its construction was compounded of comic and distressful scenes, of which the last gave me most delight; and much was I amazed, indeed, to feel my cheeks wet with tears at a friar's play, founded on ideas of parental tenderness. The comic part, however, was intolerably gross; the jokes coarse, and incapable of diverting any but babies, or men who, by a kind of intellectual privation, contrive to perpetuate babyhood, in the vain hope of preferring innocence: nor could I shelter myself by saying how little I understood of the dialect it was written in, as the action was nothing less than equivocal; and in the burletta which was tacked to it by way of farce, I saw the soprano fingers who played the women's parts, and who see more of the world than these friars, blush for shame, two or three times, while the company, most of them grave ecclesiastics, applauded with rapturous delight. The wearisome length of the whole would, however, have surfeited me, had the amusement been more eligible; but these dear monks do not get a holiday often, I trust; so in the manner of school-boys, or rather school-girls in England (for our boys are soon above such stuff), they were never tired of this dull buffoonery, and kept us listening to it till one o'clock in the morning. Pleasure, when it does come, always bursts up in an unexpected place; I derived much from observing in the faces of these cheerful friars, that intelligent shrewdness and arch penetration so visible in the countenances of our Welch farmers, and curates of country villages in Flintshire, Caernarvonshire, &c. which Howel (best judge in such a case) observes in his Letters, and learnedly accounts for; but which I had wholly forgotten till the monks of St. Victor brought it back to my remembrance. The brothers who remained unemployed, and clear from stage occupations, formed the orchestra; those that were left _then_ without any immediate business upon their hands, chatted gaily with the company, producing plenty of refreshments; and I was really very angry with myself for feeling so cynically disposed, when every thing possible was done to please me. Can one help however sighing, to think that the monastic life, so capable of being used for the noblest purposes, and originally suggested by the purest motives, should, from the vast diversity of orders, the increase of wealth and general corruption of mankind, degenerate into a state either of mental apathy, as among the sequestered monks, or of vicious luxury, as among the more free and open societies? Yet must one still behold both with regret and indignation, that rage for innovation which delights to throw down places once the retreats of Piety and Learning--Piety, who fought in vain to wall and fortify herself against those seductions which since have sapped the venerable fabric that they feared to batter; and Learning, who first opened the eyes of men, that now ungratefully begin to turn them only on the defeats of their benefactress. The Christmas functions here were showy, and I thought well-contrived; the public ones are what I speak of: but I was present lately at a private merrymaking, where all distinctions seemed pleasingly thrown down by a spirit of innocent gaiety. The Marquis's daughter mingled in country-dances with the apothecary's prentice, while her truly noble parents looked on with generous pleasure, and encouraged the mirth of the moment. Priests, ladies, gentlemen of the very first quality, romped with the girls of the house in high good-humour, and tripped it away without the incumbrance of petty pride, or the mean vanity of giving what they expressively call _foggezzione_, to those who were proud of their company and protection. A new-married wench, whose little fortune of a hundred crowns had been given her by the subscription of many in the room, seemed as free with them all, as the most equal distribution of birth or riches could have made her: she laughed aloud, and rattled in the ears of the gentlemen; replied with sarcastic coarseness when they joked her, and apparently delighted to promote such conversation as they would not otherwise have tried at. The ladies shouted for joy, encouraged the girl with less delicacy than desire of merriment, and promoted a general banishment of decorum; though I do believe with full as much or more purity of intention, than may be often met with in a polished circle at Paris itself. Such society, however, can please a stranger only as it is odd and as it is new; when ceremony ceases, hilarity is left in a state too natural not to offend people accustomed to scenes of high civilization; and I suppose few of us could return, after twenty-five years old, to the coarse comforts of _a roll and treacle._ Another style of amusement, very different from this last, called us out, two or three days ago, to hear the famous Passione de Metastasio sung in St. Celso's church. The building is spacious, the architecture elegant, and the ornaments rich. A custom too was on this occasion omitted, which I dislike exceedingly; that of deforming the beautiful edifices dedicated to God's service with damask hangings and gold lace on the capitals of all the pillars upon days of gala, so very perversely, that the effect of proportion is lost to the eye, while the church conveys no idea to the mind but of a tattered theatre; and when the frippery decorations fade, nothing can exclude the recollection of an old clothes shop. St. Celso was however left clear from these disgraceful ornaments: there assembled together a numerous and brilliant, if not an attentive audience; and St. Peter's part in the oratorio was sung by a soprano voice, with no appearance of peculiar propriety to be sure; but a satirical nobleman near me said, that "Nothing could possibly be more happily imagined, as the mutilation of poor St. Peter was continuing daily, and in full force;" alluding to the Emperor's rough reformations: and he does not certainly spare the coat any more than Jack in our Tale of a Tub, when he is rending away the embroidery. Here, however, the parallel must end; for Jack, though zealous, was never accused of burning the lace, if I remember right, and putting the gold in his pocket. It happened oddly, that chatting freely one day before dinner with some literary friends on the subject of coat armour, we had talked about the Visconti serpent, which is the arms of Milan; and the spread eagle of Austria, which we laughingly agreed ought to _eat double _ because it had _two necks_: when the conversation insensibly turned on the oppressions of the present hour; and I, to put all away with a joke, proposed the _fortes Homericæ_ to decide on their future destiny. Somebody in company insisted that _I_ should open the book--I did so, at the omen in the twelfth book of the Iliad, and read these words: Jove's bird on sounding pinions beat the skies; A bleeding serpent of enormous size His talons trussed; alive and curling round She stung the bird, whose throat receiv'd the wound. Mad with the smart he drops the fatal prey, In airy circles wings his painful way, Floats on the winds, and rends the heavens with cries: Amid the hosts the fallen serpent lies; They, pale with terror, mark its spires unroll'd, And Jove's portent with beating hearts behold. It is now time to talk a little of the theatre; and surely a receptacle so capacious to contain four thousand people, a place of entrance so commodious to receive them, a show so princely, so very magnificent to entertain them, must be sought in vain out of Italy. The centre front box, richly adorned with gilding, arms, and trophies, is appropriated to the court, whose canopy is carried up to what we call the first gallery in England; the crescent of boxes ending with the stage, consist of nineteen on a side, _small boudoirs_, for such they seem; and are as such fitted up with silk hangings, girandoles, &c. and placed so judiciously as to catch every sound of the fingers, if they do but whisper: I will not say it is equally advantageous to the figure, as to the voice; no performers looking adequate to the place they recite upon, so very stately is the building itself, being all of stone, with an immense portico, and stairs which for width you might without hyperbole drive your chariot up. An immense sideboard at the first lobby, lighted and furnished with luxurious and elegant plenty, as many people send for suppers to their box, and entertain a knot of friends there with infinite convenience and splendour. A silk curtain, the colour of your hangings, defends the closet from intrusive eyes, if you think proper to drop it; and when drawn up, gives gaiety and show to the general appearance of the whole: while across the corridor leading to these boxes, another small chamber, numbered like _that_ it belongs to, is appropriated to the use of your servants, and furnished with every conveniency to make chocolate, serve lemonade, &c. Can one wonder at the contempt shewn by foreigners when they see English women of fashion squeezed into holes lined with dirty torn red paper, and the walls of it covered with a wretched crimson fluff? Well! but this theatre is built in place of a church founded by the famous Beatrice de Scala, in consequence of a vow she made to erect one if God would be pleased to send her a son. The church was pulled down and the playhouse erected. The Arch-duke lost a son that year; and the pious folks cried, "A judgment!" but nobody minded them, I believe; many, however, that are scrupulous will not go. Meantime it is a beautiful theatre to be sure; the finest fabric raised in modern days, I do believe, for the purposes of entertainment; but we must not be partial. While London has twelve capital rooms for the professed amusement of the Public, Milan has but one; there is in it, however, a ridotto chamber for cards, of a noble size, where some little gaming goes on in carnival time; but though the inhabitants complain of the enormities committed there, I suppose more money is lost and won at one club in St. James's street during a week, than here at Milan in the whole winter. Every nation complains of the wickedness of its own inhabitants, and considers them as the worst people in the world, till they have seen others no better; and then, like individuals with their private sorrows, they find change produces no alleviation. The Mount of Miseries, in the Spectator, where all the people change with their neighbours, lay down an undutiful son, and carry away with them a hump-back, or whatever had been the source of disquiet to another, whom he had blamed for bearing so ill a misfortune thought trifling till he took it on himself, is an admirably well constructed fable, and is applicable to public as well as private complaints. A gentleman who had long practised as a solicitor, and was retired from business, stored with a perfect knowledge of mankind so far as his experience could inform him, told me once, that whoever died before sixty years old, if he had made his own fortune, was likely to leave it according as friendship, gratitude, and public spirit dictated: either to those who had served, or those who had pleased him; or, not unfrequently, to benefit some charity, set up some school, or the like: "but let a man once turn sixty," said he, "and his natural heirs _are sure of him_:" for having seen many people, he has likewise been disgusted by many; and though he does not love his relations better than he did, the discovery that others are but little superior to them in those excellencies he has sought about the world in vain for, he begins to enquire for his nephew's little boy, whom as he never saw, never could have offended him; and if he does not break the chain of a favourite watch, or any other such boyish trick, the estate is his for ever, upon no principle but this in the testator. So it is by those who travel a good deal; by what I have seen, every country has so much in it to be justly complained of, that most men finish by preferring their own. That neither complaints nor rejoicings here at Milan, however, proceed from affectation, is a choice comfort: the Lombards possess the skill to please you without feigning; and so artless are their manners, you cannot even suspect them of insincerity. They have, perhaps for that very reason, few comedies, and fewer novels among them: for the worst of every man's character is already well known to the rest; but be his conduct what it will, the heart is commonly right enough--_il luon cuor Lombardo_ is famed throughout all Italy, and nothing can become proverbial without an excellent reason. Little opportunity is therefore given to writers who carry the dark lanthorn of life into its deepest recesses--unwind the hidden wickedness of a Maskwell or a Monkton, develope the folds of vice, and spy out the internal worthlessness of apparent virtue; which from these discerning eyes cannot be cloked even by that early-taught affectation which renders it a real ingenuity to discover, if in a highly polished capital a man or woman has or has not good parts or principles--so completely are the first overlaid with literature, and the last perverted by refinement. * * * * * April 2, 1785. The cold weather continues still, and we have heavy snows; but so admirable is the police of this well-regulated town, that when over-night it has fallen to the height of four feet, no very uncommon occurrence, no one can see in the morning that even a flake has been there, so completely do the poor and the prisoners rid us of it all, by throwing immense loads of it into a navigable canal that runs quite round the city, and carries every nuisance with it clearly away--so that no inconveniencies can arise. Italians seem to me to have no feeling of cold; they open the casements--for windows we have none (now in winter), and cry, _che bel freschetto_![Footnote: What a fresh breeze!] while I am starving outright. If there is a flash of a few faggots in the chimney that just scorches one a little, no lady goes near it, but sits at the other end of a high-roofed room, the wind whistling round her ears, and her feet upon a perforated brass box, filled with wood embers, which the _cavalier fervente_ pulls out from time to time, and replenishes with hotter ashes raked out from between the andirons. How sitting with these fumes under their petticoats improves their beauty of complexion I know not; certain it is, they pity _us_ exceedingly for our manner of managing ourselves, and enquire of their countrymen who have lived here a-while, how their health endured the burning _fossils_ in the chambers at London. I have heard two or three Italians say, _vorrei anch' io veder quell' Inghilterra, ma questo carbone fossile_![Footnote: I would go see this same England myself I think, but that fuel made of minerals frights me!] To church, however, and to the theatre, ladies have a great green velvet bag carried for them, adorned with gold tassels, and lined with fur, to keep their feet from freezing, as carpets are not in use here. Poor women run about the streets with a little earthen pipkin hanging on their arm, filled with fire, even if they are sent on an errand; while men of all ranks walk wrapped up in an odd sort of white riding coat, not buttoned together, but folded round their body after the fashion of the old Roman dress that one has seen in statues, and this they call _Gaban_, retaining many Spanish words since the time that they were under Spanish government. _Buscar_, to seek, is quite familiar here as at Madrid, and instead of Ragazzo, I have heard the Milanese say _Mozzo_ di Stalla, which is originally a Castilian word I believe, and spelt by them with the _c con cedilla_, Moço. They have likewise Latin phrases oddly mingled among their own: a gentleman said yesterday, that he was going to Casa _Sororis_, to his sister's; and the strange word _Minga_, which meets one at every turn, is corrupted, I believe, from _Mica_, a crumb. _Piaz minga_, I have not a crumb of pleasure in it, &c. The uniformity of dress here pleases the eye, and their custom of going veiled to church, and always without a hat, which they consider as profanation of the _temple_ as they call it, delights me much; it has an air of decency in the individuals, of general respect for the place, and of a resolution not to let external images intrude on devout thoughts. The hanging churches, and even public pillars, set up in the streets or squares for purposes of adoration, with black, when any person of consequence dies, displeases me more; it is so very dismal, so paltry a piece of pride and expiring vanity, and so dirty a custom, calling bugs and spiders, and all manner of vermin about one so in those black trappings, it is terrible; but if they remind us of our end, and set us about preparing for it, the benefit is greater than the evil. The equipages on the Corso here are very numerous, in proportion to the size of the city, and excessively showy: the horses are long-tailed, heavy, and for the most part black, with high rising forehands, while the sinking of the back is artfully concealed by the harness of red Morocco leather richly ornamented, and white reins. To this magnificence much is added by large leopard, panther, or tyger skins, beautifully striped or spotted by Nature's hand, and held fast on the horses by heavy shining tassels of gold, coloured lace, &c. wonderfully handsome; while the driver, clothed in a bright scarlet dress, adorned and trimmed with bear's skin, makes a noble figure on the box at this season upon days of gala. The carnival, however, exhibits a variety unspeakable; boats and barges painted of a thousand colours, drawn upon wheels, and filled with masks and merry-makers, who throw sugar-plums at each other, to the infinite delight of the town, whose populousness that show evinces to perfection, for every window and balcony is crowded to excess; the streets are fuller than one can express of gazers, and general mirth and gaiety prevail. When the flashing season is over, and you are no longer to be dazzled with finery or stunned with noise, the nobility of Milan--for gentry there are none--fairly slip a check case over the hammock, as we do to our best chairs in England, clap a coarse leather cover on the carriage top, the coachman wearing a vast brown great coat, which he spreads on each side him over the corners of his coach-box, and looks as somebody was saying--like a sitting hen. The paving of our streets here at Milan is worth mentioning, only because it is directly contrary to the London method of performing the same operation. They lay the large flag stones at this place in two rows, for the coach wheels to roll smoothly over, leaving walkers to accommodate themselves, and bear the sharp pebbles to their tread as they may. In every thing great, and every thing little, the diversity of government must perpetually occur; where that is despotic, small care will be taken of the common people; where that is popular, little attention will be paid to the great ones. I never in my whole life heard so much of birth and family as since I came to this town; where blood enjoys a thousand exclusive privileges, where Cavalier and Dama are words of the first, nay of the only importance; where wit and beauty are considered as useless without a long pedigree; and virtue, talents, wealth, and wisdom, are thought on only as medals to hang upon the branch of a genealogical tree, as we tie trinkets to a watch in England. I went to church, twenty yards from our own door, with a servant to wait on me, three or four mornings ago; there was a lady particularly well dressed, very handsome, two footmen attending on her at a distance, took my attention. Peter, said I, to my own man, as we came out, _chi è quella dama? who is that lady? Non è dama_, replies the fellow, contemptuously smiling at my simplicity--_she is no lady_. I thought she might be somebody's kept mistress, and asked him whose? _Dio ne liberi_, returns Peter, in a kinder accent--for there _heart_ came in, and he would not injure her character--God forbid: _è moglie d'un ricco banchiere_--she is a rich banker's wife. You may see, added he, that she is no lady if you look--the servants carry no velvet stool for her to kneel upon, and they have no coat armour in the lace to their liveries: _she_ a lady! repeated he again with infinite contempt. I am told that the Arch-duke is very desirous to close this breach of distinction, and to draw merchants and traders with their wives up into higher notice than they were wont to remain in. I do not _think_ he will by that means conciliate the affection of any rank. The prejudices in favour of nobility are too strong to be shaken here, much less rooted out so: the very servants would rather starve in the house of a man of family, than eat after a person of inferior quality, whom they consider as their equal, and almost treat him as such to his face. Shall we then be able to refuse our particular veneration to those characters of high rank here, who add the charm of a cultivated mind to that situation which, united even with ignorance, would ensure them respect? When scholarship is found among the great in Italy, it has the additional merit of having grown up in their own bosoms, without encouragement from emulation, or the least interested motive. His companions do not think much the more of him--for _that_ kind of superiority. I suppose, says a friend of his, he must be fond of study; for _chi pensa di una maniera, chi pensa d' un altra, per me sono stato sempre ignorantissimo_[I]. [Footnote I: One man is of one mind, another of another: I was always a sheer dunce for my own part.] These voluntary confessions of many a quality, which, whether possessed or not by English people, would certainly never be avowed, spring from that native sincerity I have been praising--for though family connections are prized so highly here, no man seems ashamed that he has no family to boast: all feigning would indeed be useless and impracticable; yet it struck me with astonishment too, to hear a well-bred clergyman who visits at many genteel houses, say gravely to his friend, no longer ago than yesterday--that friend a man too eminent both for talents and fortune--"Yes, there is a grand invitation at such a place to-night, but I don't go, because _I am not a gentleman--perche non sono cavaliere_; and the master desired I would let you know that _it was for no other reason_ that you had not a card too, my good friend; for it is an invitation of none but _people of fashion you see_." At all this nobody stares, nobody laughs, and nobody's throat is cut in consequence of their sincere declarations. The women are not behind-hand in openness of confidence and comical sincerity. We have all heard much of Italian cicisbeism; I had a mind to know how matters really stood; and took the nearest way to information by asking a mighty beautiful and apparently artless young creature, _not noble_, how that affair was managed, for there is no harm done _I am sure_, said I: "Why no," replied she, "no great _harm_ to be sure: except wearisome attentions from a man one cares little about: for my own part," continued she, "I detest the custom, as I happen to love my husband excessively, and desire nobody's company in the world but his. We are not _people of fashion_ though you know, nor at all rich; so how should we set fashions for our betters? They would only say, see how jealous he is! if _Mr. Such-a-one_ sat much with me at home, or went with me to the Corso; and I _must_ go with some gentleman you know: and the men are such ungenerous creatures, and have such ways with them: I want money often, and this _cavaliere servente_ pays the bills, and so the connection draws closer--_that's all_." And your husband! said I--"Oh, why he likes to see me well dressed; he is very good natured, and very charming; I love him to my heart." And your confessor! cried I.--"Oh, why he is _used to it_"--in the Milanese dialect--_è assuefaà_. Well! we will not send people to Milan to study delicacy or very refined morality to be sure; but were the crust of British affectation lifted off many a character at home, I know not whether better, that is _honester_, hearts would be found under it than that of this pretty girl, God forbid that I should prove an advocate for vice; but let us remember, that the banishment of all hypocrisy and deceit is a vast compensation for the want of _one great virtue_.--The certainty that the worst, whatever that worst may be, meets your immediate inspection, gives great repose to the mind: you know there is no latent poison lurking out of sight; no colours to come out stronger by throwing water suddenly against them, as you do to old fresco paintings: and talking freely with women in this country, though you may have a chance to light on ignorance, you are never teized by folly. The mind of an Italian, whether man or woman, seldom fails, for ought I see, to make up in _extent_ what is wanted in _cultivation_; and that they possess the art of pleasing in an eminent degree, the constancy with which they are mutually beloved by each other is the best proof. Ladies of distinction bring with them when they marry, besides fortune, as many clothes as will last them seven years; for fashions do not change here as often as at London or Paris; yet is pin-money allowed, and an attention paid to the wife that no Englishwoman can form an idea of: in every family her duties are few; for, as I have observed, household management falls to the master's share of course, when all the servants are men almost, and those all paid by the week or day. Children are very seldom seen by those who visit great houses: if they _do_ come down for five minutes after dinner, the parents are talked of as _doting_ on them, and nothing can equal the pious and tender return made to fathers and mothers in this country, for even an apparently moderate share of fondness shewn to them in a state of infancy. I saw an old Marchioness the other day, who had I believe been exquisitely beautiful, lying in bed in a spacious apartment, just like ours in the old palaces, with the tester touching the top almost: she had her three grown-up sons standing round her, with an affectionate desire of pleasing, and shewing her whatever could sooth or amuse her--so that it charmed me; and I was told, and observed indeed, that when they quitted her presence a half kneeling bow, and a kind kiss of her still white hand, was the ceremony used. I knew myself brought thither only that she might be entertained with the sight of the foreigner--and was equally struck at her appearance--more so I should imagine than she could be at mine; when these dear men assisted in moving her pillows with emulative attention, and rejoiced with each other apart, that their mother looked so well to-day. Two or three servants out of livery brought us refreshments I remember; but her maid attended in the antichamber, and answered the bell at her bed's head, which was exceedingly magnificent in the old style of grandeur--crimson damask, if I recollect right, with family arms at the back; and she lay on nine or eleven pillows, laced with ribbon, and two large bows to each, very elegant and expensive in any country:--with all this, to prove that the Italians have little sensation of cold, here was no fire, but a suffocating brazier, which stood near the door that opened, and was kept open, into the maid's apartment. A woman here in every stage of life has really a degree of attention shewn her that is surprising:--if conjugal disputes arise in a family, so as to make them become what we call town-talk, the public voice is sure to run against the husband; if separation ensues, all possible countenance is given to the wife, while the gentleman is somewhat less willingly received; and all the stories of past disgusts are related to _his_ prejudice: nor will the lady whom he wishes to serve look very kindly on a man who treats his own wife with unpoliteness. _Che cuore deve avere!_ says she: What a heart he must have! _Io non mene fido sicuro_: I shall take care not to trust him sure. National character is a great matter: I did not know there had been such a difference in the ways of thinking, merely from custom and climate, as I see there is; though one has always read of it: it was however entertaining enough to hear a travelled gentleman haranguing away three nights ago at our house in praise of English cleanliness, and telling his auditors how all the men in London, _that were noble_, put on a clean shirt every day, and the women washed the street before his house-door every morning. "_Che schiavitù mai!_" exclaimed a lady of quality, who was listening: "_ma natural mente farà per commando del principe_."--"_What a land of slavery!_" says Donna Louisa, I heard her; "_but it is all done by command of the sovereign, I suppose_." Their ideas of justice are no less singular than of delicacy: but those are more easily accounted for; so is their amiable carriage towards inferiors, calling their own and their friends servants by tender names, and speaking to all below themselves with a graciousness not often used by English men or women even to their equals. The pleasure too which the high people here express when the low ones are diverted, is charming.--We think it vulgar to be merry when the mob is so; but if rolling down a hill, like Greenwich, was the custom here, as with us, all Milan would run to see the sport, and rejoice in the felicity of their fellow-creatures. When I express my admiration of such condescending sweetness, they reply--_è un uomo come un altro;--è battezzato come noi_; and the like--Why he is a man of the same nature as we: he has been christened as well as ourselves, they reply. Yet do I not for this reason condemn the English as naturally haughty above their continental neighbours. Our government has left so narrow a space between the upper and under ranks of people in Great Britain--while our charitable and truly Christian religion is still so constantly employed in raising the depressed, by giving them means of changing their situation, that if our persons of condition fail even for a moment to watch their post, maintaining by dignity what they or their fathers have acquired by merit, they are instantly and suddenly broken in upon by the well-employed talents, or swiftly-acquired riches, of men born on the other side the thin partition; whilst in Italy the gulph is totally impassable, and birth alone can entitle man or woman to the society of gentlemen and ladies. This firmly-fixed idea of subordination (which I once heard a Venetian say, he believed must exist in heaven from one angel to another) accounts immediately for a little conversation which I am now going to relate. Here were two men taken up last week, one for murdering his fellow-servant in cold blood, while the undefended creature had the lemonade tray in his hand going in to serve company; the other for breaking the new lamps lately set up with intention to light this town in the manner of the streets at Paris. "I hope," said I, "that they will hang the murderer." "I rather hope," replied a very sensible lady who sate near me, "that they will hang the person who broke the lamps: for," added she, "the first committed his crime only out of revenge, poor fellow! because the other had got his mistress from him by treachery; but this creature has had the impudence to break our fine new lamps, all for the sake of spiting _the Arch-duke_." The Arch-duke meantime hangs nobody at all; but sets his prisoners to work upon the roads, public buildings, &c. where they labour in their chains; and where, strange to tell! they often insult passengers who refuse them alms when asked as they go by; and, stranger still! they are not punished for it when they do. Here is certainly much despotic power in Italy, but, I fancy, very little oppression; perhaps authority, once acknowledged, does not delight itself always by the fatigue of exertion. _Sat est prostrasse leoni_ is an old adage, with which perhaps I may be the better acquainted, as it is the motto to my own coat of arms; and unless sovereignty is hungry, for ought I see, he does not certainly _devour_. The certainty of their irrevocable doom, softened by kind usage from their superiors, makes, in the mean time, an odd sort of humorous drollery spring up among the common people, who are much happier here at Milan than I expected to find them: every great house giving meat, broth, &c. to poor dependents with liberal good-nature enough, so that mighty little wandering misery is seen in the streets; unlike those of Genoa, who seem mocked with the word _liberty_, while sorrow, sickness, and the most pinching want, pine at the doors of marble palaces, whose owners are unfeeling as their walls. Our ordinary people here in Lombardy are well clothed, fat, stout, and merry; and desirous to divert themselves, and their protectors, whom they love at their hearts. There is however a degree of effrontery among the women that amazes me, and of which I had no idea, till a friend shewed me one evening from my own box at the opera, fifty or a hundred low shop-keepers wives, dispersed about the pit at the theatre, dressed in men's clothes, _per disimpegno_ as they call it; that they might be more _at liberty_ forsooth to clap and hiss, and quarrel and jostle, &c. I felt shocked. "_One who comes from a free government need not wonder so_," said he: "On the contrary, Sir," replied I, "where every body has hopes, at least possibility, of bettering his station, and advancing nearer to the limits of upper life, none except the most abandoned of their species will wholly lose sight of such decorous conduct as alone can grace them when they have reached their wish: whereas your people know their destiny, future as well as present, and think no more of deserving a higher post, than they think of obtaining it." Let me add, however, that if these women _were_ a little riotous during the Easter holidays, they are _dilletantes_ only. In this city no female _professors_ of immorality and open libertinage, disgraceful at once, and pernicious to society, are permitted to range the streets in quest of prey; to the horror of all thinking people, and the ruin of all heedless ones. With which observation, to continue the tour of Italy, we this day leave, for a twelvemonth at least, Milano il grande, after having spent, though not quite finished the winter in it; as there fell a very heavy snow last Saturday, which hindered our setting out a week ago, though this is the sixth of April; and exactly five months have now since last November been passed among those who have I hope approved our conduct and esteemed our manners. That they should trouble themselves to examine our income, report our phrases, and listen, perhaps with some little mixture of envy, after every instance of unshakable attachment shewn to each other, would be less pleasing; but that I verily believe they have at last dismissed us with general good wishes, proceeding from innate goodness of heart, and the hope of seeing again, in a year's time or so, two people who have supplied so many tables here with materials for conversation, when the fountain of talk was stopt by deficiencies, and the little stream of prattle ceased to murmur for want of a few pebbles to break its course. We are going to Venice by the way of Cremona, and hope for amusement from external objects: let us at least not deserve or invite disappointment by seeking for pleasure beyond the limits of innocence. FROM MILAN TO PADUA. The first evening's drive carried us no farther than Lodi, a place renowned through all Europe for its excellent cheese, as out well-known ballad bears testimony: Let Lodi or Parmesan bring up the rear. Those verses were imitated, I fancy, from a French song written by Monsieur des Yveteaux, of whose extraordinary life and death much has been said by his cotemporary wits, particularly how some of them found him playing at shepherd and shepherdess in his own garden with a pretty Savoyard wench, at seventy-eight years old, _en habit de berger, avec un chapeau couleur de rose_[Footnote: In a pastoral habit, and a hat turned up with pink], &c. when he shewed them the famous lines, _Avoir peu de parens, moins de train que de rente_, &c. which do certainly bear a very near affinity to our Old Man's Wish, published in Dryden's Miscellanies; who, among other luxuries, resolves to eat Lodi cheese, I remember. The town, however, bringing no other ideas either new or old to our minds, we went to the opera, and heard Morichelli sing: after which they gave us a new dramatic dance, made upon the story of Don John, or the Libertine; a tale which, whether true or false, fact or fable, has furnished every Christian country in the world, I believe, with some subject of representation. It makes me no sport, however; the idea of an impenitent sinner going to hell is too seriously terrifying to make amusement out of. Let mythology, which is now grown good for little else, be danced upon the stage; where Mr. Vestris may bounce and struggle in the character of Alcides on his funeral pile, with no very glaring impropriety; and such baubles serve beside to keep old classical stories in the heads of our young people; who, if they _must_ have torches to blaze in their eyes, may divert themselves with Pluto catching up Ceres's daughter, and driving her away to Tartarus; but let Don John alone. I have at least _half a notion_ that the horrible history is _half true_; if so, it is surely very gross to represent it by dancing. Should such false foolish taste prevail in England (but I hope it will not), we might perhaps go happily through the whole book of God's Revenge against Murder, or the Annals of Newgate, on the stage, as a variety of pretty stories may be found there of the same cast; while statues of Hercules and Minerva, with their insignia as heathen deities, might be placed, with equal attention to religion, costume, and general fitness, as decorations for the monuments of _Westminster Abbey_. The country we came through to Cremona is rich and fertile, the roads deep and miry of course; very few of the Lombardy poplars, of which I expected to see so many: but Phaeton's sisters seem to have danced all away from the odoriferous banks of the Po, to the green sides of the Thames, I think; meantime here is no other timber in the country but a few straggling ash, and willows without end. The old Eridanus, however, makes a majestic figure at Cremona, and frights the inhabitants when it overflows. There are not many to be frighted though, for the town is thinly peopled; but exquisitely clean, perhaps for that very reason; and the cathedral, of a mixed Grecian and Gothic architecture, has a respectable appearance; while two enormous lions, of red marble, frown at its door, and the crucifixion, painted by Pordenone, with a rough but powerful pencil, strikes one at the entrance: I have seen nothing finer than the figure of the Centurion upon the fore-ground, who seems to cry out, with soldier-like courage and apostolic fervour, Truly this is the Son of God. The great clock here too is very curious: having, besides the twenty-four hours, a minute and second finger, like a stop watch, and shews the phases of the moon, with her triple rotation clearly to all who walk across the piazza. Yet I trust the dwellers at Cremona are no better astronomers than those who live in other places; to what purpose then all these representations with which Italy is crowded; processions, paintings, &c. besides the moral dances, as they call them now? One word of solid instruction to the ear, conveys more knowledge to the mind at last, than all these marionettes presented to the eye. The tower of Cremona is of a surprising height and elegant form; we climbed, not without some difficulty, to its top, and saw the flat plains of Lombardy stretched out all round us. Prospects, however, and high towers have I seen; that in Mr. Hoare's grounds, dedicated to King Alfred, is a much finer structure than this, and the view from it much more variegated certainly; I think of greater extent; though there is more dignity in these objects, while the Po twists through them, and distant mountains mingle with the sky at the end of a lengthened horizon. What I have never seen till now, we were made to observe in the octagon gallery which crowns this pretty structure, where in every compartment there are channels cut in the stone to guide the eye or rest the telescope, that so a spectator need not be fruitlessly teized, as one almost always is, by those who shew one a prospect, with _Look there! See there!_ &c. At this place nothing needs be done but lay the glass or put the eye even with the lines which point to Bergamo, Mantua, or where you please; and _look there_ becomes superfluous as offensive. The bells in the tower amused us in another way: an old man who has the care of them, delighted much in telling us how he rung tunes upon them before the Duke of Parma, who presented him with money, and bid him ring again: and not a little was the good man amazed, when one of our company sate down and played on them himself: a thing he had never before been witness to, he said, except once, when a surprising musician arrived from England, and performed the like seat: by his description of the person, and the time of his passing through Cremona, we conjectured he meant Dr. Burney. The most dreadful of all roads carried us next morning to Mantua, where we had letters for an agreeable friend, who neglected nothing that could entertain or instruct us. He shewed me the field where it is supposed the house stood in which Virgil was born, and told me what he knew of the evidence that he was born there: certain it is that much care is taken to keep the place fenced, from an idea of its being the identical spot, and I hope it is so. The theatres here are beautiful beyond all telling: it is a shame not to take the model of the small one, and build a place of entertainment on the plan. There cannot surely be any plan more elegant. We had a concert of admirable music at the house of our new acquaintance, in the evening, and were introduced by his means to many people of fashion; the ladies were pretty, and dressed with much taste; no caps at all, but flowers in their heads, and earrings of silver fillagree finely worked; long, light, and thin: I never saw such before, but it would be an exceeding pretty fashion. They hung down quite low upon the neck and shoulders, and had a pleasing effect. Mantua stands in the middle of a deep swampy marsh, that sends up a thick foggy vapour all winter, a stench intolerable during the summer months. Its inhabitants lament the want of population; and indeed I counted but five carriages in the streets while we remained in the town. Seven thousand Jews occupy a third part of the city, founded by old Tiresias's daughter, where they have a synagogue, and live after their own fashion. The dialect here is closer to that Italian which foreigners learn, and the ladies speak more Tuscan, I think, than at Milan, but it is a _lady's_ town as I told them. "Ille etiam patriis agmen ciet Ocnus ab oris Fatidicæ _Mantûs_ et Tusci filius amnis, Qui muros matrisque dedit tibi. _Mantua_ nomen." Ocnus was next, who led his native train Of hardy warriors thro' the wat'ry plain, The son of Manto by the Tuscan stream, From whence the _Mantuan_ town derives its name. DRYDEN. The annual fair is what contributes most to keeping their folks alive though, for such are the roads it is scarce possible any strangers should come near them, and our people complain that the inns are very extortionate: here is one building, however, that promises wonders from its prodigious size and magnificence; I only wonder such accommodation should be thought necessary. The gentleman who shewed us the Ducal palace, seemed himself much struck with its convenience and splendour; but I had seen Versailles, Turin, and Genoa. What can be seen here, and here alone, are the numerous and incomparable works of Giulio Romano; of which no words that I can use would give my readers any adequate idea.--For such excellence language has no praise, and of such performances taste will admit no criticism. The giants could scarcely have been more amazed at Jupiter's thunder, than I was at their painted fall. If Rome is to exhibit any thing beyond this, I shall really be more dazzled than delighted; for imagination will stretch no further, and admiration will endure no more. * * * * * Sunday, April 10. Here is no appearance of spring yet, though so late in the year; what must it be in England? One almond and one plum tree have I seen in blossom; but no green leaf out of the bud: so cheerless has been the road between Mantua and Verona, which, however, makes amends for all on our arrival. How beautiful the entrance is of this charming city, how grand the gate, how handsome the drive forward, may all be read here in a printed book called _Verona illustrata_: but my felicity in finding the amphitheatre so well preserved, can only be found in my own heart, which began sensibly to dilate at the seeing an old Roman colisseum kept so nicely, and repaired so well. It is said that the arena here is absolutely perfect; and if the galleries are a little deficient, there can be no dispute concerning the _podium_, or lower seats, which remain exactly as they were in old times: while I have heard that the building of the same kind now existing at Nismes, shews the manner of entering exceeding well; and the great one built by Vespasian has every thing else: so that an exact idea of the old Circus may be obtained among them all. That something should always be left to conjecture, is however not unpleasing; various opinions animate the arguments on both sides, and bring out fire by collision with the understanding of others engaged in the same researches. A bull-feast given here to divert the Emperor as he passed through, must have excited many pleasing sensations, while the inhabitants sate on seats once occupied by the masters of the world; and what is more worth wonder, fate at the feet of a Transalpine _Cæsar_, for so the sovereign of Germany is even now called by his Milanese subjects in common discourse; and when one looks upon the arms of Austria, a spread eagle, and recollects that when the Roman empire was divided, the old eagle was split, one face looking toward the East, the other toward the West, in token of shared possession, it affects one; and calls up classic imagery to the mind. The collection of antiquities belonging to the Philharmonic society is very respectable; they reminded me of the Arundel marbles at Oxford, and I said so. "_Oh!_" replied the man who shewed these, "_that collection was very valuable to be sure, but the bad air, and the smoke of coal fires in England, have ruined them long ago_." I suspected that my gentleman talked by rote, and examining the book called _Verona illustrata_, found the remark there; but that is _malasede_, and a very ridiculous prejudice. I will confess however, if they please, that our original treaty between Mardonius and the Persian army, at the end of which the Greek general Aristides, although himself a Sabian, attested the fun as witness, in compliance with their religion who worshipped that luminary, at least held it in the highest veneration, as the residence of Oromasdes the good Principle, who was considered by the Magians as for ever clothed with light: I will consider _that_, I say, if they insist upon it, as a marble of less consequence than the last will and testament of an old inhabitant of Sparta which is shewn at Verona, and which _they say_ disposes of the iron money used during the first of many years that the laws of Lycurgus lasted. Here is a very fine palace belonging to the Bevi-l'acqua family, besides the Casa Verzi, as famous for its elegant Doric architecture, as the charming mistress of it for her Attic wit. St. Zeno is the church which struck me most: the eternal and all-seeing eye placed over the door; Fortune's wheel too, composed of six figures curiously disposed, and not unlike our man alphabet, two mounting, two sitting, and two tumbling, over against it: on the outside of the wheel this distich, En ego Fortuna moderor mortalibus usum, Elevo, depono, bona cunctis vel mala dono[J]-- this other on the inside of the wheel, less plainly to be read: Induo nudatos, denudo veste paratos, In me confidit, si quis derisus abibit[K]. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote J: Here I Madam Fortune my favours bestow, Some good and some ill to the high and the low. ] [Footnote K: The naked I clothe, and the pompous I strip; If in me you confide, I may give you the slip. ] This is a town full of beauties, wits, and rarities: numberless persons of the first eminence have always adorned it, and the present inhabitants have no mind to degenerate; while the Nobleman that is immediately descended from that house which Giambattista della Torre made famous for his skill in astronomy, employs himself in a much more useful, if not a nobler study; and is completing for the press a new system of education. It was very petulantly, and very spitefully said by Voltaire, that Italy was now no more than _la boutique_[Footnote: The old clothes shop.], and the Italians, _les merchands fripiers de l'Europe_[Footnote: The slop-sellers of Europe]. The Greek remains here have still an air of youthful elegance about them, which strikes one very forcibly where so good opportunity offers of comparing them with the fabrics formed by their destructive successors, the Goths; who have left some fine old black-looking monuments (which look as if they had stood in our _coal smoke_ for centuries) to the memory of the Scaligers; and surely the great critic of that name could not have taken a more certain method of proving his descent from these his barbarous ancestors, than that which his relationship to them naturally, I suppose, inspired him with--the avowed preference of birth to talents, of long-drawn genealogy to hardly-acquired literature. We will however grow less prejudiced ourselves; and since there are still whole nations of people existing, who consider the counting up many generations back as a felicity not to be exchanged for any other without manifest loss, we may possibly reconcile the opinion to common sense, by reflecting that one preconception of the sovereign good is, that it should certainly be _indeprivable_ and except birth, what is there earthly after all that may not drop, or else be torn from its possessor by accident, folly, force, or malice? James Harris says, that virtue answers to the character of indeprivability, but one is left only to wish that his position were true; the continuance of virtue depends on the continuance of reason, from which a blow on the head, a sudden fit of terror, or twenty other accidents may separate us in a moment. Nothing can make us not one's father's child however, and the advantages of _blood_, such as they are, may surely be deemed _indeprivable_. Gothic and Grecian architecture resembles Gothic and Grecian manners, which naturally do give their colour to such arts as are naturally the result of them. Tyranny and gloomy suspicion are the characteristics of the one, openness and sociability strongly mark the other--when to the gay portico succeeded the sullen drawbridge, and to the lively corridor, a secret passage and a winding staircase. It is difficult, if not impossible however, to withhold one's respect from those barbarians who could thus change the face of art, almost of nature; who could overwhelm courage and counteract learning; who not only devoured the works of wisdom and the labours of strength, but left behind them too a settled system of feudatorial life and aristocratic power, still undestroyed in Europe, though hourly attacked, battered by commerce, and sapped by civilization. When Smeathman told us about twelve years ago, how an immense body of African ants, which appeared, as they moved forwards, like the whole earth in agitation--covered and suddenly arrested a solemn elephant, as he grazed unsuspiciously on the plain; he told us too that in eight hours time no trace was left either of the devasters or devasted, excepting the skeleton of the noble creature neatly picked; a standing proof of the power of numbers against single force. These northern emigrants the Goths, however, have done more; they have fixed a mode of carrying on human affairs, that I think will never be so far exterminated as to leave no vestiges behind: and even while one contemplates the mischief they have made--even while one's pen engraves one's indignation at their success; the old baron in his castle, preceded and surrounded by loyal dependants, who desired only to live under his protection and die in his defence, inspires a notion of dignity unattainable by those who, seeking the beautiful, are by so far removed from the sublime of life, and affords to the mind momentary images of surly magnificence, ill exchanged perhaps by _fancy_, though _truth_ has happily substituted a succession of soft ideas and social comforts: knowledge, virtue, riches, happiness. Let it be remembered however, that if the theme is superior to the song, we always find those poets who live in the second class, celebrating the days past by those who had their existence in the first. These reflections are forced upon me by the view of Lombard manners, and the accounts I daily pick up concerning the Brescian and Bergamase nobility; who still exert the Gothic power of protecting murderers who profess themselves their vassals; and who still exercise those virtues and vices natural to man in his semi-barbarous state: fervent devotion, constant love, heroic friendship, on the one part; gross superstition, indulgence of brutal appetite, and diabolical revenge, on the other. In all hot countries, however, flowers and weeds shoot up to enormous growth: in colder climes, where poison can scarce be feared, perfumes can seldom be boasted. Verona is the gayest looking town I ever lived in; beautifully situated, the hills around it elegant, the mountains at a distance venerable: the silver Adige rolling through the Valley, while such a glow of blossoms now ornament the rising grounds, and such cheerfulness smiles in the sweet countenances of its inhabitants, that one is tempted to think it the birth-place of Euphrosyne, where Zephyr with Aurora playing, As he met her once a maying, &c. Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair, So buxom, blythe, and debonair-- as Milton says. Here are vines, mulberries, olives; of course, wine, silk, and oil: every thing that can seduce, every thing that ought to satisfy desiring man. Here then in consequence do actually delight to reside mirth and good-humour in their holiday dress. _A verona mezzi matti_[Footnote: The people at Verona are half out of their wits], say the Italians themselves of them, and I see nothing seemingly go forward here but Improvisatori, reciting stories or verses to entertain the populace; boys flying kites, cut square like a diamond on the cards, and called Stelle; men amusing themselves at a game called Pallamajo, something like our cricket, only that they throw the ball with a hollow stick, not with the hand, but it requires no small corporal strength; and I know not why our English people have such a notion of Italian effeminacy: games of very strong exertion are in use among them; and I have not yet felt one hot day since I left France. They shewed us an agreeable garden here belonging to some man of fashion, whose name I know not; it was cut in a rock, yet the grotto disappointed me: they had not taken such advantages of the situation as Lomellino would have done, and I recollected the tasteful creations in my own country, _Pains Hill_ and _Stour Head_. The Veronese nobleman shewed however the spirit of _his_ country, if we let loose the genius of _ours_. The emperor had visited his improvements it seems, and on the spot where he kissed the children of the house, their father set up a stone to record the honour. Our attendant related a tender story to _me_ more interesting, which happened in this garden, of an English gentleman, who having hired the house, &c. one season, found his favourite servant ill there, and like to die: the poor creature expressed his concern at the intolerant cruelty of that fact which denies Christians of any other denomination but their own a place in consecrated ground, and lamented his distance from home with an anxious earnestness that hastened his end: when the humanity of his master sent him to the landlord, who kindly gave permission that he might lie undisturbed under his turf, as one places one's lap-dog in England; and _there_, as our Laquais de place observed, _he did no harm_, though _he was a heretic_; and the English gentleman wept over his grave. I never saw cypress trees of such a growth as in this spot--but then there are no other trees; _inter viburna cypressi_ came of course into one's head: and this noble plant, rich in foliage, and bright, not dusky in colour, looked from its manner of growing like a vast evergreen poplar. Our equipages here are strangely inferior to those we left behind at Milan. Oil is burned in the conversation rooms too, and smells very offensively--but they _lament our suffocation in England, and black smoke_, while what proceeds from these lamps would ruin the finest furniture in the world before five weeks were expired; I saw no such used at Turin, Genoa, or Milan. The horses here are not equal to those I have admired on the Corso at other great towns; but it is pleasing to observe the contrast between the high bred, airy, elegant English hunter, and the majestic, docile, and well-broken war horse of Lombardy. Shall we fancy there is Gothic and Grecian to be found even among the animals? or is not that _too_ fanciful? That every thing useful, and every thing ornamental, first revived in Italy, is well known; but I was never aware till now, though we talk of Italian book-keeping, that the little cant words employed in compting-houses, took their original from the Lombard language, unless perhaps that of Ditto, which every moment recurs, meaning Detto or Sudetto, as that which was already said before: but this place has afforded me an opportunity of discovering what the people meant, who called a large portion of ground in Southwark some years ago a _plant_, above all things. The ground was destined to the purposes of extensive commerce, but the appellation of a _plant_ gave me much disturbance, from my inability to fathom the meaning of it. I have here found out, that the Lombards call many things a _plant_; and say of their cities, palaces, &c. in familiar discourse--_che la pianta è buona, la pianta è cattiva_[Footnote: The _plant_ is a good or a bad one], &c. Thus do words which carry a forcible expression in one language, appear ridiculous enough in another, till the true derivation is known. Another reflection too occurs as curious; that after the overthrow of all business, all knowledge, and all pleasure resulting from either, by the Goths, Italy should be the first to cherish and revive those money-getting occupations, which now thrive better in more Northern climates: but the chymists say justly, that fermentation acts with a sort of creative power, and that while the mass of matter is fermenting, no certain judgment can be made what spirit it will at last throw up: so perhaps we ought not to wonder at all, that the first idea of banking came originally from this now uncommercial country; that the very name of _bankrupt_ was brought over from their money-changers, who sat in the market-place with a bench or _banca_ before them, receiving and paying; till, unable sometimes to make the due returns, the enraged creditors broke their little board, which was called making _bancarotta_, a phrase but too well known in the purlieus, which because they first settled there in London was called _Lombard Street_, where the word is still in full force I believe. --oh word of fear! Unpleasing to commercial ear. A visit to the collection of Signor Vincenzo Bozza best assisted me in changing, or at least turning the course of my ideas. Nothing in natural history appears more worthy the consideration of the learned world, than does this repository of petrefactions, so uncommon that scarcely any thing except the testimony of one's own eyes could convince one that flying fish, natives, and intending to remain inhabitants, of the Pacific Ocean, are daily dug out of the bowels of Monte Bolca near Verona, where they must doubtless have been driven by the deluge, as no less than omnipotent power and general concussion could have sufficed to seize and fix them for centuries in the hollow cavities of a rock at least seventy-two miles from the nearest sea. Their learned proprietor, however, who was obligingly desirous to shew me every attention, answering a hundred troublesome questions with much civility, told us, that few of his numerous visitants gave that plain account of the phenomenon, shewing greater disposition to conjure up more difficult causes, and attribute the whole to the world's eternity: a notion not less contrary to found philosophy and common sense, than it is repugnant to faith, and the doctrines of Revelation; which prophesied long ago, that in the last days should come _scoffers, walking after their own lusts_, and saying, _Where is now the promise of his coming? for since the time that our fathers fell asleep, all things continue as they were from the beginning of the creation._ Well! these are unpleasant reflections: I would rather, before leaving the plains of Lombardy, give my country-women one reason for detaining them so long there: it cannot be an uninteresting reason to us, when we ref left that our first head-dresses were made by _Milaners_; that a court gown was early known in England by the name of a _mantua_, from _Manto,_ the daughter of Teresias, who founded the city so called; and that some of the best materials for making these mantuas is still named from the town it is manufactured in--a _Padua_ soy. We are going thither immediately through Vicenza; where the works of Palladio's immortal hand appear in full perfection; and nothing sure can add to the elegancies of architecture displayed in its environs. I fatigued myself to death almost by walking three miles out of town, to see the famous villa from whence Merriworth Castle in Kent was modelled; and drew incessant censures on his taste who built at the bottom of a deep valley the imitation of a house calculated for a hill. Here I pleased my eyes by glancing them over an extensive prospect, bounded by mountains on the one side, on another by the sea, at so prodigious a distance however as to be wholly undiscoverable by the naked eye; nor could I, or any other unaccustomed spectator, have seen, as my Italian companions did, the effect produced by marine vapours upon the intermediate atmosphere, which they made me remark from the windows of the palace, inferior in every thing _but_ situation to Merriworth, and with that patriotic consolation I leave Vincenza. Padua la dotta afforded me much pleasure, from the politeness of the Countess Ferres, born a German; of the House of Starenberg: she thought proper to shew me a thousand civilities, in consequence of a kind letter which we carried her from Count Wiltseck, the Austrian minister at Milan; called the literati of the town about us, and gave me the pleasure of conversing with the Abate Cefarotti, who translated Offian; and the Professor Statico, whose attentions I ought never to forget. I was surprised at length to hear kind inquiries after English acquaintance made in my native language by the botanical professor, who spoke much of Doctor Johnson, and with great regard: he had, it seems, spent much time in our island about thirty years before. When we were shewn the physic garden, nicely kept and excellently furnished, the Countess took occasion to observe, that transplanted trees never throve, and strongly expressed her unfaded attachment to her native soil: though she had more good sense than to neglect every opportunity of cultivating that in which fortune had placed her. The tomb of Antenor, supposed to be preserved in this town, has, I find, but slight evidence to boast with regard to its authenticity: whosever tomb it is, the antiquity of the monument, and dignity of the remains, are scarcely questionable; and I see not but it _may_ be Antenor's. There is no place assigned for it but the open street, because it could not (say they) have contained a baptized body, as there are proofs innumerable of its being fabricated many and many years before the birth of Jesus Christ: yet I never pass by without being hurt that it should have no better situation assigned it, till I recollect that the old Romans always buried people by the highway, which made the _siste viator_[Footnote: Stop traveller] proper for their tomb-stones, as Mr. Addison somewhere remarks; which are foolishly enough engraven upon ours: and till I consider too that the Archbishop of Canterbury, or the Patriarch of Antioch, where Christians were first called such, would lie no nearer a Christian Church than old Antenor does, were they unfortunate enough to die, and be put under ground at Padua. The shrine of St. Antonio is however sufficiently venerated; and the riches of his church really amazed me: such silver lamps! such votive offerings! such glorious sculpture! the bas relievos, representing his life and miracles, are beyond any thing we have yet seen; one compartment particularly, the workmanship, I think, of Sansovino, where an old woman is represented to a degree of finished nicety and curiosity of perfection which I knew not that marble could express. The hall of justice, which they oppose to our Westminster-hall, but between which there is no resemblance, is two hundred and fifty-six feet long, and eighty-six broad; the form, of it a _rhomboid_: the walls richly ornamented by Pietro d'Abano, who originally designed, and began to paint the figures round the sides: they have however been retouched by Giotto, who added the signs of the Zodiac to Peter's mysterious performances, which meant to explain the planetary influences, as he was a man deeply dipped in judicial astrology; and there is his own portrait among them, dressed like a Zoroastrian priest, with a planet in the corner. At the bottom of the hall hangs the famous crucifixion, for the purpose of doing which completely well, it is told that Giotto fastened up a real man, and justly incurred the Pope's displeasure, who coming one day unawares to see his painter work, caught the unhappy wretch struggling in the closet, and threatened immediately to sign the artist's death; who with Italian promptness ran to the picture, and daubed it over with his brush and colours;--by this method obliging his sovereign to delay execution till the work was repaired, which no one but himself could finish; mean time the man recovers of his wounds, and the tale ends, whether true or false, according to the hearer's wish. The debtor's stone at the opposite end of the hall has likewise many entertaining stories annexed to it: the bankrupt is obliged to sit there in presence of his creditors and judges, in a very disgraceful state; and many accounts are told one, of the various effects such distresses have had on the mind: but suicide is a crime rarely committed out of England, and the Italians look with just horror on our people for being so easily incited to a sin, which takes from him that commits it all power and possibility of repentance. A Frenchman whom I sent for once at Bath to dress my hair, gave me an excellent trait of his own national character, speaking upon that subject, when he meant to satirise ours. "You have lived some years in England, friend, said I, do you like it?"--"Mais non, madame, pas parfaitement bien[L]"--"You have travelled much in Italy, do you like that better?"--"Ah, Dieu ne plaise, madame, je n'aime guères messieurs les Italiens[M]." "What do they do to make you hate them so?"--"Mais c'est que les Italiens se tuent l'un l'autre (replied the fellow), et les Anglois se font un plaisir de se tuer eux mesmes: pardi je ne me sens rien moins qu'un vrai gout pour ces gentillesses la, et j'aimerois mieux me trouver a _Paris, pour rire un peu_."[N] FOOTNOTES: [Footnote L: Why no truly ma'am, not much.] [Footnote M: Oh, God forbid--no, I cannot endure those Italians.] [Footnote N: Why, really, the Italians have such a passion for murdering each other, ma'am, and the English such an odd delight in killing themselves, that I, who have acquired no taste for such agreeable amusements, grow somewhat impatient to return to Paris, and get a good laugh among my old acquaintance.] The Lucrezia Padovana, who has a monument erected here in this justice hall to her memory, is the only instance of self-murder I have been told yet; and her's was a very glorious one, and necessary to the preservation of her honour, which was endangered by the magistrate, who made that the barter for her husband's life, in defence of which she was pleading; much like the story of Isabella, Angelo, and Claudio, in Shakespear's Measure for Measure. This lady, whole family name I have forgotten, stabbed herself in presence of the monster who reduced her to such necessity, and by that means preserved her husband's life, by suddenly converting the heart of her hateful lover, who from that dreadful day devoted himself to penitence and prayer. The chastity of the Patavian ladies is celebrated by some old Latin poet, but I cannot recollect which. Lucrezia, however, was a Christian. I could not much regard the monument of Livy though, for looking at her's, which attracted and detained my attention more particularly. The University of Padua is a noble institution; and those who have excelled among the students, are recorded on tablets, for the most part brass, hung round the walls, made venerable by their arms and characters. It was pleasing to see so many British names among them--Scotchmen for the most part; though I enquired in vain for the admirable Crichton. Sir Richard Blackmore was there, but not one native of France. We were spiteful enough to fancy, that was the reason that Abbè Richard says nothing of the establishment. Besides the civilities shewn us here by Mr. Bonaldi and his agreeable lady, Signora Annetta, we were recommended by letters from the Venetian resident at Milan, to Abate Toaldo, professor of astronomy; who wished to do all in his power to oblige and entertain us. His observatory is a good one; but the learned amiable scholar, who resides in the first floor of it, complained to us that he was sickly, old, and poor; three bad qualifications, as he observed, for the amusement of travellers, who commonly arrive hungry for novelty, and thirsty for information. His quadrant was very fine, the planetarium or orrery quite out of repair; and his references of course were obliged to be made to a sort of map or chart of the heavenly bodies (a solar system at least with comets) that hung up in his room as a substitute. He had little reverence for the petrefactions of Monte Bolca I perceived, which he considered as mere _lufus naturæ_. He shewed me poor Petrarch's tomb from his observatory, bid me look on Sir Isaac's full-length picture in the room, and said, the world would see no more such men. Of our Maskelyne, however, no man could speak with more esteem, or expressions of generous friendship. His sitting chamber was a pleasant one; and I should not have left it so soon, but in compassion to his health, which our company was more likely to injure than assist. He asked me, if I did not find _Padua la dotta_ a very stinking nasty town? but added, that literature and dirt had long been intimately acquainted, and that this city was commonly called among the Italians, _"Porcil de Padua," Padua the pig-stye._ Fire is supposed to be the greatest purifier, and Padua has gone through that operation twice completely, being burned the first time by Attila; after which, Narses the famous eunuch rebuilt and settled it in the year 558, if my information is good: but after her protector's death, the Longobards burned her again, and she lay in ashes till Charlemagne restored her to more than original beauty. Under Otho she, like many other cities of Italy, was governed by her own laws, and remained a republic till the year 1237, when she received the German yoke, afterwards broken by the Scaligers; nor was their treacherous assassination followed by less than the loss both of Verona and this city, which was found in possession of the Emperor Maximilian some years after: but when the State of Venice recovered their dominion over it in 1409, they fortified it so strongly that the confederate princes united in the league of Cambray assaulted it in vain. Santa Giustina's church is the most beautiful place of worship I have ever yet seen; so regularly, so uniformly noble, uncrowded with figures too: the entrance strikes you with its simple grandeur, while the small chapels to the right and left hand are kept back behind a colonade of pillars, and do not distract attention and create confusion of ideas, as do the numerous cupolas of St. Anthony's more magnificent but less pleasing structure. The high altar here at Santa Giustina's church stands at the end, and greatly increases the effect on entering, which always suffers when the length is broken. Nothing, however, is to be perfect in this world, and Paul Veronese's fine view of the suffering martyr has not size enough for the place; and is beside crowded with small unconsequential figures, which cannot be distinguished at a distance. Some carvings round the altar, representing, in wooden bas-reliefs, the history of the Old and New Testament, are admirable in their kind; and I am told that the organ on which Bertoni, a blind nephew of Ferdinand, our well-known composer, played to entertain us, is one of the first in Italy: but an ordinary instrument would have charmed us had he touched it. I must not leave the Terra Firma, as they call it, without mentioning once more some of the animals it produces; among which the asses are so justly renowned for their size and beauty, that _come un afino di Padua_ is proverbial when speaking of strength among the Italians: how should it be otherwise indeed, where every herb and every shrub breathes fragrance; and where the quantity as well as quality of their food naturally so increases their milk, that I should think some of them. might yield as much as an ordinary cow? When I was at Genoa, I remember remarking something like this to Doctor Batt, an English physician settled there; and expressed my surprise that our consumptive country-folks, with whom the Italians never cease to reproach us, do not, when they come here for health, rely much on the beneficial produce of these asses for a cure; which, if it is hastened by their assistance in our island, must surely be performed much quicker in this. The answer would have been better recollected, I fancy, had it appeared to me more satisfactory; but he knew what he was talking of, and I did not; so conclude he despised me accordingly. The Carinthian bulls too, that do all the heavy work in this rich and heavy land, how wonderfully handsome they are! Such symmetry and beauty have I never seen in any cattle, scarcely in those of Derbyshire, where so much attention has been bestowed upon their breeding. The colour here is so elegant; they are almost all blue roans, like Lord Grosvenor's horses in London, or those of the Duke of Cestos at Milan: the horns longer, and much more finely shaped, than those of our bulls, and white as polished ivory, tapering off to a point, with a bright black tip at the end, resembling an ermine's tail. As this creature is not a native, but only a neighbour of Italy, we will say no more about him. A transplanted Hollander, carried thither originally from China, seems to thrive particularly well in this part of the world; the little pug dog, or Dutch mastiff, which our English ladies were once so fond of, that poor Garrick thought it worth his while to ridicule them for it in the famous dramatic satire called Lethe, has quitted London for Padua, I perceive; where he is restored happily to his former honours, and every carriage I meet here has a _pug_ in it. That breed of dogs is now so near extirpated among us, that I recoiled: only Lord Penryn who possesses such an animal; and I doubt not but many of the under-classes among brutes do in the same manner extinguish and revive by chance, caprice, or accident perpetually, through many tracts of the inhabited world, so as to remain out of sight in certain districts for centuries together. This town, as Abbé Toaldo observed, is old, and dirty, and melancholy-looking, _in itself_; but Terence told us long ago, and truly, "that it was not the walls, but the company, made every place delightful:" and these inhabitants, though few in number, are so exceedingly cheerful, so charming, their language is so mellifluous, their manners so soothing, I can scarcely bear to leave them without tears. Verona was the first place I felt reluctance to quit; but the Venetian state certainly possesses uncommon, and to me almost unaccountable, attractions. Be that as it will, we leave these sweet Paduans to-morrow; the coach is disposed of, and we are to set out upon our watry journey to their wonderfully-situated metropolis, or as they call it prettily, _La Bella Dominante_. VENICE. We went down the Brenta in a barge that brought us in eight hours to Venice, the first appearance of which revived all the ideas inspired by Canaletti, whose views of this town are most scrupulously exact; those especially which one sees at the Queen of England's house in St. James's Park; to such a degree indeed, that we knew all the famous towers, steeples, &c. before we reached them. It was wonderfully entertaining to find thus realized all the pleasures that excellent painter had given us so many times reason to expect; and I do believe that Venice, like other Italian beauties, will be observed to possess features so striking, so prominent, and so discriminated, that her portrait, like theirs, will not be found difficult to take, nor the impression she has once made easy to erase. British charms captivate less powerfully, less certainly, less suddenly: but being of a softer sort increase upon acquaintance; and after the connexion has continued for some years, will be relinquished with pain, perhaps even in exchange for warmer colouring and stronger expression. St. Mark's Place, after all I had read and all I had heard of it, exceeded expectation: such a cluster of excellence, such a constellation of artificial beauties, my mind had never ventured to excite the idea of within herself; though assisted with all the powers of doing so which painters can bestow, and with all the advantages derived from verbal and written description. It was half an hour before I could think of looking for the bronze horses, of which one has heard so much; and from which when one has once begun to look, there is no possibility of withdrawing one's attention. The general effect produced by such architecture, such painting, such pillars; illuminated as I saw them last night by the moon at full, rising out of the sea, produced an effect like enchantment; and indeed the more than magical sweetness of Venetian planners, dialect, and address, confirms one's notion, and realizes the scenes laid by Fenelon in their once tributary island of Cyprus. The pole set up as commemorative of their past dominion over it, grieves one the more, when every hour shews how congenial that place must have been to them, if every thing one reads of it has any foundation in truth. The Ducal palace is so beautiful, it were worth while almost to cross the Alps to see that, and return home again: and St. Mark's church, whose Mosaic paintings on the outside are surpassed by no work of art, delights one no less on entering, with its numberless rarities; the flooring first, which is all paved with precious stones of the second rank, in small squares, not bigger than a playing card, and sometimes less. By the second rank in gems I mean, carnelion, agate, jasper, serpentine, and verd antique; on which you place your feet without remorse, but not without a very odd sensation, when you find the ground undulated beneath them, to represent the waves of the sea, and perpetuate marine ideas, which prevail in every thing at Venice. We were not shewn the treasury, and it was impossible to get a sight of the manuscript in St. Mark's own hand-writing, carefully preserved here, and justly esteemed even beyond the jewels given as votive offerings to his shrine, which are of immense value. The pictures in the Doge's house are a magnificent collection; and the Noah's Ark by Bassano would doubtless afford an actual study for natural historians as well as painters, and is considered as a model of perfection from which succeeding artists may learn to draw animal life: scarcely a creature can be recollected which has not its proper place in the picture; but the pensive cat upon the fore-ground took most of my attention, and held it away from the meeting of the Pope and Doge by the other brother Bassano, who here proves that his pencil is not divested of dignity, as the connoisseurs sometimes tell us that he is. But it is not one picture, or two, or twenty, that seizes one's mind here; it is the accumulation of various objects, each worthy to detain it. Wonderful indeed, and sweetly-satisfying to the intellectual appetite, is the variety, the plenty of pleasures which serve to enchain the imagination, and fascinate the traveller's eye, keeping it ever on this _little spot_; for though I have heard some of the inhabitants talk of its vastness, it is scarcely bigger than our Portman Square, I think, not larger at the very most than Lincoln's-Inn-Fields. It is indeed observable that few people know how to commend a thing so as to make their praises enhance its value. One hears a pretty woman not unfrequently admired for her wit, a woman of talents wondered at for her beauty; while I can think on no reason for such perversion of language, unless it is that a small share of elegance will content those whose delight is to hear declamation; and that the most hackeyed sentiments will seem new, when uttered by a pair of rosy lips, and seconded by the expression of eyes from which every thing may be expected. To return to St. Mark's Place, whence _we have never strayed_: I must mention those pictures which represent his miracles, and the carrying his body away from Alexandria: events attested so as to bring them credit from many wise men, and which have more authenticity of their truth, than many stories told one up and down here. So great is the devotion of the common people here to their tutelar saint, that when they cry out, as we do _Old England for ever_! they do not say, _Viva Venezia_! but _Viva San Marco_! And I doubt much if that was not once the way with _us_; in one of Shakespear's plays an expiring prince being near to give all up for gone, is animated by his son in these words, "_Courage father_, cry _St. George_!" We had an opportunity of seeing _his_ day celebrated with a very grand procession the other morning, April 23, when a live boy personated the hero of the show; but fate so still upon his painted courser, that it was long before I perceived him to breathe. The streets were vastly crowded with spectators, that in every place make the principal part of the _spectacle_. It is odd that a custom which in contemplation seems so unlikely to please, should when put in practice appear highly necessary, and productive of an effect which can be obtained no other way. Were the houses in Parliament Street to hang damask curtains, worked carpets, pieces of various coloured silks, with fringe or lace round them, out of every window when the King of England goes to the House, with numberless well-dressed ladies leaning out to see him pass, it would give one an idea of the continental towns upon a gala day. But our people would be apt to cry out, _Monmouth Street!_ and look ashamed if their neighbours saw the same deckerwork counterpane or crimson curtain produced at Easter, which made a figure at Christmas the December before; so that no end would be put to expence in our country, were such a fancy to take place. The rainy weather beside would spoil all our finery at once; and _here_, though it is still cold enough to be sure, and the women wear sattins, yet still one shivers over a bad fire only because there is no place to walk and warm one's self; for I have not seen a drop of rain. The truth is, this town cannot be a wholesome one, for there is scarcely a possibility of taking exercise; nor have I been once able to circulate my blood by motion since our arrival, except perhaps by climbing the beautiful tower which stands (as every thing else does) in St. Mark's Place. And you may drive a garden-chair up _that_, so easy is the ascent, so broad and luminous the way. From the top is presented to one's sight the most striking of all prospects, water bounded by land--not land by water.--The curious and elegant islets upon which, and into which, the piles of Venice are driven, exhibiting clusters of houses, churches, palaces, every thing--started up in the midst of the sea, so as to excite amazement. But the horses have not been spoken of, though one pair drew Apollo's car at Delphos. The other, which we call modern, and laugh while we call them so, were made however before the days of Constantine the Great. They are of bright yellow brass, not black bronze, as I expected to find them, and grace the glorious church I am never weary of admiring; where I went one day on purpose to find out the red marble on which Pope Alexander III. sate, and placed his foot upon the neck of the Emperor: the stone has this inscription half legible round it, _Super aspidem et basiliscum ambulabis_[Footnote: Thou shalt tread on the asp and the basilisk]. How does this lovely Piazza di San Marco render a newly-arrived spectator breathless with delight! while not a span of it is unoccupied by actual beauty; though the whole appears uncrowded, as in the works of nature, not of art. It was upon the day appointed for making a new chancellor, however, that one ought to have looked at this lovely city; when every shop, adorned with its own peculiar produce, was disposed to hail the passage of its favourite, in a manner so lively, so luxuriant, and at the same time so tasteful--there's no telling. Milliners crowned the new dignitary's picture with flowers, while columns of gauze, twisted round with ribband, in the most elegant style, supported the figure on each side, and made the prettiest appearance possible. The furrier formed his skins into representations of the animal they had once belonged to; so the lion was seen dandling the kid at one door, while the fox stood courting a badger out of his hole at the other. The poulterers and fruiterers were by many thought the most beautiful shops in town, from the variety of fancies displayed in the disposal of their goods; and I admired at the truly Italian ingenuity of a gunsmith, who had found the art of turning his instruments of terror into objects of delight, by his judicious manner of placing and arranging them. Every shop was illuminated with a large glass chandelier before it, besides the wax candles and coloured lamps interspersed among the ornaments within. The senators have much the appearance of our lawyers going robed to Westminster Hall, but the _gentiluomini_, as they are called, wear red dresses, and remind me of the Doctors of the ecclesiastical courts in Doctors Commons. It is observable that all long robes denote peaceful occupations, and that the short cut coat is the emblem of a military profession, once the disgrace of humanity, now unfortunately become its false and cruel pride. When the enemies of King David meant to declare war against him, they cut the skirts of his ambassador's clothes off, to shew him he must prepare for battle; and the Orientals still consider short dresses as a disgraceful preparation for hostile proceedings; nor could any thing have reconciled Europe to the custom, except our horror of Turkish manners, and desire of being distinguished from the Saracens at the time of the Holy War. I have said nothing yet about the gondolas, which every body knows are black, and give an air of melancholy at first sight, yet are nothing less than sorrowful; it is like painting the lively Mrs. Cholmondeley in the character of Milton's Pensive Nun, devout and pure, Sober, stedfast, and demure-- As I once saw her drawn by a famous hand, to shew a Venetian lady in her gondola and zendaletto, which is black like the gondola, but wholly calculated like that for the purposes of refined gallantry. So is the nightly rendezvous, the coffee-house, and casino; for whilst Palladio's palaces serve to adorn the grand canal, and strike those who enter Venice with surprise at its magnificence; those snug retreats are intended for the relaxation of those who inhabit the more splendid apartments, and are fatigued with exertions of dignity, and necessity of no small expence. They breathe the true spirit of our luxurious Lady Mary, who probably learned it here, or of the still more dissolute Turks, our present neighbours; who would have thought not unworthy a Testa Veneziana, her famous stanza, beginning, But when the long hours of public are past, And we meet with champagne and a chicken at last; Surely she had then present to her warm imagination a favourite Casino in the Piazza St. Marco. That her learned and highly-accomplished son imbibed her taste and talents for sensual delights, has been long known in England; it is not so perhaps that there is a showy monument erected to his memory at Padua, setting forth his variety and compass of knowledge in a long Latin inscription. The good old monk who shewed it me seemed generously and reasonably shocked, that such a man should at last expire with somewhat more firm persuasions of the truth of the Mahometan religion than any other; but that he doubted greatly of all, and had not for many years professed himself a Christian of any sect or denomination whatever. So have I seen some youth set out, Half Protestant, half Papist; And wand'ring long the world about, Some new religion to find out, Turn Infidel or Atheist. We have been told much of the suspicious temper of Venetian laws; and have heard often that every discourse is suffered, except such as tends to political conversation, in this city; and that whatever nobleman, native of Venice, is seen speaking familiarly with a foreign minister, runs a risque of punishments too terrible to be thought on. How far that manner of proceeding may be wise or just, I know not; certain it is that they have preserved their laws inviolate, their city unattempted, and their republic respectable, through all the concussions that have shaken the rest of Europe. Surrounded by envious powers, it becomes them to be vigilant; conscious of the value of their unconquered state, it is no wonder that they love her; and surely the true _Amor Patriæ_ never glowed more warmly in old Roman bosoms than in theirs, who draw, as many families here do, their pedigree from the consuls of the Commonwealth. Love without jealousy is seldom to be met with, especially in these warm climates--let us then permit them to be jealous of a constitution which all the other states of Italy look on with envy not unmixed with malice, and propagate strange stories to its disadvantage. That suspicion should be concealed under the mask of gaiety is neither very new nor very strange: the reign of our Charles the Second was equally famous for plots, perjuries, and cruel chastisements, as for wanton levity and indecent frolics: but here at Venice there are no unpermitted frolics; her rulers love to see her gay and cheerful; they are the fathers of their country, and if they _indulge_, take care not to _spoil_ her. With regard to common chat, I have heard many a liberal and eloquent disquisition upon the state of Europe in general, and of Venice in particular, from several agreeable friends at their own Casino, who did not appear to have more fears upon them than myself, and I know not why they should. Chevalier Emo is deservedly a favourite with them, and we used to talk whole evenings of him and of General Elliott; the bombarding of Tunis, and defence of Gibraltar. The news-papers spoke of some fireworks exhibited in England in honour of their hero; they were "vrayment _feux de joye_" said an agreeable Venetian, they were not _feux d'artifice._ The deep secrecy of their councils, however, and unrelenting steadiness of their resolutions, cannot be better explained than by telling a little story, which will illustrate the private virtue as well as the public authority of these extraordinary people; for though the tale is now in abler hands (intending as I am told, to form a tragedy upon its basis), the summary may serve to adorn my little work; as a landscape painter refuses not to throw the story of Phaeton's petition for Apollo's car into his picture, for the purpose of illuminating the back ground, though Ovid has written the story and Titian has painted it. Some years ago then, perhaps a hundred, one of the many spies who ply this town by night, ran to the state inquisitor, with information that such a nobleman (naming him) had connections with the French ambassador, and went privately to his house every night at a certain hour. The _messergrando_, as they call him, could not believe, nor would proceed, without better and stronger proof, against a man for whom he had an intimate personal friendship, and on whose virtue he counted with very particular reliance. Another spy was therefore set, and brought back the same intelligence, adding the description of his disguise; on which the worthy magistrate put on his mask and bauta, and went out himself; when his eyes confirming the report of his informants, and the reflection on his duty stifling all remorse, he sent publicly for _Foscarini_ in the morning, whom the populace attended all weeping to his door. Nothing but resolute denial of the crime alleged could however be forced from the firm-minded citizen, who, sensible of the discovery, prepared for that punishment he knew to be inevitable, and submitted to the fate his friend was obliged to inflict: no less than a dungeon for life, that dungeon so horrible that I have heard Mr. Howard was not permitted to see it. The people lamented, but their lamentations were vain. The magistrate who condemned him never recovered the shock: but Foscarini was heard of no more, till an old lady died forty years after in Paris, whose last confession declared she was visited with amorous intentions by a nobleman of Venice whose name she never knew, while she resided there as companion to the ambassadress. So was Foscarini lost! so died he a martyr to love, and tenderness for female reputation! Is it not therefore a story fit to be celebrated by that lady's pen, who has chosen it as the basis of her future tragedy?--But I will anticipate no further. Well! this is the first place I have seen which has been capable in any degree of obliterating the idea of Genoa la superba, which has till now pursued me, nor could the gloomy dignity of the cathedral at Milan, or the striking view of the arena at Verona, nor the Sala de Giustizia at lettered Padua, banish her beautiful image from my mind: nor can I now acknowledge without shame, that I have ceased to regret the mountains, the chesnut groves, and slanting orange trees, which climbed my chamber window _there_, and at _this_ time too! when Young-ey'd Spring profusely throws From her green lap the pink and rose. But whoever sees St. Mark's Place lighted up of an evening, adorned with every excellence of human art, and pregnant with pleasure, expressed by intelligent countenances sparkling with every grace of nature; the sea washing its walls, the moon-beams dancing on its subjugated waves, sport and laughter resounding from the coffee-houses, girls with guitars skipping about the square, masks and merry-makers singing as they pass you, unless a barge with a band of music is heard at some distance upon the water, and calls attention to sounds made sweeter by the element over which they are brought--whoever is led suddenly I say to this scene of seemingly perennial gaiety, will be apt to cry out of Venice, as Eve says to Adam in Milton, With thee conversing I _forget all time_, All _seasons_, and their _change_--all please _alike_. For it is sure there are in this town many astonishing privations of all that are used to make other places delightful: and as poor Omai the savage said, when about to return to Otaheite--_No horse there! no ass! no cow, no golden pippins, no dish of tea!--Ah, missey! I go without every thing--I always so content there though_. It is really just so one lives at this lovely Venice: one has heard of a horse being exhibited for a show there, and yesterday I watched the poor people paying a penny a piece for the sight of a _stuffed one_, and am more than persuaded of the truth of what I am told here, That numberless inhabitants live and die in this great capital, nor ever find out or think of enquiring how the milk brought from Terra Firma is originally produced. When such fancies cross me I wish to exclaim, Ah, happy England! whence ignorance is banished by the diffusion of literature, and narrowness of notions is ridiculed even in the lowest class of life. Candour must however confess, that while the possessor of a Northern coal-mine riots in that variety of adulation which talents deserve and riches contrive to obtain, those who labour in it are often natives of the dismal region; where many have been known to be born, and work, and die, without having ever seen the sun, or other light than such as a candle can bestow. Let such dark recollections give place to more cheerful imagery. We have just now been carried to see the so justly-renowned arsenal, and unluckily missed the ship-launch we went thither chiefly to see. It is no great matter though! one comes to Italy to look at buildings, statues, pictures, people! The ships and guns of England have been such as supported her greatness, established her dominion, and extended her commerce in such a manner as to excite the admiration and terror of Europe, whose kingdoms vainly as perfidiously combined with her own colonies against that power which _they_ maintained, in spite of the united efforts of half the globe. I shall hardly see finer ships and guns till I go home again, though the keeping all together on one island so--that island walled in too completely with only a single door to come in and out at--is a construction of peculiar happiness and convenience; while dock, armoury, rope-walk, all is contained in this space, exactly two miles round I think. What pleased me best, besides the _whole_, which is best worth being pleased with, was the small arms: there are so many Turkish instruments of destruction among them quite new to me, and the picture commemorating the cruel death of their noble gallant leader Bragadin, so inhumanly treated by the Saracens in 1571. With infinite gratitude to his amiable descendant, who shewed me unmerited civility, dining with us often, and inviting us to his house, &c. I leave this repository of the Republic's stores with one observation, That however suspicious the Venetians are said to be, I found it much more easy for Englishmen to look over _their_ docks, than for a foreigner to find his way into ours. Another reflection occurs on examination of this spot; it is, that the renown attached to it in general conversation, is a proof that the world prefers convenience to splendour; for here are no superfluous ornaments, and I am apt to think many go away from it praising beauties by which they have been but little struck, and utilities they have but little understood. From this show you are commonly carried to the glass manufactory at Murano; once the retreat of piety and freedom, when the Altinati fled the fury of the Huns: a beautiful spot it is, and delightfully as oddly situated; but these are _gems which inlay the bosom of the deep_, as Milton says--and this perhaps, the prettiest among them, is walked over by travellers with that curiosity which is naturally excited, in one person by the veneration of religious antiquity; in another, by the attention justly claimed by human industry and art. Here may be seen a valuable library of books, and here may be seen glasses of all colours, all sorts, and all prices, I believe: but whoever has looked much upon the London work in this way, will not be easily dazzled by the lustre of Venetian crystal; and whoever has seen the Paris mirrors, will not he astonished at any breadth into which glass can be spread. We will return to Venice, the view of which from the Zueca, a word contracted from Giudecca, as I am told, would invite one never more to stray from it--farther at least than to St. George's church, on another little opposite island, whence the prospect is surely wonderful; and one sits longing for a pencil to repeat what has been so often exquisitely painted by Canaletti, just as foolishly as one snatches up a pen to tell what has been so much better told already by Doctor Moore. It was to this church I was sent, however, for the purpose of seeing a famous picture painted by Paul Veronese, of the marriage at Cana in Galilee--where our Saviour's first miracle was performed; in which immense work the artist is well known to have commemorated his own likeness, and that of many of his family, which adds value to the piece, when we consider it as a collection of portraits, besides the history it represents. When we arrived, the picture was kept in a refectory belonging to friars (of what order I have forgotten), and no woman could be admitted. My disappointment was so great that I was deprived even of the powers of solicitation by the extreme ill-humour it occasioned; and my few intreaties for admission were completely disregarded by the good old monk, who remained outside with me, while the gentlemen visited the convent without molestation. At my return to Venice I met little comfort, as every body told me it was my own fault, for I might put on men's clothes and see it whenever I pleased, as nobody then would stop, though perhaps all of them would know me. If such slight gratifications however as seeing a favourite picture, can be purchased no cheaper than by violating truth in one's own person, and encouraging the violation of it in others, it were better surely die without having ever procured to one's self such frivolous enjoyments; and I hope always to reject the temptation of deceiving mistaken piety, or insulting harmless error. But it is almost time to talk of the Rialto, said to be the finest single arch in Europe, and I suppose it is so; very beautiful too when looked on from the water, but so dirtily kept, and deformed with mean shops, that passing over it, disgust gets the better of every other sensation. The truth is, our dear Venetians are nothing less than cleanly; St. Mark's Place is all covered over in a morning with chicken-coops, which stink one to death; as nobody I believe thinks of changing their baskets: and all about the Ducal palace is made so very offensive by the resort of human creatures for every purpose most unworthy of so charming a place, that all enjoyment of its beauties is rendered difficult to a person of any delicacy; and poisoned so provokingly, that I do never cease to wonder that so little police and proper regulation are established in a city so particularly lovely, to render her sweet and wholesome. It was at the Rialto that the first stone of this fair town was laid, upon the twenty-fifth of March, as I am told here, with ideal reference to the vernal equinox, the moment when philosophers have supposed that the sun first shone upon our earth, and when Christians believe that the redemption of it was first announced to _her_ within whose womb it was conceived. The name of _Venice_ has been variously accounted for; but I believe our ordinary people in England are nearest to the right, who call it _Venus_ in their common discourse; as that goddess was, like her best beloved seat of residence, born of the sea's light froth, according to old fables, and partook of her native element, the gay and gentle, not rough and boisterous qualities. It is said too, and I fear with too much truth, that there are in this town some permitted professors of the inveigling arts, who still continue to cry _Veni etiam_, as their ancestors did when flying from the Goths they sought these sands for refuge, and gave their lion wings. Till once well fixed, they kindly called their continental neighbours round to share their liberty, and to accept that happiness they were willing to bestow and to diffuse; and from this call--this _Veni etiam_ it is, that the learned men among them derive the word _Venetia_. I have asked several friends about the truth of what one has been always hearing of in England, that the Venetian gondoliers sing Tasso and Ariosto's verses in the streets at night; sometimes quarrelling with each other concerning the merit of their favourite poets; but what I have been told since I came here, of their attachment to their respective masters, and secrecy when trusted by them in love affairs, seems far more probable; as they are proud to excess when they serve a nobleman of high birth, and will tell you with an air of importance, that the house of Memmo, Monsenigo, or Gratterola, has been served by their ancestors for these eighty or perhaps a hundred years; transmitting family pride thus from generation to generation; even when that pride is but reflected only like the mock rainbow of a summer sky.--But hark! while I am writing this peevish reflection in my room, I hear some voices under my window answering each other upon the Grand Canal. It is, it _is_ the gondolieri sure enough; they are at this moment singing to an odd sort of tune, but in no unmusical manner, the flight of Erminia from Tasso's Jerusalem. Oh, how pretty! how pleasing! This wonderful city realizes the most romantic ideas ever formed of it, and defies imagination to escape her various powers of enslaving it. Apropos to singing;--we were this evening carried to a well-known conservatory called the Mendicanti; who performed an oratorio in the church with great, and I dare say deserved applause. It was difficult for me to persuade myself that all the performers were women, till, watching carefully, our eyes convinced us, as they were but slightly grated. The sight of girls, however, handling the double bass, and blowing into the bassoon, did not much please _me_; and the deep-toned voice of her who sung the part of Saul, seemed an odd unnatural thing enough. What I found most curious and pretty, was to hear Latin verses, of the old Leonine race broken into eight and six, and sung in rhyme by these women, as if they were airs of Metastasio; all in their dulcified pronunciation too, for the _patois_ runs equally through every language when spoken by a Venetian. Well! these pretty syrens were delighted to seize upon us, and pressed our visit to their parlour with a sweetness that I know not who would have resisted. We had no such intent; and amply did their performance repay my curiosity, for visiting Venetian beauties, so justly celebrated for their seducing manners and soft address. They accompanied their voices with the forte-piano, and sung a thousand buffo songs, with all that gay voluptuousness for which their country is renowned. The school, however is running to ruin apace; and perhaps the conduct of the married women here may contribute to make such _conservatorios_ useless and neglected. When the Duchess of Montespan asked the famous Louison D'Arquien, by way of insult, as she pressed too near her, "_Comment alloit le metier_[O]?" "_Depuis que les dames sen mélent_" (replied the courtesan with no improper spirit,) "_il ne vaut plus rien_[P]." It may be these syrens have suffered in the same cause; I thought the ardency of their manners an additional proof of their hunger for fresh prey. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote O: How goes the profession?] [Footnote P: Why since the _quality_ has taken to it ma'am, it brings _us_ in very little indeed.] Will Naples, the original seat of Ulysses's seducers, shew us any thing stronger than this? I hardly expect or wish it. The state of music in Italy, if one may believe those who ought to know it best, is not what it was. The _manner of singing_ is much changed, I am told; and some affectations have been suffered to encroach upon their natural graces. Among the persons who exhibited their talents at the Countess of Rosenberg's last week, our country-woman's performance was most applauded; but when I name Lady Clarges, no one will wonder. It is said that painting is now but little cultivated among them; Rome will however be the place for such enquiries. Angelica Kauffman being settled there, seems a proof of their taste for living merit; and if one thing more than another evinces Italian candour and true good-nature, it is perhaps their generous willingness to be ever happy in acknowledging foreign excellence, and their delight in bringing forward the eminent qualities of every other nation; never insolently vaunting or bragging of their own. Unlike to this is the national spirit and confined ideas of perfection inherent in a Gallic mind, whose sole politeness is an _appliquè_ stuck _upon_ the coat, but never _embroidered into it_. The observation made here last night by a Parisian lady, gave me a proof of this I little wanted. We met at the Casino of the Senator Angelo Quirini, where a sort of literary coterïe assemble every evening, and form a society so instructive and amusing, so sure to be filled with the first company in Venice, and so hospitably open to all travellers of character, that nothing can _now_ be to me a higher intellectual gratification than my admittance among them; as _in future_ no place will ever be recollected with more pleasure, no hours with more gratitude, than those passed most delightfully by me in that most agreeable apartment. I expressed to the French lady my admiration of St. Mark's Place. "_C'est que vous n'avez jamais vue la foire St. Ovide_," said she; "_je vous assure que cela surpasse beaucoup ces trifles palais qu'on vantetant_[Q]." And _this could_ only have been arrogance, for she was a very sensible and a very accomplished woman; and when talked to about the literary merits of her own countrymen, spoke with great acuteness and judgment. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote Q: You admire it, says she, only because you never saw the fair at St. Ovid's in Paris; I assure you there is no comparison between those gay illuminations and these dismal palaces the Venetians are so fond of.] General knowledge, however, it must be confessed (meaning that general stock that every one recurs to for the common intercourse of conversation), will be found more frequently in France, than even in England; where, though all cultivate the arts of table eloquence and assembly-room rhetoric, few, from mere shyness, venture to gather in the profits of their plentiful harvest; but rather cloud their countenances with mock importance, while their hearts feel no hope beat higher in them, than the humble one of escaping without being ridiculed; or than in Italy, where nobody dreams of cultivating conversation at all--_as an art_; or studies for any other than the natural reason, of informing or diverting themselves, without the most distant idea of gaining admiration, or shining in company, by the quantity of science they have accumulated in solitude. _Here_ no man lies awake in the night for vexation that he missed recollecting the last line of a Latin epigram till the moment of application was lost; nor any lady changes colour with trepidation at the severity visible in her husband's countenance when the chickens are over-roasted, or the ice-creams melt with the room's excessive heat. Among the noble Senators of Venice, meantime, many good scholars, many Belles Lettres conversers, and what is more valuable, many thinking men, may be found, and found hourly, who employ their powers wholly in care for the state; and make their pleasure, like true patriots, out of _her felicity_. The ladies indeed appear to study but _one_ science; And where the lesson taught Is but to please, can pleasure seem a fault? Like all sensualists, however, they fail of the end proposed, from hurry to obtain it; and consume those charms which alone can procure them continuance or change of admirers; they injure their health too irreparably, and _that_ in their earliest youth; for few remain unmarried till fifteen, and at thirty have a wan and faded look. _On ne goute pas ses plaisirs icy, on les avale_[Footnote: They do not taste their pleasures here, they swallow them whole.], said Madame la Presidente yesterday, very judiciously; yet it is only speaking popularly that one can be supposed to mean, what however no one much refuses to assert, that the Venetian ladies are amorously inclined: the truth is, no check being put upon inclination, each acts according to immediate impulse; and there are more devotees, perhaps, and more doating mothers at Venice than any where else, for the same reason as there are more females who practise gallantry, only because there are more women there who _do their own way_, and follow unrestrained where passion, appetite, or imagination lead them. To try Venetian dames by English rules, would be worse than all the tyranny complained of when some East Indian was condemned upon the Coventry act for slitting his wife's nose; a common practice in _his_ country, and perfectly agreeable to custom and the _usage du pays_. Here is no struggle for female education as with us, no resources in study, no duties of family-management; no bill of fare to be looked over in the morning, no account-book to be settled at noon; no necessity of reading, to supply without disgrace the evening's chat; no laughing at the card-table, or tittering in the corner if a _lapsus linguæ_ has produced a mistake, which malice never fails to record. A lady in Italy is _sure_ of applause, so she takes little pains to obtain it. A Venetian lady has in particular so sweet a manner naturally, that she really charms without any settled intent to do so, merely from that irresistible good-humour and mellifluous tone of voice which seize the soul, and detain it in despite of Juno-like majesty, or Minerva-like wit. Nor ever was there prince or shepherd, Paris I think was both, who would not have bestowed his apple _here_. Mean while my countryman Howel laments that the women at Venice are so little. But why so? the diminutive progeny of _Vulcan_, the _Cabirs_, mysteriously adored of old, were of a size below that of the least living woman, if we believe Herodotus; and they were worshipped with more constant as well as more fervent devotion, than the symmetrical goddess of Beauty herself. A custom which prevails here, of wearing little or no rouge, and increasing the native paleness of their skins, by scarce lightly wiping the very white powder from their faces, is a method no Frenchwoman of quality would like to adopt; yet surely the Venetians are not behind-hand in the art of gaining admirers; and they do not, like their painters, depend upon _colouring_ to ensure it. Nothing can be a greater proof of the little consequence which dress gives to a woman, than the reflection one must make on a Venetian lady's mode of appearance in her zendalet, without which nobody stirs out of their house in a morning. It consists of a full black silk petticoat, sloped just to train, a very little on the ground, and flounced with gauze of the same colour. A skeleton wire upon the head, such as we use to make up hats, throwing loosely over it a large piece of black mode or persian, so as to shade the face like a curtain, the front being trimmed with a very deep black lace, or souflet gauze infinitely becoming. The thin silk that remains to be disposed of, they roll back so as to discover the bosom; fasten it with a puff before at the top of their stomacher, and once more rolling it back from the shape, tie it gracefully behind, and let it hang in two long ends. The evening ornament is a silk hat, shaped like a man's, and of the same colour, with a white or worked lining at most, and sometimes _one feather_; a great black silk cloak, lined with white, and perhaps a narrow border down before, with a vast heavy round handkerchief of black lace, which lies over neck and shoulders, and conceals shape and all completely. Here is surely little appearance of art, no craping or frizzing the hair, which is flat at the top, and all of one length, hanging in long curls about the back or sides as it happens. No brown powder, and no rouge at all. Thus without variety does a Venetian lady contrive to delight the eye, and without much instruction too to charm, the ear. A source of thought fairly cut off beside, in giving her no room to shew taste in dress, or invent new fancies and disposition of ornaments for to-morrow. The government takes all that trouble off her hands, knows every pin she wears, and where to find her at any moment of the day or night. Mean time nothing conveys to a British observer a stronger notion of loose living and licentious dissoluteness, than the sight of one's servants, gondoliers, and other attendants, on the scenes and circles of pleasure, where you find them, though never drunk, dead with sleep upon the stairs, or in their boats, or in the open street, for that matter, like over-swilled voters at an election in England. One may trample on them if one will, they hardly _can_ be awakened; and their companions, who have more life left, set the others literally on their feet, to make them capable of obeying their master or lady's call. With all this appearance of levity, however, there is an unremitted attention to the affairs of state; nor is any senator seen to come late or negligently to council next day, however he may have amused himself all night. The sight of the Bucentoro prepared for Gala, and the glories of Venice upon Ascention-day, must now put an end to other observations. We had the honour and comfort of seeing all from a galley belonging to a noble Venetian Bragadin, whose civilities to us were singularly kind as well as extremely polite. His attentions did not cease with the morning show, which we shared in common with numbers of fashionable people that filled his ship, and partook of his profuse elegant refreshments; but he followed us after dinner to the house of our English friends, and took six of us together in a gay bark, adorned with his arms, and rowed by eight gondoliers in superb liveries, made up for the occasion to match the boat, which was like them white, blue and silver, a flag of the same colours flying from the stern, till we arrived at the Corso; so they call the place of contention where the rowers exert their skill and ingenuity; and numberless oars dashing the waves at once, make the only agitation of which the sea seems capable; while ladies, now no longer dressed in black, but ornamented with all their jewels, flowers, &c. display their beauties unveiled upon the water; and covering the lagoons with gaiety and splendour, bring to one's mind the games in Virgil, and the galley of Cleopatra, by turns. Never was locality so subservient to the purposes of pleasure as in this city; where pleasure has set up her airy standard, and which on this occasion looked like what one reads in poetry of Amphitrite's court; and I ventured to tell a nobleman who was kindly attentive in shewing us every possible politeness, that had Venus risen from the Adriatic sea, she would scarcely have been tempted to quit it for Olympus. I was upon the whole more struck with the evening's gaiety, than with the magnificence in which the morning began to shine. The truth is, we had been long prepared for seeing the Bucentoro; had heard and read every thing I fancy that could have been thought or said upon the subject, from the sullen Englishmen who rank it with a company's barge floating up the Thames upon my Lord Mayor's day, to the old writers who compare it with Theseus's ship; in imitation of which, it is said, this calls itself the very identical vessel wherein Pope Alexander performed the original ceremony in the year 1171; and though, perhaps, not a whole plank of that old galley can be now remaining in this, so often careened, repaired, and adorned since that time, I see nothing ridiculous in declaring that it is the same ship; any more than in saying the oak I planted an acorn thirty years ago, is the same tree I saw spring up then a little twig, which not even a moderate sceptic will deny; though he takes so much pains to persuade plain folks out of their own existence, by laughing us out of the dull notion that he who dies a withered old fellow at fourscore, should ever be considered as the same person whom his mother brought forth a pretty little plump baby eighty years before--when, says he cunningly, you are forced yourself to confess, that his mother, who died four months afterwards, would not know him again now; though while she lived, he was never out of her arms. Vain wisdom all! and false Philosophy, Which finds no end, in wandering mazes lost. And better is it to travel, as Dr. Johnson says Browne did, from one place where he saw little, to another where he saw no more--than write books to confound common sense, and make men raise up doubts of a Being to whom they must one day give an account. We will return to the Bucentoro, which, as its name imports, holds two hundred people, and is heavy besides with statues, columns, &c. The top covered with crimson velvet, and the sides enlivened by twenty-one oars on each hand. Musical performers attend in another barge, while foreigners in gilded pajots increase the general show. Mean time, the vessel that contains the doge, &c. carries him slowly out to sea, where in presence of his senators he drops a plain gold ring into the water, with these words, _Desponfamus te mare, in fignum veri perpetuique dominii_.[Footnote: We espouse thee, O sea! in sign of true and perpetual dominion.] Our weather was favourable, and the people all seemed happy: when the ceremony is put off from day to day, it naturally damps their spirits, and produces superstitious presages of an unlucky year: nor is that strange, for the season of storms ought surely to be past in a climate so celebrated for mildness and equanimity. The praises of Italian weather, though wearisomely frequent among us, seem however much confined to this island for aught I see; who am often tired with hearing their complaints of their own sky, now that they are under it: always too cold or too hot, or a seiroc wind, or a rainy day, or a hard frost, _che gela fin ai pensieri_[Footnote: Which freezes even one's fancy.]; or something to murmur about, while their only great nuisances pass unnoticed, the heaps of dirt, and crowds of beggars, who infest the streets, and poison the pleasures of society. While ladies are eating ice at a coffee-house door, while decent people are hearing mass at the altar, while strangers are surveying the beauties of the place--no peace, no enjoyment can one obtain for the beggars; numerous beyond credibility, fancy and airy, and odd in their manners; and exhibiting such various lamenesses and horrible deformities in their figure, that I can sometimes hardly believe my eyes--but am willing to be told, what is not very improbable, that many of them come from a great distance to pass the season of ascension here at Venice. I never indeed saw any thing so gently endured, which it appeared so little difficult to remedy; but though I hope it would be hard to find a place where more alms are asked, or less are given, than in Venice; yet I never saw refusals so pleasingly softened, as by the manners of the high Italians towards the low. Ladies in particular are so soft-mouthed, so tender in replying to those who have their lot cast far below them, that one feels one's own harsher disposition corrected by their sweetness; and when they called my maid _sister_, in good time--pressing her hand with affectionate kindness, it melted me; though I feared from time to time there must be hypocrisy at bottom of such sugared words, till I caught a lady of condition yesterday turning to the window, and praying fervently for the girl's conversion to christianity, all from a tender and pious emotion of her gentle heart: as notwithstanding their caresses, no man is more firmly persuaded of a mathematical truth than they are of mine, and my maid's living in a state of certain and eternal reprobation--_ma fanno veramente vergogna a noi altri_[Footnote: But they really shame _even us_.], say they, quite in the spirit of the old Romans, who thought all nations _barbarous_ except their own. A woman of quality, near whom I sate at the fine ball Bragadin made two nights ago in honour of this gay season, enquired how I had passed the morning. I named several churches I had looked into, particularly that which they esteem beyond the rest as a favourite work of Palladio, and called the Redentore. "You do very right," says she, "to look at our churches, as you have none in England, I know--but then you have so many other fine things--such charming _steel buttons_ for example;" pressing my hand to shew that she meant no offence; for, added she, _chi pensa d'una maniera, chi pensa d'un altra_[Footnote: One person is of one mind you know, another of another.]. Here are many theatres, the worst infinitely superior to ours; the best, as far below those of Milan and Turin: but then here are other diversions, and every one's dependance for pleasure is not placed upon the opera. They have now thrown up a sort of temporary wall of painted canvass, in an oval form, within St. Mark's Place, profusely illuminated round the new-formed walk, which is covered in at top, and adorned with shops round the right hand side, with pillars to support the canopy; the lamps, &c. on the left hand. This open Ranelagh, so suited to the climate, is exceedingly pleasing:--here is room to sit, to chat, to saunter up and down, from two o'clock in the morning, when the opera ends, till a hot sun sends us all home to rest--for late hours must be complied with at Venice, or you can have no diversion at all, as the earliest Casino belonging to your soberest friends has not a candle lighted in it till past midnight. But I am called from my book to see the public library; not a large one I find, but ornamented with pieces of sculpture, whose eminence has not, I am sure, waited for my description: the Jupiter and Leda particularly, said to be the work of Phidias, whose Ganymede in the same collection they tell us is equally excellent. Having heard that Guarini's manuscript of the Pastor Fido, written in his own hand, was safely kept at this place, I asked for it, and was entertained to see his numberless corrections and variations from the original thought, like those of Pope's Homer preserved in the British Museum; some of which I copied over for Doctor Johnson to print, at the time he published his Lives of the English Poets. My curiosity led me to look in the Pastor Fido for the famous passage of _Legge humana_, _inhumana_, _&c._ and it was observable enough that he had written it three different ways before he pitched on that peculiar expression which caused his book to be prohibited. Seeing the manuscript I took notice, however, of the beautiful penmanship with which it was written: our English hand-writing cotemporary to his was coarse, if I recollect, and very angular;--but _Italian hand_ was the first to become elegant, and still retains some privileges amongst us. Once more, every thing small, and every thing great, revived after the dark ages--in Italy. Looking at the Mint was an hour's time spent with less amusement. The depuration of gold may be performed many ways, and the proofs of its purity given by various methods: I was gratified well enough upon the whole however, in watching the neatness of their process, in weighing the gold, &c. and keeping it more free from alloy than any other coin of any other state:--a zecchine will bend between your fingers from the malleability of the metal--we may try in vain at a guinea, or louis d'or. The operation of separating silver ore from gold by the powers of aqua fortis, precipitating the first-named metal by suspension of a copper plate in the liquid, and called _quartation_; was I believe wholly unknown to the ancients, who got much earlier at the art of weighing gold in water, testified by the old story of _King Hiero's crown_. Talking of kings, and crowns, and gold, reminds me of my regret for not seeing the treasure kept in St. Mark's church here, with the motto engraven on the chest which contains it: Quando questo scrinio s'aprirà, Tutto il mondo tremerà[R]. [Footnote R: When this scrutoire shall open'd be, The world shall all with wonder flee. ] Of this it was said in our Charles the First's time, that there was enough in it to pay six kings' ransoms: when Pacheco, the Spanish ambassador, hearing so much of it, asked in derision, If the chest had any _bottom_? and being answered in the affirmative, made reply, That _there_ was the difference between his master's treasures and those of the Venetian Republic, for the mines of Mexico and Potosi had _no_ bottom.--Strange! if all these precious stones, metals, &c. have been all spent since then, and nothing left except a few relics of no intrinsic value. It is well enough known, that in the year 1450, one of the natives of the island of Candia, who have never been men of much character, made a sort of mine, or airshaft, or rather perhaps a burrow, like those constructed by rabbits, down which he went and got quite under the church, stealing out gems, money, &c. to a vast amount; but being discovered by the treachery of his companion, was caught and hanged between the two columns that face the sea on the Piazzetta. It strikes a person who has lived some months in other parts of Italy, to see so very few clergymen at Venice, and none hardly who have much the look or air of a man of fashion. Milan, though such heavy complaints are daily made there of encroachments on church power and depredations on church opulence, still swarms with ecclesiastics; and in an assembly of thirty people, there are never fewer than ten or twelve at the very least. But here it should seem as if the political cry of _fuori i preti_[Footnote: Out with the clergy.], which is said loudly in the council-chamber before any vote is suffered to pass into a law, were carried in the conversation rooms too, for a priest is here less frequent than a clergyman at London; and those one sees about, are almost all ordinary men, decent and humble in their appearance, of a bashful distant carriage, like the parson of the parish in North Wales, or _le curé du village_ in the South of France; and seems no way related to an _Abate of Milan or Turin_ still less to _Monsieur l' Abbé at Paris_. Though this Republic has long maintained a sort of independency from the court of Rome, having shewn themselves weary of the Jesuits two hundred years before any other potentate dismissed them; while many of the Venetian populace followed them about, crying _Andate, andate, niente pigliate, emai ritornate_[Footnote: Begone, begone; nothing take, nor turn anon.]; and although there is a patriarch here who takes care of church matters, and is attentive to keep his clergy from ever meddling with or even mentioning affairs of state, as in such a case the Republic would not scruple punishing them as laymen; yet has Venice kept, as they call it, St. Peter's boat from sinking more than once, when she saw the Pope's territories endangered, or his sovereignty insulted: nor is there any city more eminent for the decency with which divine service is administered, or for the devout and decorous behaviour of individuals at the time any sacred office is performing. She has ever behaved like a true Christian potentate, keeping her faith firm, and her honour scrupulously clear, in all treaties and conventions with other states--fewer instances being given of Venetian falsehood or treachery towards neighbouring nations, than of any other European power, excepting only Britain, her truly-beloved ally; with whom she never had a difference, and whose cause was so warmly espoused last war by the inhabitants of this friendly state, that numbers of young nobility were willing to run a-volunteering in her defence, but that the laws of Venice forbid her nobles ranging from home without leave given from the state. It was therefore not an ill saying, though an old one perhaps, that the government of Venice was rich and consolatory like its treacle, being compounded nicely of all the other forms: a grain of monarchy, a scruple of democracy, a dram of oligarchy, and an ounce of aristocracy; as the _teriaca_ so much esteemed, is said to be a composition of the four principal drugs--but can never be got genuine except _here_, at the original _Dispensary_. Indeed the longevity of this incomparable commonwealth is a certain proof of its temperance, exercise, and cheerfulness, the great preservatives in every body, _politic_ as well _natural_. Nor should the love of peace be left out of her eulogium, who has so often reconciled contending princes, that Thuanus gave her, some centuries ago, due praise for her pacific disposition, so necessary to the health of a commercial state, and called her city _civilis prudentiæ officina_. Another reason may be found for the long-continued prosperity of Venice, in her constant adherence to a precept, the neglect of which must at length shake, or rather loosen the foundations of every state; for it is a maxim here, handed down from generation to generation, that change breeds more mischief from its novelty, than advantage from its utility:--quoting the axiom in Latin, it runs thus: _Ipsa mutatio consuetudinis magis perturbat novitate, quam adjuvat utilitate_. And when Henry the Fourth of France solicited the abrogation of one of the Senate's decrees, her ambassador replied, That _li decreti di Venezia rassomigli avano poca i Gridi di Parigi_[Footnote: The decrees of Venice little resemble the _edicts_ of Paris.], meaning the declaratory publications of the Grand Monarque,--proclaimed to-day perhaps, repealed to-morrow--"for Sire," added he, "our senate deliberates long before it decrees, but what is once decreed there is seldom or ever recalled." The patriotism inherent in the breads of individuals makes another strong cause of this state's exemption from decay: they say themselves, that the soul of old Rome has transmigrated to Venice, and that every galley which goes into action considers itself as charged with the fate of the commonwealth. _Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori_, seems a sentence grown obsolete in other Italian states, but is still in full force here; and I doubt not but the high-born and high-fouled ladies of this day, would willingly, as did their generous ancestors in 1600, part with their rings, bracelets, every ornament, to make ropes for those ships which defend their dearer country. The perpetual state of warfare maintained by this nation against the Turks, has never lessened nor cooled: yet have their Mahometan neighbours and natural enemies no perfidy to charge them with in the time of peace or of hostility: nor can Venice be charged with the mean vice of sheltering a desire of depredation, under the hypocritical cant of protecting that religion which teaches universal benevolence and charity to all mankind. Their vicinity to Turkey has, however, made them contract some similarity of manners; for what, except being imbued with Turkish notions, can account for the people's rage here, young and old, rich and poor, to pour down such quantities of coffee? I have already had seven cups to-day, and feel frighted lest we should some of us be killed with so strange an abuse of it. On the opposite shore, across the Adriatic, opium is taken to counteract its effects; but these dear Venetians have no notion of sleep being necessary to their existence I believe, as some or other of them seem constantly in motion; and there is really no hour of the four and twenty in which the town seems perfectly still and quiet; no moment in which it can be said, that Night! fable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty here stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumb'ring world. Accordingly I never did meet with any description of Night in the Venetian poets, so common with other authors; and I am persuaded if one were to live here (which could not be _long_ I think) he should forget the use of sleep; for what with the market folks bringing up the boats from Terra Firma loaded with every produce of nature, neatly arranged in these flat-bottomed conveyances, the coming up of which begins about three o'clock in a morning and ends about six;--the Gondoliers rowing home their masters and ladies about that hour, and so on till eight;--the common business of the town, which it is then time to begin;--the state affairs and _pregai_, which often like our House of Commons sit late, and detain many gentlemen from the circles of morning amusements--that I find very entertaining;--particularly the street orators and mountebanks in Piazza St. Marco;--the shops and stalls where chickens, ducks, &c. are sold by auction, comically enough, to the highest bidder;--a flourishing fellow, with a hammer in his hand, shining away in character of auctioneer;--the crowds which fill the courts of judicature, when any cause of consequence is to be tried;--the clamorous voices, keen observations, poignant sarcasms, and acute contentions carried on by the advocates, who seem more awake, or in their own phrase _svelti_ than all the rest:--all these things take up so much time, that twenty-four hours do not suffice for the business and diversions of Venice; where dinner must be eaten as in other places, though I can scarcely find a minute to spare for it, while such fish wait one's knife and fork as I most certainly did never see before, and as I suppose are not to be seen in any sea but this, in such perfection. Fresh sturgeon, _ton_ as they call it, and fresh anchovies, large as herrings, and dressed like sprats in London, incomparable; turbots, like those of Torbay exactly, and plentiful as there, with enormous pipers, are what one principally eats here. The fried liver, without which an Italian can hardly go on from day to day, is so charmingly dressed at Milan, that I grew to like it as well as they; but at Venice it is sad stuff, and they call it _fegao_. Well! the ladies, who never hardly dine at all, rise about seven in the evening, when the gentlemen are just got ready to attend them; and sit sipping their chocolate on a chair at the coffee-house door with great tranquillity, chatting over the common topics of the times: nor do they appear half so shy of each other as the Milanese ladies, who seldom seem to have any pleasure in the soft converse of a female friend. But though certainly no women can be more charming than these Venetian dames, they have forgotten the old mythological fable, _that the youngest of the Graces was married to Sleep._ By which it was intended we should consider that state as necessary to the reparation not only of beauty but of youth, and every power of pleasing. There are men here however who, because they are not quite in the gay world, keep themselves awake whole nights at study; and much has been told me, of a collection of books belonging to a private scholar, Pinelli, who goes very little out, as worthy attentive examination. All literary topics are pleasingly discussed at Quirini's Casino, where every thing may be learned by the conversation of the company, as Doctor Johnson said of his literary Club; but more agreeably, because women are always half the number of persons admitted here. One evening our society was amused by the entrance of a foreign nobleman, exactly what we should in London emphatically call a _Character_,--learned, loud, and overbearing; though of a carriage that impressed great esteem. I have not often listened to so well-furnished a talker; nor one more capable of giving great information. He had seen the Pyramids of Egypt, he told us; had climbed Mount Horeb, and visited Damascus; but possessed the art of detaining our attention more on himself, than on the things or places he harangued about; for conversation that can scarcely be called, where one man holds the company suspended on his account of matters pompously though instructively related. He staid here a very little while among us; is a native of France, a grandee of Spain, a man of uncommon talents, and a traveller. I should be sorry never to meet him more. The Abate Arteaga, a Spanish ecclesiastic of the same agreeable coterie, seemed of a very different and far more pleasing character;--full of general knowledge, eminent in particular scholarship, elegant in his sentiments, and sound in his learning. I liked his company exceedingly, and respected his opinions. Zingarelli, the great musical composer, was another occasional member of this charming society: his wit and repartie are famous, and his bons mots are repeated wherever one runs to. I cannot translate any of them, but will write one down, which will make such of my readers laugh as understand Italian.--The Emperor was at Milan, and asked Zingarelli his opinion of a favourite singer? "_Io penso maestà che non è cattivo suddito del principi,_" replied the master, "_quantunque farà gran nemico di giove._" "How so?" enquired the King.--"_Maestà,_" answered our lively Neapolitan, "_ella sà naturalmente che Giove_ tuona, _ma questo_ stuona." This we see at once was _humour_ not _wit_; and sallies of humour are scarcely ever capable of translation. An odd thing to which I was this morning witness, has called my thoughts away to a curious train of reflections upon the animal race; and how far they may be made companionable and intelligent. The famous Ferdinand Bertoni, so well known in London by his long residence among us, and from the undisputed merit of his compositions, now inhabits this his native city, and being fond of _dumb creatures_, as we call them, took to petting a pigeon, one of the few animals which can live at Venice, where, as I observed, scarcely any quadrupeds can be admitted, or would exist with any degree of comfort to themselves. This creature has, however, by keeping his master company, I trust, obtained so perfect an ear and taste for music, that no one who sees his behaviour, can doubt for a moment of the pleasure he takes in hearing Mr. Bertoni play and sing: for as soon as he sits down to the instrument, Columbo begins shaking his wings, perches on the piano-forte, and expresses the most indubitable emotions of delight. If however he or any one else strike a note false, or make any kind of discord upon the keys, the dove never fails to shew evident tokens of anger and distress; and if teized too long, grows quite enraged; pecking the offender's legs and fingers in such a manner, as to leave nothing less doubtful than the sincerity of his resentment. Signora Cecilia Giuliani, a scholar of Bertoni's, who has received some overtures from the London theatre lately, will, if she ever arrives there, bear testimony to the truth of an assertion very difficult to believe, and to which I should hardly myself give credit, were I not witness to it every morning that I chuse to call and confirm my own belief. A friend present protested he should feel afraid to touch the harpsichord before so nice a critic; and though we all laughed at the assertion, Bertoni declared he never knew the bird's judgment fail; and that he often kept him out of the room, for fear of his affronting of tormenting those who came to take musical instructions. With regard to other actions of life, I saw nothing particular in the pigeon, but his tameness, and strong attachment to his master: for though never winged, and only clipped a very little, he never seeks to range away from the house or quit his master's service, any more than the dove of Anacreon: While his better lot bestows Sweet repast and soft repose; And when feast and frolic tire, Drops asleep upon his lyre. All the difficulty will be indeed for us _other_ two-legged creatures to leave the sweet societies of charming Venice; but they begin to grow fatiguing now, as the weather increases in warmth. I do think the Turkish sailor gave an admirable account of a carnival, when he told his Mahometan friends at his return, That those poor Christians were all disordered in their senses, and nearly in a state of actual madness, while he remained among them, till one day, on a sudden, they luckily found out a certain grey powder that cured such symptoms; and laying it on their heads one Wednesday morning, the wits of all the inhabitants were happily restored at _a stroke_: the people grew sober, quiet, and composed; and went about their business just like other folks. He meant the ashes strewed on the heads of all one meets in the streets through many a Catholic country; when all masquerading, money-making, &c. subside for forty days, and give, from the force of the contrast, a greater appearance of devotion and decorous behaviour in Venice, than almost any where else during Lent. I do not for my own part think well of all that violence, that strong light and shadow in matters of religion; which requires rather an even tenour of good works, proceeding from sound faith, than any of these staring testimonials of repentance, as if it were a work to be done _once a year only_. But neither do I think any Christian has a right to condemn another for his opinions or practice; when St. Paul expressly says, that "_One man esteemeth one day above another, another man esteemeth every day alike; let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind. But who art thou, that judgest another man's servant[Footnote: Romans, chap. xiv.]?_" The Venetians, to confess the truth, are not quite so strenuously bent on the unattainable felicity of finding every man in the same mind, as others of the Italians are; and one great reason why they are more gay and less malignant, have fewer strong prejudices than others of their countrymen, is merely because they are happier. Most of the second rank, and I believe _all_ of the first rank among them, have some share in governing the rest; it is therefore necessary to exclude ignorance, and natural to encourage social pleasures. Each individual feels his own importance, and scorns to contribute to the degradation of the whole, by indulging a gross depravity of manners, or at least of principles. Every person listed one degree from the lowest, finds it his interest as well as duty to love his country, and lend his little support to the general fabric of a state they all know how to respect; while the very vulgar willingly perform the condition exacted, and punctually pay obedience for protection. They have an unlimited confidence in their rulers, who live amongst them; and can desire only their utmost good. _How_ they are governed, comes seldom into their heads to enquire; "_Che ne pensa lù_[Footnote: Let _him_ look to that.]," says a low Venetian, if you ask him, and humourously points at a Clarissimo passing by while you talk. They have indeed all the reason to be certain, that where the power is divided among such numbers, one will be sure to counteract another if mischief towards the whole be intended. Of all aristocracies surely this is the most rationally and happily, as well as most respectably founded; for though one's heart revolts against the names of Baron and Vassal, while the petty tyrants live scattered far from each other, as in Poland, Russia, and many parts of Germany, like lions in the desert, or eagles in the rock, secure in their distance from equals or superiors; yet _here_ at Venice, where every nobleman is a baron, and all together inhabit one city, no subject can suffer from the tyranny of the rest, though all may benefit from the general protection: as each is separately in awe of his neighbour, and desires to secure his client's tenderness by indulgence, instead of wishing to disgust him by oppression: unlike the state so powerfully delineated by our incomparable poet in his Paulina, Where dwelt in haughty wretchedness a lord, Whose rage was justice, and whose law his word: Who saw unmov'd the vassal perish near, The widow's anguish, and the orphan's tear; Insensible to pity--stern he stood, Like some rude rock amid the Caspian flood, Where shipwreck'd sailors unassisted lie, And as they curse its barren bosom, die. And it is, I trust, for no deeper reason that the subjects of this republic resident in the capital, are less savage and more happy than those who live upon the Terra Firma; where many outrages are still committed, disgraceful to the state, from the mere facility offenders find, either in escaping to the dominion of other princes, or of finding shelter at home from the madly-bestowed protection these old barons on the Continent cease not yet to give, to ruffians who profess their service, and acknowledge dependence upon _them_. In the _town_, however, little is known of these enormities, and less is talked on; and what information has come to my ears of the murders done at Brescia and Bergamo, was given me at _Milan_; where Blainville's accounts of that country, though written so long ago, did not fail to receive confirmation from the lips of those who knew perfectly well what they were talking about. And I am told that _Labbia_, Giovanni Labbia, the new Podestà sent to Brescia, has worked wonderful reformation among the inhabitants of that territory; where I am ashamed to relate the computation of subjects lost to the state, by being killed in cold blood during the years 1780 and 1781. The following sonnet, addressed to the new Magistrate, by the elegant and learned Abbé Bettolini, will entertain such of my readers as understand Italian: No, Brenne, il popol tuo non è spietato, Colpa non è di clima, o fuol nemico: Ma gli inulti delitti, e'l vezzo antico D'impune andar coi ferro e fuoco a lato, Ira noi finor nudriro un branco irato D'Orsi e di lupi, il malaccorto amico Ti svenava un fellon sgherro mendico, E per cauto timor n'era onorato. Al primiero spuntar d'un fausto lume Tutto cangiò: curvansi in falci i teh, Mille Pluto perdè vittime usate. Viva l'Eroe, il comun padre, il nume Gridan le gentè a si bei dì ferbate. E sia ché ardisca dir che siam crudelé. _Imitation_. No, Brennus, no longer thy sons shall retain Of their founder ferocious, th'original stain; It cannot be natural cruelty sure, The reproaches for which from all men we endure; Nor climate nor soil shall henceforth bear the blame, 'Tis custom alone, and that custom our shame: While arm'd at all points men were suffer'd to rove, And brandish the steel in defence of their love; What wonder that conduct or caution should fail, And horrid Lycanthropy's terrors prevail? Now justice resumes her insignia, we find New light breaking in on each nebulous mind; While commission'd from Heaven, a parent, a friend Sees our swords at his nod into reaping-hooks bend, And souls snatch'd from death round the hero attend. From these verses, written by a native of Brescia, one may see how matters stood there very, _very_ little while ago: but here at Venice the people are of a particularly sweet and gentle disposition, good-humoured with each other, and kind to strangers; little disposed to public affrays (which would indeed be punished and put a sudden end to in an instant), nor yet to any secret or hidden treachery. They watch the hour of a Regatta with impatience, to make some merit with the woman of their choice, and boast of their families who have won in the manly contest forty or fifty years ago, perhaps when honoured with the badge and livery of some noble house; for here almost every thing is hereditary, as in England almost every thing is elective; nor had I an idea how much state affairs influence the private life of individuals in a country, till I left trusting to books, and looked a little about me. The low Venetian, however, knows that he works for the commonwealth, and is happy; for things go round, says he, _Il Turco magna St. Marco; St. Marco magna mi, mi magna ti, e ti tu magna un'altro_[S]. [Footnote S: The Turk feeds on St. Mark, St. Mark devours me; I eat thee, neighbour, and thou subsistest on somebody else.] Apropos to this custom of calling Venice (when they speak of it) San Marco; I heard so comical a story yesterday that I cannot refuse the pleasure of inserting it; and if my readers do not find it as pleasant as I did, they may certainly leave it out, without the smallest prejudice either to the book, the author, or themselves. The procurator Tron was at Padua, it seems, and had a fancy to drive forward to Vicenza that afternoon, but being particularly fond of a favourite pair of horses which drew his chariot that day, would by no means venture if it happened to rain; and took the trouble to enquire of Abate Toaldo, "Whether he thought such a thing likely to happen, from the appearance of the sky?" The professor, not knowing why the question was asked, said, "he rather thought it would _not_ rain for four hours at most." In consequence of this information our senator ordered his equipage directly, got into it, and bid the driver make haste to Vicenza: but before he was half-way on his journey, such torrents came down from a black cloud that burst directly over their heads, that his horses were drenched in wet, and their mortified master turned immediately back to Padua, that they might suffer no further inconvenience. To pass away the evening, which he did not mean to have spent there, and to quiet his agitated spirits by thinking on something else, he walked under the Portico to a neighbouring coffee-house, where fate the Abate Toaldo in company of a few friends; wholly unconscious that he had been the cause of vexing the Procuratore; who, after a short pause, cried out, in a true Venetian spirit of anger and humour oddly blended together, "_Mi dica Signor Professore Toaldo, chi è il più gran minchion di tutti i fanti in Paradiso?_" Pray tell me Doctor (we should say), who is the greatest blockhead among all the saints of Heaven? The Abbé looked astonished, but hearing the question repeated in a more peevish accent still, replied gravely, "_Eccelenza non fon fatto io per rispondere a tale dimande_"--My lord, I have no answer ready for such extraordinary questions. Why then, replies the Procuratore Tron, I will answer this question myself.--_St. Marco ved'ella--"e'l vero minchion: mentre mantiene tanti professori per studiare (che so to mi) delle stelle; roba astronomica che non vale un fico; è loro non sanno dirli nemmeno s'hà da piovere o nò._"--"Why it is St. Mark, do you see, that is the true blockhead and dupe, in keeping so many professors to study the stars and stuff; when with all their astronomy they cannot tell him whether it will rain or no." Well, _pax tibi, Marce!_ I see that I have said more about Venice, where I have lived five weeks, than about Milan, where I stayed five months; but Si placeat varios hominum cognoscere vultus, Area longa patet, sancto contermina Marco, Celsus ubi Adriacas, Venetus Leo despicit undas, Hic circum gentes cunctis e partibus orbis, Æthiopes, Turcos, Slavos, Arabésque, Syrósque, Inveniésque Cypri, Cretæ, Macedumque colonos, Innumerósque alios varia regione profectos: Sæpe etiam nec visa prius, nec cognita cernes, Quæ si cuncta velim tenui describere versu, Heic omnes citiùs nautas celeresque Phaselos, Et simul Adriaci pisces numerabo profundi. _Imitated loosely_. If change of faces please your roving sight, Or various characters your mind delight, To gay St. Mark's with eagerness repair; For curiosity may pasture there. Venetia's lion bending o'er the waves, There sees reflected--tyrants, freemen, slaves. The swarthy Moor, the soft Circassian dame, The British sailor not unknown to fame; Innumerous nations crowd the lofty door, Innumerous footsteps print the sandy shore; While verse might easier name the scaly tribe, } That in her seas their nourishment imbibe, } Than Venice and her various charms describe. } It is really pity ever to quit the sweet seducements of a place so pleasing; which attracts the inclination and flatters the vanity of one, who, like myself, has received the most polite attentions, and been diverted with every amusement that could be devised. Kind, friendly, lovely Venetians! who appear to feel real fondness for the inhabitants of Great Britain, while Cavalier Pindemonte writes such verses in its praise. Yet _must_ the journey go forward, no staying to pick every flower upon the road. On Saturday next then am I to forsake--but I hope not for ever--this gay, this gallant city, so often described, so certainly admired; seen with rapture, quitted with regret: seat of enchantment! head-quarters of pleasure, farewell! Leave us as we ought to be, Leave the Britons rough and free. It was on the twenty-first of May then that we returned up the Brenta in a barge to _Padua_, stopping from time to time to give refreshment to our conductors and their horse, which draws on the side, as one sees them at Richmond; where the banks are scarcely more beautifully adorned by art, than here by nature; though the Brenta is a much narrower river than the Thames at Richmond, and its villas, so justly celebrated, far less frequent. The sublimity of their architecture however, the magnificence of their orangeries, the happy construction of the cool arcades, and general air of festivity which breathes upon the banks of this truly _wizard stream_, planted with _dancing_, not _weeping_ willows, to which on a bright evening the lads and lasses run for shelter from the sun beams, Et fugit ad salices, et se cupit ante videri[T]; [Footnote T: While tripping to the wood my wanton hies, She wishes to be seen before she flies. ] are I suppose peculiar to itself, and best described by Monsieur de Voltaire, whose Pococurante the Venetian senator in Candide that possesses all delights in his villa upon the banks of the Brenta, is a very lively portrait, and would be natural too; but that Voltaire, as a Frenchman, could not forbear making his character speak in a very unItalian manner, boasting of his felicity in a style they never use, for they are really no puffers, no vaunters of that which they possess; make no disgraceful comparisons between their own rarities and the want of them in other countries, nor offend you as the French do, with false pity and hateful consolations. If any thing in England seem to excite their wonder and ill-placed compassion, it is our coal fires, which they persist in thinking strangely unwholesome--and a melancholy proof that we are grievously devoid of wood, before we can prevail upon ourselves to dig the bowels of old earth for fewel, at the hazard of our precious health, if not of its certain loss; nor could I convince the wisest man I tried at, that wood burned to chark is a real poison, while it would be difficult by any process of chemistry to force much evil out of coal. They are steadily of opinion, that consumptions are occasioned by these fires, and that all the subjects of Great Britain are consumptively disposed, merely because those who are so, go into Italy for change of air: though I never heard that the wood smoke helped their breath, or a brazierfull of ashes under the table their appetite. Mean time, whoever seeks to convince instead of persuade an Italian, will find he has been employed in a Sisyphean labour; the stone may roll to the top, but is sure to return, and rest at his feet who had courage to try the experiment. Logic is a science they love not, and I think steadily refuse to cultivate; nor is argument a style of conversation they naturally affect--as Lady Macbeth says, "_Question enrageth him_;" and the dialogues of Socrates would to them be as disgusting as the violence of Xantippe. Well, here we are at Padua again! where I will run, and see once more the places I was before so pleased with. The beautiful church of Santa Giustina, the ancient church adorned by Cimabue, Giotto, &c. where you fancy yourself on a sudden transported to Dante's Paradiso, and with for Barry the painter, to point your admiration of its sublime and extraordinary merits; but not the shrine of St. Anthony, or the tomb of Antenor, one rich with gold, the other venerable with rust, can keep my attention fixed on _them_, while an Italian _May_ offers to every sense, the sweets of nature in elegant perfection. One view of a smiling landschape, lively in verdure, enamelled with flowers, and exhilarating with the sound of music under every tree, Where many a youth and many a maid Dances in the chequer'd shade; And young and old come forth to play, On a sun-shine holiday; drives Palladio and Sansovino from one's head; and leaves nothing very strongly impressed upon one's heart but the recollection of kindness received and esteem reciprocated. Those pleasures have indeed pursued me hither; the amiable Countess Ferris has not forgotten us; her attentions are numerous, tender, and polite. I went to the play with her, where I was unlucky enough to miss the representation of Romeo and Juliet, which was acted the night before with great applause, under the name of _Tragedia Veronese_. Monsieur de Voltaire was then premature in his declarations, that Shakespear was unknown, or known only to be censured, except in his native country. Count Kinigl at Milan took occasion to tell me that they acted Hamlet and Lear when he was last at Vienna; and I know not how it is, but to an English traveller each place presents ideas originally suggested by Shakespear, of whom nature and truth are the perpetual mirrors: other authors remind one of things which one has seen in life--but the scenes of life itself remind one of Shakespear. When I first looked on the Rialto, with what immediate images did it supply me? Oh, the old long-cherished images of the pensive merchant, the generous friend, the gay companion, and their final triumph over the practices of a cruel Jew. Anthonio, Gratiano, met me at every turn; and when I confessed some of these feelings before the professor of natural history here, who had spent some time in London; he observed, that no native of our island could sit three hours, and not speak of Shakespear: he added many kind expressions of partial liking to our nation, and our poets: and l'Abate Cesarotti good-humouredly confessed his little skill in the English language when he translated their so much-admired Ossian; but he had studied it pretty hard since, he said, and his version of Gray's Elegy is charming. Gray and Young are the favourite writers among us, as far as I have yet heard them talked over upon the continent; the first has secured them by his residence at Florence, and his Latin verses I believe; the second, by his piety and brilliant thoughts. Even Romanists are disposed to think dear Dr. Young very _near_ to Christianity--an idea which must either make one laugh or cry, while Sweet peace, and heavenly hope, and humble joy, Divinely beam on _his_ exalted soul. But I must tell what I have been seeing at the theatre, and should tell it much better had not the charms of Countess Ferris's conversation engaged my mind, which would otherwise perhaps have been more seized on than it _was_, by the sight of an old pantomime, or wretched farce (for there was speaking in it, I remember), exploded long since from our very lowest places of diversion, and now exhibited here at Padua before a very polite and a very literary audience; and in a better theatre by far than our newly-adorned opera-house in the Hay-market. Its subject was no other than the birth of Harlequin; but the place and circumstances combined to make me look on it in a light which shewed it to uncommon advantage. The storm, for example, the thunder, darkness, &c. which is so solemnly made to precede an incantation, apparently not meant to be ridiculous, after which, a huge egg is somehow miraculously produced upon the stage, put me in mind of the very old mythologists, who thus desired to represent the chaotic state of things, when Night, Ocean, and Tartarus disputed in perpetual confusion; till _Love_ and _Music_ separated the elements, and as Dryden says, Then hot and cold, and moist and dry, In order to their stations leap, And music's power obey. For _Cupid_, advancing to a slow tune, steadies with his wand the rolling mass upon the stage, that then begins to teem with its _motley inhabitant_, and just representative of the _created world_, active, wicked, gay, amusing, which gains your heart, but never your esteem: tricking, shifting, and worthless as it is--but after all its _frisks_, all its _escapes_, is condemned at last to burn in _fire, and pass entirely away_. Such was, I trust, the idea of the person, whoever he was, that had the honour first to compose this curious exhibition, and model this mythological device into a pantomime! for the _mundane_, or as Proclus calls it, the _orphick_ egg, is possibly the earliest of all methods taken to explain the rise, progress, and final conclusion of our earth and atmosphere; and was the original _theory_ brought from Egypt into Greece by Orpheus. Nor has that prodigious genius, Dr. Thomas Burnet, scorned to adopt it seriously in his _Telluris Theoria sacra_, written less than a century ago, adapting it with wonderful ingenuity to the Christian system and Mosaical account of things; to which it certainly does accommodate itself the better, as the form of an egg well resembles that of our habitable globe; and the internal divisions, our four elements, leaving the central fire for the yolk. I therefore regarded our pantomime here at Padua with a degree of reverence I should have found difficult to excite in myself at Sadler's Wells; where ideas of antiquity would have been little likely to cross my fancy. Sure I am, however, that the original inventor of this old pantomime had his head very full at the time of some very ancient learning. Now then I must leave this lovely state of Venice, where if the paupers in every town of it did not crowd about one, tormenting passengers with unextinguishable clamour, and surrounding them with sights of horror unfit to be surveyed by any eyes except those of the surgeon, who should alleviate their anguish, or at least conceal their truly unspeakable distresses--one should break one's heart almost at the thoughts of quitting people who show such tenderness towards their friends, that less than ocular conviction would scarce persuade me to believe such wandering misery could remain disregarded among the most amiable and pleasing people in the world. His excellency Bragadin half promised me that some steps should be taken at Venice at least, to remove a nuisance so disgraceful; and said, that when I came again, I should walk about the town in white sattin slippers, and never see a beggar from one end of it to the other. On the twenty-sixth of May then, with the senator Quirini's letters to Corilla, with the Countess of Starenberg's letters to some Tuscan friends of her's; and with the light of a full moon, if we should want it, we set out again in quest of new adventures, and mean to sleep this night under the pope's protection:--may God but grant us his! FERRERA. We have crossed the Po, which I expected to have found more magnificent, considering the respectable state I left it in at Cremona; but scarcely any thing answers that expectation which fancy has long been fermenting in one's mind. I took a young woman once with me to the coast of Sussex, who, at twenty-seven years old and a native of England, had never seen the sea; nor any thing else indeed ten miles out of London:--And well, child! said I, are not you much surprised?--"It is a fine sight, to be sure," replied she coldly, "but,"--but what? you are not disappointed are you?--"No, not disappointed, but it is not quite what I expected when I saw the ocean." Tell me then, pray good girl, and tell me quickly, what did you expect to see? "_Why I expected_," with a hesitating accent, "_I expected to see a great deal of water_." This answer set me _then_ into a fit of laughter, but I have _now_ found out that I am not a whit wiser than Peggy: for what did I figure to myself that I should find the Po? only a great deal of water to be sure; and a very great deal of water it certainly is, and much more, God knows, than I ever saw before, except between the shores of Calais and Dover; yet I did feel something like disappointment too; when my imagination wandering over all that the poets had said about it, and finding earth too little to contain their fables, recollected that they had thought Eridanus worthy of a place among the constellations, I wished to see such a river as was worthy all these praises, and even then, says I, O'er golden sands let rich Pactolus flow. And trees weep amber on the banks of Po. But are we sure after all it was upon the _banks_ these trees, not now existing, were ever to be found? they grew in the Electrides if I remember right, and even there Lucian laughingly said, that he spread his garments in vain to catch the valuable distillation which poetry had taught him to expect; and Strabo (worse news still!) said that there were no Electrides neither; so as we knew before--fiction is false: and had I not discovered it by any other means, I might have recollected a comical contest enough between a literary lady once, and Doctor Johnson, to which I was myself a witness;--when she, maintaining the happiness and purity of a country life and rural manners, with her best eloquence, and she had a great deal; added as corroborative and almost incontestable authority, that the _Poets_ said so: "and didst thou not know then," replied he, my darling dear, that the _Poets lye_? When they tell us, however, that great rivers have horns, which twisted off become cornua copiæ, dispensing pleasure and plenty, they entertain us it must be confessed; and never was allegory more nearly allied with truth, than in the lines of Virgil; Gemina auratus taurino cornua vultu, Eridanus, quo non alius per pinguia culta, In mare purpureuin violentior influit amnis[U]; [Footnote U: Whence bull-fac'd, so adorn'd with gilded horns, Than whom no river through such level meads, Down to the sea in swifter torrents speeds. ] so accurately translated by Doctor Warton, who would not reject the epithet _bull-faced_, because he knew it was given in imitation of the Thessalian river Achelous, that fought for Dejanira; and Servius, who makes him father to the Syrens, says that many streams, in compliment to this original one, were represented with horns, because of their winding course. Whether Monsieur Varillas, or our immortal Addison, mention their being so perpetuated on medals now existing, I know not; but in this land of rarities we shall soon hear or see. Mean time let us leave looking for these weeping Heliades, and enquire what became of the Swan, that poor Phaeton's friend and cousin turned into, for very grief and fear at seeing him tumble in the water. For my part I believe that not only now he Eligit contraria flumina flammis, but that the whole country is grown disagreeably hot to him, and the sight of the sun's chariot so near frightens him still; for he certainly lives more to his taste, and sings sweeter I believe on the banks of the Thames, than in Italy, where we have never yet seen but _one_; and that was kept in a small marble bason of water at the Durazzo palace at Genoa, and seemed miserably out of condition. I enquired why they gave him no companion? and received for answer, "That it would be wholly useless, as they were creatures who never bred _out if their own country_." But any reply serves any common Italian, who is little disposed to investigate matters; and if you tease him with too much ratiocination, is apt to cry out, "_Cosa serve sosistieare cosi? ci farà andare tutti matti_[V]." They have indeed so many external amusements in the mere face of the country, that one is better inclined to pardon _them_, than one would be to forgive inhabitants of less happy climates, should they suffer _their_ intellectual powers to pine for want of exercise, not food: for here is enough to think upon, God knows, were they disposed so to employ their time; where one may justly affirm that, [Footnote V: What signifies all this minuteness of inquiry?--it will drive us mad.] On every thorn delightful wisdom grows, And in each rill, some sweet instruction flows; But some untaught o'erhear the murmuring rill, In spite of sacred leisure--blockheads still. The road from Padua hither is not a good one; but so adorned, one cares not much whether it is good or no: so sweetly are the mulberry-trees planted on each side, with vines richly festooning up and down them, as if for the decoration of a dance at the opera. One really expects the flower-girls with baskets, or garlands, and scarcely can persuade one's self that all is real. Never sure was any thing more rejoicing to the heart, than this lovely season in this lovely country. The city of Ferrara too is a fine one; Ferrara _la civile_, the Italians call it, but it seems rather to merit the epithet _solenne_; so stately are its buildings, so wide and uniform its streets. My pen was just upon the point of praising its cleanliness too, till I reflected there was nobody to dirty it. I looked half an hour before I could find one beggar, a bad account of poor Ferrara; but it brought to my mind how unreasonably my daughter and myself had laughed seven years ago, at reading in an extract from some of the foreign gazettes, how the famous Improvisatore Talassi, who was in England about the year 1770, and entertained with his justly-admired talents the literati at London; had published an account of his visit to Mr. Thrale, at a villa eight miles from Westminster-bridge, during that time, when he had the good fortune, he said, to meet many celebrated characters at his country-seat; and the mortification which nearly overbalanced it, to miss seeing the immortal Garrick then confined by illness. In all this, however, there was nothing ridiculous; but we fancied his description of Streatham village truly so; when we read that he called it _Luogo assai popolato ed ameno_[Footnote: A populous and delightful place.], an expression apparently pompous, and inadequate to the subject: but the jest disappeared when I got into _his_ town; a place which perhaps may be said to possess every other excellence but that of being _popolato ed ameno_; and I sincerely believe that no Ferrara-man could have missed making the same or a like observation; as in this finely-constructed city, the grass literally grows in the street; nor do I hear that the state of the air and water is such as is likely to tempt new inhabitants. How much then, and how reasonably must he have wondered, and how easily must he have been led to express his wonder, at seeing a village no bigger than that of Streatham, contain a number of people equal, as I doubt not but it does, to all the dwellers in Ferrara! Mr. Talassi is reckoned in his own country a man of great genius; in ours he was, as I recollect, received with much attention, as a person able and willing to give us demonstration that improviso verses might be made, and sung extemporaneously to some well-known tune, generally one which admits of and requires very long lines; that so alternate rhymes may not be improper, as they give more time to think forward, and gain a moment for composition. Of this power, many, till they saw it done, did not believe the existence; and many, after they had seen it done, persisted in _saying_, perhaps in _thinking_, that it could be done only in Italian. I cannot however believe that they possess any exclusive privileges or supernatural gifts; though it will be hard to find one who thinks better of them than I do: but Spaniards can sing sequedillas under their mistresses window well enough; and our Welch people can make the harper sit down in the church-yard after service is over, and placing themselves round him, command the instrument to go over some old song-tune: when having listened a while, one of the company forms a stanza of verses, which run to it in well-adapted measure; and as he ends, another begins: continuing the tale, or retorting the satire, according to the style in which the first began it. All this too in a language less perhaps than any other melodious to the ear, though Howell found out a resemblance between their prosody and that of the Italian writer in early days, when they held agnominations, or the inforcement of consonant words and syllables one upon the other, to be elegant in a more eminent degree than they do now. For example, in Welch, _Tewgris, todykris, ty'r derrin, gwillt_, &c. in Italian, _Donne, O danno che selo affronto affronta: in selva salvo a me_, with a thousand more. The whole secret of improvisation, however, seems to consist in this; that extempore verses are never written down, and one may easily conceive that much may go off well with a good voice in singing, which no one would read if they were once registered by the pen. I have already asserted that the Italians are not a laughing nation: were ridicule to step in among them, many innocent pleasures would soon be lost; and this among the first. For who would risque the making impromptu poems at Paris? _pour s'attirer persiflage_ in every _Coterie comme il faut_[Footnote: To draw upon one's self the ridicule of every polite assembly.]? Or in London, at the hazard of being _taken off, and held up for a laughing-stock at every print-seller's window_? A man must have good courage in England, before he ventures at diverting a little company by such devices: while one would yawn, and one would whisper, a third would walk gravely out of the room, and say to his friend upon the stairs, "Why sure we had better read our old poets at home, than be called together, like fools, to hear what comes uppermost in such-a-one's head, about his _Daphne_! In good time! Why I have been tired of _Daphne_ since I was fourteen years old." But the best jest of all would be, to see an ordinary fellow, a strolling player for example, set seriously to make or repeat verses in our streets or squares concerning his sweetheart's _cruelty_; when he would be in more danger from that of the mob and the magistrates; who, if the first did not throw dirt at him, and drive him home quickly, would come themselves, and examine into his sanity, and if they found him not _statutably mad_, commit him for a vagrant. Different amusements, like different sorts of food, suit different countries; and this is among the efforts of those who have learned to refine their _pleasures_ without so refining their _ideas_ as to be able no longer to hit on any pleasure subtle enough to escape their own power of ridiculing it. This city of Ferrara has produced some curious and opposite characters in times past, however empty it may now be thought: one painter too, and one singer, both super-eminent in their professions, have dropped their own names, and are best known to fame by that of _Il_ and _La Ferrarese_. Nor can I leave it without some reflections on the extraordinary life of Renée de France, daughter of Louis XII surnamed the Just, and Anne de Bretagne, his first wife. This lady having married the famous Hercules D'Este, one of the handsomest men in Europe, lived with him here in much apparent felicity as Duchess of Ferrara; but took such an aversion to the church and court of Rome, from the superstitions she saw practised in Italy, that though she resolved to dissemble her opinions during the life of her husband, whom she wished not to disgust, at the instant of his death she quitted all her dignities; and retiring to France, was protected by her father in the open profession of Calvinism, living a life of privacy and purity among the Huguenots in the southern provinces. This _Louis le Juste_ was he who gave the French what little pretensions they have ever obtained on which to fix the foundations of future liberty: he first established a parliament at Rouen, another at Aix; but while thus gentle to his subjects, he was a scourge to Italy, made his public entry into Genoa as Sovereign, and tore the Milanese from the Sforza family, somewhat before the year 1550. The well-known Franciscus Ferrariensis, whose name was Silvester, is a character very opposite to that of fair Renée: he wrote the best apology for the Romanists against Luther, and gained applause from both sides for his controversial powers; while the strictness of his life gave weight to his doctrine, and ornamented the sect which he delighted to defend. By a native of Ferrara too were first collected the books that were earliest placed in the Ambrosian library at Milan, Barnardine Ferrarius, whose deep erudition and simple manners gained him the favour of Frederick Borromeo, who sent him to Spain to pick up literary rarities, which he bestowed with pleasure on the place where he had received his education. His treatise on the rites of sepulture used by the ancients is in good estimation; and Sir Thomas Brown, in his _Urn Burial_, owes him much obligation. The custom of wearing swords here seems to proceed from some connection they have had with the Spaniards; and Dr. Moore has given us an admirable account of why the Highland broad-sword is still called an _Andrew Ferrara_. The Venetians, not often or easily intimidated by Papal power, having taken this city in the year 1303, were obliged to restore it, for fear of the consequences of Pope Boniface the Eighth's excommunications; his displeasure having before then produced dreadful effects in the conspiracy of Bajamonti Tiepulo; which was suppressed, and he killed, by a woman, out of a flaming zeal for the honour and tranquillity of her country: and so disinterested too was her spirit of patriotism, that the only reward she required for a service so essential, was that a constant memorial of it might be preserved in the dress of the Doge; who from that moment obliged himself to wear a woman's cap under the state diadem, and so his successors still continue to do. But Ferrara has other distinctions.--Bonarelli here, at the academy of gl'Intrepidi, read his able defence of that pastoral comedy so much applauded and censured, called _Filli di Sciro_; and here the great Ariosto lived and died. Nothing leads however to a less gloomy train of thought, than the tomb of a celebrated man; where virtue, wit, or valour triumph over death, and wait the consummation of all sublunary things, before the remembrance of such superiority shall be lost. Italy must be shaken from her deepest foundation, and England made a scene of general ruin, when Shakespear and Ariosto shall be forgotten, and their names confounded among deedless nobility, and worthless wasters of treasure, long ago passed from hand to hand, perhaps from the dwellers in one continent to the inhabitants of another. It has been equally the fate of these two heroes of modern literature, that they have pleased their countrymen more than foreigners; but is that any diminution of their merit? or should it serve as a reason for making disgraceful comparisons between Ariosto and Virgil, whom he scorned to imitate? A dead language is like common ground;--all have a right to pasture, and all a claim to give or to withhold admiration. Virgil is the old original trough at the corner of the road, where every passer-by pays, drinks, and goes on his journey well refreshed. But the clear spring in the meadow sure, though private property, and lately dug, deserves attention: and confers delight not only on the actual master of the ground, but on all his visitants who can climb the style, and lift the silver cup to their lips which hangs by the fountain-side. I am glad, however, to be gone from a place where they are thinking less of all these worthies just at present, than of a circumstance which cannot redound to their honour, as it might have happened to any other town, and could do great good to none: no less than the happy arrival of Joseph, and Leopold, and Maximilian of Austria, on the thirtieth of May 1775; and this wonderful event have they recorded in a pompous inscription upon a stone set at the inn door. But princes can make poets, and scatter felicity with little exertion on their own parts. At Tuillemont, an English gentleman once told me he had the misfortune to sleep one night where all the people's heads were full of the Emperor, who had dined there the day before; and some _wise_ fellow of the place wrote these lines under his picture: Ingreditur magnus magno de Cæsare Cæsar, Thenas, sub signo Cervi, sua prandia sumit. He immediately set down this distich under them: Our poor little town has no little to brag, The Emperor was here, and he dined at the Stag. The people of the inn concluding that this must be a high-strained compliment, it produced him many thanks from all, and a better breakfast than he would otherwise have obtained at Tuillemont. To-morrow we go forward to Bologna. BOLOGNA SEEMS at first sight a very sorrowful town, and has a general air of melancholy that surprises one, as it is very handsomely and regularly built; and set in a country so particularly beautiful, that it is not easy to express the nature of its beauty, and to express it so that those who inhabit other countries can understand me. The territory belonging to Bologna la Grassa concenters all its charms in a happy _embonpoint_, which leaves no wrinkle unfilled up, no bone to be discerned; like the fat figure of Gunhilda at Fonthill, painted by Chevalier Cafali, with a face full of woe, but with a sleekness of skin that denotes nothing less than affliction. From the top of the only eminence, one looks down here upon a country which to me has a new and singular appearance; the whole horizon appearing one thick carpet of the softest and most vivid green, from the vicinity of the broad-leaved mulberry trees, I trust, drawn still closer and closer together by their amicable and pacific companions the vines, which keep cluttering round, and connect them so intimately that no object can be separately or distinctly viewed, any more than the habitations formed by animals who live in moss, when a large portion of it is presented to the philosopher for speculation. One would not therefore, on a flight and cursory inspection, suspect this of being a painter's country, where no prominence of features arrests the sight, no expression of latent meaning employs the mind, and no abruptness of transition tempts fancy to follow, or imagination to supply, the sudden loss of what it contemplated before. Here however the great Caraccis kept their school; here then was every idea of dignity and majestic beauty to be met with; and if _I_ meet with nothing in nature near this place to excite such ideas, it is _my_ fault, not Bologna's. If vain the toil, We ought to blame the culture,--not the soil. Wonderful indeed! yet not at all distracting is the variety of excellence that one contemplates here; such matters! and such scholars! The sweetly playful pencil of Albano, I would compare to Waller among our English poets; Domenichino to Otway, and Guido Rheni to Rowe; if such liberties might be permitted on the old notion of _ut pictura poesis_. But there is an idea about the world, that one ought in delicacy to declare one's utter incapacity of understanding pictures, unless immediately of the profession.--And why so? No man protests, that he cannot read poetry, he can make no pleasure out of Milton or Shakespear, or shudder at the ingratitude of Lear's daughters on the stage. Why then should people pretend insensibility, when divine Guercino exerts his unrivalled powers of the pathetic in the fine picture at Zampieri palace, of Hagar's dismission into the desert with her son? While none else could have touched with such truth of expression the countenances of each; leaving him most to be pitied, perhaps, who issues the command against his will; accompanying it however with innumerable benedictions, and alleviating its severity with the softest tenderness. He only among our poets could have planned such a picture, who penned the Eloisa, and knew the agonies of a soul struggling against unpermitted passions, and conquering from the noblest motives of faith and of obedience. Glorious exertion of excellence! This is the first time my heart has been made really alive to the powers of this magical art. Candid Italians! let me again exclaim; they shewed us a Vandyke in the same palace, surrounded by the works of their own incomparable countrymen; and _there_ say they, "_Quasi quasi si può circondarla_[Footnote: You may almost run round her.]." You may almost run round it, was the expression. The picture was a very fine one; a single figure of the Madona, highly painted, and happily placed among those who knew, because they possessed his perfections who drew it. Were Homer alive, and acquainted with our language, he would admire that Shakespear whom Voltaire condemns. Twice in this town has Guido shewed those powers which critics have denied him: the power of grouping his figures with propriety, and distributing his light and shadow to advantage: as he has shewn it _but twice_, however, it is certain the connoisseurs are not very wrong, and even in those very performances one may read their justification: for Job, though surrounded by a crowd of people, has a strangely insulated look, and the sweet sufferer on the fore-ground of his Herodian cruelty seems wholly uninterested in the general distress, and occupies herself and every spectator completely and solely with her own particular grief. The boasted Raphael here does not in my eyes triumph over the wonders of this Caracci school. At Rome, I am told, his superiority is more visible. _Nous verrons_[Footnote: We shall see.]. The reserved picture of St. Peter and St. Paul, kept in the last chamber of the Zampieri palace, and covered with a silk curtain, is valued beyond any specimen of the painting art which can be moved from Italy to England. We are taught to hope it will soon come among us; and many say the sale cannot be now long delayed. Why Guido should never draw another picture like that, or at all in the same style, who can tell? it certainly does unite every perfection, and every possible excellence, except choice of subject, which cannot be happy I think, when the subject itself is left disputable. I will mention only one other picture: it is in an obscure church, not an unfrequented one by these pious Bolognese, who are the most devout people I ever lived amongst, but I think not much visited by travellers. It is painted by Albano, and represents the Redeemer of mankind as a boy scarce thirteen years old: ingenuous modesty, and meek resignation, beaming from each intelligent feature of a face divinely beautiful, and throwing out luminous rays round his sacred head, while the blessed Virgin and St. Joseph, placed on each side him, adore his goodness with transport not unmixed with wonder: the instruments of his future passion cast at his feet, directing us to consider him as in that awful moment voluntarily devoting himself for the sins of the whole world. This picture, from the sublimity of the subject, the lively colouring, and clear expression, has few equals; the pyramidal group drops in as of itself, unsought for, from the raised ground on which our Saviour stands; and among numberless wild conceits and extravagant fancies of painters, not only permitted but encouraged in this country, to deviate into what _we_ justly think profane representations of the deity:--this is the most pleasing and inoffensive device I have seen. The august Creator too is likewise more wisely concealed by Albano than by other artists, who daringly presume to exhibit that of which no mortal man can give or receive a just idea. But we will have done for a while with connoisseurship. This fat Bologna has a tristful look, from the numberless priests, friars, and women all dressed in black, who fill the streets, and stop on a sudden to pray, when I see nothing done to call forth immediate addresses to Heaven. Extremes do certainly meet however, and my Lord Peter in this place is so like his fanatical brother Jack, that I know not what is come to him. To-morrow is the day of _corpus domini_; why it should be preceded by such dismal ceremonies I know not; there is nothing melancholy in the idea, but we shall be sure of a magnificent procession. So it was too, and wonderfully well attended: noblemen and ladies, with tapers in their hands, and their trains borne by well-dressed pages, had a fine effect. All still in black. Black, but such as in esteem Prince Memnon's sister might beseem; With sable stole of cypress lawn, O'er their decent shoulders drawn. I never saw a spectacle so stately, so solemn a show in my life before, and was much less tired of the long continued march, than were my Roman Catholic companions. Our inn is not a good one; the Pellegrino is engaged for the King of Naples and his train: the place we are housed in, is full of bugs, and every odious vermin: no wonder, surely, where such oven-like porticoes catch and retain the heat as if constructed on set purpose so to do. The Montagnola at night was something of relief, but contrary to every other resort of company: the less it is frequented the gayer it appears; for Nature there has been lavish of her bounties, which seem disregarded by the Bolognese, who unluckily find out that there is a burying-ground within view, though at no small distance really; and planting themselves over against that, they stand or kneel for many minutes together in whole rows, praying, as I understand, for the souls which once animated the bodies of the people whom they believe to lie interred there; all this too even at the hours dedicated to amusement. Cardinal Buon Compagni, the legate, sent from Rome here, is gone home; and the vice-legate officiated in his place, much to the consolation of the inhabitants, who observed with little delight or gratitude his endeavours to improve their trade, or his care to maintain their privileges; while his natural disinclination to hypocritical manners, or what we so emphatically call _cant_, gave them an aversion to his person and dislike of his government, which he might have prevented by formality of look, and very trifling compliances. But every thing helps to prove, that if you would please people, it must be done _their_ way, not your own. Here are some charming manufactures in this town, and I fear it requires much self-denial in an Englishwoman not to long at least for the fine crapes, tiffanies, &c. which might here be bought I know not how cheap, and would make one _so_ happy in London or at Bath. But these Customhouse officers! these _rats de cave_, as the French comically call them, will not let a ribbon pass. Such is the restless jealousy of little states, and such their unremitted attention to keep the goods made in one place out of the gates of another. Few things upon a journey contribute to torment and disgust one more than the teasing enquiries at the door of every city, who one is, what one's name is? what one's rank in life or employment is; that so all may be written down and carried to the chief magistrate for his information, who immediately dispatches a proper person to examine whether you gave in a true report; where you lodge, why you came, how long you mean to stay; with twenty more inquisitive speeches, which to a subject of more liberal governments must necessarily appear impertinent as frivolous, and make all my hopes of bringing home the most trifling presents for a friend abortive. So there is an end of that felicity, and we must sit like the girl at the fair, described by Gay, Where the coy nymph knives, combs, and scissars spies, And looks on thimbles with desiring eyes. The Specola, so they call their museum here, of natural and artificial rarities, is very fine indeed; the inscription too denoting its universality, is sublimely generous: I thought of our Bath hospital in England; more usefully, if not more magnificently so; but durst not tell the professor, who shewed the place. At our going in he was apparently much out of humour, and unwilling to talk, but grew gradually kinder, and more communicative; and I had at last a thousand thanks to pay for an attention that rendered the sight of all more valuable. Nothing can surpass the neatness and precision with which this elegant repository is kept, and the curiosities contained in it have specimens very uncommon. The native gold shewed here is supposed to be the largest and most perfect lump in Europe; wonderfully beautiful it certainly is, and the coral here is such as can be seen nowhere else; they shewed me some which looked like an actual tree. It might reasonably lower the spirits of philosophy, and tend to restraining the genius of remote enquiry, did we reflect that the very first substance given into our hand as an amusement, or subject of speculation, as soon as we arrive in this great world of wonders, never gets fully understood by those who study hardest, or live longest in it. Coral is a substance, concerning which the natural historians have had many disputes, and settled nothing yet; knowing, as it should seem, but little more of its original, than they did when they sucked it first. Of gold we have found perhaps but too many uses; but when the professor told us here at Bologna, that silver in the mine was commonly found mixed with _arsenick_, a corroding poison, or _lead_, a narcotic one; who could help being led forward to a train of thought on the nature and use and abuse of money and minerals in general. _Suivez_ (as Rousseau says), _la chaine de tout cela_[Footnote: Follow this clue, and see where it will lead you to.]. The astronomical apparatus at this place is a splendid one; but the models of architecture, fortifications, &c. are only more numerous; not so exact or elegant I think as those the King of England has for his own private use at the Queen's house in St. James's Park. The specimens of a human figure in wax are the work of a woman, whose picture is accordingly set up in the school: they are reckoned incomparable of their kind, and bring to one's fancy Milton's fine description of our first parents: Two of far nobler kind--erect and tall. This University has been particularly civil to women; many very learned ladies of France and Germany have been and are still members of it;--and la Dottoressa Laura Bassi gave lectures not many years ago in this very spot, upon the mathematics and natural philosophy, till she grew very old and infirm; but her pupils always handed her very respectfully to and from the Doctor's chair, _Che brava donnetta ch'era!_[Footnote: Ah, what a fine woman was that!] says the gentleman who shewed me the academy, as we came out at the door; over which a marble tablet, with an inscription more pious than pompous, is placed to her memory; but turning away his eyes--while they filled with tears--_tutli muosono_[Footnote: All must die.], added he, and I followed; as nothing either of energy or pathos could be added to a reflection so just, so tender, and so true: we parted sadly therefore with our agreeable companion and instructor just where her cenotaph (for the body lies buried in a neighbouring church) was erected; and shall probably meet no more; for as he said and sighed--_tutti muosono_[Footnote: All must die.]. The great Cassini too, who though of an Italian family, was born at Nice I think, and died at Paris, drew his meridian line through the church of St. Petronius in this city, across the pavement, where it still remains a monument to his memory, who discovered the third and fifth satellites of Jupiter. Such was in his time the reputation of a mineral spring near Bologna, that Pope Alexander the Seventh set him to analyse the waters of it; and so satisfactory were his proofs of its very slight importance to health, that the same pope called him to Rome to examine the waters round that capital; but dying soon after his arrival, he had no time to recompence Cassini's labours, though a very elegantly-minded man, and a great encourager of learning in all its branches. The successor to this sovereign, Rospigliosi, had different employment found for _him_, in helping the Venetians to regain Candia from the Turks, his disappointment in not being able to accomplish which design broke his heart; and Cassini, returning to Bologna, found it less pleasing than it was before he left it, so went to Paris, and died there at ninety or ninety-one years old, as I remember, early in this present century, but not till after he had enjoyed the pleasure of hearing that Count Marsigli had founded an academy at the place where he had studied whilst his faculties were strong. Another church, situated on the only hill one can observe for miles, is dedicated to the Madonna St. Luc, as it is called; and a very beautiful and curiously covered way is made to it up the hill, for three miles in length, and at a prodigious expence, to guard the figure from the rain as it is carried in procession. The ascent is so gentle that one hardly feels it. Pillars support the roof, which defends you from a sun-stroke, while the air and prospect are let in between them on the right hand as you go. The left side is closed up by a wall, adorned from time to time with fresco paintings, representing the birth and most distinguished passages in the life of the blessed Virgin. Round these paintings a little chapel is railed in, open, airy, and elegantly, not very pompously, adorned; there are either seven or twelve of them, I forget which, that serve to rest the procession as it passes, on days particularly dedicated to her service. When you arrive at the top, a church of a most beautiful construction recompenses your long but not tedious walk, and there are some admirable pictures in it, particularly one of St. William laying down his armour, and taking up the habit of a Carthusian, very fine--but the figure of the Madonna is the prize they value, and before this I did see some men kneel with a truly idolatrous devotion. That it was painted by St. Luke is believed by them all. But if it _was_ painted by St. Luke, said I, what then? do you think _he_, or the still more excellent person it was done for, would approve of your worshipping any thing but God? To this no answer was made; and I thought one man looked as if he had grace enough to be ashamed of himself. The girls, who sit in clusters at the chapel doors as one goes up, singing hymns in praise of the Virgin Mary, pleased me much, as it was a mode of veneration inoffensive to religion, and agreeable to the fancy; but seeing them bow down to that black figure, in open defiance of the Decalogue, shocked me. Why all the _very very_ early pictures of the Virgin, and many of our blessed Saviour himself, done in the first ages of Christianity should be _black_, or at least tawny, is to me wholly incomprehensible, nor could I ever yet obtain an explanation of its cause from men of learning or from connoisseurs. We have in England a black Madonna, very ancient of course, and of immense value, in the cathedral of Wells in Somersetshire; it is painted on glass, and stands in the middle pane of the upper window I think, is a profile face, and eminently handsome. My mind tells me that I have seen another somewhere in Great Britain, but cannot recollect the spot, unless it were Arundel Castle in Sussex, but I am not sure: none was ever painted so since the days of Pietro Perugino I believe, so their antiquity is unquestionable: he and his few contemporaries drew her white, as Sir Joshua Reynolds and Pompeio Battoni. Whilst I perambulated the palaces of the Bolognese nobility, gloomy though spacious, and melancholy though splendid, I could not but admire at Richardson's judgment when he makes his beautiful Bigot, his interesting Clementina, an inhabitant of superstitious Bologna. The unconquerable attachment she shews to original prejudices, and the horror of what she has been taught to consider as heresy, could scarcely have been attributed so happily to the dweller in any town but this: where I hear nothing but the sound of people saying their rosaries, and see nothing in the street but people telling their beads. The Porretta palace is hourly presenting itself to my imagination, which delights in the assurance that genius cannot be confined by place. Dear Richardson at Salisbury Court Fleet Street, and Parson's Green Fulham, felt all within him that travelling can tell, or experience confirm: he had seen little, and Johnson has often told me that he had read little; but what he did read never forsook a memory that was not contented with retaining, but fermented all that fell into it, and made a new creation from the fertility of his own rich mind.--These are the men for whom monuments need not be erected. They in our pleasure and astonishment, Do build themselves a live long monument; as Milton says of a much greater writer still. But the King of Naples is arrived, and that attention which wits and scholars can retain for centuries, may not be unjustly paid to princes while they last. Our Bolognese have hit upon an odd method of entertaining him however: no other than making a representation of Mount Vesuvius on the Montagnuola, or place of evening resort, hoping at least to treat him with something new I trow. Were the King of England to visit these _cari Bolognese_, surely they would shew him Westminster Bridge, with a view of the Archbishop's palace at Lambeth on one side the river, and Somerset-house on the other. A pretty throne, or state-box, was soon got in order, _that it was_; and the motion excited by carrying the fire-works to have them prepared for the evening's show, gave life to the morning, which hung less heavily than usual; nor did the people recollect the church-yard at a distance, while the merry King of Naples was near them. His Majesty appeared perfectly contented and good-humoured, and happy with whatever was done for his amusement. I remember his behaviour at Milan though, too well to be surprised at his pleasantness of disposition, when my maid was delighted to see him dance among the girls at a Festa di Ballo, from whence I retired early myself, and sent her back to enjoy it all in my domino. He played at cards too when at Milan I recollect, in the common Ridotto Chamber at the Theatre, and played for common sums, so as to charm every one with his kindness and affability. I am glad however that we shall now be soon released from this upon the whole disagreeable town, where there is the best possible food too for body and mind; but where the inhabitants seem to think only of the next world, and do little to amuse those who have not yet quite done with this. If they are sincere mean time, God will bless them with a long continuance of the appellation they so justly deserve; and those travellers who pass through will find some amends in the rich cream and incomparable dinners every day, for the insects that devour them every night; and will, if they are wise, seek compensation from the company of the half animated pictures that crowd the palaces and churches, for the half dead inhabitants who kneel in the streets of Bologna. FLORENCE. We slept no-where, except perhaps in the carriage, between our last residence at Bologna and this delightful city, to which we passed apparently through a new region of the earth, or even air; clambering up mountains covered with snow, and viewing with amazement the little vallies between, where, after quitting the summer season, all glowing with heat and spread into verdure, we found cherry-trees in blossom, oaks and walnuts scarcely beginning to bud. These mountains are however much below those of Savoy for dignity and beauty of appearance, though high enough to be troublesome, and barren enough to be desolate. These Appenines have been called by some the Back Bone of Italy, as Varenius and others style the Mountains of the Moon in Africa, Back Bone of the World; and these, as they do, run in a long chain down the middle of the Peninsula they are placed in; but being rounded at top are supposed to be aquatick, while the Alps, Andes, &c. are of late acknowledged by philosophers to be volcanic, as the most lofty of _them_ terminate in points of granite, wholly devoid of horizontal strata, and without petrifactions contained in them, _Here_ the tracts around display How impetuous ocean's sway Once with wasteful fury spread The wild waves o'er each mountain's head. PARSONS. But the offspring of fire somehow _should_ be more striking than that of water, however violent might have been the concussion that produced them; and there is no comparison between the sensations felt in passing the Roche Melon, and these more neatly-moulded Appenines; upon whose tops I am told too no lakes have been formed, as on Mount Cenis, or even on Snowdon in North Wales, where a very beautiful lake adorns the summit of the rock; which affords trout precisely such as you eat before you go down to Novalesa, but not so large. Sir William Hamilton, however, is the man to be referred to in all these matters; no man has examined the peculiar properties and general nature of mountains, those which vomit fire in particular, with half as much application, inspired by half as much genius, as he has done. We arrived late at our inn, an English one they say it is; and many of the last miles were passed very pleasantly by my maid and myself, in anticipating the comforts we should receive by finding ourselves among our own country folks. In good time! and by once more eating, sleeping, &c. _all in the English way_, as her phrase is. Accordingly, here are small low beds again, soft and clean, and down pillows; here are currant tarts, which the Italians scorn to touch, but which we are happy and delighted to pay not ten but twenty times their value for, because a currant tart is so much _in the English way_: and here are beans and bacon in a climate where it is impossible that bacon should be either wholesome or agreeable; and one eats infinitely worse than one did at Milan, Venice, or Bologna: and infinitely dearer too; but that makes it still more completely _in the English way_. Mean time here we are however in Arno's Vale; the full moon shining over Fiesole, which I see from my windows. Milton's verses every moment in one's mouth, and Galileo's house twenty yards from one's door, Whence her bright orb the Tuscan artist view'd, At evening from the top of Fesole; Or in Val d'Arno to descry new lands, Rivers or mountains on her spotty globe. Our apartments here are better than we hoped for, situated most sweetly on the banks of this classical stream; a noble terrace underneath our window, broad as the south parade at Bath I think, and the fine Ponte della Santa Trinità within sight. Many people have asserted that this is the first among all bridges in the world; but architecture triumphs in the art of building bridges, and, though this is a most exquisitely beautiful fabric, I can scarcely venture to call it an unrivalled one: it shall, if the fine statues at the corners can assist its power over the fancy, and if cleanliness can compensate for stately magnificence, or for the fire of original and unassisted genius, it shall obliterate from my mind the Rialto at Venice, and the fine arch thrown over the Conway at Llanwrst in our North Wales. I wrote to a lady at Venice this morning though, to say, however I might be charmed by the sweets of Arno's side, I could not forbear regretting the Grand Canal. Count Manucci, a nobleman of this city, formerly intimate with Mr. Thrale in London and Mr. Piozzi at Paris, came early to our apartments, and politely introduced us to the desirable society of his sisters and his friends. We have in his company and that of Cavalier d'Elci, a learned and accomplished man, of high birth, deep erudition, and polished manners, seen much, and with every possible advantage. This morning they shewed us La Capella St. Lorenzo, where I could but think how surprisingly Mr. Addison's prediction was verified, that these slow Florentines would not perhaps be able to finish the burial-place of their favourite family, before the family itself should be extinct. This reflection felt like one naturally suggested to me by the place; Doctor Moore however has the original merit of it, as I afterwards found it in his book: but it is the peculiar property of natural thoughts well expressed, to sink into one's mind and incorporate themselves with it, so as to make one forget they were not all one's own. _Poets, as well as jesters, do oft prove prophets:_ Prior's happy prediction for the female wits in one of his epilogues is come true already, when he says, Your time, poor souls! we'll take your very money, Female _third nights_ shall come so thick upon ye, &c. and every hour gives one reason to hope that Mr. Pope's glorious prophecy in favour of the Negroes will not now remain long unaccomplished, but that liberty will extend her happy influence over the world; Till the _freed Indians_, in their native groves, Reap their own fruits, and woo their sable loves. I will not extend myself in describing the heaps of splendid ruin in which the rich chapel of St. Lorenzo now lies: since the elegant Lord Corke's letters were written, little can be said about Florence not better said by him; who has been particularly copious in describing a city which every body wishes to see copiously described. The libraries here are exceedingly magnificent; and we were called just now to that which goes under Magliabechi's name, to hear an eulogium finely pronounced upon our circumnavigator Captain Cook; whose character has attracted the attention, and extorted the esteem of every European nation: far less was the wonder that it forced my tears; they flowed from a thousand causes: my distance from England! my pleasure in hearing an Englishman thus lamented in a language with which he had no acquaintance! By strangers honoured, and by strangers mourn'd! Every thing contributed to soften my heart, though not to lower my spirits. For when a Florentine asked me, how I came to cry so? I answered, in the words of their divine Mestastasio: "Che questo pianto mio Tutto non è dolor; E meraviglia, e amore, E riverenza, e speme, Son mille affetti assieme Tutti raccolti al cor." 'Tis not grief alone, or fear, Swells the heart, or prompts the tear; Reverence, wonder, hope, and joy, Thousand thoughts my soul employ, Struggling images, which less Than falling tears can ne'er express. Giannetti, who pronounced the panegyric, is the justly-celebrated improvisatore so famous for making Latin verses _impromptu_, as others do Italian ones: the speech has been translated into English by Mr. Merry, with whom I had the honour here first to make acquaintance, having met him at Mr. Greatheed's, who is our fellow-lodger, and with whom and his amiable family the time passes in reciprocations of confidential friendship and mutual esteem. Lord and Lady Cowper too contribute to make the society at this place more pleasing than can be imagined; while English hospitality softens down the stateliness of Tuscan manners. Sir Horace Mann is sick and old; but there are conversations at his house of a Saturday evening, and sometimes a dinner, to which we have been almost always asked. The fruits in this place begin to astonish me; such cherries did I never yet see, or even hear tell of, as when I caught the Laquais de Place weighing two of them in a scale to see if they came to an ounce. These are, in the London street phrase, _cherries like plums_, in size at least, but in flavour they far exceed them, being exactly of the kind that we call bleeding-hearts, hard to the bite, and parting easily from the stone, which is proportionately small. Figs too are here in such perfection, that it is not easy for an English gardener to guess at their excellence; for it is not by superior size, but taste and colour, that _they_ are distinguished; small, and green on the outside, a bright full crimson within, and we eat them with raw ham, and truly delicious is the dainty. By raw ham, I mean ham cured, not boiled or roasted. It is no wonder though that fruits should mature in such a sun as this is; which, to give a just notion of its penetrating fire, I will take leave to tell my countrywomen is so violent, that I use no other method of heating the pinching-irons to curl my hair, than that of poking them out at a south window, with the handles shut in, and the glasses darkened to keep us from being actually fired in his beams. Before I leave off speaking about the fruit, I must add, that both fig and cherry are produced by standards; that the strawberries here are small and high-flavoured, like our _woods_, and that there are no other. England affords greater variety in _that_ kind of fruit than any nation; and as to peaches, nectarines, or green-gage plums, I have seen none yet. Lady Cowper has made us a present of a small pine-apple, but the Italians have no taste to it. Here is sun enough to ripen them without hot-houses I am sure, though they repeatedly told us at Milan and Venice, that _this_ was the coolest place to pass the summer in, because of the Appenine mountains shading us from the heat, which they confessed to be intolerable with _them_. _Here_ however, they inform us, that it is madness to retire into the country as English people do during the hot season; for as there is no shade from high timber trees, one is bit to death by animals, gnats in particular, which here are excessively troublesome, even in the town, notwithstanding we scatter vinegar, and use all the arts in our power; but the ground-floor is coolest, and every body struggles to get themselves a _terreno_ as they call it. Florence is full just now, and Mr. Jean Figliazzi, an intelligent gentleman who lives here, and is well acquainted with both nations, says, that all the genteel people come to take refuge _from_ the country to Florence in July and August, as the subjects of Great Britain run _to_ the country from the heats of London or Bath. The flowers too! how rich they are in scent here! how brilliant in colour! how magnificent in size! Wall-flowers perfuming every street, and even every passage; while pinks and single carnations grow beside them, with no more soil than they require themselves; and from the tops of houses, where you least expect it, an aromatic flavour highly gratifying is diffused. The jessamine is large, broad-leaved, and beautiful as an orange-flower; but I have seen no roses equal to those at Lichfield, where on one tree I recollect counting eighty-four within my own reach; it grew against the house of Doctor Darwin. Such a profusion of sweets made me enquire yesterday morning for some scented pomatum, and they brought me accordingly one pot impelling strong of garden mint, the other of rue and tansy. Thus do the inhabitants of every place forfeit or fling away those pleasures, which the inhabitants of another place think _they_ would use in a much wiser manner, had Providence bestowed the blessing upon _them_. A young Milanese once, whom I met in London, saw me treat a hatter that lives in Pallmall with the respect due to his merit: when the man was gone, "Pray, madam," says the Italian, "is this a _gran riccone[Footnote: Heavy-pursed fellow.]?"_ "He is perhaps," replied I, "worth twenty or thirty thousand pounds; I do not know what ideas you annex to a _gran riccone_" "_Oh santissima vergine!_" exclaims the youth, "_s'avessi io mai settanta mila zecchini! non so pur troppo cosa nesarei; ma questo é chiaro--non venderei mai cappelli_"--"Oh dear me! had I once seventy thousand sequins in my pocket, I would--dear--I cannot think myself _what_ I should do with them all: but this at least is certain, I would not _sell hats_" I have been carried to the Laurentian library, where the librarian Bandi shewed me all possible, and many unmerited civilities; which, for want of deeper erudition, I could not make the use I wished of. We asked however to see some famous manuscripts. The Virgil has had a _fac simile_ made of it, and a printed copy besides; so that it cannot now escape being known all over Europe. The Bible in Chaldaic characters, spoken of by Langius as inestimable, and brought hither, with many other valuable treasures of the same nature, by Lascaris, after the death of Lorenzo de Medici, who had sent him for the second time to Constantinople for the purpose of collecting Greek and Oriental books, but died before his return, is in admirable preservation. The old geographical maps, made out in a very early age, afforded me much amusement; and the Latin letters of Petrarch, with the portrait of his Laura, were interesting to me perhaps more than many other things rated much higher by the learned, among those rarities which adorn a library so comprehensive. Every great nation except ours, which was immersed in barbarism, and engaged in civil broils, seems to have courted the residence of Lascaris, but the university of Paris fixed his regard: and though Leo X. treated with favour, and even friendship, the man whom he had encouraged to intimacy when Cardinal John of Medicis; though he made him superintendant of a Greek college at Rome; it is said he always wished to die in France, whither he returned in the reign of Francis the First; and wrote his Latin epigrams, which I have heard Doctor Johnson prefer even to the Greek ones preserved in Anthologia; and of which our Queen Elizabeth, inspired by Roger Ascham, desired to see the author; but he was then upon a visit to Rome, where he died of the gout at ninety-three years old. * * * * * June 24, 1785. St. John the Baptist is the tutelary Saint of this city, and upon this day of course all possible rejoicings are made. After attending divine service in the morning, we were carried to a house whence we could conveniently see the procession pass by. It was not solemn and stately as that I saw at Bologna, neither was it gaudy and jocund like the show made at Venice upon St. George's day; but consisted chiefly in vast heavy pageants, or a sort of temporary building set on wheels, and drawn by oxen some, and some by horses; others carried upon things made not unlike a chairman's horse in London, and supported by men, while priests, in various coloured dresses, according to their several stations in the church, and to distinguish the parishes, &c. to which they belong, follow singing in praise of the saint. Here is much emulation shewed too, I am told, in these countries, where religion makes the great and almost the sole amusement of men's lives, who shall make most figure on St. John the Baptist's day, produce most music, and go to most expence. For all these purposes subscriptions are set on foot, for ornamenting and venerating such a picture, statue, &c. which are then added to the procession by the managers, and called a Confraternity, in honour of the Blessed Virgin Mary, the Angel Raphael, or who comes in their heads. The lady of the house where we went to partake the diversion, was not wanting in her part; there could not be fewer than a hundred and fifty people assembled in her rooms, but not crowded as we should have been in England; for the apartments in Italy are all high and large, and run in suits like Wanstead house in Essex, or Devonshire house in London exactly, but larger still: and with immense balconies and windows, not sashes, which move all away, and give good room and air. The ices, refreshments, &c. were all excellent in their kinds, and liberally dispensed. The lady seemed to do the honours of her house with perfect good-humour; and every body being full-dressed, though so early in a morning, added much to the general effect of the whole. Here I had the honour of being introduced to Cardinal Corsini, who put me a little out of countenance by saying suddenly, "_Well, madam! you never saw one of us red-legged partridges before I believe; but you are going to Rome I hear, where you will find such fellows as me no rarities_" The truth is, I had seen the amiable Prince d'Orini at Milan, who was a Cardinal; and who had taken delight in showing me prodigious civilities: nothing ever struck me more than his abrupt entrance one night at our house, when we had a little music, and every body stood up the moment he appeared: the Prince however walked forward to the harpsichord, and blessed my husband in a manner the most graceful and affecting: then sate the amusement out, and returned the next morning to breakfast with us, when he indulged us with two hours conversation at least; adding the kindest and most pressing invitations to his country-seat among the mountains of Brianza, when we should return from our tour of Italy in spring 1786. Florence therefore was not the first place that shewed me a Cardinal. In the afternoon we all looked out of our windows which faced the street,--not mine, as they happily command a view of the river, the Caseine woods, &c. and from them enjoyed a complete sight of an Italian horse-race. For after the coaches have paraded up and down some time to shew the equipages, liveries, &c. all have on a sudden notice to quit the scene of action; and all _do_ quit it, in such a manner as is surprising. The street is now covered with sawdust, and made fast at both ends: the starting-post is adorned with elegant booths, lined with red velvet, for the court and first nobility: at the other end a piece of tapestry is hung, to prevent the creatures from dashing their brains out when they reach the goal. Thousands and ten thousands of people on foot fill the course, that it is standing wonder to me still that numbers are not killed. The prizes are now exhibited to view, quite in the old classical style; a piece of crimson damask for the winner perhaps; a small silver bason and ewer for the second; and so on, leaving no performer unrewarded. At last come out the _concurrenti_ without riders, but with a narrow leathern strap hung across their backs, which has a lump of ivory fastened to the end of it, all set full of sharp spikes like a hedge-hog, and this goads them along while galloping, worse than any spurs could do; because the faster they run, the more this odd machine keeps jumping up and down, and pricking their sides ridiculously enough; and it makes one laugh to see that some of them are not provoked by it not to run at all, but set about plunging, in order to rid themselves of the inconvenience, instead of driving forward to divert the mob; who leap and shout and caper with delight, and lash the laggers along with great indignation indeed, and with the most comical gestures. I never saw horses in so droll a state of degradation before, for they are all striped or spotted, or painted of some colour to distinguish them each from other; and nine or ten often start at a time, to the great danger of lookers-on I think, but exceedingly to my entertainment, who have the comfort of Mrs. Greatheed's company, and the advantage of seeing all safely from her well-situated _terreno_, or ground-floor. The chariot-race was more splendid, but less diverting: this was performed in the Piazza, or Square, an unpaved open place not bigger than Covent Garden I believe, and the ground strangely uneven. The cars were light and elegant; one driver and two horses to each: the first very much upon the principle of the antique chariots described by old poets, and the last trapped showily in various colours, adapted to the carriages, that people might make their betts accordingly upon the pink, the blue, the green, &c. I was exceedingly amused with seeing what so completely revived all classic images, and seemed so little altered from the classic times. Cavalier D'Elci, in reply to my expressions of delight, told me that the same spirit still subsisted exactly; but that in order to prevent accidents arising from the disputants' endeavours to overturn or circumvent each other, it was now sunk into a mere appearance of contest; for that all the chariots belonged to one man, who would doubtless be careful enough that his coachmen should not go to sparring at the hazard of their horses. The farce was carried on to the end however, and the winner spread his velvet in triumph, and drove round the course to enjoy the acclamations and caresses of the crowd. That St. John the Baptist's birth-day should be celebrated by a horse or chariot race, appears to have little claim to the praise of propriety; but mankind seems agreed that there must be some excuse for merriment; and surely if any saint is to be venerated, he stands foremost whom Christ himself declared to be the greatest man ever born of a woman. The old Romans had an institution in this month of games to Neptune Equester, as they called their Sea God, with no great appearance of good sense neither; but the horse he produced at the naming of Athens was the cause assigned--these games are perhaps half transmitted ones from those in the ancient mythology. The evening concluded, and the night began with fire-works; the church, or duomo, as a cathedral is always called in Italy, was illuminated on the outside, and very beautiful, and very very magnificent was the appearance. The reflection of the cupola's lights in the river gave us back a faint image of what we had been admiring; and when I looked at them from my window, as we were retiring to rest; such, thought I, and fainter still are the images which can be given of a show in written or verbal description; yet my English friends shall not want an account of what I have seen; for Italy, at last, is only a fine well-known academy figure, from which we all sit down to make drawings according as the light falls; and our seat affords opportunity. Every man sees that, and indeed most things, with the eyes of his then present humour, and begins describing away so as to convey a dignified or despicable idea of the object in question, just as his disposition led him to interpret its appearance. Readers now are grown wiser, however, than very much to mind us: they want no further telling that one traveller was in pain, and one in love when the tour of Italy was made by them; and so they pick out their intelligence accordingly, from various books, written like two letters in the Tatler, giving an account of a rejoicing night; one endeavouring to excite majestic ideas, the other ludicrous ones of the very same thing. Well 'tis true enough, however, and has been often enough laughed at, that the Italian horses run without riders, and scamper down a long street with untrimmed heels, hundreds of people hooking them along, as naughty boys do a poor dog, that has a bone tied to his tail in England. This diversion was too good to end with the day. Dulness, dear Queen, repeats the jest again. We had another, and another just such a race for three or four evenings together, and they got an English _cock-tailed nag_, and set _him_ to the business, as they said _he was trained to it_; but I don't recollect his making a more brilliant figure than his painted and chalked neighbours of the Continent. We will not be prejudiced, however; that the Florentines know how to manage horses is certain, if they would take the trouble. Last night's theatre exhibited a proof of skill, which might shame Astley and all his rivals. Count Pazzi having been prevailed on to lend his four beautiful chesnut favourites from his own carriage to draw a pageant upon the stage, I saw them yesterday evening harnessed all abreast, their own master in a dancer's habit I was told, guiding them himself, and personating the Cid, which was the name of the ballet, if I remember right, making his horses go clear round the stage, and turning at the lamps of the orchestra with such dexterity, docility, and grace, that they seemed rather to enjoy than feel disturbance at the deafening noise of instruments, the repeated bursts of applause, and hollow sound of their own hoofs upon the boards of a theatre. I had no notion of such discipline, and thought the praises, though very loud, not ill bestowed: as it is surely one of man's earliest privileges to replenish the earth with animal life, and to subdue it. I have, for my own part, generally speaking, little delight in the obstreperous clamours of these heroic pantomimes;--their battles are so noisy, and the acclamations of the spectators so distressing to weak nerves, I dread an Italian theatre--it distracts me.--And always the same thing so, every and every night! how tedious it is! This want of variety in the common pleasures of Italy though, and that surprising content with which a nation so sprightly looks on the same stuff, and laughs at the same joke for months and months together, is perhaps less despicable to a thinking mind, than the affectation of weariness and disgust, where probably it is not felt at all; and where a gay heart often lurks under a clouded countenance, put on to deceive spectators into a notion of his philosophy who wears it; and what is worse, who wears it chiefly as a mark of distinction cheaply obtained; for neither science, wit, nor courage are _now_ found necessary to form a man of fashion, or the _ton_, to which may be said as justly as ever Mr. Pope affirmed it of silence, That routed reason finds her sure retreat in thee. Affectation is certainly that faint and sickly weed which is the curse of cultivated,--not naturally fertile and extensive countries; an insect that infests our forcing stoves and hot-house plants: and as the naturalists tell us all animals may be bred _down_ to a state very different from that in which they were originally placed; that _carriers_, and _fantails_, and _croppers_, are produced by early caging, and minutely attending to the common blue pigeon, flights of which cover the ploughed fields in distant provinces of England, and shew the rich and changeable plumage of their fine neck to the summer sun; so from the warm and generous Briton of ancient days may be produced, and happily bred _down_, the clay-cold coxcomb of St. James's-street. In Italy, so far at least as I have gone, there is no impertinent desire of appearing what one is _not_: no searching for talk, and torturing expression to vary its phrases with something new and something fine; or else sinking into silence from despair of diverting the company, and taking up the opposite method, contriving to impress them with an idea of bright intelligence, concealed by modest doubts of our own powers, and stifled by deep thought upon abstruse and difficult topics. To get quit of all these deep-laid systems of enjoyment, where To take our breakfast we project a scheme, Nor drink our tea without a stratagem, like the lady in Doctor Young; the surest method is to drop into Italy; where a conversazione at Venice or Florence, after the society of London, or _les petit soupers de Paris_, where, in their own phrase, _un tableau n'attend pas l'autre_[Footnote: One picture don't wait for another.], is like taking a walk in Ham Gardens, or the Leasowes, after _les parterres de Versailles ed i Terrazzi di Genoa_. We are affected in the house, but natural in the gardens. Italians are natural in society, affected and constrained in the disposition of their grounds. No one, however, is good or bad, or wise or foolish without a reason why. Restraint is made for man, and where religious and political liberty is enjoyed to its full extent, as in Great Britain, the people will forge shackles for themselves, and lay the yoke heavy on society, to which, on the contrary, Italians give a loose, as compensation for their want of freedom in affairs of church or state. It is, I think, observable of uncontradicted, homebred, and, as we say, spoiled children, that when a dozen of them get together for the purpose of passing a day in mutual amusement, they will make to themselves the strictest laws for their game, and rigidly punish whatever breach of rule has been made while the time allotted for diversion lasts: but in a school of girls, strictly kept, at _their_ hours of permitted recreation no distinct sounds can be heard through the general clamour of joy and confusion; nor does any thing come less into their heads than the notion of imposing regulations on themselves, or making sport out of the harsh sounds of _rule and government_. Ridicule too points her arrows only among highly-polished societies--_Paris_ and _London_, in the first of which all wit is comprised in the power of ridiculing one's neighbours, and in the other every artifice is put in practice to escape it. In Italy no such terrors restrain conversation; no public censure pursues that fantastical behaviour which leads to no public offence; and as it is only fear which can beget falsehood, these people seek such behavior as naturally suits them; and in our theatrical phrase, they let the character come to them, they do not go to the character. Let us not fail to remember after all, that such severity as we use, quickens the desire of pleasing, and deadens the diffusion of immoral sentiments, or indelicate language, in England; where, I must add, for the honour of my country, that if such liberties were taken upon the stage as are frequent in the first ranks of Italian society, they would be hissed by those who paid only a shilling for their entrance: so that affectation and a forced refinement may be considered as the bad leaden statues still left in our delicately-neat and highly-ornamented gardens; of which elegance and science are the white and red roses: but to be possessed of their _sweets_, one must venture a little through the _thorns_.--_Thorns_, though figurative, remind one of the _cicala_, a creature which leaves nothing else untouched here. Surely their clamours and depredations have no equal. I used to walk in the Boboli Gardens, defying the heat, till they had eaten up the little shade some hedges there afforded me; and till, by their incessant noise, all thought is disturbed, and no line presented itself to my memory but Sole sob ardenti resonant arbusta Cicadis[W]; [Footnote W: While in the scorching sun I trace in vain Thy flying footsteps o'er the burning plain, The creaking locusts with my voice conspire, They fried with heat, and I with fierce desire. DRYDEN. ] till Mr. Merry's sweet ode to summer here at Florence made one less discontented, To hear the light cicala's ceaseless din, That vibrates shrill; or the near-weeping brook That feebly winds along, And mourns his channel shrunk. MERRY. This animal has four wings, four eyes, and two membranes like parchment under the hard scales he is covered with; and these, it is said, create the uncommon noise he makes, by blowing them somewhat like bellows, to sharpen the sound; which, whatever it proceeds from, is louder than can be guessed at by those who have not heard it in Tuscany. He is of the locust kind, an inch and a half long, and wonderfully light in proportion; though no small feeder, I should imagine, by the total destruction his noisy tribe make amongst the leaves, which are now wholly stript by them of all their verdure, the fibres only being left; and I observed yesterday evening, as we returned from airing, another strange deprivation practised on the mulberry leaves round the city, which being all forcibly torn away for the use of the silk-worms, make an odd fort of artificial winter near the town walls; and remind one of the wretched geese in Lincolnshire, plucked once a year for their feathers by their truly unfeeling proprietors. I am told indeed, that both revegetate, though I trust neither tree nor bird can fail to experience fatal effects one day or other in consequence of so unnatural an operation. Here is some ivy of uncommon growth, but I have seen larger both at Beaumaris castle in North Wales, and at the abbey of Glastonbury in Somersetshire: but the great pines in the Caseine woods have, I suppose, no rival nearer than the Castagno a Cento Cavalli, mentioned by Mr. Brydone. They afford little shade or shelter from heat however, as their umbrella-like covering is strangely small in proportion to their height and size; some of them being ten, and some twelve feet in diameter. These venerable, these glorious productions of nature are all now marked for destruction however; all going to be put in wicker baskets, and feed the Grand Duke's fires. I saw a fellow hewing one down to-day, and the rest are all to follow;--the feeble Florentines had much ado to master it; Seemed the harmful hatchet to fear, And to wound holy Eld would forbear, as Spenser says: I did half hope they could not get it down; but the loyal Tuscans (evermore awed by the name _principe_) told us it was right to get rid of them, as one of the cones, of which they bore vast quantities, might chance to drop upon the head of a _Principettino_, or little Prince, as he passed along. I was observing that restraint was necessary to man; I have now learned a notion that noise is necessary too. The clatter made here in the Piazza del Duomo, where you sit in your carriage at a coffee-house door, and chat with your friends according to Italian custom, while _one_ eats ice, and _another_ calls for lemonade, to while away the time after dinner, the noise made then and there, I say, is beyond endurance. Our Florentines have nothing on earth to do; yet a dozen fellows crying _ciambelli_, little cakes, about the square, assisted by beggars, who lie upon the church steps, and pray or rather promise to pray as loud as their lungs will let them, for the _anime sante di purgatorio_[Footnote: Holy souls in purgatory.]; ballad-singers meantime endeavouring to drown these clamours in their own, and gentlemen's servants disputing at the doors, whose master shall be first served; ripping up the pedigrees of each to prove superior claims for a biscuit or macaroon; do make such an intolerable clatter among them, that one cannot, for one's life, hear one another speak: and I did say just now, that it were as good live at Brest or Portsmouth when the rival fleets were fitting out, as here; where real tranquillity subsists under a bustle merely imaginary. Our Grand Duke lives with little state for aught I can observe here; but where there is least pomp, there is commonly most power; for a man must have _something pour se de dommages_[Footnote: To make himself amends.], as the French express it; and this gentleman possessing the _solide_ has no care for the _clinquant_, I trow. He tells his subjects when to go to bed, and who to dance with, till the hour he chuses they should retire to rest, with exactly that sort of old-fashioned paternal authority that fathers used to exercise over their families in England before commerce had run her levelling plough over all ranks, and annihilated even the name of subordination. If he hear of any person living long in Florence without being able to give a good account of his business there, the Duke warns him to go away; and if he loiter after such warning given, sends him out. Does any nobleman shine in pompous equipage or splendid table; the Grand Duke enquires soon into his pretensions, and scruples not to give personal advice, and add grave reproofs with regard to the management of each individual's private affairs, the establishment of their sons, marriage of their sisters, &c. When they appeared to complain of this behaviour to _me_, I know not, replied I, what to answer: one has always read and heard that the Sovereigns ought to behave in despotic governments like the _fathers of their family_: and the Archbishop of Cambray inculcates no other conduct than this, when advising his pupil, heir to the crown of France. "Yes, Madam," replied one of my auditors, with an acuteness truly Italian; "but this Prince is _our father-in-law_." The truth is, much of an English traveller's pleasure is taken off at Florence by the incessant complaints of a government he does not understand, and of oppressions he cannot remedy. Tis so dull to hear people lament the want of liberty, to which I question whether they have any pretensions; and without ever knowing whether it is the tyranny or the tyrant they complain of. Tedious however and most uninteresting are their accounts of grievances, which a subject of Great Britain has much ado to comprehend, and more to pity; as they are now all heart-broken, because they must say their prayers in their own language and not in Latin, which, how it can be construed into misfortune, a Tuscan alone can tell. Lord Corke has given us many pleasing anecdotes of those who were formerly Princes in this land. Had they a sovereign of the old Medici family, they would go to bed when _he_ bid them quietly enough I believe, and say their prayers in what language _he_ would have them: 'tis in our parliamentary phrase, the _men_, not the _measures_ that offend them; and while they pretend to whine as if despotism displeased them, they detest every republican state, feel envy towards Venice, and contempt for Lucca. I would rather talk of their gallery than their government: and surely nothing made by man ever so completely answered a raised expectation, as the apparent contest between Titian's recumbent beauty, glowing with colour and animated by the warmest expression, and the Greek statue of symmetrical perfection and fineness of form inimitable, where sculpture supplies all that fancy can desire, and all that imagination can suggest. These two models of excellence seem placed near each other, at once to mock all human praise, and defy all future imitation. The listening slave appears disturbed by the blows of the wrestlers in the same room, and hearkens with an attentive impatience, such as one has often felt when unable to distinguish the words one wishes to repeat. You really then do not seem as if you were alone in this tribune, so animated is every figure, so full of life and soul: yet I commend not the representing of St Catharine with leering eyes, as she is here painted by Titian; that it is meant for a portrait, I find no excuse; some character more suited to the expression should have been chosen; and if it were only the picture of a saint, that expression was strangely out of character. An anachronism may be found in the Tobit over the door too, by acute observers, who will deem it ill-managed to paint the cross in the clouds, where it is an old testament story, and that story apocryphal beside; might I add, that Guido's meek Madonna, so divinely contrasted to the other women in the room, loses something of dignity by the affected position of the thumbs. I think I might leave the tribune without a word said of the St. John by Raphael, which no words are worthy to extol: 'tis all sublimity; and when I look on it I feel nothing but veneration pushed to astonishment. Unlike the elegant figure of the Baptist at Padua, covered with glass, and belonging to a convent of friars, who told me, and truly, That it had no equal; it is painted by Guido with every perfection of form and every grace of expression. I agree with them it has no equal; but in the tribune at Florence maybe found its superior. We were next conducted to the Niobe, who has an apartment to herself: and now, thought I, dear Mrs. Siddons has never seen this figure: but those who can see it or her, without emotions equally impossible to contain or to suppress, deserve the fate of Niobe, and have already half-suffered it. Their hearts and eyes are stone. Nothing is worth speaking of after this Niobe! Her beauty! her maternal anguish! her closely-clasped Chloris! her half-raised head, scarcely daring to deprecate that vengeance of which she already feels such dreadful effects! What can one do But drop the shady curtain on the scene, and run to see the portraits of those artists who have exalted one's ideas of human nature, and shewn what man can perform. Among these worthies a British eye soon distinguishes Sir Joshua Reynolds; a citizen of the world fastens his to Leonardo da Vinci. I have been out to dinner in the country near Prato, and what a charming, what a delightful thing is a nobleman's seat near Florence! How cheerful the society! how splendid the climate! how wonderful the prospects in this glorious country! The Arno rolling before his house, the Appenines rising behind it! a sight of fertility enjoyed by its inhabitants, and a view of such defences to their property as nature alone can bestow. A peasantry so rich too, that the wives and daughters of the farmer go dressed in jewels; and those of no small value. A pair of one-drop ear-rings, a broadish necklace, with a long piece hanging down the bosom, and terminated with a cross, all of set garnets clear and perfect, is a common, a _very_ common treasure to the females about this country; and on every Sunday or holiday, when they dress and mean to look pretty, their elegantly-disposed ornaments attract attention strongly; though I do not think them as handsome as the Lombard lasses, and our Venetian friends protest that the farmers at Crema in _their_ state are still richer. La Contadinella Toscana however, in a very rich white silk petticoat, exceedingly full and short, to shew her neat pink slipper and pretty ancle, her pink _corps de robe_ and straps, with white silk lacing down the stomacher, puffed shirt sleeves, with heavy lace robbins ending at the elbow, and fastened at the shoulders with at least eight or nine bows of narrow pink ribbon, a lawn handkerchief trimmed with broad lace, put on somewhat coquettishly, and finishing in front with a nosegay, must make a lovely figure at any rate: though the hair is drawn away from the face in a way rather too tight to be becoming, under a red velvet cushion edged with gold, which helps to wear it off I think, but gives the small Leghorn hat, lined with green, a pretty perking air, which is infinitely nymphish and smart. A tolerably pretty girl so dressed may surely more than vie with a _fille d' opera_ upon the Paris stage, even were she not set off as these are with a very rich suit of pearls or set garnets, that in France or England would not be purchased for less than forty or fifty pounds: and I am now speaking of the women perpetually under one's eye; not one or two picked from the crowd, like Mrs. Vanini, an inn-keeper's wife in Florence, who, when she was dressed for the masquerade two nights ago, submitted her finery to Mrs. Greatheed's inspection and my own; who agreed she could not be so adorned in England for less than a thousand pounds. It is true the nobility are proud of letting you see how comfortably their dependants live in Tuscany; but can any pride be more rational or generous, or any desire more patriotick? Oh may they never look with less delight on the happiness of their inferiors! and then they will not murmur at their prince, whose protection of _this_ rank among his subjects is eminently tender and attentive. Returning home from our splendid dinner and agreeable day passed at Conte Mannucci's country-seat, while our noble friends amused me with various chat, I thought some unaccountable sparks of fire seemed to strike up and down the hedges as if in perpetual motion, but checked the fancy concluding it a trick of the imagination only; till the evening, which shuts in strangely quick here in Tuscany, grew dark, and exhibited an appearance wholly new to me; whose surprise that no flame followed these wandering fires was not small, when I recollected the state of desiccation that nature suffered, and had done for some months. My dislike of interrupting an agreeable conversation kept me long from enquiring into the cause of this appearance, which however I doubted not was electrick, till they told me it was the _lucciola_, or fire-fly; of which a very good account is given in twenty books, but I had forgotten them all. As the Florence Miscellany has never been published, I will copy out what is said of it _there_, because the Abate Fontana was consulted when that description was given. "This insect then differs from every other of the luminous tribe, because its light is by no means continual, but emitted by flashes, suddenly striking out as it flies; when crushed it leaves a lustre on the spot for a considerable time, from whence one may conclude its nature is phosphorick." Oh vagrant insect, type of our short life, 'Tis thus we shine, and vanish from the view; For the cold season comes, And all our lustre's o'er. MERRY's Ode to Summer. It is said I think, that no animal affords an acid except ants, which are therefore most quickly destroyed by lime, pot-ash, &c. or any strong alkali of course; yet acid must the lucciola be proved, or she can never be phosphorick surely; as upon its analysis that strangest of all compositions appears to be a union of violent acid with inflammable matter, whence it may be termed an animal sulphur, and is actually found to burn successfully under a common glass-bell; and to afford flowers too, which, by attracting the humidity of the air, become a liquor like _oleum sulphuris per campanam_[Footnote: Oil of sulphur by the bell.]. The colour of the sky viewed, when one dares to look at it, through this pure atmosphere is particularly beautiful; of a much more brilliant and celestial blue I think, than it appeared from the tower of St. Mark's Place, Venice. Were I to affirm that the sea is of a more peculiar transparent brightness upon the coast of North Wales than elsewhere, it would seem prejudice perhaps, and yet is strictly true: I am not less persuaded that the sky appears of a finer tint in Tuscany than any other country I have visited:--Naples is however the vaunted climate, and that yet remains to be examined. I have been shewed, at the horse-race, the theatre, &c. the unfortunate grandson of King James the Second. He goes much into publick still, though old and sickly; gives the English arms and livery, and wears the garter, which he has likewise bestowed upon his natural daughter. The Princess of Stoldberg, his consort, whom he always called Queen, has left him to end a life of disappointment and sorrow by _himself_, with the sad reflection, that even conjugal attachment, and of course domestic comfort, was denied to _him_, and fled--in defiance of poetry and fiction--fled with the crown, to its powerful and triumphant possessors. The Duomo, or Cathedral, has engaged my attention all to-day: its prodigious size, perfect proportions, and exquisite taste, ought to have detained me longer. Though the outside does not please me as well as if it had been less rich and less magnificent. Superfluity always defeats its own purpose, of striking you with awe at its superior greatness; while simplicity looks on, and laughs at its vain attempts. This wonderful church, built of striped marbles, white, black, and red alternately, has scarcely the air of being so composed, but looks like painted ivory to _me_, who am obliged to think, and think again, before I can be sure it is of so ponderous and massy, as well as so inestimable a substance: nor can I, without more than equal difficulty, persuade myself to give its sudden view the decided preference over St. Paul's in London, which never, never misses its immediate effect on a spectator, But stands sublime in simplest majesty. The Battisterio is another structure close to the church, and of surprising beauty; Michael Angelo said the gates of it deserved to be those which open Paradise: and that speech was more the speech of a good workman, than of a man whose mind was exalted by his profession. The gates are of brass, divided into ninety-six compartments each, and carved with such variety of invention, such elaboration of art and ingenuity, that no praise except that which he gave them could have been too high. The font has not been used since the days when immersion in baptism was deemed necessary to salvation; a ceremony still considered by the Greek church as indispensable. Why the disputes concerning _this_ sacrament were carried on with more decency and less lasting rancour among Christians, than those which related to the other great pledge of our pardon, the communicating with our Saviour Christ in his last Supper, I know not, nor can imagine. Every page of ecclesiastical history exhibits the tenaciousness with which the smallest attendant circumstance on this last-mentioned sacrament has been held fast by the Romanists, who dropped the immersion at baptism of themselves; and in so warm a climate too! it moves my wonder; when nothing is more obvious to the meanest understanding, than that if the first sacrament is not rightly and duly administered, we never shall arrive at receiving the other at all. I hope it is impossible for any one less than myself to wish the continuance or revival of contentions so disgraceful to humanity in general; so peculiarly repugnant to the true spirit of Christianity, which consists chiefly in charity, and that brotherly love we know to have been cemented by the blood of our blessed Lord: yet very strange it is to think, that while other innovations have been resisted even to death, scarcely any among the many sects we have divided into, retain the original form in that ceremony so emphatically called _christening_. These observations suggested by the sight of the old font at Florence shall now be succeeded by lighter subjects of reflection; among which the first that presents itself is the superior elegance of the language; for till we arrive _here_, all is dialect; though by this word I would not have any one mistake me, or understand it as meant in the limited sense of a provincial jargon, such as Yorkshire, Derbyshire, or Cornwall, present us with; where every sound is corruption, barbarism, and vulgarity. The States of Italy being all under different rulers, are kept separate from each other, and speak a different dialect; that of Milan full of consonants and harsh to the ear, but abounding with classical expressions that rejoice one's heart, and fill one with the oddest but most pleasing sensations imaginable. I heard a lady there call a runaway nobleman _Profugo_ mighty prettily; and added, that his conduct had put all the town into _orgasmo grande_. All this, however, the Tuscans may possibly have in common with them. My knowledge of the language must remain ever too imperfect for me to depend on my own skill in it; all I can assert is, that the Florentines _appear_, as far as I have been competent to observe, to depend more on their own copious and beautiful language for expression, than the Milanese do; who run to Spanish, Greek, or Latin for assistance, while half their tongue is avowedly borrowed from the French, whose pronunciation, in the letter _u_, they even profess to retain. At Venice, the sweetness of the patois is irresistible; their lips, incapable of uttering any but the sweetest sounds, reject all consonants they can get quit of; and make their mouths drop honey more completely than it can be said by any eloquence less mellifluous than their own. The Bolognese dialect is detested by the other Italians, as gross and disagreeable in its sounds: but every nation has the good word of its own inhabitants; and the language which Abbate Bianconi praises as nervous and expressive, I would advise no person, less learned than himself, to censure as disgusting, or condemn as dull. I staid very little at Bologna; saw nothing but their pictures, and heard nothing but their prayers: those were superior, I fancy, to all rivals. Language can be never spoken of by a foreigner to any effect of conviction. I have heard our countryman. Mr. Greatheed himself, who perhaps possesses more Italian than almost any Englishman, and studies it more closely, refuse to decide in critical disputations among his literary friends here, though the sonnets he writes in the Tuscan language are praised by the natives, who best understand it, and have been by some of them preferred to those written by Milton himself. Mean time this is acknowledged to be the prime city for purity of phrase and delicacy of expression, which, at last, is so disguised to me by the guttural manner in which many sounds are pronounced, that I feel half weary of running about from town to town so, and never arriving at any, where I can understand the conversation without putting all the attention possible to their discourse. I am now told that less efforts will be necessary at Rome. Nothing can be prettier, however, than the slow and tranquil manners of a Florentine; nothing more polished than his general address and behaviour: ever in the third person, though to a blackguard in the street, if he has not the honour of his particular acquaintance, while intimacy produces _voi_ in those of the highest rank, who call one another Carlo and Angelo very sweetly; the ladies taking up the same notion, and saying Louisa, or Maddalena, without any addition at all. The Don and Donna of Milan were offensive to me somehow, as they conveyed an idea of Spain, not Italy. Here Signora is the term, which better pleases one's ear, and Signora Contessa, Signora Principessa, if the person is of higher quality, resembles our manners more when we say my Lady Dutchess, &c. What strikes me as most observable, is the uniformity of style in all the great towns. At Venice the men of literature and fashion speak with the same accent, and I believe the same quick turns of expression as their Gondolier; and the coachman at Milan talks no broader than the Countess; who, if she does not speak always in French to a foreigner, as she would willingly do, tries in vain to talk Italian; and having asked you thus, _alla capi?_ which means _ha ella capita?_ laughs at herself for trying to _toscaneggiare_, as she calls it, and gives the point up with _no cor altr._ that comes in at the end of every sentence, and means _non occorre altro_; there is no more occurs upon the subject. The Laquais de Place who attended us at Bologna was one of the few persons I had met then, who spoke a language perfectly intelligible to me. "Are you a Florentine, pray friend, said I?" "No, madam, but the _combinations_ of this world having led me to talk much with strangers, I contrive to _tuscanize_ it all I can for _their_ advantage, and doubt not but it will tend to my own at last." Such a sentiment, so expressed by a footman, would set a plain man in London a laughing, and make a fanciful Lady imagine he was a nobleman disguised. Here nobody laughs, nor nobody stares, nor wonders that their valet speaks just as good language, or utters as well-turned sentences as themselves. Their cold answer to my amazement is as comical as the fellow's fine style--_è battizzato_[Footnote: He has been baptized.], say they, _come noi altri_[Footnote: As well as we.]. But we are called away to hear the fair Fantastici, a young woman who makes improviso verses, and sings them, as they tell me, with infinite learning and taste. She is successor to the celebrated Corilla, who no longer exhibits the power she once held without a rival: yet to _her_ conversations every one still strives for admittance, though she is now ill, and old, and hoarse with repeated colds. She spares, however, now by no labour or fatigue to obtain and keep that superiority and admiration which one day perhaps gave her almost equal trouble to receive and to repay. But who can bear to lay their laurels by? Corilla is gay by nature, and witty, if I may say so, by habit; replete with fancy, and powerful to combine images apparently distant. Mankind is at last more just to people of talents than is universally allowed, I think. Corilla, without pretensions either to immaculate character (in the English sense), deep erudition, or high birth, which an Italian esteems above all earthly things, has so made her way in the world, that all the nobility of both sexes crowd to her house; that no Prince passes through Florence without waiting on Corilla; that the Capitol will long recollect her being crowned there, and that many sovereigns have not only sought her company, but have been obliged to put up with slights from her independent spirit, and from her airy, rather than haughty behaviour. She is, however, (I cannot guess why) not rich, and keeps no carriage; but enjoying all the effect of money, convenience, company, and general attention, is probably very happy; as she does not much suffer her thoughts of the next world to disturb her felicity in _this_, I believe, while willing to turn every thing into mirth, and make all admire _her wit_, even at the expence of _their own virtue_. The following Epigram, made by her, will explain my meaning, and give a specimen of her present powers of improvisation, undecayed by ill health; and I might add, _undismayed_ by it. An old gentleman here, one Gaetano Testa Grossa had a young wife, whose name was Mary, and who brought him a son when he was more than seventy years old. Corilla led him gaily into the circle of company with these words: "Miei Signori Io vi presento Il buon Uomo Gaetano; Che non sà che cosa sia Il misterio sovr'umano Del Figliuolo di Maria." Let not the infidels triumph however, or rank among them the truly-illustrious Corilla! 'Twas but the rage, I hope, of keeping at any rate the fame she has gained, when the sweet voice is gone, which once enchanted all who heard it--like the daughters of Pierius in Ovid. And though I was exceedingly entertained by the present improvisatrice, the charming Fantastici, whose youth, beauty, erudition, and fidelity to her husband, give her every claim upon one's heart, and every just pretension to applause, I could not, in the midst of that delight, which classick learning and musical excellence combined to produce, forbear a grateful recollection of the civilities I had received from Corilla, and half-regretting that her rival should be so successful; For tho' the treacherous tapster, Thomas, Hangs a new angel ten doors from us, We hold it both a shame and sin To quit the true old Angel Inn. Well! if some people have too little appearance of respect for religion, there are others who offend one by having too much, and so the balance is kept even. We were a walking last night in the gardens of Porto St. Gallo, and met two or three well-looking women of the second rank, with a baby, four or five years old at most, dressed in the habit of a Dominican Friar, bestowing the benediction as he walked along like an officiating Priest. I felt a shock given to all my nerves at once, and asked Cavalier D'Elci the meaning of so strange a device. His reply to me was, "_E divozione mal intesa, Signora_[Footnote: 'Tis ill-understood devotion, madam.];" and turning round to the other gentlemen, "Now this folly," said he, "a hundred years ago would have been the object of profound veneration and prodigious applause. Fifty years hence it would be censured as hypocritical; it is now passed by wholly unnoticed, except by this foreign Lady, who, I believe, thought it was done for a joke. I have had a little fever since I came hither from the intense heat I trust; but my maid has a worse still. Doctor Bicchierei, with that liberality which ever is found to attend real learning, prescribed James's powders to _her_, and bid me attend to Buchan's Domestick Medicine, and I should do well enough he said. Mr. Greatheed, Mr. Parsons, Mr. Biddulph, and Mr. Piozzi, have been together on a party of pleasure to see the renowned Vallombrosa, and came home contradicting Milton, who says the devils lay bestrewn Thick as autumnal leaves in Vallombrosa: Whereas, say they, the trees are all evergreen in those woods. Milton, it seems, was right notwithstanding: for the botanists tell me, that nothing makes more litter than the shedding of leaves, which, replace themselves by others, as on the plants stiled ever-green, which change like every tree, but only do not change all at once, and remain stript till spring. They spoke highly of their very kind and hospitable reception at the convent, where Safe from pangs the worldling knows, Here secure in calm repose, Far from life's perplexing maze, The pious fathers pass their days; While the bell's shrill-tinkling sound Regulates their constant round. And Here the traveller elate Finds an ever-open gate: All his wants find quick supply, While welcome beams from every eye. PARSONS. This pious foundation of retired Benedictines, situated in the Appenines, about eighteen miles from Florence, owes its original to Giovanni Gualberto, a Tuscan nobleman, whose brother Hugo having been killed by a relation in the year 1015, he resolved to avenge his death; but happening to meet the assassin alone and in a solitary place, whither he appeared to have been driven by a sense of guilt, and seeing him suddenly drop down at his feet, and without uttering a word produce from his bosom a crucifix, holding it up in a supplicating gesture, with look submissively imploring, he felt the force of this silent rhetoric, and generously gave his enemy free pardon. On further reflection upon the striking scene, Gualberto felt still more affected; and from seeing the dangers and temptations which surround a bustling life, resolved to quit the too much mixed society of mankind, and settle in a state of perpetual retirement. For this purpose he chose Vallombrosa, and there founded the famous convent so justly admired by all who visit it. Such stories lead one forward to the tombs of Michael Angelo and the great Galileo, which last I looked on to-day with reverence, pity, and wonder; to think that a change so surprising should be made in worldly affairs since his time; that the man who no longer ago than the year 1636, was by the torments and terrors of the Inquisition obliged formally to renounce, as heretical, accursed, and contrary to religion, the revived doctrines of Copernicus, should now have a monument erected to his memory, in the very city where he was born, whence he was cruelly torn away to answer at Rome for the supposed offence; to which he returned; and strange to tell, in which he lived on, by his own desire, with the wife who, by her discovery of his sentiments, and information given to the priests accordingly, had caused his ruin; and who, after his death, in a fit of mad mistaken zeal, flung into the fire, in company with her confessor, all the papers she could find in his study. How wonderful are these events! and how sweet must the science of astronomy have been to that poor man, who suffered all but actual martyrdom in its cause! How odd too, that ever Galileo's son, by such a mother as we have just described, should apply himself to the same studies, and be the inventor of the simple pendulum so necessary to every kind of clock-work! Religious prejudices however, and their effects--and thanks be to God their almost final conclusion too--may be found nearer home than Galileo's tomb; while Milton has a monument in the same cathedral with Dr. South, who perhaps would have given credit to no _human_ information, which should have told him that event would take place. We are now going soon to leave Florence, seat of the arts and residence of literature! I shall be sincerely sorry to quit a city where not a step can be taken without a new or a revived idea being added to our store;--where such statues as would in England have colleges founded, or palaces built for their reception, stand in the open street; the Centaur, the Sabine woman, and the Justice: Where the Madonna della Seggiola reigns triumphant over all pictures for brilliancy of colouring and vigour of pencil. It was the portrait of Raphaelle's favourite mistress, and his own child by her sate for the Bambino:--is it then wonderful that it should want that heavenly expression of dignity divine, and grace unutterable, which breathes through the school of Caracci? Connoisseurs will have all excellence united in one picture, and quarrel unkindly if merit of any kind be wanting: Surely the Madonna della Seggiola has nature to recommend it, and much more need not be desired. If the young and tender and playful innocence of early infancy is what chiefly delights and detains one's attention, it may be found to its utmost possible perfection in a painter far inferior to Raphael, Carlo Marratt. If softness in the female character, and meek humility of countenance, be all that are wanted for the head of a Madonna, we must go to Elisabetta Sirani and Sassoferrata I think; but it is ever so. The Cordelia of Mrs. Cibber was beyond all comparison softer and sweeter than that of her powerful successor Siddons; yet who will say that the actresses were equal? But I must bid adieu to beautiful Florence, where the streets are kept so clean one is afraid to dirty _them_, and not _one's self_, by walking in them: where the public walks are all nicely weeded, as in England, and the gardens have a homeish and Bath-like look, that is excessively cheering to an English eye:--where, when I dined at Prince Corsini's table, I heard the Cardinal say grace, and thought of the ceremonies at Queen's College, Oxford; where I had the honour of entertaining, at my own dinner on the 25th of July, many of the Tuscan, and many of the English nobility; and Nardini kindly played a solo in the evening at a concert we gave in Meghitt's great room:--where we have compiled the little book amongst us, known by the name of the Florence Miscellany; as a memorial of that friendship which does me so much honour, and which I earnestly hope may long subsist among us:--where in short we have lived exceeding comfortably, but where dear Mrs. Greatheed and myself have encouraged each other, in saying it would be particularly sad to _die_, not of the gnats, or more properly musquitoes, for they do not sting one quite to death, though their venom has swelled my arm so as to oblige me to carry it for this last week in a sling; but of the _mal di petto_, which is endemial in this country, and much resembling our pleurisy in its effects. Blindness too seems no uncommon misfortune at Florence, from the strong reverberation of the sun's rays on houses of the cleanest and most brilliant whiteness; kept so elegantly nice too, that I should despair of seeing more delicacy at Amsterdam. Apoplexies are likewise frequent enough: I saw a man carried out stone dead from St. Pancrazio's church one morning about noon-day; but nobody seemed disturbed at the event I think, except myself. Though this is no good town to take one's last leave of life in neither; as the body one has been so long taking care of, would in twenty-four hours be hoisted up upon a common cart, with those of all the people who died the same day, and being fairly carried out of Porto San Gallo towards the dusk of evening, would be shot into a hole dug away from the city, properly enough, to protect Florence, and keep it clear of putrid disorders and disagreeable smells. All this with little ceremony to be sure, and less distinction; for the Grand Duke suffers the pride of birth to last no longer than life however, and demolishes every hope of the woman of quality lying in a separate grave from the distressed object who begged at her carriage door when she was last on an airing. Let me add, that his liberality of sentiment extends to virtue on the one hand, if hardness of heart may be complained of on the other. He suffers no difference of opinions to operate on his philosophy, and I believe we heretics here should sleep among the best of his Tuscan nobles. But there is no comfort in the possibility of being buried alive by the excessive haste with which people are catched up and hurried away, before it can be known almost whether all sparks of life are extinct or no. Such management, and the lamentations one hears made by the great, that they should thus be forced to keep _bad company_ after death, remind me for ever of an old French epigram, the sentiment of which I perfectly recollect, but have forgotten the verses, of which however these lines are no unfaithful translation; I dreamt that in my house of clay, A beggar buried by me lay; Rascal! go stink apart, I cry'd, Nor thus disgrace my noble side. Heyday! cries he, what's here to do? I'm on my dunghill sure, as well as you. Of elegant Florence then, so ornamented and so lovely, so neat that it is said she should be seen only on holidays; dedicated of old to Flora, and still the residence of sweetness, grace, and the fine arts particularly; of these kind friends too, so amiable, so hospitable, where I had the choice of four boxes every night at the theatre, and a certainty of charming society in each, we must at last unwillingly take leave; and on to-morrow, the twelfth day of September 1785, once more commit ourselves to our coach, which has hitherto met with no accident that could affect us, and in which, with God's protection, I fear not my journey through what is left of Italy; though such tremendous tales are told in many of our travelling books, of terrible roads and wicked postillions, and ladies labouring through the mire on foot, to arrive at bad inns where nothing eatable could be found. All which however is less despicable than Tournefort, the great French botanist; who, while his works swell with learning, and sparkle with general knowledge; while he enlarges _your_ stock of ideas, and displays _his own_; laments pathetically that he could not get down the partridges caught for him in one of the Archipelagon islands, because they were not larded--_à la mode de Paris_. LUCCA. From the head-quarters of painting, sculpture, and architecture then, where art is at her acme, and from a people polished into brilliancy, perhaps a little into weakness, we drove through the celebrated vale of Arno; thick hedges on each side us, which in spring must have been covered with blossoms and fragrant with perfume; now loaded with uncultivated fruits; the wild grape, raspberry, and azaroli, inviting to every sense, and promising every joy. This beautiful and fertile, this highly-adorned and truly delicious country carried us forward to Lucca, where the panther sits at the gate, and liberty is written up on every wall and door. It is so long since I have seen the word, that even the letters of it rejoice my heart; but how the panther came to be its emblem, who can tell? Unless the philosophy we learn from old Lilly in our childhood were true, _nec vult panthera domari_[Footnote: That the panther will never be tamed.]. That this fairy commonwealth should so long have maintained its independency is strange; but Howel attributes her freedom to the active and industrious spirit of the inhabitants, who, he says, resemble a hive of bees, for order and for diligence. I never did see a place so populous for the size of it: one is actually thronged running up and down the streets of Lucca, though it is a little town enough for a capital city to be sure; larger than Salisbury though, and prettier than Nottingham, the beauties of both which places it unites with all the charms peculiar to itself. The territory they claim, and of which no power dares attempt to dispossess them, is much about the size of _Rutlandshire_ I fancy; surrounded and apparently fenced in on every side, by the Appenines as by a wall, that wall a hot one, on the southern side, and wholly planted over with vines, while the soft shadows which fall upon the declivity of the mountains make it inexpressibly pretty; and form, by the particular disposition of their light and shadow, a variety which no other prospect so confined can possibly enjoy. This is the Ilam gardens of Europe; and whoever has seen that singular spot in Derbyshire belonging to Mr. Port, has seen little Lucca in a convex mirror. Some writer calls it a ring upon the finger of the Emperor, under whose protection it has been hitherto preserved safe from the Grand Duke of Tuscany till these days, in which the interests of those two sovereigns, united by intimacy as by blood and resemblance of character, are become almost exactly the same. A Doge, whom they call the _Principe_, is elected every two months; and is assisted by ten senators in the administration of justice. Their armoury is the prettiest plaything I ever yet saw, neatly kept, and capable of furnishing twenty-five thousand men with arms. Their revenues are about equal to the Duke of Bedford's I believe, eighty or eighty-five thousand pounds sterling a year; every spot of ground belonging to these people being cultivated to the highest pitch of perfection that agriculture, or rather gardening (for one cannot call these enclosures fields), will admit: and though it is holiday time just now, I see no neglect of necessary duty. They were watering away this morning at seven o'clock, just as we do in a nursery-ground about London, a hundred men at once, or more, before they came home to make themselves smart, and go to hear music in their best church, in honour of some saint, I have forgotten who; but he is the patron of Lucca, and cannot be accused of neglecting his charge, that is certain. This city seems really under admirable regulations; here are fewer beggars than even at Florence, where however one for fifty in the states of Genoa or Venice do not meet your eyes: And either the word liberty has bewitched me, or I see an air of plenty without insolence, and business without noise, that greatly delight me. Here is much cheerfulness too, and gay good-humour; but this is the season of devotion at Lucca, and in these countries the ideas of devotion and diversion are so blended, that all religious worship seems connected with, and to me now regularly implies, _a festive show_. Well, as the Italians say, "_Il mondo è bello perche è variabile_[Footnote: The world is pleasant because it is various.]." We English dress our clergymen in black, and go ourselves to the theatre in colours. Here matters are reversed, the church at noon looked like a flower-garden, so gaily adorned were the priests, confrairies, &c. while the Opera-house at night had more the air of a funeral, as every body was dressed in black: a circumstance I had forgotten the meaning of, till reminded that such was once the emulation of finery among the persons of fashion in this city, that it was found convenient to restrain the spirit of expence, by obliging them to wear constant mourning: a very rational and well-devised rule in a town so small, where every body is known to every body; and where, when this silly excitement to envy is wisely removed, I know not what should hinder the inhabitants from living like those one reads of in the Golden Age; which, above all others, this climate most resembles, where pleasure contributes to sooth life, commerce to quicken it, and faith extends its prospects to eternity. Such is, or such at least appears to me this lovely territory of Lucca: where cheap living, free government, and genteel society, may be enjoyed with a tranquillity unknown to larger states: where there are delicious and salutary baths a few miles out of town, for the nobility to make _villeggiatura_ at; and where, if those nobility were at all disposed to cultivate and communicate learning, every opportunity for study is afforded. Some drawbacks will however always be found from human felicity. I once mentioned this place with warm expectations of delight, to a Milanese lady of extensive knowledge, and every elegant accomplishment worthy her high birth, _the Contessa Melzi Resla_. "Why yes," said she, "if you would find out the place where common sense stagnates, and every topic of conversation dwindles and perishes away by too frequent or too unskilful touching and handling, you must go to Lucca. My ill-health sent me to their beautiful baths one summer; where all the faculties of my body were restored, thank God, but those of my soul were stupified to such a degree, that at last I was fit to keep no other company but _Dame Lucchesi_ I think; and _our_ talk was soon ended, heaven knows, for when they had once asked me of an evening, what I had for dinner? and told me how many pair of stockings their neighbours sent to the wash, we had done." This was a young, a charming, a lively lady of quality; full of curiosity to know the world, and of spirits to bustle through it; but had she been battered through the various societies of London and Paris for eighteen or twenty years together, she would have loved Lucca better, and despised it less. "We must not look for whales in the Euxine Sea," says an old writer; and we must not look for great men or great things in little nations to be sure, but let us respect the innocence of childhood, and regard with tenderness the territory of Lucca: where no man has been murdered during the life or memory of any of its peaceful inhabitants; where one robbery alone has been committed for sixteen years; and the thief hanged by a Florentine executioner borrowed for the purpose, no Lucchese being able or willing to undertake so horrible an office, with terrifying circumstances of penitence and public reprehension: where the governed are so few in proportion to the governors; all power being circulated among four hundred and fifty nobles, and the whole country producing scarcely ninety thousand souls. A great boarding-school in England is really an infinitely more licentious place; and grosser immoralities are every day connived at in it, than are known to pollute this delicate and curious commonwealth; which keeps a council always subsisting, called the _Discoli_, to examine the lives and conduct, professions, and even _health_ of their subjects: and once o'year they sweep the town of vagabonds, which till then are caught up and detained in a house of correction, and made to work, if hot disabled by lameness, till the hour of their release and dismission. I wondered there were so few beggars about, but the reason is now apparent: these we see are neighbours, come hither only for the three days gala. I was wonderfully solicitous to obtain some of their coin, which carries on it the image of no _earthly_ prince; but his head only who came to redeem us from general slavery on the one side, _Jesus Christ_; on the other, the word _Libertas_. Our peasant-girls here are in a new dress to me; no more jewels to be seen, no more pearls; the finery of which so dazzled me in Tuscany: these wenches are prohibited such ornaments it seems. A muslin handkerchief, folded in a most becoming manner, and starched exactly enough to make it wear clean four days, is the head-dress of Lucchese lasses; it is put on turban-wise, and they button their gowns close, with long sleeves _à la Savoyarde_; but it is made often of a stiff brocaded silk, and green lapels, with cuffs of the same colour; nor do they wear any hats at all, to defend them from a sun which does undoubtedly mature the fig and ripen the vine, but which, by the same excess of power, exalts the venom of the viper, and gives the scorpion means to keep me in perpetual torture for fear of his poison, of which, though they assure us death is seldom the consequence among _them_, I know his sting would finish me at once, because the gnats at Florence were sufficient to lame me for a considerable time. The dialect has lost much of the guttural sound that hurt one's ear at the last place of residence; but here is an odd squeaking accent, that distinguishes the Tuscan of Lucca. The place appropriated for airing, showing fine equipages, &c. is beautiful beyond all telling; from the peculiar shadows on the mountains. They make the bastions of the town their Corso, but none except the nobles can go and drive upon one part of it. I know not how many yards of ground is thus let apart, sacred to sovereignty; but it makes one laugh. Our inn here is an excellent one, as far as I am concerned; and the sallad-oil green, like Irish usquebaugh, nothing was ever so excellent. I asked the French valet who dresses our hair, "_Si ce n'etait pas une republique mignonne?_[X]"--"_Ma foy, madame, je la trouve plus tôt la republique des rats et des souris[Y];_" replies the fellow, who had not slept all night, I afterwards understood, for the noise those troublesome animals made in his room. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote X: If it were not a dear little pretty commonwealth--this?] [Footnote Y: Faith, madam, I call it the republic of the rats and mice.] PISA. This town has been so often described that it is as well known in England as in Italy almost; where I, like others, have seen the magnificent cathedral; have examined the two pillars which support its entrance, and which once adorned Diana's temple at Ephesus, one of the seven wonders of the world. Their carving is indeed beyond all idea of workmanship; and the possession of them is inestimable. I have seen the old stones with inscriptions on them, bearing date the reign of Antoninus Pius, stuck casually, some with the letters reversed, some sloping, according to accident merely, as it appears to me, in the body of the great church: and I have seen the leaning tower that Lord Chesterfield so comically describes our English travellers eagerness to see. It is a beautiful building though after all, and a strange thing that it should lean so. The cylindrical form, and marble pillars that support each story, may rationally enough attract a stranger's notice, and one is sorry the lower stories have sunk from their foundations, originally defective ones I trust they were, though, God knows, if the Italians do not build towers well, it is not for want either of skill or of experience; for there is a tower to every town I think, and commonly fabricated with elaborate nicety and well-fixed bases. But as earthquakes and subterranean fires here are scarcely a wonder, one need not marvel much at seeing the ground retreat just _here_. It is nearer our hand, and quite as well worth our while to enquire, why the tower at _Bridgnorth_ in Shropshire leans exactly in the same direction, and is full as much out of the perpendicular as this at Pisa. The brazen gates here, carved by John of Bologna, at least begun by him, are a wonderful work; and the marbles in the baptistery beat those of Florence for value and for variety. A good lapidary might find perpetual amusement in adjusting the claims of superiority to these precious columns of jasper, granite, alabaster, &c. The different animals which support the font being equally admirable for their composition as for their workmanship. The Campo Santo is an extraordinary place, and, for aught I know, unparalleled for its power over the mind in exciting serious contemplations upon the body's decay, and suggesting consolatory thoughts concerning the soul's immortality. Here in three days, owing to quick-lime mixed among the earth, vanishes every vestige, every trace of the human being carried thither seventy hours before, and here round the walls Giotto and Cimabue have exhausted their invention to impress the passers-by with deep and pensive melancholy. The four stages of man's short life, infancy, childhood, maturity, and decrepit age, not ill represented by one of the ancient artists, shew the sad but not slow progress we make to this dark abode; while the last judgment, hell, and paradise inform us what events of the utmost consequence are to follow our journey. All this a modern traveller finds out to be _vastly ridiculous!_ though Doctor Smollet _(whose book I think he has read)_ confesses, that the spacious Corridor round the Campo Santo di Pisa would make the noblest walk in the world perhaps for a contemplative philosopher. The tomb of Algarotti produces softer ideas when one looks at the sepulchre of a man who, having deserved and obtained such solid and extensive praise, modestly contented himself with desiring that his epitaph might be so worded, as to record, upon a simple but lasting monument, that he had the honour of being disciple to the immortal _Newton_. The battle of the bridge here at Pisa drew a great many spectators this year, as it has not been performed for a considerable time before: the waiters at our inn here give a better account of it than one should have got perhaps from Cavalier or Dama, who would have felt less interested in the business, and seen it from a greater distance. The armies of Sant' Antonio, and I think San Giovanni Battista, but I will not be positive as to the last, disputed the possession of the bridge, and fought gallantly I fancy; but the first remained conqueror, as our very conversible _Camerieres_ took care to inform us, as it was on that side it seems that they had exerted their valour. Calling theatres, and ships, and running horses, and mock fights, and almost every thing so by the names of Saints, whom we venerate in silence, and they themselves publicly worship, has a most profane and offensive sound with it to be sure; and shocks delicate ears very dreadfully: and I used to reprimand my maids at Milan for bringing up the blessed Virgin Mary's name on every trivial, almost on every ludicrous occasion, with a degree of sharpness they were not accustomed to, because it kept me in a constant shivering. Yet let us reflect a moment on our own conduct in England, and we shall be forced candidly to confess that the Puritans alone keep their lips unpolluted by breach of the third commandment, while the common exclamation of _good God!_ scrupled by few people on the slightest occurrences, and apparently without any temptation in the world, is no less than gross irreverence of his sacred name, whom we acknowledge to be Father of all, in _every_ age In _every_ clime ador'd; By saint, by savage, and by sage, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord. Nor have the ladies at a London card-table Italian ignorance to plead in their excuse; as not instruction but docility is wanted among almost all ranks of people in Great Britain, where, if the Christian religion were practised as it is understood, little could be wished for its eternal, as little is left out among the blessings of its temporal welfare. I have been this morning to look at the Grand Duke's camels, which he keeps in his park as we do deer in England. There were a hundred and sixteen of them, pretty creatures! and they breed very well here, and live quite at their ease, only housing them the winter months: they are perfectly docile and gentle the man told me, apparently less tender of their young than mares, but more approachable by human creatures than even such horses as have been long at grass. That dun hue one sees them of, is, it seems, not totally and invariably the same, though I doubt not but it is so in their native deserts. Let it once become a fashion for sovereigns and other great men to keep and to caress them, we shall see camels as variegated as cats, which in the woods are all of the uniformly-streaked tabby--the males inclining to the brown shade--the females to blue among them;--but being bred _down_, become tortoise-shell, and red, and every variety of colour, which domestication alone can bestow. The misery of Tuscany is, that _all animals_ thrive so happily under this productive sun; so that if you scorn the Zanzariere, you are half-devoured before morning, and so disfigured, that I defy one's nearest friends to recollect one's countenance; while the spiders sting as much as any of their insects; and one of them bit me this very day till the blood came. With all this not ill-founded complaint of these our active companions, my constant wonder is, that the grapes hang untouched this 20th of September, in vast heavy clusters covered with bloom; and unmolested by insects, which, with a quarter of this heat in England, are encouraged to destroy all our fruit in spite of the gardener's diligence to blow up nests, cover the walls with netting, and hang them about with bottles of syrup, to court the creatures in, who otherwise so damage every fig and grape and plum of ours, that nothing but the skins are left remaining _by now. Here_ no such contrivances are either wanted or thought on; and while our islanders are sedulously bent to guard, and studious to invent new devices to protect their half dozen peaches from their half dozen wasps, the standard trees of Italy are loaded with high-flavoured and delicious fruits. Here figs sky-dy'd a purple hue disclose, Green looks the olive, the pomegranate glows; Here dangling pears exalted scents unfold, And yellow apples ripen into gold. The roadside is indeed hedged with festoons of vines, crawling from olive to olive, which they plant in the ditches of Tuscany as we do willows in Britain: mulberry trees too by the thousand, and some pollarded poplars serve for support to the glorious grapes that will now soon be gathered. What least contributes to the beauty of the country however, is perhaps most subservient to its profits. I am ashamed to write down the returns of money gained by the oil alone in this territory and that of Lucca, where I was much struck with the colour as well as the excellence of this useful commodity. Nor can I tell why none of that green cast comes over to England, unless it is, that, like essential oil of chamomile, it loses the tint by exposure to the air. An olive tree, however, is no elegantly-growing or happily-coloured plant: straggling and dusky, one is forced to think of its produce, before one can be pleased with its merits, as in a deformed and ugly friend or companion. The fogs now begin to fall pretty heavily in a morning, and rising about the middle of the day, leave the sun at liberty to exert his violence very powerfully. At night come forth the inhabitants, like dor-beetles at sunset on the coast of Sussex; then is their season to walk and chat, and sing and make love, and run about the street with a girl and a guittar; to eat ice and drink lemonade; but never to be seen drunk or quarrelsome, or riotous. Though night is the true season of Italian felicity, they place not their happiness in brutal frolics, any more than in malicious titterings; they are idle and they are merry: it is, I think, the worst we can say of them; they are idle because there is little for them to do, and merry because they have little given them to think about. To the busy Englishman they might well apply these verses of his own Milton in the Masque of Comus: What have we with day to do? Sons of Care! 'twas made for you. LEGHORN. Here we are by the sea-side once more, in a trading town too; and I should think myself in England almost, but for the difference of dresses that pass under my balcony: for here we were immediately addressed by a young English gentleman, who politely put us in possession of his apartments, the best situated in the town; and with him we talked of the dear coast of Devonshire, agreed upon the resemblance between that and these environs, but gave the preference to home, on account of its undulated shore, finely fringed with woodlands, which here are wanting: nor is this verdure equal to ours in vivid colouring, or variegated with so much taste as those lovely hills which are adorned by the antiquities of Powderham Castle, and the fine disposition of Lord Lisburne's park. But here is an English consul at Leghorn. Yes indeed! an English chapel too; our own King's arms over the door, and in the desk and pulpit an English clergyman; high in character, eminent for learning, genteel in his address, and charitable in every sense of the word: as such, truly loved and honoured by those of his own persuasion, exceedingly respected by those of every other, which fill this extraordinary city: a place so populous, that Cheapside alone can surpass it. It is not a large place however; one very long straight street, and one very large wide square, not less than Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, but I think bigger, form the whole of Leghorn; which I can compare to nothing but a _camera obscura,_ or magic lanthron, exhibiting prodigious variety of different, and not uninteresting figures, that pass and re-pass to my incessant delight, and give that sort of empty amusement which is _à la portée de chacun_[Footnote: Within every one's reach.] so completely, that for the present it really serves to drive every thing else from my head, and makes me little desirous to quit for any other diversion the windows or balcony, whence I look down now upon a Levantine Jew, dressed in long robes, a sort of odd turban, and immense beard: now upon a Tuscan contadinella, with the little straw hat, nosegay and jewels, I have been so often struck with. Here an Armenian Christian, with long hair, long gown, long beard, all black as a raven; who calls upon an old grey Franciscan friar for a walk; while a Greek woman, obliged to cross the street on some occasion, throws a vast white veil all over her person, lest she should undergo the disgrace of being seen at all. Sometimes a group goes by, composed of a broad Dutch sailor, a dry-starched puritan, and an old French officer; whose knowledge of the world and habitual politeness contrive to conceal the contempt he has of his companions. The geometricians tell us that the figure which has most angles bears the nearest resemblance to that which has no angles at all; so here at Leghorn, where you can hardly find forty men of a mind, dispute and contention grow vain, a comfortable though temporary union takes place, while nature and opinion bend to interest and necessity. The _Contorni_ of Leghorn are really very pretty; the Appenine mountains degenerate into hills as they run round the bay, but gain in beauty what in sublimity they lose. To enjoy an open sea view, one must drive further; and it really affords a noble prospect from that rising ground where I understand that the rich Jews hold their summer habitations. They have a synagogue in the town, where I went one evening, and heard the Hebrew service, and thought of what Dr. Burney says of their singing. It is however no credit to the Tuscans to tell, that of all the people gathered together here, they are the worst-looking--I speak of the _men_--but it is so. When compared with the German soldiery, the English sailors, the Venetian traders, the Neapolitan peasants, for I have seen some of _them_ here, how feeble a fellow is a genuine Florentine! And when one recollects the cottagers of Lombardy, that handsome hardy race; bright in their expression, and muscular in their strength; it is still stranger, what can have weakened these too delicate Tuscans so. As they are very rich, and might be very happy under the protection of a prince who lets slip no opportunity of preferring his plebeian to his patrician subjects; yet here at Leghorn they have a tender frame and an unhealthy look, occasioned possibly by the stagnant waters, which tender the environs unwholesome enough I believe; and the millions of live creatures they produce are enough to distract a person not accustomed to such buzzing company. We went out for air yesterday morning three or four miles beyond the town-walls, where I looked steadily at the sea, till I half thought myself at home. The ocean being peculiarly British property favoured the idea, and for a moment I felt as if on our southern coast; we walked forward towards the shore, and I stepped upon some rocks that broke the waves as they rolled in, and was wishing for a good bathing house that one might enjoy the benefit of salt-water so long withheld; till I saw our _laquais de place_ crossing himself at the carriage door, and wondering, as I afterwards found out, at my matchless intrepidity. The mind however took another train of thought, and we returned to the coach, which when we arrived at I refused to enter; not without screaming I fear, as a vast hornet had taken possession in our absence, and the very notion of such a companion threw me into an agony. Our attendant's speech to the coachman however, made me more than amends: "_Ora si vede amico_" (says he), "_cos'è la Donna; del mare istesso non hà paura è pur và in convulsioni per via d'una mosca_[Z]." This truly Tuscan and highly contemptuous harangue, uttered with the utmost deliberation, and added to the absence of the hornet, sent me laughing into the carriage, with great esteem of our philosophical _Rosso_, for so the fellow was called, because he had red hair. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote Z: Now, my friend, do but observe what a thing is a woman! she is not afraid even of the roaring ocean, and yet goes into fits almost at the sight of a fly.] In a very clear day, it is said, one may see Corsica from hence, though not less than forty or fifty miles off: the pretty island Gorgona however, whence our best anchovies are brought to England, lies constantly in view, Assurgit ponti medio circumflua Gorgon. RUTELIUS's Itinerary. How she came by that extraordinary name though, is not I believe well known; perhaps her likeness to one of the Cape Verd islands, the original Hesperides, might be the cause; for it was _there_ the daughters of Phorcus fixed their habitation: or may be, as Medusa was called _Gorgon par eminence_, because she applied herself to the enriching of ground, this fertile islet owes its appellation from being particularly manured and fructified. Here is an extraordinary good opera-house; admirable dancers, who performed a mighty pretty pantomime Comedie _larmoyante_ without words; I liked it vastly. The famous Soprano singer Bedini was at Lucca; but here is our old London favourite Signora Giorgi, improved into a degree of perfection seldom found, and from her little expected. Mr. Udney the British Consul is alone now; his lady has been obliged to leave him, and take her children home for health's sake; but we saw his fine collection of pictures, among which is a Danae that once belonged to Queen Christina of Sweden, and fell from her possession into that of some nobleman, who being tormented by scruples of morality upon his death-bed, resolved to part with all his undraped figures, but not liking to lose the face of this Danae, put the picture into a painter's hands to cut and clothe her: the man, instead of obeying orders he considered as barbarous, copied the whole, and dressed the copy decently, sending it to his sick friend, who never discerned the trick; and kept the original to dispose of, where fewer scruples impeded an advantageous sale. The gentleman who bought it then, died; when Mr. Udney purchased Danae, and highly values her; though some connoisseurs say she is too young and ungrown a female for the character. There is a Titian too in the same collection, of Cupid riding on a lion's back, to which some very remarkable story is annexed; but one's belief is so assailed by such various tales, told of all the striking pictures in Italy, that one grows more tenacious of it every day I think; so that at last the danger will be of believing too little, instead of too much perhaps. Happy for travellers would it be, were that disposition of mind confined to _painting_ only: but if it should prove extended to more serious subjects, we can only hope that the violent excess of the temptation may prove some excuse, or at least in a slight degree extenuate the offence: A wise man cannot believe half he hears in Italy to be sure, but a pious man will be cautious not to discredit it all. Our evening's walk was directed towards the burying-ground appointed here to receive the bodies of our countrymen, and consecrated according to the rites of the Anglican church: for _here_, under protection of a factory, we enjoy that which is vainly sought for under the auspices of a king's ambassador.--_Here_ we have a churchyard of our own, and are not condemned as at other towns in Italy, to be stuffed into a hole like dogs, after having spent our money among them like princes. Prejudice however is not banished from Leghorn, though convenience keeps all in good-humour with each other. The Italians fail not to class the subjects of Great Britain among the Pagan inhabitants of the town, and to distinguish themselves, say, "_Noi altri Christiani_[Footnote: We that are Christians.]:" their aversion to a Protestant, conceal it as they may, is ever implacable; and the last day only will convince them that it is criminal. _Coelum non animum mutant_[Footnote: One changes one's sky but not one's soul.], is an old observation; I passed this afternoon in confirming the truth of it among the English traders settled here: whose conversation, manners, ideas, and language, were so truly _Londonish_, so little changed by transmigration, that I thought some enchantment had suddenly operated, and carried me to drink tea in the regions of _Bucklersbury_. Well! it is a great delight to see such a society subsisting in Italy after all; established where distress may run for refuge, and sickness retire to prepare for lasting repose; whence narrowness of mind is banished by principles of universal benevolence, and prejudice precluded by Christian charity: where the purse of the British merchant, ever open to the poor, is certain to succour and to soothe affliction; and where it is agreed that more alms are given by the natives of our island alone, than by all the rest of Leghorn, and the palaces of Pisa put together. I have here finished that work which chiefly brought me hither; the Anecdotes of Dr. Johnson's Life. It is from this port they take their flight for England, while we retire for refreshment to the BAGNI DI PISA. But not only the waters here are admirable, every look from every window gives images unentertained before; sublimity happily wedded with elegance, and majestick greatness enlivened, yet softened by taste. The haughty mountain St. Juliano lifting its brown head over our house on one side, the extensive plain stretched out before us on the other; a gravel walk neatly planted by the side of a peaceful river, which winds through a valley richly cultivated with olive yards and vines; and sprinkled, though rarely, with dwellings, either magnificent or pleasing: this lovely prospect, bounded only by the sea, makes a variety incessant as the changes of the sky; exhibiting early tranquillity, and evening splendour by turns. It was perhaps particularly delightful to me, to obtain once more a cottage in the country, after running so from one great city to another; and for the first week I did nothing but rejoice in a solitude so new, so salutiferous, so total. I therefore begged my husband not to hurry us to Rome, but take the house we lived in for a longer term, as I would now play the English housewife in Italy I said; and accordingly began calling the chickens and ducks under my window, tasted the new wine as it ran purple from the cask, caressed the meek oxen that drew it to our door; and felt sensations so unaffectedly pastoral, that nothing in romance ever exceeded my felicity. The cold bath here is the most delicate imaginable; of a moderate degree of coldness though, not three degrees below Matlock surely; but omitting, simply enough, to carry a thermometer, one can measure the heat of nothing. Our hot water here seems about the temperature of the Queen's bath in Somersetshire; it is purgative, not corroborant, they tell me; and its taste resembles Cheltenham water exactly. These springs are much frequented by the court I find, and here are very tolerable accommodations; but it is not the season now, and our solitude is perfect in a place which beggars all description, where the mountains are mountains of marble, and the bushes on them bushes of myrtle; large as our hawthorns, and white with blossoms, as _they_ are at the same time of year in Devonshire; where the waters are salubrious, the herbage odoriferous, every trodden step breathing immediate fragrance from the crushed sweets of thyme, and marjoram, and winter savoury: while the birds and the butterflies frolick around, and flutter among the loaded lemon, and orange, and olive trees, till imagination is fatigued with following the charms that surround one. I am come home this moment from a long but not tedious walk, among the crags of this glorious mountain; the base of which nearly reaches, within half a mile perhaps, to the territories of Lucca. Some country girls passed me with baskets of fruit, chickens, &c. on their heads. I addressed them as natives of the last-named place, saying I knew them to be such by their dress and air; one of them instantly replied, "_Oh si, siamo Lucchesi, noi altri; già si può vedere subito una Reppubblicana, e credo bene ch'ella fe n' é accorta benissimo che siamo del paese della libertà_[AA]." [Footnote AA: Oh yes, we are Lucca people sure enough, and I am persuaded that you soon saw in our faces that we come from a land of liberty.] I will add that these females wear no ornaments at all; are always proud and gay, and sometimes a little fancy too. The Tuscan damsels, loaded with gold and pearls, have a less assured look, and appear disconcerted when in company with their freer neighbours--Let them tell why. Mean time my fairy dream of fantastic delight seems fading away apace. Mr. Piozzi has been ill, and of a putrid complaint in his throat, which above all things I should dread in this hot climate. This accident, assisted by other concurring circumstances, has convinced me that we are not shut up in measureless content as Shakespeare calls it, even under St. Julian's Hill: for here was no help to be got in the first place, except the useless conversation of a medical gentleman whose accent and language might have pleased a disengaged mind, but had little chance to tranquilize an affrighted one. What is worse, here was no rest to be had, for the multitudes of vermin up stairs and below. When we first hired the house, I remember my maid jumping up on one of the kitchen chairs while a ragged lad cleared _that_ apartment for her of scorpions to the number of seventeen. But now the biters and stingers drive me _quite wild_, because one must keep the windows open for air, and a sick man can enjoy none of that, being closed up in the Zanzariere, and obliged to respire the same breath over and over again; which, with a sore throat and fever, is most melancholy: but I keep it wet with vinegar, and defy the hornets how I can. What is more surprising than all, however, is to hear that no lemons can be procured for less than two pence English a-piece; and now I am almost ready to join myself in the general cry against Italian imposition, and recollect the proverb which teaches us Chi hà da far con Tosco, Non bisogna esser losco[AB]; [Footnote AB: Who has to do with Tuscan wight, Of both his eyes will need the light. ] as I am confident they cannot be worth even two pence a hundred here, where they hang like apples in our cyder countries; but the rogues know that my husband is sick, and upon poor me they have no mercy. I have sent our folks out to gather fruit at a venture: and now this misery will soon be ended with his illness; driven away by deluges of lemonade, I think, made in defiance of wasps, flies, and a kind of volant beetle, wonderfully beautiful and very pertinacious in his attacks; and who makes dreadful depredations on my sugar and currant-jelly, so necessary on this occasion of illness, and so attractive to all these detestable inhabitants of a place so lovely. My patient, however, complaining that although I kept these harpies at a distance, no sleep could yet be obtained;--I resolved when he was risen, and had changed his room, to examine into the true cause: and with my maid's assistance, unript the mattress, which was without exaggeration or hyperbole _all alive_ with creatures wholly unknown to me. Non-descripts in nastiness I believe they are, like maggots with horns and tails; such a race as I never saw or heard of, and as would have disgusted Mr. Leeuenhoeck himself. My willingness to quit this place and its hundred-footed inhabitants was quickened three nights after by a thunder storm, such as no dweller in more northern latitudes can form an idea of; which, afflicted by some few slight shocks of an earthquake, frighted us all from our beds, sick and well, and gave me an opportunity of viewing such flashes of lightning as I had never contemplated till now, and such as it appeared impossible to escape from with life. The tremendous claps of thunder re-echoing among these Appenines, which double every sound, were truly dreadful. I really and sincerely thought St. Julian's mountain was rent by one violent stroke, accompanied with a rough concussion, and that the rock would fall upon our heads by morning; while the agonies of my English maid and the French valet, became equally insupportable to themselves and me; who could only repeat the same unheeded consolations, and protest our resolution of releasing them from this theatre of distraction the moment our departure should become practicable. Mean time the rain fell, and such a torrent came tumbling down the sides of St. Juliano, as I am persuaded no female courage could have calmly looked on. I therefore waited its abatement in a darkened room, packed up our coach without waiting to copy over the verses my admiration of the place had prompted, and drove forward to Sienna, through Pisa again, where our friends told us of the damages done by the tempest; and shewed us a pretty little church just out of town, where the officiating priest at the altar was saved almost by miracle, as the lightning melted one of the chalices completely, and twisted the brazen-gilt crucifix quite round in a very astonishing manner. Here, however, is the proper place, if any, to introduce the poem of seventy-three short lines, calling itself an Ode to Society written in a state of perfect solitude, secluded from all mortal tread, as was our habitation at the Bagni di Pisa. ODE TO SOCIETY. I. SOCIETY! gregarious dame! Who knows thy favour'd haunts to name? Whether at Paris you prepare The supper and the chat to share, While fix'd in artificial row, Laughter displays its teeth of snow: Grimace with raillery rejoices, And song of many mingled voices, Till young coquetry's artful wile Some foreign novice shall beguile, Who home return'd, still prates of thee, Light, flippant, French SOCIETY. II. Or whether, with your zone unbound, You ramble gaudy Venice round, Resolv'd the inviting sweets to prove, Of friendship warm, and willing love; Where softly roll th' obedient seas, Sacred to luxury and ease, In coffee-house or casino gay Till the too quick return of day, Th' enchanted votary who sighs For sentiments without disguise, Clear, unaffected, fond, and free, In Venice finds SOCIETY. III. Or if to wiser Britain led, Your vagrant feet desire to tread With measur'd step and anxious care, The precincts pure of Portman square; While wit with elegance combin'd, And polish'd manners there you'll find; The taste correct--and fertile mind: Remember vigilance lurks near, And silence with unnotic'd sneer, Who watches but to tell again Your foibles with to-morrow's pen; Till titt'ring malice smiles to see Your wonder--grave SOCIETY. IV. Far from your busy crowded court, Tranquillity makes her report; Where 'mid cold Staffa's columns rude, Resides majestic solitude; Or where in some sad Brachman's cell, Meek innocence delights to dwell, Weeping with unexperienc'd eye, The death of a departed fly: Or in _Hetruria_'s heights sublime, Where science self might fear to climb, But that she seeks a smile from thee, And wooes thy praise, SOCIETY. V. Thence let me view the plains below, From rough St. Julian's rugged brow; Hear the loud torrents swift descending, Or mark the beauteous rainbow bending, Till Heaven regains its favourite hue, Æther divine! celestial blue! Then bosom'd high in myrtle bower, View letter'd Pisa's pendent tower; The sea's wide scene, the port's loud throng, Of rude and gentle, right and wrong; A motley groupe which yet agree To call themselves SOCIETY. VI. Oh! thou still sought by wealth and fame, Dispenser of applause and blame: While flatt'ry ever at thy side, With slander can thy smiles divide; Far from thy haunts, oh! let me stray, But grant one friend to cheer my way, Whose converse bland, whose music's art, May cheer my soul, and heal my heart; Let soft content our steps pursue, And bliss eternal bound our view: Pow'r I'll resign, and pomp, and glee, Thy best-lov'd sweets--SOCIETY. SIENNA. 20th October 1786. We arrived here last night, having driven through the sweetest country in the world; and here are a few timber trees at last, such as I have not seen for a long time, the Tuscan spirit of mutilation being so great, that every thing till now has been pollarded that would have passed twenty feet in height: this is done to support the vines, and not suffer their rambling produce to run out of the way, and escape the gripe of the gatherers. I have eaten too many of these delicious grapes however, and it is now my turn to be sick--No wonder, I know few who would resist a like temptation, especially as the inn afforded but a sorry dinner, whilst every hedge provided so noble a dessert. _Paffera pur la malattia_[Footnote: The disorder will die away though.], as these soft-mouthed people tell me; the sooner perhaps, as we are not here annoyed by insects, which poison the pleasure of other places in Italy; here are only _lizards_, lovely creatures! who being of a beautiful light green colour upon the back and legs, reside in whole families at the foot of every tree, and turn their scarlet bosoms to the sun, as if to display the glories of colouring which his beams alone can bestow. The pleasing tales told of this pretty animal's amical disposition towards man are strictly true, I hear; and it is no longer ago than yesterday I was told an odd anecdote of a young farmer, who, carrying a basket of figs to his mistress, lay down in the field as he crossed it, quite overcome with the weather, and fell fast asleep. A serpent, attracted by the scent, twined round the basket, and would have bit the fellow as well as robbed him, had not a friendly lizard waked, and given him warning of the danger. Swift says, that in the course of life he meets many asses, but they have not _lucky names_. I have met many _vipers, and so few lizards_, it is surprising! but they will not live in London. All the stories one has ever heard of sweetness in language and delicacy in pronunciation, fall short of Siennese converse. The girls who wait on us at the inn here, would be treasures in England, could one get them thither; and they need move nothing but their tongues to make their fortunes. I told Rosetta so, and said I would steal from them a poor girl of eight years old, whom they kept out of charity, and called Olympia, to be my language mistress, "_Battezata com' è, la lascieremo Christiana_[AC]," was the answer. It is impossible, without their manners, to express their elegance, their superior delicacy, graceful without diffusion, and terse without laconicism. You ask the way to the town of a peasant girl, and she replies, "_Passato'l Ponte, o pur barcato'l Fiume, eccola a Sienna_[AD]." And as we drove towards the city in the evening, our postillion sung improviso verses on his sweetheart, a widow who lived down at Pistoja, they told me. I was ashamed to think that no desk or study was likely to have produced better on so trite a subject. Candour must confess, however, that no thought was new, though the language made them for a moment seem so. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote AC: Being baptized as she is, we will leave her a Christian.] [Footnote AD: The bridge once passed, or the river crossed, Sienna lies before you.] This town is neat and cleanly, and comfortable and airy. The prospect from the public walks wants no beauty but water; and here is a suppressed convent on the neighbouring hill, where we half-longed to build a pretty cottage, as the ground is now to be disposed of vastly cheap; and half one's work is already done in the apartments once occupied by friars. With half a word's persuasion I should fix for life here. The air is so pure, the language so pleasing, the place so inviting;--_but we drive on_. There is, mean time, resident in the neighbourhood an English gentleman, his name Greenfield, who has formed to himself a mighty sweet habitation in the English taste, but not extensive, as his property don't reach far: he is however a sort of little oracle in the country I am told; gives money, and dispenses James's powders to the poor, is happy in the esteem of numberless people of fashion, and the comfort of his country people's lives beside; who, travelling to Sienna, as many do for the advantage of studying Italian to perfection, find a friend and companion where perhaps it is least expected. The cathedral here at Sienna deserves a volume, and I shall scarcely give it a page. The pavement of it is the just pride of Italy, and may challenge the world to produce its equal. St. Mark's at Venice floored with precious stones dies away upon the comparison; this being all inlaid with dove-coloured and white marbles representing historical subjects not ill told. Were this operation performed in mosaic work, others of rival excellence might be found. The pavement of Sienna's dome is so disposed by an effort of art one never saw but here, that it produces an effect most resembling that of a very fine and beautiful damask table-cloth, where the large patterns are correctly drawn. _Rome_ however is to be our next stage, and many of our English gentlemen now here, are with ourselves impatiently waiting for the numberless pleasures it is expected to afford us. I will here close this chapter upon our various desires; one wishing to see St. Peters; one setting his heart upon entering the Capitol: to-morrow's sun will light us all upon our search. ROME. The first sleeping place between Sienna and this capital shall not escape mentioning; its name is Radicosani, its title an inn, and its situation the summit of an exhausted volcano. Such a place did I never see. The violence of the mountain, when living, has split it in a variety of places, and driven it to a breadth of base beyond credibility, its height being no longer formidable. Whichever way you turn your eyes, nothing but portions of this black rock appear therefore; so here is extent without sublimity, and here is terror mingled with disgust. The inside of the house is worthy of the prospect seen from its windows; wild, spacious, and scantily provided. Never had place so much the appearance of a haunted hall, where Sir Rowland or Sir Bertrand might feel proud of their courage when The knight advancing strikes the fatal door, And hollow chambers send a sullen roar. MERRY To this truly dismal reposing place is however kindly added a little chapel; and few persons can imagine what a comfortable feel it gave me on entering it in the morning after hearing the winds howl all night in the black mountain. Here too we first made acquaintance with Signor Giovanni Ricci, a mighty agreeable gentleman, who was kindly assistant to us in a hundred little difficulties, afterwards occasioned by horses, postillions, &c. which at last brought us through a bad country enough to Viterbo, where we slept. The melancholy appearance of the Campagna has been remarked and described by every traveller with displeasure, by all with truth. The ill look of the very few and very unhealthy inhabitants confirms their descriptions; and beside the pale and swelled faces which shock one's sight, here is a brassy scent in the air as of verdigris, which offends one's smell; the running water is of an odd colour too, like that in which copper has been steeped. These are sad desolated scenes indeed, though this is not the season for _mal' aria_ neither, which, it is said, begins in May, and ends with September. The present sovereign is mending matters as fast as he can, we hear; and the road now cutting, will greatly facilitate access to his capital, but cannot be done without a prodigious expence. The first view of Rome is wonderfully striking. Ye awful wrecks of ancient times! Proud monuments of ages past Now mould'ring in decay. MERRY. But mingled with every crowding, every classical idea, comes to one's recollection an old picture painted by R. Wilson about thirty years ago, which I am now sure must have been a very excellent representation. Well, then! here we are, admirably lodged at Strofani's in the Piazza di Spagna, and have only to chuse what we will see and talk on first among this galaxy of rarities which dazzles, diverts, confounds, and nearly fatigues one. I will speak of the oldest things first, as I was earnest to see something of Rome in its very early days, if possible; for example the Sublician Bridge, defended by Cocles when the infant republic, like their favourite Hercules in his cradle, strangled the serpent despotism: and of this bridge some portion may yet be seen when the water is very low. The prison is more ancient still however; it was built by the kings; and by the solidity of its walls, and depth of its dungeon, seems built for eternity. Was it not this place to which Juvenal alludes, when he says, Felicia dicas Tempora quæ quondam sub regibus atque tribunis Viderunt uno contentam carcere Romam. And it is in this horrible spot they shew you the miraculous mark of St. Peter's head struck against the wall in going down, with the fountain which burst out of the ground for his refreshment. Antiquaries, however, assure us, that he could not have ever been confined there, as it was a place for state prisoners only, and those of the highest rank: they likewise tell us that Jugurtha passed seven months there, which is as difficult to believe as any miracle ever wrought; for the world was at least somewhat civilized in those days, and how it should be contented with looking quietly on whilst a Prince of Jugurtha's consequence should be so kept, appears incredible at the distance of 1900 years. That Christians should be treated still worse, if worse could be found for them, is less strange, when every step one treads is upon the bones of martyrs; and who dares say that the surrounding campagna, so often drenched in innocent blood, may not have been cursed with pestilence and sterility to all succeeding ages? I have examined the place where Sylla massacred 8000 fellow-citizens at once, and find that it produces no herb but thistles, a weed almost unknown in any other part of Italy; and one of the first punishments bestowed on sinful man. Marcellus's Theatre, an old fountain erected by Camillus when Dictator, and the Tarpeian rock, attract attention powerfully: the last particularly, Where brave Manlius stood, And hurl'd indignant decads down, And redden'd Tyber's flood. GREATHEED. People have never done contradicting Burnet, who says, in his travels, that a man might jump down it now and not do himself much harm: the truth is, its present appearance is not formidable; but I believe it is not less than forty feet high at this moment, though the ground is greatly raised. Of all things at Rome the Cloaca is acknowledged most ancient; a very great and a very useful work it is, of Ancus Martius, fourth king of Rome. The just and zealous detestation of Christians towards Pontius Pilate, is here comically expressed by their placing his palace just at its exit into the Tyber; and one who pretended to doubt of its being his residence, would be thought the worse of among them. I recollect nothing else built before the days of the Emperors, who, for the most part, were such disgracers of human nature and human reason, that one would almost wish their names expunged, and all their deeds obliterated from the face of the globe, which could ever tamely submit to such truly wretched rulers. The Capitol, built by Tarquin, stood till the days of Marius and Sylla it seems; that last-named Dictator erected a new one, which was overthrown in the contests about Vitellius; Vespasian set it up again, but his performance was burned soon after its author's death; and this we contemplate now, is one of the works of Domitian, and celebrated by Martial of course. Adrian however added one room to it, dedicated to Egyptian deities alone: as a matter of mere taste I fancy, like our introducing Chinese temples into the garden; but many hold that it was very serious and superstitious regard, inspired by the victory Canopus won over the Persian divinity of fire, by the subtlety of the Egyptian priests, who, to defend their idol from that all-subduing element, wisely set upon his head a vessel filled with water, and having previously made the figure of Terra Cotta hollow, and full of water, with holes bored at the bottom stopped only by wax to keep it in, a seeming miracle extinguished the flames, as soon as approached by Canopus; whose triumph was of course proclaimed, and he respected accordingly. The figure was a monkey, whose sitting attitude favoured the imposture: our antiquaries tell us the story after _Suidas_. As cruelty is more detestable than fraud, one feels greater disgust at the sight of captive monarchs without hands and arms, than even these idolatrous brutalities inspire; and no greater proof can be obtained of Roman barbarity, than the statues one is shewn here of kings and generals over whom they triumphed; being made on purpose for them without hands and arms, of which they were deprived immediately on their arrival at Rome. Enormous heads and feet, to which the other parts are wanting, let one see, or at least guess; what colossal figures were once belonging to them; yet somehow these celebrated artists seem to me to have a little confounded the ideas of _big_ and _great_ like my countryman Fluellyn in Shakespear's play: while the two famous demi-gods Castor and Pollux, each his horse in his hand, stand one on each side the stairs which lead to the Capitol, and are of a prodigious size--fifteen feet, as I remember. The knowing people tell us they are portraits, and bid us observe that one has pupils to his eyes, the other _not_; but our _laquais de place_, who was a very sensible fellow too, as he saw me stand looking at them, cried out, "Why now to be sure here are a vast many miracles in this holy city--that there are:" and I heard one of our own folks telling an Englishman the other day, how these two monstrous statues, horses and all I believe, _came out of an egg_: a very extraordinary thing certainly; but it is our business to believe, not to enquire. He saw my countenance express something he did not like, and continued, "_Eh basta! sarà stato un uovo strepitoso, è cosi sinisce l'istoria_[AE]." [Footnote AE: Well, well! it was a famous egg we'll say, and there's an end.] In this repository of wonders, this glorious _campidoglio_, one is first shewn as the most valuable curiosity, the two pigeons mentioned by Pliny in old mosaic; and of prodigious nicety is the workmanship, though done at such a distant period: and here is the very wolf which bears the very mark of the lightning mentioned by Cicero:--and here is the beautiful Antinous again; _he_ meets one at every turn, I think, and always hangs his head as if ashamed: here too is the dying gladiator; wonderfully fine! savage valour! mean extraction! horrible anguish! all marking, all strongly characteristical expressions--_all there_; yet all swallowed up, in that which does inevitably and certainly swallow up all things--approaching death. The collection of pictures here would put any thing but these statues out of one's head: Guido's Fortune flying over the globe, scattering her gifts; of which she gave him _one_, the most precious, the most desirable. How elegantly gay and airy is this picture! But St. Sebastian stands opposite, to shew that he could likewise excel in the pathetic. Titian's famous Magdalen, of which the King of France boasts one copy, a noble family at Venice another, is protested by the Roman connoisseurs to reside here only; but why should not the artist be fond of repeating so fine an idea? Guercino's Sybil however, intelligently pensive, and sweetly sensible, is the single figure I should prefer to them all. Before we quit the Capitol, it is pity not to name Marforio; broken, old, and now almost forgotten: though once companion, or rather respondent to Pasquin, and once, a thousand years before those days, a statue of the river _Nar_, as his recumbent posture testifies; not _Mars in the forum_, as has been by some supposed. The late Pope moved him from the street, and shut him up with his betters in the Capitol. Of Trajan and Antonine's Pillars what can one say? That St. Peter and St. Paul stand on the tops of each, setting forth that uncertainty of human affairs which they preached in their life-time, and shewing that _they_, who were once the objects of contempt and abhorrence, are now become literally _the head stones of the corner_; being but too profoundly venerated in that very city, which once cruelly persecuted, and unjustly put them to death. Let us then who look on them recollect their advice, and set our affections on a place of greater stability. The columns are of very unequal excellence, that of Trajan's confessedly the best; one grieves to think he never saw it himself, as few princes were less puffed up by well-deserved praise than he; but dying at Seleucia of a dysenteric fever, his ashes were brought home, and kept on the top of his own pillar in a gilt vase; which Sextus Quintus with more zeal than taste took down, I fear destroyed, and placed St. Peter there. Apollodorus was the architect of the elegant structure, on which, says Ammianus Marcellinus, the Gods themselves gazed with wonder, seeing that nothing but heaven itself was finer. "_Singularem sub omni cælo structuram etiam numinum ascensione mirabilem_." I know not whether this is the proper place to mention that the good Pope Gregory, who added to the possession of every cardinal virtue the exertion of every Christian one, having looked one day with peculiar stedfastness at this column, and being naturally led to reflect on his character to whose honour it was erected, felt just admiration of a mind so noble; and retiring to his devotions in a church not far off, began praying earnestly for Trajan's soul: till a preternatural voice, accompanied with rays of light round the altar he knelt at, commanded his forbearance of further solicitation; assuring him that Trajan's soul was secure in the care of his Creator. Strange! that those who record, and give credit to such a story, can yet continue as a duty their intercessions for the dead! But I have seen the Coliseo, which would swallow that of pretty Verona; it is four times as large I am told, and would hold fourscore thousand spectators. After all the depredations of all the Goths, and afterwards of the Farnese family, the ruin is gloriously beautiful; possibly more beautiful than when it was quite whole; there is enough left now for Truth to repose upon, and a perch for Fancy beside, to fly out from, and fetch in more. The orders of its architecture are easily discerned, though the height of the upper story is truly tremendous; I climbed it once, not to the top indeed, but till I was afraid to look down from the place I was in, and penetrated many of its recesses. The modern Italians have not lost their taste of a prodigious theatre; were they once more a single nation, they would rebuild _this_ I fancy; for here are all the conveniencies in _grande_, as they call it, that amaze one even in _piccolo_ at Milan and Turin: Here were supper-rooms, and taverns, and shops, and I believe baths; certainly long galleries big enough to drive a coach round, and places where slaves waited to receive the commands of masters and ladies, who perhaps if they did not wait to please them, would scarcely scruple to detain them in the cage of offenders, and keep them to make sport upon a future day. The cruelties then exercised on servants at Rome were truly dreadful; and we all remember reading that in Augustus's time, when he did a private friend the honour to dine with him, one of the waiters broke a glass he was about to present full of liquor to the King; at which offence the master being enraged, suddenly caused him to be seized by the rest, and thrown instantly out of the window to feed his lampreys, which lived in a pond on which the apartment looked. Augustus said nothing at the moment; to punish the nobleman's inhumanity however, he sent his officers next morning to break every glass in the house: A curious chastisement enough, and worthy of a nation who, being powerful to erect, populous to fill, and elegantly-skilful to adorn such a fabric as this Coliseum which I have just been contemplating, were yet contented and even happy to view from its well-arranged seats, exhibitions capable of giving nothing but disgust and horror;--lions rending unarmed wretches in pieces; or, to the still deeper disgrace of poor Humanity, those wretches armed unwillingly against each other, and dying to divert a brutal populace. These reflections upon Pagan days and classical cruelties do not disturb however the peace of an old hermit, who has chosen one of these close-concealed recesses for his habitation, and accordingly dwells, dismally enough, in a hole seldom visited by travellers, and certainly never enquired about by the natives. I stumbled on his strange apartment by mere chance, and asked him why he had chosen it? He had been led in early youth, he said, to reflect upon the miseries suffered by the original professors of Christianity; the tortures inflicted on them in this horrible amphitheatre, and the various vicissitudes of Rome since: that he had dedicated himself to these meditations: that he had left the world seventeen years, never stirring from his cell but to buy food, which he eat alone and sparingly, and to pay his devotions in the _Via Crucis_, for so the old Arena is now called; a simple plain wooden cross occupying the middle of it, and round the Circus twelve neat, not splendid chapels; a picture to each, representing the various stages of our Saviour's passion. Such are the meek triumphs of our meek religion! And that such substitutes should have replaced the African savages, tigers, hyænas, &c. and Roman gladiators, not less ferocious than their four-legged antagonists, I am quite as willing to rejoice at as the hermit: They must be better antiquarians too than I am, who regret that a nunnery now covers the spot where ambitious Tullia drove over the bleeding body of her murdered parent, Pressit et inductis membra paterna rotis: That nunnery, supported by the arch of Nerva, which is all that is now left standing of that Emperor's Forum. I must not however quit the Coliseum, without repeating what passed between the King of Sweden and his Roman _laquais de place_ when he was here; and the fellow, in the true cant of his Ciceroneship, exclaimed as they looked up, "_Ah Maesta!_ what cursed Goths those were that tore away so many fine things here, and pulled down such magnificent pillars, &c." "Hold, hold friend," replies the King of Sweden; "I am one of those cursed Goths myself you know: but what were your Roman nobles a-doing, I would ask, when they laboured to destroy an edifice like this, and build their palaces with its materials?" The baths of Livia are still elegantly designed round her small apartments; and one has copies sold of them upon fans; the curiosity of the original is to see how well the gilding stands; in many places it appears just finished. These baths are difficult of access somehow; I never could quite understand how we got in or out of them, but they did belong to the Imperial palace, which covered this whole Palatine hill, and here was Nero's golden house, by what I could gather, but of that I thank Heaven there is no trace left, except some little portion of the wall, which was 120 feet high, and some marbles in shades, like women's worsted work upon canvass, very curious, and very wonderful; as all are natural marbles, and no dye used: the expence must have surpassed credibility. The Temple of Vesta, supposed to be the _very_ temple to which Horace alludes in his second Ode, is a pretty rotunda, and has twenty pillars fluted of Parian marble: it is now a church, as are most of the heathen temples. Such adaptations do not please one, but then it must be allowed and recollected that one is very hard to please: finding fault is so easy, and doing right so difficult! The good Pope Gregory, who feared (by sacred inspiration one would think) all which should come to pass, broke many beautiful antique statues, "lest," said he, "induced by change of dress or name perhaps our Christians may be tempted to adore them:" and we say he was a blockhead, and burned Livy's decads, and so he did; but he refused all titles of earthly dignity; he censured the Oriental Patriarchs for substituting temporal splendours in the place of primitive simplicity; which he said ought _alone_ to distinguish the followers of Jesus Christ. He required a strict attention to morality from all his inferior clergy; observed that those who strove to be first, would end in being last; and took himself the title of servant to the servants of God. Well! Sabinian, his successor, once his favourite Nuncio, flung his books in the fire as soon as he was dead; so his injunctions were obeyed but while he lived to enforce them; and every day now shews us how necessary they were: when, even in these enlightened times, there stands an old figure that every Abate in the town knows to have been originally made for the fabulous God of Physic, Esculapius, is prayed to by many old women and devotees of all ages indeed, just at the Via Sacra's entrance, and called St. Bartolomeo. A beautiful Diana too, with her trussed-up robes, the crescent alone wanting, stands on the high altar to receive homage in the character of St. Agnes, in a pretty church dedicated to her _fuor delle Porte_, where it is supposed she suffered martyrdom; and why? Why for not venerating that _very Goddess Diana_, and for refusing to walk in her procession at the _New Moon_, like a good Christian girl. "_Such contradictions put one from one's self_" as Shakespear says. We are this moment returned home from Tivoli; have walked round Adrian's Villa, and viewed his Hippodrome, which would yet make an admirable open Manège. I have seen the Cascatelle, so sweetly elegant, so rural, so romantic; and I have looked with due respect on the places once inhabited, and ever justly celebrated by genius, wit, and learning; have shuddered at revisiting the spot I hastened down to examine, while curiosity was yet keen enough to make me venture a very dangerous and scarcely-trodden path to Neptune's Grotto; where, as you descend, the Cicerone shews you a wheel of some coarse carriage visibly stuck fast in the rock till it is become a part of it; distinguished from every other stone only by its shape, its projecting forward, and its shewing the hollow places in its fellies, where nails were originally driven. This truly-curious, though little venerable piece of antiquity, serves to assist the wise men in puzzling out the world's age, by computing how many centuries go to the petrifying a cart wheel. A violent roar of dashing waters at the bottom, and a fall of the river at this place from the height of 150 feet, were however by no means favourable to my arithmetical studies; and I returned perfectly disposed to think the world's age a less profitable, a less diverting contemplation, than its folly. We looked at the temple of the old goddess that cured coughs, now a Christian church, dedicated to _la Madonna della Tosse_; it is exactly all it ever was, I believe; and we dined in the temple of Sibylla Tiburtina, a beautiful edifice, of which Mr. Jenkins has sent the model to London in cork, which gives a more exact representation after all than the best-chosen words in the world. I would rather make use of _them_ to praise Mr. Jenkins's general kindness and hospitality to all his country-folks, who find a certain friend in him; and if they please, a very competent instructor. In order however to understand the meaning of some spherical _pots_ observed in the Circus of Caracalla, I chose above all men to consult Mr. Greatheed, whose correct taste, deep research, and knowledge of architecture, led me to prefer his account to every other, of their use and necessity: it shall be given in his own words, which I am proud of his permission to copy. "Of those _pots_ you mention, there are not any remaining in the Circus Maxiouis, as the walls, seats and apodium of that have entirely disappeared. They are to be seen in the Circus of Caracalla, on the Appian way; of this, and of this alone, enough still exists to ascertain the form, structure, and parts of a Roman course. It was surrounded by two parallel walls which supported the seats of the spectators. The exterior wall rose to the summit of the gallery; the interior one was much lower, terminated with the lowest rows, and formed the apodium. This rough section may serve to elucidate my description. From wall to wall an arch was turned which formed a quadrant, and on this the seats immediately rested: but as the upper rows were considerably distant from the crown of the arch, it was necessary to fill the intermediate space with materials sufficiently strong to support the upper stone benches and the multitude. Had these been of solid substance, they would have pressed prodigious and disproportionate weight on the summit of the arch, a place least able to endure it from its horizontal position. To remedy this defect, the architect caused _spherical pots_ to be baked; of these each formed of itself an arch sufficiently powerful to sustain its share of the incumbent weight, and the whole was rendered much less ponderous by the innumerable vacuities. [Illustration] "A similiar expedient was likewise used to diminish the pressure of their domes, by employing the scoriæ of lava brought for that purpose from the Lipari Islands. The numberless bubbles of this volcanic substance give it the appearance of a honeycomb, and answer the same purpose as the pots in Caracalla's Circus, so much so, that though very hard, it is of less specific gravity than wood, and consequently floats in water." Before I quit the Circus of Caracalla, I must not forbear mentioning his bust, which so perfectly resembles Hogarth's idle 'Prentice; but why should they not be alike? For black-guards are black-guards in every degree, I suppose, and the people here who shew one things, always take delight to souce an Englishman's hat upon his head, as if they thought so too. This morning's ramble let us to see the old grotto, sacred to Numa's famous nymph, Ægeria, not far from Rome even now. I wonder that it should escape being built round when Rome was so extensive as to contain the crowds which we are told were lodged in it. That the city spread chiefly the other way, is scarce an answer. London spreads chiefly the Marybone way perhaps, yet is much nearer to Rumford than it was fifty or sixty years ago. The same remark may be made of the Temple of Mars without the walls, near the Porta Capena: a rotunda it was on the road side _then_: it is on the road side _now_, and a very little way from the gate. Caius Cestius's sepulchre however, without the walls, on the other side, is one of the most perfect remains of antiquity we have here. Aurelian made use of that as a boundary we know: it stands at present half without and half within the limit that Emperor set to the city; and is a very beautiful pyramid a hundred and ten feet high, admirably represented in Piranesi's prints, with an inscription on the white marble of which it is composed, importing the name and office and condition of its wealthy proprietor: _C. Cestius, septem vir epulonum_. He must have lived therefore since Julius Caesar's time it is plain, as he first increased the number of epulones to seven, from three their original institution. It was probably a very lucrative office for a man to be Jupiter's caterer; who, as he never troubled himself with looking over the bills, they were such commonly, I doubt not, as made ample profits result to him who went to market; and Caius Cestius was one of the rich contractors of those days, who neglected no opportunity of acquiring wealth for himself, while he consulted the honour of Jupiter in providing for his master's table very plentiful and elegant banquets. That such officers were in use too among the Persians during the time their monarchy lasted, is plain from the apocryphal story of Bel and the Dragon in our Bibles, where, to the joy of every child that reads it, Daniel detects the fraud of the priests by scattering ashes or saw-dust in the temple. But I fear the critics will reprove me for saying that Julius Caesar only increased the number to seven, while many are of opinion he added three more, and made them a decemvirate: mean time Livy tells us the institution began in the year of Rome 553, during the consulate of Fulvius Purpurio and Marcellus, upon a motion of Romuleius if I remember. They had the privilege granted afterwards of edging the gown with purple like the pontiffs, when increased to seven in number; and they were always known by the name _Septemviratus,_ or _Septemviri Epulonum_, to the latest hours of Paganism. The tomb of Caius Cestius is supposed to have cost twelve thousand pounds sterling of our money in those days; and little did he dream that it should be made in the course of time a repository for the bones of _divisos orbe Britannos_: for such it is now appointed to be by government. All of us who die at Rome, sleep with this purveyor of the gods; and from his monument shall at the last day rise the re-animated body of our learned and incomparable Sir James Macdonald: whose numerous and splendid acquirements, though by the time he had reached twenty-four years old astonished all who knew him, never overwhelmed one little domestic virtue. His filial piety however; his hereditary courage, his extensive knowledge, his complicated excellencies, have now, I fear, no other register to record their worth, than a low stone near the stately pyramid of Jupiter's caterer. The tomb of Cæcilia Metella, wife of the rich and famous Crassus, claims our next attention; it is a beautiful structure, and still called _Capo di Bove_ by the Italians, on account of its being ornamented with the _oxhead and flowers_ which now flourish over every door in the new-built streets of London; but the original of which, as Livy tells us, and I believe Plutarch too, was this. That Coratius, a Sabine farmer, who possessed a particularly fine cow, was advised by a soothsayer to sacrifice her to Diana upon the Aventine Hill; telling him, that the city where _she_ now presided--_Diana_--should become mistress of the world, and he who presented her with that cow should become master over that city. The poor Sabine went away to wash in the Tyber, and purify himself for these approaching honours[AF]; but in the mean time, a boy having heard the discourse, and reported it to _Servius Tullius_, he hastened to the spot, killed Coratius's cow for him, sacrificed her to Diana, and hung her head with the horns on, and the garland just as she died, upon the temple door as an ornament. From that time, it seems, the ornament called _Caput Bovis_ was in a manner consecrated to Diana, and her particular votaries used it on their tombs. Nor could one easily account for the decorations of many Roman sarcophagi, till one recollects that they were probably adapted to that divinity in whose temple they were to be placed, rather than to the particular person occupying the tomb, or than to our general ideas of death, time, and eternity. It is probably for this reason that the immense sarcophagus lately dug up from under the temple of Bacchus without the walls, cut out of one solid piece of red porphyry, has such gay ornaments round it, relative to the sacrifices of Bacchus, &c.; and I fancy these stone coffins, if we may call them so, were often made ready and sold to any person who wished to bury their friend, and who chose some story representing the triumph of whatever deity they devoted themselves to. Were the modern inhabitants of Rome who venerate St. Lorenzo, St. Sebastiano, &c. to place, not uncharacteristically at all--a gridiron, or an arrow on their tombstone, it might puzzle succeeding antiquarians, and yet be nothing out of the way in the least. [Footnote AF: A circumstance alluded to and parodied by Ben Johnson in his Alchemist. See the conduct of Dapper, &c.] Of the Egyptian obelisks at Rome I will not strive to give any account, or even any idea. They are too numerous, too wonderful, too learned for me to talk about; but I must not forbear to mention the broken thing which lies down somewhere in a heap of rubbish, and is said to be the greatest rarity in Rome, column, or _obelisk_ and the greatest antiquity surely, if 1630 years before the birth of Christ be its date; as that was but two centuries after the invention of letters by _Memnon_, and just about the time that Joseph the favourite of Pharaoh died. There is a sphinx upon it, however, mighty clearly expressed; and some one said, how strange it was, if the world was no older than we think it, that they should, in so early a stage of existence, represent, or even imagine to themselves a compound animal[AG]: though the chimæra came in play when the world was pretty young too, and the Prophet Isaiah speaks of centaurs; but that was long after even Hesiod's time. [Footnote AG: The ornaments of the ark and tabernacle exhibit much improvement in the arts of engraving, carving, &c. Nor did it seem to cost Aaron any trouble to make a cast of Apis in the Wilderness for the Israelites' amusement, 1491 years before Christ; while the dog Anubis was probably another figure with which Moses was not unacquainted, and that was certainly composite: a cynopephalus I believe.] A modern traveller has however, with much ingenuity of conjecture, given us an excellent reason why the Sphinx was peculiar to Egypt, as the Nile was observed to overflow when the sun was in those signs of the Zodiack: The lion virgin Sphinx, which shows What time the rich Nile overflows. And sure I think, as people lived longer then than they do now; as Moses was contemporary with Cecrops, so that monarchy and a settled form of government had begun to obtain footing in Greece, and apparently migrated a little westward even then; that this column might have employed the artists of those days, without any such exceeding stretch of probability as our modern Aristotelians study to make out, from their zeal to establish his doctrine of the world's eternity. While, if conjecture were once as liberally permitted to believers as it is generously afforded to scepticks, I know not whether a hint concerning Sphinx's original might not be deduced from old Israel's last blessing to his sons; _The lion of Judah_, with the _head of a virgin_, in whose offspring that lion was one day to sink and be lost, except his hinder parts; might naturally enough grow into a favourite emblem among the inhabitants of a nation who owed their existence to one of the family; and who would be still more inclined to commemorate the mystical blessing, if they observed the fructifying inundation to happen regularly, as Mr. Savary says, when the Sun left Leo for Virgo. The broken pillar has however carried me too far perhaps, though every day passed in the Pope's Musæum confirms my belief, nay certainty, that they did mingle the veneration of Joseph with that of their own gods: The bushel or measure of corn on the Egyptian Jupiter's head is a proof of it, and the name _Serapis_, a further corroboration: the dream which he explained for Pharaoh relative to the event that fixed his favour in that country, was expressed by _cattle_; and _for apis_, the _ox's head_, was perfectly applicable to him for every reason. But we will quit mythology for the Corso. This is the first town in Italy I have arrived at yet, where the ladies fairly drive up and down a long street by way of shewing their dress, equipages, &c. without even a pretence of taking fresh air. At Turin the view from the place destined to this amusement, would tempt one out merely for its own sake; and at Milan they drive along a planted walk, at least a stone's throw beyond the gates. Bologna calls its serious inhabitants to a little rising ground, whence the prospect is luxuriantly verdant and smiling. The Lucca bastions are beyond all in a peculiar style of miniature beauty; and even the Florentines, though lazy enough, creep out to Porto St. Gallo. But here at Roma la Santa, the street is all our Corso; a fine one doubtless, and called the _Strada del Popolo_, with infinite propriety, for except in that strada there is little populousness enough God knows. Twelve men to a woman even there, and as many ecclesiastics to a lay-man: all this however is fair, when celibacy is once enjoined as a duty in one profession, encouraged as a virtue in all. Where females are superfluous, and half prohibited, it were as foolish to complain of the decay of population, as it was comical in Omai the South American savage, when he lamented that no cattle bred upon their island; and one of our people replying, That they left some beasts on purpose to furnish them; he answered, "Yes, but the idol worshipped at Bola-bola, another of the islands, insisted on the males and females living separate: so they had sent _him_ the cows, and kept only the bulls at home." _Au reste_, as the French say, we must not be too sure that all who dress like Abates are such. Many gentlemen wear black as the court garb; many because it is not costly, and many for reasons of mere convenience and dislike of change. I see not here the attractive beauty which caught my eye at Venice; but the women at Rome have a most Juno-like carriage, and fill up one's idea of Livia and Agrippina well enough. The men have rounder faces than one sees in other towns I think; bright, black, and somewhat prominent eyes, with the finest teeth in Europe. A story told me this morning struck my fancy much; of an herb-woman, who kept a stall here in the market, and who, when the people ran out flocking to see the Queen of Naples as she passed, began exclaiming to her neighbours--"_Ah, povera Roma! tempo fù quando passò qui prigioniera la regina Zenobia; altra cosa amica, robba tutta diversa di questa_ reginuccia[AH]!" [Footnote AH: "Ah, poor degraded Rome! time was, my dear, when the great Zenobia passed through these streets in chains; anotherguess figure from this little Queeney, in good time!"] A characteristic speech enough; but in this town, unlike to every other, the _things_ take my attention all away from the _people_; while, in every other, the people have had much more of my mind employed upon them, than the things. The arch of Constantine, however, must be spoken of; the sooner, because there is a contrivance at the top of it to conceal musicians, which added, as it passed, to the noise and gaiety of the triumph. Lord Scarsdale's back front at Keddlestone exhibits an imitation of this structure; a motto, expressive of hospitality, filling up the part which, in the original, is adorned with the siege of Verona, that to me seems well done; but Michael Angelo carried off Trajan's head they tell us, which had before been carried thither from the arch of Trajan himself. The arch of Titus Vespasian struck me more than all the others we have named though; less for its being the first building in which the Composite order of architecture is made use of, among the numberless fabrics that surround one, than for the evident completion of the prophecies which it exhibits. Nothing can appear less injured by time than the bas-reliefs, on one side representing the ark, and golden candlesticks; on the other, Titus himself, delight of human kind, drawn by four horses, his look at once serene and sublime. The Jews cannot endure, I am told, to pass under this arch, so lively is the _annihilation_ of their government, and utter _extinction_ of their religion, carved upon it. When reflecting on the continued captivity they have suffered ever since this arch was erected here at Rome, and which they still suffer, being strictly confined to their own miserable Ghetto, which they dare not leave without a mark upon their hat to distinguish them, and are never permitted to stir without the walls, except in custody of some one whose business it is to bring them back; when reflecting, I say, on their sorrows and punishments, one's heart half inclines to pity their wretchedness; the dreadful recollection immediately crosses one, that these are the direct and lineal progeny of those very Jews who cried out aloud--"_Let his blood be upon us, and upon our children!_"--Unhappy race! how sweetly does St. Austin say of them--"_Librarii nostri facti sunt, quemadmodum solent libros post dominos ferre_." The _arca degli orefici_ is a curious thing too, and worth observing: the goldsmiths set it up in honour of Caracalla and Geta; but one plainly discerns where poor Geta's head has been carried off in one place, his figure broken in another, apparently by Caracalla's order. The building is of itself of little consequence, but as a confirmation of historical truth. The fountains of Rome should have been spoken of long ago; the number of them is known to all though, and of their magnificence words can give no idea. One print of the Trevi is worth all the words of all the describers together. Moses striking the rock, at another fountain, where water in torrents tumble forth at the touch of the rod, has a glorious effect, from the happiness of the thought, and an expression so suitable to the subject. When I was told the story of Queen Christina admiring the two prodigious fountains before St. Peter's church, and begging that they might leave off playing, because she thought them occasional, and in honour of her arrival, not constant and perpetual; who could help recollecting a similar tale told about the Prince of Monaco, who was said to have expressed his concern, when he saw the roads lighted up round London, that our king should put himself to so great an expence on his account--in good time!--thinking it a temporary illumination made to receive him with distinguished splendour. These anecdotes are very pretty now, if they are strictly true; because they shew the mind's petty but natural disposition, of reducing and attributing all _to self_: but if they are only inventions, to raise the reputation of London lamps, or Roman cascades, one scorns them;--I really do hope, and half believe, that they are true. But I have been to see the two Auroras of Guido and Guercino. Villa Ludovisi contains the last, of which I will speak first for forty reasons--the true one because I like it best. It is so sensible, so poetical, so beautiful. The light increases, and the figure advances to the fancy: one expects Night to be waked before one looks at her again, if ever one can be prevailed upon to take one's eyes away. The bat and owl are going soon to rest, and the lamp burns more faintly as when day begins to approach. The personification of Night is wonderfully hit off. But Guercino is _such_ a painter! We were driving last night to look at the Colisseo by moon-light--there were a few clouds just to break the expanse of azure and shew the gilding. I thought how like a sky of Guercino's it was; other painters remind one of nature, but nature when most lovely makes one think of Guercino and his works. The Ruspigliosi palace boasts the Aurora of Guido--both are ceilings, but this is not rightly named sure. We should call it the Phoebus, for Aurora holds only the second place at best: the fun is driving over her almost; it is a more luminous, a more graceful, a more showy picture than the other, more universal too, exciting louder and oftener repeated praises; yet the other is so discriminated, so tasteful, so classical! We must go see what Domenichino has done with the same subject. I forget the name of the palace where it is to be admired: but had we not seen the others, one should have said this was divine. It is a Phoebus again, _this_ is; not a bit of an Aurora: and Truth is springing up from the arms of Time to rejoice in the sun's broad light. Her expression of transport at being set free from obscurity, is happy in an eminent degree; but there are faults in her form, and the Apollo has scarcely dignity enough in _his_. The horses are best in Guide's picture: Aurora at the Villa Ludovisi has but two; they are very spirited, but it is the spirit of three, not six o'clock in a summer morning. Surely Thomson had been living under these two roofs when he wrote such descriptions as seem to have been made on purpose for them; could any one give a more perfect account of Guercino's performance than these words afford? The meek-ey'd morn appears, mother of dews, At first faint-gleaming in the dappled East Till far o'er æther spreads the widening glow, And from before the lustre of her face White break the clouds away: with quicken'd step Brown Night retires, young Day pours in apace And opens all the lawny prospect wide. As for the Ruspigliosi palace I left these lines in the room, written by the same author, and think them more capable than any description I could make, of giving some idea of Guido's Phoebus. While yonder comes the powerful King of Day Rejoicing in the East; the lessening cloud, The kindling azure, and the mountains brow Illum'd with fluid gold, his near approach Betoken glad; lo, now apparent all He looks in boundless majesty abroad, And sheds the shining day. So charming Thomson wrote from his lodgings at a milliner's in Bond-street, whence he seldom rose early enough to see the sun do more than glisten on the opposing windows of the street: but genius, like truth, cannot be kept down. So he wrote, and so they painted! _Ut pictura poesis_. The music is not in a state so capital as we left it in the north of Italy; we regret Nardini of Florence, Alessandri of Venice, and Ronzi of Milan; and who that has heard Signior Marchesi sing, could ever hear a successor (for rival he has none), without feeling total indifference to all their best endeavours? The conversations of Cardinal de Bernis and Madame de Boccapaduli are what my countrywomen talk most of; but the Roman ladies cannot endure perfumes, and faint away even at an artificial rose. I went but once among them, when Memmo the Venetian ambassador did me the honour to introduce me _somewhere_, but the conversation was soon over, not so my shame; when I perceived all the company shrink from me very oddly, and stop their noses with rue, which a servant brought to their assistance on open salvers. I was by this time more like to faint away than they--from confusion and distress; my kind protector informed me of the cause; said I had some grains of marechale powder in my hair perhaps, and led me out of the assembly; to which no intreaties could prevail on me ever to return, or make further attempts to associate with a delicacy so very susceptible of offence. Mean time the weather is exceedingly bad, heavy, thick, and foggy as our own, for aught I see; but so it was at Milan too I well remember: one's eye would not reach many mornings across the Naviglio that ran directly under our windows. For fine bright Novembers we must go to Constantinople I fancy; certain it is that Rome will not supply them. What however can make these Roman ladies fly from _odori_ so, that a drop of lavenderwater in one's handkerchief, or a carnation in one's stomacher, is to throw them all into, convulsions thus? Sure this is the only instance in which they forbear to _fabbricare fu l'antico_[Footnote: Build upon the old foundations.], in their own phrase: the dames, of whom Juvenal delights to tell, liked perfumes well enough if I remember; and Horace and Martial cry "_Carpe rosas_" perpetually. Are the modern inhabitants still more refined than _they_ in their researches after pleasure? and are the present race of ladies capable of increasing, beyond that of their ancestors, the keenness of any corporeal sense? I should think not. Here are however amusements enough at Rome without trying for their conversations. The Barberini palace, whither I carried a distracting tooth-ach, amused even that torture by the variety of its wonders. The sleeping faun, praised on from century to century, and never yet praised enough; so drunk, so fast asleep, so like a human body! Modesty reproving Vanity, by Leonardo da Vinci, so totally beyond my expectation or comprehension, great! wise! and fine! Raphael's Mistress, painted by himself, and copied by Julio Romano; this picture gives little satisfaction though except from curiosity gratified, the woman is too coarse. Guido's Magdalen up stairs, the famous Magdalen, effacing every beauty, of softness mingled with distress. A St. John too, by dear Guercino, transcendent! but such was my anguish the very rooms turned round: I must come again when less ill I believe. Nothing can equal the nastiness at one's entrance to this magazine of perfection: but the Roman nobles are not disgusted with _all sorts_ of scents it is plain; these are not what we should call perfumes indeed, but certainly _odori_: of the same nature as those one is obliged to wade through before Trajan's Pillar can be climbed. That the general appearance of a city which contains such treasures should be mean and disgusting, while one literally often walks upon granite, and tramples red porphyry under one's feet, is one of the greatest wonders to me, in a town of which the wonders seem innumerable: that it should be nasty beyond all telling, all endurance, with such perennial streams of the purest water liberally dispersed, and triumphantly scattered all over it, is another unfathomable wonder: that so many poor should be suffered to beg in the streets, when not a hand can be got to work in the fields, and that those poor should be permitted to exhibit sights of deformity and degradations of our species to me unseen till now, at the most solemn moments, and in churches where silver and gold, and richly-arrayed priests, scarcely suffice to call off attention from their squallid miseries, I do not try to comprehend. That the palaces which taste and expence combine to decorate should look quietly on, while common passengers use their noble vestibules, nay flairs, for every nauseous purpose; that princes whose incomes equal those of our Dukes of Bedford and Marlborough, should suffer their servants to dress other men's dinners for hire, or lend out their equipages for a day's pleasuring, and hang wet rags out of their palace windows to dry, as at the mean habitation of a pauper; while looking in at those very windows, nothing is to be seen but proofs of opulence, and scenes of splendour, I will not undertake to explain; sure I am, that whoever knows Rome, will not condemn this _ebauche_ of it. When I spoke of their beggars, many not unlike Salvator Rosa's Job at the Santa Croce palace, I ought not to have omitted their eloquence, and various talents. We talked to a lame man one day at our own door, whose account of his illness would not have disgraced a medical professor; so judicious were his sentiments, so scientific was his discourse. The accent here too is perfectly pleasing, intelligible, and expressive; and I like their _cantilena_ vastly. The excessive lenity of all Italian states makes it dangerous to live among them; a seeming paradox, yet certainly most true; and whatever is evil in this way at any other town, is worst at Rome; where those who deserve hanging, enjoy almost a moral certainty of never being hanged; so unwilling is everybody to detect the offender, and so numerous the churches to afford him protection if found out. A man asked importunately in our antichamber this morning for the _padrone,_ naming no names, and our servants turned him out. He went however only five doors, further, found a sick old gentleman sitting in his lodging attended by a feeble servant, whom he bound, stuck a knife in the master, rifled the apartments, and walked coolly out again at noon-day: nor should we have ever heard of _such a trifle_, but that it happened just by so; for here are no newspapers to tell who is murdered, and nobody's pity is excited, unless for the malefactor when they hear he is caught. But the Palazzo Farnese is a more pleasing speculation; the Hercules faces us entering; Guglielmo della Porta made his legs I hear, and when the real ones were found, _his were better:_ and Michael Angelo said, it was not worth risquing the statue to try at restoring the old ones. There is another Hercules stands near, as a foil to Glycon's, I suppose; and the Italians tell you of our Mr. Sharp's acuteness in finding some fault till then undiscovered, a very slight one though, with some of the neck muscles: they tell it approvingly however, and make one admire their candour, even beyond their Flora, who carries that in her countenance which they possess in their hearts. Under a shed on the right hand you find the famous groupe called Toro Farnese. It has been touched and repaired, they tell you, till much of the spirit is lost; but I did not miss it. The Bull and the Brothers are greatness itself; but Dirce draws no compassion by her looks somehow, and the lady who comes to her relief, seems too cold a spectatress of the scene. There were several broken statues in the place, and while my companions were examining the groupe after I had done, the wench's conversation who shewed it made my amusement: as we looked together at an Egyptian _Isis_, or, as many call her, _the Ephesian Diana_, with a hundred breasts, very hideous, and swathed about the legs like a mummy at Cairo, or a baby at Rome, I said to the girl, "_They worshipped these filthy things formerly before Jesus Christ came; but he taught us better_," added I, "_and we are wiser now: how foolish was not it to pray to this ugly stone_?"--"The people were _wickeder_ then, very likely;" replied my friend the wench, "but I do not see that it _was foolish at all."_ Who says the modern Romans are degenerated? I swear I think them so like their ancestors, that it is my delight to contemplate the resemblance. A statue of a peasant carrying game at this very palace, is habited precisely in the modern dress, and shews how very little change has yet been made. The shoes of the low fellows too particularly attract my notice: they exactly resemble the ancient ones, and when Persius mentions his ploughman _peronatus arator_, one sees he would say so to-day. The Dorian palace calls however, and people must give way to things where the miraculous powers of Benvenuto Garofani are concerned; where Lodovico Caracci exhibits a _testa del redentore_ beyond all praise, uniting every excellence, and expressing every perfection; where, in the deluge represented by Bonati, one sees the eagle drooping from a weight of rain, majestic in his distress, and looking up to the luminous part of the picture as if hoping to discover some ray of that sun he never shall see again. How characteristic! how tasteful is the expression! The famous Virgin and Child too, so often engraved and copied. I will run away from this Doria; it is too full of beauty--it dazzles: and I will let them shew the pale green Gaspar Pouffins, so valuable, so curious, to whom they please, while Nature and Claude content my fancy and fill up every idea. At the Colonna palace what have I remarked? That it possesses the gayest gallery belonging to any subject upon earth: one hundred and thirty-nine feet long, thirty-four broad, and seventy high: profusely ornamented with pillars, pictures, statues, to a degree of magnificence difficult to express. The Herodias here by Guido, is the perfection of dancing grace. No Frenchman enters the room that does not bear testimony to its peculiar excellence. But here's Guercino's sweet returning Prodigal, and here is a _Madonna disperata_ bursting as from a cavern to embrace the body of her dead son and saviour.--Such a sky too! But it is treating too theatrically a subject which impresses one more at last in the simple _Pietà_[AI] d'Annibale Caracci at Palazzo Doria. [Footnote AI: The Christ in his mother's lap, after crucifixion, is always called in Italy a _Pietà_.] One wonderfully-imagined picture by Andrea Sacchi, of Cain flying from the sight of his murdered brother, shall alone detain me from mentioning here at Rome what certainly would never have been thought on by Englishmen had it remained at Windsor; no other than our old King Charles's cabinet, sold to the Colonna family by Cromwell, and set about in the old-fashioned way with gems, cameos, &c. one of which has been stolen. And now to the Borghese, which I am told is for a time to finish my fatigues, as after three days more we go to Naples. News perfectly agreeable to me, who never have been well here for two hours together. All the great churches remain yet unvisited: they are to be taken at our return in spring; mean while I will go see Mons Sacer in spite of connoisseurship, though the place it seems is nothing, and the prospect from it dull; but it produces thoughts, or what is next to thought,--recollection of books read, and events related in one's early youth, when names and stories make impression on a mind not yet hardened by age, or contracted by necessary duty, so as no longer to receive with equal relish the _tales of other times._ The lake too, with the floating islands, should be mentioned; the colour of which is even blue with venom, and left a brassy taste in my mouth for a whole day, after only observing how it boiled with rage on dropping in a stone, and incrusted a stick with its tartar in two minutes. One of our companions indeed leaped upon the little spots of ground which float in it, and deserved to feel some effect of his rashness; but it is sufficient to stand near, I think; one scarcely can escape contagion. The sudden and violent powers observable in this lake should at least check the computists from thinking they can gather the world's age from its petrefactions. But we are called to the Vatican, where the Apollo, Laocoon, Antinous, and Meleager, with others of less distinguished merit, suffer one to think on nothing but themselves, and of the artists who framed such models of perfection. Laocoon's agonies torment one. I was forced to recollect the observation Dr. Moore says was first made by Mr. Locke, in order to harden my heart against him who appears to feel only for himself, when two such youths are expiring close beside him. But though painting can do much, and sculpture perhaps more, at least one learns to think so here at Rome, the comfort is, that poetry beats them both. Virgil knew, and Shakespeare would have known, how to heighten even this distress, by adding paternal anguish:--here is distress enough however. Let us once more acknowledge the modesty and candour of Italians, when we repeat what has been so often recorded, that Michael Angelo refused adding the arm that was wanting to this chef d'oeuvre; and when Bernini undertook the task, he begged it might remain always a different colour, that he might not be suspected of hoping that his work could ever lie confounded with that of the Greek artist. Such is not the spirit of the French: they have been always adding to Don Quixote! a personage whose adventures were little likely to cross one's fancy in the Vatican; but perfection is perfection. Here stands the Apollo though, in whom alone no fault has yet been found. They tell you, he has just killed the serpent Python. "Let us beg of him," says one of the company, "just to turn round and demolish those cursed snakes which are devouring the poor old man and his boys yonder." This was like the speech of _Marchez donc_ to the fine bronze horse under the heavenly statue of Marcus Aurelius at the Capitol, and made me hope that story might be true. It is the fashion for every body to go see Apollo by torch light: he looks like _Phoebus_ then, the Sun's bright deity, and seems to say to his admirers, as that Divinity does to the presumptuous hero in Homer, Oh son of Tydeus, cease! be wise, and see How vast the difference 'twixt the gods and thee. Indeed every body finds the remark obvious, that this statue is of beauty and dignity beyond what human nature now can boast; and the Meleager just at hand, with the Antinous, confirm it; for all elegance and all expression, unpossessed by the Apollo, _they have_, while none can miss the inferiority of their general appearance to his. The Musæum Clementinum is altogether such though, that these singularly excellent productions of art are only proper and well-adapted ornaments of a gallery, so stately as, on the other hand, that noble edifice seems but the due repository of such inhabitants. Never were place and decorations so adapted: never perhaps was so refined a taste engaged on subjects so worthy its exertion. The statues are disposed with a propriety that charms one; the situation of the pillars so contrived, the colours of them so chosen to carry the eye forward--not fatigue it; the rooms so illuminated: Hagley park is not laid out with more judicious attention to diversify, and relieve with various objects a mind delighting in the contemplation of ornamented nature; than is the Pope's Musæum calculated to enchain admiration, and fix it in those apartments where sublimity and beauty have established their residence; and those would be worse than Goths, who could think of moving even an old torso from the place where Pius Sextus has commanded it to remain. The other parts of this prodigious structure would take up one's life almost to see completely, to remember distinctly, and to describe accurately. When the reader recollects that St. Peter's, with all its appurtenances, palace, library, musæum, every thing that we include in the word _Vatican_, is said by the Romans to occupy an equal quantity of space, to that covered by the city of Turin: the assertion need not any longer be thought hyperbolical. I will say no more about it till at our return from Naples we visit all the churches. Vopiscus said, that the statues in his time at Rome out-numbered the people; and I trust the remark is now almost doubly true, as every day and hour digs up dead worthies, and the unwholesome weather must surely send many of the living ones to their ancestors: upon the whole, the men and women of Porphyry, &c. please me best, as they do not handle long knives to so good an effect as the others do, "_qui aime bien a s'ègorger encore[Footnote: Who have still a taste to be cut-throats.],"_ says a French gentleman of them the other day. There is however an air of cheerfulness in the streets at a night among the poor, who fry fish, and eat roots, sausages, &c. as they walk about gaily enough, and though they quarrel too often, never get drunk at least. The two houses belonging to the Borghese family shall conclude my first journey to Rome, and with that the first volume of my observations and reflexions. Their town palace is a suite of rooms constructed like those at Wanstead exactly; and where you turn at the end to come back by another suite, you find two alabaster fountains of superior beauty, and two glass lustres made in London, but never wiped since they left Fleet-street certainly. They do not however _want_ cleaning as the fountains do; which, by the extraordinary use made of them, give the whole palace an offensive smell. Among the pictures here, the entombing our blessed Saviour by Rafaelle is most praised: It is supposed indeed wholly inestimable, and I believe is so, while Venus, binding Cupid's eyes, by Titian, engraved by Strange, is possibly one of the pleasantest pictures in Rome. The Christ disputing with the Doctors is inimitable, one of the wonderful works of Leonardo da Vinci: but here is Domenichino's Diana among her nymphs, very laboured, and very learned. Why did it put me in mind of Hogarth's strolling actresses dressing in a barn? Villa Borghese presents more to one's mind at once than it will bear, from the bas relief of Curtius over the door that faces you going in, to the last gate of the garden you drive out at;--large as the saloon is however, the figure of Curtius seems too near you; and the horse's hind quarters are heavy, and ill-suited to the forehand; but here are men and women enough, and odd things that are neither, at this house; so we may let the horse of Curtius alone. Nothing can be gayer or more happily expressed in its way than the Centaur, which Dr. Moore, like Dr. Young, finds _not_ fabulous; while the brute runs away with the man, and Cupid keeps urging him forward. The fawn nursing Bacchus when a baby, is another semi-human figure of just and high estimation; and that very famous composition for which Cavalier Bernini has executed a mattress infinitely softer to the eye than any real one I ever found in _his_ country, has here an apartment appropriated to itself. From monsters the eye turns of its own accord towards Nero, and here is an incomparable one of about ten years old, in whose face I vainly looked for the seeds of parricide, and murderous tyranny; but saw only a sturdy boy, who might have been made an honest man perhaps, had not the rod been spared by his old tutor, whose lenity is repaid by death here in the next room. It is a relief to look upon the smiling Zingara; her lively character is exquisitely touched, her face the only one perhaps where Bernini could not go beyond the proper idea of arch waggery and roguish cunning, adorned with beauty that must have rendered its possessor, while living, irresistible. His David is scarcely young enough for a ruddy shepherd swain; he seems too muscular, and confident of his own strength; _this_ fellow could have worn Saul's armour well enough. Æneas carrying his father, I understand, is by the other Bernini; but the famous groupe of Apollo and Daphne is the work of our Chevalier himself. There is a Miss Hillisberg, a dancer on the stage, who reminds every body of this graceful statue, when theatrical distress drives her to force expression: I mean the stage in Germany, not Rome, whence females are excluded. But the vases in this Borghese villa! the tables! the walls! the cameos stuck in the walls! the frames of the doors, all agate, porphyry, onyx, or verd antique! the enormous riches contained in every chamber, actually takes away my breath and leaves me stunned. Nor are the gardens unbecoming or inadequate to the house, where on the outside appear such bas-reliefs as would be treasured up by the sovereigns of France or England, and shewn as valuable rarities. The rape of Europa first; it is a beautiful antique. Up stairs you see the rooms constantly inhabited; in the princess's apartment, her chimney-piece is one elegant but solid amethyst: over the prince's bed, which changes with the seasons, hangs a Ganymede painted by Titian, to which the connoisseurs tell you no rival has yet been found. The furniture is suitably magnificent in every part of the house, and our English friends assured me, that they met the lady of it last night, when one gentleman observing how pretty she was, another replied he could not see her face for the dazzling lustre of her innumerable diamonds, that actually by their sparkling confounded his sight, and surrounded her countenance so that he could not find it. Among all the curiosities however belonging to this wealthy and illustrious family, the single one most prized is a well-known statue, called in Catalogues by the name of the Fighting Gladiator, but considered here at Rome as deserving of a higher appellation. They now dispute only what hero it can be, as every limb and feature is expressive of a loftier character than the ancients ever bestowed in sculpture upon those degraded mortals whom Pliny contemptuously calls _Hordiarij_, and says they were kept on barley bread, with ashes given in their drink to strengthen them. Indeed the statue of the expiring Gladiator at the Capitol, his rope about his neck, and his unpitied fate, marked strongly in his vulgar features, exhibits quite a separate class in the variety of human beings; and though Faustina's favourite found in the same collection was probably the showiest fellow then among them, we see no marks of intelligent beauty or heroic courage in his form or face, where an undaunted steadiness and rustic strength make up the little merit of the figure. This charming statue of the prince Borghese is on the other hand the first in Rome perhaps, for the distinguished excellencies of animated grace and active manliness: his head raised, the body's attitude, not studied surely, but the apparent and seemingly sudden effect of patriotic daring. Such one's fancy forms young Isadas the Spartan; who, hearing the enemy's approach while at the baths, starts off unmindful of his own defenceless state, snatches a spear and shield from one he meets, flies at the foe, performs prodigies of valour, is looked on by both armies as a descended God, and returns home at last unhurt, to be fined by the Ephori for breach of discipline, at the same time that a statue was ordered to commemorate his exploits, and erected at the state's expence. Monsignor Ennio Visconti, who saw that the figure reminded me of this story, half persuaded himself for a moment that this was the very Isadas; and that Jason, for whom he had long thought it intended, was not young enough, and less likely to fight undefended by armour against bulls, of whose fury he had been well apprised. Mr. Jenkins recollected an antique ring which confirmed our new hypothesis, and I remained flattered, whether they were convinced or no. END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
46102	----	[Transcriber's Note: Underscores are used as delimiter for _italics_] An American Girl in Munich Impressions of a Music Student By Mabel W. Daniels Boston Little, Brown, and Company 1905 Copyright, 1905, BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. All rights reserved Published March, 1905 THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. _To Mütterchen_ I MUNICH, _September 15, 1902_. _Dear Cecilia_:-- Here I am in my Mecca at last after a "calm sea and prosperous voyage." Would that you were with me to share my pleasures, and, yes, I am selfish enough to add, my troubles, too, for you have such a magical power of charming away the latter that they seem but trifling vexations. Then I should so enjoy watching your delicious blue eyes open wide at these Germans and their queer customs, and oh! how you would elevate the tip of your aristocratic nose at my box of a study, which, however, I consider the height of cosiness and comfort--from a German standpoint. Lest by this last remark I've imperilled my reputation for patriotism, let me hasten to assure you that I am as far from adopting a foreign point of view in my contemplation of Man and the Universe as when we used to walk from college down to Harvard Square and "have out" the discussions kindled by our four o'clock lecture. It's only in the concrete things of life that I've been forced to abandon my Bostonian, and therefore, of course, unimpeachable standards. I have learned how unwise a thing it would be for me to say to a German landlady, "Show me an apartment with running water, steam heat, electric lights, and a porcelain bath-tub." The poor bewildered creature would give me over at once into the hands of the omnipotent _Polizei_ on the ground of insanity. But perhaps, after all, the best way of explaining myself is to follow the injunction in your letter: "Begin at the beginning and tell me all about it." _Mütterchen_ and I arrived at Munich late in the evening, and went directly to a hotel near the station, where we slept soundly after our long trip. Early the next morning I set out to look for a permanent abode. On my list were a number of well-recommended _pensions_, and I chose, naturally, the nearest at hand. It was not so easy to find as I had at first thought, for a German street has a queer fashion of changing its name every few blocks, so I deemed it wisest to inquire the way of a passer-by. Frankly, I had rather prided myself on my knowledge of the language, fondly imagining that I should have no trouble in understanding it or in making myself intelligible. With that sublime assurance born only of ignorance, I approached an honest-faced workman, and in a charmingly idiomatic sentence inquired the shortest way to Barer-strasse. He stared at me hard for a moment, and then burst into a flood of harsh-sounding words, not one of which fell familiarly on my ear. I was puzzled for a moment, but, thinking I must have mistaken his nationality, I bowed my thanks and made my way to a policeman on the corner, who, by the bye, wears a gleaming helmet like those of the soldier chorus in "Faust." His answer was fully as incomprehensible as the other, and I realized suddenly, with an overwhelming sense of helplessness, that this strange-sounding tongue must be the Bavarian dialect, and to understand it would require a totally new vocabulary. My enthusiasm was distinctly dampened, but I bravely opened the Red Book, which I had hitherto scorned, and unfolding the map of Munich to its full extent, I laboriously studied the tangle of black and red lines for a quarter of an hour before I found the desired street. To reach the _pension_ took but a short time, and I was relieved to discover that the landlady spoke north German and a little English. She was a large, red-cheeked, breezy person, and I felt very much like a small boat in tow of a big ship, as I meekly followed at her heels, while she showed me her vacant rooms, accompanying her smiles, bows, and gesticulations with a torrent of volubility. Finally she ushered me into a stuffy room, over-crowded with furniture, which she proudly called the "salon," and pointing out as _pièce de résistance_ a decrepit, yellow-keyed piano, announced that it was "for the use of the guests." But the change, dear Cecilia, when I, like the stage villain, disclosed my identity! The alluring smile melted in a trice; the persuasive tones disappeared for the sharp rasp of the up-to-date business woman. I learned that a music student was regarded as an incubus, and shunned accordingly. Practice hours must be limited from, perhaps, nine-thirty to twelve and from four to seven. The only possible room was up four flights. Did I use the loud pedal much? Did I play any "pieces" or only "five-finger exercises"? I cannot tell you all the questions she hurled at me. Suffice it to say, I left, downcast and disheartened, only to meet practically the same experience at each _pension_ in turn. If there were already a music student in possession, that was the signal for me instantly to withdraw. If there were none, I found the rooms so undesirable, or practice hours so limited, that to remain was impossible. At length I chanced to encounter, returning from her mornings work at the Pinakothek, an art student whom I had met on the steamer, and she told me of a house where she thought there were no _Musikers_ as yet. With an anxious heart I hurried up the narrow stairs, and interviewed the landlady, who proved to be a most genial creature. An hour later we had left the hotel and were ensconced as proud possessors of two adjoining rooms. The larger we use for a sleeping-room, and the smaller is dignified by the name of "salon." It is there that I am to work, and I have already succeeded in making it a little more homelike, by placing a screen to mitigate the depressing hideousness of the stove, and by setting out my photographs on desk and table. I have, too, tacked on the wall the Glee Club pictures and several snapshots which you took that memorable spring day in the Yard. The _pension_ itself is small. Indeed, the _Frau Baronin_--which is the title with which I am to address my landlady--tells me she seldom has more than ten guests in the house. She also says that most of her _pensionnaires_ are German, for which we are grateful. I cannot understand why so many Americans come over here expecting to see something of the life and then establish themselves in one of those hotel-like boarding-houses where the majority of the inmates speak only the English tongue. The view from our windows is charming, for Maximilians-Platz is one of the most attractive spots in the city. As I look down on the waving tops, and green lawns dotted with flowers, I forget that I am in the city at all. Leaning out on the ledge, with the warm breath of the wind on my forehead, the twittering of birds and the soft plash of the fountain in my ears, the temptation to revel in all sorts of Arcadian dreams would be fairly irresistible, were not this idyllic illusion suddenly put to flight by the prosaic rumble of passing trams, which straightway brings me down to the commonplace. Really, I didn't introduce that fountain just to create a romantic description, though it does sound rather like a daily theme. The best part of it is it's real,--and the loveliest thing in München. You can read about it any day in the Red Book, and can discover countless pictures of it, but, believe me, nothing can give you an idea of its sound as one stands at a little distance. If I were to score it I should use the strings and a harp--the former divided and subdivided as in the prelude to Lohengrin; and then perhaps I'd add a clarinet to give the effect of the birds' call which mingles exquisitely with the plaintive music of the water. _Later._ My first appearance in German society was made last evening at seven-thirty. We were shown by Gretchen, our stout maid, into the dining-room,--a large room with a long table in the centre, about which a number of people were sitting. At one end was the Baron. He is very fat, very jovial, and very red of face. Precisely the same adjectives somewhat intensified might be applied to his wife, who sat opposite. When neither of them was talking, they were laughing in the most infectious fashion imaginable. Isn't it queer to picture the nobility of Europe as running boarding-houses? I rather fancied I might see some of its members riding by in magnificent carriages, with high-stepping horses and clashing chains. I had pictured them as lounging against the cushions of their coaches with an air of bored grandeur, while somewhere in the background shone a glint of ermine,--but behold! German aristocracy bursts upon me in my landlord and landlady. _Mütterchen_ was given the place of honor at the Baron's right. I sat next. My _vis-à-vis_ was a Frenchman whom I heard them addressing as "Herr Doktor." He was as typical of his nation as the Baron of his, and surveyed me critically from behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. It did not take me long to discover that he was intensely proud of his English, which was very bad. On his left sat Frau von Waldfel, a Hungarian, who monopolized the conversation in a high, rasping voice, and whose red cheeks, prominent nose, and beady black eyes bespoke aggressiveness of the most aggressive type. Then came Karl, the Baron's son, a stout, mischievous, frank-faced boy of fourteen, and on my right hand sat a blond-haired young man of about five and twenty, whom I should have acknowledged handsome had not his face been disfigured by several scars. I put him down at once as a student, for I had not travelled through Heidelberg on my way southward without learning something of the duelling custom. We were eight in all. The first meal in a strange _pension_ is an awful ordeal. We both rather dreaded it, the more so as no one present spoke English, except Frau von Waldfel, and we were rather timid about airing our knowledge of German. Then, too, every one seemed to converse so fast that the words fairly tumbled over one another. Whenever I heard a totally strange phrase I soothed my pride by saying, _sotto voce_, to _Mütterchen_, "Again that demoniacal dialect!" The Baron and Baroness were extremely kind, however, and did their utmost to make us feel at home, while Frau von Waldfel was in her element. These foreigners do so appreciate an opportunity to practise their English! Between the continual making and consuming of numberless small sandwiches, which she prepared in a marvellously skilful fashion from her bread and butter, she conversed in the following manner, never pausing for a reply: "Have you been to Dresden or Hamburg or Berlin? I don't care for those cities at all. They're frightful. Why, they simply starve you! Of course in Hamburg one does find good meat pie; the only decent thing in Dresden is the pastry. But give me Vienna! That's the city of Europe! One can get most _be-au-ti-ful_ things to eat there." Shades of the Sistine! Fancy travelling through Europe "for thy stomach's sake"! Possibly, however, this is no more unworthy an object than that of an American girl whom I met yesterday. "Like Munich? I should rather say not. There isn't one decent shop in the place!" Just to think of all the articles they are writing at home to prove that we are fast developing an artistic sense! Anything more inconvenient than the arrangement of meals would be hard to find--with the exception of breakfast. This is served when and where you want it and consists of rolls and coffee. It seems we are especially lucky inasmuch as we receive honey also "without extra charge," as the Baroness impressively added. At eleven o'clock comes the _Zweites Frühstück_ which I rather imagine I shall omit. At one occurs _Mittaggessen_, a pompous meal requiring at least an hour. At five every one has afternoon coffee and a bit of cake. I hear there are any number of beguiling outdoor cafés where one can sit under the trees and hear good music. At seven-thirty your true son of Germany hungers yet again, and _Abendessen_ (supper) is served. If, however, one wishes to attend any form of entertainment he must eat a cold supper early, in a bare and deserted dining-room, for the opera and concerts generally begin at seven o'clock. Do not imagine, my dear, that the German can now go to bed satisfied, for the Baroness assures me that he either sets out at once for a beer-hall and lingers over his stein all the evening, or about ten he has brought to his room such soporific things as cheese sandwiches, cold sausage, and, of course, the inevitable beverage. It's simply impossible for people to be hungry here. They don't have time to acquire an appetite. Good night to you now, for it is growing late. I wonder what it will all be like, everything seems so strange now, and I feel as though I were a year's journey from America. Well, I shall do my best to write you all that happens. My plan is to keep a musical journal; that is, a record of all that occurs relating to my studies, and occasionally you won't mind, will you, if I copy an item or two from that into your letters? It will seem so much more as though I were talking to you if I scribble down things from day to day and then send the whole off in a batch, instead of writing in the conventional way one generally does. There is a clock striking now. It must be that of the two-towered Frauenkirche which is so near. So this time really good night and _angenehme Ruh'_, which means "a pleasant rest to you!" _September 19._ It was with a certain repressed excitement that I made my way toward Ainmüllerstrasse, at half-past eight this morning, to pay my first visit to Professor Thuille. My letters of introduction were clasped tightly in my hand, and I walked so rapidly that by the time I found myself on the landing before his door, after climbing several flights of stairs,--you know every one lives in a _Wohnung_ (apartment) here, and an elevator in a dwelling-house is an almost unheard-of luxury,--I was completely out of breath. It still lacked fifteen minutes of the appointed time, so I had ample opportunity to regain my composure as I sat in the cosy reception room into which the maid had ushered me. Behind the closed doors at the further end of the apartment I could hear a pupil playing a Beethoven sonata, and a man's voice occasionally interrupting. I adjusted my hat for the twentieth time, smoothed my hair back over my ears, and endeavored to appear outwardly as if I were not at all in a flutter of expectation. Perhaps my excitement was increased by the remembrance of the impression I had made at supper last night, when I casually mentioned that I had come to Munich to study composition with Professor Thuille. Every one became attentive immediately, and spoke in the highest terms of his genius as a composer. I felt not a little proud, and somewhat uneasy, at the thought of meeting him. "Richard Strauss was a pupil of his," said Herr Doktor, calmly, as he helped himself to a third piece of black bread. Thereupon I really trembled. So now, in order to quiet my nerves, I began to look about me. The first thing which caught my eye was a landscape in vivid blues and greens, framed in massive and evidently costly style. From the inscription beneath I gathered that this creation was the gift of a grateful chorus to their "beloved director, Ludwig Thuille." Over the bookcase hung several giant laurel wreaths, their leaves now crisply yellowing. To these were attached brilliant, silver-lettered ribbons which, as they floated flamboyantly against the subdued gray of the wall-paper, proclaimed that these tokens, too, were the gifts of appreciative souls. The table near the door held a beautifully carved loving-cup of silver also bearing an inscription. Truly, gratitude must be the virtue _par excellence_ of Germany! If I had insensibly acquired an impression of ostentation from all this array of tributes--a common custom of every artist here, they tell me--this vanished the moment the door opened, for Professor Thuille and anything like ostentation are as far from one another as the poles. I was surprised to see a man so young in appearance, for I had in some inexplicable way formed the idea that he was much older. My second thought was that I had never seen so charming and cordial a smile. Of course he shook hands, as all these people do, and bade me be seated while he opened the letters. He is short in stature, with sandy hair, and a long mustache curled up at the ends in true imperial manner. His eyes, blue and kindly, looked straight and sympathetically at me. His face is deeply lined and shows tense sensitiveness in every feature. The rather strained expression vanishes, however, the moment he smiles. As he turned over my letters I noted that the fingers of his right hand were stained a deep yellow; already the faint aroma of cigarette smoke had reached me. Intuitively I felt that these two things indicated one of his characteristics. I had happened on the _Leitmotif_, as it were, of Thuille. "_Ach! dass ist sehr nett!_" (That is very nice!) he said, laying down the letters. "You know Herr Chadwick and I studied in the same class in the old Conservatory. It is indeed delightful to hear from him again. And now about yourself. I understand that you want to study composition with me, Fräulein," he continued, looking at me with kindly scrutiny. "If you will take me for a pupil, Herr Professor," said I. "I think we can arrange it," he said, smiling, "although my time is almost wholly occupied. Tell me what you have already studied." Whereupon we launched into details, and he appointed next Wednesday as the time for my first lesson. He does not speak a word of English, and I found him exceedingly difficult to understand, but he assures me he is accustomed to foreigners. "If we don't make ourselves intelligible," he ended, laughing, "we can try a few French phrases, or even a bit of Latin, as a pupil of mine did the other day." Instead of my taking leave of him there, he went out to the very door with me, which he opened, bowing smilingly, and as it closed I felt wonderfully less like a stranger in a strange land. At the corner I took a tram back to town. They are all alike, very short, and painted the Bavarian blue. Think of a city so patriotic that the street cars assume the national hue! The conductor politely touched his hat to me as I entered. I thought he must have mistaken me for some one else till I saw him salute each passenger in the same courteous manner. Where Brienner-strasse meets Odeons-Platz I alighted. This is just by the Feldernhalle. If you have seen pictures of the Loggia at Florence you can tell how it looks, for it is a copy of the Italian building. Here I was to meet Fräulein L----. She is a friend of the Baroness and had offered to help me in hiring a piano. That elocution course of ours proved very valuable to me at this stage, for had it not been for the telling and effective gestures with which I supplemented my German I might have had in my study a far less acceptable instrument than the excellent Blüthner which now stands here and for which I pay the absurdly small sum of ten marks (two dollars and a half) a month. "By the bye," said I, as we were walking through Theatiner-strasse, "did I make a great many mistakes in my note to you?" I meant this to sound naïvely humble, but in reality I had spent a half-hour on the composition of those ten lines and I was rather proud of the result. "Oh, no," she replied, smiling, "you merely asked me to meet you _on top_ of the Feldernhalle. I was wondering," she added, mischievously, glancing as we passed at the building's imposing height, "just how I could get up there." For several blocks I was silent, meditating on the sad results of "pride, rank pride and haughtiness of soul," although I fully appreciated her effort at a joke. Such pleasantries are almost unheard of in German girls, and whenever they do say anything facetious they look very much frightened, as though at a loss whether to apologize at once or explain how it came to happen. I must send you one of the comic papers. They considerately print the point of a joke in italics. One has at least the satisfaction of knowing when to laugh, a virtue not to be despised when one considers the subtleties of modern wit, so called. "This is where I buy my music," said Fräulein L----, stopping before a small store, "and if it pleases you I will introduce you here." Accordingly we went in, and after meeting the proprietor I was initiated into the mysteries of that very important factor in a student's life, an _abonnement_. One pays a small sum for the privilege of taking out music from a circulating library for a definite length of time. The arrangement impressed me at once as advantageous, and I inquired as to the kinds of music the catalogue contained. "Why, songs, operas, overtures, anything you care for," said the proprietor, in a patronizing tone. "Then I can get orchestral scores," I said. "Orchestral scores?" he cried, starting back as though I had asked him to pluck the moon out of the sky. "My dear young lady, what can you possibly want of orchestral scores?" We should call this impudence in America, but I really do not think he intended it as such. He had simply not come much in contact with the modern American girl. After explanation on both sides, I found, however, that it would be better for me to obtain scores from the Conservatory, which I intend to enter, and where, I learn, all the standard scores are on hand. You would hardly believe me if I should tell you how many bareheaded, blue-aproned girls we met carrying beer through the streets during our walk home. But my surprise at the sight was lost in greater amazement at beholding the number of steins they are able to carry at one time. Not two or three, my dear, but six, yes, even ten, in one hand. It is an art in itself. If one is careless and holds the handful a quarter of an inch from perpendicular, the beer comes oozing out at the top and trickles on the sidewalk. This disturbs no one in the least. As we passed the droschky stand on Max-Joseph-Platz about eleven o'clock, there stood all the cabbies lounging against their carriages or ranged along the curbstones, leisurely drinking great steins of frothy beer which one of these blue-aproned girls had just brought. When they finished they set their empty mugs on the window ledges of the building. Imagine a dozen of our hackmen draining steins on Brimstone Corner and then leaving them in a row on the steps of Park Street Church! * * * * * How can I write you about the evening or rather afternoon and evening which followed? When I tell you that it was my first hearing of "Tristan and Isolde" in the wonderful new Prince Regent Theatre, are you surprised that I hesitate? I will let you read for yourself in the infallible Red Book of the unique construction of the house which is used for the reproduction of Wagner's operas alone, of the peculiar stage, and of that stroke of genius, the concealed orchestra. If I attempted any explanations I should fail lamentably, for all else is forgotten in the memory of that glorious music. The crowd of magnificently dressed people promenading between the acts through restaurant, garden, and corridors, the strange types of musicians from every quarter of the globe, the trumpet calls to summon us back to our places--all are now a confused medley of impressions. I only see Knote, as Tristan, quaffing the fatal draught, and Ternina, a regal Isolde, waving her white scarf in the mysterious moonlight of that most alluring of gardens. Who was it said that in Tristan the "thrills relieve one another in squads"? It seems to me there is no respite: one is swept along and borne aloft uninterruptedly by the power of the music--music magical in its chromatic beauty, tremendous in its intensity. Breathless, at the final fall of the curtain, I hardly realized my physical exhaustion till we reached home. The strain in endeavoring to follow the multi-woven orchestration, as well as the action, had not been a light one. During one of the pauses I caught sight of a slender, rather pale young man elbowing his way through the crowd. I turned to look at him, for his face struck me as strangely familiar. Who do you think it was? _Siegfried Wagner!_ Fancy what his feelings must be to see all this homage paid to his father's genius. _Sunday._ As a result of my intoxication last night--if one may so call it--I overslept this morning and was in danger of being late to church. In fact, the people were already on their knees when we entered the little chapel which is the home of American church life here. The name chapel is only applied out of compliment, for it is really a large room with improvised altar at one end, a piano in the corner, and rows of chairs for pews. It seemed, however, as fine as a cathedral to us, and how beautiful it sounded to hear those familiar old prayers again in our mother tongue, while everywhere without these walls was the babble of a foreign language. At the close of the service, as the rector was reading that most impressive of prayers, the prayer for those at sea, and we were following with more than usual devoutness, for the dangers and perils of the great deep were still very real to us, bang! the blare of trumpet, thud of drum, and thunder of trombone burst on the stillness, and the sound of a lively march, the sort to make one's feet tingle, came ever louder and louder to our ears. I expected to see the rectors face change and to hear him hurriedly close, but no, his voice kept on peacefully, unconcernedly, and the people knelt absorbed as though the thought of worldly things was far removed. I must confess I found it hard to keep my mind fastened on the spiritual; it was my first experience of hearing anything from the ritual accompanied by Sousa music, and the irreverence shocked me. I was eager to inquire about the music, but after the service, as we reached the end of the aisle, the rector came forward with outstretched hand. The consul, to whom we had letters, had told him of the two new strangers in the colony, and his welcome was most cordial. "I want you both to come to tea at the Russicher Hof to-morrow, if you will pardon the unconventionally of my invitation," said his wife, a bustling little woman in black. "There will be several music students on hand and it may be pleasant for you to meet one another." We thanked her heartily. One appreciates these things so much when away from home. The music had now begun again, this time abandoning the martial for the romantic, and giving out the opening strains of Von Weber's overture to _Der Freischütz_. "It's more than a brass band," said I, urging _Mütterchen_ along. "There are clarinets and flutes. Do let's hurry." We turned down the little archway which led from the chapel door to the main street, and _voilà!_ there was a picture well worth seeing. Have I explained that in front of the Feldernhalle is a triangular open space? This now was thronged with a gayly attired crowd, who were promenading up and down or chatting in small groups, while from the balcony of the Feldernhalle itself came the sound of inspiring music played by the great military band of the city. One caught the irresistible charm of color enhanced by sunshine. The scarlet uniforms of the officers who were everywhere, the bright caps of the students, the gleaming helmets of the officials set off against the dark background of the Alte Residenz lent an artistic touch to a scene already brilliant. "Isn't it splendid?" cried I, excitedly, as we moved along with the laughing throng. "Just see, _Mütterchen_, there's an officer kissing that lady's hand. It's like a scene from a play." "It's all a rather strange sight on Sunday," replied _Mütterchen_, smiling gently. I suddenly remembered my Puritan ancestors and felt I ought to shut my ears to the fascinating lilt of the "Merry Wives of Windsor" overture. "I don't believe Cotton Mather himself would call these people wicked," I said, with a glance at the happy crowd about me. Just then the student from our _pension_ passed us with a low bow. There were a number of young men with him, all wearing round caps of black and purple. (The colors indicate the corps or club to which they belong.) Do you know that the men bow first in this country? To the masculine sex is allotted the right to accept or reject an acquaintance. Isn't that truly German? We were glad that Herr Martens had condescended to recognize us, for it gave us a pleasant sensation to realize we were not utterly unacquainted in that great throng of people. Not two minutes later, who should swoop down upon us but Frau von Waldfel. Cecilia _mia_, don't let me hear of your banishing "swoop" to the category of slang. I am much attached to that invaluable word. Have you ever seen a gull circling with wide-spread wings above a fish in the water beneath, and then suddenly dart down and bear away his prey? When certain people accost me this picture invariably comes to my mind. Frau von Waldfel swoops down and captures one like the gull, while I play the part of the unfortunate fish. "So you are enjoying the Parada, are you?" she began. She had once spent a season in London, and so caught the English habit of making her remarks interrogative. "We always have this music every Sunday. I've been doing a little shopping, you see, on my way home from church." (She pointed to a number of small packages under her arm.) "I've ordered some cakes sent up to the _pension_. Did you know the tarts here are not nearly so good as those in Berlin? Dear me, I have quite forgotten whether you said you had been there or not. Your daughter is such a quiet girl," she added to _Mütterchen_, "I never can draw her out." _Mütterchen_ gave an involuntary gasp at this last remark. "Are all the stores open Sunday?" I said, endeavoring to show I could make conversation. All I needed was an opportunity. "Of course! Why not?" she answered, as we turned our steps towards Maximilian-Platz. "They close at one o'clock; on other days at half-past seven in the evening. I'm a regular guide-book, much more practical than that red one I see you carry. Speaking of Berlin tarts, I want to tell you that I never ate----" and so on--can't you hear her?--till we reached the door. We spent a quiet afternoon reading and writing letters. After supper the Baroness invited us to come into the salon. "I always try to make Sunday evening a pleasant time," she said. What was our surprise on entering to see them all seated around a table playing cards. They seemed much disappointed that we did not join them. If this letter of mine is posted to-night, it will catch the New York mail steamer, so I shall send it out now by Georg, the man-servant of the house. _Auf Wiedersehen_, and don't forget I am hungry for news of everything at home. II _October 4._ _Top o' the morning, Cecy dear!_ Such a glorious, _allegro vivace_ day! The sun is shining, the air is crisp and cool, and the sauciest of breezes is coquetting with the tree-tops in the Platz. It gets into one's blood, a morning like this, and the wildest dreams seem possible of fulfilment. I came home from my lesson humming the theme of the scherzo of Beethoven's eighth symphony. It seemed to fit the buoyancy of my mood as nothing else could. I can see you smile now and hear you say, "It's quite evident she is happy in her new surroundings." Exactly so, my dear, and there are so many delightful things to tell you about that I don't know where to begin. However, the Conservatory forms one of the most vital elements of my new life here, so I'll start by telling you of my first visit there. Be it known, then, that the Royal Conservatory of Munich, to give it its full title, opened the eighteenth, and promptly at nine o'clock I made my way thither. What a rambling old building it is, and how replete with association! So many musicians have studied here at some time or other, although Rheinberger and many of the teachers who have made it famous are now memories of the past. With a certain indefinable thrill I realized I was actually within these walls. Instead of the _Herein!_ which I expected to hear in response to my knock on the door of the director's room, Stavenhagen himself opened the door. I wonder if you heard him play when he was in America. He's a handsome man, not much above thirty, with blue eyes, firm chin, straight nose, and curly blond hair and mustache. In fact, he has all the delightful characteristics of a German, and none of the unlovely ones. Besides this, he is tall, a rarity in men of his nation. "_Eine Amerikanerin!_" he said pleasantly, pushing a chair forward. "I speak a lee-tle English, but," he went on in German, "perhaps we will make more progress if I stick to my mother tongue." "I speak a very little German," said I, smiling, not feeling in the least afraid of him, and forthwith explained my situation and what I wished to do at the school. A little man, whose face, beard, and hair all seemed the same reddish color, was looking over a pile of letters in the corner of the room. He now glanced up at me curiously as I began my inquiries about the _Partitur Lesen_ (score reading) class of which I had read in the catalogue. You know that five years ago women were not allowed to study counterpoint at the Conservatory. In fact, anything more advanced than elementary harmony was debarred. The ability of the feminine intellect to comprehend the intricacies of a _stretto_, or cope with double counterpoint in the tenth, if not openly denied, was severely questioned. This carefully nourished conservatism has yielded considerably. The counterpoint class is now open to women, although as yet comparatively few avail themselves of the opportunity. Formerly, too, all the teachers in the Conservatory were men, but one finds to-day two women enrolled as professors among the forty on the list. "I should like to enter the _Partitur Lesen_ class," said I, innocently, not then having learned all this. Stavenhagen looked at the little man. The little man looked back at Stavenhagen. If I had thrown a bombshell they could not have appeared more startled. The little man at once abandoned his letters and stood staring, a few feet in front of me. "There have never been any women in the class. I am right, am I not, _Herr Sekretariat_?" said Stavenhagen. "You are right, _Herr Direktor_," responded the other. He held his hands behind him and gazed at me as one might at a curious species of animal. I felt I ought to be tagged, like those poor creatures in the Zoo, "Rare. From North America." "Is the class full, _Herr Sekretariat_?" inquired Stavenhagen. "About thirty men have registered, _Herr Direktor_," solemnly answered the secretary. There was a pause. "Have you ever played string quarters from score, Fräulein?" inquired the director. "Yes, _Herr Direktor_," said I, with that supreme calmness which comes at times when one is inwardly much disturbed. Again there was a pause. Even I began to be impressed by the solemnity of the occasion. "Of course," said the director, "because a Fräulein never has joined the class is no reason why a Fräulein never can." "Not at all," said the secretary. The gravity of his expression was worthy a crisis in the affairs of state. The two men walked to the other side of the room, and while they conversed in whispers I stood gazing out of the window at the equestrian statue in the Platz, unable to hide the smile at the corners of my mouth. Although conscious of my many peculiarities, I had never before considered myself an abnormal being, and to be so regarded struck me as amusing. It seemed to take them a long time to come to a decision. When my impatience had subsided to a state of hopelessness, Stavenhagen came forward. "Your request is unusual, Fräulein," he began, "but--but--well, you may come on Friday at three o'clock." With a sigh of relief I bowed myself out in approved German fashion, feeling as might the immortal Napoleon after a hard-won victory. The first Kaim-Saal concert of the season came in the evening. The Kaim-Saal is a splendid hall with a large organ, where most of the concerts are held. There was a fine program including Beethoven's first symphony. I was greatly interested to see Weingartner conduct. He looked very young as he stepped to the platform. He is slight and dark, with brown, clever eyes. I must confess that at first I did not like his conducting at all. It seemed to me extreme and even sensational. However, as I became accustomed to his extravagant methods, the earnestness and power of the man impressed me more and more. When it came to the Beethoven number he directed without score. He fairly swept the orchestra along, and his every gesture was pregnant with meaning. I could not help thinking of Gericke's straight immovable figure as I saw Weingartner wave wildly to right and left, rise on tiptoe, sway forward, and now, by one tense, quick movement of his stick, bring his men to a grand climax. Sometimes he even let his beat cease entirely and his arm drop to his side, while the orchestra seemed to carry itself along like a wheel which continues revolving after the force which propelled it has stopped. My enthusiasm caught fire from his, and at the close of the concert I was cheering as wildly as the rest of the audience. I can't tell you how many times he came forward to bow his thanks amid the cries of "Bravo! Bravo!" He seemed to enjoy it all hugely and kept smiling down on us. When he does that his face loses every bit of dignity and he looks like nothing so much as a roguish boy. On our way down to the _Garderobe_, where every one checks one's things for the fee of twenty pfennigs (five cents), we met Mr. B----. He is a harmless young curate from the north of England; one of those men who have soft, gentle voices, Van Dyke beards, and always sit on the edge of a chair. He had been to the church tea that afternoon, and shown a praiseworthy desire to make himself agreeable. "Ah, good evening," he said, "was it not a beautiful concert? And so uplifting! I see you have the score to--to----" "The Beethoven symphony," I replied. "Oh, yes. Beethoven has indeed caught the spiritual note, don't you think so? It seems to me he is at his best in that wonderful _adagio vivace_ movement." I must not forget to tell you that we have two new arrivals at the _pension_, namely, the Poet and his wife. I haven't the slightest idea what their name is except that it is very long and very unpronounceable. She is a dear little placid-faced woman of middle age, and he looks like one of Raphael's cherubs in twentieth century clothes. In spite of his infantile expression, however, I hear he has quite a reputation among men of letters. A Fräulein Hartmann is expected to-morrow, and that will complete our household for the winter. She is the niece of Frau von Waldfel, who declares they greatly resemble each other. I can just imagine her: younger but with the same stout figure, rasping voice, and beady eyes! I do hope she won't be put next me at table. To-day, while we were waiting in the salon for dinner to be announced, I chanced to play a few bars from a piece by MacDowell. "Is that by your national composer, Sousa?" inquired Herr Doktor. I hastily informed him that it was not. "Why! I didn't know you had any other composers of importance," he remarked, with interest. It is a sad but true fact that American music has, as yet, won no footing in Germany. _Wednesday._ This afternoon I had my first lesson with Thuille. I arrived just as the clock was striking two, and was shown at once into a large room, which in its furnishings and harmony of color betrays the artistic nature of its owner. An atmosphere of cigarette smoke hung about everything, and through the floating clouds by the windows I discerned Thuille just taking a final puff, tossing his cigarette away and coming to meet me with outstretched hand. "_Ach! Guten Tag, Fräulein!_" he said, with a genial smile which put me instantly at my ease. Then he pulled forward a chair beside his own at the desk and bade me be seated. As I took my place a big white and brown hunting dog crawled out from the corner. "This is my greatest pet," explained the professor, caressing the dog, who looked up with devoted eyes at his master's face. "I call him Tasso. Tasso, let me introduce you to a young American lady! Make a bow and then lie down." Tasso obeyed in the cleverest fashion, Thuille watching him with pride. This introduction over, he turned to begin the lesson. I had brought, as he requested, all the past work which I had with me, and he spent the entire hour in looking it over, asking questions and arranging a plan of study. I told him that I wanted that firm foundation which German thoroughness gives one, and he suggested that I begin by a review commencing with four-part choral writing, then simple counterpoint, and so on. This will form what I call the technical part of my study, and besides this I am to do a certain amount of free work and orchestration. Doesn't it sound interesting? I hurried home in a fever of impatience to begin the lesson he has given me for Saturday, only to find callers in the salon. They proved to be two New York girls, also music students. They are studying piano with Frau Langenhan-Hirzel, who is herself a pupil of Lescheticsky. Both are intensely enthusiastic over their work, and practise from five to six hours a day. After our coffee, Miss B---- offered to show me where her studio was, so, leaving her friend, who had a lesson, we walked down the Platz and up seven and ninety stairs to a tiny room under the eaves. It seems that Miss B---- is not allowed to practise in the _pension_ where she lives, owing to the fact that three other students are singing, playing, or violin-scraping all day long, and the Frau landlady feared that another musician would banish utterly her supply of winter boarders. Hence Miss B---- was forced to seek a place to practise outside, and finally found a secluded room on the top floor of an old house at the very end of the Platz. In the subduing atmosphere of an undertaker's family she has made her musical home. The room is very small. One corner of the ceiling has caved in and threatens momentarily to fall. The only furniture is a cracked mirror, two rickety chairs, and a fine grand piano, which looks laughably out of place in these surroundings. "There's only one thing that bothers me," she said, running over a bit of Chopin. "Just mark the effect of a _forte_." She played a crashing chord, and presto! the tiny, diamond panes of the windows rattled sharply in echo. Again a _sforzando_ chord rang out, again came the jarring response. "Isn't it awful?" she sighed. "My nerves are getting worn to shreds!" Believe me, people at home don't know one half the trials of Munich music students. _October 20, 10.30 P. M._ To-night we made our first visit to the Hof-Theatre, which is the main opera house of the city, and heard Humperdinck's _Hänsel und Gretel_. I like the house immensely, its five balconies in white and gold are so impressive. The curtain is old rose in color, and on it the letter L is inscribed at intervals--for the unfortunate king, you know. What do you think I paid for my seat? Only fifty-five cents--and sat, too, in the orchestra. At the Conservatory last week I received an oblong bit of paper, a sort of certificate, which states that I am pursuing a course of musical study here. On presenting this at the box office I can get a seat in the rear of the parquet (which corresponds to our orchestra) for just half price. The seats do not extend under the balcony, so they are really very desirable. The extra five cents is for _Vorverkauft_, which means a fee for buying tickets in advance. The opera itself is the most charming thing of its kind I have ever heard. The story is a fairy-tale concerning the delightful adventures of two children. Bosetti, a stout little German in spite of the Italian ring to her name, played Gretel and Fräulein Tordeck took the part of Hänsel. Both caught the spirit of the piece and sang and acted excellently. The music is fascinating in the extreme, and some of it--the prayer of the two mites in the wood, for example, which brought the tears to my eyes--very beautiful. There is no interruption. The music continues even during the pauses between the three so-called pictures of the opera. At the beginning of the second picture, which is laid in a wood, Gretel sings the loveliest solo, with the strings _pizzicato_ and a flute obligato. Then there is a wonderful scene showing a flight of golden stairs thronged with white-robed angels who go up and down, while the children lie sleeping beneath a tree. If all the operas are produced as finely as this one I shall certainly think Germany the heaven of composers. Yesterday Fräulein Hartmann, Frau von Waldfel's niece, arrived and proved a most agreeable surprise. Far from being what I had pictured, she is the prettiest creature imaginable, slight, with blue eyes, rosy cheeks, two fascinating dimples which come and go as she talks, and a bewildering profusion of light, fluffy hair which stubbornly refuses to remain in order, but curls about her head like a halo. Her aunt is immensely proud of her, although she treats her like a child. The chief cause of her pride seems to be that her niece is engaged--_verlobt_, as they say--to a German officer. You know it is considered _the_ thing to marry into the army here, for it gives a woman at once the best social position, consequently all the young lieutenants are run after by diplomatic mammas and ambitious daughters, until I should think they would want to cry "Hold! Enough!" I believe the necessary dowry which the girl's parents pay over on the wedding day is twelve thousand marks, unless the bridegroom can show that he has that amount of money. It is, however, proverbial that the chief possession of a lieutenant are his unpaid bills, hence it seldom occurs that he himself can afford to marry at his own free will. Fräulein Hartmann, while essentially German in type, has an unusually sweet expression characterized by a curious little droop at the corners of her mouth which puzzles me a bit. I am sure it is not the result of a spoiled nature, for her patience with her aunt's querulousness belies that, but it seems rather the expression which we associate with unhappiness or pain. At any rate she is decidedly the most interesting person in the _pension_, and I hope to know her better. _Six o'clock._ The day is dying royally, and as I look out across the now brown and barren tree-tops of the Platz, I see a sky which is one blaze of glory. There is always music in the clouds. Have you never heard the tender, inspiring melody in soft, fleecy puffs as they float in a sea of azure--or caught the melancholy strains of 'cello and oboe in lowering gray masses against a background darker still? On an afternoon like this, surely you have thrilled in response to the piercing cry of trumpets, horns, and trombones, in the riotous masses of scarlet, violet, and gold which flood the heaven? It does not last long, this intoxicating draught of color and melody, for, as I watch, the clouds dissolve with the resolution of a chord. I can hear the _diminuendo rallentando_ of the orchestra as the gold dulls, the scarlet fades to rose, the rose to pink. It hovers--this last, long streak--in one delicate flush against the violet sky, while the strings sustain _pianissimo_ the tonic harmony. Then it suddenly dies, and the music with it. The day is done. III MUNICH, _November 8_. Behold me recovering this morning from the effects of my first participation in German frivolity. The occasion was the _Namens-Tag_ (name day) of the Baroness. "You see to-day is mother's saint's day, the one for whom she was named," explained Karl, not very clearly, at dinner. "Is it the custom to celebrate this instead of the birthday?" I inquired. Karl looked at me with an expression of pity at my ignorance. "We always have a fête on _both_ days," he said, "with extra wine and a lot of grand things to eat." "Yes, indeed," said the Baroness, beaming from her end of the table. "Yes, indeed," echoed the Baron, beaming back on her and radiating his delight along the line of _pensionnaires_ each side. The eyes of Herr Doktor twinkled as he looked across at me. I met his glance with a half smile. Neither of us meant to be unkind. France and America were merely united in their appreciation of the humorous. Frau von Waldfel raised her eyebrows disagreeably, and looked as though about to start a discussion. To mention food in the presence of that woman is like brandishing a red flag before a bull. Luckily Herr Doktor saw the signs of approaching storm, and with his usual diplomacy turned the trend of conversation, so that an argument was averted for this meal at least. Is there anything more pitiable than a number of guests, hitherto unknown to one another, endeavoring to appear at ease as they wait the summons to dinner? We had thought to avoid this situation by not appearing till half after seven that evening, the hour set for the supper party. Imagine, then, our feelings, when fifteen minutes, a half hour, three quarters dragged by, and no vestige of life from the dining-room! Everything moves slowly in Germany, and the culinary department is no exception. The Baroness never seemed so much like a beneficent angel as when she opened the dining-room door and invited us to the table. And now a light shone through the clouds, for the stupid Count with whom I had been struggling to converse was whisked away to the other end of the table, and Lieutenant Linder, a young man of about seven and twenty, in the dark blue and scarlet uniform of Bavaria, took the place on my left. Oh, these officers! They simply own Munich. When they stride along the street, the entire sidewalk is their undisputed possession. How their swords clank, how faultlessly their jackets fit, how their heavenward-pointing mustaches curl! A few of them are really handsome, but if not, it doesn't matter in the slightest. The resplendency of their uniforms would make one forgive almost anything. When I became accustomed to the atmosphere of conceit in which Lieutenant Linder was enveloped, I found him distinctly entertaining, and, better yet, he had a sense of humor. What with his helping me with my German, and my giving him a lesson in English, we managed to get on famously. The table was profusely decorated with flowers, and there was a great deal to eat and more to drink. The idea in cooking seems to be to produce a color effect. For example, we had as one course well-browned sausage surrounded by a mass of bright red carrots. Next came the eternal veal, reposing in a vivid green sea of spinach. Do your æsthetic sensibilities shrink at these materialistic descriptions? Remember I am in a materialistic land, amid a materialistic people. Truly the problem which continually confronts me is: how can a people who seem so lethargic, and who make no disguise of their love for the product of the soil and the grape, produce such marvellous, almost superhuman results in the fields of music and philosophy? I might have meditated at some length on this question during the _Namens-Tag_ supper, had not the Lieutenant kept up a rapid conversation, for we were at the table until half-past eleven. Not that we were eating all the time, but the waits between the courses were very long, and in the middle of the dinner we had a pause of twenty minutes--like an intermission at an assembly--when the Poet, with marked nervousness, read some original verses "To the Baroness on her Name-Day." The poor woman was even more embarrassed than he, and so moved, when at the close we all rose to drink her health, that two large tears ran down her fat cheeks. "_Hoch soll sie leben!_" cried Herr Doktor, clinking his glass to mine. Every one had to touch his glass to every one else's or it was "no fair," and of course we all walked up to the Baroness and touched hers. When the coffee had at last been served, we went into the salon carrying away with us a glass of _Bowle_, or punch, which is much milder than anything called by that name in America. In came a round little man who took his place at the piano, and dancing began. Lieutenant Linder, with an extremely low bow, begged _gnädiges Fräulein_ to give him the honor of the first waltz. _Gnädiges Fräulein_ consented, and off we started. The floor was excellent,--you know one finds hardwood floors everywhere here instead of carpets,--but oh, how fast these Germans dance! The Lieutenant swung me round and round in a small circle, _prestissimo_, until I begged him to stop, whereupon he looked very much surprised and asked me if I had heart trouble. I assured him that such was not the case, but that we were not accustomed in America to whirl about like tops. Waltzes and old-fashioned polkas followed in rapid succession. I can't imagine how _Herr Leutnant_ ever managed to do that one-two-three-hop, one-two-three-hop, without falling over his sword. At midnight everybody, including Frau von Waldfel, danced the _Française_, which is much like our Virginia Reel. You should have seen how the Baron and Baroness enjoyed it, and how astonishingly light they were on their feet! They fairly glowed with pleasure, and reminded me of Mr. and Mrs. Fessiwig at the Christmas party. I had looked forward to this affair with considerable curiosity, not only because it was to be my first glimpse of German social life, but also because the Baroness had invited Lieutenant Blum, the _fiancé_ of Fräulein Hartmann. I must confess, however, that I was much disappointed in him. He is short and dark, with a heavy, black mustache which he constantly caresses with his fat little hands. Although I did not exchange a word with him the whole evening, except the formalities of an introduction, I could not shake off the impression that he was of much coarser fibre than his betrothed. However, he paid her the most devoted attention the entire evening, and is, apparently, very much in love. At one o'clock _Mütterchen_ and I exchanged glances. I had a lesson at the Conservatory the next morning at nine. But at the first hint of our leaving, the Baroness looked so distressed and surprised that we were afraid we had been very rude and determined to do the proper thing. The proper thing in this instance meant staying up to dance till half-past four in the morning. Oh! how sleepy I was as I crept into bed and thanked my stars that the _Namens-Tag fête_ was over. _Evening._ By this time I am beginning to feel quite like a native. My surroundings no longer seem strange. I am growing accustomed to five meals a day and the language sounds fairly rational. My work has settled into a regular routine. The entire mornings are devoted to study. In the afternoons come lessons. Twice a week I have a private lesson with Thuille. At the Conservatory I am studying singing with Frau Bianci and piano with Fräulein Fischer, which makes four lessons more. The piano lessons are in a class with two other girls, and not as formidable as you might suppose, for I have explained to Fräulein Fischer that I am only including piano to keep from forgetting what I already know, and that I need most of my time on my composition lessons with Thuille. She is very kind, and every two weeks we are to read duets together. This makes six lessons a week, and what with the score-reading class and the chorus, I see a busy winter before me. The singing and piano lessons are given in a large, imposing room. It contains two grand pianos and is furnished in red velvet. I could hardly reconcile this with my ideas of a Conservatory, but Frau Bianci explained that the building was originally used for something quite different. Just fancy--we address all the teachers by titles! "Herr Professor" falls now quite trippingly from my tongue, and even "Frau Professor," but "Fräulein Professor" is a little too much for me as yet! I will acknowledge that I felt rather strange at the first meeting of the score-reading class, when, on entering the room with the score of Haydn's symphonies under my arm, I encountered the astonished gaze of thirty pairs of masculine eyes. You could have heard a pin drop, the place was so still, as I walked by the different groups and took a seat near the window. Then a low whispering started among the students. Evidently I had created a sensation. A moment later the big door opened and Stavenhagen came in. Every one rose, or straightened himself up at once. With a nod which seemed to include us all, the director took his seat by the piano and the lesson began. Each one was called on to play a number of bars written in four different clefs, the old soprano, the tenor, the alto, and the bass--Stavenhagen selecting a new choral every time. It was not till near the end of the hour that he called my name. Just as I took my seat before the keyboard, feeling intensely nervous and fearing lest my fingers tremble visibly, I heard one of the men smother a laugh. That settled it! I was bound to do or die, and with a calmness quite unnatural I played the bars set before me without a mistake. Nobody laughed when I had finished, and now that the first shock is over, the students treat me with the utmost courtesy. Indeed, they seem to have accepted me as inevitable, although occasionally I catch one of them staring at me with an expression which says as plainly as words, "What on earth does a woman want of score reading?" The chorus is well under way. To-day is Thursday, and while you have been singing with the faithful in the Cecilia Society I, too, have been at a rehearsal, only we call it a _Probe_ here, and the atmosphere is somewhat different from that of Pilgrim Hall. The _Oberster Chor_ (which means the upper chorus) met at five o'clock to-day. The room where we sit is on the top floor and at the end is an organ. I think the orchestra class generally practises here. The air is always frightfully close and hot, for there are about two hundred of us and never a window open. That is the German idea. What a splendid thing a Fresh Air Fund would be over here! The piano against the wall is on a raised platform about which the chorus forms a half circle. Professor Becht, one of the organ teachers, presides. Such a time as he does have endeavoring to maintain order! But the moment we begin to sing--ah! that is a different matter. Each pupil becomes utterly absorbed in the notes before him, from the first measure to the last. Each sings as though he loves to sing; yes, better than that, as though he actually feels what he sings, which is more than can be said of many vocalists who have won both fame and fortune. There, you see, is another side of these complex Germans. The love of music is their birthright, the appreciation of it intuitive. How I wish you might see some of this queer congregation! The masculine element ranges from small boys to bearded men. The girls and men are kept strictly separate, like the sheep and the goats. They enter and go out by different doors, for the building is divided in two distinct sections. The sanctity of each section is kept as inviolate as a Shaker settlement. The front row of tenors in the chorus amuses me exceedingly. It consists of boys who wear their hair pompadour and yell outrageously. Did you ever notice the effect of a boy with pompadour hair opening his mouth very wide? It is truly startling. The basses form a curious _vis-à-vis_ for these youthful aspirants. Their age is in the neighborhood of thirty. Obviously to be a bass singer requires both dignity and experience. Most of them think it also requires a full beard. Several of the pupils affect the artistic, or are dressed after the old masters, with long hair, brown corduroy velvet jackets, and flowing neckties. There is one I have named Rubenstein, he looks so much like the pictures of the great pianist. And the most interesting tenor-boy I call Beethoven. He wears a big white collar into which he sinks his chin, and with deep, earnest eyes under closely knit brows gazes gravely out on a frivolous world. I felt very much like the proverbial stray cat as I entered the room at the first rehearsal, alone and silent in all that crowd of chattering German girls. Not knowing where to sit, I cast an anxious look around and caught the friendly glance of a girl in the second row. She beckoned to me somewhat shyly. "There is a place here, if you care for it," she said. Overjoyed to hear my mother tongue, I gladly took the seat beside her, and we were soon chatting in the unconventional way known to strangers who meet on strange soil. I could not but notice with what a high-bred manner my new friend carried her head. Her hair, black and curling, is coiled in a low knot at the back of the whitest of necks, for she wears her blouses cut out a little without a collar, as is the strange and rather chilling fashion here. I was struck, too, by her jacket of black velvet, an odd school dress, but one which seems to suit her perfectly. "You are English, are you not?" I questioned. "Not at all," said she, her blue eyes snapping as much as blue eyes ever can snap. "I'm Irish. I come from County Cork." "Oh!" I said, drawing a long breath, as visions of the representatives County Cork generally sends to America flashed through my mind. "I'm taking piano as my _Hauptsache_ with Krause," she went on. "You know Stavenhagen and Krause have a great many foreign pupils. By the bye," she continued, "I have a friend myself in the United States. I wonder if you know her--a Miss Curtis." "Couldn't you tell me what city she lives in?" I suggested. "I know several people of that name." "Then I'm sure you know her. How delightful!" she replied, radiant. (I made a mental note of the fact that jumping at conclusions is a trait not confined exclusively to American women.) "She comes from Los Angeles." For the twentieth time since my arrival in Munich I explained the relative situation of Boston and San Francisco, and politely regretted that I could not know all the music students as far as the Pacific coast. I was surprised at first to see how much deference is paid the professors here. Whenever one enters the room we all immediately rise and do not sit until he either goes out or, by a gracious wave of the hand, accords us permission to resume our places. In spite of my democratic birth, these marks of respect impressed me as extremely fitting. About every two weeks comes a "_Vortragsabend_," an evening devoted to a concert by the pupils. Stavenhagen has a large orchestra composed of the students, which he conducts himself. We are marked, too, by some occult system whereby our standing is never known unless we "flunk." Last week I had a very pleasant chat with Professor Gluth. He is a well-known composer here, has written several operas, and teaches at the school. Margaret Ruthven Lang had been kind enough to give me a letter of introduction to him. He was her teacher when she was in Munich. I have been trying to see him for some time, but have always missed him. He is a splendid-looking man, very large, with white hair, and his manner is most cordial. He was delighted to hear of Miss Lang, and I was proud to tell him of her success in the musical world. We have been to the opera twice since I wrote, once to hear _Die Weisse Dame_ and the second to hear "Fidelio." I am afraid the report that the Prince Regent was to be there had more to do with our going than the desire to hear _Die Weisse Dame_ itself, although it is a pretty opera in its way. The audience was very splendid and the royal box brilliantly lighted. The most expensive places are in the first balcony, and here we saw very fine costumes and jewels. At ten minutes past seven--the opera as a rule begins at seven--the orchestra struck up "God save the King," and the people rose _en masse_ as the Prince, accompanied by the Crown Princess and several members of the royal family, entered the box. The Regent at once came to the front, and with one hand resting on the red velvet railing, bowed repeatedly to right and left. He is of medium height, with white hair and flowing white beard. His eyes are bright and kindly, and his bearing, while most dignified, is utterly without ostentation. It was an inspiring sight,--the five balconies, the floor, and the boxes all alive with a crowd of enthusiastic people, who, standing, faced this man who served them as king, and applauded till the house echoed with their cries of "_Hoch! Hoch!_" Although "Fidelio," which we heard on Wednesday, presented no such gorgeous spectacle, how much more we enjoyed that evening! Morena sang the title rôle, and I feel as though I never want to see any one else in the part. She is a tall, commanding woman of great beauty, and the masculine dress of Leonora suits her marvellously. Her voice is exquisite, fresh, and true, and her acting shows great intensity of power and feeling. Bosetti, who, you remember, sang so delightfully in _Hänsel und Gretel_ made a charming Marzelline. When the opera was over _Mütterchen_ and I rose to go, but to our surprise saw that the audience remained seated. As we took our places again, Zumpe raised his baton and the first measures of that divine Leonore overture number three rang out. I have never heard anything more impressive, coming as it did to form a finale to the opera itself. It seemed as though the people held their breath during the performance; not a rustle, not a movement distracted one from the glorious music of the orchestra. At the close the whole house broke into wild applause and cries for "Zumpe! Zumpe!" I do think this German enthusiasm splendid. We talk about the stolidity of the Teutonic race, but I have never yet seen here an unresponsive audience. If they do not like a thing they remain silent. It is the exception to hear any hissing, although it now and then occurs. If they do like a thing they applaud, and applaud lustily. They resemble big, impulsive children, and the man who said "There is nothing for preserving the body like having no heart" would find no place among them. That cherished enormity known as Modern Indifference, by so many of us regarded as the outward sign of culture, is, in Germany, thank Heaven, conspicuous by its absence. _November 28._ Yesterday was Thanksgiving Day. I could hardly realize that you were feasting at home on turkey and cranberry sauce amid all the festivities of the season. The day here passed as usual with my morning of study and a lesson with Thuille in the afternoon. In the evening, that we might not forget what day it was, the American colony had a dinner and dance at one of the large hotels. I had no idea before that there were so many Americans in Munich. Colonel W---- said there must be about four hundred in all, and fully two hundred and fifty came to the dinner. The rooms were lavishly decorated with American flags and flowers, as were also the tables. And oh! how pleasant was the sound of English on every side. The consul's wife and the rector's wife received the guests under a red, white, and blue bower, and at seven o'clock we all went into the dining-room to the strains of the "Star Spangled Banner." The rector asked grace and then came the dinner. That, dear Cecy, I must confess, was but a farce when compared to the genuine creation, in spite of the American flag on the menu and the assurance that these were American turkeys especially imported for the occasion. The cranberry sauce, too, would, I believe, have been passed by unrecognized on the other side, but anything was preferable to dining on veal and beer on Thanksgiving Day. After the dinner came dancing--it had been thought best to have no speeches--and it did seem delightful to trip it in a sane way once more. The whole affair was decidedly successful, and made us realize that Thanksgiving was a real institution even if we were on German soil. I must tell you how charming all the people here made my birthday, which came this week. In the morning _Mütterchen_ presented me with some lovely gifts tied with a red, white, and blue ribbon. To our surprise, about ten o'clock came a knock on my door, and in walked Karl bearing a huge cake on a tray, the Baron and Baroness following. They were all three beaming with delight, and each shook my hand a dozen times in their cordial way, wishing me all sorts of good things. The cake had been ordered and made at the pastry cook's especially for me. It was round and bore across the top, in letters of marvellous white frosting script, "_Herzlichen Gruss_" (Hearty Greeting). "That must have the place of honor," I cried, much moved by their friendliness, as I swept the books off the table. "It is truly a wonderful cake." Hardly had they gone when a second knock sounded, and in response to my "_Herein!_" in came the servants in a row, headed by Georg, the butler. Twisting the buttons of his livery, he made a little speech very fast, all of which I could not understand, but the burden of it was a wish that the _lieber Gott_ would keep _gnädiges Fräulein_ in health and happiness all her days. Then he shook me warmly by the hand. The maids followed, each wishing me good fortune in some pretty couplet, and with a quaint little courtesy also shaking my hand. It was all done with such delightful simplicity that I can never forget it. But this was not all the kindness I received, for when we went out to dinner, there on my plate was a beautiful basket of white roses from my "friends in the _pension_." I did not know what to say in my surprise, so I only exclaimed _Danke Tausendmal_ (a thousand thanks), and sat down quickly, lest I should cry or do some equally foolish thing. Just as we were leaving the room after dinner Frau von Waldfel came up to me, her niece by her side. "I want to tell you, my dear, that I sent to Nuremberg for some _Lebkuchen_ in honor of your birthday," she said. "You will find the package in your room. They tried to persuade me in the shops," she added, lowering her voice to a whisper, "that the _Lebkuchen_ they sell here are as good as the genuine article, but I know better, and these are the real Nuremberg ones, famous the world over." I thanked her heartily for her thoughtfulness, assuring her that I had often read of them in my fairy-tale books. Then they both shook hands and Fräulein Hartmann, blushing slightly, leaned over and kissed me. "It is the custom," she said shyly, "and perhaps you will miss your American friends less on this day if you realize you have made new ones here." Wasn't it sweet of her? In the evening we celebrated by going to the _Populäres Konzert_--the Baron and Baroness, Herr Doktor, Lieutenant Linder, _Mütterchen_, and myself. It was held in the Kaim Saal, where the Weingartner concerts are given, and rendered by the same orchestra under the leadership of Scharrer. In place of the rows of seats were substituted tables as at our "Pops" at home. The hall was extremely crowded when we entered and we did not at first obtain a table where we could sit together. _Mütterchen_ and I took places at one in the rear, and I noticed after we had been seated a few moments the disagreeable expression on the faces of the strangers at the table. In fact, two of them looked seriously offended and made some remark to each other, _sotto voce_, with a glance towards us. In bewilderment I wondered what could have destroyed their equanimity, for they seemed placid enough when we first came in. Suddenly it flashed across me. "Don't you remember," I whispered to _Mütterchen_, "Edith told us the other day it was the custom to bow to those sitting at table whenever we took a seat with them? We didn't do it, hence this atmosphere of ungracious toleration." _Mütterchen_ looked alarmed, but just then the lieutenant came up to take us to a table large enough for our whole party, and we soothed the wounded feelings of those we had so unconsciously offended by bestowing the most cordial of bows as we went away. This was not, however, our only unhappy experience, born of ignorance and American training, on that evening. It chanced, when we reached home after the concert, that the lieutenant turned to _Mütterchen_ first to say good night. "A most enjoyable evening, _gnädige Frau_," he said, bending low over her hand. That he was to kiss it she had not the slightest premonition. In point of fact he didn't, but he tried to, while _Mütterchen_ innocently raised her hand at the critical moment and gave him a fearful rap under the nose. His glasses flew off with a crash, and he flushed very red, more from the blow than embarrassment. It takes a great deal to embarrass a German officer. While he groped about on the floor in search of his glasses, _Mütterchen_ stammered forth a flood of apologies in the best German the Berlitz School affords. We were indeed relieved when he recovered the glasses intact, and a hearty laugh banished our distress, for the Germans like a joke--provided it is not too subtle--as well as the rest of us. Wagner's Ring of the Nibelungen is to be given in two weeks, and we purchased our seats to-day. I am all enthusiasm to hear it and am reading the poems. I have a splendid little book which has the leading motifs written out at the back and in the margins of the pages a statement of just what motif occurs at certain lines. It sounds complex,--doesn't it?--but is most interesting. Wish me joy, and in the meantime believe me, as always, M. P. S. Fräulein Hartmann is not happy. I am convinced of it. To be sure, I never see her except at table, for her aunt keeps her always closely by her side. But to-day I passed the girl in the hall, and her eyes were swollen from crying. She looked so sad that I stopped and asked her if I could not do something for her. For a moment she looked at me hesitatingly and seemed about to speak, when in walked her unbearable aunt. "My niece has a frightful headache," she exclaimed, "and bed is the best place for her." I feel sure that odious lieutenant has been doing or not doing something that disturbs her. I am constantly meeting him on the stairs. He comes in every day to drink afternoon coffee and is usually sauntering down just as I come in from the chorus hour at the Conservatory. When he sees me he bows very low, and, with a twist of his tiresome mustache and a glance which he imagines is impressive, hopes "_sehr geehrtes Fräulein_ is in good health." If it weren't for his stunning uniform I don't believe the pretty Fräulein would look at him twice! IV MUNICH, _December 8_. _Dear Cecilia_:-- The wind is shrieking in great gusts, which begin _piano_, _crescendo_ to _fortissimo_, and then die away in weird, unearthly echoes, while the rain keeps up a continuous counterpoint to this minor music in sharp _staccato_ against the window panes. The mist is so thick that the obelisk at the end of Max-Joseph-strasse looks like a mere shadow. It is now five o'clock and I have "shut up shop," as it were, to talk with you, for my lesson for to-morrow, a fugue in C minor, is finished. It occurred to me, as I was writing it, how curiously a fugue subject resembles certain clever and unscrupulous people. Both are thoroughly adaptable, both are capable of saying the direct opposite of what they have previously boldly stated, both are difficult to deal with and can only be managed successfully by employing the greatest finesse. _Tuesday._ I was interrupted in my letter of yesterday by Frau von Waldfel and her niece, who came to call. Of course that meant a cup of coffee. When they left I had to hurry down to the school for a lesson, so writing was out of the question. By the bye, I am afraid I may have excited your sympathies unduly in favor of Fräulein Hartmann, for ever since that day I wrote you, when I met her crying in the hall, she has appeared most cheerful. Yesterday she was in unusual spirits, although to tell the truth her gayety struck me as somewhat forced. It was as if she were endeavoring to overcome the impression which her tears must have given me. After my lesson with Thuille yesterday I stopped in at Miss Pollard's. She is a piano student with whom I have become acquainted, and goes by the nickname of Polly. I found her sitting on a very low stool before the piano and resting her fingers on the keys, for all the world like a child too little to reach up to play. "What _are_ you doing?" I said. "I'm practising," she said, with crushing dignity. Then, throwing me a supercilious glance, "This is an exercise especially recommended by Lescheticsky." "Oh!" said I meekly, inwardly wondering if there are any more sensitive creatures on earth than we music students. How enthusiastically we rave over our "method"! How more than ready we are to challenge man, woman, or child who breathes a doubt of its infallibility! And oh! with what majestic disdain we utterly ignore the very existence of any other! Realizing all this, I judged it wiser to change the subject by asking quickly,-- "Are the girls coming to-day?" No sooner had I spoken than in came the two New York girls of whom I wrote as calling on me when I first arrived. We have become firm friends by this time. Over a cup of tea we four discussed the last Weingartner concert, and more especially Alexander Petschnikof. (I can never pronounce his name without wanting to sneeze.) He had played the Mozart Concerto and Bach's Chiaconna most acceptably, to judge from his reception. Since none of us were violinists we felt free to discuss his style and phrasing with all that intolerance which people are wont to employ when criticising things of which they themselves are ignorant. Just as we were putting on our wraps Polly made a confession. "Well, girls, I'll have to tell you the truth," she said. "I've been complained of to the police." "Again?" said Louise, in a startled whisper. "Again?" Edith and I echoed, aghast. "And who is it this time?" demanded Edith. She has a way of recovering and getting at the root of things before any one else. She did not ask why. We all knew that there could be but one reason. Polly, usually the essence of demureness, turned and looked at us with hard, angry eyes. "It's the Poet downstairs," she explained. "He says I'm ruining his inspirations by my barbaric pounding. Fancy that reaching Lescheticsky's ears! He says I'm 'at it' all day!" "Outrageous!" cried Louise. "Preposterous!" avowed Edith. They were both following the laws of Lescheticsky. "I'm so sorry," said I more mildly, for somehow I could not help but see a picture of the distressed poet, pacing the floor, and beating his brow as he vainly sought for a brilliant thought, while from above came the unceasing, monotonous, nerve-destroying sound of a Czerny exercise repeated over and over. "It's not the moving I mind," continued Polly, "I'm quite an adept at that, having lived in three _pensions_ since my arrival last August." Here she smiled bitterly. "But at one thing I do rebel, and that is at having to pay thirty marks for a damper for my piano, which I ordered from Berlin in the hope of appeasing him when he complained a week ago!" It was, indeed, an unhappy situation. We all knew, too, that those thirty marks meant a good deal to Polly. "Perhaps, after all, it will come out all right," said Louise consolingly. "I consider it an absolutely absurd proceeding!" said Edith emphatically, as she stamped out into the hall. "You might come down and talk with the Poet's Wife at our _pension_," I suggested. We always said "the Poet's Wife," since we had long ago given up her five-syllable name as hopeless. "I'm sure she would be able to help you." You see Polly lives alone. We three discussed the matter as we walked down the Ludwig-strasse, the girls leaving me at the Conservatory, where I had a piano lesson at five. And now I must stop, for it is time to dress for the opera. To think of hearing the "Rheingold" at last! _Saturday._ I have heard the "Rheingold" and "The Valkyrie," and can hardly wait for "Siegfried" to-morrow night. Every seat in the Hof-Theatre was occupied, and an immense crowd stood downstairs. The price of seats, increased three marks, seemed to make no difference in the attendance. Polly and two of her friends were too late to obtain any desirable places, so they clubbed together and engaged a _Dienstmann_ to get their seats for them. One finds a _Dienstmann_ at every turning here. They are forlorn, sad-eyed creatures, in short, frayed jackets and red caps, who linger on street corners gazing abstractedly into space with their hands in their pockets. For a small sum they will run from one end of Munich to the other, or, if need be, will stand in line for tickets from four in the morning on. Polly has a favorite old _Dienstmann_ called Friedrich. Accordingly, Friedrich was summoned to the rescue and stood the entire night with hundreds of others on the chilly stones of Max-Joseph-Platz in order to get seats. There is a rule that not more than three tickets can be sold to one of these men. The places in the gallery cost two marks (fifty cents) and the _Dienstmann_ demands, for standing all night, generally four marks. It is divided among the trio, so they get their places for about eighty cents. This price is the exception, however; ordinarily one pays but thirty-five cents for a seat at this altitude. When it comes to sitting in the balcony or orchestra one finds that the fabulous stories which one hears in America about the cheapness of opera are grossly exaggerated. "Why, opera costs nothing over there!" you hear. "One can go for a song!" As a matter of fact, the seats in the first balcony generally cost two dollars, an orchestra seat a dollar and a half, and very often these prices are considerably increased. Is there anything more exquisite than the first act of the "Rheingold," more bewitching than those elusive daughters of the Rhine, more perfect than the enchantment of those rippling chords? The whole scene is a flawless poem. When it came to the second act, however, my indomitable sense of humor rose to the surface. You have heard that old adage, haven't you, "Laugh and the world laughs with you, weep and you weep alone"? I have proven satisfactorily that the first part is a fallacy pure and simple--at least in Germany. Was I at fault because when I first heard the giant motif I smiled? Am I to be condemned because I had to smother a laugh when Mimi rolled over and over on the stage, and shrieked forth a ridiculous "Augh!" as in a fit of indigestion? And the giants were such wild-looking creatures with grotesque tufts of hair on the crown of their heads--should I have taken them more seriously? Apparently, if I am to judge from the demeanor of the audience, who never changed their expression during the entire opera. And, after all, there are a good many people at home who think to regard one bar of Wagner without reverential seriousness is sacrilege. Yet "to thine own self be true," Cecilia, and so I make no defence. What need when I am writing to one who Understands? The spring motif of "The Valkyrie" is the incarnation of tenderness and eternal freshness, and the climax of the whole opera seems to me simply colossal. Brünnhilde, sung by Senger-Bettaque, was convincing and forceful. Her supposedly fiery steed, a raw-boned black creature who looked sufficiently mild for children to drive, was reluctantly dragged in, licking sugar in a most obvious fashion from the corners of his mouth. Even a sturdy and belligerent Brünnhilde, it seems, must at times yield to puerile means in order to gain her point. Later the war-maiden was seen scudding through the sky on a snow-white charger, so I judged she must have been fortunate enough to exchange her apathetic beast during the course of the opera. Fricka was sung by Fräulein Fremstad, whose Carmen, I hear, has made quite a furore. The whole thing was splendidly given, and in the last act I gleaned considerable knowledge about the bass tuba which comes in here so often, just as in the "Rheingold" I marked the growling themes for 'cello and double basses. _Monday._ Well, it's all over, that wonderful Ring! "Siegfried" came on Thursday, and Knote, whom I had previously heard as Tristan, sang the title rôle. At the end of the first act the audience fairly went wild with enthusiasm. Oh, that wonderful bit of orchestration where Mimi speaks of fear! And that perfect effect of the bird-voice in the _Waldweben_, singing in the clarinet above the strings, while the horn note, _pianissimo_, gives that poignant touch of color which only the brain of a master could conceive. The dragon, which Herr Martens tells me is generally a small affair, was horrible and immense enough for any one. I positively trembled when he poured forth clouds of steam from his gaping jaws, and disclosed a throat of red fire. The bass tuba makes a grand worm. I never realized what it was to hear a worm crawl before. But in spite of the wonders of the work, I wish it were shorter. My head was frightfully tired endeavoring to follow the countless interwoven themes. But then, this is my first hearing of it all, and perhaps another time I might change my opinion. What a stupendous climax _Gotterdammerung_ is to the whole Ring! The prelude is perfect, and I can imagine no more dramatic moment than that when Siegfried drinks to Brünnhilde in the fatal draught. Never shall I forget the grandeur of the music at the breaking of day, before the entrance of the hero, and the stirring sound of those eight horns; nor will that last grand picture of Valhalla fade from my mind for many moons. It seemed as though half the American colony had turned out for the Ring, for we continually met people we knew at the intermissions. There is always a pause of twenty minutes at some time between the acts. Why, you inquire? My dear Cecilia, a German would never think of existing two hours without refreshment, much less four; consequently there isn't a theatre or opera house in all Germany which does not contain a restaurant. To be sure, it is rather a come-down to discover Professor B----, whom you saw a moment ago enthralled by the strains of the _Waldweben_, now prosaically munching a ham-sandwich and drinking beer in a corner of the café, as though his soul had never been stirred beyond the excitement of choosing what he should order for dinner. But that is the German temperament, and one soon gets used to it. There is the "Siegfried" bird-call running through my head again! Is it that which the fountain--my fountain, as I claim it now--sang to me as I passed to-day? Or did I myself unconsciously hum the melody and hear in the ripple of the falling water the soft rhythm of accompanying 'cellos and violins? _December 15._ Christmas is in the air, and every street-corner has bloomed into a miniature forest of trees. These are fastened in squares of wood, and stand up straight and proud. As a rule some strange, bent old woman presides over them, and out of curiosity to-day I stopped in Odeons-Platz and inquired the price of a particularly plump little tree. "One mark fifty" (thirty-seven and a half cents), quavered the dame, "but they run up as high as fifteen marks." The poor soul looked so disappointed as I, after thanking her, turned away, that I simply could not resist going back--least of all at Christmas time. There was nothing to buy but trees, so I picked out the plump little one which had first attracted my attention. She was delighted and beamed at me as I started off with it dragging behind me from under my arm, for my hands were full of music books. I had not the slightest idea what to do with my new possession. I had just made up my mind to leave it at some one's door, when who should come trudging along through the snow but the Hausmeister's little boy. He was on his way home from school, with his books strapped to his back in one of these curious black knapsacks which all the school children carry. I thrust the tree into his arms, with the assurance that it was for him, and left him, wholly bewildered, hugging it tightly to his breast. When I reached the corner I turned to see him still standing there and gazing after me from between the branches with an expression of astonishment and delight. I waved my hand, and at last he moved and gave a sign with his red mitten. Then he turned and ran towards home as fast as his fat legs could carry him. The shops, with one exception, are not nearly as finely decorated as ours at home. This exception is the sausage-store, which is a thing of beauty and a joy forever. To be frank, a sausage had never impressed me as a particularly artistic creation, nor had I been wont to regard it as a species of decoration until Germany unfolded to me its many possibilities. Could you but see one of these windows, hung with long ropes, the links of which are large Frankfurters joined together by a band of green, you would not fail, I am sure, to admire the intricacy of the designs and the striking originality with which the small sausages are interspersed with the larger ones so as to produce the most surprising effects! Who ever associated sausages with anything so idyllic as a waterfall? Yet here you have a wooden mill, high up on an improvised hill, and over the wheel flow down streamers of sausages to mass in a lake below. Who ever thought of connecting them with the legends of the Middle Ages? Yet Herr Schmidt, at the corner, has constructed the most marvellous tower out of sausages laid crisscross, with openings for little windows, with a turret on the very top, with a flag waving proudly on the highest peak, and most wonderful of all, with a drawbridge securely fastened over a moat of parsley. Everybody gives every one else some little remembrance for Christmas, and we are racking our brains to think of things appropriate for those at the _pension_. The clerks in the shops help one out all they can. You have no idea how courteous they are. Always on entering they say "Good day" and the proprietor comes up with "How can I serve you, _gnädiges Fräulein_?" Then they will pull down all the goods in the store, bring out hidden boxes from under the counters, and even send outside for something they have not got, remaining perfectly satisfied if you only purchase something. If you buy nothing, however politely you may regret that the silk does not match, or the lace bear the required pattern, they plainly show their displeasure in their faces. We are always politely escorted to the door by a clerk, who bids us good by. Often in the smaller stores it is amusing to hear the chorus of farewells which follow us. Last week Polly and I had coffee at one of these fascinating _Conditorei_, or little bake-shops which one finds here everywhere. For an absurdly small sum we had a table to ourselves, coffee enough for a dozen, and the most delicious cakes you ever ate! When we had finished, I started to leave some _Trinkgeld_ for the waitress, who had served everything in the daintiest fashion. "Fifty pfennigs!" said Polly, looking at the coin that I had laid on the table. "I felt I ought to give more, but they told me----" I began. "More!" exclaimed Polly. "I never heard of such a thing! Don't you know that ten pfennigs (two cents and a half) for each person is considered quite sufficient?" Polly has lived here longer than I, and has absorbed the idea that a pfennig--a fifth of a cent--is a pfennig, and not to be lightly treated. Accordingly I laid the sum on the table. The waitress swept the money into the black leather bag which she wore about her waist just as Kathie does in _Alt-Heidelberg_, and expressed her thanks repeatedly as she opened the door for us to pass out. "_Bitte, verehren uns wieder!_" (Please honor us again) said the proprietor from her desk. "_Adieu, meine Damen_," cried the waitress at the table in the corner, while our little maid poured forth a continual sing song of "_Danke sehr, meine Damen. Besten Dank! Habe die Ehre!_" (I have the honor) until we were out on the street. Polly and I looked at each other and laughed. "Don't fancy it was the effect of the tip," said she. "They go through the same program for half the money. I always give ten pfennigs and have never missed a word." She laughed again gaily, for she is once more quite happy inasmuch as the "poet on the floor below" has been suddenly called to Stuttgart. A drama of his has been accepted there, and he was so overcome with joy that he withdrew his complaint and told Polly she might "bang away" till he returned. "And now come down to the Schlüssel Bazar with me," she said, tucking my hand coaxingly under her arm. "I want you to help me select a gift." There is no more fascinating place for a Christmas shopper than the Bazar, but I glanced at the clock on the Theatiner church. "I really can't, Polly," I said; "there is a chorus rehearsal at five, the last before the concert, and I must hurry along this minute or I shall be late." So we parted, and I wended my way quickly through the fast-gathering dusk, past the Feldernhalle, which never looks more imposing than when half concealed in the mystery of shadows, across the busy Platz, now twinkling with countless lights, by the statue of Lewis the First, and in at the door of the old Conservatory itself. _December 18._ To-day came the _Probe_ in the big hall for the concert next week. The regular Conservatory chorus has been enlarged by a number of new voices, some of which are shrill enough to pierce through the dome itself. I came home utterly exhausted, for we were kept singing and standing three hours, and never in the annals of conducting was there a more wretched rehearsal. For the first time I saw a new side of Stavenhagen; he literally raged, but instead of making himself ridiculous he was positively majestic. To be sure, he got very red in the face, and his blond, curly hair, through which he despairingly thrust his hands, was much awry, but he stamped about on his bit of platform so ferociously, shook his baton so threateningly, and shouted his commands in such sonorous German that I trembled in my American shoes. We sang first Liszt's "Excelsior." Why is it that the most shrinking, retiring, and timid-appearing member of an orchestra is always the one to play the instruments of percussion? One can easily imagine a stout, muscular creature presiding at the kettledrums, but when we come to look for him we discover him at the end of the line of flutists, playing the piccolo. The eternal law of opposites is, I suppose, as applicable here as elsewhere. An unusually meek man was to manage the bells which play such an important part in this work, and he continually came in half a beat late. Stavenhagen glared at him darkly, tried him several times, and then gave it up as hopeless. The chorus attacks were frightful, and each part sang at its own sweet will. The Brahms Requiem began more auspiciously, and as the beautiful first movement, which we really sang well, went on, the director's tense expression softened, and he relaxed into his usual easy beat, hand on hip. At the close, where the sopranos end with the _pianissimo_ phrase, "_selig sind_" (blessed), and the tenors come in yet fainter after them, and the whole thing dies away as might the distant notes of a celestial choir, we were gratified to hear him murmur "_Sehr schön!_" He praised us, too, for the second movement. Isn't it magnificent when the whole chorus sing in unison that grand, broad theme, "_Denn alles Fleisch ist wie Gras_" (Behold all flesh is as grass)? And then the tender melody, "_So seid nur geduldig_" (Therefore be patient), which follows! It nearly swept me off my feet. Let critics say what they will, I love the work, and think perhaps, after all, Mr. Huneker is right in saying that Brahms is the first composer since Beethoven to sound the note of the sublime. We were just congratulating ourselves on getting through very creditably, when alas! we stumbled upon the pitfalls and snares of that most difficult of fugues, "_Der Gerechten Seelen_" (The righteous souls). There is a bit of it where the tempo is amazingly tricky, and I remember no place, even in Bach's B minor Mass, so difficult to sing well. The girl beside me, who had a high, shrill voice, insisted on coming in a measure too soon, and this repeated mistake set our director's nerves on edge. "_Die Erste Sopran! Die Erste Sopran!_" (The first soprano!) he cried, shaking his baton at our corner. Over and over we sang the same bars, but never once perfectly. Finally he threw down his stick, and with a desperate "_Ach, Gott!_" put his hands over his ears. The chord broke off abruptly. The orchestra, plainly very bored, carelessly examined their instruments. The other members of the chorus looked at us reproachfully. We looked anywhere we dared. The first sopranos were in disgrace. After what seemed an interminable silence, in reality about half a minute, Stavenhagen picked up his baton and said calmly, sternly, his voice cutting the stillness, "We will go on." Well, we got through somehow, but it was after eight o'clock when I ran down the snowy street back to the _pension_. The family were at supper and the anxious face of _Mütterchen_ looked relieved as I opened the door. "We thought you were lost, isn't it?" said the Herr Doktor, in what he considered unimpeachable English. Fräulein Hartmann, looking charming in a light-blue gown which she had donned in honor of Lieutenant Blum, her aunt's guest that evening, jumped up and ran to meet me. "I'm so glad you are here safe," said she. To her the idea of a girl being out alone after six o'clock was almost inconceivable. "I myself was on the point of going in search of _gnädiges Fräulein_," said Lieutenant Blum, with a low bow, much rattling of sword, and that sneering smile which even his great black mustache fails to conceal. "That was indeed kind of you, _Herr Leutnant_," I replied as sweetly as possible. "You really didn't think me lost, or kidnapped, or perchance murdered in cold blood, did you?" I added to _Mütterchen_, as I took my seat. "I might have thought even such frightful things as those, had not our friend opposite insisted that you had been detained and that there was no need of 'putting up my umbrella till it rained,'" she answered. I looked gratefully across the table at the Poet's Wife, who smiled understandingly back. Hers is one of those sunny, unselfish natures which, "when they have passed the door of Darkness through," leave the world a better place than they found it. The serenity of perfect poise is such an enviable thing to possess! Alas, that it is so seldom found in people of a musical temperament! I can hardly imagine a placid Tschaikowsky or an unruffled Dvorák, can you? _Christmas Day._ [Illustration (musical score)] Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht! Alles schläft, einsamwacht, Nur das traute hochheilige Paar, Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh'. Can you see us as we stood on Christmas Eve in the quaint dining-room singing together the old carol which has rung throughout Germany on this night for centuries gone by? We formed a strange congregation--all wanderers from different parts of the globe, for once united by the Christmas spirit. There were eleven of us in all,--the Baron and Baroness with Karl between them, their rosy, good-natured faces sober and reverential; Herr Doktor, standing near, his critical expression softened as, under the spell of the song, his thoughts turn to his Paris hearthstone; Frau von Waldfel, forgetting, in the meaning of the hour, to wonder what sort of goodies we were to have for dinner; Fräulein Hartmann, lost in a dream, at her side; the Poet and his sweet-faced wife, holding each other by the hand as they joined firmly in the refrain; Herr Martens, abandoning his student airs to add a tenor, and last--but best of all--_Mütterchen_. I sat at the piano to play the accompaniments, where I could see not only them, but catch a glimpse of the servants who stood together outside in the hall. They were all arrayed in their best. Georg, especially gorgeous in the splendor of a new livery with fully six dozen brass buttons, stood in the front row. Next him was the cook, resting her hand on the head of her little girl, who had been granted leave from the convent to attend this gala occasion. The other servants crowded together behind them. For this one evening in the year caste was forgotten, and the Baroness's strong soprano joined with the alto of her maid as they led the rest in the hymn each had sung from childhood. All went well till we reached the second verse. Then I heard Herr Martens' voice tremble, then break, then cease altogether. Poor fellow! his family is scattered over two continents, and for him the word Home is associated only with a sense of forlornness and loss. Gretchen, our own little maid, but a year away from the Bavarian Highlands, hid her face on Therese's shoulder. I looked at _Mütterchen_ bravely singing, but I knew in my heart that she was thinking of Home. The picture of those around the table across the sea flashed across me and I felt an odd tightening at my throat. It was only for a moment--this shadow of sadness on us all. Then it suddenly vanished, for at the last note the Baron flung open the double doors of the salon and ah! what a bewildering, fascinating, wonderful tree was revealed! Karl and I exchanged glances with satisfied smiles. We were proud of our work. The hours of labor in the morning spent in tying on the varicolored balls, in hanging the tinsel favors, in arranging the silver shower had not been in vain. It was indeed a marvellous shower, delicate, fairy-like, falling from the very topmost bough, where stood the figure of the Christ-child with outstretched hands as if to bless those below. For a moment we were breathless with admiration. Then "All for the presents together," shrieked Karl in glee, "_Eins, zwei, drei!_" and in we went. Along the sides of the room ran tables covered with a white cloth and trimmed with evergreen. On these the gifts were laid, not done into parcels, but tastefully arranged. Each person had his own particular group, and over it hung a bough of green and a basket of cakes and candy. In one corner was a large table for the servants. _Mütterchen_ and I could not help smiling to hear the flood of joyous exclamations on every side as we examined our presents. The German language seems to have an endless supply of adjectives expressive of delight. There are thousands of them, ranging from the sonorous _grossartig_, with the prolonged rolling of the _r_s, to that overwhelming one which has such a wealth of emphasis on the last syllable, _kol-os-sál_! When they are all, as it were, turned on together, the effect is torrential! After we had looked at our gifts and admired those of every one else, and the servants, beaming with happiness, had shaken hands and expressed their thanks, we went into the dining-room. Of course there was a _Bowle_ and we drank, standing, a toast to "Merry Christmas." Then we played a lot of games, which although childish afforded us much amusement. Lieutenant Blum, with mustache more marvellously twisted than ever, came in and joined us, and later Edith and Louise with a lieutenant of the Second Regiment appeared. Just before twelve we all set off for St. Michael's to attend the midnight mass. The great cathedral was crowded when we entered, and we could only find places in the chancel on the left of the altar. Thus we had a good view down into the church itself, and by the flickering light on the pillars dimly discerned the vast crowd kneeling in the pews, blocking the aisles, and occupying every portion of available space. Beyond them and above hovered mysterious shadows. It was almost oppressively silent. Only the footsteps of those entering broke the intense stillness. The sound, dying away in weird echoes high up beneath the vaulted roof, made the silence which followed more absolute. Suddenly the big bell on the Frauenkirche began to toll in wonderful, mighty throbs. At the same moment, from above among the shadows, floated down the sound of music--exquisite strains of Palestrina. The door on our left opened and a long line of priests entered, clad in magnificent robes of white and gold. We all fell on our knees in the semi-darkness, our eyes turned towards the high altar, which alone gleamed like a gorgeous jewel beneath the rays of a hundred tapers. The impressive service began. Through hazy clouds of incense I gazed down on the kneeling, worshipping crowd, kneeling and worshipping just as thousands of other throngs were doing at that very hour, here in far-off Germany, in France, in Italy, and across the sea. The marvellous, beautiful meaning of it all stirred me. My mind turned back through the ages to that night in the dusky stable of Bethlehem. Surely it is the wonder of all wonders that one Life--one brief, mortal Life, lived among millions of other lives--now after the passing of centuries stands out as the sole link uniting all Christendom. Lost in the beauty of the service with its lights and incense and music and gold-decked priests, it was with a start that I awakened as it were from a spell when the music ceased, and the priests had filed out through the arched door. The cathedral felt suddenly damp and chill, and shivering, I pulled my cloak around me. "I didn't care for the organist's selection at all," said Polly critically, as we turned to go. "We must walk as quickly as possible or we shall all be ill for a week with colds from sitting so long in this damp church," added Edith in her emphatic way. But the Poet's Wife said nothing. She only looked at me with her deep, unfathomable eyes, and pressed my hand gently. Sometimes she reminds me of you, Cecilia. She is one of the few in the great world who Understand. V MERAN, _January 1, 1903_. The Happiest of New Years to you, Cecilia! Have you ever been among the mountains in winter? Have you ever run away on a holiday to a quaint little town nestling in the valley, and wandering through narrow streets and climbing up snowy roads forgotten that such things as canons or double counterpoint exist? If not, Cecy _mia_, get out your hood and fur coat and start! But before you go, let me tell you that I have a deep-rooted conviction: namely, that you can find no more entrancing spot on the globe than Meran. For Meran, you must know, lies exclusively apart from the rest of the world, deep down in the valley of the Adige and jealously guarded on every side by high mountains, like a jewel in a casket. The mountains themselves, covered with snow from base to summit, are so magnificent and stirring that I call them Wagner mountains. And oh! the sunset on their frosty peaks, when all the white is changed to rose--it beggars description. We left München on Christmas Day--just after my writing you. All the _pensionnaires_ and servants came to the carriage and bade us good by with much hand-shaking and expressing every possible good wish for a pleasant journey, just as if we were to be gone a year instead of ten days. Can you imagine spending Christmas riding through the Brenner Pass? Let me tell you, too, there never can be anything more marvellous than this same Brenner Pass in winter. There has been a heavy storm for some days and it left the whole country half buried in a white cloak. Snow, snow everywhere, covering every mountain, stretch of valley, and hill! It is a grand sight. We were so enchanted with the scenery that we forgot to mourn the lack of holiday festivities. Then, too, we did have one important feature of the season, for it only needed a glance out of the windows to discover a Christmas tree. Indeed we were in the midst of a whole forest of them, only in place of tinsel and spangles we had the lovelier decoration of pure snow, and instead of brilliantly colored favors, from every branch hung pendants of flashing ice, which, like finely cut gems, reflected the sunlight in flashes of all the colors of the rainbow. On the train who should chance to be in the next compartment but Miss B---- from California, one of the students at the Conservatory. We had a delightful chat over music. She is studying with Krause, and told me quite a little about him. She says he is very erratic in his teaching and never gives a lesson twice alike. Sometimes he paces up and down the room while the pupil is playing. Often he gazes abstractedly out of the window for fully a quarter of an hour, saying nothing. Again, he stands with his back to the stove, hands behind him, apparently listening; then suddenly darts out of the room and does not return for twenty minutes. "When he teaches Beethoven it is a different story," she went on. "He likes to do that better than anything. He draws up a chair and sits close beside the pupil, following every note. The slightest mistake is not overlooked. It's a fearful ordeal!" We changed cars at Bozen, for only a single branch road, winding through the picturesque valley of the Adige, connects Meran with civilization. On our arrival we found the heartiest of welcomes from our friends the S----s who were at the station. We drove at once to their home, which is called "Villa Pomona," and is situated on the hill overlooking the town. The servants greeted us at the gate, and the dogs came bounding out with enraptured barks. Turning into the path leading to the house I had my first good look at the villa. It is square, and constructed of yellowish stone. Between the windows are frescoes representing the goddess of plenty, the graces, etc. A terrace runs around it. It reminds one, in a way, of the Pompeian houses. Inside, it is no less charming, and oh! so delightfully American in its furnishings and arrangement! The only discord in the harmony are the German porcelain stoves, but one can't have everything and live in the heart of the Austrian Tyrol too. We breakfast in the loveliest room upstairs. The windows command such an inspiring view that one almost forgets to eat. Below lies the valley itself with its one church spire and its mass of quaint, low yellow buildings huddled together; on the heights at the right rises an old, crumbling tower, the remnant of a once splendid castle; on the left stretches out the valley, and far away there in the distance, so far that the blue of the sky becomes misty, one sees the first spurs of the Dolomites which guard the gateway into Italy. On every side rise these majestic mountains of snow, whose peaks look as if cut out by a giant knife, and laid against the background of an intensely blue sky. When we have finished breakfast we generally take a walk to town. Our objective point is the post-office, but we would accept almost any pretext to wander down the hill and join the crowd strolling in the sunshine on the Gisela Promenade. The Promenade lies across the river, for an impetuous little stream cuts the village into two sections. Accordingly, at the foot of the hill we cross the most picturesque of stone bridges and find ourselves at once on the broad walk, which, lined with fine old poplars, runs straight along the bank of the river. At eleven o'clock the walk is crowded. Meran is not only a fashionable resort in winter, but a favorite spot for invalids on account of the perfection of its climate. One sees them always on the Promenade at this time, walking slowly up and down, leaning back in wheel chairs, listening to the music of an excellent _Capelle_, as they call the orchestra, which plays here daily. If the weather happens to be cold, which is seldom the case, the music can be enjoyed in the luxurious Curhaus especially built for the purpose. It was just by the band-stand, in the delightful sunshine of our second morning here, that I had the pleasure of meeting Carl Zerrahn. You remember the time when he was such a prominent conductor and musician in Boston, do you not? We had sat down to rest and hear the music when Mr. S---- pointed to the tall, commanding figure of an elderly man slowly approaching. "Here comes Zerrahn," he said; "he is, alas, almost blind now, and cannot recognize any one except at close range." A thrill of sadness swept over me, as I recalled him as the first conductor I ever saw, standing on the stage at the old Music Hall and sweeping the Handel and Haydn Society along in those great choruses of the "Messiah" and "Elijah." His hair is now snow white, and his walk feeble, but he stands as proudly erect as when he wielded the baton in the height of his success. He did not perceive us approaching, although the members of the _Capelle_, who all knew him, watched us curiously. When we were within a few feet of him, we introduced ourselves as old friends whom he had, perhaps, by this time forgotten. It was charming to see his frank delight in meeting us again and in learning news of Boston, which he loves very dearly. "I am staying with my son here," he said, "but I feel that Boston is my home, and I shall go back there in a year or so. I worked and lived and grew in Boston. It is to me what no other city is." He asked about the Handel and Haydn Society, inquired about my musical studies and the Munich opera, and was so thoroughly kindly and interested in everything pertaining to his art that I could not but think of Victor Hugo's lines, "There are no wrinkles on the heart." In the afternoon we go driving over some of these countless roads about Meran. It is like travelling through a magnificent picture gallery. The other day we went shopping. You never saw anything so fascinating as the stores. The principal ones are in the "_Lauben_," the quaintest of streets, whose sidewalks are built under arcades. When we enter, the girl in attendance always says "_Küss' die Hand_." The first time I heard this I frankly put out my hand to be kissed. A laugh from them all made me blushingly draw it back again. I learned that even here in this cool sequestered vale of the Adige people do not say what they mean. It seems the proper thing to murmur "_Küss' die Hand_," but no one but a servant would ever think of actually doing it. It is a sort of "take the will for the deed" arrangement. The prettiest thing happened here this New Year's morning. We were all sitting in Mr. S----'s study hearing the latest American paper (two weeks old) read aloud, when there came a rap at the door. A moment later the gardener, his wife, and two little girls entered, dressed in their holiday clothes. They all bowed solemnly. Then the parents withdrew to the background, the father nervously turning his cap around in his brown hands, while his wife, in true German fashion, held the bundle, a huge thing clumsily done up in white paper. The older of the two little girls, who could not have been more than five, shyly advanced. In a high, excited voice she recited a little poem about the New Year. Her sister, no less thrilled by the occasion, recited very rapidly two more verses about _Freude_ (joy) and _Glück_ (happiness). As a finale they together took the bundle and with the prettiest of courtesies handed it to Herr and Frau von S----, "with best wishes for a happy New Year and many thanks for their kindness." The S----s were much pleased and touched by this charming simplicity. The package proved to be a beautiful plant of azaleas, and the whole quartet were radiant with delight as we passed the gift among us and praised its beauty. They went away with many bows, looking, oh! so happy, and Mrs. S---- ordered an extra supply of beer for them in the kitchen. That reminds me of a curious custom here. Did I tell you that a servant is engaged at so much a week _with_ beer?[1] Mrs. S---- says the maids make a dreadful uproar if their beer is not forthcoming, and the cook insists on several bottles a day. I should think this might be detrimental to the cooking, but Mr. S---- assures me that it has quite the contrary effect, and the more beer she drinks the better she cooks. [1] Also an English Custom. This afternoon we took a long drive, returning through the town, so I had a fine chance to see the peasants in gala array. Near a wayside shrine (one finds them everywhere here) we came upon a crowd of young peasants sitting on the stone wall, or leaning lazily against it smoking meerschaum pipes. The splendor of their costumes was quite startling. Their funny little round hats, usually severely plain, were coquettishly decorated with bunches of yellow flowers fastened on the brim at the back. Their coats and trousers were of corduroy. Most noticeable of all were their waistcoats of scarlet or bright green. "They seem to have very pronounced tastes," I remarked. "Isn't it odd that some of them choose red and the others choose green, as if they belonged to a college team?" "There is method in their madness," answered Mr. S---- laughingly. "A much more serious matter than a question of taste is at stake. Let me inform you immediately, my dear young lady, that those whom you see before you in red waistcoats are married men, while those in green are bachelors and in the market, so to speak. It strikes me as not a half-bad idea. Surely a girl can't innocently fall in love with the wrong man here." "Unless she is color-blind," I added. It is time for supper, and as Mrs. S---- has promised us a real American meal I don't want to risk being a second behindhand. No one can realize what that means--a real American meal--unless one has been living for four months on a German _pension_ diet. Why, after so many foreign menus, I feel like the poor soul who "near a thousand tables pined and wanted food." Yesterday we actually had muffins for breakfast. Think of that when one is living in a country where the mere hint of hot bread or ice water calls forth the remark, "I do not see why all you Americans don't die of indigestion." I can't get it out of my head that the officer I met on the Promenade this morning was Lieutenant Blum. He passed by with a number of other officers and several showily dressed women, all talking and laughing loudly. It is quite possible that he might have come down here on leave, but hardly probable under the circumstances. I did not get a full look at his face. It was the swaggering walk and the little fat hand raised to salute a brother officer that made me start and look again. By that time he had almost passed. Nonsense! Probably this very minute he is at the _pension_ accepting a cup of tea from Fräulein Hartmann's slender hands, while Frau von Waldfel from behind the urn regards him with admiring glances, for of course the Fräulein is not allowed to see him alone. That would be a frightful breach of etiquette. Well, I will let you know when I return. For her sake, I rather hope I was mistaken. INNSBRUCK, _January 3_. Yesterday we regretfully left Meran, but the memory of our delightful stay there will long haunt us, and we are living in hopes of another visit to this earthly paradise. We reached Innsbruck at three o'clock, and by four found ourselves here, in this most fascinating of houses--for, Cecilia, we are actually living, eating, sleeping in a castle, a real, _bona fide_ castle, once the hunting lodge of the Emperor Maximilian. I see you start and your eyes glow. "A fig for music!" you say; "Let me live in your castle." Yes, you who so revel in mediævalism, to whom the glimpse of faded tapestries and dulled armor is as so much wine, would surely be in your element here. How this former resort of knights and retainers sank to the materialistic, twentieth-century level of a _pension_ I have not yet learned, nor cared to. All I know is that the grand old dining-room, hung with ancient portraits of the royal house, still remains; that the carved balconies with their worn railings overlooking the rushing stream of the Inn, the narrow winding corridors, the high diamond-paned windows, the picturesque terrace, the goblets, beakers, and trophies of the hunt are yet here--decaying relics of a brilliant past. This morning I discovered the crowning feature beneath this most enchanting of roof-trees. Leaving _Mütterchen_ to toast her feet by the fire, I went in search of a book in the library. In the many twistings and turnings of the corridors I lost my way. At length I found myself at the top of a short flight of steps, and thinking this was only another way to the library, I walked down them and along the hall. A worn door was at the end. I pushed it open and entered. For a moment the darkness of the place blinded me, coming as I had from the brightness of the outer house. Then I saw more clearly there were people, yes, actual, live people, kneeling on the stones and telling their beads within touch of my hand. No one noticed me as I stood by the door. As I looked about me I saw that I was in a chapel all of stone. Before me was an altar decorated garishly with paper flowers. The light of the sacrament burned dimly above, and cast a shadow on the rough crucifix hanging near. A few rays of sunlight sifting in through the high window at the farther end of the room sent a shattered shaft across the heads of the peasants, who, absorbed in prayer, made no movement save to slip their beads along their rosaries. The suddenness of the change, the sense of awe in coming upon this one room, this one place set aside as a shrine in the very midst of a busy household, was startling. I felt myself an intruder, and noiselessly slipped away. Upon inquiry at luncheon I discovered that it is the regular custom on fête days for the people of the village to climb up the hill and attend mass where the ruler of their fathers was wont to worship. On a second visit I discovered that on the right, just after entering the chapel, is a tiny square room which at a first glance looks like a cell. In the rough stones of the wall a square hole is cut, and beneath it is a bench to kneel upon. This place was the private oratory of the Emperor, and here he used to attend mass, receiving the sacrament through the orifice in the stones. Can you imagine anything more fascinating than living in a house where every nook and corner is alive with memories of the past? I could stay here for weeks, but vacation is over and we leave for Munich to-morrow. _January 11._ Here we are again in old München! Every one in the _pension_ expressed him or herself as delighted to see us back, with all that cordiality which is one of the most charming characteristics of the German nature. I began again my lessons with Thuille on Wednesday. I had sent him at Christmas a little remembrance, as is the custom here. Naturally I expected he would thank me, but I was hardly prepared for what followed. As at his "_Herein!_" I entered the smoke-wreathed studio, he tossed his cigarette into the waste-basket, jumped up from his desk, and with both hands extended came to meet me. "_Ach! gnädiges Fräulein!_" he exclaimed, "you were so kind to remember me in that charming way." Then what do you think he did? He bent over my hand in the most dignified way and kissed it. I felt like an empress holding court, and blushed to the roots of my hair at the honor he had done me. I took my accustomed chair beside his at the piano, inwardly praying that it would not be my ill luck to push off to the floor any one of the dozens of cigarettes which always lie carelessly strewn about. Then I placed my fugue on the music rack. Whatever I bring, be it sonatina, invention, or merely a counterpoint exercise, Thuille daringly plays it out _forte_. This is so different from the way Mr. Chadwick does. He seldom if ever touches the piano when looking over work, but takes the sheet and leaning back in his chair "hears it in his head," marking the mistakes with a blue pencil. My fugue was pronounced _recht gut_, which made me very happy, for I had spent several hours over it. When Herr Professor had finished with my work he brought out a piece of music from the cabinet. "Here is a thing which is worth your while to study," he said. It was Mozart's Serenade in B flat major for wind instruments, including the _corno di basetto_ and the _contrafagotto_. If you want a task, try to play it from score at sight. Thuille rattled it off as though it were the simplest exercise. I could not repress a sigh when he had finished. "_Ach Gott_, my child!" he exclaimed, smiling at my hopeless expression; "I don't expect you to play it now like that. Study the construction and the instrumentation. You will learn much from it." As I rose to go I noticed a number of loose manuscript sheets on his desk. "This is a new piece for orchestra I am doing," said he. A page of full orchestra score always fascinates me. It's rather odd, when you stop to think of it, now isn't it, that all those little black dots with tails to them represent actual sounds of different instruments and that they together produce an harmonic whole? There is as much individuality in the writing of these dots as in handwriting. Thuille's notes are very small, distinct, and closely written. Professor Paine has a large, firm hand. Chadwick's notes appear as though hastily dashed off, although perfectly legible. I remember distinctly the day he showed me the score of his brilliant Symphonic Sketches. It looked interestingly complex, although, to tell the truth, what impressed me most were the original verses which preceded each sketch. They cleverly portray a definite mood, and are, as it were, the key to what follows. Never by any chance do these appear in the program book, so the listener is left to puzzle out for himself just what the composer means to convey. I am to begin soon to study overture form, and Thuille asked me to bring Beethoven's overtures with me at my next lesson. _Later._ We are both much struck with the change in Fräulein Hartmann. She is much paler than she was before we went to Meran, and flushes nervously at the least excitement. _Mütterchen_, who has the misfortune to be next to Frau von Waldfel at table, inquired if her niece were ill. "Indeed, no!" answered the Hungarian woman somewhat sharply. "What can you expect when a girl betrothed to an officer makes ready for a grand wedding in the spring? There is much to be done and dozens of gowns to be ordered. My niece is merely tired with the happiness of it all." At that moment I caught Fräulein Hartmann exchanging a glance across the table with the Poet's Wife. In that one, quick flash I read many things, for the eyes of the former betokened genuine distress, while the reassuring look which met hers was that of a sympathizing friend. A second later the Poet's Wife was tactfully leading Frau von Waldfel to give her views on the new cooking-school, while Fräulein Hartmann abstractedly replied to the queries of a stout American woman who sat next her. This new arrival is merely here for a few days. She and her apologetic-appearing husband are "doing" Germany, Italy, and France complete in three weeks. "I want ter know where those pictures of Reuben are. Baedeker stars 'em three times," said the stout traveller, turning to me. I was longing to ask "Reuben who"? but _Mütterchen_, evidently sensing my temptation, pressed my foot under the table; so I merely said as politely as I could, "I think you mean the pictures in the old Pinakothek by Rubens," and gave them the directions to Barer-strasse. While they were commenting upon them, I wondered what could have happened during our absence to make Fräulein Hartmann and the Poet's Wife close friends. I wanted to ask if Lieutenant Blum had been at Meran, but intuitively I felt it best not to mention the subject. Here is indeed a romance to which I have found no key, as Omar would say. The Conservatory is open again and everything is in full swing. In spite of the fact that I have very little opportunity to practise on the piano--because my work for Thuille requires the greater part of my time,--I enjoy the lessons immensely. When we read at sight I find them especially interesting. We have been playing some splendid things for two pianos, among them those lovely Schumann variations in D major. If you don't know them get them by all means. Yesterday we finished Brahms' symphony in E minor, with its vigorous _allegro giocoso_, and have begun Liszt's Symphonic Poems. How everything helps everything else in music! The orchestra reveals its nuances twice as clearly when one is familiar with the actual material of a work, and then in composition it is absolutely necessary to have a broad field of literature from which to draw models and examples. Poor Frau Bianci is in a terrible state over my pronunciation of German. "It will go in speaking," she says, "but, _ach Gott!_ must be much finer for singing!" I managed to get Beethoven's "_Kennst du das Land?_" to suit her, but only after much toil for both of us. I repeated each phrase a dozen times after her before I was allowed to sing it. Truly, I feel very young and irresponsible. Don't talk about musical temperament and feeling to me! My one idea is to get the vowels open enough and to pronounce these fiendish umlauts in the approved fashion. I fell down most shamefully on Schubert's "Marguerite at the Spinning-Wheel." You know how wonderfully sad and beautiful that is. Bianci was quite pleased at my rendering of the first verse. Then I sang the second, where the music works up climactically and the words run, "Sein hoher Gang, sein' edle Gestalt, Seines Mundes Lächeln, seiner Augen Gewalt, Und seiner Rede Zauberfluss, Sein Händedruck, und ach, sein Kuss!" At this point Frau Bianci broke off playing, and leaned back in her chair with a sigh. Then she said with cutting sweetness of tone, "The idea of this song is to make your audience cry, not to make them laugh. That word is _Lächeln, Lächeln, Lächeln_!" I felt as though I had suddenly shrunk from Marguerite to a naughty child of five. Then a sense of rebellion stirred me. I wanted to tell her that I had not been born with a German throat, and that such things as umlauts were a disgrace to any language. However, I controlled myself and said nothing. "I think you had better go into Hofregisseur Müller's class," she said. "It will be of great benefit to you. Please attend to-morrow at nine o'clock." Very meekly I answered, "Yes, Frau Professor," as I picked up my music and went out, not having the faintest idea who Hofregisseur Müller was, nor what his sonorous title meant. At nine the following day I was at the Conservatory. On the stairs I met Miss P----, a Philadelphia girl who is in my piano class. She explained to me that Herr Müller was the Regisseur, that is, the coach for acting at the opera house, and that his class was the _Aussprache_, or dramatic class, for the vocal students who were to sing in public. She herself is studying for opera and finds her work with him very beneficial. "But I'm not going on the stage," said I, quite startled. "What does one have to do?" Miss P---- laughed at my distressed expression. "Why, nothing but read before the class. Your pronunciation is corrected by Herr Müller. It is just as good as a German lesson," she said. "Oh, by the bye, don't mind if they laugh at you. They always laugh at foreigners." With this parting shot as my encouragement, I went in. The room, on the upper floor just opposite the hall where we have the chorus rehearsals, is large and barnlike. A grand piano stands in dignified solitude in the centre, and at the end, near the green porcelain stove, is a long table around which the class sits. Herr Müller has his place at the head. He is an interesting type of man, very portly, with snow-white hair and mustache, and a pair of noticeably keen, speculative eyes. The appreciation of the humorous is strongly marked on his broad features. "_Eine Amerikanerin!_" he said, smiling, as I came in. It is odd how quickly the people here detect our nationality. He motioned me to a chair, then slowly drew a large watch from his pocket and laid it on the table before him. "Well, Fräulein, what have you?" he inquired of the first girl on his left, who promptly handed him the "Bride of Messina" and going to the farther end of the room began to recite shrilly a passage by heart. At every line the Herr Regisseur would thunder forth criticisms in his great, vibrant voice. When her turn, which lasted five minutes, was past, he called on the next girl, a soft-voiced, shrinking creature in a low-necked blouse. She murmured haltingly that she had "_Das Veilchen_" (The Violet). "_Ach! Das Veilchen!_" lisped he, with his head on one side, in the same tremulous tones. The imitation was such a capital one that we all laughed. In the bare room the effect was that of a hilarious whoop. I began to see what was in store for me. After a few wretched moments I determined to take the whole affair as a joke. There were nine girls to be called on before it came my turn, but in what seemed an incredibly short space of time they had all finished and Herr Müller was calling my name. "Recite one verse very slowly," said he. "_Meine Ruhe ist hin_" (My rest is o'er), I began bravely, feeling how poignantly applicable the line was to my present situation. Throughout my recital I could plainly hear titterings from the girls, but I kept my eyes firmly fixed on the picture of Beethoven over the door. When I had finished, Herr Regisseur laid the book down on the table, leaned back in his chair, and laughed. The whole class joined with him. Not to be outdone, I laughed too, albeit somewhat weakly. "Now much louder and slower, _Fräulein aus Amerika_," he said. "Repeat after me, '_Meine Ruhe ist hin._'" It was the same thing that I had tried with Frau Bianci, only now I enunciated every syllable with painful effort, my voice pitched to _fortissimo_. "Not bad," said he, when I had finished, although his eyes twinkled. "Learn another verse for next time." We all went over to the Gärtner Platz Theatre last week to see "The Geisha." The little opera house is very cosy, but oh! how strange "The Geisha" sounded in its new word-clothes! From a musical standpoint it was delightfully given, but to my mind the Germans have not snap enough to produce light opera well. We have seen two or three things there, among them Strauss' charming _Fledermaus_, and have invariably remarked the same thing. The chorus sang excellently, but were selected with absolutely no eye for beauty or grace. And how the Amazons did wear their armor! They reminded me more of tired waitresses after a hard day's work than the spirited war-maidens they were supposed to represent. Sparkle, vivacity, delicacy,--all these elements which make light opera what it should be,--were lacking. I am convinced that God created the Germans for grand opera and that in the captivating froth of operettas they are distinctly out of their element. One wishes he might look into the music of the future and see how the school of the versatile American will eventually evolve; whether it will be individually characteristic, or blindly content to follow the path laid down by its forerunners across the sea. There is splendid skating now in the _Englischer Garten_. Last Saturday after lessons six of us met at the _Sieges Thor_ with our skates. The ice on the _Grosse Hesselohe_, the pond at the upper end of the garden, was in excellent condition. At the farther end of it the International Hockey Team, composed of men from the University of Munich and the Polytechnic, was having a match with some strangers. The Germans skate very well and seem devoted to the sport. This seems rather odd to me, as they do not as a rule care for outdoor exercise except walking. Golf is unknown as yet, and although they have a game which they call football, it would hardly be recognized by that name in our country. We had a delightful afternoon and came back ravenous for supper. _Friday._ I haven't yet told you what a time I had to get the candy S---- sent. It was the day after your bountiful Christmas box came. By the bye, I trust you have received our acknowledgment of it by this time, and I want to tell you now that the plum pudding was not hurt a particle. The cook steamed it, and we invited all the _pensionnaires_ to share it with us at dinner. If you could have but heard their compliments, you or your cook would certainly have blushed with pride. Why, even Frau von Waldfel confessed that, after all, people did have something good to eat in America, a fact she had never formerly believed. But about the candy. In my morning's mail I found a _Legitimations-Karte_. Doesn't that sound imposing, as though I had graduated with honors from some academy? It really is nothing more than a statement that a package lies in the custom-house waiting to be called for. The office itself is in a large room like a hall, and full of all sorts of bundles, boxes, and burlap bags, which look like the accumulation of years. The blue-bloused _Dienstmann_ behind the counter found my box for me and cut the string, for which I, of course, gave him a tip. (You know nothing is free in Germany. We have to pay even for our programs at the theatre or opera.[2]) [2] A universal custom all over Europe. Having concluded this first matter, I walked down a corridor and into the room on the right. Here I took my place at the end of a long line of people. It was certainly twenty minutes before I reached the scales, for all the packages are weighed, you know. With impressive dignity the burly man in charge leisurely weighed my box, recorded the number, and directed me into yet another room. Accordingly I made my way to the desk where duties are registered. Here I waited again in line for some time. After all this red tape I fancied I should have to pay at least six marks, but when my turn came I found that only forty-five pfennigs were required before I could make my escape. As I began tying my box together yet another of these persistent officers accosted me. "Your number," said he, as if I were a freshman taking an entrance examination. I stared at him, then recalled the red figures on my package. "Two hundred and two," I said. "You must step here," he announced authoritatively. I was so tired of stepping this way and that, that my first impulse was to refuse, but for fear that this might mean the sacrifice of my real American candy, I followed him meekly into the next room, where he solemnly scribbled something in a big black book. Then, with a flourish which shook the gold fringe of his uniform, he handed me a paper. "That is all," he said. "All?" I asked. Now that escape seemed so near I doubted its possibility. "That is all," he repeated, with a low bow. I turned on my heel and never slackened my pace till I was at the door of the _pension_. By this ridiculous proceeding I had lost just two hours on my counterpoint. The candy, however, is wonderful! I never tasted anything more refreshing. Certainly, Germany is no place for candy--nor for doing things quickly, either. On the fifteenth came the first production in Germany of the French opera _Messidor_ before a crowded audience at the opera house. The libretto is by Zola and the music by Bruneau. The work is typical of its school, especially in the orchestration. As in some of Massenet's pieces, the trombones burst forth every few minutes, as if to say, "Don't fancy for a moment, kind public, that we have gone out for a glass of beer. We never miss but a few bars." The so-called symphonic _Legende vom Golde_, a symbolic pantomime, if I may so call it, which opens the third act, struck me as unutterably tawdry, but the last scene had a perfectly charming setting, and the climax was very effective. At the final curtain the composer was called out several times, but the opinion of the audience seemed to be divided, for although the applause was plentiful, continued hissing from the opponents of the French school was distinctly audible. Bruneau is tall and slight, with black pointed beard and waxed mustache. He responded in several constrained little bows, as though charmed with the applause, and as if utterly unconscious of any less complimentary sounds. We are hearing much talk of balls and frivolity, for the carnival is just beginning. Already the Baron is planning to make up a large party for something, and of course I shall write you all about it. Louise and Edith are coming over to do ear-training to-night at eight, and it is already time for supper, so this must end my letter for to-day. All good wishes for you. M. Do you know the "Beethoven-Lied" by Cornelius? The greater part of it is composed of the principal theme of the first movement of the Eroica Symphony. We sang it in the chorus hour on Thursday. I should think it might be a splendid thing for your club to work at. VI _February 4._ _Du liebes Cecilchen_:-- I'd give every pfennig in my possession to walk into your study to-day and take you by surprise. In fact, I have stopped in the very midst of my orchestration lesson to tell you so. My chord of the seventh is unresolved, my flutes and oboes are hanging in midair, and my horns are blowing away on the fifth, all because a wave of the Indescribable swept over me, and I simply had to throw down my pencil and talk to you! The preliminary symptoms of this abominable Something appeared this morning when my mail failed to arrive. Then after three hours' hard work on a new fugue-subject, I came to the conclusion that what I had written was absolutely worthless, and thrust it in the waste-paper basket. In the afternoon no letters came, but several newspapers, whose essential feature consisted in describing varied and brilliant festivities at home. I could not repress a sigh as I read. Finally Georg came bowing in with the announcement that the opera for the evening had been changed and _Der Freischütz_ substituted for "Lohengrin." I felt like throwing my ink-well at the Obelisk, running down to the booking office in Promenade-Platz, and engaging a passage to America on the spot. Not that I was really angry with the Obelisk, for I have but one dearer friend in all Munich, and that is the Fountain. The latter, however, no longer sings as I pass. It has, as it were, retired for the season, and a hideous paling of gray boards hides it completely from view. Such is the inartistic effect of winter. I can't tell you how much I miss its ever sympathetic, ever beautiful voice. Indeed, so barren and desolate is the upper end of the Platz, that I changed my route of walking and thus came to make the acquaintance of the Obelisk. Not only do I pass by daily, but whenever I look out of my window I can see in the distance its slender, black shaft sharply outlined against the sky. Strange, is it not, with what a keenly human note inanimate things sometimes appeal to us? Just as I hear and love the Voice in the Fountain, so I draw a feeling of protection from this towering creation of stone, as though a kindly sentinel were standing guard over me and mine. Since my mood to-day is gray in color, I am going to tell you of the gayest thing which has happened since I wrote, namely, a gorgeous masked ball, for you know it is carnival season now and frivolity reigns supreme. I have been working so constantly lately--for my long lessons with Thuille and the work at the school take practically every moment of my time--that the ball seemed like an extraordinary piece of dissipation. Therefore I was quite excited as I joined the party of _pensionnaires_ in the salon on Tuesday evening. What a cosmopolitan lot we were! The curious jumble of German, French, Italian, and English was laughable. The stout American and her pocket-edition of a husband have departed and given place to two Italian women who converse equally well in three languages. The Poet's Wife always speaks perfect French with Herr Doktor, which won his heart long ago. Of course we were all chatting of the frolic to come as we clambered into the droschkies awaiting us at the door. The ball, it seems, was given under the auspices of the press. The Baron had obtained invitations for us through a member of the _Jugend_ staff. (The _Jugend_ is that very artistic periodical which you have perhaps seen.) There were so many of us that a box had been engaged, for the affair was held at one of the theatres. Every one who attended was obliged to wear a costume representing some feature pertaining to the woods, and it required no little thought to design something original and effective. Fräulein Hartmann and I had decided to go as flowers, and _Mütterchen_ and the Poet's Wife put their heads together and created a Rose gown and a Violet gown. Frau von Waldfel was so agitated over her own costume that she quite forgot to criticise ours. She had chosen to represent a bee, and had arrayed herself in black netting. On her head was a crown of black and yellow, and from her shoulders hung, or should have hung, a pair of gauze wings. But something went wrong, and the wings, instead of suggesting airy flittings through space, drooped at a curious angle and gave the impression that they were not mates. However, her distress was mitigated by the Baroness, who declared that the costume was "wonderfully becoming," and as soon as she arrived she forgot to worry about her wings in the excitement of the ball itself. What a fascinating sight burst upon us as we stepped inside the ballroom! The whole place was alive with a dancing crowd of fairies, gnomes, flowers, butterflies, and dryads, who flitted past in a bewildering whirl of ever changing color. All the women wore little black masks, which gave them a most coquettish appearance. The men were not masked, but their costumes were fully as artistic. As I watched the glittering throng moving to the strains of a fascinating waltz which came floating out from behind a grove of evergreens on the stage, I could easily fancy I was in fairyland. Just as we were about to cross the hall Fräulein Hartmann caught me by the arm. "I've torn my gown," she said in a hurried, excited manner, as she held up the ragged ruffle on the edge of her train. "I must go to the dressing-room and fix it. Will you tell my aunt? And oh! please say it may take twenty minutes or--or a half-hour." I looked at her in surprise. Her cheeks were flushed brilliantly, and I would have given much to have seen the expression of her eyes, which her mask half hid. "Why, if you would let me help you----" I began, but she interrupted, pressing my arm tighter. "Let me go alone, please, _kleine Amerikanerin_." Her voice was pleading and oddly intense. "It's only such a short time--and, believe me, there is nothing wrong, _really_. I shall thank you always." Before I had an opportunity to reply she had slipped away in the crowd. To say I was amazed were to put it mildly. I was dumfounded. Two points alone seemed clear in my mind: first, that Fräulein Hartmann had no idea of spending a half-hour in sewing on a few inches of ruffle; second, that whatever her motive for remaining away might be, it was "nothing wrong"; her frank, sweet nature utterly forbade such an idea. Rather troubled, I caught up quickly with the others of the party and entered the box to find Lieutenant Blum and Lieutenant Linder waiting. They looked surprised at seeing me alone, and I hastily explained the situation. Lieutenant Linder then suggested that we three take a stroll about the hall, and we started off, I talking very rapidly, in the hope of turning their attention from the Fräulein's continued absence. I would not have been a woman had I not myself been a bit curious about her. We made a tour of the room and at length came to the head of a flight of stairs. I declared that I was dying of curiosity to discover what lay at the foot, so we descended and found ourselves in the very midst of a forest. On every side extended paths lined with trees whose branches met above in arches. At the end of one of the paths we saw a log hut. Above, through interlaced branches, shone a silver moon. I could not help exclaiming at the beauty of the illusion. There were countless little arbors and retreats where couples were sitting out dances. We had just started to turn down the path to the right, when I caught sight of a rose-colored dress in one of these arbors. A step farther and I saw that the girl leaning against the bench was Fräulein Hartmann. Her head was thrown back in a characteristic attitude and her lips were parted, as though eagerly listening to the words of her companion. He--for of course it was a man--was a broad-shouldered fellow, with a smooth face and a sword-cut on his forehead. Bending forward, he looked up intently into the face of the girl, talking very earnestly, very rapidly, as if pleading a case under pressure of time. Quick as a flash I wheeled about and faced the others, for the path was only broad enough for us to proceed in single file. I declared this walk stupid; the hut was the only thing really worth seeing; whereupon my bodyguard, although laughing at the capriciousness of my sex, obediently followed. How long I lingered about that wretched hut I can't say. At last, when every pretext was gone, I made my way back again upstairs. What a sigh of relief I gave when we reached the box, for there sat Fräulein Hartmann, smiling in her sweet, plaintive fashion, and talking to her aunt and Herr Doktor with the utmost self-possession. A moment later we had whirled away among the dancers, and I did not have an opportunity to exchange a word with her alone. At twelve o'clock the orchestra stopped playing for an hour and supper was served. Half of the people had been eating and drinking the entire evening, for tables had been spread in the boxes from the opening of the ball. This did not, however, seem to make any difference in the keenness of their appetites now. We had a very jolly time in our box, for beside the _pensionnaires_ were several Americans. Among them were Mr. and Mrs. Albert Sterner. You are doubtless familiar with the delightful work of Mr. Sterner. He has won considerable reputation, especially for his illustrations. Both he and his wife added much merriment to the party, for they are very entertaining. The ball began again at one, but no one thought of going home till four o'clock. We left Lieutenant Linder still dancing. "This lasts till five," he explained, as he took us to our carriage. "I shall get a cup of coffee at the restaurant, change to my uniform, and be ready for _Dienst_ (service) at six. I really haven't time to go to bed." I captured two very pretty souvenirs of the occasion, one of which you shall have to decorate your den. Every one who went down on the floor wore a favor made of blue ribbon, fastened with a gold head of Folly. Lieutenant Linder and Herr Martens both presented me with theirs, and in spite of acquiring a habit for greediness, I smilingly accepted both, with a thought for you. They will look extremely well tacked to an American wall. I did so wish for a word with Fräulein, but she drove home alone with her aunt. As I wrote you, I only see her at table, and so any conversation of a confidential character is out of the question. She is not a girl to practise deception, unless forced by circumstances, hence I fancy that there is something of a serious nature behind her action. Evidently the handsome young man with the sword-cut is the key to the mystery! Very likely she is in love with him, instead of with that disagreeable Blum. Were she an American girl it would not take her long to throw over the uniform and marry the man she loves; as it is, with her family and _an officer_ weighing the balance on the opposite side of the scales, I fear the student's chances are not the most favorable. _After Supper._ At my last lesson Thuille informed me that he and Tasso were going hunting on Saturday. Would I pardon him if he gave me my lesson in his hunting costume? Accordingly to-day he appeared in a wonderful green shirt striped with white, and open at the neck. His jacket, short trousers and gaiters were of some rough cloth, and the effect was decidedly unprofessional. The train left directly after the lesson, and Tasso was evidently quite alive to the fact, for instead of sleeping under the desk as he usually does, he roamed about restlessly during the entire hour, and finally became so importunate that his master unceremoniously put him out. I had taken in a practice piece scored for wood-wind and horn, including bass clarinet and contra-fagott. The ideas on which I had written the part for bass clarinet were suggested by that bit for the instrument in the third act of "Siegfried" where Brünnhilde is wakened by the all-powerful kiss. Unfortunately my result was not what might have been called an unqualified success. In one measure I had put a rest at the second beat, after writing two notes. This immediately attracted Thuille's attention. "Why, you've left him hanging in the air! Poor fellow, he's hanging in the air between heaven and earth!" he said laughing, but not unkindly. I thought I ought to laugh too, so I joined in, nervously. It is queer how much more humorously these things strike one after a lesson than at the time they actually happen. "This is the way he would have to play that," continued the professor. He puckered up his mouth, held his fingers exactly as the player would, squinted at my score with his head on one side, and blew two notes, "Poom! Poom!" Then he took the imaginary instrument suddenly away while his mouth seemed to be forming the same tone. He looked so funny that this time I could not help laughing heartily, and I saw my mistake at once. Later we came to a horn passage, and in place of the mildly flowing chords in half-notes which I had written he substituted eighth-note phrases. "I thought that would be too fast," said I, in self-defence. "Study modern scores!" he exclaimed. "Study modern horn parts! But don't forget the classics either; and never study Schumann or Brahms for orchestral writing. They were both poor scorers." I sometimes wish he employed similes in his explanations; they have such a way of sticking in my head and making me remember. I recall now an especially vivid one which Chadwick once made to his orchestral class: "Here you have your instruments of the orchestra just like so many colors on a palette," he said. "You combine different ones just as you mix your colors, to obtain a desired effect. Your task is to make a complete, finished picture. Choose your subject and go ahead, but take care to select your materials wisely." If you remember, Professor John K. Paine has also a fondness for illustrating his point in this manner, only he chooses literature instead of art as the source from which to draw his comparisons. I can see us now sitting side by side in that dingy little room in Vaughan House before the new music room existed, taking notes on his lectures, and can hear him saying, "Beethoven is the Shakespeare of music." Do you remember the day when Miss R---- brought her dog into the class, and Professor Paine, after peering at it mildly over his glasses from his seat behind the table, made some witty remark about the increased interest in his lectures which now drew the very beasts to hear him? And later, how kindly but firmly he insisted that Miss R---- leave her pet at home hereafter, inasmuch as he had already punctuated his paper on Haydn, and he did not consider the assistance of the dog, who broke in every now and then with sharp barks, at all necessary. As soon as the lesson was over I hurried home, for _Mütterchen_ and I had seats for the _Zauberflöte_ that evening. We had an early supper in our rooms, for the opera began at half-past six. I had not heard a Mozart opera since last September, when the Mozart-cycle was held in the Residenz Theatre. Then I enjoyed _Cosi fan tutte_, with Fritzi Scheff as Despina. The Residenz Theatre is an ideal place to hear Mozart. It is only large enough to seat eight hundred persons, and the orchestra sounds most effective. The Hof Theatre is too large for the production of Mozart's operas. After one act of the _Zauberflöte_ I began to find the orchestra thin and somewhat monotonous. When the music is really so beautiful, it seems a pity not to give it under the best conditions. Fräulein Hartmann and her aunt sat just across from us in the balcony. I hoped that we might all walk home together, but when we met at the door afterwards there was Lieutenant Blum, important and self-satisfied, waiting to escort them. Good night now, my dear. _Fasching-Dienstag_ (_Shrove Tuesday_). München gone mad! München with dignity thrown to the winds and cavorting in the dress of a clown! München laughing, dancing, fairly shrieking with pure glee! The misty atmosphere through which one always views the distant majesty of the Maximileum as one looks down Maximilian-strasse is curiously filled with a new sort of snowflake, a tiny, square atom which may be red or green or the most vivid of yellows. The sidewalks are packed with a half-crazed throng, some in vari-colored costumes, others in street dress, but all pelting one another with confetti, while the street itself is crowded with slow-moving lines of carriages whose occupants join no less wildly in the fun. And all this because it is the last day of the carnival. My first glimpse of the frolic to come was afforded me on Saturday. I was deep in the midst of a canonic imitation when there came a knock on the door and in burst Karl, radiant, his cheeks aglow with excitement. He was dressed in a wonderful costume, which consisted of a loose white shirt with black silk pompons down the front, white trousers, a gigantic white ruff about the neck and a high pointed hat. "_Bin ich nicht nett, gnädiges Fräulein?_" (Am I not fine?) he cried, kissing my hand with mock deference and prancing about the study. "Just wait till you see me to-morrow! Then I am to have a grand mustache and all kinds of red and green designs painted on my cheeks!" He grinned with delight at the thought of these cannibalistic decorations, which, however, struck me as more appropriate for a circus than a Sunday promenade. To-day _Mütterchen_, the Baroness, Herr Martens, and I took a carriage before the house at two o'clock. One's first carnival is not a thing to be taken calmly and I was all excitement, staring to right and left, and craning my neck in my endeavor not to miss anything. On every corner we passed stood old women and men with little pushcarts full of bright-colored bags of confetti or baskets of _Luft-Schlangen_ (long paper streamers done up in small rolls, to be thrown through the air like those we have at the Harvard Class Day exercises around the statue). For ten pfennigs (two and one-half cents) one could obtain a generous supply, and following the Baroness' suggestion, we stocked the carriage well. We found the streets already so crowded that we were forced to proceed very slowly towards Max-Joseph-Platz. Just as we reached the post-office a horn blew sharply, policemen hurriedly pushed back the crowd, and the First and Second Cavalry regiment officers came galloping by us and on down the street between the two long lines of carriages. Their appearance was most grotesque. Dressed as clowns, in suits of black or white, their painted faces made them all look alike. With snapping whips they urged on their horses at full speed. The excited animals seemed to enjoy the fun as much as their riders, and shook their gayly ribboned manes proudly. Hardly had we started again, for our carriage had come to a halt to let them pass, when I heard a familiar voice cry, "Hola!" and as I turned to see who was shouting, a handful of confetti was thrown straight in my face. For a moment I was angry, for the sensation of eyes and mouth suddenly full of paper is not conducive to amiability. Then, realizing the absurdity of losing my temper at such a time, I dived my hand into a bag to retaliate on my antagonist. Before I could discover him another shot landed in the back of my neck and over my hat a _Luft-Schlange_ came floating. "Caught you that time, _gnädiges Fräulein_," said a voice, and I met the laughing glance of Karl, who jumped on the step of our carriage and rode along with us. His white costume was sadly soiled, but he had fulfilled all his promises as to the horrible wonder of a painted mustache and streaked cheeks. A North American Indian could not have improved on him. "I've ridden up and down five times already," he said, as he jumped off to pay a similar visit to some friends just across. "There's Lou and the girls," I cried, catching sight of a carriage in the opposite line coming up the street as we went down. Having learned my lesson I was not slow to put it in practice, for standing up in the carriage I pelted them mercilessly, Herr Martens supplying me with a fresh bag every time I needed one, and the Baroness joining enthusiastically in the attack. It was not a one-sided battle, for the girls were quick to return our shots, and the aim of the little Italian count who was with them was excellent. You should have seen our carriage when they were finally out of range. The floor, up to our shoe-tops, was filled with confetti; our jackets were covered with it, and from the shoulders of the driver, from our hats, from the sides of the carriage hung countless brilliant streamers. At the big statue we turned and came back. When we finally succeeded in reaching the post-office we found a most exciting thing taking place. A company of clowns on horseback, whom we recognized as the cavalry officers who had earlier passed us, were forming in line at the farther end of the Platz. Suddenly they set off with brisk canter, swung around the statue of Max Joseph, and dashed at full speed up the high flight of stairs leading to the opera house! They came back rushing down the driveway. The horses were almost beside themselves with excitement, for their officers leaning far forward, brandished their whips, dug in their spurs, and urged on the beasts by frantic shouts and exclamations, while the crowd of onlookers cheered wildly. It was a thrilling sight, and I watched them breathlessly. I could not help feeling that at any moment one of these half-crazed creatures, now flecked with foam, might lose his balance and fall backwards down the steps crushing his rider beneath, and so I gave a relieved sigh as I saw the men at last dismount, give their quivering steeds to an orderly, and adjourn to the café opposite. Just then the Baron and Herr Doktor, who were walking, came up to our carriage. "We'll take you into the café for a moment," said the Baron. "It is apt to grow rather rough there later, but you must get a glimpse of another side of the carnival." Accordingly, well barricaded by the gentlemen, we quietly entered the café and took the only vacant table which stood in a retired corner. Here again the officers had undisputed possession of the place. They were laughing, dancing and singing in a boisterous though not at all in an offensive fashion. Meanwhile an orchestra in the centre of the room played some lively music. "Your selection pleaseth me but poorly," declaimed a tall fellow with a blue ruff about his neck, as he tapped on the shoulder of the director. "Why not soothe our ears with a ditty akin to this?" whistling one of the popular student airs. He seized the baton and mounted the platform, rapping sharply on the rack. The players, entering into the spirit of the thing, followed him perfectly. This was not so simple a matter as it sounds, for he conducted with a ridiculous exaggeration of all the mannerism, gestures and poses of Weingartner. It was very cleverly done and set every one into roars of laughter, especially when the fellow insisted on a _pianissimo_ passage. Then he would tilt back his head, wave his left hand with that curious droop of the finger-tips so characteristic of the great conductor, and nonchalantly beat time with his stick at an angle directed towards heaven. No sooner had he finished and returned with low bows of mock modesty to his place, than an officer in the corner jumped on top of a table and, stein in hand, began singing. The crowd, who had gathered around him, joined in the refrain, clinking their mugs together, for of course every one was drinking beer--_ça va sans dire_. If an officer chanced to be without any, he made his way to a table where some onlookers were sitting, and with a courteous "beg pardon," and a graceful raising of the pointed cap, helped himself to the largest stein from under the very nose of its owner, and walked serenely off. No one seemed to mind this, the original possessor of the beer least of all, for he laughed heartily, and ordered the waiter to bring him a fresh supply. The established rule of the carnival is to take everything in the greatest good humor and let the spirit of fun prevail. "To your very good health! May you live long, be prosperous, and see many carnivals!" said another fellow as he helped himself to a stranger's wine and raised the glass to his lips. "That's Count von E----," said the Baroness in a whisper, as he set down the glass, bowing gravely. "I should know his peculiar walk anywhere." "It was certainly most interesting," said I, as after watching the frolic for half an hour we walked out into Perusia-strasse. "You don't have anything half as jolly in America, do you?" said Herr Martens, with a tone of superiority in his voice. Whenever any one addresses me with that inflection my spread-eagleism is aroused. I immediately began to dilate on America and the American. This time I chose as my theme "Fourth of July," which of all our celebrations seemed nearest akin to this, and my glowing description of the manifold features of Independence Day caused the carnival to seem like a children's festival. Did I write you that the Americans in the _pension_ opposite were to give a St. Valentine's party? Owing to illness it was postponed to the evening of _Fasching Dienstag_. Accordingly we finished our day by a dance and general frolic with the girls, which was one of the jolliest things I have been to this year. This letter is so full of frivolity that to tell you of my doings in a musical way seems most incongruous, so I will save all such items for my next. As ever, dear Cecy, M. VII _March 3, 10.30 P. M._ I have just returned from the _Moderner Abend_ at the Kaim Saal, and am so excited that to go calmly to bed and to sleep is an impossibility. I don't know when I have enjoyed anything as much. The concert, as you may have judged by the name, was made up of compositions by living composers. Stavenhagen arranged it and all the numbers but one were played for the first time. Here is the program: 1. Singspiel Overture Edgar Istel. First time! 2. _Ein Zweigespräch_, Tone-poem. Max Schillings. (For solo violin, solo 'cello, and small orchestra.) [Richard Rettich--Heinrich Warnke.] First time! 3. Scene and Monologue of Lukas from the Opera _Der Conegidor_ Hugo Wolf. [Anton Dressler.] First time! 4. _Klavierkonzert_ (op. 6) in B flat minor Felix vom Rath. [Anna Langenhan-Hirzel.] 5. III. Act of _Gugeline_ Ludwig Thuille. [Gugeline, Agnes Stavenhagen. The Prince, Franz Bergen.] First time! The names in brackets are those of the soloists. For some reason or other the order was altered. Thuille's piece and Hugo Wolf's changed places. Edgar Istel, who conducted his own overture, is a tall, broad-shouldered, fine-looking young fellow, and a pupil of Thuille. I am in doubt as to his nationality for he certainly looks too well groomed for a German. The Schillings piece was a lovely, sustained thing. That man certainly knows how to write for the 'cello! We heard his opera _Ingwelde_ last week, and remarked the same thing then. The third number was, however, _the_ number of the evening. I wish I could describe to you the enchanting beauty of this music from _Gugeline_--its delicacy, freshness, and tenderness. And yet withal there is no semblance of insipidity about it, for in spite of the dominance of fanciful, graceful motifs the music every now and then assumes a more passionate tinge, as though an undercurrent of deeper feeling flowed beneath its charming surface. Agnes Stavenhagen, the wife of the director, sang with great niceness. Thuille has a trick of ending a phrase by a jump to a high _pianissimo_ note, and she rendered this most effectively. Prejudiced as I naturally was in favor of my Maestro, I was not alone in my enthusiasm, for at the close of the piece the audience burst into a storm of applause, cheering, stamping, and crying "Bravo! Bravo!" "Thuille! Thuille!" The whole house rose as one person. Thuille, who had been sitting about eight rows back, at length came forward. He did not mount the stage, but remained below the conductor's stand, bowing and smiling in the delightful, unaffected fashion peculiar to him. Again and again he was recalled, the audience remaining standing and applauding. Clearly, aside from his musical ability, he is a great favorite in Munich. When the tempest had at last subsided and we had settled back into our places, Frau Langenhan-Hirzel appeared to play the concerto of vom Rath. Her entrance was the signal for a fresh outburst of applause, and there was no more enthusiastic group in the hall than ours in the east corner, for Polly, Edith, and Louise are all her pupils and loyally adore her. "Frau Langenhan," as they generally call her, looked very young as she took her place at the piano. She is slight, and her short black hair curls roguishly about her head, while a pair of dark, innocent eyes give her an almost childlike appearance. But however youthful she may seem, she plays with a mastery and force unusual in a woman. Lescheticsky is proud of her I hear, and one can readily see why. The concerto itself is most brilliant and was originally composed and dedicated to her. Long and prolonged applause followed its close. Frau Langenhan-Hirzel bowed repeatedly, and at length vom Rath came forward and joined her. He is tall, with extremely light hair. In spite of his dignified bearing he was blushing up to his ears with embarrassment, and looked greatly relieved to sit down. As for the last number, we had forgotten all about it, for we started impetuously off to the green room. When we entered, there was the little pianist calmly smoking a cigarette and carelessly shaking her black curls from to time with a characteristic movement of the head. The girls rushed enthusiastically up to her. After the first eager words of congratulation they presented me, and she was most cordial in her greeting as she turned and shook hands, holding her cigarette in her fingers. Quite a number of the German women smoke and she does so constantly, in fact even when giving lessons, which goes ahead of Thuille. But my head all the time was full of _Gugeline_--how could one forget it?--and I looked about for Thuille. He was talking to Stavenhagen in the corner, with his back towards me. A moment later he turned, and as I went forward with outstretched hand he met me half way. The beauty of his music had so intensely moved me, that I grew excited when I endeavored to congratulate him, and my German flew away as if on wings. I could only murmur stupidly something about "_wunderschön_" (very beautiful) and "_entzückend_" (charming), the sole adjectives I could at the moment recall. Perhaps my expression told him more than my words, for he was good enough to look much pleased as he shook hands warmly. Then we girls all came out together. None of us cared to hear the rest of the last number. I for one wanted to be quiet and think--or rather to hear again in my mind those haunting, exquisite strains. Is there anything in the world more marvellous than music or more indescribable than its hidden soul? And now I must to bed, and hear it all over again, I hope, in my dreams. MÜNCHEN, _March 6_. As soon as my greetings with Thuille were over to-day I hastened to congratulate him again on the success of his _Gugeline_ music last Monday. This time my German was a little more fluent, and I even made bold to ask him how long it had taken him to write the act. He said that he started it in the middle of June, 1899. After waiting two weeks for text from Bierbaum, and after countless other interruptions, he finished it by the end of August. Then began the lesson. With a sinking heart I placed my fugue on the rack. I don't know how many hours I had worked on it! At any rate the stretto had almost reduced me to tears. A stretto is a net, and if one is not constantly on the watch, he is caught in its meshes. Thuille looked it over, made some corrections, and to my surprise said, "_Sie sind recht fleissig gewesen, Fräulein. Die Fugue ist gut_" (You have been very industrious. The fugue is good). My spirits rose with a leap, for he seldom praises. The pupil who was to follow me was late, so I had time as I drew on my gloves to express the wish that we might hear his new opera produced at the Hof-Theatre. "I don't know about that," said he laughing. "I am fortunate if I have my _Lobetanz_ given. I expect that will appear about the twenty-second of the month." Turning, he opened one of the drawers of his desk. "Here are the complete scores of them all," he said, as he touched the backs of the great books with a tender, almost paternal pride; "and here is that place for the wood-wind in _Gugeline_ which you remarked on." He pointed out the passage in the score, and to my delight took his seat at the piano and played for some moments. "The most laborious thing I ever did in my life was writing out the orchestral parts from here on," he said, playing the theme of the duet. "I thought I should never get it done." His words made me think of something Mr. Chadwick had said in class one day, shortly after the completion of his lyric drama "Judith." He declared that reducing the orchestral parts so as to make a complete piano accompaniment was one of the most tedious things he ever experienced. After all, my dear, the gods are just, and to be great does not mean that one is free from drudgery. Chadwick, by the bye, always had evidences of his energy on every hand in the form of proofs or manuscript lying carelessly about in his studio; perhaps a song, or a string quartette, or merely the key to his harmony book which he was getting out last spring. Thuille, on the contrary, has nothing to indicate what he is doing--except cigarettes. After my lesson I stopped in at Polly's. I found her playing away at a fearful rate on Saint-Saëns' G minor concerto, and she looked so pale and tired that I made her call everything else off and go for a walk. We found, however, that by hurrying we could spend a half-hour in the old Pinakothek, and so we made our way to Barerstrasse. You must come over if only to see these splendid Holbeins! The master's portrait of himself is alone worth a trip, and then Dürer's four apostles! The St. Paul is my favorite, he is so majestic, but Polly prefers St. Mark. She says he looks happier than the others. I must not forget to tell you about taking tea at the Sterners'. They live over by the river, and we wandered through a maze of streets before reaching the right house. Then we climbed numberless flights of stairs in true German fashion, and found ourselves in the most charming apartment under the very roof itself. Mrs. Sterner received us in a picturesque, low-studded room, which had at one end a large bay-window, where the tea table was spread. She is very slight and girlish in appearance. As we sat sipping our tea I continually caught tantalizing glimpses of a big studio at the farther side. It was not long before the artist himself entered and invited us, when we had quite finished, to see his "work shop." Such a fascinating place as it is, not at all of the conventional order, with bizarre nick-nacks and curios, oriental hangings, and stale, tobacco-scented air; but a big, light-flooded, healthy room adorned merely with sketches, pictures and easels, for the Sterners have only pitched their tent in Munich for a brief season and are off in the spring for Italy. There is a wealth of treasures in Mr. Sterner's portfolio, and his field of work is a delightfully broad one. Of his illustrations, those for a new edition of Edgar Allan Poe's works interested me most. Each picture had such definiteness about it that one could guess at once the lines it interpreted. Two of his most famous paintings which we asked to see were in America, but he showed us the exquisitely taken photographs. One represents a charming child, the other is that which I have seen so often in your own music room,--William Mason at the keyboard. "And the new picture, is it finished yet?" asked Edith, who had been there before. "It's the old story!" he said; "I've put it aside to work on pot-boilers!" Fancy calling those wonderful illustrations of his by such a brutal name. _Thursday._ At last, my dear, I have something definite to tell you about Fräulein Hartmann. The most distressing thing occurred at dinner to-day. Just as we were having salad and composedly conversing about Arabic customs--a favorite subject of Herr Doktor and the Poet--in came the Italian ladies, with profuse apologies for their tardiness. They had been "doing" the Bavarian National Museum, and lingered too long over the ivory collection. One of them crossed to Fräulein Hartmann's place and handed her a letter. "I met the postman on the stairs," she said, "and told him I would take any mail up, so he gave me this." Fräulein thanked her for her kindness, then, glancing at the handwriting, suddenly flushed to the roots of her hair. A second later her aunt, who had been looking over her shoulder, snatched the letter from her hand. Frau Von Waldfel's face was crimson with anger and her black eyes snapped maliciously. "I'll look after this, young lady," she said, thrusting the letter into her pocket. "A pretty pass when engaged girls receive love letters from other than their betrothed." Her voice echoed harshly in the complete stillness of the room. Fräulein's face was a study--anger, mortification, and resentment at the insult thus publicly inflicted on her. She started as if to retort, then, recovering her self-possession, she folded her napkin with dignity, rose and left the room. Her head was proudly erect, but her blue eyes, usually so tranquil, were smouldering darkly. Frau von Waldfel looked even more enraged than before, that her niece should dare to depart without her permission. Muttering to herself, she pushed back her plate with a sharp rattle of her knife and fork, and went out with a heavy step. We were all speechless with astonishment. The opportune arrival of coffee served to relieve the tension, and the calm voice of the Poet's Wife was like oil on tempestuous waters, as she inquired whether coffee were a favorite drink of the American people. When the meal was over she drew me into the hall. "When you are through with your lessons come and see me in my room," she said. That afternoon she told me the following about Fräulein Hartmann. It seems that Fräulein's parents, who live in Mannheim, are poor people. Her aunt, however, is extremely rich. When, last spring, Fräulein came out of the convent, Frau von Waldfel sent for her to pay her a visit. She was very ambitious that her niece should make a brilliant match, for she is, as you must have guessed, an intensely proud woman. Indeed, so anxious was she that she offered to pay the dowry and introduce Fräulein into society. This offer was accepted with delight by the Hartmanns, and Fräulein made her début in Berlin, where her aunt had taken a fancy to spend the winter. Among other men whom she met was Lieutenant Blum. He had, without doubt, heard the rumors of Frau von Waldfel's wealth, for he immediately began to pay court. Matters were speedily arranged between the two families and the young people were betrothed. Fräulein's parents were greatly pleased; Frau von Waldfel, radiant. Such an honor that her niece should wed an officer! Only Fräulein Hartmann did not seem to rejoice as she should over the good fortune. She would have been less than human had not all these beautiful surroundings, these fascinating frocks and these flattering friends of her aunt pleased her. But there was another man--there always _is_ a third person when you stop to think of it--in form of a student, who had lived next door to the Fräulein all her life. He loved her, and she was half in love with him. In fact, affairs would speedily have come to a climax had not Frau von Waldfel taken it into her head to send for her niece just as their love-affair was at this critical point. "As time has passed," continued the Poet's Wife, "the less she has cared for the lieutenant and the more she realizes that her feeling for Heinrich is deeper than the passing fancy which her family would have her believe. Don't blame her, my dear. You American girls are brought up very differently from ours here, and it is hard for you to understand. The letter to-day was, I feel sure, from Heinrich. Much as she has longed to hear from him, she is too honorable to permit any correspondence. A short time ago, however, Heinrich wrote a letter without her aunt's knowledge, and begged her to see him. After much misgiving she consented and a meeting was arranged----" "At a carnival ball?" I interrupted. "Yes. How did you guess? Probably the rash fellow has dared to write and propose another scheme. 'Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,'" she quoted. "How will it all come out, I wonder," said I, puzzled. "Indeed, I am wondering the same thing. It was while you were in Meran, you know, that Fräulein told me this. Her aunt was ill with the gout, and one morning we went for a walk together. She was feeling very unhappy, for in some way an unpleasant rumor concerning Blum's past had reached her, and I suppose the dear child couldn't keep her heart pent up any longer." At her mention of Meran my mind flew back to the day I had seen the man I thought was Blum on the Promenade. "Was the lieutenant in town then?" I asked. "No. He had been called away on some law business," she answered. A caller came in just at this point, so we had no more opportunity to talk together. I feel perfectly sure now that it _was_ Blum who was having such a gay time with that crowd of people. He may have used that law story merely as an excuse to take a holiday. I can't bear to think of that sensitive, lovable girl as his wife! Dear me, Cecilia, this is a strange, strange world! One would imagine that with experience and the discretion which comes with years, things would straighten themselves out a bit; but the older one grows the queerer life is! Yours problematically and abstractedly, M. VIII _March 22._ _Cecilia dear_:-- There is the smell of spring in the air to-day. As I passed through Odeons-Platz on my way to my lesson this morning the sun was flooding the whole square with a delicious warmth we have not felt for months. A soft breeze brought across from the Hof-Garten the odor of freshly upturned earth. In front of the Feldernhalle the pigeons were fluttering and whirling, now suddenly swooping down from the roof, then darting back again like arpeggios of light. Around the flag pole a crowd of laughing children were tossing crumbs, and then running shyly back into the arms of their bareheaded nurses as the birds flocked near. The scene, in a dim way, suggested the Piazza of San Marco, and I gave a sigh for a sight of Venice,--its blue, unruffled waters, its marble palaces, and the white dome of the Maria della Salute against its peerless sky. That reminds me of a secret I have to tell you. What do you think? In April comes the spring vacation at the Conservatory, and _Mütterchen_ is contemplating for us--mind you, I say contemplating--a trip to the Italian lakes. Think of it--Bellagio, Como, Lugano and all the rest! I don't dare give myself up to dreaming, however, for nothing about it is as yet definitely settled. Frau von Waldfel and her niece have gone to Berlin. They intend to stay several weeks in order to complete Fräulein's already elaborate trousseau. My own opinion is, however, that the aunt has read Heinrich's letter and wants to get her niece away from Munich for fear she may meet him. Ever since that shocking occurrence in the dining-room neither Frau von Waldfel nor the Fräulein have come to the table, but have had all their meals served in their rooms. Of course we do not see the lieutenant now, for which I am duly grateful, but I do miss the Fräulein and our pleasant chats together. The days and lessons have been going on just as usual save for the interruptions afforded by the celebration of the Prince Regent's birthday which came on the twelfth. Early in the morning Louise and Edith called for me to go to the great military mass at St. Michael's. It is a rare thing for women to have cards, for this service is held for the soldiers alone. According to directions we made our way up a flight of narrow stairs which led from the sacristy, and found ourselves in the corridor of a balcony. From this corridor lead several little rooms which are called by the theatrical name of boxes. Most of them are reserved for the royal family and persons of rank. The one which was allotted to us was almost behind the high altar and facing the entire congregation. We could not be seen because no light from the church itself fell on the little glass windows, tightly closed, which covered the front of our box, but we could see excellently, and I shall never forget the brilliancy of the scene. I could not help but contrast the sight before me with that which I had beheld within these same walls last Christmas Eve. Now the church was filled with a throng of men in dazzling uniforms--here a company of privates with white-plumed helmets, there a group of officers in the Bavarian blue and scarlet, in the farther corner a coterie of generals in cream-colored broadcloth, countless orders gleaming across their breasts. The members of the royal house were seated directly beneath us in the choir. They were in full uniform, and sat in great chairs of red velvet with kneeling cushions of the same color at their feet. On the altar steps stood a company of soldiers with black plumes to their helmets, while separating the men in the nave from those in the choir stretched a great orchestra. What a wonderful sea of color it was! The sunshine pouring through the long windows made the gleaming swords, the shining helmets and the gold-fringed epaulets a thousand times more brilliant. At the close of the service the band suddenly struck up the Hallelujah chorus from the "Messiah." I cannot tell you how impressive it was to hear these familiar strains amid such strange surroundings. I thought of the many times I had heard them sung at home. Then as the trumpets rang gloriously out on that mighty phrase, "King of Kings!" and the whole orchestra came in _fortissimo_ with the wonderful "Hallelujah!" which echoed and re-echoed in the lofty arches, a blur came before my eyes. Ah, Cecy dear, the world may call Handel old fashioned and laugh at his simplicity, but who has ever written a hymn of praise so powerful, so convincing as this? On Monday, as usual, came the Weingartner concert. Beethoven's seventh was gloriously given! Weingartner takes the first movement slower than I have ever heard it at home, but in the _allegro con brio_ he simply sweeps the orchestra along. At the close of the concert occurred the usual ovation, a number of enthusiastic admirers staying to cheer and applaud until the lights were put out. Weingartner's conducting of Beethoven without score is far more inspiring than any other directing I have ever seen, just as the words of an extemporaneous speaker are more forceful than one who confines himself to notes. I was sorry that I could not go to the _première_ of Thuille's _Lobetanz_, but I attended the second presentation and enjoyed it immensely. It is just such a dainty thing as one would expect from his pen but, by the bye, is not really an opera at all. The program announced it as a play by Otto Julius Bierbaum with music by Ludwig Thuille. At first, therefore, I was slightly disappointed, but the whole thing is so charming that I soon forgot my annoyance at the spoken dialogue. The Princess, whom Lobetanz loves, was beautifully played by Tordeck. In the second act there is a lovely bit, when Lobetanz (Herr Walther) plays his violin under the tree and sings of the Princess' eyes. The text is in reality a fairy tale, full of imagination and delicacy. I was discussing the performance with the little Boer after my lesson at the school to-day when who should come breathlessly up the stairs but Edith. She had been to the house for me, and finding me gone had come down to the Conservatory. "I want you to go shopping with me," she said. "Do come and help me buy a pair of shoes." So we set out together towards Marien-Platz. Oh, my dear Cecilia, if you ever come to Germany, be sure and bring enough clothing of every description to last till your return. German ladies are not at all particular about the cut and fit of their gowns, and as for their footwear! Such a time as we had to-day trying to buy those walking boots! In the first place we could find nothing narrower than _d_ and Edith has the daintiest little foot imaginable. Then all the shoes we saw were so broad, flat and shapeless, that they had a positively inhuman appearance. Edith said they looked as though they had been made for ducks. It was hopeless to try and make the Fräulein understand what was wrong. "Of course it's--it's very er-serviceable," said I, holding a clumsy thing at arm's length and surveying it critically, "but isn't it just a little too broad?" The Fräulein cast a withering glance at us. "Broad?" she said, "why it's not broad at all." "Oh!" said I. "And they suit perfectly the Countess von R----, Frau Excellenz von S----, Frau General-Secretariat M----." "I'll go barefoot before I'll wear those boots," exclaimed Edith in English, her cheeks flushing, "and I don't care a fig what these ladies with the long titles wear!" Then, in German, "Fräulein, the shoes are quite impossible. Good morning." With the bearing of an injured queen Edith swept out of the store, I following meekly, and the Fräulein gazing after us both in open-mouthed astonishment. It was not till we were half way up the street that I dared to break the silence in which my companion had enveloped herself. "It occurs to me in a vague sort of way," I began timidly, "that the Baroness mentioned that a new shoe store had been opened on Residenz-strasse. I think she said they kept American shoes." Edith's face softened. "Then by all means let us go there," she said. "I'm afraid the barefoot idea would be rather uncomfortable in bad weather." Never did the qualities of American shoes appear so attractive as when we saw them invitingly displayed in the window of the new shop. Edith was so delighted at finding something that would fit that she paid without a murmur the fabulous price demanded, and invited me to drink chocolate with her afterwards at the Hof-café. But just take a word of warning, Cecilia, and don't get caught in any such predicament yourself! MUNICH, _April 2_. The softest zephyr whispering to a rose; the faint fragrance of a lily swaying on its stem; a fairy cobweb lying shimmering in the sun; this is Beethoven as played by Ysaye. Never shall I forget his playing, and never do I want to hear any one else play the G major sonata. Frau Langenhan-Hirzel and Ysaye are giving a series of concerts consisting of Beethoven's sonatas for violin and piano. Polly and I "went Kategorie" last week. To "go Kategorie" means that we used our students' tickets, or _Kategorie-Karten_, and obtained admittance at a reduced price. We did not receive a seat, and indeed none were to be had, for as we entered the hall of the Bayerische Hof, every place was taken and crowds were standing in the aisles. Accordingly, we made our way to the balcony, for beneath the windows there runs a low, broad step which answers very well in place of a seat. When we arrived, however, we found that this, too, had been taken possession of by a crowd of students who were sitting closely together, their knees almost touching their chins, and most of them holding the score on their laps. We were at a loss what to do, for that we might be obliged to stand had never occurred to us. "There must be a step or a window ledge somewhere," said Polly, looking vainly about. Suddenly I spied a table in the corner, and I threw her a meaning glance. Quick as a flash she understood and was too good a Bohemian to be troubled by conventionalities. A moment later we were gravely sitting on the table side by side, our feet not touching the floor, our eyes not seeing the stage, but our ears straining to catch every note of that wonderful music. Polly had brought her score. One of the players in the Kaim Saal orchestra comes to her weekly and they read together, so she is familiar with all the sonatas. But after a time I shut my eyes to the printed symbols. I wanted only to hear, for from the moment Ysaye draws his bow across the strings "the weariness, the fever, and the fret" fade away, and one lives in another world. I have never heard anything more exquisite than his _pianissimo_. So marvellously _legato_ and delicate it is, like a thread of gold, that I held my breath for fear the tone might break. It reminded me of all that is beautiful and dainty and lovely. By some odd association of ideas, Shelley's lines about the lily of the valley came to me: "The light of its tremulous bells is seen Through their pavilions of tender green." Frau Langenhan-Hirzel played delightfully. But what impressed me most forcibly about her and about Ysaye was their perfect control. After all the word artist means nothing less than control. No matter how deeply an artist's feelings may be stirred, no matter how moved he may be by the intensity, the passion or the anguish of the moment, he must always be the master of his emotions. He must make others cry, weep, exult, but must himself, while sensing every suggestion, remain in perfect realization of the situation. Picture Elizabeth sobbing in the midst of the Tannhäuser prayer! Or Paderewski breaking off in the middle of a bar and burying his face in his hands! And yet an artist must feel more keenly than the average man. Verily, the gods demand miracles! How happy I am to write you that the trip southward bids fair to be realized within a short time. We have heard from friends who have landed at Naples and who hope to meet us at Milan. You can imagine how delighted we are to think of seeing some one from home, for letters at best are unsatisfactory things. I have so many questions to ask about everything and everybody that I shall be worse than the proverbial small boy. _Mütterchen_ and I have been down to Promenade Platz this afternoon buying trunk straps. Every time we return from a trip we find that our straps have mysteriously disappeared and no one seems to know anything about them. I fancy that those solemn-looking guards could enlighten us considerably if they chose. The weather was so delightful that after we had finished our shopping, which had led us down Maximilian-strasse, we decided to take a stroll along the Gasteig Promenade by the Isar. We found ourselves in the midst of an idly sauntering throng, for the greater part of München had turned out to luxuriate in the sunshine. Oh! my dear, how it would shock your fastidious taste to see the new _Reform Kleid_. All winter the women showed unpleasant symptoms of adopting this form of dress, and now that spring has come the fever has burst forth. The garments are all entirely in one piece, hanging straight downward, without shape or curve, totally ignoring the existence of a waist line. Most of them suggest nothing so strongly as _robes de nuit_, and some which have straps over the shoulders remind one of a feminine species of overalls. They are invariably too short in front, and as the fashion for white shoes prevails (may the gods spare you the sight of white shoes on German feet!) the effect is grotesque in the extreme. I believe the one virtue of these remarkable gowns is that they are comfortable, but so are bathrobes, sweaters, and négligés. Even such a disturbing element as the _Reform Kleid_ was in time forgotten, for it is very lovely down here by the Isar, that same "Isar, rolling rapidly," of which everyone has read. In place of green banks are high walls of white stone over which trails picturesque ivy from the terraces on either side. The Promenade itself stretches along the edge of the embankment, under great shady trees. So delightful was it that we wandered down to the Peace Monument and lingered there till six o'clock. The sunset was not especially brilliant, but the clouds which remained hanging low in the fast-darkening sky were wonderful indeed. They shaded from a dusky violet to deep, rich purple, and their music was that of a Chopin prelude, not one of those tempest-tossed visions, but perhaps the tender, half-melancholy one in B flat. There is to be a _Vortrags-Abend_ to-morrow night which marks the end of the spring term at the Conservatory. Fräulein Mikorey, a pupil of Stavenhagen's, is to play a Beethoven concerto, a student named Sieben is to play the violin, and I am to sing. Wish me luck, _Liebchen_! _Evening._ Just a line before I go to sleep to tell you that everything went off beautifully at the concert to-night. In one way it was an awful experience--_awful_, dearest of friends, in its most literal sense. This was not on account of the hall, I assure you, although it looked marvellously great and high as one stepped out of the dressing-room; nor was it because of the imposing audience, nor the crowds of pupils, who stood with critical attention around the sides of the room. Each of these factors may have its individual influence in striking terror to the heart of the timid performer, but they are all as nothing, absolutely nothing, I say, in comparison with that austere, black-coated, solemn-visaged line of professors who occupy the front row. You cannot imagine anything more terrifying than to stand on the platform and look down on this human barricade which shuts one off, as it were, from all that is friendly and encouraging. Stavenhagen sat in the centre, with arms majestically folded. On either side were the two women teachers of the school, and then to right and left stretched that line of frigid stateliness. There was a certain horrible fascination about it all, for try as I would to look over into the audience or up at the balcony, I found my glance always nervously returning to some dignified head posed at a critical angle, or some pair of hands with finger tips pressed together in judicial attitude. The moment after I made my very quaint, very German courtesy--a ceremony insisted on by the Frau Professor--I suddenly became terribly conscious of the fact that I was an American, that all these people before me were German, and that I was about to sing to them in Italian. If I had dared, I should have smiled. It was as if Italian were a language of commerce, by means of which I was to make a communication to the audience. But, dear me! I forgot all about that and everything--yes, even the depressing effect of the front row--when once I got to singing. And when it was over I could have hugged the fellow who cried "_Bravo! Amerika! Amerika!_" What mattered it that it was only an unpretentious pupils' concert? I could not have felt any prouder if it had been my début in grand opera when Stavenhagen and Thuille congratulated me, and the latter said, in his kind way, "We must make that counterpoint run as easily from your pen as those tones from your lips." When one studies singing merely for the love of it, it is all very well, but it would make your heart sick to see the number of American girls over here who are half-starving themselves in order to study for the grand opera stage. One sadly wonders how many of them will ever "arrive," but when an argument is raised or a doubt expressed as to their ultimate success, they immediately cite the case of Geraldine Farrar, the American who is at present singing leading rôles at the Berlin opera house. The brilliancy of her success blinds their eyes to hundreds of utter failures, to countless half-way successes and to the untold drudgery which lies along the road. IX GORDONE, LAKE GARDA, _April 10_. _Dear Cecilia_:-- I am writing in the loveliest and most romantic of gardens. It lies on the very edge of Lake Garda. Indeed, only a wall separates this wealth of green from the blue waves which plash rhythmically against their stone barrier. Above me are the apple blossoms; on either side lie tangles of vine and roses. In the distance are the neat white paths leading to the hotel where we are staying. It is not quite so civilized here as farther up the slope, where the plants grow in decorous rows and carefully laid out designs, but I like it much better, and besides, I get the breeze--a soft, _legato_ breeze--from the water, and a sight of the picturesque island--as yet nameless to me--just across. We found our way to this charming spot by means of our old friend, the Brenner Pass. How changed it all was from three months ago! Then everything was covered with snow, and the trees bowed into crystal arches under the heavy weight of ice. Now the whole earth seems made new with the soft green of spring. As we rode along every now and then we caught sight of a fruit tree in full bloom: peach blossoms of misty pink making their bit of valley all aglow, apple blossoms lighting up the shadow of a threatening, black mountain, whose snow-tipped summit seemed in some strange way akin to the patch of white at its base. We reached Bozen at seven o'clock, and to our chagrin could find no accommodation at the hotels. In vain we pleaded with the polite proprietors. At loss what to do we followed in the footsteps of a stupidly smiling _Dienstmann_ who had seized our luggage at the station and who now assured us he knew of an excellent inn where we could find rooms. Putting our trust in the gods we turned into the courtyard of a quaint little inn called the _Goldene Taube_, and inquired of the smiling Hausfrau if we could have lodgings for the night. With repeated courtesies she replied that there was but one room left, but it was a wonderfully beautiful room if we cared to see it. We assured her that we would take it on the spot, and gratefully climbed three narrow flights of stairs without a murmur. Though extremely primitive, the house was neat and clean, but we involuntarily exchanged glances when the landlady threw open the door at the head of the last flight and bowed for us to pass into the room she had so flatteringly described. Such a cubby-hole of a place, with a sloping roof, no carpet and one diamond-paned window, from which, by stretching out my arm, I could touch the window of the opposite house! Did I say no carpet? Then I most humbly apologize, for before each bed was a blue fragment which, by a powerful stretch of the imagination might, I suppose, be called a rug. The floor creaked unmercifully every time we walked across it, and we were terribly afraid we should lose something between the cracks. _Mütterchen_ was inclined to regard the situation tragically, but I was rather enjoying the whole experience, secretly congratulating myself on being in an attic chamber which might bear some resemblance to those in which the great composers slept, ate, toiled and created their immortal works. We had a walk and a drive the following morning and found Bozen much like Meran; both have the same dingy _Lauben_, the frescoed houses, the narrow streets and picturesque shrines. Our drive to Gries was through a veritable garden, for the fruit trees were abloom on every side. In the afternoon we took the train to Riva, a train which ran over the narrowest track I ever saw, high up on the mountains. Riva is a charming place at the head of the lake, and has a most wonderful new road cut through tunnels of rock along the precipices of the west bank. I bought four oranges just as we were going on board the boat for the ridiculous sum of twenty heller (five cents). You should have seen the man who was selling them. He looked like the genuine villain of comic opera. He wore a black, broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes, a full cape, which fell to his feet, with a collar of well-worn fur, and gold earrings. He was very gray and wrinkled, and oh! how he tried to cheat me! I had not had the sad and bitter experiences of shopping in Rome six years ago for nothing, however, and so I determined to settle on a price and remain firm. Accordingly I offered twenty heller for four oranges. My Italian is not fluent. It is limited to musical terms and a few selections from grand opera. I tried to recall something fitting, but the only lines which came to me were those of an aria from _Semiramide_, which could hardly be said to fit the occasion. How grieved, how shocked he looked--the old rascal!--as he assured me that he could not permit his wonderful fruit to be so cruelly sacrificed, although nothing would delight him more than to please the American signorina. Accordingly I turned to go in dignified silence. In a second the oranges were done up in paper and given over, with the astounding announcement that never before in his life had he allowed his fruit to be sold at so absurd a sum, but--with a telling glance from under his black hat--the charms of the signorina were irresistible. At my first opportunity I told of the bargain I had made. "Twenty heller for four oranges!" exclaimed the gentleman who sat next us. "Why, my dear young lady, for thirty heller (eight cents) I just bought a whole dozen!" The sail down the lake is a beautiful one. Such picturesque little towns nestling down by the shore, such bewildering orange groves along the hillsides, such quaint spired churches perched in the most inaccessible places! The "witchery of the soft blue sky" enchants one. The lake, too, is of a wonderful tint. What a land this must be for artists! Such color, color everywhere! I wonder they don't all come over here and live forever. The card which I sent you from München, told you we were going straight to Milan, so you doubtless are wondering how we chanced to stop off here. Just as we were leaving Garda our boat ran aground. This caused the wildest commotion among the townspeople who came flocking down to the shore and stood in lines along the breakwater--the women and girls bareheaded, with red shawls about their shoulders and blue aprons over their short skirts, the men and boys in loose shirts, with scarlet handkerchiefs carelessly knotted about their throats and any sort of a cap on the back of their heads. They shouted to each other, they gesticulated wildly, they speculated on the length of time before we could be launched. Indeed, I do not believe there had been as much excitement in the little village for years. So long were we delayed that on inquiry we found that we should arrive too late to catch the train for Milan, and on the suggestion of an English lady with whom we had become acquainted in that delightfully informal way known to travellers, we decided to stay at Gordone over night. That is how I chanced to be writing in this fascinating garden and to be hearing how Italian birds sing their morning pæan. I did not have time before leaving München to tell you of the last two concerts we heard there. The first was the presentation of Bach's St. Matthew under the direction of Zumpe, with the Hof-Theatre chorus, orchestra and soloists. It strikes me that the Germans do not know how to sing oratorio. They lack that broad, _cantabile_ style. Indeed, this branch of music is heard least of all here. Outside of the Rhine towns, which, I hear, have occasional festivals, little interest is shown in oratorio. At the St. Matthew the artists sang unsympathetically, but the choral singing was magnificent. Is there anything in the world grander, more truly religious than a Bach choral? One listens and the complexities, the sordidness, the trivialities of life all vanish. One feels only his own insignificance and humbly raises his voice with the rest in adoration of that Greatness which is eternal. The other concert was the last one in the Weingartner series. The hall was packed with people, many of whom were standing. The program began with Cherubini's overture to Anacreon. Then came a delightful concerto by Haydn for strings, two obligato violins and an obligato 'cello. Last of all was Beethoven's ninth symphony. The stage had been enlarged to accommodate the big chorus. This was the first time I had ever heard this stupendous work. The singers sang with great spirit and as though they loved every note. What a magnificent main theme that is with the rushing counterpoint in the strings! I should think the clarinet players would be in their element, there are so many lovely bits for that instrument. And the drum in the scherzo--who could ever forget it? At the close of the concert Weingartner was presented with an enormous laurel wreath, amid the prolonged cheers and applause of the audience. After coming out repeatedly to bow his thanks, he finally expressed them in a graceful little speech. I was too far away to catch all that he said, but at the end his _Auf Wiedersehen bis nächstes Jahr_ (Till we meet again next year) brought forth a tremendous thunder of applause. And so exit Weingartner. I do hope I shall see him conduct again before I leave Germany. This afternoon we take the boat across the lake and then the train to Milan,--so _addio carissima_, as they say in this lovely country. MILAN, _Easter Sunday_, _1.20 A. M._ Easter Sunday is just beginning, and I am about to retire after an evening spent at La Scala in hearing Verdi's _Un Ballo in Maschera_. Am I living in another world? Can Germany and the dear old Hof-Theatre be but a day's trip away? When one has for months been going to the opera at seven and returning at the discreet hour of nine-thirty it seems nothing less than wild dissipation to find the final curtain falling in the wee small hours o' the night. Milan and München may bear a certain euphonic similarity, but they are really as unlike as black and white. In the Munich opera house we are generally directed to our seats by a languorous gesture of the hand and a pertinent glance towards the desired row. Here, however, the usher seized our checks, muttered to himself, shouted excitedly to a fellow-usher, tried to direct us and several other people at once, urged us to hurry, and finally landed us breathless in our places. There were yet five minutes before the overture. La Scala is an enormous opera house, and its stage stretches beneath one like a great plain. To be sure, after a winter of Wagnerian harmonies, Verdi's music sounded somewhat colorless, but oh! the language! I cannot tell you what a peaceful, refreshing change it was to hear a soft _Cielo!_ issue from the soprano's lips, instead of the _Ach, Gott!_ to which we were accustomed; and to remark how easily the tenor floated along on broad _ahs_ instead of struggling over a succession of gutturals. Don't imagine that I sneer at German. It is a grand, strong language, but for song there is nothing in the world like this melodious tongue of the South. We were surprised and pleased to meet in the lobby Mr. P----, a Harvard man whom I had met at college. He is studying voice in Milan, and told me not a little about student life here. It seems that it is the height of a singer's ambition to make his début at La Scala which Toscanini, the conductor, rules with a rod of iron. The students receive no advantages in the way of tickets, as our _Kategorie-Karten_ afford us in Munich. He also told me that opera monopolizes the field of music. "It is true that Toscanini gives a series of orchestral concerts after the season, but they are, as a rule, unsuccessful," he said. "We have small chance to study purely orchestral music." "Are many Wagner operas produced here?" I asked. "Oh, yes, Wagner is growing in favor, but the Italians love best their own school." The tenor, Zenatello, who sang Ricardo, seemed to be a great favorite. The audience applauded and cheered him repeatedly. Mr. P---- says he has been on the stage but a short time. There was one singer of whom the people decidedly disapproved, to judge by the hissing which greeted him every time he made his appearance. I really pitied him, although he did sing atrociously. The curtain fell at twelve o'clock. To our surprise a ballet, or rather a pantomime followed. It was a most elaborate production lasting an hour, but had nothing to do with what went before, and to tell the truth I was too sleepy to enjoy it much. And now good night. We are off for the lakes on Monday. X MUNICH, _May 11_. _Cecilia dear_:-- We have seen the lakes and are back in the _pension_ once more. Although I intended to send you a line from there we have been so constantly on the go that letter-writing has been an impossibility. Of course we "did" Milan thoroughly. On Easter morning we heard mass at the glorious cathedral. The music, rendered by two boy choirs with organ accompaniment, was very fine. After it was over we climbed up on the roof. As I stood there among the myriads of fairy-like spires, carved columns and slender pinnacles, I realized for the first time the meaning of that oft-quoted phrase, "architecture is frozen music." It was as though a whole orchestra were playing _con sordini_. We had a delightful trip to Pallanza, rowing across to Isola Bella, where Napoleon slept before the battle of Marengo, and on to Menaggio and mountain-girt Lugano; but of all the places I saw Bellagio remains in my memory as the most charming. I think _der liebe Gott_ must have said to Himself, "Here I will make the loveliest spot in the world." I cannot begin to describe it to you, but will try to tell you about it when I return. At our first dinner after we came back we were surprised to find Frau von Waldfel in her old place. We had expected she would remain much longer in Berlin. Fräulein's chair was, however, empty, and I learned that she was ill. "She is overtired," explained her aunt; "but if she does not improve by to-morrow I shall call a physician." During the entire meal she spoke much more gently than is her wont, and did not engage in a single discussion about her food. I really think she is anxious concerning Fräulein's health. The time seems frightfully short as I look ahead and realize that in two months it will all be over. I wish, indeed, that the days were longer. I am working very hard just now; there is so much to accomplish by the end of June! After all, life is a grand opportunity to develop the possibilities in a person, and although the greater part of us who want to do something worth while will never attain our goal, I believe we are all the broader and better for the struggle. Heigho! The little brown bird on the tree outside squints up his eyes and says in very translatable German bird-talk, "Cease philosophizing, American stranger, and set to work on the thing which lies nearest." Therefore, good-by for the present, and a fresh attack on my fugue! _Tuesday evening._ The doctor came to see Fräulein Hartmann last week and has been here daily since. This morning he pronounced her illness pneumonia. Every one in the house from Georg and Gretchen to the Poet himself feels very anxious about her. A quiet, black-gowned sister of charity has been installed as nurse, and the farther end of the floor below transformed into a miniature hospital. Lieutenant Blum daily inquires after the patient. If he does not come himself he sends his orderly. Yesterday as I chanced to look out of the window I noticed a young man seated on a bench under the trees looking intently up at the house. His glance seemed to be directed towards Fräulein Hartmann's window. A half-hour later I saw him walk slowly, thoughtfully away. It was the same man who was in the arbor at the carnival ball--and must be Heinrich. You may be sure that I shall keep you informed about the Fräulein, for she is very much in my thoughts at present. The one break in my regular routine of study this week has been a visit to the clubhouse, or _Corpshaus_, as they say here, of the Suevia. _Mütterchen_ and I were the guests of Herr Martens, who belongs to this student club. To my mind the most interesting thing about the house is that it was originally built by Ludwig II. for Richard Wagner. We entered by a side door which led into a hall. On the right was a counter and above it, around it and beneath it, hung hundreds of beer steins decorated with the arms of the corps. On the left was a high rack full of pipes, beneath which were rows of short jackets trimmed with black, blue and white, the club colors. On a shelf was a pile of round black caps with bands of blue and white. We passed through the low door into the hall or _Kneipe_. It is a handsome room decorated with flags, shields and foils. The furniture is dark and very richly carved. At the farther end the ceiling is dome-shaped and frescoed with the arms of the corps. Here the students meet evenings. The other rooms of the house are far less elaborate, and almost all contain pictures of students duelling, for in order to enter this exclusive club one must first of all be a good fighter. The bowling-alley was a failure as a bowling-alley, but as a picture gallery it was a great success. Around the room ran a double row of students' photographs, about five inches in height. There were all sorts of students and they never failed to have the scarred side of their faces towards the camera. Each wore the cap of their corps. "Now I must take you into the main house. This is only the ell, you know," said our guide. "And--and do you fight there?" asked _Mütterchen_ hesitatingly. I think she had visions of walking in on a crowd of masked creatures fiercely plunging at one another with swords. Herr Martens laughed in hearty German fashion. "There is a small room up six flights in a house not far away," he said. "We hire it especially for fighting. You know that duelling of any sort is strictly prohibited by the police. But if one isn't a good fighter he cannot join the corps, so of course we have to have a place where we can fight secretly." I glanced at his deeply scarred cheek and remarked that I had seen several students on the Parada Sunday wearing tightly fitting black skull-caps. "That is because they have head injuries," he explained. Then he added proudly, "I have forty-two scars." _Mütterchen_ gasped. I endeavored to look properly impressed. "But what _do_ you find to fight about in these peaceful times?" I asked, after what I considered to be a reverential pause. "Oh, anything serves as a pretext," he answered, quite frankly. "The students are always quarrelling over something or other. It's rather good fun to settle it by swords." "And at home they call football brutal," murmured _Mütterchen_ in my ear. Making our way through reading-rooms, lounging-rooms and card-rooms, we came out on a delightful roof-garden. "We sit out dances here when we have a ball," said Herr Martens. _Mütterchen_ and I both waxed enthusiastic, not only over the garden, but over the whole house, which compares very favorably with our handsomest college clubhouses in America. The only incongruous feature was the air-tight stove in every room. This fact brings forcibly to mind that in spite of everything else Germany is years and years behind us in comforts and conveniences. I have been so busy lately that I have studied evenings too, so have heard but one opera since my return. That was "Louise," by the French composer Charpentier. It is distinctly modern and extremely interesting. Some of the scenes belong to the real _opéra comique_. There is one laid in a dressmaker's establishment. The curtain rises on a room full of girls sewing and gossiping. Suddenly a band is heard and the tramp of feet. You would have laughed to see the girls jump up on the tables and crane their necks to get a view of the soldiers out of the window! The finale is very effective and the whole thing has the merit of being essentially realistic. There is no coloratura soprano carolling gayly in the neighborhood of high C about her broken heart. There is no basso profundo singing a drinking song, and at the end descending diatonically till he lands on low D, solemnly assuring us there is nothing like [Illustration: Wi-i-ine, di-vine. (music)] nor any of the other traditional absurdities which we accept as a matter of course. On the other hand, it seems to me that realism carried to the _n_th degree is quite as ridiculous. In the fourth scene of the first act, Louise (charmingly sung by Morena) with her father and mother sit around a table in the centre of the stage for fully five minutes without uttering a syllable. What do you think they are doing? _Eating soup!_ Meanwhile the orchestra is playing beautiful music, elaborating a theme which I called _motif du potage_. To what are we coming next? Our table is not so deserted as you might imagine, in spite of the absence of Frau von Waldfel and her niece, for Fräulein Werner, the novelist, has come to stay some weeks at the _pension_. She is an odd-looking woman with shrewd brown eyes, red cheeks and very black hair. She talks a great deal and is decidedly interesting. You know that almost all her novels have been translated into English and are much read in America. She is, therefore, greatly interested in our country and asks many questions about it, although she declares that her fear of the sea will prevent her from ever setting foot on our shores. Between you and me, I have generally found that people who "do things" are horrible bores socially. Nevertheless they have a certain charm, and that reminds me to tell you that I am to meet the opera singer Morena on Friday. Madame A---- is to give an informal tea for her and has asked me to come. You can fancy how delighted I am, for I can never forget her well-nigh perfect rendering of Leonora in _Fidelio_ and her Elizabeth in _Tannhäuser_. _Sunday._ Such an enjoyable time as we had at Madame A----'s tea on Friday. We were entertained in the cosiest of roof-gardens, high up above the noise of the city. Morena did not arrive till late, but Bürger, one of the leading tenors at the opera house, was there with his pretty young bride. He it was who sang Siegmund in _Die Walküre_. At half-past five came the sound of laughter on the stairs, the sharp barking of a dog, and--enter Morena, dressed in a white gown with a big black picture hat. "What a glorious creature!" I said to myself. I have told you that she is very tall and handsome, with beautiful dark eyes. Her manner is utterly unaffected and charming. In five minutes she was laughing and chattering with us all, and consuming numerous chocolate cakes with all the enthusiasm of a child. Later it was my good fortune to have a talk with her all by myself in the course of which she asked many questions about America. She intends crossing within a short time, for it seems that Conried has heard her sing and wants to introduce her to New York audiences. After she had gone--she stayed only half an hour--we all went into the music-room and heard a young American singer who has taken the stage name of de Zara[3] sing several selections from the rôles of Carmen and Santuzza. It was a great treat to hear her, for she has a voice of unusual promise. I wish you could have been with us! As a souvenir you shall see Morena's photograph which I shall bring back, with her autograph across the corner. [3] She died in Munich the following year. These are such busy days! We are finishing up the work at the school and rehearsing Berlioz's "Childhood of Christ" for the closing concert. This afternoon at my piano hour the little Boer girl didn't come, so I had double my usual time for reading at sight. Fräulein Fischer and I played the Saint-Saëns variations on a theme of Beethoven's for two pianos. Do you know it? I think it great, especially the big fugue at the end. We have made two out-of-town trips lately, one to Starnberger-See and the other to the Isar-Thal. But it is time for me to go to my lesson now, so I shall have to save telling you about them till another time. Believe me, dearest of friends, As ever and always,-- M. Fräulein Hartmann is about the same, and the doctor assures us that there is no immediate danger. XI _June 28._ Confusion reigned on the floor below between the hours of four and five to-day--a somewhat muffled confusion, to be sure, for the proximity of the sick-room forbade any violent outburst, but none the less confusion of a most exciting character. As I came in from my composition lesson I found maids running this way and that, their arms full of clothing and packages. Georg and an unknown _Dienstmann_ were carrying a trunk downstairs; Frau von Waldfel was kneeling before a hamper, giving orders through the open door of her room, while the Poet's Wife, a hat-box in one hand and a parrot cage in the other, was endeavoring to preserve order in the midst of chaos. She came out to speak to me as I halted on the landing. "Frau von Waldfel has just received a telegram demanding her immediate presence in Budapest," she explained. "Some serious business complications have arisen, and she is hurrying to catch the six o'clock train to-night. Fräulein knows nothing of this and we do not dare excite her. Frau von Waldfel is greatly distressed at the thought of leaving her, and so I have offered to take charge of the sick-room during her absence." "That is so like you," I said, impulsively. "I'll just leave my music books upstairs and come directly back, for perhaps I can be of some help." When I returned Frau von Waldfel was standing in the hall, dressed for the journey. She looked anxious and preoccupied as she shook hands in a perfunctory manner and counted her bag, her bundle, her umbrellas and her parrot cage three times before allowing the servants to carry them down to the droschky waiting below. Then occurred something which makes me regard her in a far more kindly light than I have been wont to do. She took the hands of the Poet's Wife in both her own. "What should I have done without you!" she said. I never dreamed that her voice could be so gentle. "Take care of the child and let me know daily how she is. Years ago I lost a little one of my own--the only child I ever had--and I couldn't bear to lose Minna too. Here, Georg," with a sudden change to her old peremptory manner, "take this bag down." She turned to descend the stairs but there were tears, actually tears in her eyes, which softened their beady hardness and made them almost beautiful. "Poor woman!" said the Poet's Wife softly, as we heard the rattle of departing wheels. Then she hurried off to prepare the Fräulein's gruel, and I came up to write you. Really I do not know whom to pity most, Frau von Waldfel, the dear Fräulein, or Heinrich, who is eating his heart out from day to day. Now to tell you of some of the things I have been doing lately. First, I heard _Die Meistersinger_ for the second time. If one were to see a hundred productions of this wonderful work I am sure he would discover new beauties on the hundred and first hearing! Is there anything more lovely than the quintette? Is there anything more marvellously worked out than that street scene? Once I was so impressed by the complexity of the score that I actually forgot to listen and simply sat and wondered at the genius of Wagner. Feinhals was the Hans Sach, Fräulein Koboth, Eva, and Geis, Beckmesser. The opera began at six and was not over till after eleven, with pauses of fifteen minutes each between the acts. You would have laughed to see the bored expressions of two Americans who sat next us. They declared to each other, thinking doubtless that there was no one to understand them, that they never were so glad in their lives the final curtain fell. Why on earth didn't they rise and go out? Not two minutes later I saw them again in the _Garderobe_, and overheard the gentleman say to another American whom he had met, "_Delightful_, was it not?" while his wife joined in with, "Isn't Wagner simply delicious?" O departed gods of Olympus, is there anything more disheartening than this Fashionable Insincerity? If my remarks about Fashionable Insincerity and Modern Indifference (for they are formidable enough to be capitalized) would seem to show a disbelief in the existence of that simple faith which the poet assures us is better than a long line of ancestors, believe me, appearances are misleading, for even if I had had a tendency in that direction the Corpus Christi celebrations would have banished it on the spot. These will always remain to me beautiful and sacred, and as an indisputable proof that Simplicity and Sincerity do not belong solely to a distant past. On Corpus Christi morning we were called at six o'clock in order not to miss the great procession which for hundreds of years has annually on this day wended its way through the streets of the city. As we walked towards Max-Joseph-Platz we found everywhere the most charming decorations. Instead of conventional banners and bunting, rows of fresh green birch trees about six feet high were fastened against the houses as if growing up from the sidewalk. From the window ledges hung square pieces of cloth of red and blue. On turning into Theatiner-strasse what was our surprise to find a great altar erected in the very centre of the street. It was high and triangular in form, outlined by these same delicate birch trees. Yellow draperies of satin concealed the wooden framework itself. In the centre was a great crucifix, and the sight of this sacred symbol in the midst of a busy thoroughfare was startlingly impressive. Through the middle of the street, where the procession was to pass, grass had been strewn. But just as we reached the café the rain began to fall in torrents. This was the end of it for that day. The altar was hastily demolished, carts were driven up to carry away the draperies, and people with disappointed faces came crowding under cover. We learned that the procession must be postponed till Sunday, although the Prince Regent and the golden carriages--such an important feature of the occasion--would not appear. Somewhat crestfallen, we returned to the _pension_. But by Sunday our interest had again awakened. This time it was not till eight o'clock that we stationed ourselves on a balcony overlooking the street, from which point we had an excellent view of the procession below. First came a number of priests in splendid robes, bearing a holy banner. Then followed a double row of little girls on each side of the street. Some of them could not have been over three years old. They were all dressed in white, with white wreaths on their heads, and carried bouquets of vari-colored blossoms. Between the two double rows were four little tots bearing the image of the Virgin. You have no idea what a lovely picture they made. Then came a brass band with a choir of bareheaded boys and students singing hymns. Behind were more priests with banners; a body of young girls in white, carrying unlighted tapers and chanting prayers in unison; sisters of charity, schoolgirls, then another band and a choir of older men, singing. Just below the house was one of these altars which I have described, built on the sidewalk against the side of a building. When the procession stopped for a few minutes a service was held here, several priests stepping out from their places in line to officiate. Those who were near turned towards the altar and followed the rites, while the others kept on with their praying and singing with intense devoutness and earnestness. I wish I might describe to you how solemn and impressive it was--the voices of the chanting priests; the murmur of prayers rising from hundreds of lips; the distant music of those grand old chorals; the incense, floating up in thin clouds from the swinging censers below; above all the absolute simplicity and devotion of the people. My eyes filled with tears. Skepticism, doubt, hypocrisy, seemed to be merely delusions of another world. Unconsciously the lines of the Persian poet came to my mind, and I murmured softly to myself, "He that tossed you down into the Field, He knows about it all--_He_ knows--HE knows!" The school year at the Conservatory closes with examinations for which I am now preparing. Then as my last task Thuille desires that I write an overture. (A _finale_ would seem more appropriate, wouldn't it?) My second theme came in a moment, but I wrote fully a dozen first themes before I found one which would answer my purpose. Now I am doing the most interesting part of all--the scoring for orchestra. Of course this is only for practice and I never expect to hear it played, but as Mr. Chadwick used to say, "The only way to learn how to compose is to compose," so good-by, while I go on with the development section. XII _July 10._ Good news at last about Fräulein Hartmann! The crisis is past and she is much better. We all feel so relieved, especially the Poet's Wife, who is beginning to show the strain of the past weeks. Frau von Waldfel writes that her affairs are in a far worse condition than she anticipated. In fact she appears to be greatly disturbed, which accounts for her having written but twice since she went away. Lieutenant Blum called yesterday. He has been here but once since Frau von Waldfel's departure. Doesn't that strike you as rather extraordinary? I was in the room when he came, and I could but notice how closely he questioned the Poet's Wife about Frau von Waldfel's last letter. Indeed he seemed much more interested in her business troubles than in the condition of his _fiancée_. Is it possible that it is only her money that he is after? To tell the truth the thought has occurred to me before, but I never deemed it worthy of consideration till now. Every day the Fräulein receives beautiful blue flowers such as one finds in the Isar-Thal if one looks carefully enough. The servants think they are the gift of her betrothed, so do not gossip over his nonappearance, but the Poet's Wife and I know better. We have not seen Heinrich daily pacing to and fro in the park opposite without learning many things. Do you know, when I see him looking up with yearning eyes at Fräulein's window, I always think of the poet in Bernard Shaw's "Candida." The expression of Heinrich's face says as plainly as words, "We hold our tongues. Does that stop the cry of the heart?--for it does cry: doesn't it? It must, if you have a heart." * * * * * Yesterday and to-day examinations were held at the Conservatory. At eight o'clock all the professors appeared in the dignity of frock coats and black ties. They shut themselves up in a large room on the top floor, and one by one the pupils were called in to be examined before them. The only examination which was really trying was that in the history of music. Had it been a written one I should have approached it with only the usual nervousness, but an oral test is quite a different thing when one is a foreigner. All the pupils filed in together and sat in a single row on the platform. Before us was the formidable mass of professors with folded arms. Just in front of them was Stavenhagen behind a table and two other men who wrote down what we said. Before the director was a box full of paper slips on which were written the questions. When a pupil's name was called, he went to the box, drew three questions, and declaimed his answers to the joint audience of pupils and teachers. As I have told you, whenever I am nervous my German becomes affected in a peculiar fashion. I find myself forgetting words with remarkable rapidity and I insist on employing the English order of expression, which, to a Münchener, is nothing less than a mild form of madness. However, I managed to get through by not allowing the amused faces of the onlookers to trouble me, and although I discovered afterwards that I had called "The Damnation of Faust" an oratorio and had mixed my genders in the most ludicrous fashion, I was successfully "passed." Now only the concert remains before the school closes for the summer. Then we are to take our final trip before sailing for home. Our itinerary has been specially planned to include places of musical interest and we are to go to Mozart's birthplace, Salzburg; Leipsic, crowded with memories of Bach and Wagner; Vienna where Beethoven, Schubert, and Brahms lie buried; Berlin, Dresden, and Bremen. We may run down to Budapest, since we are so near, and thus have an opportunity to hear a _bona fide_ Hungarian orchestra. Isn't that fine, and doesn't it make you long to be with us? Now no more for the present, my dear, as I want my last lesson for Thuille to be a good one, and my orchestration work is unfinished. _July 17._ The blow has fallen! To-day the Fräulein received a letter from Frau von Waldfel, saying that she has lost everything, even her personal property, through an unwise investment. The poor woman is in great distress of mind with lawyers, creditors, and what not, but these lines at the end of her letter impressed me more strongly than all the rest: "I have just heard from Lieutenant Blum. He writes that he releases you from your betrothal, 'realizing that in this present trouble Fräulein Hartmann can have no heart for festivities.' The sly fellow has had private information of my affairs here, and doubtless learned that if I scrape together all I have there will be just enough for your dowry and no more. Evidently he had hopes of living on my income after you both were married. It seems as though my present ill-fortune were enough without enduring this fresh disappointment." My cheeks burned with indignation as I read. "The English employ a word which just suits this officer of the German army, and that is _cad_!" said I, decisively. Fräulein Hartmann looked at the blue flowers in her lap and smiled gently. There was a light in her eyes--a light indefinably beautiful--that I had never seen there before. "Poor Auntie deserves all the sympathy you can give her," she said, "but as for myself--well, I haven't been as happy for months. I feel as though a great weight had been lifted from my heart. After all, _kleine Amerikanerin_," she continued naïvely, "don't you think that people are happier without a lot of money to look after? Although six months ago the thought of all the delightful things money could buy----" "Including a lieutenant?" I interrupted, involuntarily. "Yes, including a lieutenant," she smilingly went on, "dazzled me, and made me a bit contemptuous of my Mannheim surroundings, now I really believe that our little home there is the loveliest, dearest spot in the whole world." "With Heinrich next door," I added. "Perhaps nearer than next door," said the Poet's Wife, caressing the girl's blushing cheek, "at least if we are to believe what he told us this morning." "Dear," said the Fräulein, taking my hand in hers and speaking in those sweet, earnest tones which made her so winning, "did you think me very wicked and deceitful that night at the carnival ball? It has troubled me so much--the thought that you must despise me----" "I won't allow you to say that," I interposed hastily. "Yes, it always is a despicable thing to do--to deceive," she continued; "but I did so want to talk to Heinrich, and explain to him how things were. He wrote me a pitiful letter, begging to see me just once, and I was so unhappy that I finally devised that meeting. Now that we have been through all this I feel sure that my parents will have no objections to our marrying. They have always been fond of Heinrich. It was only the thought of my brilliant match that made them ignore, as it were, his very existence." "Just as soon as she is well enough to travel I am going to take her home," said the Poet's Wife to me. "Heinrich is waiting here in Munich to go down with us. He is doing very well, by the bye, in his law work." "Yes, indeed," said Fräulein eagerly, "and sometimes next year when--when we are settled--you will come down and visit us--promise you will, _meine Amerikanerin_!" I promised, and lingered a few moments longer to learn more of her plans. Then the Poet's Wife insisted that she had had excitement enough for one day, and we both left her leaning back in her chair and, with an expression of unutterable happiness, gazing dreamily out over the swaying tree-tops of the Platz. At three o'clock I was at Ainmüller-strasse for my last lesson with Herr Professor. Did I tell you that some weeks ago I made a translation into English of the _Rosenlied_ (Rose-song) by Anna Ritter? Thuille has written a three-part song for women's voices to these charming words and asked me if I would put them into English for him. To-day he gave me the first published copy and wrote across the bottom the following inscription: "_Meiner lieben Schülerin; zur freundlichen Erinnerung._ L. Thuille." (To my dear pupil in friendly remembrance. L. Thuille.) I had brought as my lesson the overture for orchestra on which I have been spending considerable time lately, and a little song which occurred to me the other day at Tutzing. Nothing pleases Thuille so much as a completed piece of work, so I had worked very hard to finish the overture in time; in fact, even sitting up late at night, which is against all rules. He was pleased with the result and declared the song to be the best thing of its kind that I have done this year, which made me very happy. I did not mind that my eyes were tired. "Take a good rest, Fräulein," he said. "You must surely come back to us all next year. And here is a souvenir, so that you will not forget your old teacher when you are in far-away America." The souvenir proved to be a photograph of himself, taken from the large oil painting which hangs in the salon. Beneath it he had written his name with some bars of music from _Gugeline_. I thanked him repeatedly as we shook hands. Then I went down stairs with a vague regret in my heart as I realized that the year's work was over. On Tuesday evening occurred the closing concert at the Conservatory. The stage was decorated with plants, and a marble bust of the Prince Regent occupied the place of honor. We sang the "Childhood of Christ," by Berlioz, which, as I wrote you, we have lately been rehearsing. At the close of the concert came the award of medals for special excellency in the work of the school. Do you not feel proud when I tell you that out of the ten medals presented two were captured by American girls? Miss Bartholomay from Buffalo, a pupil of Stavenhagen, received one. Among the German girls I was especially glad that Fräulein Marianne Brünner, of Vienna, was awarded a prize, for I like her playing better than that of any one else in the school. She is also a pupil of Stavenhagen, and has unusual temperament and a splendid touch. _Mütterchen_ was very proud when it was all over, and she found me in the dressing-room exchanging congratulations with a number of pupils. It was hard to say good-by to them all, for the association which study of any kind brings forms a certain bond not easy to break. The little Boer girl, who is to stay another year, is terribly homesick for South Africa, and wept heartrendingly as we parted. The German girls all wished me a "_Gute Reise_" (pleasant journey), and bade me not forget München when I was again on American soil; my Irish friend, who sits next me in the chorus, promised to write and keep me informed of all the doings in the school; Fräulein Fischer and Frau Bianci insisted that I come another year and study with them, and Stavenhagen shook hands heartily and wished me success. And now all that remains is to pack our trunks and shake the dust of Munich from our feet. I hate to leave the quaint old city and these warm-hearted German people, for I have grown very fond of both during my stay. Then there is the Obelisk and the Fountain, not to mention the other friends we must leave behind us. Edith and Louise have already gone to Paris, and Polly is somewhere in the Hartz mountains taking a holiday before starting for Vienna, where she is to study with Lescheticsky. In a few days we shall be scattered like leaves before the wind, some this way and some that. The year has been very rich in experience and pleasure, but, believe me, I shall not be sorry when we spread our sails for the harbor of New York and say to these friendly shores, "_Auf wiedersehen_." [Illustration] _A Story of Colorado Life_ Justin Wingate, Ranchman By JOHN H. WHITSON Author of "Barbara, a Woman of the West," "The Rainbow Chasers," etc. _Illustrated. 12mo._ $1.50 Another strong Western story with spirited and graphic picturing of local conditions, the agricultural development of a Western ranch section, and the struggle between the ranchmen and the farmers. The story has three remarkably striking scenes of danger--a high-grass fire, a stampede of excited cattle, and a terrific storm and cloud-burst. There is abundant love interest; also a strong political element, dealing with Colorado politics and the fight between cattlemen and irrigationists to control the legislature, in which the hero becomes the storm centre. The attempt of a beautiful, crafty, and unscrupulous woman, who is a wrecker of hearts and of men, to influence his vote for United States senator plays an important part. _A Tale of the Arizona Desert_ CURLY By ROGER POCOCK Author of "Following the Frontier," etc. _Illustrated by Stanley L. Wood. 12mo._ $1.50 A remarkable story of cattle ranges of Arizona, the great desert, and the grand cañon of the Colorado river. The author has written a romance of adventure, of conflict, and of love,--a story of breathless interest, remarkable situation, and great humor and pathos. Chalkeye, the cowboy who tells the story, Captain McCalmont, the robber-chief, Lord Babshannon, the owner of a Colorado ranch, his son "Jim," and "Curly," who gives the name to the story, are characters of great strength, finely portrayed and well contrasted. LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., _Publishers_ BOSTON, MASS. _A Romance of South Africa_ ON THE FIRING LINE By ANNA CHAPIN RAY _and_ HAMILTON BROCK FULLER _With Frontispiece by H. W. Moore. 12mo._ $1.50 In this fine romance of love and war Miss Ray has a wider field than she has compassed before and strikes a deeper note of feeling. The events take place in South Africa during the Boer War, and in local details Mr. Fuller has given valuable aid. As in the author's other books, the characters awaken interest because they are so human. _By the Author of "A Rose of Normandy"_ A KNOT OF BLUE By WILLIAM R. A. WILSON _Illustrated by Ch. Grünwald. 12mo._ $1.50 In a new tale of absorbing interest the author of the successful "Rose of Normandy" has faithfully portrayed feminine tenderness and sweetness of character, and at the same time has shown that a work of fiction can have for its motif the gratification of personal revenge without offending the highest moral taste of the modern civilized world. "A Knot of Blue" abounds in intrigue, adventure, the joy of living and achieving, and it throbs with romantic tenderness. The scene is laid in Old Quebec. LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., _Publishers_ BOSTON, MASS. _A Spell-binding Creation_ Mysterious Mr. Sabin By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM Author of "Anna the Adventuress," etc. _Illustrated. 397 pages. 12mo._ $1.50 Deals with an intrigue of international moment--the fomenting of a war between Great Britain and Germany and the restoration of the Bourbon monarchy in France as a consequence. Intensely readable for the dramatic force with which the story is told, the absolute originality of the underlying creative thought, and the strength of all the men and women who fill the pages.--_Pittsburg Times._ Not for long has so good a story of the kind been published, and the book is the more commendable because the literary quality of its construction has not been slighted.--_Chicago Record-Herald._ _By the Author of "The Shadow of the Czar"_ THE WEIRD PICTURE By JOHN R. CARLING Author of "The Viking's Skull," "The Shadow of the Czar," etc. _With Pictures by Cyrus Cuneo. 12mo._ $1.50 When a man is summoned home to attend the marriage to another man of the woman he loves, and when the bridegroom is his own brother, the situation is certainly very striking. The wedding does not take place, for the bridegroom is murdered. The scene in which the victim appears to his brother, on the latter's arrival at Dover, is singularly impressive. All this is disclosed in the opening chapter, and paves the way for a story which becomes more and more intense and interesting as its remarkable plot is developed. LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., _Publishers_ BOSTON, MASS. _A Gallant Romance of Love and Daring_ MY LADY CLANCARTY By MARY IMLAY TAYLOR Author of "On the Red Staircase," etc. _Illustrated by Alice Barber Stephens. 12mo._ $1.50 In this gallant romance of love and daring, in which the action is swift, the characters are individual and interesting, and the atmosphere and setting are well adapted to the theme. Lady Elizabeth Spencer, daughter of Lord Sunderland, and through his sordid and ambitious motives married at the age of eleven to Lord Clancarty, makes the most charming of heroines, and her nobility of character and faithful love are finely and tenderly portrayed. _A Story of Adventure, Intrigue, and Love_ A PRINCE OF LOVERS By SIR WILLIAM MAGNAY Author of "The Red Chancellor," etc. _Illustrated by Cyrus Cuneo. 12mo._ $1.50 In this new novel by Sir William Magnay, the heroine, "Princess Ruperta," a princess of the blood royal, sick of the monotony and unreality of Court, goes out one night, incognito, with her maid. Danger unexpectedly threatens her, and when she is gallantly rescued from this danger by a young and handsome stranger, it is not unnatural that (betrothed compulsorily as she is for State reasons to a royal person whom she has never seen) love is born in the heart of the Princess as well as in that of her unknown rescuer. Then follows a series of adventures brilliantly imagined and enthrallingly told. LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., _Publishers_ BOSTON, MASS. [Transcriber's Notes All words printed in small capitals have been converted to uppercase characters. Half title has been removed. Spelling has been retained as printed.] 
12990	----	Proofreading Team. This file was produced from images generously made available by the Bibliothèque nationale de France (BnF/Gallica) at http://gallica.bnf.fr COLLECTION OF ANCIENT AND MODERN BRITISH AUTHORS VOL. CXLIV. A RESIDENCE IN FRANCE; WITH AN EXCURSION UP THE RHINE, AND A SECOND VISIT TO SWITZERLAND. BY J. FENIMORE COOPER ESQ. AUTHOR OF "THE PILOT," "THE SPY," &c. PARIS, BAUDRY'S EUROPEAN LIBRARY, RUE DU COQ. NEAR THE LOUVRE; SOLD ALSO BY AMYOT, RUE DE LA PAIX; TRUCHY, BOULEVARD DES ITALIENS; THEOPHILE BARROIS, JUN., RUE RICHELIEU; LIBRAIRIE DES ETRANGERS, RUE NEUVE-SAINT-AUGUSTIN; AND HEIDELOFF AND CAMPE, RUE VIVIENNE. 1836. PREFACE. The introduction to Part I. of the "Sketches of Switzerland," leaves very little for the author to say in addition. The reader will be prepared to meet with a long digression, that touches on the situation and interests of another country, and it is probable he will understand the author's motive for thus embracing matter that is not strictly connected with the principal subject of the work. The first visit of the writer to Switzerland was paid in 1828; that which is related in these two volumes, in 1832. While four years had made no changes in the sublime nature of the region, they had seriously affected the political condition of all Europe. They had also produced a variance of feeling and taste in the author, that is the unavoidable consequences of time and experience. Four years in Europe are an age to the American, as are four years in America to the European. Jefferson has somewhere said, that no American ought to be more than five years, at a time, out of his own country, lest he get _behind_ it. This may be true, as to its _facts_; but the author is convinced that there is more danger of his getting _before_ it, as to _opinion_. It is not improbable that this book may furnish evidence of both these truths. Some one, in criticising the First Part of Switzerland, has intimated that the writer has a purpose to serve with the "Trades' Unions," by the purport of some of his remarks. As this is a country in which the avowal of a tolerably sordid and base motive seems to be indispensable, even to safety, the writer desires to express his sense of the critic's liberality, as it may save him from a much graver imputation. There is really a painful humiliation in the reflection, that a citizen of mature years, with as good natural and accidental means for preferment as have fallen to the share of most others, may pass his life without a _fact_ of any sort to impeach his disinterestedness, and yet not be able to express a generous or just sentiment in behalf of his fellow-creatures, without laying himself open to suspicions that are as degrading to those who entertain them, as they are injurious to all independence of thought, and manliness of character. CONTENTS. LETTER I. Influence of the late Revolution in France.--General Lafayette.--Sketch of his Private Life.--My visits to him.--His opinion of Louis XVI.--Mr. Morris and Mr. Crawford.--Duplicity of Louis XVIII.--Charles X.--Marie Antoinette.--Legitimacy of the Duc de Bordeaux.--Discovery of the Plot of 1822.--Lafayette's conduct on that occasion.--A negro Spy.--General Knyphausen.--Louis-Philippe and Lafayette.--My visit to Court.--The King, the Queen, Madame Adelaide, and the Princesses.--Marshal Jourdan.--The Duke of Orleans.--Interview with the King.--"_Adieu l'Amérique!_"--Conversation with Lafayette.--The _Juste Milieu._--Monarchy not inconsistent with Republican Institutions.--Party in favour of the Duc de Bordeaux. LETTER II. The Cholera in Paris.--Its frightful ravages.--Desertion of the city--My determination to remain.--Deaths in the higher classes.--Unexpected arrival and retreat.--Praiseworthy conduct of the Authorities.--The Cholera caricatured!--Invitation from an English General.--Atmospherical appearance denoting the arrival of the Cholera.--Lord Robert Fitzgerald.--Dinner at the house of Madame de B---- LETTER III. Insecurity of the Government--Louis-Philippe and the Pear.--Caricatures.--Ugliness of the Public Men of France.--The Duke de Valmy.--Care-worn aspect of Society under the New Regime.--Controversy in France respecting the Cost of Government in America.--Conduct of American Agents in Europe LETTER IV. Gradual disappearance of the Cholera.--Death of M. Casimir Perier.--His Funeral.--Funeral of General Lamarque.--Magnificent Military Escort.--The Duc de Fitzjames.--An Alarm.--First symptoms of popular Revolt.--Scene on the Pont Royal.--Charge on the people by a body of cavalry.--The _Sommations_.--General Lafayette and the _Bonnet Rouge_.--Popular Prejudices in France, England, and America.--Contest in the Quartier Montmartre.--The Place Louis XVI.--A frightened Sentinel.--Picturesque Bivouac of troops in the Carrousel.--Critical situation.--Night-view from the Pont des Arts.--Appearance of the Streets on the following morning.--England an enemy to Liberty.--Affair at the Porte St. Denis.--Procession of Louis-Philippe through the streets.--Contest in the Rue St. Méry.--Sudden Panic.--Terror of a national Guard and a young Conscript.--Dinner with a Courtier.--Suppression of the Revolt LETTER V. National Guards in the Court of the Palace.--Unclaimed Dead in the Morgue.--View of the Scene of Action.--A blundering Artillerist.--Singular Spectacle.--The Machinations of the Government.--Martial Law.--Violations of the Charter.--Laughable Scene in the Carrousel.--A refractory Private of the National Guard. LETTER VI. Aspect of Paris.--Visit to Lafayette.--His demeanour.--His account of the commencement of the Revolt.--Machinations of the Police.--Character of Lafayette.--His remarkable expression to General ----.--Conversation on the Revolution of July.--The _Doctrinaires_.--Popular Sympathy in England and on the Rhine.--Lafayette's dismissal from the command of the National Guards.--The Duke of Orleans and his Friends.--Military Tribunals in Paris.--The Citizen King in the Streets.--Obliteration of the _Fleur-de-lis._--The Royal Equipage.--The Duke of Brunswick in Paris.--His forcible Removal from France.--His Reception in Switzerland.--A ludicrous Mistake. LETTER VII. Public Dinner.--Inconsiderate Impulses of Americans.--Rambles in Paris.--The Churches of Paris.--View from the leads of Notre Dame.--The Place Royale.--The Bridges.--Progress of the Public Works.--The Palaces of the Louvre and the Tuileries.--Royal Enclosures in the Gardens of the Tuileries.--Public Edifices.--Private Hotels and Gardens.--My Apartments in the house of the Montmorencies.--Our other Residences.--Noble Abodes in Paris.--Comparative Expense of Living in Paris and New York.--American Shopkeepers, and those of Europe. LETTER VIII. Preparations for leaving Paris.--Travelling arrangements.--Our Route.--The Chateau of Ecouen.--The _Croisée_.--Senlis.--Peronne.--Cambray.--Arrival at the Frontier.--Change in the National Character.--Mons.--Brussels.--A Fête.--The Picture Gallery.--Probable Partition of Belgium. LETTER IX. Malines.--Its Collection of Pictures.--Antwerp.--The Cathedral.--A Flemish Quack.--Flemish Names.--The Picture Gallery at Antwerp.--Mr. Wapper's Carvings in Wood.--Mr. Van Lankeren's Pictures.--The Boulevards at Brussels.--Royal Abodes.--Palace of the Prince of Orange.--Prince Auguste d'Ahremberg's Gallery of Pictures.--English Ridicule of America. LETTER X. School System in America.--American Maps.--Leave Brussels.--Louvain.--Quarantine.--Liége.--The Soleil d'Or.--King Leopold and Brother.--Royal Intermarriages.--Environs of Liége.--The Cathedral and the Church of St. Jacques.--Ceremonies of Catholic Worship.--Churches of Europe.--Taverns of America.--Prayer in the Fields.--Scott's error as regards the Language spoken in Liége.--Women of Liége.--Illumination in honour of the King LETTER XI. Leave Liége.--Banks of the Meuse.--Spa.--Beautiful Promenades.--Robinson Crusoe.--The Duke of Saxe-Cobourg.--Former magnificence of Spa.--Excursions in the vicinity.--Departure from Spa.--Aix-la-Chapelle.--The Cathedral.--The Postmaster's Compliments.--Berghem.--German Enthusiasm.--Arrival at Cologne. LETTER XII. The Cathedral of Cologne.--The eleven thousand Virgins.--The Skulls of the Magi--House in which Rubens was born.--Want of Cleanliness in Cologne.--Journey resumed.--The Drachenfels.--Romantic Legend.--A Convent converted into an Inn.--Its Solitude.--A Night in it.--A Storm.--A Nocturnal Adventure.--Grim Figures.--An Apparition.--The Mystery dissolved.--Palace of the Kings of Austrasia.--Banks of the Rhine.--Coblentz.--Floating Bridges.--Departure from Coblentz.--Castle of the Ritterstein.--Visit to it.--Its Furniture.--The Ritter Saal.--Tower of the Castle.--Anachronisms. LETTER XIII. Ferry across the Rhine.--Village of Rudesheim.--The _Hinter-hausen_ Wine.--Drunkenness.--Neapolitan curiosity respecting America.--The Rhenish Wines enumerated.--Ingelheim.--Johannisberg.--Conventual Wine.--Unseasonable praise.--House and Grounds of Johannisberg.--State of Nassau.--Palace at Biberich.--The Gardens.--Wiesbaden.--Its public Promenade.--Frankfort on the Maine. LETTER XIV. Boulevards of Frankfort.--Political Disturbances in the town.--_Le petit Savoyard_.--Distant glimpse of Homberg.--Darmstadt.--The Bergestrasse.--Heidelberg.--Noisy Market-place.--The Ruins and Gardens.--An old Campaigner.--Valley of the Neckar.--Heilbronn.--Ludwigsberg.--Its Palace.--The late Queen of Wurtemberg.--The Birthplace of Schiller.--Comparative claims of Schiller and Goethe.--Stuttgart.--Its Royal Residences.--The Princess of Hechingen.--German Kingdoms.--The King and Queen of Wurtemberg.--Sir Walter Scott.--Tubingen.--Ruin of a Castle of the middle ages.--Hechingen.--Village of Bahlingen.--The Danube.--The Black Forest.--View from a mountain on the frontier of Baden.--Enter Switzerland. LETTER XV. A Swiss Inn.--Cataract of the Rhine.--Canton of Zurich.--Town of Zurich.--Singular Concurrence.--Formidable Ascent.--Exquisite View.--Einsiedeln.--The Convent.--"_Par exemple_."--Shores of the Lake of Zug.--The _Chemin Creux_.--Water Excursion to Alpnach.--Lake of Lungern.--Lovely Landscape.--Effects of Mists on the prospect.--Natural Barometer.--View from the Brunig.--Enter the great Canton of Berne.--An Englishman's Politics.--Our French Companion.--The Giesbach.--Mountain Music.--Lauterbrunnen.--Grindewald.--Rising of the Waters in 1830.--Anecdote.--Excursion on the Lake to Thoun. LETTER XVI. Conspiracy discovered.--The Austrian Government and the French Carlists.--Walk to La Lorraine.--Our old friend "Turc."--Conversation with M. W----.--View of the Upper Alps.--Jerome Bonaparte at La Lorraine.--The Bears of Berne.--Scene on the Plateforme. LETTER XVII. Our Voiturier and his Horses.--A Swiss Diligence.--Morat.--Inconstancy of feeling.--Our Route to Vévey.--Lake Leman.--Difficulty in hiring a House.--"Mon Repos" engaged for a month.--Vévey.--The great Square.--The Town-house.--Environs of Vévey.--Summer Church and Winter Church.--Clergy of the Canton.--Population of Vaud.--Elective qualifications of Vaud. LETTER XVIII. Neglect of the Vine in America.--Drunkenness in France.--Cholera especially fatal to Drunkards.--The Soldier's and the Sailor's Vice.--Sparkling Champagne and Still Champagne.--Excessive Price of these Wines in America.--Burgundy.--Proper soil for the Vine.--Anecdote.--Vines of Vévey.--The American Fox-grape. LETTER XIX. The Leman Lake.--Excursions on it.--The coast of Savoy.--Grandeur and beauty of the Rocks.--Sunset.--Evening Scene.--American Families residing on the banks of the Lake.--Conversation with a Vévaisan on the subject of America.--The Nullification Question.--America misrepresented in Europe--Rowland Stephenson in the United States.--Unworthy arts to bring America into disrepute.--Blunders of Europe in respect of America.--The Kentuckians.--Foreign Associations in the States.--Illiberal Opinions of many Americans.--Prejudices. LETTER XX. The Equinox.--Storm on the Lake.--Chase of a little Boat--Chateau of Blonay.--Drive to Lausanne.--Mont Benon.--Trip to Geneva in the Winkelried.--Improvements in Geneva.--Russian Travellers.--M. Pozzo di Borgo.--Table d'hôte.--Extravagant Affirmations of a Frenchman.--Conversation with a Scotchman.--American Duels.--Visit at a Swiss Country-house.--English Customs affected in America.--Social Intercourse in the United States.--Difference between a European and an American Foot and Hand.--Violent Gale.--Sheltered position of Vévey.--Promenade.--Picturesque View.--The great Square.--Invitation.--Mountain Excursion.--An American Lieutenant.--Anecdote.--Extensive Prospect.--Chateau of Glayrole. LETTER XXI. Embark in the Winkelried.--Discussion with an Englishman.--The Valais.--Free Trade.--The Drance.--Terrible Inundation.--Liddes.--Mountain Scenery.--A Mountain Basin.--Dead-houses.--Melancholy Spectacle.--Approach of Night.--Desolate Region.--Convent of the Great St. Bernard.--Our Reception there.--Unhealthiness of the Situation.--The Superior.--Conversation during Supper.--Coal-mine on the Mountain.--Night in the Convent. LETTER XXII. Sublime Desolation.--A Morning Walk.--The Col.--A Lake.--Site of a Roman Temple.--Enter Italy.--Dreary Monotony.--Return to the Convent.--Tasteless Character of the Building.--Its Origin and Purposes.--The Dead-house.--Dogs of St. Bernard.--The Chapel.--Desaix interred here.--Fare of St. Bernard, and Deportment of the Monks.--Leave the Convent.--Our Guide's Notion of the Americans.--Passage of Napoleon across the Great St. Bernard.--Similar Passages in former times.--Transport of Artillery up the Precipices.--Napoleon's perilous Accident.--Return to Vévey. LETTER XXIII. Democracy in America and in Switzerland.--European Prejudices.--Influence of Property.--Nationality of the Swiss.--Want of Local Attachments in Americans.--Swiss Republicanism.--Political Crusade against America.--Affinities between America and Russia.--Feeling of the European Powers towards Switzerland. LETTER XXIV. The Swiss Mountain Passes.--Excursion in the neighbourhood of Vévey.--Castle of Blonay.--View from the Terrace.--Memory and Hope.--Great Antiquity of Blonay.--The Knight's Hall.--Prospect from the Balcony.--Departure from Blonay.--A Modern Chateau.--Travelling on Horseback.--News from America.--Dissolution of the Union predicted.--The Prussian Polity.--Despotism in Prussia. LETTER XXV. Controversy respecting America.--Conduct of American Diplomatists.--_Attachés_ to American Legations.--Unworthy State of Public Opinion in America. LETTER XXVI. Approach of Winter.--The _Livret_.--Regulations respecting Servants.--Servants in America.--Governments of the different Cantons of Switzerland.--Engagement of Mercenaries.--Population of Switzerland.--Physical Peculiarities of the Swiss.--Women of Switzerland.--Mrs. Trollope and the American Ladies.--Affected manner of speaking in American Women.--Patois in America.--Peculiar manner of Speaking at Vévey.--Swiss Cupidity. LETTER XXVII. Departure from Vévey.--Passage down the Lake.--Arrival at Geneva.--Purchase of Jewellery.--Leave Geneva.--Ascent of the Jura.--Alpine Views.--Rudeness at the Custom-house.--Smuggling.--A Smuggler detected.--The second Custom-house.--Final View of Mont Blanc.--Re-enter France.--Our luck at the Post-house in Dôle.--A Scotch Traveller.--Nationality of the Scotch.--Road towards Troyes.--Source of the Seine. LETTER XXVIII. Miserable Inn.--A French Bed.--Free Trade.--French Relics.--Cross Roads.--Arrival at Lagrange.--Reception by General Lafayette.--The Nullification Strife.--Conversation with Lafayette.--His Opinion as to a Separation of the Union in America.--The Slave Question.--Stability of the Union.--Style of living at La Grange.--Pap.--French Manners, and the French Cuisine.--Departure from La Grange.--Return to Paris. RESIDENCE IN FRANCE. LETTER I. Influence of the late Revolution in France.--General Lafayette--Sketch of his Private Life.--My visits to him.--His opinion of Louis XVI.--Mr. Morris and Mr. Crawford.--Duplicity of Louis XVIII.--Charles X.--Marie Antoinette.--Legitimacy of the Duc de Bordeaux.--Discovery of the Plot of 1822.--Lafayette's conduct on that occasion.--A negro Spy.--General Knyphausen.--Louis-Philippe and Lafayette.--My visit to Court.--The King, the Queen, Madame Adelaide, and the Princesses.--Marshal Jourdan.--The Duke of Orleans.--Interview with the King.--"_Adieu l'Amérique!_"--Conversation with Lafayette.--The _Juste Milieu_.--Monarchy not inconsistent with Republican Institutions.--Party in favour of the Duc de Bordeaux. Paris, February, 1832. Dear ----, Your speculations concerning the influence of the late revolution, on the social habits of the French, are more ingenious than true. While the mass of this nation has obtained less than they had a right to expect by the severe political convulsions they have endured, during the last forty years, they have, notwithstanding, gained something in their rights; and, what is of far more importance, they have gained in a better appreciation of those rights, as well as in the knowledge of the means to turn them to a profitable and practical account. The end will show essential improvements in their condition, or rather the present time shows it already. The change in polite society has been less favourable, although even this is slowly gaining in morals, and in a healthier tone of thought. No error can be greater, than that of believing France has endured so much, without a beneficial return. In making up my opinions of the old regime, I have had constant recourse to General Lafayette for information. The conversations and anecdotes already sent you, will have prepared you for the fine tone, and perfect candour, with which he speaks even of his bitterest enemies; nor can I remember, in the many confidential and frank communications with which I have been favoured, a single instance where, there has been the smallest reason to suspect he has viewed men through the medium of personal antipathies and prejudices. The candour and simplicity of his opinions form beautiful features in his character; and the _bienséance_ of his mind (if one may use such an expression) throws a polish over his harshest strictures, that is singularly adapted to obtain credit for his judgment. Your desire to know more of the private life of this extraordinary man, is quite natural; but he has been so long before the public, that it is not easy to say anything new. I may, however, give you a trait or two, to amuse you. I have seen more of him this winter than the last, owing to the circumstance of a committee of Americans, that have been appointed to administer succour to the exiled Poles, meeting weekly at my house, and it is rare indeed that he is not present on these benevolent occasions. He has discontinued his own soirées, too; and, having fewer demands on his time, through official avocations, I gain admittance to him during his simple and quiet dinners, whenever it is asked. These dinners, indeed, are our usual hours of meeting, for the occupations of the General, in the Chamber, usually keep him engaged in the morning; nor am I commonly at leisure, myself, until about this hour of the day. In Paris, every one dines, nominally, at six; but the deputies being often detained a little later, whenever I wish to see him, I hurry from my own table, and generally reach the Rue d'Anjou in sufficient season to find him still at his. On quitting the Hôtel de l'Etat Major, after being dismissed so unceremoniously from the command of the National Guard, Lafayette returned to his own neat but simple lodgings in the Rue d'Anjou. The hotel, itself, is one of some pretensions, but his apartments, though quite sufficient for a single person, are not among the best it contains, lying on the street, which is rarely or never the case with the principal rooms. The passage to them communicates with the great staircase, and the door is one of those simple, retired entrances that, in Paris, so frequently open on the abodes of some of the most illustrious men of the age. Here have I seen princes, marshals, and dignitaries of all degrees, ringing for admission, no one appearing to think of aught but the great man within. These things are permitted here, where the mind gets accustomed to weigh in the balance all the different claims to distinction; but it would scarcely do in a country, in which the pursuit of money is the sole and engrossing concern of life; a show of expenditure becoming necessary to maintain it. The apartments of Lafayette consist of a large ante-chamber, two salons, and an inner room, where he usually sits and writes, and in which, of late, he has had his bed. These rooms are _en suite_, and communicate, laterally, with one or two more, and the offices. His sole attendants in town, are the German valet, named Bastien, who accompanied him in his last visit to America, the footman who attends him with the carriage, and the coachman (there may be a cook, but I never saw a female in the apartments). Neither wears a livery, although all his appointments, carriages, horses, and furniture, are those of a gentleman. One thing has struck me as a little singular. Notwithstanding his strong attachment to America and to her usages, Lafayette, while the practice is getting to be common in Paris, has not adopted the use of carpets. I do not remember to have seen one, at La Grange, or in town. When I show myself at the door, Bastien, who usually acts as porter, and who has become quite a diplomatist in these matters, makes a sign of assent, and intimates that the General is at dinner. Of late, he commonly dispenses with the ceremony of letting it be known who has come, but I am at once ushered into the bed-room. Here I find Lafayette seated at a table, just large enough to contain one cover and a single dish; or a table, in other words, so small as to be covered with a napkin. His little white lap-dog is his only companion. As it is always understood that I have dined, no ceremony is used, but I take a seat at the chimney corner, while he goes on with his dinner. His meals are quite frugal, though good; a _poulet rôti_ invariably making one dish. There are two or three removes, a dish at a time, and the dinner usually concludes with some preserves or dried fruits, especially dates, of which he is extremely fond. I generally come in for one or two of the latter. All this time, the conversation is on what has transpired in the Chambers during the day, the politics of Europe, nullification in America, or the gossip of the chateau, of which he is singularly well informed, though he has ceased to go there. The last of these informal interviews with General Lafayette, was one of peculiar interest. I generally sit but half an hour, leaving him to go to his evening engagements, which, by the way, are not frequent; but, on this occasion, he told me to remain, and I passed nearly two hours with him. We chatted a good deal of the state of society under the old regime. Curious to know his opinions of their private characters, I asked a good many questions concerning the royal family. Louis XVI. he described as a-well-meaning man, addicted a little too much to the pleasures of the table, but who would have done well enough had he not been surrounded by bad advisers. I was greatly surprised by one of his remarks. "Louis XVI," observed Lafayette, "owed his death as much to the bad advice of Gouverneur Morris, as to any one other thing." You may be certain I did not let this opinion go unquestioned; for, on all other occasions, in speaking of Mr. Morris, his language had been kind and even grateful. He explained himself, by adding, that Mr. Morris, coming from a country like America, was listened to with great respect, and that on all occasions he gave his opinions against democracy, advising resistance, when resistance was not only too late but dangerous. He did not call in question the motives of Mr. Morris, to which he did full justice, but merely affirmed that he was a bad adviser. He gave me to understand that the representatives of America had not always been faithful to the popular principle, and even went into details that it would be improper for me to repeat. I have mentioned this opinion of Mr. Morris, because his aristocratical sentiments were no secret, because they were mingled with no expressions of personal severity, and because I have heard them from other quarters. He pronounced a strong eulogium on the conduct of Mr. Crawford, which he said was uniformly such as became an American minister. There is nothing, however, novel in these instances, of our representatives proving untrue to the prominent feeling of the country, on the subject of popular rights. It is the subject of very frequent comment in Europe, and sometimes of complaint on the part of those who are struggling for what they conceive to be their just privileges; many of them having told me, personally, that our agents frequently stand materially in their way. Louis XVIII, Lafayette pronounced to be the _falsest_ man he had ever met with; to use his own expression, "_l'homme le plus faux_." He gave him credit for a great deal of talent, but added that his duplicity was innate, and not the result of his position, for it was known to his young associates, in early youth, and that they used to say among themselves, as young men, and in their ordinary gaieties, that it would be unsafe to confide in the Comte de Provence. Of Charles X he spoke kindly, giving him exactly a different character. He thought him the most honest of the three brothers, though quite unequal to the crisis in which he had been called to reign. He believed him sincere in his religious professions, and thought the charge of his being a professed Jesuit by no means improbable. Marie Antoinette he thought an injured woman. On the subject of her reputed gallantries he spoke cautiously, premising that, as an American, I ought to make many allowances for a state of society, that was altogether unknown in our country. Treating this matter with the discrimination of a man of the world, and the delicacy of a gentleman, he added that he entirely exonerated her from all of the coarse charges that had proceeded from vulgar clamour, while he admitted that she had betrayed a partiality for a young Swede[1] that was, at least, indiscreet for one in her situation, though he had no reason to believe her attachment had led her to the length of criminality. [Footnote 1: A Count Koningsmarke.] I asked his opinion concerning the legitimacy of the Duc de Bordeaux, but he treated the rumour to the contrary, as one of those miserable devices to which men resort to effect the ends of party, and as altogether unworthy of serious attention. I was amused with the simplicity with which he spoke of his own efforts to produce a change of government, during the last reign. On this subject he had been equally frank even before the recent revolution, though there would have been a manifest impropriety in my repeating what had then passed between us. This objection is now removed in part, and I may recount one of his anecdotes, though I can never impart to it the cool and quiet humour with which it was related. We were speaking of the attempt of 1822, or the plot which existed in the army. In reply to a question of mine, he said--"Well, I was to have commanded in that revolution, and when the time came, I got into my carriage, without a passport, and drove across the country to ----, where I obtained post-horses, and proceeded as fast as possible towards ----. At ----, a courier met me, with the unhappy intelligence that our plot was discovered, and that several of our principal agents were arrested. I was advised to push for the frontier, as fast as I could. But we turned round in the road, and I went to Paris, and took my seat in the Chamber of Deputies. They looked very queer, and a good deal surprised when they saw me, and I believe they were in great hopes that I had run away. The party of the ministers were loud in their accusations against the opposition for encouraging treason, and Perier and Constant, and the rest of them, made indignant appeals against such unjust accusations. I took a different course. I went into the tribune, and invited the ministers to come and give a history of my political life; of my changes and treasons, as they called them; and said that when they had got through, I would give the character and history of theirs. This settled the matter, for I heard no more from them." I inquired if he had not felt afraid of being arrested and tried. "Not much," was his answer. "They knew I denied the right of foreigners to impose a government on France, and they also knew they had not kept faith with France under the charter. I made no secret of my principles, and frequently put letters unsealed into the post office, in which I had used the plainest language about the government. On the whole, I believe they were more afraid of me than I was of them." It is impossible to give an idea, in writing, of the pleasant manner he has of relating these things--a manner that receives additional piquancy from his English, which, though good, is necessarily broken. He usually prefers the English in such conversations. "By the way," he suddenly asked me, "where was the idea of Harvey Birch, in the Spy, found?" I told him that the thought had been obtained from an anecdote of the revolution, related to me by Governor Jay, some years before the book was written. He laughingly remarked that he could have supplied the hero of a romance, in the person of a negro named Harry (I believe, though the name has escaped me), who acted as a spy, both for him and Lord Cornwallis, during the time he commanded against that officer in Virginia. This negro he represented as being true to the American cause, and as properly belonging to his service, though permitted occasionally to act for Lord Cornwallis, for the sake of gaining intelligence. After the surrender of the latter, he called on General Lafayette, to return a visit. Harry was in an anteroom cleaning his master's boots, as Lord Cornwallis entered. "Ha! Master Harry," exclaimed the latter, "you are here, are you?" "Oh, yes, masser Cornwallis--muss try to do little for de country," was the answer. This negro, he said, was singularly clever and bold, and of sterling patriotism! He made me laugh with a story, that he said the English officers had told him of General Knyphausen, who commanded the Hessian mercenaries, in 1776. This officer, a rigid martinet, knew nothing of the sea, and not much more of geography. On the voyage between England and America, he was in the ship of Lord Howe, where he passed several uncomfortable weeks, the fleet having an unusually long passage, on account of the bad sailing of some of the transports. At length Knyphausen could contain himself no longer, but marching stiffly up to the admiral one day, he commenced with--"My lord, I know it is the duty of a soldier to be submissive at sea, but, being entrusted with the care of the troops of His Serene Highness, my master, I feel it my duty just to inquire, if it be not possible, that during some of the dark nights, we have lately had, _we may have sailed past America_?" I asked him if he had been at the chateau lately. His reply was very brief and expressive. "The king denies my account of the programme of the Hôtel de Ville, and we stand in the position of two gentlemen, who, in substance, have given each other the lie. Circumstances prevent our going to the Bois de Boulogne to exchange shots," he added, smiling, "but they also prevent our exchanging visits." I then ventured to say that I had long foreseen what would be the result of the friendship of Louis-Philippe, and, for the first time, in the course of our conversations, I adverted to my own visit to the palace in his company, an account of which I will extract, for your benefit, from my note-book.[2] [Footnote 2: The period referred to was in 1830.] * * * * * In the morning I received a note from General Lafayette, in which he informed me that Mr. M'Lane, who is here on a visit from London, was desirous of being presented; that there was a reception in the evening, at which he intended to introduce the minister to England, Mr. Rives not having yet received his new credentials, and, of course, not appearing in matters of ceremony. General Lafayette pressed me so strongly to be of the party, in compliment to Mr. M'Lane, that, though but an indifferent courtier, and though such a visit was contrary to my quiet habits, I could do nothing but comply. At the proper hour, General Lafayette had the good nature to call and take me up, and we proceeded, at once, for Mr. M'Lane. With this gentleman we drove to the Palais Royal, my old brother officer, Mr. T----, who was included in the arrangement, following in his own carriage. We found the inner court crowded, and a throng about the entrance to the great staircase; but the appearance of Lafayette cleared the way, and there was a movement in the crowd which denoted his great personal popularity. I heard the words "_des Américains_" passing from one to another, showing how completely he was identified with us and our principles, in the public mind. One or two of the younger officers of the court were at the foot of the stairs to receive him, though whether their presence was accidental or designed, I cannot say; but I suspect the latter. At all events the General was received with the profoundest respect, and the most smiling assiduity. The ante-chamber was already crowded, but following our leader, his presence cleared the way for us, until he got up quite near to the doors, where some of the most distinguished men of France were collected. I saw many in the throng whom I knew, and the first minute or two were passed in nods of recognition. My attention was, however, soon attracted to a dialogue between Marshal Soult and Lafayette, that was carried on with the most perfect _bonhomie_ and simplicity. I did not hear the commencement, but found they were speaking of their legs, which both seemed to think the worse for wear. "But you have been wounded in the leg, monsieur?" observed Lafayette. "This limb was a little _mal traité_ at Genoa," returned the marshal, looking down at a leg that had a very game look: "but you, General, you too, were hurt in America?" "Oh! that was nothing; it happened more than fifty years ago, and _then it was in a good cause_--it was the fall and the fracture that made me limp." Just at this moment, the great doors flew open, and this _quasi_ republican court standing arrayed before us, the two old soldiers limped forward. The King stood near the door, dressed as a General of the National Guards, entirely without decorations, and pretty well tricoloured. The Queen, Madame Adelaide, the Princesses, and several of the children, were a little farther removed, the two former standing in front, and the latter being grouped behind them. But one or two ladies were present, nor did I see anything at the commencement of the evening of the Ducs d'Orléans and de Nemours. Lafayette was one of the first that entered, and of course we kept near him. The King advanced to meet him with an expression of pleasure--I thought it studied--but they shook hands quite cordially. We were then presented by name, and each of us had the honour of shaking hands, if that can be considered an honour, which fell to the share of quite half of those who entered. The press was so great that there was no opportunity to say anything. I believe we all met with the usual expressions of welcome, and there the matter ended. Soon after we approached the Queen, with whom our reception had a more measured manner. Most of those who entered did little more than make a distant bow to this group, but the Queen manifesting a desire to say something to our party, Mr. M'Lane and myself approached them. She first addressed my companion in French, a language he did not speak, and I was obliged to act as interpreter. But the Queen instantly said she understood English, though she spoke it badly, and begged he would address her in his own tongue. Madame Adelaide seemed more familiar with our language. But the conversation was necessarily short, and not worth repeating. Queen Amélie is a woman of a kind, and, I think, intelligent countenance. She has the Bourbon rather than the Austrian outline of face. She seemed anxious to please, and in her general air and carriage has some resemblance to the Duchess of St. Leu.[3] She has the reputation of being an excellent wife and mother, and, really, not to fall too precipitately into the vice of a courtier, she appears as if she may well deserve it. She is thin, but graceful, and I can well imagine that she has been more than pretty in her youth. [Footnote 3: Hortense.] I do not remember a more frank, intelligent, and winning countenance than that of Madame Adelaide, who is the King's sister. She has little beauty left, except that of expression; but this must have made her handsome once, as it renders her singularly attractive now. Her manner was less nervous than that of the Queen, and I should think her mind had more influence over her exterior. The Princess Louise (the Queen of Belgium) and the Princess Marie are pretty, with the quiet subdued manner of well-bred young persons. The first is pale, has a strikingly Bourbon face, resembling the profiles on the French coins; while the latter has an Italian and classical outline of features, with a fine colour. They were all dressed with great simplicity; scarcely in high dinner dress; the Queen and Madame Adelaide wearing evening hats. The Princesses, as is uniformly the case with unmarried French girls of rank, were without any ornaments, wearing their hair in the usual manner. After the ceremonies of being presented were gone through, I amused myself with examining the company. This was a levee, not a drawing-room, and there were no women among the visitors. The men, who did not appear in uniform, were in common evening dress, which has degenerated of late into black stocks and trousers. Accident brought me next to an old man, who had exactly that revolutionary air which has become so familiar to us by the engravings of Bonaparte and his generals that were made shortly after the Italian campaign. The face was nearly buried in neckcloth, the hair was long and wild, and the coat was glittering, but ill-fitting and stiff. It was, however, the coat of a _maréchal_; and, what rendered it still more singular, it was entirely without orders. I was curious to know who this relic of 1797 might be; for, apart from his rank, which was betrayed by his coat, he was so singularly ugly as scarcely to appear human. On inquiry it proved to be Marshal Jourdan. There was some amusement in watching the different individuals who came to pay their court to the new dynasty. Many were personally and familiarly known to me as very loyal subjects of the last reign; soldiers who would not have hesitated to put Louis-Philippe _au fil de l'épée_, three months before, at the command of Charles X. But times were changed. They now came to show themselves to the new sovereign; most of them to manifest their disposition to be put in the way of preferment, some to reconnoitre, others to conceal their disaffection, and all to subserve their own interests. It was laughably easy to discern who were confident of their reception by being of the ruling party, who distrusted, and who were indifferent. The last class was small. A general officer, whom I personally knew, looked like one who had found his way into a wrong house by mistake. He was a Bonapartist by his antecedents, and in his true way of thinking; but accident had thrown him into the hands of the Bourbons, and he had now come to see what might be gleaned from the House of Orleans. His reception was not flattering, and I could only compare the indecision and wavering of his manner to that of a regiment that falters before an unexpected volley. After amusing ourselves some time in the great throng, which was densest near the King, we went towards a secondary circle that had formed in another part of the room, where the Duke of Orleans had appeared. He was conversing with Lafayette, who immediately presented us all in succession. The Prince is a genteel, handsome young man, with a face much more Austrian than that of any of his family, so far as one can judge of what his younger brothers are likely to be hereafter. In form, stature, and movements, he singularly resembles W----, and there is also a good deal of likeness in the face, though in this particular the latter has the advantage. He was often taken for the Duc de Chartres during our former residence at Paris. Our reception was gracious, the heir to the throne appearing anxious to please every one. The amusing part of the scene is to follow. Fatigued with standing, we had got chairs in a corner of the room, behind the throng, where the discourtesy of being seated might escape notice. The King soon after withdrew, and the company immediately began to go away. Three-fourths, perhaps, were gone, when an aide-de-camp came up to us and inquired if we were not the three Americans who had been presented by General Lafayette? Being answered in the affirmative, he begged us to accompany him. He led us near a door at the other end of the _salle_, a room of great dimensions, where we found General Lafayette in waiting. The aide, or officer of the court, whichever might be his station, passed through the door, out of which the King immediately came. It appeared to me as if the General was not satisfied with our first reception, and wished to have it done over again. The King looked grave, not to say discontented, and I saw, at a glance, that he could have dispensed with this extra attention. Mr. M'Lane standing next the door, he addressed a few words to him in English, which he speaks quite readily, and without much accent: indeed he said little to any one else, and the few words that he did utter were exceedingly general and unmeaning. Once he got as far as T----, whom he asked if he came from New York, and he looked hard at me, who stood farther from the door, mumbled something, bowed to us all, and withdrew. I was struck with his manner, which seemed vexed and unwilling, and the whole thing appeared to me to be awkward and uncomfortable. I thought it a bad omen for the influence of the General. By this time the great _salle_ was nearly empty, and we moved off together to find our carriages. General Lafayette preceded us, of course, and as he walked slowly, and occasionally stopped to converse, we were among the last in the ante-chamber. In passing into the last or outer ante-chamber, the General stopped nearly in the door to speak to some one. Mr. M'Lane and Mr. T---- being at his side, they so nearly stopped the way that I remained some distance in the rear, in order not to close it entirely. My position would give an ordinary observer reason to suppose that I did not belong to the party. A young officer of the court (I call them aides, though, I believe, they were merely substitutes for chamberlains, dignitaries to which this republican reign has not yet given birth), was waiting in the outer room to pass, but appeared unwilling to press too closely on a group of which General Lafayette formed the principal person. He fidgeted and chafed evidently, but still kept politely at a distance. After two or three minutes the party moved on, but I remained stationary, watching the result. Room was no sooner made than the officer brushed past, and gave vent to his feelings by saying, quite loudly and distinctly, "_Adieu, l'Amérique_!" It is a pretty safe rule to believe that in the tone of courtiers is reflected the feeling of the monarch. The attention to General Lafayette had appeared to me as singularly affected and forced, and the manner of the King anything but natural; and several little occurrences during the evening had tended to produce the impression that the real influence of the former, at the palace, might be set down as next to nothing. I never had any faith in a republican king from the commencement, but this near view of the personal intercourse between the parties served to persuade me that General Lafayette had been the dupe of his own good faith and kind feelings. In descending the great stairs I mentioned the occurrence just related to Mr. M'Lane, adding, that I thought the days of our friend were numbered, and that a few months would produce a schism between him and Louis-Philippe. Everything, at the moment, however, looked so smiling, and so much outward respect was lavished on General Lafayette, that this opinion did not find favour with my listener, though, I believe, he saw reason to think differently, after another visit to court. We all got invitations to dine at the palace in a day or two. * * * * * I did not, however, touch upon the "_adieu l'Amérique_," with General Lafayette, which I have always deemed a subject too delicate to be mentioned. He startled me by suddenly putting the question, whether I thought an executive, in which there should be but one agent, as in the United States, or an executive, in which there should be three, or five, would best suit the condition of France? Though so well acquainted with the boldness and steadiness of his views, I was not prepared to find his mind dwelling on such a subject, at the present moment. The state of France, however, is certainly extremely critical, and we ought not to be surprised at the rising of the people at any moment. I told General Lafayette, that, in my poor judgment, the question admitted of a good deal of controversy. Names did not signify much, but every administration should receive its main impulses, subject to the common wishes and interests, from a close conformity of views, whether there were one incumbent or a dozen. The English system certainly made a near approach to a divided executive, but the power was so distributed as to prevent much clashing; and when things went wrong, the ministers resigned; parliament, in effect, holding the control of the executive as well as of the legislative branches of the government. Now I did not think France was prepared for such a polity, the French being accustomed to see a real as well as a nominal monarch, and the disposition to intrigue would, for a long time to come, render their administrations fluctuating and insecure. A directory would either control the chambers, or be controlled by them. In the former case it would be apt to be divided in itself; in the latter, to agitate the chambers by factions that would not have the ordinary outlet of majorities to restore the equilibrium. He was of opinion himself that the expedient of a directory had not suited the state of France. He asked me what I thought of universal suffrage for this country. I told him, I thought it altogether unsuited to the present condition of France. I did not attach much faith to the old theory of the necessary connexion between virtue and democracy, as a cause; though it might, with the necessary limitations, follow as an effect. A certain degree of knowledge of its uses, _action_, and objects, was indispensable to a due exercise of the suffrage; not that it was required every elector should be learned in the theory of governments, but that he should know enough to understand the general connexion between his vote and his interests, and especially his rights. This knowledge was not at all difficult of attainment, in ordinary cases, when one had the means of coming at facts. In cases that admit of argument, as in all the questions on political economy, I did not see that any reasonable degree of knowledge made the matter much better, the cleverest men usually ranging themselves on the two extremes of all mooted questions. Concerning the right of every man, who was qualified to use the power, to have his interests directly represented in a government, it was unnecessary to speak, the only question being who had and who had not the means to make a safe use of the right in practice. It followed from these views, that the great desiderata were to ascertain what these means were. In the present state of the world, I thought it absolutely necessary that a man should be able to read, in order to exercise the right to vote with a prudent discretion. In countries where everybody reads, other qualifications might be trusted to, provided they were low and within reasonable reach of the mass; but, in a country like France, I would allow no man to vote until he knew how to read, if he were as rich as Croesus. I felt convinced the present system could not continue long in France. It might do for a few years, as a reaction; but when things were restored to their natural course, it would be found that there is an unnatural union between facts that are peculiar to despotism, and facts that are peculiarly the adjuncts of liberty; as in the provisions of the Code Napoleon, and in the liberty of the press, without naming a multitude of other discrepancies. The _juste milieu_ that he had so admirably described[4] could not last long, but the government would soon find itself driven into strong measures, or into liberal measures, in order to sustain itself. Men could no more serve "God and Mammon" in politics than in religion. I then related to him an anecdote that had occurred to myself the evening of the first anniversary of the present reign. [Footnote 4: When the term _juste milieu_ was first used by the King, and adopted by his followers, Lafayette said in the Chamber, that "he very well understood what a _juste milieu_ meant, in any particular case; it meant neither more nor less than the truth, in that particular case: but as to a political party's always taking a middle course, under the pretence of being in a _juste milieu_, he should liken it to a discreet man's laying down the proposition that four and four make eight, and a fool's crying out, 'Sir, you are wrong, for four and four make ten;' whereupon the advocate for the _juste milieu_ on system, would be obliged to say, 'Gentlemen, you are equally in extremes, _four and four make nine_.'" It is the fashion to say Lafayette wanted _esprit_. This was much the cleverest thing the writer ever heard in the French Chambers, and, generally, he knew few men who said more witty things in a neat and unpretending manner than General Lafayette. Indeed this was the bias of his mind, which was little given to profound reflections, though distinguished for a _fort bon sens_.] On the night in question, I was in the Tuileries, with a view to see the fireworks. Taking a station a little apart from the crowd, I found myself under a tree alone with a Frenchman of some sixty years of age. After a short parley, my companion, as usual, mistook me for an Englishman. On being told his error, he immediately opened a conversation on the state of things in France. He asked me if I thought they would continue. I told him, no; that I thought two or three years would suffice to bring the present system to a close. "Monsieur," said my companion, "you are mistaken. It will require ten years to dispossess those who have seized upon the government, since the last revolution. All the young men are growing up with the new notions, and in ten years they will be strong enough to overturn the present order of things. Remember that I prophesy the year 1840 will see a change of government in France." Lafayette laughed at this prediction, which, he said, did not quite equal his impatience. He then alluded to the ridicule which had been thrown upon his own idea of "A monarchy with republican institutions," and asked me what I thought of the system. As my answer to this, as well as to his other questions, will serve to lay before you my own opinions, which you have a right to expect from me, as a traveller rendering an account of what he has seen, I shall give you its substance, at length. So far from finding anything as absurd as is commonly pretended in the plan of a "throne surrounded by republican institutions," it appears to me to be exactly the system best suited to the actual condition of France. By a monarchy, however, a real monarchical government, or one in which the power of the sovereign is to predominate, is not to be understood, in this instance, but such a semblance of a monarchy as exists to-day, in England, and formerly existed in Venice and Genoa under their Doges. la England the aristocracy notoriously rules, through the king, and I see no reason why in France, a constituency with a base sufficiently broad to entitle it to assume the name of a republic, might not rule, in its turn, in the same manner. In both cases the sovereign would merely represent an abstraction; the sovereign power would be wielded in his name, but at the will of the constituency; he would be a parliamentary echo, to pronounce the sentiment of the legislative bodies, whenever a change of men or a change of measures became necessary It is very true that, under such a system, there would be no real separation, in principle, between the legislative and the executive branches of government; but such is to-day, and such has long been the actual condition of England, and her statesmen are fond of saving, the plan "works well." Now, although the plan does not work half as well in England as is pretended, except for those who more especially reap its benefits, simply because the legislature is not established on a sufficiently popular basis, still it works better, on the whole, for the public, than if the system were reversed, as was formerly the case, and the king ruled through the parliament, instead of the parliament ruling through the king. In France the facts are ripe for an extension of this principle, in its safest and most salutary manner. The French of the present generation are prepared to dispense with a hereditary and political aristocracy, in the first place, nothing being more odious to them than privileged orders, and no nation, not even America, having more healthful practices or wiser notions on this point than themselves. The experience of the last fifteen years has shown the difficulty of creating an independent peerage in France, notwithstanding the efforts of the government, sustained by the example and wishes of England, have been steadily directed to that object. Still they have the traditions and _prestige_ of a monarchy. Under such circumstances, I see no difficulty in carrying out the idea of Lafayette. Indeed some such polity is indispensable, unless liberty is to be wholly sacrificed. All experience has shown that a king, who is a king in fact as well as name, is too strong for law, and the idea of restraining such a power by _principles_, is purely chimerical. He may be curtailed in his authority, by the force of opinion, and by extreme constructions of these principles; but if this be desirable, it would be better to avoid the struggle, and begin, at once, by laying the foundation of the system in such a way as will prevent the necessity of any change. As respects France, a peerage, in my opinion, is neither desirable nor practicable. It is certainly possible for the king to maintain a chosen political corps, as long as he can maintain himself, which shall act in his interests and do his bidding; but it is folly to ascribe the attributes that belong to a peerage to such a body of mercenaries. They resemble the famous mandamus counsellors, who had so great an agency in precipitating our own revolution, and are more likely to achieve a similar disservice to their master than any thing else. Could they become really independent, to a point to render them a masculine feature in the state, they would soon, by their combinations, become too strong for the other branches of the government, as has been the case in England, and France would have a "throne surrounded by aristocratic institutions." The popular notion that an aristocracy is necessary to a monarchy, I take it, is a gross error. A titular aristocracy, in some shape or other, is always the _consequence_ of monarchy, merely because it is the reflection of the sovereign's favour, policy, or caprice; but _political_ aristocracies like the peerage, have, nine times in ten, proved too strong for the monarch. France would form no exception to the rule; but, as men are apt to run into the delusion of believing it liberty to strip one of power, although his mantle is to fall on the few, I think it more than probable the popular error would be quite likely to aid the aristocrats in effecting their object, after habit had a little accustomed the nation to the presence of such a body. This is said, however, under the supposition that the elements of an independent peerage could be found in France, a fact that I doubt, as has just been mentioned.. If England can have a throne, then, surrounded by aristocratical institutions, what is there to prevent France from having a throne "surrounded by republican institutions?" The word "Republic," though it does not exclude, does not necessarily include the idea of a democracy. It merely means a polity, in which the predominant idea is the "public things," or common weal, instead of the hereditary and inalienable rights of one. It would be quite practicable, therefore, to establish in France such an efficient constituency as would meet the latter conditions, and yet to maintain the throne, as the machinery necessary, in certain cases, to promulgate the will of this very constituency. This is all that the throne does in England, and why need it do more in France? By substituting then a more enlarged constituency, for the borough system of England, the idea of Lafayette would be completely fulfilled. The reform in England, itself, is quite likely to demonstrate that his scheme was not as monstrous as has been affirmed. The throne of France should be occupied as Corsica is occupied, not for the affirmative good it does the nation, so much as to prevent harm from its being occasionally vacant. In the course of the conversation, I gave to General Lafayette the following outline of the form of government I could wish to give to France, were I a Frenchman, and had I a voice in the matter. I give it to you on the principle already avowed, or as a traveller furnishing his notions of the things he has seen, and because it may aid in giving you a better insight into my views of the state of this country. I would establish a monarchy, and Henry V. should be the monarch. I would select him on account of his youth, which will admit of his being educated in the notions necessary to his duty; and on account of his birth, which would strengthen his nominal government, and, by necessary connexion, the actual government: for I believe, that, in their hearts, and notwithstanding the professions to the contrary, nearly half of France would greatly prefer the legitimate line of their ancient kings to the actual dynasty. This point settled, I would extend the suffrage as much as facts would justify; certainly so as to include a million or a million and a half of electors. All idea of the _représentation_ of property should be relinquished, as the most corrupt, narrow, and vicious form of polity that has ever been devised, invariably tending to array one portion of the community against another, and endangering the very property it is supposed to protect. A moderate property _qualification_ might be adopted, in connexion with that of intelligence. The present scheme in France unites, in my view of the case, precisely the two worst features of admission to the suffrage that could be devised. The qualification of an elector is a given amount of direct contribution. This _qualification_ is so high as to amount to _représentation_, and France is already so taxed as to make a diminution of the burdens one of the first objects at which a good government would aim; it follows, that as the ends of liberty are attained, its foundations would be narrowed, and the _représentation_ of property would be more and more assured. A simple property qualification would, therefore, I think, be a better scheme than the present. Each department should send an allotted number of deputies, the polls being distributed on the American plan. Respecting the term of service, there might arise various considerations, but it should not exceed five years, and I would prefer three. The present house of peers should be converted into a senate, its members to sit as long as the deputies. I see no use in making the term of one body longer than the other, and I think it very easy to show that great injury has arisen from the practice among ourselves. Neither do I see the advantage of having a part go out periodically; but, on the contrary, a disadvantage, as it leaves a representation of old, and, perhaps, rejected opinions, to struggle with the opinions of the day. Such collisions have invariably impeded the action and disturbed the harmony of our own government. I would have every French elector vote for each senator; thus the local interests would be protected by the deputies, while the senate would strictly represent France. This united action would control all things, and the ministry would be an emanation of their will, of which the king should merely be the organ. I have no doubt the action of our own system would be better, could we devise some plan by which a ministry should supersede the present executive. The project of Mr. Hillhouse, that of making the senators draw lots annually for the office of President, is, in my opinion, better than the elective system; but it would be, in a manner, liable to the old objection, of a want of harmony between the different branches of the government. France has all the machinery of royalty, in her palaces, her parks, and the other appliances of the condition; and she has, moreover, the necessary habits and opinions, while we have neither. There is, therefore, just as much reason why France should not reject this simple expedient for naming a ministry, as there is for our not adopting it. Here, then, would be, at once, a "throne surrounded by republican institutions," and, although it would not be a throne as powerful as that which France has at present, it would, I think, be more permanent than one surrounded by bayonets, and leave France, herself, more powerful, in the end. The capital mistake made in 1830, was that of establishing the _throne_ before establishing the _republic_; in trusting to _men_ instead of trusting to _institutions_. I do not tell you that Lafayette assented to all that I said. He had reason for the impracticability of getting aside the personal interests which would be active in defeating such a reform, that involved details and a knowledge of character to which I had nothing to say; and, as respects the Duc de Bordeaux, he affirmed that the reign of the Bourbons was over in France. The country was tired of them. It may appear presumptuous in a foreigner to give an opinion against such high authority; but, "what can we reason but from what we know?" and truth compels me to say, I cannot subscribe to this opinion. My own observation, imperfect though it be, has led to a different conclusion. I believe there are thousands, even among those who throng the Tuileries, who would hasten to throw off the mask at the first serious misfortune that should befall the present dynasty, and who would range themselves on the side of what is called legitimacy. In respect to parties, I think the republicans the boldest, in possession of the most talents compared to numbers, and the least numerous; the friends of the King (active and passive) the least decided, and the least connected by principle, though strongly connected by a desire to prosecute their temporal interests, and more numerous than the republicans; the Carlists or _Henriquinquists_ the most numerous, and the most generally, but secretly, sustained by the rural population, particularly in the west and south. Lafayette frankly admitted, what all now seem disposed to admit, that it was a fault not to have made sure of the institutions before the King was put upon the throne. He affirmed, however, it was much easier to assert the wisdom of taking this precaution, than to have adopted it in fact. The world, I believe, is in error about most of the political events that succeeded the three days. LETTER II. The Cholera in Paris.--Its frightful ravages.--Desertion of the city--My determination to remain.--Deaths in the higher classes.--Unexpected arrival and retreat.--Praiseworthy conduct of the Authorities.--The Cholera caricatured!--Invitation from an English General.--Atmospherical appearance denoting the arrival of the Cholera.--Lord Robert Fitzgerald.--Dinner at the house of Madame de B----. Dear ----, We have had little to occupy us since my last letter, but the cholera, which alighted in the heart of this great and crowded metropolis like a bomb. Since the excursion on the frontiers last year, and our success in escaping the quarantine, I had thought little of this scourge, until the subject was introduced at my own table by a medical man who was among the guests. He cautiously informed us that there were unpleasant conjectures among the faculty on the subject, and that he was fearful Paris was not to go unscathed. When apart, he privately added, that he had actually seen a case, which he could impute to no other disease but that of Asiatic cholera. The next day a few dark hints were given in the journals, and, with frightful rapidity, reports followed that raised the daily deaths to near a thousand. The change in the appearance of the town was magical, for the strangers generally fled, while most of the _habitués_ of the streets in our immediate vicinity were soon numbered with the dead. There was a succession of apple-women seated at the corners, between the Rue St. Dominique and the Pont Royal, with whose faces I had become intimate in the course of P----'s traffic, as we passed to and fro, between the hotel and the Tuileries. Every one of these disappeared; the last, I was told, dropping from her chair, and dying before those who came to her aid had reached the nearest hospital. One case, among multitudes, will serve to give you a faint idea of the situation of Paris, at this moment of severe affliction. Returning from a walk through the deserted streets one morning, I saw a small collection of people around the _porte-cochère_ of our hotel. A matchseller had been seized with the disease, at the gate, and was then sustained on one of the stone seats, which are commonly used by the servants. I had her carried info the court, and made such applications as had been recommended by the faculty. The patient was a robust woman of middle age, accompanied by her mother, both having come in from a distant village, to raise a few sous by selling matches. In making the applications, I had occasion to observe the means by which these poor people sustain life. Their food consisted of fragments of hard dried bread, that had been begged, or bought, in the course of their progress. While two or three of us were busied about the daughter, the mother knelt on the pavement, and, with streaming eyes, prayed for her child, for us, and for herself. There was something indescribably touching in this display of strong natural ties, between those who were plunged so deep in misery. A piece of five francs was put into the hands of the old woman, but, though she blessed the donor, her look was not averted an instant from the agony depicted in her daughter's face, nor did she appear conscious of what she possessed, a moment after. The carriers from the hospital bore the sick woman away, and the mother promised to return, in a day or two, to let me know the result. Not appearing, an inquiry was made at the hospital, and the answer was, that they were both dead! In this manner some ten or fifteen thousand were swept away in a few weeks. Not only hotels, but, in some instances, nearly whole streets were depopulated. As every one fled, who could with convenience or propriety quit the town, you may feel surprised that we chose to remain. When the deaths increased to eight or nine hundred a day, and our own quarter began to be visited, I felt it to be a duty to those under my charge, to retire to some of the places without the limits of the disease. The trunks were packed, the carriage was in the court, and my passports were signed, when A---- was suddenly taken ill. Although the disease was not the cholera, I began to calculate the chances of any one of us being seized, myself for instance, in one of the villages of the environs, and the helpless condition of a family of females in a foreign country, under such circumstances. The result was a determination to remain, and to trust to Providence. We have consequently staid in our apartments through it all, although two slight cases have occurred in the hotel, and hundreds around it. The manner in which individuals known to us have vanished, as it were, from before our eyes, has been shockingly sudden. To-day the report may be that the milkman is gone; yesterday it was the butcher's boy; the day before the poulterer, and presently a new servant appears with a message from a friend, and on inquiring for his predecessor, we learn that he is dead. Ten or fifteen cases of this sort have occurred among those with whom we are in constant and immediate connexion. The deaths in the higher classes, at first, were comparatively few, but of late several of the most distinguished men of France have been seized. Among them are M. Perier, the prime minister, and the General Lamarque. Prince Castelcicala, too, the Neapolitan Ambassador, is dead, in our neighbourhood; as, indeed, are very many others. There is one short street quite near us, out of which, it is said, between seventy and eighty dead have been carried. The situation of all this faubourg is low, and that of the street particularly so. Dr. S----, of North Carolina, who, with several other young physicians, has done credit to himself by his self-devotion and application, brought in the report of the appearance of things, once or twice a week, judging of the state of the disease more from the aspect of the hospitals, than from the published returns, which are necessarily and, perhaps, designedly, imperfect. He thinks of the first hundred that were admitted at the Hotel Dieu, all but one died, and that one he does not think was a case of Asiatic cholera at all. All this time, the more frequented streets of Paris presented, in the height of the usual season too, the most deserted aspect. I have frequently walked on the terrace of the Tuileries when there were not a dozen others in the whole garden, and driven from my own hotel in the Rue St. Dominique to the Place Vendôme without meeting half a dozen vehicles, including _fiacres_ and _cabriolets de place_. I was returning one day from the Rue de la Paix, on foot, during the height of the disease, at the time when this gay and magnificent part of the town looked peculiarly deserted. There was scarcely a soul in the street but the _laquais de place_, the _garçons_, and the chambermaids of the public hotels, that abound in this quarter. These were at the gateways, with folded arms, a picture in themselves of the altered condition of the town. Two travelling carriages drove in from the Rue de Rivoli, and there was at once a stir among those who are so completely dependent on travellers for their bread. "_On part_" was, at first, the common and mournful call from one group to another, until the mud on the carriage-wheels caught the attention of some one, who cried out "_On arrive_!" The appearance of the strangers under such circumstances, seemed to act like a charm. I felt no little surprise at seeing them, and more, when a hand beckoned to me from a carriage window. It was Mr. H----, of New York, an old schoolfellow, and a friend of whom we had seen a good deal during our travels in Europe. He had just come from England, with his family, and appeared astonished to find Paris so deserted. He told me that Mr. Van Buren was in the other carriage. He had chosen an unfortunate moment for his visit. I went to see the H----s next morning, and it was arranged that they should come and pass the succeeding day in the Rue St. Dominique; but they disappointed us. The day following I got a letter from H----, dated Amiens, written on his way to England! They had been imprudent in coming, and wise in hurrying away from the frightful scene. I believe that Mr. Van Buren remained but a day or two. Although most of our acquaintances quitted the town, a few thought it safer to remain in their own comfortable apartments, than to run the hazards of travelling; for, in a short time, most of the north of France was suffering under the same grievous affliction. The authorities conducted themselves well, and there have been very many instances of noble self-devotion, on the part of private individuals, the French character never appearing to better advantage. In this respect, notwithstanding the general impression to the contrary, I am inclined to believe, after a good deal of inquiry, that Paris has acquitted itself better than London. The French, certainly, are less disposed, as a rule, to "hide their light under a bushel," than most other people; but, on the spot and a looker-on, my respect for their feelings and philanthropy has been greatly raised by their conduct during this terrible calamity. Notwithstanding the horror of the disease, some of the more prominent traits of national character have shown themselves lately. Among other things, the artists have taken to caricaturing the cholera! One gets to be so hardened by exposure, as to be able to laugh at even these proofs of moral obtuseness. Odd enough traits of character are developed by seeing men under such trying circumstances. During one of the worst periods of the disease, I met a countryman in the street, who, though otherwise a clever man, has the weakness to think the democracy of America its greatest blot. I asked him why he remained in Paris, having no family, nor any sufficient inducement? "Oh," said he, "it is a disease that only kills the rabble: I feel no concern--do you?" I told him that, under my peculiar circumstances, I felt a great deal of uneasiness, though not enough to make an unreflecting flight. A few days afterwards I missed him, and, on inquiry, learned that he had fled. Some _nobleman_ had died in our faubourg, when he and one of a fellow feeling, finding a taint "between the wind and their nobility," forthwith beat a retreat! During the height of the malady, an old English general officer, who had served in India, and who was now residing near us, sent me an invitation to dinner. Tired of seeing no one, I went. Here everything was as tranquil as if we were living in the purest atmosphere in Europe. Sir ----, my host, observed that he had got seasoned in India, and that he believed _good living_ one of the best preventives against the disease. The Count de ---- came in just before dinner was announced, and whispered to me that some twelve or fifteen hundred had been buried the previous day, although less than a thousand had been reported. This gentleman told a queer anecdote, which he said came from very respectable authority, and which he gave as he had heard it. About ten days before the cholera appeared, a friend of his had accompanied one of the Polish generals, who are now in Paris, a short distance into the country to dine. On quitting the house, the Pole stopped to gaze intently at the horizon. His companion inquired what he saw, when, pointing to a hazy appearance in the atmosphere, of rather an unusual kind, the other said, "You will have the cholera here in less than ten days; such appearances always preceded it in the North." As M. de ---- observed, "I tell it as I heard it." Sir ---- did me the favour, on that occasion, to introduce me to a mild gentleman-like old man, who greatly resembled one of the quiet old school of our own, which is so fast disappearing before the bustling, fussy, money-getting race of the day. It was Lord Robert Fitzgerald, a brother of the unfortunate Lord Edward, and the brother of whom he so pleasantly speaks in his natural and amiable letters, as "Plenipo Bob." This gentleman is since dead, having, as I hear, fallen a victim to the cholera. I went to one other dinner, during this scene of destruction, given by Madame de B----, a woman who has so much vogue, as to assemble, in her house, people of the most conflicting opinions and opposite characters. On this occasion, I was surprised to hear from Marshal ----, one of the guests, that many believe the cholera to be contagious. That such an opinion should prevail among the mass, was natural enough, but I was not prepared to hear it from so high a quarter. A gentleman mentioned, at this dinner, that the destruction among the porters had been fearful. A friend of his was the proprietor of five hotels, and the porters of all are dead! LETTER III. Insecurity of the Government.--Louis-Philippe and the Pear.--Caricatures.--Ugliness of the Public Men of France.--The Duke de Valmy.--Care-worn aspect of Society under the New Regime.--Controversy in France respecting the Cost of Government in America.--Conduct of American Agents in Europe. Dear ----, The government is becoming every day less secure, and while it holds language directly to the contrary, it very well knows it cannot depend on the attachment of the nation. It has kept faith with no one, and the mass looks coldly on, at the political agitation that is excited, in all quarters, by the Carlists and the republicans. The bold movement of the Duchess of Berri, although it has been unwise and unreflecting, has occasioned a good deal of alarm, and causes great uneasiness in this cabinet.[5] [Footnote 5: Louis-Philippe has been more singularly favoured by purely fortuitous events than, probably, ever fell to the fortune of one in his situation. The death of the Duke of Reichstadt, the arrest and peculiar position of the Duchess of Berri, the failure of the different attempts to assassinate and seize him, and the sudden death of the young Napoleon Bonaparte, in Italy (the son of Louis), are among the number.] In a country where the cholera could not escape being caricatured, you will readily imagine that the King has fared no better. The lower part of the face of Louis-Philippe is massive, while his forehead, without being mean, narrows in a way to give the outline a shape not unlike that of a pear. An editor of one of the publications of caricatures being on trial for a libel, in his defence, produced a large pear, in order to illustrate his argument, which ran as follows:--People fancied they saw a resemblance in some one feature of a caricature to a particular thing; this thing, again, might resemble another thing; that thing a third; and thus from one to another, until the face of some distinguished individual might be reached. He put it to the jury whether such forced constructions were safe. "This, gentlemen," he continued, "is a common pear, a fruit well known to all of you. By culling here, and here," using his knife as he spoke, "something like a resemblance to a human face is obtained: by clipping here, again, and shaping there, one gets a face that some may fancy they know; and should I, hereafter, publish an engraving of a pear, why everybody will call it a caricature of a man!" You will understand that, by a dexterous use of the knife, such a general resemblance to the countenance of the King was obtained, that it was instantly recognised. The man was rewarded for his cleverness by an acquittal, and, since that time, by an implied convention, a rude sketch of a pear is understood to allude to the King. The fruit abounds in a manner altogether unusual for the season, and, at this moment, I make little doubt, that some thousands of pears are drawn in chalk, coal, or other substances, on the walls of the capital. During the carnival, masquers appeared as pears, with pears for caps, and carrying pears, and all this with a boldness and point that must go far to convince the King that the extreme license he has affected hitherto to allow, cannot very well accord with his secret intentions to bring France back to a government of coercion. The discrepancies that necessarily exist in the present system will, sooner or later, destroy it. Little can be said in favour of caricatures. They address themselves to a faculty of the mind that is the farthest removed from reason, and, by consequence, from the right; and it is a prostitution of the term to suppose that they are either cause or effect, as connected with liberty. Such things may certainly have their effect, as means, but every good cause is so much the purer for abstaining from the use of questionable agencies. _Au reste_, there is really a fatality of feature and expression common to the public men of this country that is a strong provocative to caricature. The revolution and empire appear to have given rise to a state of feeling that has broken out with marked sympathy, in the countenance. The French, as a nation, are far from handsome, though brilliant exceptions exist; and it strikes me that they who appear in public life are just among the ugliest of the whole people. Not long since I dined at the table of Mr. de ----, in company with Mr. B. of New York. The company consisted of some twenty men, all of whom had played conspicuous parts in the course of the last thirty years. I pointed out the peculiarity just mentioned to my companion, and asked him if there was a single face at table which had the placid, dignified, and contented look which denotes the consciousness of right motives, a frank independence, and a mind at peace with itself. We could not discover one! I have little doubt that national physiognomy is affected by national character. You may form some idea, on the other hand, of the perfect simplicity and good taste that prevails in French society, by a little occurrence on the day just mentioned. A gentleman, of singularly forbidding countenance, sat next us; and, in the course of the conversation, he mentioned the fact that he had once passed a year in New York, of which place he conversed with interest and vivacity. B---- was anxious to know who this gentleman might be. I could only say that he was a man of great acuteness and knowledge, whom I had often met in society, but, as to his name, I did not remember ever to have heard it. He had always conducted himself in the simple manner that he witnessed, and it was my impression that he was the private secretary of the master of the house, who was a dignitary of the state, for I had often met him at the same table. Here the matter rested for a few days. The following week we removed into the Rue St. Dominique. Directly opposite to the _porte-cochère_ of our hotel was the _porte-cochère_ of an hotel that had once belonged to the Princes of Conti. A day or two after the removal, I saw the unknown gentleman coming out of the gateway opposite, as I was about to enter our own. He bowed, saluted me by name, and passed on. Believing this a good occasion to ascertain who he was, I crossed the street, and asked the porter for the name of the gentleman who had just gone out. "Mais, c'est Monsieur le Duc!" "Duke!--what Duke?" "Why, Monsieur le Duc de Valmy, the proprietor of this hotel!" It was the younger Kellerman, the hero of Marengo![6] [Footnote 6: He is since dead.] But I could fill volumes with anecdotes of a similar nature; for, in these countries, in which men of illustrious deeds abound, one is never disturbed in society by the fussy pretension and swagger that is apt to mark the presence of a lucky speculator in the stocks. Battles, unlike bargains, are rarely discussed in society. I have already told you how little sensation is produced in Paris by the presence of a celebrity, though in no part of the world is more delicate respect paid to those who have earned renown, whether in letters, arts, or arms. Like causes, however, notoriously produce like effects; and, I think, under the new regime, which is purely a money-power system, directed by a mind whose ambition is wealth, that one really meets here more of that swagger of stocks and lucky speculations, in the world, than was formerly the case. Society is decidedly less graceful, more care-worn, and of a worse tone to-day, than it was previously to the revolution of 1830. I presume the elements are unchanged, but the ebullition of the times is throwing the scum to the surface; a natural but temporary consequence of the present state of things. While writing to you in this desultory manner, I shall seize the occasion to give the outline of a little occurrence of quite recent date, and which is, in some measure, of personal interest to myself. A controversy concerning the cost of government, was commenced some time in November last, under the following circumstances, and has but just been concluded. As early as the July preceding, a writer in the employment of the French government produced a laboured article, in which he attempted to show that, head for head, the Americans paid more for the benefits of government than the French. Having the field all to himself, both as to premises and conclusions, this gentleman did not fail to make out a strong case against us; and, as a corollary to this proposition, which was held to be proved, he, and others of his party, even went so far as to affirm that a republic, in the nature of things, must be a more expensive polity than a monarchy. This extravagant assertion had been considered as established, by a great many perfectly well-meaning people, for some months, before I even knew that it had ever been made. A very intelligent and a perfectly candid Frenchman mentioned it one day, in my presence, admitting that he had been staggered by the boldness of the proposition, as well as by the plausibility of the arguments by which it had been maintained. It was so contrary to all previous accounts of the matter, and was, especially, so much opposed to all I had told him, in our frequent disquisitions on America, that he wished me to read the statements, and to refute them, should it seem desirable. About the same time, General Lafayette made a similar request, sending me the number of the periodical that contained the communication, and suggesting the expediency of answering it. I never, for an instant, doubted the perfect right of an American, or any one else, to expose the errors that abounded in this pretended statistical account, but I had little disposition for the task. Having, however, good reason to think it was aimed covertly at General Lafayette, with the intention to prove his ignorance of the America he so much applauded, I yielded to his repeated requests, and wrote a hasty letter to him, dissecting, as well as my knowledge and limited access to authorities permitted, the mistakes of the other side. This letter produced replies, and the controversy was conducted through different channels, and by divers agents, up to a time when the varying and conflicting facts of our opponents appeared to be pretty well exhausted. It was then announced that instructions had been sent to America to obtain more authentic information; and we were promised a farther exposure of the weakness of the American system, when the other side should receive this re-enforcement to their logic.[7] [Footnote 7: No such exposure has ever been made; and the writer understood, some time before he quitted France, that the information received from America proved to be so unsatisfactory, that the attempt was abandoned. The writer, in managing his part of the discussion, confined himself principally to the state of New York, being in possession of more documents in reference to his own state, than to any other. Official accounts, since published, have confirmed the accuracy of his calculations; the actual returns varying but a few sous a head from his own estimates, which were in so much too liberal, or against his own side of the question.] I have no intention of going over this profitless controversy with you, and have adverted to it here, solely with a view to make you acquainted with a state of feeling in a portion of our people, that it may be useful not only to expose, but correct.[8] [Footnote 8: See my _Letter to General Lafayette_, published by Baudry, Paris.] LETTER IV. Gradual disappearance of the Cholera.--Death of M. Casimir Perier.--His Funeral.--Funeral of General Lamarque.--Magnificent Military Escort.--The Duc de Fitzjames.--An Alarm.--First symptoms of popular Revolt.--Scene on the Pont Royal.--Charge on the people by a body of cavalry.--The _Sommations_.--General Lafayette and _the Bonnet Rouge_.--Popular Prejudices in France. England, and America.--Contest in the Quartier Montmartre.--The Place Louis XVI.--A frightened Sentinel.--Picturesque Bivouac of troops in the Carousel.--Critical situation.--Night-view from the Pont des Arts.--Appearance of the Streets on the following morning.--England an enemy to Liberty.--Affair at the Porte St. Denis.--Procession of Louis-Philippe through the streets.--Contest in the St. Mary.--Sudden Panic.--Terror of a national Guard and a young Conscript.--Dinner with a Courtier.--Suppression of the Revolt. Dear ----, Events have thickened since my last letter. The cholera gradually disappeared, until it ceased to be the subject of conversation. As soon as the deaths diminished to two or three hundred a day, most people became easy; and when they got below a hundred, the disease might be said to be forgotten. But though the malady virtually disappeared, the public was constantly reminded of its passage by the deaths of those who, by force of extraordinary care, had been lingering under its fatal influence. M. Casimir Perier was of the number, and his death has been seized on as a good occasion to pass a public judgment on the measures of the government of the _juste milieu_, of which he has been popularly supposed to be the inventor, as well as the chief promoter. This opinion, I believe, however, to be erroneous. The system of the _juste milieu_ means little more than to profess one thing and to do another; it is a stupendous fraud, and sooner or later will be so viewed and appropriately rewarded. It is a profession of liberty, with a secret intention to return to a government of force, availing itself of such means as offer, of which the most obvious, at present, are the stagnation of trade and the pressing necessities of all who depend on industry, in a country that is taxed nearly beyond endurance. Neither M. Perier, nor any other man, is the prime mover of such a system; for it depends on the Father of Lies, who usually employs the most willing agents he can discover. The inventor of the policy, _sub Diabolo_, is now in London. M. Perier had the merits of decision, courage, and business talents; and, so far from being the founder of the present system, he had a natural frankness, the usual concomitant of courage, that, under other circumstances, I think, would have indisposed him to its deceptions. But he was a manufacturer, and his spinning-jennies were very closely connected with his political faith. Another state of the market would, most probably, have brought him again into the liberal ranks. The funeral obsequies of M. Perier having been loudly announced as a test of public opinion, I walked out, the morning they took place, to view the pomp. It amounted to little more than the effect which the patronage of the ministry can at any time produce. There was a display of troops and of the _employés_ of the government, but little apparent sympathy on the part of the mass of the population. As the deceased was a man of many good qualities, this indifference was rather studied, proceeding from the discipline and collision of party politics. As an attempt to prove that the _juste milieu_ met with popular approbations I think the experiment was a failure. Very different was the result, in a similar attempt made by the opposition, at the funeral of General Lamarque. This distinguished officer fell also a victim to the cholera, and his interment took place on the 4th of June. The journals of the opposition had called upon its adherents to appear on this occasion, in order to convince the King and his ministers that they were pursuing a dangerous course, and one in which they were not sustained by the sentiment of the nation. The preparations wore a very different appearance from those made on the previous occasion. Then everything clearly emanated from authority; now, the government was visible in little besides its arrangements to maintain its own ascendency. The military rank of the deceased entitled him to a military escort, and this was freely accorded to his friends; perhaps the more freely, from the fact that it sanctioned the presence of so many more bayonets than were believed to be at the command of the ministers. It was said there were twenty thousand of the National Guards present in uniform, wearing, however, only their side-arms. This number may have been exaggerated, but there certainly were a great many. The whole procession, including the troops, has been estimated at a hundred thousand men. The route was by the Boulevards to the Jardin des Plantes, where the body was to be delivered to the family of the deceased, in order to be transported to the South of France for interment. Having other engagements, I merely viewed the preparations, and the commencement of the ceremonies, when I returned to our own quiet quarter of the town to pursue my own quiet occupations. The day passed quietly enough with us, for the Faubourg St. Germain has so many large hotels, and so few shops, that crowds are never common; and, on this occasion, all the floating population appeared to have completely deserted us, to follow the procession of poor Lamarque. I do not remember to have alluded to the change produced in this particular, by the cholera, in the streets of Paris. It is supposed that at least ten thousand of those who have no other abodes, except the holes into which they crept at night, were swept out of them by this fell disease. About five o'clock, I had occasion to go to the Rue de Rivoli, and I found the streets and the garden with much fewer people in them than was usual at that hour. There I heard a rumour that a slight disturbance had taken place on the Boulevard des Italiens, in consequence of a refusal of the Duc de Fitzjames, a leading Carlist, to take off his hat to the body of Lamarque, as he stood at a balcony. I had often met M. de Fitzjames in society, and, although a decided friend of the old regime, I knew his tone of feeling and manners to be too good, to credit a tale so idle. By a singular coincidence, the only time I had met with General Lamarque in private was at a little dinner given by Madame de M----, at which Monsieur de Fitzjames was also a guest. We were but five or six at table, and nothing could be more amicable, or in better taste, than the spirit of conciliation and moderation that prevailed between men so widely separated by opinion. This was not long before Gen. Lamarque was attacked by his final disease, and as there appeared to me to be improbability in the rumour of the affair of the Boulevards, I quite rightly set it down as one of the exaggerations that daily besiege our ears. It being near six, I consequently returned home to dinner, supposing that the day would end as so many had ended before. We were at table, or it was about half-past six o'clock, when the drum beat the _rappel_. At one period, scarcely a day passed that we did not hear this summons; indeed, so frequent did it become, that I make little doubt the government resorted to it as an expedient to strengthen itself, by disgusting the National Guards with the frequency of the calls; but of late, the regular weekly parades excepted, we had heard nothing of it. A few minutes later, François, who had been sent to the _porte-cochère_, returned with the intelligence that a soldier of the National Guard had just passed it, bleeding at a wound in the head. On receiving this information, I left the hotel and proceeded towards the river. In the Rue du Bac, the great thoroughfare of the faubourg, I found a few men, and most of the women, at their shop-doors, and _portes-cochères_, but no one could say what was going on in the more distant quarters of the town. There were a few people on the quays and bridges, and, here and there, a solitary National Guard was going to his place of rendezvous. I walked rapidly through the garden, which, at that hour, was nearly empty, as a matter of course, and passing under the arch of the palace, crossed the court and the Carrousel to la Rue de Richelieu. A profound calm reigned in and about the chateau; the sentinels and loungers of the Guards seeming as tranquil as usual. There was no appearance of any coming and going with intelligence, and I inferred that the royal family was either at St. Cloud, or at Neuilly. Very few people were in the Place, or in the streets; but those who were, paused occasionally, looking about them with curiosity, and almost uniformly in a bewildered and inquiring manner. I had reached the colonnade of the Théâtre Français, when a strong party of _gendarmes à cheval_ went scouring up the street, at a full gallop. Their passage was so swift and sudden, that I cannot say in which direction they came, or whither they went, with the exception that they took the road to the Boulevards. A _gendarme à pied_ was the only person near me, and I asked him, if he could explain the reason of the movement. "_Je n'en sais rien_," in the _brusque_ manner that the French soldiers are a little apt to assume, when it suits their humours, was all the reply I got. I walked leisurely into the galleries of the Palais Royal, which I had never before seen so empty. There was but a single individual in the garden, and he was crossing it swiftly, in the direction of the theatre. A head was, now and then, thrust out of a shop-door, but I never before witnessed such a calm in this place, which is usually alive with people. Passing part of the way through one of the glazed galleries, I was started by a general clatter that sprung up all around me in every direction, and which extended itself entirely around the whole of the long galleries. The interruption to the previous profound quiet, was as sudden as the report of a gun, and it became general, as it were, in an instant. I can liken the effect, after allowing for the difference in the noises, to that of letting fly sheets, tacks, and halyards, on board a vessel of war, in a squall, and to a sudden call to shorten sail. The place was immediately filled with men, women, and children, and the clatter proceeded from the window-shutters that were going up all over the vast edifice, at the same moment. In less than five minutes there was not a shop-window exposed. Still there was no apparent approach of danger. The drums had almost ceased beating, and as I reached the Carrousel, on my way back to the Rue St. Dominique, I saw nothing in the streets to justify all this alarm, which was either the result of a panic, or was calculated for political effect; artifice acting on apprehension. A few people were beginning to collect on the bridges and quays, and there was evidently a greater movement towards the Pont Neuf, than in the lower parts of the town. As I crossed the Pont Royal, a brigade of light artillery came up the quays from the Ecole Militaire, the horses on the jump, and the men seated on the carriages, or mounted, as belongs to this arm. The noise and hurry of their passage was very exciting, and it gave an impulse to the shopkeepers of the Rue du Bac, most of whom now began to close their windows. The guns whirled across the bridge, and dashed into the Carrousel, on a gallop, by the _guichet_ of the Louvre. Continuing down the Rue du Bac, the street was full of people, chiefly females, who were anxiously looking towards the bridge. One _garçon_, as he aided his master in closing the shop-window, was edifying him with anathemas against "_ces messieurs les républicains_," who were believed to be at the bottom of the disturbance, and for whom he evidently thought that the artillery augured badly. The next day he would be ready to shout _vive la république_ under a new impulse; but, at present, it is "_vive le commerce_!" On reaching the hotel, I gave my account of what was going on, pacified the apprehensions that had naturally been awakened, and sallied forth a second time, to watch the course of events. By this time some forty or fifty National Guards were collected on the quay, by the Pont Royal, a point where there ought to have been several hundreds. This was a sinister omen for the government, nor was the appearance of the crowd much more favourable. Tens of thousands now lined the quays, and loaded the bridges; nor were these people rabble, or _sans culottes_, but decent citizens, most of whom observed a grave, and, as I thought, a portentous silence. I make no manner of doubt that had a thousand determined men appeared among them at that moment, headed by a few leaders of known character, the government of Louis-Philippe would have dissolved like melting snow. Neither the National Guard, the army, nor the people were with it. Every one evidently waited the issue of events, without manifesting much concern for the fate of the present regime. Indeed it is not easy to imagine greater apathy, or indifference to the result, than was nearly everywhere visible. A few shopkeepers alone seemed troubled. On the Pont Royal a little crowd was collected around one or two men of the labouring classes, who were discussing the causes of the disturbance. First questioning a respectable-looking by-stander as to the rumours, I mingled with the throng, in order to get an idea of the manner in which the _people_ regarded the matter. It would seem that a collision had taken place between the troops and a portion of the citizens, and that a charge had been made by a body of cavalry on some of the latter, without having observed the formalities required by the law. Some of the people had raised the cry "_aux arms_;" several _corps de garde_ had been disarmed, and many thousands were rallying in defence of their liberties. In short everything wore the appearance of the commencement of another revolution. The point discussed by the crowd, was the right of the dragoons to charge a body of citizens without reading the riot act, or making what the French call, the "_sommations_." I was struck with the plain common sense of one or two of the speakers, who were of the class of artisans, and who uttered more good reason, and displayed more right feeling, in the five minutes I listened, than one is apt to meet with, on the same subjects, in a year, in the salons of Paris. I was the more struck by this circumstance, in consequence of the manner in which the same topic had been broached, quite lately, in the Chamber of Deputies. In one of the recent affairs in the east of France, the troops had fired on a crowd, without the previous _sommations_, in consequence, as was alleged, of some stones being hurled from the crowd against themselves. Every one, who has the smallest knowledge of a government of laws, understands its action in an affair of this sort. Ten thousand people are in a street, in their own right, and half a dozen of them commit an outrage. Military force becomes necessary, but before it is applied certain forms are required, to notify the citizen that his ordinary rights are suspended, in the interests of public order, and to warn him to go away. This is a provision that the commonest intellect can understand; and yet some of the leading administration men, _lawyers too_, maintained that soldiers had the rights of other men, and if stones were hurled at them from a crowd, they were perfectly justifiable in using their arms against that crowd! It is only necessary, you will perceive, to employ an agent, or two, to cast a few stones from a crowd, to place every collection of citizens at the mercy of an armed force, on this doctrine. A soldier has the right of a citizen to defend himself beyond dispute, against the man who assails him; but a citizen who is assailed from a crowd has no right to discharge a pistol into that crowd, by way of defending himself. But this is of a piece with most of the logic of the friends of exclusion. Their cause is bad, and their reasoning is necessarily bad also. From the Pont Royal I proceeded to the Pont Neuf, where the collection of people was still more numerous, every eye being fastened on the quays in the direction of the Place de la Bastille, near which the disturbance had commenced. Nothing, however, was visible, though, once or twice, we heard a scattering fire of musketry. I waited here an hour, but nothing farther was heard, and, according to promise, I returned to the hotel, to repeat the little I had seen and gathered. In passing, I observed that the number of National Guards at the Pont Royal had increased to about a hundred. After quieting the apprehensions of my family, I proceeded to quiet those of a lady of my acquaintance, who was nearly alone in her lodgings. I found her filled with apprehensions, and firmly believing that the present government was to be overturned. Among other things, she told me that the populace had drawn General Lafayette, in triumph, to his own house, and that, previously to the commencement of the conflict, he had been presented with a _bonnet rouge_, which he had put upon his head. The _bonnet rouge_, you will understand, with all Frenchmen is a symbol of extreme Jacobinism, and of the reign of terror. I laughed at her fears, and endeavoured to convince her that the idle tale about General Lafayette could not be true. So far from wishing to rule by terror, it was his misfortune not to resort to the measures of caution that were absolutely necessary to maintain his own legal ascendancy, whenever he got into power. He was an enthusiast for liberty, and acted on the principle that others were as well disposed and as honest as himself. But to all this she turned a deaf ear, for, though an amiable and a sensible woman, she had been educated in the prejudices of a caste, being the daughter and sister of peers of France. I found the tale about General Lafayette quite rife, on going again into the streets. The disposition to give credit to vulgar reports of this nature, is not confined to those whose condition in life naturally dispose them to believe the worst of all above them, for the vulgar-minded form a class more numerous than one might be induced to think, on glancing a look around him. Liberality and generosity of feeling is the surest test of a gentleman; but, in addition to those of training and of a favourable association, except in very peculiar cases, they are apt to require some strong natural advantages, to help out the tendencies of breeding and education. Every one who has seen much of the world, must have remarked the disposition, on the part of those who have not had the same opportunities, to cavil at opinions and usages that they cannot understand, merely because they do not come within the circle of their own every-day and familiar usages. Our own country abounds with these rustic critics; and I can remember the time when there was a species of moral impropriety attached to practices that did not enter into every man's habits. It was almost deemed immoral to breakfast or dine at an hour later than one's neighbour. Now, just this sort of feeling, one quite as vulgar, and much more malignant, prevails in Europe against those who may see fit to entertain more liberal notions in politics than others of their class. In England, I have already told you, the system is so factitious, and has been so artfully constructed, by blending church and state, that it must be an uncommonly clever man who, in politics, can act vigorously on the golden rule of Christ, that of doing "unto others, as you would have others do unto you," and escape the imputation of infidelity! A desire to advance the interests of his fellow-creatures, by raising them in the social scale, is almost certain to cause a man to be set down as destitute of morals and honesty. By imputations of this nature, the efforts and influence of some of the best men England has ever produced, have been nearly neutralized, and there is scarcely a distinguished liberal in the kingdom, at this moment, whom even the well-meaning of the church-and-state party do not regard with a secret distrust of his intentions and character. In the practice of imitation this feeling has even extended (though in a mitigated form) to America, a country in which, were the truth felt and understood, a man could not possibly fulfil all the obligations of education and superior training, without being of the party of the people. Many gentlemen in America, beyond dispute, are not of the popular side, but I am of opinion that they make a fundamental mistake as _gentlemen_. They have permitted the vulgar feelings generated by contracted associations and the insignificant evils of a neighbourhood, to still within them the high feelings and generous tendencies that only truly belong to the caste. In France, the English feeling, modified by circumstances, is very apparent, although it is not quite so much the fashion to lay stress on mere morality. The struggle of selfishness and interests is less veiled and mystified in France than on the other side of the Channel. But the selfish principle, if anything, is more active; and few struggle hard for others, without being suspected of base motives. By looking back at the publications of the time, you will learn the manner in which Washington was vituperated by his enemies, at the commencement of the revolution. Graydon, in his "Memoirs of a Life spent in Pennsylvania," mentions a discourse he held with a young English officer, who evidently was well disposed, and wished to know the truth. This gentleman had been taught to believe Washington an adventurer, who had squandered the property of a young widow whom he had married, by gambling and dissipation, and who was now ready to embark in any desperate enterprise to redeem his fortune! This, then, was probably the honest opinion the British army, in 1776, entertained of the man, whom subsequent events have shown to have been uniformly actuated by the noblest sentiments, and who, instead of being the adventurer represented, is known to have put in jeopardy a large estate, through disinterested devotion to the country, and the prevailing predominant trait of whose character was an inflexible integrity of purpose. Now, Lafayette is obnoxious to a great deal of similar vulgar feeling, without being permitted, by circumstances, to render the purity of his motives as manifest, as was the better fortune of his great model, Washington. The unhandsome and abrupt manner in which he was dismissed from the command of the National Guards, though probably a peace-offering to the allies, was also intended to rob him of the credit of a voluntary resignation.[9]--But, all this time, we are losing sight of what is passing in the streets of Paris. [Footnote 9: General Lafayette took the republican professions of the King too literally, at first, and he did not always observe the _ménagement_, perhaps, that one seated on a throne, even though it be a popular one, is apt to expect. In 1830 he told the writer the King had, that morning, said, that some about him called the General a "maire du palais." On being asked if the King appeared to entertain the same notion, his answer was, "Well, he professes not to do so; but then I think he has _tant soit peu_ of the same feeling." This was ticklish ground to stand on with a sovereign, and, perhaps, a case without a parallel in France, since the days of Hugues Capet. A few weeks later, General Lafayette related another conversation held with Louis-Philippe, on the subject of his own unceremonious dismissal from office. "You shall be named _honorary_ Commander-in-chief of the National Guards, for life," said the King. "Sire, how would you like to be an honorary king?" It is quite apparent that such a friendship could not last for ever.] Troops of the line began to appear in large bodies as the evening closed, and the reports now came so direct as to leave no doubt that there was a sharp contest going on in the more narrow streets of the Quartier Montmartre. All this time the feelings of the crowd on the bridges and quays appeared to be singularly calm. There was little or no interest manifested in favour of either side, and, indeed, it would not be easy to say what the side opposed to the government was. The Carlists looked distrustful, the republicans bold, and the _juste milieu_ alarmed. I went back to the hotel to make my report, again, about nine, and then proceeded by the quay and the Pont Louis XVI. to the Carrousel. By the way, I believe I have forgotten to say, in any of my letters, that in crossing the Place Louis XVI, with a French friend, a month or two since, he informed me he had lately conversed with Count--, who had witnessed the execution of Louis XVI, and that he was told there was a general error prevalent as regarded the spot where the guillotine was erected on that occasion. According to this account, which it is difficult to believe is not correct, it was placed on the side of the Place near the spot where the carriages for Versailles usually stand, and just within the _borgnes_ that line the road that here diverges towards the quay. While correcting popular errors of this sort, I will add that M. Guillotine, the inventor of that instrument that bears his name, is, I believe, still living; the story of his having been executed on his own machine, being pure poetry. Passing by the Rue de Rivoli, I went to see an English lady of our acquaintance, who resided in this quarter of the town. I found her alone, uneasy, and firmly persuaded that another revolution had commenced. She was an aristocrat by position, and though reasonably liberal, anxious to maintain the present order of things, like all the liberal aristocrats, who believe it to be the last stand against popular sway. She has also friends and connexions about the person of the King, and probably considered their fortunes as, in some measure, involved in those of the court. We condoled with each other, as a matter of course; she, because there was a revolution, and I, because the want of faith, and the stupendous frauds, practised under the present system, rendered it necessary. It was near eleven o'clock before I quitted this part of the town. The streets were nearly deserted, a patrol occasionally passing; but the strangers were few, scarcely any having yet returned after their flight from the cholera. The gates of the garden were closed, and I found sentinels at the _guichets_ of the Carrousel, who prevented my return by the usual route. Unwilling to make the _détour_ by the way I had come, I proceeded by the Rue de Rivoli. As I was walking quite near to the palace, in order to avoid some mud, I came suddenly on a _Garde National_ who was placed behind a sentry-box _en faction_. I cannot describe to you the furious scream with which this man cried "_Allez au large_." If he took me for a body of bloody-minded republicans, rushing forward to disarm him, I certainly thought he was some wild beast. The man was evidently frightened, and just in a condition to take every bush for an enemy. It is true the other party was rather actively employed in disarming the different guards, but this fellow was within a hundred feet of the Etat Major, and in no sort of danger. Notwithstanding the presented bayonet, I am not quite certain he would not have dropped his arms had I lifted my walking-stick, though one runs more hazard from a robber, or a sentinel, who is frightened, than from one who is cool. There was, however, no blood shed. Finding the Carrousel closed to me, I passed into the Rue St. Honoré, which was also pretty well garnished with troops. A few truculent youths were shouting a short distance ahead of me, but, on the appearance of a patrol, they ran off. At length I got as far as the Rue du Coq St. Honoré, and seeing no one in the street, I turned short round its corner, thinking to get into the court of the Louvre, and to the other side of the river by the Pont des Arts. Instead of effecting this clever movement, I ran plump on a body of troops, who were drawn up directly across the street, in a triple line. This was a good position, for the men were quite protected from a fire, up or down the great thoroughfare, while by wheeling on either flank they were ready to act, in a moment, in either direction. My reception was not flattering, but the officer in command was too cool, to mistake a solitary individual for a band of rebels, and I was suffered to continue up the Rue St. Honoré. I got into the rear of this guard by turning through the next opening. The court of the Louvre was unguarded and empty, and passing through it, I got a glimpse of a picturesque bivouac of troops in the Carrousel. Seeing no obstruction, I went in that direction, and penetrated to the very rear of a squadron of cuirassiers, who were dismounted, forming the outer line of the whole body. There may have been three or four thousand men of all arms assembled in this spot, chiefly, if not all, regular troops. I stayed among them unobserved, or at least, unmolested, near half an hour, watching the effect of the different groups, by the light of the camp fires. Strong patrols, principally cavalry, went and came constantly, and scarcely five minutes passed without the arrival and departure of mounted expresses, the head-quarters of the National Guards being in the palace. It was drawing towards midnight, and I bethought me of the uneasiness of those I had left in the Rue St. Dominique. I was retiring by the upper _guichet_, the only one unguarded, and had nearly reached it, when a loud shout was heard on the quay. This sounded like service, and it was so considered by the troops, for the order "_aux armes_" was given in a moment. The cuirassiers mounted, wheeled into platoons, and trotted briskly towards the enemy with singular expedition. Unluckily, they directed their advance to the very _guichet_ which I was also approaching. The idea of being caught between two fires, and that in a quarrel which did not concern me, was not agreeable. The state of things called for decision, and knowing the condition of affairs in the Carrousel, I preferred siding with _the juste milieu_, for once in my life. The cuirassiers were too much in a hurry to get through the _guichet_, which was a defile, and too steady to cut me down in passing; and, first giving them a few minutes to take the edge off the affair, if there was to be any fighting, I followed them to the quay. This alarm was real, I understood next day; but the revolters made their retreat by the Pont des Arts, which is impracticable for cavalry, attacking and carrying a _corps de garde_, in the Quartier St. Jacques. The cuirassiers were trotting briskly towards the Pont Neuf, in order to get at them, when I came out on the quay, and, profiting by the occasion, I got across the river, by the Pont des Arts. It was strange to find myself alone on this bridge at midnight, in the heart of a great capital, at a moment when its streets were filled with troops, while contending factions were struggling for the mastery, and perhaps the fate of not only France, but of all Europe, was hanging on the issue! Excited by these reflections, I paused to contemplate the scene. I have often told you how picturesque and beautiful Paris appears viewed from her bridges. The finest position is that of the Pont Royal; but the Pont des Arts, at night, perhaps affords even more striking glimpses of those ancient, tall, angular buildings along the river, that, but for their forms and windows, would resemble low rocky cliffs. In the centre of this mass of dwellings, among its damp and narrow streets, into which the sun rarely penetrates, lay bodies of men, sleeping on their arms, or merely waiting for the dawn, to decide the fate of the country. It was carrying one back to the time of the "League" and the "Fronde," and I involuntarily cast my eyes to that balconied window in the Louvre, where Charles IX. is said to have stood when he fired upon the flying Protestants. The brooding calm that reigned around was both characteristic and strange. Here was an empire in jeopardy, and yet the population had quietly withdrawn into their own abodes, awaiting the issue with as much apparent tranquillity, as if the morrow was to be like another day. Use, and a want of sympathy between the governed and their governors, had begotten this indifference. When I reached the Quai Voltaire, not a man was visible, except a picket on the Pont Royal. Not knowing but some follower of the House of Orleans, more loyal than usual, might choose to detain me, because I came from America, I passed down one of the first streets, entering the Rue du Bac, at some distance from the bridge. I met but half a dozen people between the quays and the Hotel de ----, and all the shops were hermetically sealed. As soon as I entered, the porter shut and barred the gate of our own hotel, and we retired, to rise and see what a "night might bring forth." "_Les canons grondent dans les rues, monsieur_" was the remark of the porter, as I passed out into the street next morning. The population was circulating freely in our part of the town; the shops, too, were re-opened, and it appeared to be pretty generally understood that no fighting was to take place in that vicinity. Passing up the Rue du Bac, I met three _Gardes Nationaux_, who, by their conversation, were fresh from the field, having passed the night in what may be called the enemy's country. They were full of marvels, and, in their own opinion, full of glory. The streets were now alive with people, the quays and bridges being still resorted to, on account of their affording an unobstructed avenue to the sounds that came from the quarter where the conflict was going on. Occasionally, a discharge of musketry reached these spots, and once or twice I heard the report of a gun; but the firing was desultory, far from heavy, and irregular. In the Carrousel I met an English acquaintance, and we agreed to go towards the scene of action together, in order to learn what was going on. My companion was loud in his complaints against the revolters, who, he said, would retard the progress of liberty half a century by their rashness. The government would put them down, and profit by its victory to use strong measures. I have learned to distrust the liberalism of some of the English, who are too apt to consult their own national interests, in regarding the rights of their neighbours. This, you will say, is no more than human nature, which renders all men selfish. True; but the concerns of few nations being as extensive, varied, and artificial, as those of England, the people of other countries are not liable to be influenced by so many appeals to divert them from a sound and healthful state of feeling. England, as a nation, has never been a friend of liberty in other nations, as witness her long and bitter hostility to ourselves, to France and Holland, and her close alliance with Turkey, Persia, etc., etc. Just at this moment, apprehension of Russia causes her to dilate a little more than usual on the encouragement of liberty; but it is a mystification that can deceive no one of the least observation. Of whatever sins England is to be accused, as a nation, she cannot be accused of that of political propagandism. Even her own recent progress in liberty has been the result of foreign and external example. I now speak of the state, which extends its influence very far into society; but there are many individuals who carry their principles as far as any men on earth. This latter class, moreover, is largely and rapidly on the increase, has always effected, and will still effect, far more than the slate itself in favour of freedom. We went by the Palais Royal, the Passages Vivienne, and du Panorama, to the Boulevards. The streets were filled with people, as on a fête, and there appeared still to be a good deal of anxiety as to the result. There were plenty of troops, report saying that sixty thousand men were under arms on the side of the government. Half that number would suffice to assure its success unless there should prove to be disaffection. Had a single regiment of the line declared against the King the previous day, or even on the 6th of June, Louis-Philippe, in my opinion, would have been dethroned. But, so far as I can learn, none of the principal persons of the opposition appeared against him on this occasion, or seemed to have any connexion with the affair. My companion left me on the Boulevards, and I proceeded towards the Porte St. Denis where there was evidently something like a contest. There was a little firing, and I met one or two wounded men, who were retiring to their _casernes._ One was shot through the body. But the affair at the Porte St. Denis proved to be nothing serious, and was soon over. The revolters had retired into the Rue St. Méry, where they were closely encircled by large bodies of troops, and whither I did not deem it prudent to follow them. The struggle, in that direction, was much sharper, and we occasionally heard cannon. You will probably be curious to know if one did not feel uneasy, in walking about the streets of a town, while so many men were contending in its streets. A moment's reflection will show you that there was little or no danger. One could find a cover in a moment. The streets were thronged, and it was little probable that either party would wantonly fire on the mass. The contest was confined to a particular part of the town, and then a man of ordinary discretion would hardly be so silly as to expose himself unnecessarily, in a quarrel with which he had no concern. Women and children were certainly killed on this occasion, but it was probably under circumstances that did not, in the least, affect the great body of the inhabitants. The cafés were frequented as usual, and a little distance from the scene of action, everything wore the air of an ordinary Sunday, on which the troops were to be reviewed. The morning passed in this manner, when, about four o'clock, I again found myself at the Pont Royal, after paying a visit to the hotel. Here I met two American friends, and we walked by the quay of the palace, towards the Pont Neuf. The people were in a dense crowd, and it was even difficult to penetrate the mass. Just before we reached the bridge, we heard shouts and cries of _Vive le Roi_, and presently I saw M. de Chabot-Rohan, the first honorary aide-de-camp, a gentleman whom I personally knew, and who usually led the cortege of the King. It would seem that Louis-Philippe had arrived from the country, and had passed by the Boulevards to the Place de la Bastille, whence he was now returning to the Tuileries, by the quays. His appearance in the streets, during such a scene, has been much lauded, and the firmness necessary to the occasion, much dwelt on in the papers. A very timid man might certainly have been afraid to expose his person in this manner, but the risk was by no means as great as has been supposed. The cortege was nowhere under fire, nor, but for, a few minutes, near the scene of action; and it was not easy to assassinate a man moving through streets that were filled with troops. _Au reste_, there is no reason whatever to suppose the King would not have behaved personally well, in far more critical circumstances.[10] The royal party passed into the Carrousel by the court of the Louvre, while we turned upon the bridge. [Footnote 10: I once asked General Lafayette his opinion of the nerve of the Duc d'Orleans (_Egalité_). He laughed, and said the King had made an appeal to him quite lately, on the same subject. "And the answer?" "I told his Majesty that I believed his father was a _brave_ man; but, you may be sure, I was glad be did not ask me if I thought he was an _honest_ one, too."] The Pont Neuf was crowded with troops, who occupied the _trottoirs_, and with men, women, and children. There had been some skirmishing at the Place de Grève, and the scene of the principal contest, the Rue St. Méry, was near by. We were slowly threading the crowd with our faces towards the island, when a discharge of musketry (four or five pieces at most), directly behind us, and quite near, set everybody in motion. A flock of sheep would not have scattered in greater confusion, at the sudden appearance of a strange dog among them, than the throng on the bridge began to scamper. Fear is the most contagious of all diseases, and, for a moment, we found ourselves running with the rest. A jump or two sufficed, however, and we stopped. Two soldiers, one a National Guard, and the other a young conscript, belonging to the line, caught my eye, and knowing there was no danger, we had time to stop and laugh at them. The National Guard was a little Mayeux-looking fellow, with an abdomen like a pumpkin, and he had caught hold of his throat, as if it were actually to prevent his heart from jumping out of his mouth. A caricature of fright could scarcely be more absurd. The young conscript, a fair red-haired youth, was as white as a sheet, and he stood with his eyes and mouth open, like one who thought he saw a ghost, immoveable as a statue. He was sadly frightened, too. The boy would probably have come to, and proved a good soldier in the end; but as for Mr. Mayeux, although scarcely five feet high, he appeared as if he could never make himself short enough. He had evidently fancied the whole affair a good joke, up to that precise moment, when, for the first time, the realities of a campaign burst upon his disordered faculties. The troops in general, while they pricked up their ears, disdained even to shoulder their arms. For those on the bridge, there was, in truth, no danger, although the nearness of the volley, and the suddenness of the alarm, were well adapted to set a crowd in motion. The papers next day, said one or two had been slain by this discharge, which actually came from the revolters. You will probably be surprised, when I tell you that I had an engagement to dine to-day, with a gentleman who fills a high situation near the person of the King. He had sent me no notice of a postponement, and as I had seen him pass in the cortège, I was reminded that the hour to dress was near. Accordingly, I returned home, in order to prove to him that I was as indifferent as any Frenchman could be, to the events we had all just witnessed. I found a dozen people assembled in the drawing-room of Madame ----, at six o'clock precisely, the same as if Paris were quite tranquil. The General had not yet returned, but I was enabled to report that he had entered the palace in safety. A moment before the dinner was announced, he returned, and brought the information that the revolt was virtually suppressed, a few desperate individuals, who had thrown themselves into a church, alone holding out. He was in high spirits, and evidently considered the affair a triumph to Louis-Philippe. LETTER V. National Guards in the Court of the Palace.--Unclaimed Dead in the Morgue.--View of the Scene of Action.--A blundering Artillerist.--Singular Spectacle.--The Machinations of the Government--Martial Law.--Violations of the Charter.--Laughable Scene in the Carrousel.--A refractory Private of the National Guard. Dear ----, The day after the contest was closed, I went to the Louvre, where I usually met Mr. M----, who was busy copying. He was almost alone, in the long and gorgeous galleries, as in the days of the cholera; but we got a view of the National Guards that had been concerned in the affair of the previous day, who were drawn up in the court of the palace to receive the thanks of the King. There could not have been five thousand of them, but all might not have been present. From the Louvre I went to took at the principal scene of action. A collection of some of the unclaimed dead was in the Morgue, and every one was allowed to enter. There were fifty or sixty bodies in this place, and among them were a few women and children, who had probably been killed by accident. Nearly all had fallen by gun-shot wounds, principally musket-balls; but a few had been killed by grape. As the disaffected had fought under cover most of the time, I fancy the cavalry did little in this affair. It was whispered that agents of the police were present to watch the countenances and actions of the spectators, with a view to detect the disaffected. As we had several of Napoleon's soldiers at dinner yesterday, and they had united to praise the military character of the position taken by the revellers, I was curious to examine it. The Rue St. Méry is narrow, and the houses are high. The tower of the church is a little advanced, so as to enfilade it, in a manner, and the paving-stones had been used to make barricades, as in 1830. These stones are much larger than our own, are angular, and of a size that works very well into a wall; and the materials being plenty, a breastwork, that is proof against everything but artillery, is soon formed by a crowd. Two streets entered the Rue St. Méry near each other, but not in a right line, so that the approach along each is commanded by the house that stands across its end. One of these houses appears to have been a citadel of the disaffected, and most of the fighting was at and near this spot. Artillery had been brought up against the house in question, which was completely riddled, though less injured by round-shot than one could have thought possible. The windows were broken, and the ceilings of the upper rooms were absolutely torn to pieces by musket-balls, that had entered on the rise. Some twenty or thirty dead were found in this dwelling. I had met Col.--, in the course of the morning, and we visited this spot together. He told me that curiosity had led him to penetrate as far as this street, which faces the citadel of the revolters, the previous day, and he showed me a _porte-cochère_, under which he had taken shelter, during a part of the attack. The troops engaged were a little in advance of him, and he described them as repeatedly recoiling from the fire of the house, which, at times, was rather sharp. The troops, however, were completely exposed, and fought to great disadvantage. Several hundreds must have been killed and wounded at and near this spot. There existed plain proof of the importance of nerve in battle, in a shot that just appeared sticking in the wall of one of the lateral buildings, nearly opposite the _porte-cochère_, where Col.--had taken shelter. The artillerist who pointed the gun from which it had been discharged, had the two sides of the street to assist his range, and yet his shot had hit one of the lateral buildings, at no great distance from the gun, and at a height that would have sent it far above the chimneys of the house at which it was fired! But any one in the least acquainted with life, knows that great allowances must be made for the poetry, when he reads of "charges," "free use of the bayonet," and "braving murderous discharges of grape." Old and steady troops do sometimes display extraordinary fortitude, but I am inclined to think that the most brilliant things are performed by those who have been drilled just long enough to obey orders and act together, but who are still so young as not to know exactly the amount of the risk they run. Extraordinary acts of intrepidity are related of the revolters on this occasion, which are most probably true, as this desperate self-devotion, under a state of high excitement, enters fully into the composition of the character of the French, who are more distinguished for their dashing than for their enduring qualities. The Rue St. Méry exhibited proofs of the late contest, for some distance, but nowhere had the struggle been so fierce as at the house just mentioned. The church had been yielded the last, but it did not strike me that there had been as sharp fighting near it, as at the other place. It was a strange spectacle to witness the population of a large town crowding through its streets, curious to witness the scene of a combat that so nearly touched their own interests, and yet apparently regarding the whole with entire indifference to everything but the physical results. I thought the sympathies of the throng were with the conquered rather than with their conquerors, and this more from admiration of their prowess, than from any feeling of a political character, for no one appeared to know who the revolters were. In the course of the morning I met--in the street. He is one of the justest-minded men of my acquaintance, and I have never known him attempt to exaggerate the ill conduct of his political opponents, or to extenuate the errors of those to whom he belongs. Speaking of this affair, he was of opinion that the government had endeavoured to bring it on, with the certainly that success would strengthen them, but, at the same time, he thought it useless to deny that there was a plot to overturn the present dynasty. According to his impressions, the spontaneous movements of the disaffected were so blended with those that proceeded from the machinations of the government to provoke a premature explosion, that it was not easy to say which predominated, or where the line of separation was to be drawn. I presume this is the true state of the case, for it is too much to say that France is ever free from political plots. The public had been alarmed this morning, by rumours of an intention on the part of government to declare Paris in a state of siege, which is tantamount to bringing us all under martial law. This savours more of the regime Napoleon, than of the promised liberty that was to emanate from the three days. The opposition are beginning to examine the charter, in order to ascertain what their rights are on paper: but what avails a written compact, or indeed any other compact, against the wants and wishes of those who have the power? The Cour de Cassation, however, is said to be composed of a majority of Carlists, and, by way of commentary on the wants of the last two years, the friends of liberty have some hopes yet from these nominees of the Bourbons! We live in a droll world, dear ----, and one scarcely knows on which side he is to look for protection, among the political weathercocks of the period. In order to comprehend the point, you will understand that a clause of the charter expressly stipulates that no one shall be condemned by any "but his natural judges," which clearly means that no extraordinary or unusual courts shall be established for the punishment of ordinary crimes. Now, while it is admitted that martial law brings with it military tribunals and military punishments, it is contended that there is no pretext for declaring martial law in the capital, at a moment when the power of the present government is better assured than it has been at any time since its organization. But the charter solemnly stipulates that the conscription shall be abolished, while conscripts are and have been regularly drafted yearly, ever since the signature of Louis XVIII. was affixed to the instrument. The shops were all open to-day, and business and pleasure are resuming their regular rounds. The National Guards of the _banlieue_, who were actively engaged yesterday, are befêted and be-praised, while the lookers-on affirm that some of them believe they have just been fighting against the Carlists, and that some think they have crushed the Jacobins. All believe they have done a good turn to liberty. I was returning through the Carrousel, when chance made me the spectator of a laughable scene. A body of these troops, honest, well-intentioned countrymen, with very equivocal equipments, were still in the court of the palace. It would seem that one warrior had strayed outside the railing, where he was enjoying a famous gossip with some neighbours, whom he was paying, for their cheer, by a narrative of the late campaign. A sergeant was summoning him back to his colours, but the love of good wine and a good gossip were too strong for discipline. The more dignified the sergeant became, the more refractory was his neighbour, until, at last, the affair ended in a summons as formal as that which would be made to a place besieged. The answer was truly heroic, being rendered into the vernacular, "I won't." An old woman advanced from the crowd to reason with the sergeant, but she could get no farther than "_Ecoutez, Mons. le Sergeant_"--for, like all in authority, he was unreasonable and impatient when his power was called in question. He returned to the battalion, and tried to get a party to arrest the delinquent, but this was easier said than done. The troops evidently had no mind to disturb a neighbour who had just done the state good service, and who was now merely enjoying himself. The officer returned alone, and once more summoned the truant, if possible, more solemnly than ever. By this time the mouth of the delinquent was too full to answer, and he just turned his back on the dignitary, by way of letting him see that, his mind was made up. In the end, the soldier got the best of it, compelling the other to abandon the point. The country people, of whom there were a good many present, looked on the matter seriously, but the Parisians laughed outright. I mention this little incident, for it shows that men are the same everywhere, and because this was an instance of military insubordination directly under the windows of the palace of the King of France, at the precise moment when his friends were boasting that the royal authority was triumphant, which, had it occurred in the interior of America, would have been quoted as proof of the lawlessness of democracy! I apprehend that militia, taken from their daily occupations, and embodied, and this, too, under the orders of their friends and neighbours, are pretty much alike, in their leading characteristics, all over the world. LETTER VI. Aspect of Paris.--Visit to Lafayette.--His demeanour.--His account of the commencement of the Revolt.--Machinations of the Police.--Character of Lafayette.--His remarkable expression to General--.--Conversation on the Revolution of July.--The _Doctrinaires_.--Popular Sympathy in England and on the Rhine.--Lafayette's dismissal from the command of the National Guards.--The Duke of Orleans and his Friends.--Military Tribunals in Paris.--The Citizen King in the Streets.--Obliteration of the _Fleur-de-lis_.--The Royal Equipage.--The Duke of Brunswick in Paris.--His forcible Removal from France.--His Reception in Switzerland.--A ludicrous Mistake. Dear ----, During the excitement of the last three days, I had not bethought me of paying a visit to the Rue d'Anjou: indeed I was under the impression that General Lafayette was at La Grange, for I had understood that he only remained at Paris to attend the funeral of Lamarque. There were rumours of his having been arrested, but these I set down to the marvel-mongers, who are always busy when extraordinary events occur. Just at dusk, I heard, by accident, there was still a chance of finding him in his apartment, and I walked across the river, in order to ascertain the fact for myself. What a difference between the appearance of the streets this evening, and that which they had made on the night of the 5th! Now the bridges were deserted, the garden was empty, and the part of the population that was visible, seemed uneasy and suspicious. The rumour that the government intended to declare Paris in a state of siege, and to substitute military for the ordinary civil tribunals, was confirmed, though the measure was not yet officially announced. This act was in direct opposition to a clause in the charter, as I have told you, and the pretence, in a town in which fifty thousand troops had just quelled a rising of a few hundred men, was as frivolous as the measure itself is illegal. It has, however, the merit of throwing aside the mask, and of showing the world in what manner the present authorities understand a government of the people. A dead calm reigned in the Rue d'Anjou. Apart from the line of _cabriolets de place_, of which there were but three, not a carriage nor a human being was visible in the street. Nothing stood before the _porte-cochère_ of No. 6, a thing so unusual, more especially in critical moments, that I suspected I had been misled, and that I should have a bootless walk. The gate was open, and entering without knocking, I was just turning off the great staircase, to ascend the humbler flight that leads to the well-known door, that door through which I had so lately seen so many dignitaries pressing to enter, when the porter called to me to give an account of myself. He recognised me, however, by the light of the lamp, and nodded an assent. I waited a minute or more, after ringing, before the door was opened by Bastien. The honest fellow let me in on the instant, and, without proceeding to announce me, led the way through the salons to the bed-room of his master. The General was alone with the husband of his grand-daughter, François de Corcelles. The former was seated with his back to the door as I entered; the latter was leaning against the mantel-piece. The "_bonsoir, mon ami_," of the first was frank and kind as usual, but I was immediately struck with a change in his manner. He was calm, and he held out his hand, as Bastien mentioned my name; but, although not seated at his table, he did not rise. Glancing my eyes at him, as I passed on to salute Monsieur de Corcelles, I thought I had never before seen Lafayette wearing so fine an air of majesty. His large, noble form was erect and swelling, and that eye, whose fire age had not quenched, was serenely proud. He seemed prepared to meet important events with the dignity and sternness that marked his principles. A perfect knowledge of these principles, and the intimacy that he had so kindly encouraged, emboldened me to speak frankly. After a few minutes' conversation, I laughingly inquired what he had done with the _bonnet rouge_. The question was perfectly understood, and I was surprised to learn that, in the present instance, there was more foundation for the report than is usually the case with vulgar rumour. He gave the following account of what occurred at la Place de la Bastille. When the procession halted, and the funeral discourses were being delivered, the tumult commenced; in what manner, he was unable to say. In the midst of the commotion, a man appeared on horseback wearing the dreaded _bonnet rouge_. Some one approached him, and invited him to repair to the Hôtel de Ville, in short, to put himself again at the head of the revolt, and offered him a _bonnet rouge_. He took the cap, and threw it into the mud. After this, he entered his carriage to return home, when a portion of the populace took out the horses and drew him to the Rue d'Anjou. On reaching the hotel, the people peaceably withdrew. You will readily suppose I was curious to learn the opinion of General Lafayette concerning the events of the week. The journals of the opposition had not hesitated to ascribe the affair to the machinations of the police, which, justly or not, is openly accused of having recourse to expedients of this nature, with a view to alarm the timid, and to drive them to depend for the security of their persons, and the maintenance of order, on the arm of a strong government. In the recent case it had also been said, that aware of the existence of plots, the ministry had thought it a favourable occasion to precipitate their explosion, taking the precaution to be in readiness with a force sufficient to secure the victory. I have often alluded to that beautiful and gentleman-like feature in the character of Lafayette, which appears to render him incapable of entertaining a low prejudice against those to whom he is opposed in politics. This is a trait that I conceive to be inseparable from the lofty feelings which are the attendant of high moral qualities, and it is one that I have, a hundred times, had occasion to admire in Lafayette. I do not, now, allude to that perfect _bon ton_, which so admirably regulates all his words and deportment, but to a discriminating judgment that does not allow interest or passion to disarm his sense of right. It certainly is a weakness in him not to distinguish sufficiently between the virtuous and the vicious,--those who are actuated like himself by philanthropy and a desire to do good, and those who seek their own personal ends; but this is a sacrifice, perhaps, that all must make who aim at influencing men by the weight of personal popularity. Jefferson has accused Lafayette of a too great desire to live in the esteem of others,[11] and perhaps the accusation is not altogether false; but the peculiar situation in which this extraordinary man has been placed, must be kept in view, while we decide on the merits of his system. His principles forbid his having recourse to the agencies usually employed by those who loose sight of the means in the object, and his opponents are the great of the earth. A man who is merely sustained by truth and the purity of his motives, whatever visionaries may say, would be certain to fail. Popularity is indispensable to the success of Lafayette, for thousands now support him, who, in despite of his principles, would become his enemies, were he to fall back sternly on the truth, and turn his back on all whose acts and motives would not, perhaps, stand the test of investigation. The very beings he wished to serve would desert him, were he to let them see he drew a stern but just distinction between the meritorious and the unworthy. Then the power of his adversaries must be remembered. There is nothing generous or noble in the hostility of modern aristocrats, who are mere graspers after gain, the most debasing of all worldly objects, and he who would resist them successfully must win golden opinions of his fellows, or they will prove too much for him. [Footnote 11: Was Mr. Jefferson himself free from a similar charge?] But I am speculating on principles, when you most probably wish for facts, or, if you must have opinions, for those of Lafayette in preference to my own. When I ventured to ask him if he thought the government had had any agency in producing the late struggle, his answer was given with the integrity and fearlessness that so eminently characterize the man. He was of opinion that there was a plot, but he also thought it probable that the agents of the government were, more or less, mixed up with it. He suspected at the moment, that the man who offered him the _bonnet rouge_ was one of these agents, though he freely admitted that the suspicion was founded more on past experience than on any knowledge of present facts. The individual himself was an utter stranger to him. It had been his intention to quit town immediately after the funeral obsequies were completed, but, added the old man, proudly, "they had spread a rumour of an intention to cause me to be arrested, and I wish to save them the trouble of going to La Grange to seek me." He then went on to tell me what he and his political friends had expected from the demonstration of public opinion, that they had prepared for this important occasion. "Things were approaching a crisis, and we wished to show the government that it must change its system, and that France had not made a revolution to continue the principles of the Holy Alliance. The attempt to obtain signs of popular support at the funeral of Casimir Perier was a failure, while, so great was our success at this procession in honour of Lamarque, that there must have been a new ministry and new measures, had not this unfortunate event occurred. As it is, the government will profit by events. I do not wish to wake any unjust accusations, but, with my knowledge of men and things, it is impossible not to feel distrust."[12] [Footnote 12: It appeared subsequently, by means of a public prosecution, that Vidocq, with a party of his followers, were among the revolters, disguised as countrymen. A government that has an intimation of the existence of a plot to effect its own overthrow, has an unquestionable right to employ spies to counteract the scheme; but if it proceed so far as to use incentives to revolt, it exceeds its legitimate powers.] While we were conversing, General ----, whom I had not seen since the dinner of the previous day, was announced and admitted. He stayed but a few minutes, for, though his reception was kind, the events of the last week had evidently cast a restraint about the manners of both parties. The visit appeared to me, to be one of respect and delicacy on the part of the guest, but recent occurrences, and his close connexion with the King, rendered it constrained; and, though there appeared no evident want of good feeling on either side, little was said, during this visit, touching the "two days," as the 5th and 6th of June are now termed, but that little served to draw from Lafayette a stronger expression of political hostility, than I had ever yet heard from his lips. In allusion to the possibility of the liberal party connecting itself with the government of Louis-Philippe, he said--"_à présent, un ruisseau de sang nous sépare_."[13] I thought General--considered this speech as a strong and a decisive one, for he soon after rose and took his leave. [Footnote 13: "We are now separated by a rivulet of blood."] Lafayette spoke favourably of the personal qualities and probity of his visitor, when he had withdrawn, but said that he was too closely incorporated with the _juste milieu_ to be any longer classed among his political friends. I asked him if he had ever known a true liberal in politics, who had been educated in the school of Napoleon? The General laughingly admitted that he was certainly a bad master to study under, and then added it had been intended to offer General ---- a portfolio, that of the public works I understood him to say, had they succeeded in overturning the ministry. This conversation insensibly led to one on the subject of the revolution of July, and on his own connexion with the events of that important moment. I despair of doing justice to the language of General Lafayette on this occasion, and still less so to his manner, which, though cool and dignified, had a Roman sternness about it that commanded the deepest respect. Indeed, I do not remember ever to have seen him with so much of the externals of a great man as on this evening, for no one, in common, is less an actor with his friends, or of simpler demeanour. But he now felt strongly, and his expressions were forcible, while his countenance indicated a portion of that which was evidently working within. You must be satisfied, however, with receiving a mere outline of what fell from his lips in an uninterrupted explanation that lasted fully half an hour. He accused his opponents, in general terms, of distorting his words, and of misrepresenting his acts. The celebrated saying of "_voici la meilleure des républiques_" in particular, had been falsely rendered, while the circumstances under which he spoke and acted at all, had been studiously kept out of view. It was apropos of this saying, that he entered into the explanations of the causes of the change of dynasty. The crisis which drove the cabinet of Charles X. to the extreme measures that overturned the throne, had been produced by a legislative combination. To effect their end, nearly every opinion, and all the shades of opposition, had united; many, even of those who were personally attached to the Bourbons, resisting their project of re-establishing the _ancien régime_. Most of the capitalists, in particular, and more especially those who were engaged in pursuits that were likely to be deranged by political convulsions, were secretly disposed to support the dynasty, while they were the most zealously endeavouring to reduce its power. The object of these men was to maintain peace, to protect commerce and industry, more especially their own, and, at the same time, to secure to property the control, of affairs. In short, England and her liberty were their models, though some among them had too much good sense to wish to retrograde, as is the case with a party in America, in order to make the imitation more perfect. Those who were for swallowing the English system whole, were called the _doctrinaires_, from their faith in a theory, while the different shades of dissenting opinions were distributed among all those who looked more to facts, and less to reasoning, than their credulous coadjutors. But all were zealous in opposing government under its present system, and with its palpable views. You know that the result was the celebrated ordinances, and a rising of the people. So little was either of these events foreseen, that the first probably astonished and alarmed the friends of the Bourbons, quite as much as it did their enemies. The second was owing chiefly to the courage and zeal of the young men connected with the press, sustained by the pride and daring of the working classes of Paris. The emergency was exactly suited to the _élan_ of the French character, which produced the sympathy necessary to the occasion among the different degrees of actors. With the movements that followed, those who had brought about the state of things which existed, by their parliamentary opposition, had little or nothing to do. Lafayette, himself, was at La Grange, nor did he reach Paris until the morning of the second day. So far from participating in the course of events, most of the deputies were seriously alarmed, and their first efforts were directed to an accommodation. But events were stronger than calculations, and the Bourbons were virtually dethroned, before any event or plan could be brought to bear upon the issue, in either the offensive or defensive. You are now to imagine the throne vacant, the actors in the late events passive spectators of what was to follow, and opportunity for a recurrence to parliamentary tactics. Men had leisure to weigh consequences. Another political crusade menaced France, and it is probable that nothing prevented its taking place, but the manifestations of popular sympathy in England, and on the Rhine. Then there was danger, too, that the bankers and manufacturers, and great landed proprietors, would lose the stake for which they had been playing, by permitting a real ascendancy of the majority. Up to that moment, the mass had looked to the opposition in the deputies as to their friends. In order to entice all parties, or, at least, as many as possible, the cry had been "_la charte_;" and the opposition had become identified with its preservation. The new Chambers had been convened, and, after the struggle was over, the population naturally turned to those who had hitherto appeared in their ranks as leaders. This fragment of the representation became of necessity the repository of all power. Lafayette had, thus far, been supported by the different sections of the opposition; for his influence with the mass to suppress violence, was looked to as of the last importance, by even his enemies. The very men who accused him of Jacobinical principles, and a desire to unsettle society, felt a security under his protection, that they would not have felt without him. Louis-Philippe, you will remember, made use of him, until the trial of the ministers was ended, when he was unceremoniously dismissed from the command of the National Guards, by the suppression of the office.[14] "It would have been in my power to declare a republic," he continued, in the course of his explanations, "and sustained by the populace of Paris, backed by the National Guards, I might have placed myself at its head. But six weeks would have closed my career, and that of the republic. The governments of Europe would have united to put us down, and the Bourbons had, to a great degree, disarmed France. We were not in a state to resist. The two successful invasions had diminished the confidence of the nation, which, moreover, would have been nearly equally divided in itself. But, allowing that we might have overcome our foreign enemies, a result I admit to have been possible, by the aid of the propaganda and the general disaffection, there would have been a foe at home, that certainly would have prevailed against us. Those gentlemen of the Chambers to whom a large portion of the people looked up with confidence, would have thwarted every important measure I attempted, and were there no other means to prevent a republic, _they would have thrown me into the river_." [Footnote 14: The writer has had a hundred occasions to learn, since his return to America, how much truth is perverted in crossing the Atlantic, and how little is really known of even prominent European facts, on this side of the water. It has suited some one to say, that Lafayette _resigned_ the office of commander-in-chief of the National Guards, and the fact is thus stated in most of our publications. The office was suppressed without consulting him, and, it was his impression, at the instigation of the Allied Powers. Something like an awkward explanation and a permission to resign was subsequently attempted.] This last expression is literal, and was twice uttered in the course of the evening. He then went on to add, that seeing the impossibility of doing as he could wish, he had been compelled to acquiesce in the proposal that came nearest to his own views. The friends of the Duke of Orleans were active, particularly M. Lafitte, who enjoyed a great deal of his own confidence, and the Duke himself was free in the expression of the most liberal sentiments. Under these circumstances, he thought it possible to establish a government that should be monarchical in form, and republican in fact. Such, or nearly such, is the case in England, and he did not see why such might not be the case in France. It is true the English republic is aristocratical, but this is a feature that depends entirely on the breadth and independence of the constituency. There was no sufficient reason why France should imitate England in that essential point, and by erecting a different constituency, she would virtually create another polity in fact, adhering always to the same general form. As respects the expression so often cited, he said his words were "_voici la meilleure des républics pour nous_;" distinctly alluding to the difficulties and embarrassments under which he acted. All this time he made no pretension to not having been deceived in the King, who had led him to think he entertained very different principles from those which events have shown to be his real sentiments. Something was then said of the _état de siége_, and of the intentions of the government. "I shall go to La Grange in a few days," observed the General, smiling, "unless they arrest me; there to remain until the 4th of July, when we shall have our usual dinner, I hope." I told him that the long fever under which A---- had suffered rendered a change of air necessary, and that I was making my preparations to quit France temporarily, on another tour. He pressed me to remain until the 4th, and when I told him that we might all be shot for sedition under the present state of things, if we drunk liberal toasts, he laughed and answered, that "their bark was worse than their bite." It was near tea when I took my leave, and returned to the Rue St. Dominique. The streets were gloomy and deserted, and I scarcely met a single individual, in walking the mile between the two hotels. There was a wild pleasure in viewing a town in such an extraordinary state, and I could not help comparing its present moody silence, to the scenes we had witnessed when the government was still so young and dependent as to feel the necessity of courting the people. I have already mentioned to you many of the events of that period, but some of them have been omitted, and some, too, which quite naturally suggest themselves, at this moment, when the King has established military tribunals in his very capital. On one occasion, in particular, I was walking in the Tuileries, when a noise attracted me towards a crowd. It was Louis-Philippe taking a walk! This you will understand was intended for effect--republican effect--and to show the lieges that he had the outward conformation of another man. He wore a white hat, carried an umbrella (I am not sure that it was red), and walked in as negligent a manner as a man could walk, who was working as hard as possible to get through with an unpleasant task. In short, he was condescending with all his might. A gentleman or two, in attendance, could barely keep up with him; and as for the rabble, it was fairly obliged to trot to gratify its curiosity. This was about the time the King of England electrified London, after a reign of exclusion, by suddenly appearing in its streets, walking about like another man. Whether there was any concert in this coincidence or not I do not know. On another occasion, A---- and myself drove out at night to view a bivouac in the Carrousel. We got ourselves entangled in a dense crowd in the Rue St. Honoré, and were obliged to come to a stand. While stationary, the crowd set up a tremendous cry of _Vive le roi!_ and a body of dismounted cavalry of the National Guard passed the carriage windows, flourishing their sabres, and yelling like madmen. Looking out, I saw the King in their midst, patrolling the streets of his good city of Paris, on foot! Now he has declared us all under martial law, and is about to shoot those he dislikes. The _fleur-de-lis_, as you know, is the distinctive symbol of the family of France. So much stress is laid on trifles of this nature here, that Napoleon, with his grinding military despotism, never presumed to adopt one for himself. During the whole of his reign, the coins of the country were decorated on one side with no more than an inscription and a simple wreath, though the gradual progress of his power, and the slow degress by which he brought forward the public, on these points, may yet be traced on these very coins. The first that were struck bore his head, as First Consul, with "_République Française_" on the reverse. After a time it was "_Empereur_," with "_République Française_." At length he was emboldened to put "_Empire Français_" on the reverse, feeling a true royal antipathy to the word republic. During the existing events that first succeeded the last revolution, no one thought of the _fleur-de-lis_ with which the Bourbons had sprinkled everything in and about the capital, not to say France. This omission attracted the attention of some demagogue, and there was a little _émeute_, before the arch of the Carrousel, with threats of destroying these ornaments. Soon after, workmen were employed to deface everything like a _fleur-de-lis_ in Paris. The hotel of the Treasury had many hundreds of them in large stone rosettes, every one of which disappeared before the chisel! The King actually laid down his family arms, causing the brush to be put to all his carriages. Speaking to Lafayette on this subject, he remarked, pithily--"Well, I told his Majesty I would have done this before there was a mob, and I would not have done it afterwards." The Bourbons usually drove with eight horses, but this king rarely appears with even six; though that number is not offensive, the other being the regal style. Some time since, before the approach of the late crisis, I saw the coachman of the palace, quite early, or before the public was stirring, exercising with eight. It is to be presumed that the aspect of things, the pears, and the Duchess of Berri, compelled the leaders to be taken off. A day or two after this event, I dined in company with a deputy, who is also a distinguished advocate, who made me laugh with an account of a recent freak of another sovereign, that has caused some mirth here. This advocate was employed in the affair, professionally, and his account may be depended on. You know that shortly after the revolution of 1830, the people of Brunswick rose and deposed their Duke, bestowing the throne, or arm-chair, for I know not the official term, on his brother. This Duke of Brunswick is the grandson of him who figured in the wars of the _old_ revolution, and the son of him who was killed at Quatre Bras. His grandmother was a sister of George III, and his aunt was the wife of George IV; the latter being his cousin, his uncle, and his guardian. The deposed prince retired to Paris, if it can be called retirement to come from Brunswick here. After some time, the police was informed that he was busy in enrolling men to make a counter-revolution in his own states. He was warned of the consequences, and commanded to desist. The admonition was disregarded, and after exhausting its patience, the government proceeded so far as to order him to quit Paris. It was not obeyed. I must now tell you, that a few years previously the Duke of Brunswick had visited Paris, and apprehending assassination, for some cause that was not explained, he had obtained from the police one of its agents to look out for the care of his person. The man had been several weeks in this employment, and knowing the person of the contumacious prince, when it was determined to resort to force, he was sent with the gendarmes, expressly that he might be identified. A party, accordingly, presented themselves, one fine morning, at the hotel which had the honour to contain his Serene Highness, demanding access to his person, in the name of the police. No one was hardy enough to deny such an application, and the officers were introduced. They found the indomitable prince, in his morning gown and slippers, as composed as if he were still reigning in Brunswick, or even more so. He was made acquainted with their errand, which was, neither more nor less than to accompany him to the frontier. The great-nephew of George III, the cousin and nephew of George IV, the cousin of William IV, and the Ex-duke of Brunswick, received this intelligence with a calm entirely worthy of his descent and his collaterals, treating the commissary of police, _de haut en bas_. In plain English, he gave them to understand he should not budge. Reverence for royal blood was at last overcome by discipline, and seeing no alternative, the gendarmes laid their sacrilegious hands on the person of the prince, and fairly carried him down stairs, and put him, dressing-gown, slippers, and all, into a _fiacre_. It was a piteous sight to see a youth of such high expectations, of a lineage so ancient, of a duchy so remote, treated in this rude and inhospitable manner! Like Cæsar, who bore up against his enemies until he felt the dagger of Brutus, he veiled his face with his handkerchief, and submitted with dignity, when he ascertained how far it was the intention of the Minister of the Interior to push matters. M. ---- did not tell us whether or not he exclaimed, "_Et tu, Montalivet!_" The people of the hotel manifested a proper sympathy at the cruel scene, the _filles de chambre_ weeping in the corridors, as _filles de chambre_, who witnessed such an indecent outrage, naturally would do. The Duke was no sooner in the _fiacre_ than he was carried out of town, to a post-house on the road to Switzerland. Here he was put in a caleche, and transported forthwith to the nearest frontier. On reaching the end of the journey, the Duke of Brunswick was abandoned to his fate, with the indifference that marked the whole outrage; or, as might have been expected from the servants of a prince, who had so lately shown his respect for rank by sending his own relatives out of his kingdom, very much in the same fashion. Happily, the unfortunate Duke fell into the hands of republicans, who, as a matter of course, hastened to pay their homage to him. The mayor of the commune appeared and offered his civilities; all the functionaries went forth with alacrity; and the better to show their sympathy, a young German traveller was produced, that he might console the injured prince by enabling him to pour out his griefs in the vernacular of his country. This bit of delicate attention, however, was defeated by an officious valet, who declared that ever since his dethronement, his master had taken such an aversion to the German language, that it threw him into fits even to hear it! Of course the traveller had the politeness to withdraw. While these things were in progress, the Duke suddenly disappeared, no one knew whither. The public journals soon announced the fact, and the common conjecture was, that he had returned to Paris. After several weeks, M. ---- was employed to negotiate an amnesty, promising, on the part of his principal, that no further movements against the duchy should be attempted in France. The minister was so far prevailed on as to say, he could forgive all, had not the Duke re-entered the kingdom, after having been transported to Switzerland, by the order of the government, in the manner you have heard. M. ---- assured the minister, _parole d'honneur_, that this was altogether a mistake. "Well, then, convince me of this, and his Serene Highness shall have permission to remain here as long as he pleases." "His Serene Highness, _having never left France, cannot have re-entered it_." "Not left France!--Was he not carried into Switzerland?" "Not at all: liking Paris better, he chose to remain here. The person you deported, was a young associate, of the same stature of the Duke, a Frenchman, who cannot speak a word of German!" A compromise was made on the spot, for this was a matter to be hushed up, ridicule being far more potent, in Paris, than reason. This is what you may have heard alluded to, in some of the journals of the day, as the _escapade_ of the Duke of Brunswick. LETTER VII. Public Dinner.--Inconsiderate Impulses of Americans.--Rambles in Paris.--The Churches of Paris.--View from the leads or Notre Dame.--The Place Royale.--The Bridges.--Progress of the Public Works.--The Palaces of the Louvre and the Tuileries.--Royal Enclosures in the Gardens of the Tuileries.--Public Edifices.--Private Hotels and Gardens. My Apartments in the house of the Montmorencies.--Our other Residences.--Noble Abodes in Paris.--Comparative Expense of Living in Paris and New York.--American Shopkeepers, and those of Europe. Dear ---- The time between the revolt of the two days, and the 17th July, passed in the usual manner. The court-martial had made considerable progress in condemning men to be shot, but appeals were made to the Carlist Court of Cassation, which finally adjudged the whole proceedings to be illegal. In the mean time we got up the dinner for the 4th, Lafayette coming from La Grange expressly to make one among us. As for this dinner, I have only to say that one of its incidents went to prove how completely a body of Americans are subject to common and inconsiderate impulses, let the motive be right or wrong,--of how low estimate character is getting to be among us, and to determine me never to be present at another. It is a painful confession, but truth compels me to say, that, I believe, for the want of a condensed class, that are accustomed to sustain each other in a high tone of feeling and thinking, and perhaps from ignorance of the world, no other people, above the illiterate and downright debased, are so easily practised on and cajoled, as the great mass of our own. I hope I have never been addicted to the vice of winning golden opinions by a sacrifice of sentiments or principles; but this dinner has given me a surfeit of what is called "popularity," among a people who, while affecting to reduce everything to a standard of their own creating, do not give themselves time or opportunity to ascertain facts, or weigh consequences. The weather was pleasant and warm for several weeks, about the close of June and the commencement of July, and, although a slight shade has been cast over our enjoyments by the re-appearance of the cholera, in a greatly diminished degree however, I do not remember to have passed the same period of time in Paris with so much satisfaction to myself. The town has been empty, in the usual signification of the term, and the world has left us entirely to ourselves. After completing the morning's task, I have strolled in the gardens, visited the churches, loitered on the quays, rummaged the shops of the dealers in old furniture and other similar objects. The number of these shops is great, and their stores of curious things incredible. It appears to me that all France has poured her relics of the old system into the warehouses of the capital. The plunder of the chateaux and hotels has enriched them to a degree that must be witnessed to be understood, and to me it is matter of surprise that some of our wealthy travellers do not transfer many of these treasures to the other side of the Atlantic. I usually spend an our or two with M----, in the gallery of the Louvre, from two to four: he returns home with me to dinner; and at seven, which, at this season in this latitude, is still broad day, we issue forth for a promenade. Paris, I have often told you, is a picturesque town, and offers endless sources of satisfaction, beyond its living throngs, its society, its theatres, and its boulevards. The public displays at the Academy, and its meetings of science, taste, and philanthropy are little to my taste, being too artificial and affected, and I have found most enjoyment in parts of this little world that I believe travellers usually overlook. The churches of Paris want the odour, the genial and ecclesiastical atmosphere and the devout superstition that rendered those of Italy so strikingly soothing and pleasant; but they are huge piles, and can always be visited with pleasure. Notre Dame de Paris is a noble monument, and now that the place of the archbishop is destroyed, one is likely to get better views of it, than is apt to be the case with these venerable edifices. A few evenings since M----, and myself ascended the towers, and seating ourselves on the leads, looked down, for near an hour, on the extraordinary picture beneath. The maze of roofs, out-topped, here and there, by black lacquered-looking towers, domes, pavilions of palaces, and, as is the case with the Tuileries and Louvre, literally by a mile of continuous structures; the fissures of streets, resembling gaping crevices in rocks; the river meandering through the centre of all, and spanned by bridges thronged by mites of men and pigmy carriages; the crowds of images of the past; the historical eminences that surround the valley of the capital; the knowledge of its interior; our acquaintance with the past and the present, together with conjectures for the future, contributed to render this a most impressive evening. The distant landscape was lost, and even quarters of the town itself were getting to be obscure before we descended, helping singularly to increase the effect produced by our speculations on those ages in which Paris had been the scene of so many momentous events. We have also wandered among the other relics of antiquity, for the present structure of Notre Dame is said to have already stood seven centuries. The Place Royale is one of the most singular quarters of the town, and although often visited before, we have again examined it, for we are beginning to regard objects with the interest that one is apt to feel on leaving a favourite spot, perhaps for ever. This square, unique in its kind, occupies the site of the ancient residences of the kings of France, who abandoned it in consequence of the death of Henri II, in a tournament. Henri IV caused the present area to be enclosed by hotels, which are all of brick, a novelty in Paris, and built in the style of his reign. Fashion has, however, been stronger than the royal will; and noble ranges of rooms are to be hired here at a fourth of the prices that are paid for small and crowded apartments near the Tuileries. The celebrated arsenal, where Sully so often received his royal master, is near this place, and the Bastile stood at no great distance. In short, the world has moved, within the last two centuries, directly across the town. I can never tire of speaking of the bridges of Paris. By day and by night have I paused on them to gaze at their views; the word not being too comprehensive for the crowds and groupings of objects that are visible from their arches. They are less stupendous and magnificent, as public works, than the bridges of London, Florence, Dresden, Bordeaux, and many other European towns, the stream they have to span being inconsiderable; but their number, the variety of their models, even the very quaintness of some among them, render them, as a whole, I think, more interesting than any others that I know. The Pont de Jena is as near perfection in all respects, perhaps, as a bridge well can be. I greatly prefer it to the celebrated Ponte della Trinità, at Florence. Some enormous statues are about to be placed on the Pont Louis XVI, which, if they do not escape criticism, will, at least, I think, help the picturesque. I have now known Paris a sufficient time to watch, with interest, the progress of the public works. The arch at the Barrière de Neuilly has, within my observation, risen several feet, and approaches its completion. The wing, a counterpart of the gallery, that is to enclose the Carrousel, and finally to convert the Louvre and the Tuileries into a single edifice, has advanced a long distance, and preparations are making to clear the area of the few buildings that still remain. When this design shall be executed, the Palace of the Kings of France will contain considerably more than a mile of continuous buildings, which will be erected around a large vacant area. The single room of the picture-gallery is of itself a quarter of a mile in length! During the heat of the late finance discussion, all sorts of unpleasant things were said of America, for the money-power acts here as it does everywhere else, proving too strong even for French _bon ton_, and, failing of facts and logic, some of the government writers had recourse to the old weapon of the trader, abuse and vituperation. Among other bold assertions, one of them affirmed, with a view to disparage the vaunted enterprise of the Americans, that while they attempted so much in the way of public works, nothing was ever finished. He cited the Capitol, a building commenced in 1800, and which had been once destroyed by fire in the interval, as an example. As one of the controversionalists, on this occasion, I certainly had no disposition to debase my mind, or to descend from the level of a gentleman who was compelled to bow before no political master, in order to retort in kind; but as is apt to be the case under provocations of this sort, the charge induced me to look about, in order to see what advantages the subjects of a monarchy possess over us in this particular. The result has made several of my French friends laugh, and acknowledge that they who "live in glass houses should not throw stones." The new palace of the Louvre was erected more than two centuries since. It is a magnificent pile, surrounding a court of more than a quarter of a mile in circumference, possessing many good statues, fine bas-reliefs, and a noble colonnade. In some respects, it is one of the finest palaces in Europe. The interior is, however, unfinished, though in the course of slow embellishment. Now a principal and very conspicuous window, in the pavilion that caps the entrance to the Carrousel, is unglazed, the weather being actually excluded by the use of _coarse unplaned boards_, precisely in the manner in which one is apt to see a shingle palace embellished at home. One hundred francs would conceal this deformity. The palace of the Tuileries was built by Catherine di Medici, who was dead before the present United States were first peopled. It is a lantern-like, tasteless edifice, composed of different pavilions, connected by _corps de bâtimens_ of different sizes, but of pretty uniform ugliness. The stone of this vicinity is so easily wrought, that it is usual to set it up, in blocks, and to work out the capitals and other ornaments in the wall. On a principal portion of this palace, _these unwrought blocks still remain_, just enough being finished to tell the observer that the design has never been completed. I shall not go beyond the palaces to make out our case, though all Europe abounds with these discrepancies in taste, and with similar neglect. As a rule, I believe we more uniformly push through our public undertakings than any other people, though they are not always executed with the same taste, on the same scale, or as permanently, perhaps, as the public works that are undertaken here. When they yield profit, however, we need turn our backs on no nation. It is a curious commentary on the change in the times, that Louis-Philippe has dared to do that which Napoleon, with all his power, did not deem it expedient to undertake, though it is known that he chafed under the inconvenience, which it was desirable to both to be rid of. Until quite lately, the public could approach as near the palace windows, as one usually gets to those of any considerable dwelling that stands on a common street. The Emperor complained that he could not look out of a window, into his own gardens, without attracting a crowd: under this evil, however, he reigned, as consul and emperor, fourteen years, for there was no obvious way of remedying it, but by taking possession of a part of that garden, which so long had been thrown open to the public, that it now considered it as its own. Sustained by the congregated wealth of France, and secretly by those nations with whom his predecessor had to contend, Louis-Philippe has boldly broken ground, by forming two little gardens beneath the palace windows, which he has separated from the public promenade by ditches and low railings, but which serves effectually to take possession, to keep the tiger at a distance, and to open the way for farther improvement. In the end there will probably be a wing of the palace thrown forward into the garden, unless, indeed, the whole of the present structure should be destroyed, to make place for one more convenient and of purer architecture. Paris enjoys a high reputation for the style of its public edifices, and, while there is a very great deal to condemn, compared with other capitals, I think it is entitled to a distinguished place in this particular. The church of the Magdalen (Napoleon's Temple de la Gloire, on which the names of distinguished Frenchmen were to be embossed in letters of bronze), is one of the finest modern edifices of Europe. It is steadily advancing to completion, having been raised from beneath the cornices during my visit. It is now roofed, and they are chiseling the bas-reliefs on the pediment. The Gardes-Meubles, two buildings, which line one entire side of the Place Louis Seize, or de la Concorde, as it is now termed, and which are separated by the Rue Royale, are among the best structures of the town. Some of their ornaments are a little meretricious, but the prevalent French features of their architecture are more happy than common. Only one of these edifices belongs to the public, and is now the hotel of the Admiralty, the other having been erected for symmetry, though occupied as private dwellings, and actually private property. The Bourse, or Exchange, is another modern building that has an admirable general effect. Of the private hotels and private gardens of Paris, a stranger can scarcely give a just account. Although it is now six years since I have been acquainted with the place, they occasion surprise daily, by their number, beauty, and magnificence. Relatively, Rome, and Florence, and Venice, and Genoa, may surpass it, in the richness and vastness of some of their private residences; but, Rome excepted, none of them enjoy such gardens, nor does Rome even, in absolute connection with the town abodes of her nobles. The Roman villas[15] are almost always detached from the palaces, and half of them are without the walls, as I have already described to you. The private gardens of Paris certainly cannot compare with these villas, nor, indeed, can those which belong to the public; but then there is a luxury, and a quiet, and a beauty, about the five or six acres that are so often enclosed and planted in the rear of the hotels here, that I do not think any other Christian city can show in equal affluence. The mode of living, which places the house between court and garden, as it is termed here, is justly esteemed the perfection of a town residence; for while it offers security, by means of the gate, and withdraws the building from the street--a desideratum with all above the vulgar--it gives space and room for exercise and beauty, by means of the verdure, shrubbery, trees, and walks. It is no unusual thing for the French to take their repasts, in summer, within the retirement of their gardens, and this in the heart of one of the most populous and crowded towns of Europe. The miserable and minute subdivisions of our own towns preclude the possibility of our ever enjoying a luxury as great, and yet as reasonable as this; and if, by chance, some lucky individual should find the means to embellish his own abode and his neighbourhood, in this way, some speculation, half a league off, would compel him to admit an avenue through his laurels and roses, in order to fill the pockets of a club of projectors. In America, everybody sympathises with him who makes money, for it is a common pursuit, and touches a chord that vibrates through the whole community; but few, indeed, are they who can enter into the pleasures of him who would spend it elegantly, rationally, and with good taste. If this were the result of simplicity, it would, at least, be respectable; but every one knows that the passion at home is for display--finery, at the expense of comfort and fitness, being a prevalent evil. [Footnote 15: This word has a very different signification in Italian, from that which we have given it, in English. It means a _garden_ in the country; the _house_ not being necessarily any part of it, although there is usually a _casino_ or pavilion.] The private hotels are even more numerous than the private gardens, land not always having been attainable. Of course these buildings vary in size and magnificence, according to the rank and fortune of those who caused them to be constructed, but the very smallest are usually of greater dimensions than our largest town-houses, and infinitely better disposed; though we have a finish in many of the minor articles, such as the hinges, locks, and the wood-work in general, and latterly, in marbles, that is somewhat uncommon, even in the best houses of France; when the question, however, is of magnificence, we can lay no claim to it, for want of arrangement, magnitude, and space. Many American travellers will render you a different account of these things, but few of our people stay long enough to get accurate notions of what they see, and fewer still have free access to the sort of dwellings of which I now speak. These hotels bear the names of their several owners. In the instances of the high nobility, it was usual to build a smaller hotel, near the principal structure, which was inhabited by the inferior branches of the family, and sometimes by favoured dependants (for the French, unlike ourselves, are fond of maintaining the domestic relations to the last, several generations frequently dwelling under the same roof), and which it is the fashion to call the _petit hôtel_. Our first apartments were in one of these _petits hôtels_, which had once belonged to the family of Montmorency.[16] The great hotel, which joined it, was inhabited, and I believe owned, by an American, who had reversed the usual order of things by coming to Europe to seek his fortune. Our next abode was the Hôtel Jumilliac, in a small garden of a remote part of the Faubourg St. Germain. This was a hotel of the smaller size, and our apartments were chiefly on the second floor, or in what is called the third story in America, where we had six rooms besides the offices. Our saloon, dining-room, &c. had formerly been the bed-chamber, dressing-room, and ante-chamber of Madame la Marquise, and gave one a very respectful opinion of the state of a woman of quality, of a secondary class, though I believe that this family too was highly allied. From the Rue St. Maur, we went into a small country-house on the bank of the Seine, about a league from the gates of Paris, which, a century since, was inhabited by a Prince de Soubise, as _grand veneur_ of Louis XV, who used to go there occasionally, and eat his dinner, in a very good apartment, that served us for a drawing-room. Here we were well lodged, having some two or three-and-twenty well-furnished rooms, offices included. From this place we went into the Rue des Champs-Elysées, where we had a few rooms in a hotel of some size. Oddly enough, our predecessor in a portion of these rooms was the Prince Polignac, and our successor Marshal Marmont, two men who are now proscribed in France. We have been in one or two apartments in nameless edifices since our return from Germany, and we are now in a small hotel in the Rue St. Dominique, where in some respects we are better lodged than ever, though compelled to occupy three floors. Here the salon is near thirty feet in length, and seventeen high. It is panelled in wood, and above all the doors, of which, real and false, there are six, are allegories painted on canvass, and enclosed in wrought gilded frames. Four large mirrors are fixtures, and the windows are vast and descend to the floor. The dining-room, which opens on a garden, is of the same size, but even loftier. This hotel formerly had much interior gilding, but it has chiefly been painted over. It was built by the physician of the Duc d'Orléans, who married Madame de Montesson, and from this fact you may form some idea of the style maintained by the nobles of the period; a physician, at that time, being but a very inferior personage in Europe. [Footnote 16: This ancient family still exists, though much shorn of its splendour, by the alienation of its estates, in consequence of the marriage of Charlotte de Montmorency, heiress of the eldest line, with a Prince of Condé, two centuries since. By this union, the estates and chateaux of Chantilly, Ecouen, etc., ancient possessions of the house, passed into a junior branch of the royal family. In this manner Enghien, a _seigneurie_ of the Montmorencies, came to be the title of a prince of the blood, in the person of the unfortunate descendant of Charlotte of that name. At the present time, besides the Duc de Montmorency, the Duc de Laval-Montmorency, the Duc de Luxembourg, the Prince de Bauffremont, the Prince de Tancarville, and one or two more, are members of this family, and most of them are, or were before the late revolution, peers of France. The writer knew, at Paris, a Colonel de Montmorency, an Irishman by birth, who claimed to be the head of this celebrated family, as a descendant of a cadet who followed the Conqueror into England. There are two Irish peers, who have also pretensions of the same sort, though the French branches of the family look coolly on the claim. The title of "First Christian Baron," is not derived from antiquity, ancient as the house unquestionably is, but from the circumstance that the barony of Montmorency, from its local position, in sight of Paris, aided by the great power of the family, rendered the barons the first in importance to their sovereign. The family of Talleyrand-Perigord is so ancient, that, in the middle ages, when a King demanded of its head, "Who made you Count de Perigord?" he was asked, by way of reply, "Who made you King of France?"--God! I think I should have hesitated on the score of taste about establishing myself in a house of the Montmorencies, but Jonathan has usually no such scruples. Our own residence was but temporary, the hotel being public.] In describing these residences, which have necessarily been suited to very moderate means, I have thought you might form some idea of the greater habitations. First and last, I may have been in a hundred, and, while the Italian towns do certainly possess a few private dwellings of greater size and magnificence, I believe Paris contains, in proportion, more noble abodes than any other place in Europe. London, in this particular, will not compare with it. I have been in some of the best houses in the British capital, but very few of them rise to the level of these hotels in magnificence and state, though nearly all surpass them in comfort. I was at a ball given by the Count ----, when thirteen rooms _en suite_ were opened. The Duke of Devonshire can hardly exceed this. Prince Borghese used, on great occasions, to open twenty, if I remember right, at Florence, one of which was as large as six or eight of our ordinary drawing-rooms. Although, as a whole, nothing can be more inconvenient or irrational than an ordinary town-house in New York, even we excel the inhabitants of these stately abodes, in many of the minor points of domestic economy, particularly in the offices, and in the sleeping-rooms of the second class. Your question, as to the comparative expense of living at home and of living in Europe, is too comprehensive to be easily answered, for the prices vary so materially, that it is difficult to make intelligent comparisons. As between Paris and New York, so long as one keeps within the usual limits of American life, or is disposed to dispense with a multitude of little elegancies, the advantage is essentially with the latter. While no money will lodge a family in anything like style, or with suites of rooms, ante-chambers, &c. in New York, for the simple reason, that buildings which possess these elegancies, or indeed with fine apartments at all, have never yet been erected in the country; a family can be better lodged in a genteel part of the town for less money, than it can be lodged, with equal room and equal comforts, in a genteel quarter of Paris; always excepting the inferior distribution of the rooms, and other little advantages, such as the convenience of a porter, &c. all of which are in favour of the latter place.[17] Food of all kinds is much the cheapest with us, bread alone excepted. Wines can be had, as a whole, better and cheaper in New York, if obtained from the wine-merchant, than in any European town we have yet inhabited. Even French wines can be had as cheap as they can be bought here, for the entrance-duty into the country is actually much less than the charges at the gates of Paris. The transportation from Bordeaux or Champagne, or Burgundy, is not, as a whole, essentially less than that to New York, if indeed it be any less. All the minor articles of table luxuries, unless they happen to be of French growth, or French fabrications, are immeasurably cheaper in America than here. Clothes are nominally much cheaper here than with us; but neither the French nor the English use habitually as good clothes as we; nor are the clothes generally as well made. You are not, however, to suppose from this that the Americans are a well-dressed people; on the contrary, we are greatly behind the English in this particular, nor are our men, usually, as well attired as those of Paris. This is a consequence of a want of servants, negligent habits, greediness of gain, which monopolizes so much of our time as to leave little for relaxation, and the high prices of articles, which prevent our making as frequent calls on the tailor, as is the practice here. My clothes have cost me more in Europe, however, than they did at home, for I am compelled to have a greater variety, and to change them oftener. [Footnote 17: In New York, the writer has a house with two drawing-rooms, a dining-room, eight bed-rooms, dressing-rooms, four good servants' rooms, with excellent cellars, cisterns, wells, baths, water-closets, etc. for the same money that he had an apartment in Paris, of one drawing-room, a cabinet, four small and inferior bed-rooms, dining-room, and ante-chamber; the kitchens, offices, cellars, etc. being altogether in favour of the New York residence. In Paris, water was bought in addition, and a tax of forty dollars a year was paid for inhabiting an apartment or a certain amount of rent; a tax that was quite independent of the taxes on the house, doors, and windows, which in both cases were paid by the landlord.] Our women do not know what high dress is, and consequently they escape many demands on the purse, to which those of Paris are compelled to submit. It would not do, moreover, for a French belle to appear every other night for a whole season in the same robe, and that too looking bedraggled, and as jaded as its pretty wearer. Silks and the commoner articles of female attire are perhaps as cheap in our own shops, as in those of Paris: but when it comes to the multitude of little elegances that ornament the person, the salon, or the boudoir, in this country, they are either wholly unknown in America, or are only to be obtained by paying treble and quadruple the prices at which they may be had here. We absolutely want the caste of shopkeepers as it exists in Europe. By shopkeepers, I mean that humble class of traders who are content with moderate profits, looking forward to little more than a respectable livelihood, and the means of placing their children in situations as comfortable as their own. This is a consequence of the upward tendency of things in a young and vigorous community, in which society has no artificial restrictions, or as few as will at all comport with civilization, and the buoyancy of hope that is its concomitant. The want of the class, notwithstanding, deprives the Americans of many elegancies and some comforts, which would be offered to them at as low rates as they are sold in the countries in which they are made, were it not for the principle of speculative value, which enters into nearly all of our transactions. In Paris the man or woman who sells a duchess an elegant bauble, is half the time content to eat his humble dinner in a small room adjoining his shop, to sleep in an _entresol_ over it, and to limit his profits by his wants. The pressure of society reduces him to this level. With us the thing is reversed, and the consumer is highly taxed, as a necessary result. As we become more familiar with the habits of European life, the demand will gradually reduce the value of these minor articles, and we shall obtain them at the same relative prices, as ordinary silks and shawls are now to be had. At present it must be confessed that our shops make but indifferent figures compared with those of London and Paris. I question if the best of them would pass for more than fourth-rate in London, or for more than third-rate here; though the silk-mercers at home might possibly be an exception to the rule. The amount of all my experience, on this point, is to convince me, that so long as one is willing to be satisfied with the habits of American life, which include a great abundance, many comforts, and even some few elegancies, that are not known here, such as the general use of carpets, and that of many foreign articles which are excluded from the European markets by the different protective systems, but which, also, do not know a great many embellishments of living that are common all over Europe, he can get along with a good deal less money in New York, than in Paris; certainly, with less, if he mix much with the world. EXCURSION UP THE RHINE, &c. LETTER VIII. Preparations for leaving-Paris.--Travelling arrangements.--Our Route.--The Chateau of Ecouen.--The _Croisée_.--Senlis.--Peronne.--Cambray.--Arrival at the Frontier.--Change in the National Character.--Mons.--Brussels.--A Fête.--The Picture Gallery.--Probable Partition of Belgium. Dear ----, We had been preparing for our summer excursion some time, but were unable to get away from Paris before the 18th of July. Our destination was undetermined, health and pleasure being the objects, though, a portion of our party having never seen Belgium, it was settled to visit that country in the commencement of the journey, let it end where it might The old caleche was repaired for the purpose, fitted with a new rumble to contain Francois and Jetty (the Saxon _femme de chambre_, hired in Germany), the _vache_ was crammed, sacks stowed, passport signed, and orders were sent for horses. We are a little apt to boast of the facilities for travelling in America, and, certainly, so long as one can keep in the steam-boats or on the rail-roads, and be satisfied with mere velocity, no part of the world can probably compete with us, the distances considered; but we absolutely want the highest order of motion, which, I think, beyond all question, is the mode of travelling post. By this method, your privacy is sacred, you are master of your own hours, going where you please, and stopping when you please; and, as for speed, you can commonly get along at the rate of ten miles in the hour, by paying a trifle in addition, or you can go at half that rate should it better suit your humour. A good servant and a good carriage are indispensable, and both are to be had at very reasonable rates, in this part of the world. I never felt the advantage of this mode of travelling, and I believe we have now tried nearly all the others, or the advantages of the Parisian plan of living, so strongly as on the present occasion. Up to the last moment, I was undecided by what route to travel. The furniture of the apartment was my own, and it was our intention to return to Paris, to pass the winter. The luggage had been stowed early in the morning, the carriage was in the court ready to hook on, and at ten we sat down quietly to breakfast, as usual, with scarcely a sign of movement about us. Like old campaigners, the baggage had been knowingly reduced to the very minimum admissible, no part of the furniture was deranged, but everything was in order, and you may form some idea of the facilities, when you remember that this was the condition of a family of strangers, that in half an hour was to start on a journey of several months' duration, to go--they knew not whither. A few minutes before ten, click-clack, click-clack, gave notice of the approach of the post-horses. The _porte-cochère_ opened, and two votaries of the old-fashioned boot enter, each riding one and leading another horse. All this is done quietly, and as a matter of course; the cattle are put before the carriage without a question being asked, and the two liveried roadsters place themselves by the sides of their respective beasts. In the mean time, we had entered the caleche, said adieu to the cook, who was left in charge of the apartment, a trust that might, however, equally well have been confided to the porter, kissed our hands to the family of M. de V----, and the other inmates of the hotel, who crowded the windows to see us off. Up to this moment, I had not decided even by what road to travel! The passport had been taken out for Brussels, and last year, you may recollect, we went to that place by Dieppe, Abbeville, Douay, and Arras. The "Par quelle route, monsieur?" of the postilion that rode the wheel-horse, who stood with a foot in the stirrup, ready to get up, brought me to a conclusion. "A St. Denis!" the question compelling a decision, and all my doubts terminating, as doubts are apt to terminate, by taking the most beaten path. The day was cool and excessively windy, while the thermometer had stood the previous afternoon but one, at 93°, in the shade. We were compelled to travel with the carriage-windows closed, the weather being almost wintry. As we drove through the streets, the common women cried after us, "They are running away from the cholera;" an accusation that we felt we did not merit, after having stood our ground during the terrible months of April and May. But popular impulses are usually just as undiscriminating as the favouritism of the great: the mistake is in supposing that one is any better than the other. When we had reached the city where the Kings of France are buried, it was determined to sleep at Senlis, which was only four posts further, the little town that we visited with so much satisfaction in 1827. This deviation from the more direct road led us by Gonesse, and through a district of grain country, that is less monotonous than most of the great roads that lead from Paris. We got a good view of the chateau of Ecouen, looking vast and stately, seated on the side of a distant hill. I do not know into whose hands this princely pile has fallen since the unhappy death of the last of the Condés, but it is to be hoped into those of the young Duc D'Aumale, for I believe he boasts the blood of the Montmorencies, through some intermarriage or other; and if not, he comes, at least, of a line accustomed to dwell in palaces. I do not like to see these historical edifices converted into manufactories, nor am I so much of a modern utilitarian as to believe the poetry of life is without its correcting and useful influences. Your cold, naked utilitarian, holds a sword that bruises as well as cuts; and your sneaking, trading aristocrat, like the pickpocket who runs against you in the crowd before he commits his theft, one that cuts as well as bruises. We were at Ecouen not long before the death of its last possessor, and visited its wide but untenanted halls with strong interest. The house was first erected by some Montmorency, or other, at or near the time of the crusades, I believe; though it has been much altered since. Still it contains many curious vestiges of the taste of that remote age. The old domestic who showed us through the building was as quaint a relic as anything about the place. He had accompanied the family into exile, and passed many years with them in England. In courtesy, respect, and delicate attention, he would have done credit to the court of Louis XIV; nor was his intelligence unworthy of his breeding. This man, by the way, was the only Frenchman whom I ever knew address an Englishman (or, as in my case, one whom he mistook for an Englishman), by the old appelation of _milord_. The practice is gone out, so far as my experience extends. I remember to have learned from this courteous old servant, the origin of the common term _croisée_, which is as often used in large houses as that of _fenêtre_. At the period when every man's heart and wishes were bound up in the excitement and enterprise of the crusades, and it was thought that heaven was to be entered sword in hand, the cross was a symbol used as a universal ornament. Thus the aperture for a window was left in the wall, and a stone cross erected in the centre. The several compartments in the casements came from the shape of the cross, and the term _croisée_ from _croix_. All this is plain enough, and perhaps there are few who do not know it; but gazing at the ornaments of Ecouen, my eyes fell on the doors, where I detected crosses in the most familiar objects. There is scarcely a panelled door, twenty years old, in all America, that does not bear this evidence of the zeal, and, if you will, the superstition of those distant ages! The form of the door is made by the exterior stile; a cross is then built within it, and the open spaces are filled with panels, as, in the case of the window, it is filled with the sash. The exactitude of the form, the antiquity of the practice, its obvious connexion with the common feeling, and the inability to account for the usage in any other way, leave no doubt, in my mind, of its origin, though I do not remember to have ever met with such an account of it, in any author. If this conjecture be true, we Protestants, while fastidiously, not to say foolishly, abstaining from the use of a symbol that prejudice has led us to think peculiarly unsuited to our faith, have been unconsciously living with it constantly before our eyes. But the days of puritan folly and puritan vice (there is nothing more vicious than self-righteousness, and the want of charity it engenders) are numbered, and men are beginning to distinguish between the exaggerations of fanaticism and the meek toleration of pure Christianity. I can safely say that the lowest, the most degraded, and the most vulgar wickedness, both as to tone and deed, and the most disordered imaginations, that it has ever been my evil fortune to witness, or to associate with, was met with at school, among the sons of those pious forefathers, who fancied they were not only saints themselves, but that they also were to be the progenitors of long lines of saints. It is a melancholy truth, that a gentleman-like training does more for the suppression of those abominations than all the dogmas that the pilgrims have imported into the country. We reached Senlis in time for dinner, and while the repast was getting ready, we strolled through the place, in order to revive the sensations with which we had visited it five years before. But, alas! these are joys, which, like those of youth are not renewable at pleasure. I could hardly persuade myself it was the same town. The walls, that I had then fancied lined with the men-at-arms of the Charleses of France, and the English Henries and Edwards, had now lost all their peculiarities, appearing mean and common-place; and as to the gate, from which we had almost heard the trumpets of the heralds, and the haughty answer to a bold summons of surrender, we absolutely had difficulty in persuading ourselves that we had found it at all. Half Europe had been roamed over since the time when, fresh from America, we made the former visit, predisposed to gaze with enthusiasm at every relic of a former age and a different state of society. If we were disagreeably disappointed in the antiquities of the town, we were as agreeably disappointed in the inn. It was clean, gave us a good dinner, and, as almost invariably proves to be the case in France, also gave us good beds. I do not remember ever to have been more fatigued than by the five posts between Paris and this place. The uneven _pavés_, the random and careless driving of the postillions, with whom it is a point of honour to gallop over the broken streets of the villages, besides having a strong fellow-feeling for the smiths, always makes the eight or ten posts nearest to Paris, much the most disagreeable part of a journey to or from the French capital. We dined at six, exhausted the curiosities of Senlis, and went to bed by daylight! The next morning was fresh and bland, and I walked ahead of the carriage. A wood-cutter was going to the forests to make faggots, and we fell into discourse. This man assured me that he should get only ten sous for his day's work! The view of the principal church-tower of Senlis as beautiful, and, in a slight degree, it carried the mind back to the fifteenth century. You have travelled to and from Paris with me so often, that I can only add we found the same fatiguing monotony, on this occasion, as on all the others. We reached Peronne early, and ordered beds. Before dinner we strolled around the ramparts, which are pleasant of themselves though the place stands in a marsh, which renders its position not only strong, but strongly disagreeable. We endeavoured in vain to find some features to revive the pictures of "Quentin Durward." There was no sign of a soldier in the place, though barracks were building. The French are evidently less jealous of this frontier, than of that on the east, or the one next the Austrians. The next morning we breakfasted at Cambray. Here we found a garrison, and considerable activity. The citadel is well placed, and the esplanade is a pretty walk. We visited the cathedral, which contains a monument to Fenelon, by our friend David. We were much gratified by this work, which ranks among his best. Near Valenciennes we broke a tire, and were detained two hours. Here the garrison was still stronger, the place in better condition, and the troops mounted guard with their marching accoutrements about them; all of which, I presume, was owing to the fact, that this is the last fortified town on the road. We did not get to the frontier until seven, and the French postilions broke another bolt before we got fairly rid of them, compelling us to wait an hour to have it mended. We were now in a low wet country, or one perfectly congenial to cholera; it was just the hour when the little demons of miasma are said to be the most active, and to complete the matter, we learned that the disease was in the village. The carriage-windows were closed, while I walked about, from door to door, to pacify uneasiness by curiosity. Use, however, had made us all tolerably indifferent, and little P---- settled the matter by remarking it was nothing after all, for here only two or three died daily, while at Paris there had been a thousand! Older heads than his, often take material facts more in a lump than this. The change in the national character is so evident, immediately on crossing into Belgium, as to occasion surprise. The region was, at no remote period, all Flanders. The same language is still spoken, the same religion professed in both countries, and yet a certain secret moral influence appears to have extended itself from the capital of each country, until they have met on the frontier, where both have been arrested within their proper geographical limits. We had come into this village on a gallop, driven with the lighthearted _étourderie_ of French vanity, and we left it gravely, under the guidance of postilions who philosophically smoked, as their cattle trotted along like elephants. It was quite late when we reached Mons, where we found a good house, of unexceptionable neatness: of course we were in no haste to quit it the next day. The distance to Brussels was so short that we took it leisurely, reaching the Hôtel de l'Europe at three. It was a fête, on account of the anniversary of the arrival of Leopold, who had now reigned just a twelvemonth. He passed our window, while we were still at table, on his way to the theatre. The royal cortege was not very brilliant, consisting of four carriages, each drawn by two horses, which, by the way, are quite enough for any coachman to manage, in descending the formidable hill that leads from the great square. You have now been with me three times, in Brussels, and I shall not go over the old ground again. We revisited some of the more prominent places of interest, and went to a few others that were neglected on former occasions. Among the rest we took a look at the public picture-gallery, which greatly disappointed us. The Flemish school naturally awakened our expectations, but a fine Gerard Douw and a few other old paintings were all that struck us, and as a whole, we gave a preference to the paintings of the present day. The King appears to be personally popular, even those who have no faith in the duration of the present order of things, and who politically are his opponents, speaking well of him. The town has but few strangers, though the presence of a court renders it a little more gay than it was last year. The aspect of everything is gloomy, for the country may be again engaged in a war of existence, in a week. Many still think the affair will end in a partition; France, Prussia, and Holland getting the principal shares. I make no doubt that everybody will profit more by the change than they who brought it about. LETTER IX. Malines.--Its Collection of Pictures.--Antwerp.--The Cathedral.--A Flemish Quack.--Flemish Names.--The Picture Gallery at Antwerp.--Mr. Wapper's Carvings in Wood.--Mr. Van Lankeren's Pictures.--The Boulevards at Brussels.--Royal Abodes.--Palace of the Prince of Orange.--Prince Auguste d'Ahremberg's Gallery of Pictures.--English Ridicule of America. Dear ----, After a consultation with François, I sent the carriage to get a set of entirely new wheels, Brussels being a coach-making town, and taking a _voiture de remise_, we drove down to Antwerp. While the horses rested, we looked at the pictures in Malines. The "Miraculous Draught of Fishes" is thought by many to be the chef-d'oeuvre of Rubens, but, after conceding it a hardy conception and magnificent colouring, I think one finds too much of the coarse mannerism of the artist, even for such a subject. The most curious part of the study of the different schools is to observe how much all have been influenced by external objects, and how completely conventional, after all, the _beau idéal_ of an artist necessarily becomes. It would be impossible, for one who knew the several countries, to mistake the works of Murillo, Rubens, or Raphael, for the works of artists of different schools, and this without reference to their peculiar manners, but simply as Flemings, Spaniards, and Italians. Rubens, however, is, I think, a little apt to out-Dutch the Dutch. He appears to me to have delighted in the coarse, while Raphael revelled in the pretty. But Raphael could and often did step out of himself and rise to the grand; and then he was perfect, because his grandeur was chastened. We reached Antwerp some time before dinner. The situation of the town was singular, the Dutch holding the citadel; the place, which was peopled by their enemies, as a matter of course, lying quite at their mercy. The road from Brussels is partly commanded by them, and we saw their flag rising out of the low mounds--for in Flanders the art of fortifying consists in burrowing as deep as possible--as we approached the town. Several Dutch gun-boats were in the river, off the town, and, in the reaches of the Scheldt below, we got glimpses of divers frigates and corvettes, riding at anchor. As an offset to the works of their enemies, the Belgians had made a sort of entrenched camp, by enclosing the docks with temporary ramparts, the defences of the town aiding them, in part, in effecting their object. One of our first visits was to the cathedral. This beautiful edifice had escaped without material damage from the recent conflicts, though the garrison of the citadel have thrown a few shots at its tower, most probably with a view to drive curious eyes out of it, the great height enabling one to get a complete bird's-eye view of what is going on within their walls. The celebrated Rubenses were cased in massive timber to render them bomb-proof, and, of course, were invisible. Processions of peasants were passing from church to church, the whole day, to implore succour against the cholera, which, by the way, and contrary to all rule for a low and moist country, is said to be very light here. The Flemings have the reputation of being among the most bigoted Catholics, and the most ignorant population of Europe. This accounts, in some measure, for the existence of the latter quality among the first inhabitants of New York, most of whom were from Flanders, rather than from Holland. I have found many of our names in Antwerp, but scarcely one in Holland. The language at home, too, is much nearer the Flemish than the Dutch; though it is to be presumed that there must have been some colonists from Holland, in a province belonging to that nation. I listened to-day to a fellow vending quack medicines and vilely printed legends, to a song which, tune and all, I am quite sure to have heard in Albany, when a schoolboy. The undeviating character and habits of the people, too, appear to be very much like those which existed among ourselves, before the influx of eastern emigration swallowed up everything even to the _suppan_. I remember to have heard this same quack singing this same song, in the very same place in June, 1828, when we first visited Antwerp. The effect was exceedingly ludicrous, for it seemed to me, that the fellow had been occupying the same spot, employed in the same pursuits, for the last five years, although the country had been revolutionized. This is also a little characteristic, for some of our own Communipaws are said to believe we are still the property of the United Provinces. The Flemish language has many words that are French in the spelling, but which have entirely different meanings, representing totally different things or ideas. _De_ is one. In French this word, pronounced _der_, without dwelling on the last letter, is a preposition generally meaning "of." Before a name, without being incorporated with it, it is an invariable sign of nobility, being even frequently affixed, like the German _von_, to the family name, on attaining that rank. In Flemish it is an article, and is pronounced precisely as a Dutchman is apt to pronounced _the_, meaning the same. Thus De Witt, means _the_ White, or White; the Flemings using the article to express things or qualities in the abstract, like the French. Myn Heer De Witt is just the same as Monsieur le Blanc, or Monsieur Du Bois, in French; one of which means Monsieur White, and the other Monsieur Wood. So nearly does this language resemble the English, that I have repeatedly comprehended whole sentences, in passing through the streets. Now in New York, we used to think the Dutch had become corrupted by the English, but I fancy that the corruption has been just the other way. We had made the acquaintance of a Flemish artist of extraordinary merit, at Paris; and this gentleman (Mr. Wappers) kindly called this morning to take us to see the gallery. The collection is not particularly large, nor is it rich in cabinet pictures, being chiefly composed of altar-pieces taken from churches. The works are principally those of Rubens, Vandyke, and a few of the older masters. The Vandykes, I think, are the best. On the whole, it struck me there were more curious than pleasing pictures in this gallery, although they are all valuable as belonging to a school. The study of the "Descent from the Cross" is among them, and it gave me more pleasure than anything else. Vandyke certainly rose in our estimation, after this close comparison with his great rival: he is altogether more human than Rubens, who is a sort of Dutch giant in the art; out of the natural proportions, and always a giant. Mr. Wappers permitted us to see his own painting-room. He is of the school of the great Flemish masters, and, I think, quite at the head of his profession, in many of its leading points. It was curious to trace in the works of this young artist the effects of having Rubens and Vandyke constantly before him, corrected by the suggestions of his own genius. His style is something between the two; broader and bolder than Vandyke, and less robust than Rubens. We went the round of the churches, for, if Italy be the land of marbles, Belgium is, or rather has been, the very paradise of those who carved in wood. I have seen more delicate and highly-finished works of this sort, in a small way, in other countries; as in the high reliefs of Santa Maria della Salute, at Venice; but nowhere else is so much attempted, or, indeed, so much achieved in this branch of art, as here. Many of the churches are quite surrounded by oak confessionals that are highly and allegorically ornamented; though, in general, the pulpits contain the most elaborate designs, and the greatest efforts of this curious work. One at Brussels has the Conversion of St. Paul, horse, rider and all, larger than life. The whole is well wrought, even to the expression. But the best specimens of carving in wood that I remember, were a few figures over the door of an hospital that we saw in 1828, though I now forget whether it was at Gorcum or at Breda. One often sees statuary of great pretension and a wide-spread reputation, that is wanting in the nature, simplicity, and repose of these figures. We went to see a collection of pictures owned by Mr. Van Lankeren. It is a very fine gallery, but there are few paintings by very great artists. A Van der Heyden (an old New York name, by the way), surpassed anything I know, in its atmosphere. Poussin, and our own artist Cole, excel in this high merit, but this picture of Van der Heyden has a cold, gray transparency that seems actually to have transferred a Dutch atmosphere to the canvass. We returned to Brussels in time to dine. At Malines I stood with admiration beneath the great tower, which possesses a rare majesty. Had it been completed according to the original plan, I believe it would have been the highest church-tower in Europe. In the evening we had a call from Mr. and Mrs. ----, and made an appointment to visit the palace of the Prince of Orange in the morning. I was up betimes next day, and took a walk round the park, and on the upper boulevards. The injuries done in the fight have been, in some measure, repaired, but the place was deserted and melancholy. The houses line one side of the boulevards, the other being open to the fields, which are highly cultivated and unenclosed. This practice of cutting off a town like a cheese-paring is very common on the continent of Europe, and the effect is odd to those who are accustomed to straggling suburbs, as in America and England. At ten we went to the palace, according to appointment. The royal abodes at Brussels are very plain edifices, being nothing more than long unbroken buildings, with very few external ornaments. This of the Prince of Orange stands in the park, near that of the King, and is a simple parallelogram with two gates. The principal apartments are in the same form, being an entire suite that are entered on one side and left on the other. There is great good taste and elegance in the disposition of the rooms. A few are rich, especially the _salle de bal_, which is really magnificent. The place was kept just as it had been left by its last occupants, Leopold, with good taste, not to say good feeling, religiously respecting their rights. A pair of gloves belonging to the princess were shown us, precisely on the spot where she had left them; and her shawls and toys were lying carelessly about, as if her return were momentarily expected. This is true royal courtesy, which takes thrones without remorse, while it respects the baubles. This palace had many good pictures, and among others a Raphael. There was a Paul Potter or two, and a couple of pictures, in the same stile, as pendants, by a living artist of the name of Verboeckhoven, whose works sustained the comparison wonderfully well. We were shown the window at which the robber entered who stole the jewels of the princess; an event that has given room to the enemies of the house of Nassau to torture into an accusation of low guilt against her husband.[18] I have never met a gentleman here, who appeared to think the accusation worthy of any credit, or who treated it as more than the gossip of underlings, exaggerated by the agents of the press. [Footnote 18: This affair of the jewels of the Princess of Orange is one proof, among many others, of the influence of the vilest portion of mankind over their fellow-creatures. It suited the convenience and views of some miscreant who pandered for the press (and the world is full of them), to throw out a hint that the Prince of Orange had been guilty of purloining the jewels to pay his gambling debts, and the ignorant, the credulous, and the wonder-mongers, believed a charge of this nature, against a frank and generous soldier! It was a charge, that, in the nature of things, could only be disproved by detecting the robber, and one that a prince and a gentleman would scarcely stoop to deny. Accident favoured the truth. The jewels have, oddly enough, been discovered in New York, and the robber punished. Now, the wretch who first started this groundless calumny against the Prince of Orange, belongs exactly to that school whose members impart to America more than half her notions of the distinguished men of Europe.] From the palace of the Prince of Orange we went to the house of Prince Auguste d'Ahremberg, to see his collection. This is one of the best private galleries in Europe, though not particularly large. It is rich in the works of Teniers,[19] Woovermans, Both, Cuyp, Potter, Rembrandt, and the other masters of the country. Among others is a first-rate Gerard Douw (another New York name). [Footnote 19: One hears of occasionally discovering good pictures in the streets, an event that actually once occurred to the writer. Shortly after the revolution of 1830, in passing through the Carrousel, he bought a female portrait, that was covered with dirt, but not materially injured. Finding it beautifully painted, curiosity led him to question the man who had sold it. This person affirmed that it was a portrait of the wife of David Teniers painted by himself. He was not believed, of course, and the thing was forgotten, until two picture-dealers, who accidentally saw it, at different times, affirmed that it was by Teniers, though neither knew the original of the likeness. On examining the catalogues, the writer found that such a picture had existed in Paris, before the revolution, and that it was now lost. But this picture was square, while that was oval and much larger. The dealer was questioned again, on the appearance of the picture, without giving him any clue to the object, and he explained the matter at once, by saying that it had once been oval, but the canvass getting an injury, he had reduced it to its present form. Since then, an engraving has been discovered that scarce leaves a doubt as to the originality of the portrait.] I passed the evening at the house of an English gentleman, where the master of the last-named gallery was one of the company. A guest, a Sir ----, amused me by the peculiarly _British_ manner in which he conveyed a few remarks on America. Speaking of a countrywoman of ours, who had lately been at Brussels, he said that she called standing up to dance, "taking the floor," and he was curious to know if it were a usual form of expression with us. I had to tell him, we said a horse "took the track," in racing, and as this lady came from a racing region, she might have used it, _con amore_, especially in the gallopade. Capt. ----, of the navy, once called out to the ladies of a quadrille to "shove off," when he thought the music had got the start of them; and it is lucky that this Sir ---- did not hear him, or he would have set it down at once as an Americanism. These people are constantly on the hunt for something peculiar and ridiculous in Americans, and make no allowance for difference in station, provincialisms, or traits of character. Heaven knows that we are not so very original as to be thus ruthlessly robbed of any little individuality we may happen to possess. LETTER X. School System in America.--American Maps.--Leave Brussels.--Louvain.--Quarantine.--Liége.--The Soleil d'Or.--King Leopold and Brother.--Royal Intermarriages.--Environs of Liége.--The Cathedral and the Church of St. Jacques.--Ceremonies of Catholic Worship.--Churches of Europe.--Taverns of America.--Prayer in the Fields.--Scott's error as regards the Language spoken in Liége.--Women of Liége.--Illumination in honour of the King. Dear ----, In the morning the Director-General of Public Instruction called to obtain some information on the subject of the common school system in America. I was a little surprised at this application, the Finance controversy having quite thrown me into the shade at the Tuileries, and this court being just now so dependent on that of France. You will smile at this opinion, but even facts are subject to such circumstances, and great men submit to very little influences occasionally.[20] The old ground of explaining the power of the States had to be gone over, and the affair was disposed of by agreeing that written querries should be sent to Paris. I had a similar application from a French functionary not long since. A digest of the facts, as they are connected with the State of New York, was accordingly prepared, and handed to the Minister of Public Instruction. This gentleman rose in debate with the document in his hand, and got on well enough until he came to the number of children in the schools (near half a million), which appeared to him to be so much out of proportion to whole numbers (a little exceeding two millions) that, without hesitation, he reduced them on his own responsibility one half! As a proof that no more was meant than to keep within reasonable bounds, he immediately added, "or all there are." Now this is a fair specimen of the manner in which America is judged, her system explained, and her facts curtailed. In Europe everything must be reduced to a European standard, to be even received. Had we been Calmucks or Kurds, any marvel might go down; but being deemed merely deteriorated Europeans, tanned to ebony, our facts are kept closely within the current notions. Such a disproportion between adults and minors being unknown in this hemisphere, it was at once set down as an American exaggeration, to pretend to have them in the other. What were our official returns to a European prejudice! [Footnote 20: A few months before this, a friend, not a Frenchman, called on the writer at Paris. He began to make inquiries on the subject of American Parliamentary Law, that were entirely out of the track of his usual conversations, and finally submitted a series of written questions to be answered. When the subject was disposed of, the writer asked his friend the object of these unusual investigations, and was told that they were for the use of a leading Deputy, who was thoroughly _juste milieu_. Surprised at the name, the writer expressed his wonder that the application had not been made to a certain agent of the American government, whose name had already figured before the public, as authority for statistical and political facts against him. The answer was, in substance, that those facts were intended for _effect_!] Not long since an artist of reputation came to me, in Paris, with a view to get a few hints for a map of the Hudson, that had been ordered as an illustration of one of our books. He was shown all the maps in my possession, some of which were recent and sufficiently minute. I observed some distrust in his manner, and in the end, he suggested that an old French map of the Canadas, that he had in his pocket, might possibly be more accurate than those which had just been received from America. The map was produced, and, as might have been expected, was utterly worthless; but an intimation to that effect was not well received, as the artist had not been accustomed to consider the Americans as map-makers. At length I was compelled to show him Poughkeepsie laid down on his map directly opposite to Albany, and to assure him gravely that I had myself travelled many a time in a north and south direction, from sunrise to sunset, in order to go from one of these places to the other, and that they were eighty miles asunder! We left Brussels at noon, and reached Louvain at three. Though not taken so completely by surprise as we were last year, the town-house still gave us great pleasure. They were at work repairing it, and the fresh stones gave it a mottled look, but, on the whole, it is one of the most extraordinary edifices I know. It is a sort of condensation of quaintness, that is quite without a rival even in this land of laboured and curious architecture. The little pavilion of the Prince of Orange, that lies on the road, was still deserted and respected. I dare say his fishing-rods and fowling-pieces are intact, while his inheritance is shorn of half its glory. There was a quarantine before entering the Prussian states on account of the cholera, and having understood that we should gain in time after quitting Brussels, beyond which the malady has not yet extended, we went no farther than Thirlemont, where we passed the night. The place is insignificant, and the great square was chiefly occupied by "awkward squads" of the new levies, who were drilling as fast as they could, in readiness for the Dutch. The Belgians have reached Protocol No. 67, and they begin to think it is most time now to have something more substantial. They will find King William of the true "hard-kopping" breed. The next morning we posted down to Liége in time to take a late breakfast. The road from Brussels to this place has run through a fertile and well-cultivated country, but the scene changed like magic, as soon as we got a glimpse of the valley of the Meuse. Liége has beautiful environs, and the town is now the seat of industry. Coal-pits abound in the immediate vicinity, and iron is wrought in a hundred places. As we drove through the antique and striking court of the venerable episcopal palace, and emerged on the great square, we found the place alive with people, and our arrival at the Soleil d'Or produced a sensation that seemed inexplicable. Landlord, laquais, populace and all, ran to greet us, and people were hurrying to the spot in every direction. There was nothing to be done but to wait the result patiently, and I soon saw by the cold looks of the servants, and the shrug of François, who had jumped down to order rooms, that there was mutual disappointment. Everybody turned their backs upon us, and there we sat in the shadow of neglect, after having momentarily shone in the sunshine of universal observation. It had been merely ascertained that we were not the King of the Belgians and his brother the Grand Duke of Saxe-Cobourg-Gotha. The Soleil d'Or, which like other suns, is most apt to shine on the great, veiled its face from us, and we were compelled to quit the great square, and to seek more humble lodgings. These were soon obtained at the Black Eagle, a clean and good house. I went to the police immediately with my passport, and found that one of our five days of quarantine had been comfortably gotten rid of at Thirlemont. These quarantines are foolish things, and quite easily evaded. You have been told the manner in which, last year, instead of spending five times twenty-four hours in a hut, shut up with a Russian Princess, I drove into the court of our own hotel in Paris on the evening of the fifth day, and M----, you will remember, merely turned the flanks of a sentinel or two, by walking a mile in the fields. We were advised, on this occasion, to have our passport _viséd_ at Brussels, the moment we arrived, and the intermediate time would have counted on the frontier, but being in no haste, we preferred proceeding regularly. The next day the town filled rapidly, and about noon the cannon announced the entrance of the King. A worse salute was never fired; but his Majesty is greeted with smiling faces, which is, probably more to his liking. He is certainly a prudent and respectable man, if not a great one; and just now very popular. I met him and his brother in the streets, the day after their arrival: they were in an open carriage and pair, with two boys, the sons of the Duke, on the front seat. Leopold has a grave and thoughtful face, and is far from being as well-looking as his brother, who is a large comely man; not unlike the Duke Bernard of Saxe-Weimar, so well known in America. All the princes of the Saxon duchies that I have seen, are large, well-formed men, while those of Saxe Royal, as the kingdom is called, are the reverse. A diplomatic man, here, once remarked to me, that this rule held good as to most of the protestant and catholic princes, throughout Europe, the close intermarriages of the latter in his opinion, affecting the stock. The imagination has had something to do with this notion, for there are certainly many exceptions on both sides, if, indeed, it be a rule at all. I think, there is little doubt that the habits of the mind, mode of living, and climate, contribute essentially to vary the physiognomy; but I cannot subscribe fully to the influence of these intermarriages, which, by the way, are nearly, if not quite, as circumscribed among the Protestants as among the Catholics. The portion of Europe that is governed by princes, is divided among forty-four different states,[21] of whom twenty-eight are Protestant, one a Greek, one a Mahomedan, and the rest are Catholics. These forty-four sovereigns claim to be descended from nineteen different roots: thus, the direct _male_ descendants of Hugh Capet occupy the thrones of France, Spain, Naples, Lucca, and Portugal; the latter being derived from an illegitimate son of a Duke of Burgundy, before the accession of the Bourbon branch. The houses of Austria, Baden, Tuscany, and Modena, are derived from a Duke of Alsace, who flourished in the seventh century. I was mistaken in a former letter, in saying that the family of Lorraine is different from that of Habsbourg, for it is said to be derived in the male line equally from this Prince of Alsace. The Hohenzollerns are on the throne of Prussia, and possess the two little principalities of that name; while the Emperor of Russia is merely a Prince of Holstein. These families have been intermarrying for a thousand years, and it is not possible that they should have entirely escaped some personal peculiarities; still, as a whole, they are quite as fine physical specimens of humanity, as the average of their subjects. The Princes of Russia are singularly fine men; the house of Denmark well-looking; the Saxons, the royal branch excepted, more than usually so; the house of Wurtemburg very like the English family; the Bourbons, as a family, are a fine race; the Austrians peculiar, and less comely, though the women are often quite handsome; Don Miguel is a little beauty, _very mild and gentleman-like in his appearance_, though Lady ----, who sat next him at dinner, on a certain occasion, assured me she saw nothing but blood and rapine in his countenance! Her father, Lord ----, one of the ablest men of his time, and one familiar with high political events, gravely assured me he gave implicit credence to the tales we have heard of the outrages committed by this prince, and which, if true, render him a fit subject for the gallows. But I have seen so much of the exaggeration of factions, that incredulity, perhaps, has got to be a fault with me. I longed to tell Lord ---- what I had heard, in England, under his very nose, of himself! Among other absurdities, I had, shortly before this very conversation, heard a respectable Englishman affirm that such was the _morgue aristocratique_ of this nobleman, that he compelled his wife and daughters to walk backwards, in quitting his presence, as is done at court! This was said of a man, whom I found to be of more simple, off-hand, unpretending, gentleman-like deportment, whose demeanour had more of the nice tact which neither offends by superciliousness, nor wounds by condescension, than that of any other man of rank in England. To return to our subject;--the Austrian face is, certainly, getting to be prevalent among the southern catholic families, for all of them are closely allied to the house of Habsbourg by blood, but I do not see any more in the _physique_ of the Saxon Dukes than the good old Saxon stamina, nor aught in the peculiar appearance of the royal branch but an accident. [Footnote 21: This excludes Lichtenstein, Monaco, and Greece.] Three or four days of leisure have enabled us to look very thoroughly at the exterior of Liége, which is certainly an interesting town, with lovely environs. There are some very good old houses along the banks of the river, and a few of the churches are noble edifices. The cathedral and the church of St. Jaques, in particular, are venerable and interesting structures; and I stood beneath their lofty arches, listening to the chants of the choir, and inhaling the odours of the incense, with a satisfaction that never tires. I sometimes wish I had been educated a Catholic, in order to unite the poetry of religion with its higher principles. Are they necessarily inseparable? Is man really so much of a philosopher, that he can conceive of truth in its abstract purity, and divest life and the affections of all the aids of the imagination? If they who strip the worship of God of its factious grace, earnestly presented themselves in the garb of moral humility, rendering their familiar professions conformable to their general tenets, and stood before us as destitute of self-esteem as they are of ornament, one might not so much feel the nakedness of their rites; but, as a rule, the less graceful the forms and the more intense the spirituality of the minister of the altar become, the higher is his tone of denunciation and the more palpable his self-righteousness. In point of fact, when the proper spirit prevails, forms, of themselves, become of little account; and when men begin to deem them otherwise, it is proof rather of the want, than of the excess, of the humility and charity which are the inseparable companions of faith. I do not say that I would imitate all the unmeaning and irreverent practices of the Romish church; and least of all could one wish to see the devout and solemn manner of the Protestant ministering at the altar supplanted by the unintelligible mumblings of the Latin breviaries: but why have we denounced the holy symbol of the cross, the ornaments of the temple, the graceful attire, and the aid of music? It is impossible, I think, for the American, who has visited Europe, not to feel the want of edifices reared in honour of God, which everywhere exists in his own country. I do not mean churches, in which the comfort and convenience of the pew-holders have been mainly consulted, for these pious speculations abound; but _temples_ to mark a sense of the superiority of the Deity, and which have been reared in his honour. It may be easy enough to account for the absence of such buildings, in a country so peopled and still so young, but this does not make the deficiency the less obvious. In this hemisphere, scarcely a village is approached, that the high roof and towers of a church do not form its nucleus, the temple appearing to spread its protection over the humbler abodes of men. The domes, the pointed and lofty arches, and the Gothic tracery of cathedrals, soar above the walls of cities, and everywhere man is congregated, he appears to seek shelter under the wide-spreading wings of the church. It is no argument to say that true religion may exist without these edifices, for infidelity may also exist without them, and if it be right or useful to honour God at all, in this manner, it is a right and a usefulness to which we have not yet attained. The loftiest roofs of an American town are, invariably, its taverns; and, let metaphysics get over the matter as it may, I shall contend that such a thing is, at least, unseemly to the eye. With us it is not Gog and Magog, but grog or no grog; we are either a tame plane of roofs, or a _pyramid_ in honour of brandy and mint-juleps. When it comes to the worship of God, each man appears to wish a nut-shell to contain himself and his own shades of opinion; but when there is question of eating and drinking, the tent of Pari Banou would not be large enough to hold us. I prefer large churches and small taverns. There are one or two usages, especially, of the Romish church, that are not only beautiful, but which must be useful and salutary. One is the practice of leaving the church open at all hours, for the purposes of prayer. I have seldom entered one of these vaulted, vast, and appropriate Houses of God, without finding fewer or more devotees kneeling at the different altars. Another usage is that of periodical prayer, in the fields, or wherever the peasants may happen to be employed, as in the _angelus_, &c. I remember, with pleasure, the effect produced by the bell of the village church, as it sent its warning voice, on such occasions, across the plains, and over the hills, while we were dwellers in French or Italian hamlets. Of all these touching embellishments of life, America, and I had almost said, Protestantism, is naked; and in most cases, I think it will be found, on inquiry, naked without sufficient reason. The population of Liége is still chiefly Catholic, I believe, although the reign of the ecclesiastics has ceased. They speak an impure French, which is the language of the whole region along this frontier. Scott, whose vivid pictures carried with them an impress of truth that misled his readers, being by no means a man of either general or accurate attainment, out of the immediate circle of his peculiar knowledge, which was Scottish traditions, has represented the people of Liége, in Quentin Durward, as speaking Flemish; an error of which they make loud complaints, it being a point on which they are a little sensitive. A poet may take great licences, and it is hypercriticism to lay stress on these minor points when truth is not the aim; but this is a blunder that might, as well as not, have been spared, and probably would have been, had the author given himself the trouble to inquire into the fact. But for the complaints of the Liégeois, the error would not have been very generally known, however; certainly, not by me, had I not visited the place. The women of Liége appear to labour even more than usual for this part of Europe. They are employed in field-labour, everywhere; but in the towns, more attention is paid to the great distinctions between the employments of the sexes. Here, however, I saw them toiling in the coal-yards, and performing the offices of the common porters. They were much employed in unloading the market-boats, and yet they are far from being either coarse or ugly. The men are short, but sturdy. The average stature appears to be about five feet five and a half inches, but even this, I think, exceeds the average stature of the French. The town has been illuminated two nights in succession, in honour of the King. Every one is occupied with his approaching marriage with the Princess Louisa of France, or as it is now the fashion to say, the Princess Louisa of Orleans--for since the revolution of 1830, there is no longer a King, nor any Children of France. It would have been better had more essential points been attended to and the old names retained. In England matters are differently managed, for there the government is always one of King, Lords, and Commons, though it is constantly fluctuating, and two of the parties are usually cyphers. LETTER XI. Leave Liége.--Banks of the Mense.--Spa.--Beautiful Promenades.--Robinson Crusoe.--The Duke of Saxe-Cobourg.--Former magnificence of Spa.--Excursions in the vicinity.--Departure from Spa.--Aix-la-Chapelle.--The Cathedral.--The Postmaster's Compliments.--Berghem.--German Enthusiasm.--Arrival at Cologne. Dear ----, On the fourth day of our quarantine, we left Liége, if not with clean bills of health, with passport bearing proof about it that would enable us to enter Prussia the next morning. The King and his brother having laid all the horses in requisition, we did not get away before two; but once on the road, our postilions drove like men who had reaped a double harvest. The route lay for some distance along the banks of the Meuse, and the whole region was one of exquisite landscape beauties. An intensely dark verdure--a road that meandered through the valley, occasionally shifting from bank to bank--hill-sides covered with fruit-trees and fragrant with flowers--country-houses--hamlets--cottages--with every appearance of abundance and comfort, and back-grounds of swelling land, that promised equal beauty and equal affluence, were the principal features of the scene. The day was as fine as possible, and, everything bearing a leaf having just been refreshed with a recent shower, we glided through this fairy region with something like enthusiasm with which we had formerly journeyed in Switzerland and Italy. The Meuse, however, was soon abandoned for a tributary, and, after proceeding a few leagues, the character of the country gradually changed, although it still continued peculiar and beautiful. The intensity of the verdure disappeared in a pale, but still a decided green--the forest thickened--the habitations no longer crowded the way-side, and we appeared to be entering a district, that was altogether less populous and affluent than the one we had left, but which was always neat, picturesque, and having an air of comfort. We were gradually, but almost imperceptibly ascending. This lasted for four hours, when, reaching a country-house, the road turned suddenly at a right angle, and ran for near a mile through an avenue of trees, bounded by open meadows. At the termination of this avenue we dashed into the streets of a small, well-built, neat, and compact village, that contained about one hundred and fifty dwellings, besides three or four edifices of rather more than usual pretensions. This was the celebrated Spa, a watering-place whose reputation was once co-extensive with civilization. We drove to an inn, where we dined, but finding it crowded and uncomfortable. I went out and hired a furnished house by the day, putting our own servants, with an assistant, in possession of the kitchen. Next morning, perceiving that I had been too hasty, and that our lodgings were too confined, I discharged them and took a better. We got a dining-room, two drawing-rooms, several bed-rooms, with offices, etc., all neat and well-furnished, for a Napoleon a day. I mention these things as they serve to show you the facilities a traveller enjoys in this part of the world. Nearly every house in Spa is to be had in this manner, fitted for the reception of guests, the proprietor occupying a small building adjoining, and usually keeping a shop, where wine and groceries may be had. Servants can be engaged at any moment, and one is thus enabled to set up his own _ménage_ at an hour's notice. This mode is more economical for a large family, than living at an hotel, vastly more comfortable, and more respectable. Dinners can be had from the taverns, if desired. François being something of a cook, with the aid of the Spa assistant, we lived entirely within ourselves. You will remember that in hiring the house by the day, I reserved the right to quit it at any moment. Spa, like most other places that possess chalybeate waters, stands in the centre of a country that can boast but little of its fertility. Still, time and cultivation have left it the character of pale verdure of which I have just spoken, and which serves for a time to please by its novelty. The hue looked neither withered nor sickly, but it was rather that of young grasses. It was a ghostly green. The eye wanders over a considerable extent of naked fields, when one is on the steep wooded hills, under whose very brows the village is built, and I scarcely can recall a spot where a stronger impression of interminable vastness is left, than I felt while gazing at the illimitable swells of land that stretch away towards France. The country is said to be in the mountains of the Ardennes, and once there was the forest through which the "Boar of Ardennes" was wont to roam; but of forest there is now none; and if there be a mountain, Spa must stand on its boundless summit. High and broken hills do certainly appear, but, as a whole, it is merely an upland region. The glory of Spa has departed! Time was when the idle, the gay and the dissolute crowded to this retired village to intrigue and play, under the pretence of drinking the waters; when its halls were thronged with princes and nobles, and even monarchs frequented its fêtes and partook of its festivities. The industrious inhabitants even now spare no pains to render the abode pleasant, but the capricious taste of the age lures the traveller to other springs, where still pleasanter haunts invite their presence. Germany abounds with watering-places, which are usually rendered agreeable by a judicious disposition of walks, and by other similar temptations. In nothing are the money-grasping and shiftless habits of America rendered more apparent, than in the inferiority of her places of public resort. In all these particulars nature has done a good deal for some of them, but nowhere has man done anything worth naming. A trifling expenditure has rendered the rude hill which, covered chiefly with evergreens, overlooks Spa, a succession of beautiful promenades. Serpentine walks are led through its thickets, agreeable surprises are prepared for the stranger, and all the better points of view are ornamented by seats and summer-houses. One of these places was covered by a permanent protection against the weather that had a name which amused us, though it was appropriate enough, so far as the shape went. It was called a "mushroom," it being, in fact, a sort of wooden umbrella, not unlike those which the French market-women spread over their heads in the streets of Paris, and which, more sentimental and imaginative, they term a "_Robinson_" in honour of Robinson Crusoe.[22] This mushroom was the scene of a remarkable occurrence, that it will scarcely do to relate, but which, taking all together, furnishes a ludicrous sample of national manners, to say nothing of miracles. [Footnote 22: Pronounced Ro-ban-_sown_. The writer once went to return the call of Mr. Robinson, at Paris. The porter denied that such a person lived in the hotel. "But here is his card; Mr. Robinson, N----, Rue ----." "Bah," looking at the card, "ceci est Monsieur Ro-ban-_sown_; c'est autre chose. Sans doute, Monsieur a entendu parler du célèbre Ro-ban-_sown?_"] The waters and the air together proved to be so much a tonic, that we determined to pass a week at Spa, A----, who was so weak on leaving Paris, as scarcely to be able to enter the carriage, gaining strength in a way to delight us all. The cholera and the quarantine together induce a good many people to come this way, and though few remain as long as ourselves, the constant arrivals serve to keep attention alive. Among others, the Duke of Saxe-Cobourg passed a night here, on his way home. He appeared in the public room, for a few minutes; but so few were assembled, that he retired, it was said, disappointed. There is still some playing in public, and occasionally the inhabitants of Verviers, an affluent manufacturing town, near the Prussian frontier, come over in sufficient numbers to make a tolerably brilliant evening. These meetings take place in the Redoute, a building of moderate dimensions, erected in the heart of the place according to a very general German custom; Wauxhall, the ancient scene of revelry, standing aloof in the fields, deserted and desolate, as does a rival edifice of more recent existence. The dimensions and style of these structures give one an idea of the former gaiety and magnificence of Spa, though the only use that either is now put to, is to furnish a room for a protestant clergyman to preach in, Sundays. As health, after all, is the greatest boon of life, we loitered at Spa a fortnight, endeavouring to while away the time in the best way we could. Short as was our stay, and transient as were the visits, we remained long enough to see that it was an epitome of life. Some intrigued, some played, and some passed the time at prayer. I witnessed trouble in one _ménage_, saw a parson drunk, and heard much pious discourse from a captain in the navy! We got little Ardennes horses, which were constantly parading the streets, led by countrymen in _blouses_, to tempt us to mount, and took short excursions in the vicinity. Sometimes we made what is called the tour of the springs; of which there are several, each differing from the others in its medicinal properties, and only one of which is in the village itself, the rest being a mile or more distant. At other times, we lounged in the shops, admiring and purchasing the beautiful boxes and ornaments that are known as Spa work, and which are merely the wood of the hills, coloured by being deposited for a time in the spring, and then painted and varnished highly. Similar work is made in other places, but nowhere else as beautifully as here. At length _ennui_ got the better of the good air and the invigorating water, and I sent for my passport and the horses. François, by this time, was tired of cooking, and he carried the orders for both right joyfully, while my _bourgeois_ received his Napoleons with many handsome expressions of regret, that I dare say were truer than common. In the mean time we hurried about with our cards of P.P.C.; bidding adieu to some, without the slightest expectation of ever meeting them again, and promising others to renew the acquaintance on the Rhine, or among the Alps, as events might decide. At half-past eleven all was ready, and shaking hands with two countrymen who came to see us off, we took our places, and dashed away from our _ménage_ of a fortnight's duration, as unceremoniously as we had stepped into it. The dog-star raged with all its fury, as we drove through the close and pent-up valleys that lie between Spa and Verviers. At the latter place we began to ascend, until finally we reached a broad and naked height, that overlooked a wide reach of country towards the east. This was the region that lies around the ancient capital of Charlemagne, and is now a part of what M. de Pradt has described "as a façade thrown before Europe," or the modern and disjointed kingdom of Prussia. We reached the frontier on the height of land, where, everything proving to be _en règle_, we met with no obstruction or delay. While crossing the swell of land just mentioned, the wind changed with a suddenness that we are apt to think American, but which occurs more frequently in this hemisphere, or rather in this part of it, than in our own. The peculiarity of the American climate is its exaggeration rather than its fickleness; its passages from extreme heat to extreme cold, more than the frequency of its lesser transitions. One never thinks of an umbrella in America, with a cloudless sky; whereas, during the spring months in particular, there is no security against rain an hour at a time, near the western coast of Europe, more especially north of the Bay of Biscay. On the present occasion, we passed in a few minutes from the oven to the ice-house, and were travelling with cloaks about us, and closed windows, long before we reached Aix-la-Chapelle, at which ancient town we arrived about six. Unlike Spa, where we had the choice among a hundred furnished houses, Aix was so crowded that we got narrow lodgings, with great difficulty, in a second-rate hotel. As a matter of course, although it was going over old ground with most of us, we could do no less than look at the sights. The environs of Aix, though exceedingly pretty, and well ornamented by country-houses, are less beautiful than those of Liege. Although Charlemagne has been buried near a thousand years, and there is no longer an Emperor of Germany, or a King of the Romans, Aix-la-Chapelle is still a town of more than 30,000 inhabitants. It is a crowded and not a particularly neat place, though material improvements are making, and we have been more pleased with it this year than we were last. The town-house is a very ancient structure, one of its towers being supposed to have been built by the Romans, and it is celebrated as having been the place of meeting of two European congresses; that of 1748, and that of our own times. It has a gallery of portraits of the different ambassadors, a big-wigged if a not big-witted set. The cathedral, though imperfect, is a noble and a curious monument: the choir is modern, that is to say, of Gothic workmanship, and only five hundred years old, while the main body is an antique rotunda, that dates more than twice as far back, or as remotely as the reign of Charlemagne himself. There is a circular gallery in it, around which the thrones of the Emperor and Electors were formerly placed, at the ceremonies of coronations. Each of these thrones was flanked by small antique columns, brought from Rome, but which during the reign of Napoleon, in the spirit of monopoly and desecration[23] that marked the era, had been transferred to Paris, where some of them are still seen standing in the gallery of the Tuileries. A chair that was found in Charlemagne's tomb stands in this gallery, and was long used as a throne for the Emperors. [Footnote 23: Extract from the unpublished manuscript of these letters: "You have lately been at Richmond Hill," said Mr. ----; "did you admire the view, as much as is the fashion?" "To be frank with you, I did not. The Park struck me as being an indifferent specimen of your parks; and the view, though containing an exquisite bit in the fore-ground, I think, as a whole, is both tame and confused." "You are not alone in your opinion, though I think otherwise. Canova walked with me on the terrace, without seeming to be conscious there was anything unusual to be seen. He scarcely regarded the celebrated view a second time. Did you know him?" "He was dead before I came to Europe." "Poor Canova!--I met him in Paris, in 1815, in a ludicrous dilemma. It rained, and I was crossing the Carrousel in a _fiacre_, when I saw Canova stealing along near the walls, covered in a cloak, and apparently uncertain how to proceed. _I drove_ near him, and offered him a seat. He was agitated, and appeared like a man who had stolen goods about him. The amount of it was, that they were distributing the pictures to their former owners, and having an order to receive "la Madonna della Seggiola," he had laid hands on the prize, and, in his eagerness to make sure of it, was carrying it off, under his cloak. He was afraid of being discovered and mobbed, and so I drove home with him to his hotel." I think Mr. ---- named this particular picture, though I have somewhere heard it was never brought to Paris, having been sent to Sicily for security: it might, therefore, have been another painting.] The cathedral is said to be rich in relics, and, among other things, it has some of the manna from the desert, and a bit of Aaron's rod! It has a window or two, in a retired chapel, which have a few panes of exquisitely painted glass that are much more precious than either. At noon I sent my passport to the post-house for horses, and, in return, I had a visit from the postmaster in compliment to the republic of letters. We said a few flattering things to each other, much to the amusement of A----, when we took our departure. The country, after quitting the valley of Aix,[24] became flat and monotonous, and it was in the midst of a vast level district that we found the town of Juliers, the capital of the ancient duchy, buried behind grassy ramparts, that were scarcely visible until we were actually passing them. It is a tame and insignificant place, at present. At Berghem, a post or two further, I had another visit from the postmaster and his clerk, who made no scruple in asking me if I was the man who wrote books! We talk a great deal of our national intelligence in America, and certainly with truth, when we compare ourselves with these people in many important particulars; but blocks are not colder, or can have less real reverence for letters, arts, or indeed cultivation of any kind, than the great bulk of the American people. There are a few among us who pretend to work themselves up into enthusiasm as respects the first, more especially if they can get a foreign name to idolize; but it is apparent, at a glance, that it is not enthusiasm of the pure water. For this, Germany is the land of sensations, whether music, poetry, arms, or the more material arts be their object. As for myself, I can boast of little in this way, beyond the homage of my two postmasters, which perhaps was more than properly fell to my share; but I shall never forget the feeling displayed by a young German, at Dresden, whom chance threw in my way. We had lodgings in a house directly opposite the one inhabited by Tieck, the celebrated novelist and dramatist. Having no proper means of introduction to this gentleman, and unwilling to obtrude myself anywhere, I never made his acquaintance, but it was impossible not to know, in so small a town, where so great a celebrity lived. Next door to us was a Swiss confectioner, with whom I occasionally took an ice. One day a young man entered for a similar purpose, and left the room with myself. At the door he inquired if I could tell him in which of the neighbouring hotels M. Tieck resided, I showed him the house and paused a moment to watch his manner, which was entirely free from pretension, but which preserved an indescribable expression of reverence. "Was it possible to get a glimpse of the person of M. Tieck?" "I feared not; some one had told me that he was gone to a watering-place." "Could I tell him which was the window of his room?" This I was able to do, as he had been pointed out to me at it a few days before. I left him gazing at the window, and it was near an hour before this quiet exhibition of heartfelt homage ceased by the departure of the young man. In my own case, I half suspect that my two postmasters expected to see a man of less European countenance than the one I happen to travel with. [Footnote 24: _Aachen_, in German. In French it is pronounced Ais-la-Chapelle.] It was near sunset when we reached the margin of the upper terrace, where we began to descend to the level of the borders of the Rhine. Here we had a view of the towers of Cologne, and of the broad plain that environs its walls. It was getting to be dark as we drove through the winding entrance, among bastions and half-moons, and across bridges, up to the gates of the place, which we reached just in season to be admitted without the extra formalities. LETTER XII. The Cathedral of Cologne.--The eleven thousand Virgins.--The Skulls Of the Magi--House in which Rubens was born.--Want of Cleanliness in Cologne.--Journey resumed.--The Drachenfels.--Romantic Legend.--A Convent converted into an Inn.--Its Solitude.--A Night in it.--A Storm.--A Nocturnal Adventure.--Grim Figures.--An Apparition.--The Mystery dissolved.--Palace of the Kings of Australia.--Banks of the Rhine.--Coblentz.--Floating Bridges.--Departure from Coblentz.--Castle of the Ritterstein.--Visit to it.--Its Furniture,--The Ritter Saal--Tower of the Castle.--Anachronisms. Dear ----, I do not know by what dignitary of the ancient electorate the hotel in which we lodged was erected, but it was a spacious building, with fine lofty rooms and a respectable garden. As the language of a country is influenced by its habits, and in America everything is so much reduced to the standard of the useful that little of the graceful has yet been produced, it may be well to remind you that this word "garden," signifies pleasure-grounds in Europe. It way even be questioned if the garden of Eden was merely a _potager_. After breakfasting we began to deliberate as to our future movements. Here we were at Cologne, in Prussia, with the wide world before us, uncertain whither to proceed. It was soon decided, however, that a first duty was to look again at the unfinished cathedral, that wonder of Gothic architecture; to make a pilgrimage to the house in which Rubens was born; to pay a visit to the eleven thousand virgins, and to buy some Cologne water: after which it would be time enough to determine where we should sleep. The first visit was to the bones. These relics are let into the walls of the church that contains them, and are visible through a sort of pigeon-holes which are glazed. There is one chapel in particular, that is altogether decorated with the bones arranged in this manner, the effect being very much like that of an apothecary's shop. Some of the virgins are honoured with hollow wooden or silver busts, lids in the tops of which being opened, the true skull is seen within. These relics are not as formidable, therefore, as one would be apt to infer the bones of eleven thousand virgins might be, the grinning portion of the skulls being uniformly veiled for propriety's sake. I thought it a miracle in itself to behold the bones of all these virgins, but, as if they were insufficient, the cicerone very coolly pointed out to us the jar that had held the water which was converted into wine by the Saviour at the marriage of Cana! It was Asiatic in form, and may have held both water and wine in its day. The cathedral is an extraordinary structure. Five hundred years have gone by, and there it is less than half finished. One of the towers is not forty feet high, while the other may be two hundred. The crane, which is renewed from time to time, though a stone has not been raised in years, is on the latter. The choir, or rather the end chapel that usually stands in rear of the choir, is perfect, and a most beautiful thing it is. The long narrow windows, that are near a hundred feet in height, are exquisitely painted, creating the peculiar cathedral atmosphere, that ingenious invention of some poet to render solemn architecture imaginative and glorious. We could not dispense with looking at the skulls of the Magi, which are kept in an exceedingly rich reliquary or shrine. They are all three crowned, as well as being masked like the virgins. There is much jewellery, though the crowns had a strong glow of tinsel about them, instead of the mild lustre of the true things. Rubens, as you know, was of gentle birth, and the house in which he was born is just such a habitation as you would suppose might have been inhabited by a better sort of burgher. It is said that Mary of Medicis, the wife of Henry IV, died in this building, and tradition, which is usually a little ambitious of effect, has it that she died in the very room in which Rubens was born. The building is now a public-house. I do not know that there is a necessary connection between foul smells and Cologne water, but this place is the dirtiest and most offensive we have yet seen, or rather smelt, in Europe. It would really seem that people wish to drive their visitors into the purchase of their great antidote. Disagreeable as it was, we continued to _flaner_ through the streets until near noon, visiting, among other things, the floating bridge, where we once more enjoyed the sight of the blue waters of the Rhine glancing beneath our feet. Like true _flaneurs_, we permitted chance to direct our steps, and at twelve, tired with foul smells and heat, we entered the carriage, threaded the half-moons, abbatis and grassy mounds again, and issued into the pure air of the unfenced fields, on the broad plain that stretches for miles towards the east, or in the direction of Bonn. The day was sultry, and we fully enjoyed the transition. In this part of Germany the postilions are no laggards, and we trotted merrily across the wide plain, reaching Bonn long before it was time to refresh ourselves. The horses were changed, and we proceeded immediately. As we left the town I thought the students, who were gasping at the windows of their lodgings, envied us the pleasure of motion Having so lately accompanied me over this road; I shall merely touch upon such points as were omitted before, and keep you acquainted with our movements. The afternoon was lovely, when, passing the conical and castle-crowned steep of Godisberg, we approached the hills, where the road for the first time runs on the immediate borders of the stream. Opposite to us were the Seven mountains, topped by the ruins of the Drachenfels, crag and masonry wearing the appearance of having mouldered together under the slow action of centuries; and, a little in advance, the castle of Rolandseck peered above the wooded rocks on our own side of the river. Two low islands divided the stream, and on one of them stood the capacious buildings of a convent. Every one at all familiar with the traditions of the Rhine, has heard the story of the crusader, who, returning from the wars, found his betrothed a nun in this asylum. It would seem that lies were as rife before the art of printing had been pressed into their service, or newspapers known, as they are to-day, for she had been taught to think him dead or inconstant; it was much the same to her. The castle which overlooked the island was built for his abode, and here the legend is prudently silent. Although one is not bound to believe all he hears; we are all charmed with the images which such tales create, especially when, as in this case, they are aided by visible and tangible objects in the shape of good stone walls. As we trotted along under the brow of the mountain that upholds the ruins of the castle of Charlemagne's nephew, my eye rested musingly on the silent pile of the convent. "That convent," I called out to the postilion, "is still inhabited?" "_Ja, mein Herr, es ist ein gasthaus_." An inn!--the thing was soon explained. The convent, a community of Benedictines, had been suppressed some fifteen or twenty years, and the buildings had been converted into one of your sentimental taverns. With the closest scrutiny I could not detect a soul near the spot, for junketing in a ruin is my special aversion. A hamlet stood on the bank at no great distance above the island; the postilion grinned when I asked if it would be possible to get horses to this place in the morning, for it saved him a trot all the way to Oberwinter. He promised to send word in the course of the night to the relay above, and the whole affair was arranged in live minutes. The carriage was housed and left under the care of François on the main land, a night sack thrown into a skiff, and in ten minutes we were afloat on the Rhine. Our little bark whirled about in the eddies, and soon touched the upper point of the island. We found convent, _gasthaus_, and sentiment, without any pre-occupants. There was not a soul on the island, but the innkeeper, his wife, a child, a cook, a crone who did all sorts of work, and three Prussian soldiers, who were billeted on the house, part of a detachment that we had seen scattered along the road, all the way from Bonn. I do not know which were the most gladdened by the meeting, ourselves or the good people of the place; we at finding anything like retirement in Europe, and they at seeing anything like guests. The man regretted that we had come so late, for a large party had just left him; and we felicitated ourselves that we had not come any sooner, for precisely the same reason. As soon as he comprehended our tastes, he very frankly admitted that every room in the convent was empty. "There is no one, but these, on the island. Not a living being, _herr graf_" for these people have made a count of me, whether or not. Here then were near two hundred acres, environed by the Rhine, prettily disposed in wood and meadow, absolutely at our mercy. You can readily imagine, with what avidity a party of young Parisiennes profited by their liberty, while I proceeded forthwith to inspect the ladder, and then to inspect the cloisters. Sooth to say, sentiment had a good deal to do with two of the courses of a dinner at Nonnenswerth, for so is the island called. The buildings were spacious, and far from mean; and it was a pleasant thing to promenade in cloisters that had so lately been trodden by holy nuns, and see your dinner preparing in a convent kitchen. I could do no less than open a bottle of "Liebfraumilch" in such a place, but it proved to be a near neighbour to bonny-clabber. As the evening closed we took possession of our rooms. Our parlour had been that of the lady abbess, and A---- had her bed-chamber. These were spacious rooms and well furnished. The girls were put into the cells, where girls ought never to be put. Jetty had another near them, and, these dispositions made, I sallied forth alone, in quest of a sensation. The intense heat of the day had engendered a gust. The thunder was muttering among the "seven mountains," and occasionally a flash of lightning illumined the pitchy darkness of the night. I walked out into the grounds, where the wind was fiercely howling through the trees. A new flash illumined the hills, and I distinctly saw the naked rock of the Drachenfels, with the broken tower tottering on the half-ruined crag, looked fearful and supernatural. By watching a minute, another flash exposed Rolandseck, looking down upon me with melancholy solicitude. Big drops began to patter on the leaves, and, still bent on sensations, I entered the buildings. The cloisters were gloomy, but I looked into the vast, smoked, and cavern-like kitchen, where the household were consuming the fragments of our dinner. A light shone from the door of a low cell, in a remote corner of the cloisters, and I stole silently to it, secretly hoping it would prove to be a supernatural glimmering above some grave. The three Prussians were eating their cheese-parings and bread, by the light of a tallow candle, seated on a stone floor. It was short work to squeeze all the poetry out of this group. The storm thickened, and I mounted to the gallery, or the corridor above the cloisters, which communicated with our own rooms. Here I paced back and forth, a moment, in obscurity, until, by means of a flash, I discovered a door, at one extremity of the passage. Bent on adventure, I pushed and it opened. As there were only moments when anything could be seen, I proceeded in utter darkness, using great caution not to fall through a trap. Had it been my happy fortune to be a foundling, who had got his reading and writing "by nature," I should have expected to return from the adventure a Herzog,[25] at least, if not an Erz-Herzog[26] Perhaps, by some inexplicable miracle of romance, I might have come forth the lawful issue of Roland and the nun! [Footnote 25: Duke.] [Footnote 26: Arch-Duke.] As it was, I looked for no more than sensations, of which the hour promised to be fruitful. I had not been a minute in the unknown region, before I found that, if it were not the abode of troubled spirits, it at least was worthy to be so. You will remember that I am not now dealing in fiction, but truth, and that, unlike those who "read when they sing, and sing when they read," I endeavour to be imaginative in poetry and literal in my facts. I am now dealing strictly with the latter, which I expect will greatly enhance the interest of this adventure. After taking half-a-dozen steps with extreme caution, I paused a moment, for the whole air appeared to be filled by a clatter, as if ten thousand bats' wings were striking against glass. This was evidently within the convent, while, without, the wind howled even louder than ever. My hand rested on something, I knew not what. At first I did not even know whether I was in the open air, or not, for I felt the wind, saw large spaces of dim light, and yet could distinguish that something like a vault impended over my head. Presently a vivid flash of lightning removed all doubt. It flickered, seemed extinguished, and flared up again, in a way to let me get some distinct ideas of the _locus in quo_. I had clearly blundered into the convent chapel; not upon its pavement, which was on a level with the cloisters below, but into an open gallery, that communicated with the apartments of the nuns, and my hand was on the chair of the lady abbess, the only one that remained. The dim light came from the high arched windows, and the bats' wings were small broken panes rattling in the gale. But I was not alone. By the transient light I saw several grim figures, some kneeling, others with outstretched arms, bloody and seared, and one appeared to be in the confessional. At the sight of these infernal spectres, for they came and went with the successive flashes of the lightning, by a droll chain of ideas, I caught myself shouting, rather than singing--"Ship ahoy! ship ahoy!--what cheer, what cheer?" in a voice loud as the winds. At last, here was a sensation! Half-a-dozen flashes rendered me familiar with the diabolical-looking forms, and as I now knew where to look for them, even their grim countenances were getting to be familiar. At this moment, when I was about to address them in prose, the door by which I had entered the gallery opened slowly, and the withered face of an old woman appeared in a flash. The thunder came next, and the face vanished--"Ship ahoy! ship ahoy!--what cheer, what cheer?" There was another pause--the door once more opened, and the face re-appeared. I gave a deep and loud groan; if you ask me why, I can only say, because it seemed to be wanting to the general effect of the scene and place. The door slammed, the face vanished, and I was alone again with the demons. By this time the gust was over I groped my way out of the gallery, stole through the corridor into my own room, and went to bed. I ought to have had exciting dreams, especially after the _Liebfraumilch_, but, contrary to all rule, I slept like a postilion in a cock-loft, or a midshipman in the middle watch. The next morning at breakfast, A---- had a melancholy tale to relate; how the poor old crone, who has already been mentioned, had been frightened by the gust--how she stole to the chapel to mutter a prayer--how she opened the door of the gallery--how she heard strange sounds, and particularly certain groans--how she had dropped the candle--how the door had blown to, and she, miserable woman, had stolen to the bed of her (A----'s) maid, whom she had implored to give her shelter and protection for the night! We went in a body to look at the chapel, after breakfast, and it was admitted all round, that it was well suited to produce a sensation, in a thunder-storm, of a dark night, and that it was no wonder Jetty's bed-fellow had been frightened. But now everything was calm and peaceful. The glass hung in fragments about the leaden sashes; the chair and _prière-dieu_ of the lady abbess had altogether an innocent and comfortable air, and the images, of which there were several, as horrible as a bungling workman and a bloody imagination could produce, though of a suffering appearance, were really insensible to pain. While we were making this reconnoissance a bugle sounded on the main, and looking out, we saw the Oberwinter postilion coming round the nearest bend in the river. On this hint, we took our leave of the island, not forgetting to apply a little of the universal salve to the bruised spirit of the old woman whose dread of thunder had caused her to pass so comfortless a night. The day was before us, and we went leisurely up the stream, determined to profit by events. The old castles crowned every height, as you know, and as we had the carriage filled with maps and books, we enjoyed every foot of this remarkable road. At Andernach we stopped to examine the ruins of the palace of the Kings of Austrasia, of whom you have heard before. The remains are considerable, and some parts of the walls would still admit of being restored. The palace has outlasted not only the kingdom, but almost its history. This edifice was partly built of a reddish freestone, very like that which is so much used in New York, a material that abounds on the Rhine. Between Andernach and Coblentz the road passes over a broad plain, at some little distance from the river, though the latter is usually in sight. It may give you some idea of its breadth, if I tell you that as we approached Neuwied, it became a disputed point in the carriage, whether the stream flowed between us and the town, or not. Still the Rhine is a mighty river, and even imposing, when one contemplates its steady flow, and remembers its great length. It is particularly low at present, and is less beautiful than last year, the colours of the water being more common-place than usual. It was still early, though we had loitered a good deal by the way, to study views and examine ruins, when we drew near the fort-environed town of Coblentz. The bridge across the Moselle was soon passed, and we again found ourselves in this important station. The territory opposite the city belongs to the duchy of Nassau, but enough has been ceded to the King of Prussia to enable him to erect the celebrated Ehrenbreitstein, which is one of the strongest forts in the world, occupying the summit of a rocky height, whose base is washed by the Rhine, and whose outworks are pushed to all the neighbouring eminences. The position of Coblentz, at the junction of the Rhine and the Moselle, the latter of which penetrates into the ancient electorate of Treves, now belonging to Prussia, may render it an important station to that power, but it does not strike me as military. The enemy that can seize any one of its numerous outworks, or forts, must essentially command the place. As at Genoa, it seems to me that too much has been attempted to succeed. Last night we had a convent that was a parallelogram of six hundred feet by three hundred, all to ourselves; while this night we were crowded into a small and uncomfortable inn that was overflowing with people. The house was noisy and echoish, and not inappropriately called the "Three Swiss." We crossed the river by the bridge of boats, and ascended the opposite hill to enjoy the view. There was another island up the stream, with a ruined convent, but unhappily it was not an inn. The Rhine is a frontier for much of its course, washing the shores of France, Darmstadt, Bavaria, Baden, Nassau, Prussia, &c., &c., for a long distance, and permanent bridges are avoided in most places. The floating bridges, being constructed of platforms laid on boats, that are united by clamps, can be taken apart, and withdrawn, to either shore, in an hour or two. We quitted Coblentz at ten, and now began in truth to enter the fine scenery of the Rhine. The mountains, or rather hills, for they scarcely deserve the former name, close upon the river, a short distance below the town, and from that moment, with very immaterial exceptions, the road follows the windings of the stream, keeping generally within a few yards of the water. The departures from this rule are not more than sufficient to break the monotony of a perfectly uniform scene. I have nothing new to tell you of the ruined castles--the villages and towns that crowd the narrow strand--the even and well-kept roads--the vine-covered hills--and the beautiful sinuosities of this great artery of Europe. To write any thing new or interesting of this well-beaten path, one must linger days among the ruins, explore the valleys, and dive into the local traditions. We enjoyed the passage, as a matter of course, but it was little varied, until we drew near the frontier of Prussia, when a castle, that stood beetling on a crag, immediately above the road, caught my eye. The building, unlike most of its sister edifices, appeared to be in good order; smoke actually arose from a beacon-grate that thrust itself out from an advanced tower, which was nearly in a perpendicular line above us, and the glazed windows and other appliances denoted a perfect and actual residence. As usual, the postilion was questioned. I understood him to say that the place was called the Ritterstein, but the name is of little moment. It was a castle of the middle ages, a real hold of the Rhine, which had been purchased by a brother of the King of Prussia, who is now the governor of the Rhenish provinces. This prince had caused the building to be restored, rigidly adhering to the ancient style of architecture, and to be furnished according to the usages of the middle ages, and baronial comfort; what was more, if the prince were not in his hold, as probably would prove not to be the case, strangers were permitted to visit it! Here was an unexpected pleasure, and we hastened to alight, admiring the governor of Rhenish provinces, his taste, and his liberality, with all our hearts. If you remember the satisfaction with which we visited the little hunting-tower of the poor Prince de Condé in 1827, a building whose chief merit was its outward form and the fact that it had been built by the Queen Blanche, you can form some notion of the zeal with which we toiled up the steep ascent, on the present occasion. The path was good, tasteful, and sinuous; but the buildings stood on crags that were almost perpendicular on three of their sides, and at an elevation of near, or perhaps quite, two hundred feet above the road. We were greeted, on reaching the gate, not by a warder, but by the growl and bark of a ferocious mastiff, who would have been more in keeping at his post near a henroost, than at the portal of a princely castle. One "half-groom, half-seneschal," and who was withal a little drunk, however, soon came forth to receive us, and, after an exhortation to the dog in a Dutch that was not quite as sonorous as the growl of the animal, he very civilly offered to do the honours of the place. We entered by a small drawbridge, but the buildings stand so near the brow of an impending rock, as to induce me to think this bridge has been made for effect, rather than to renew the original design. A good deal of the old wall remains, especially in the towers, which are mostly round, and all that has been done with the exterior, has been to fill the gaps, and to re-attach the balconies and the external staircases, which are of iron. I can no more give you a clear idea of the irregular form of this edifice with the pen, than you would obtain of the intricate tracery of Gothic architecture, having never seen a Gothic edifice, or studied a treatise on the style, by the same means. You will understand the difficulty when you are told that this castle is built on crags, whose broken summits are its foundations, and give it its form. The court is narrow and inconvenient, carriages never approaching it, but several pretty little terraces in front answer most of the purposes of courts, and command lovely glimpses of the Rhine, in both directions. These terraces, like the towers and walls, were placed just where there was room, and the total absence of regularity forms one of the charms of the place. In the interior, the ancient arrangement has been studiously respected. The furniture is more than imitation, for we were told that much of it had been taken from the royal collections of Berlin. By royal, you are not to suppose, however, that there are any attempts at royal state, but merely that the old castles of the barons and counts, whose diminutive territories have contributed to rear the modern state of Prussia, have been ransacked for this end. The Ritter Saal, or Knight's Hall, though not large, is a curious room; indeed it is the only one in the entire edifice that can be called a good room, at all. The fire-place is huge,--so much so, that I walked into it with ease, and altogether in the ancient style. There is a good deal of curious armour hung up in this room, and it has many other quaint and rare objects. The chandelier was a circle formed by uniting buck's horns, which were fitted with lamps. There was almost too much good taste about this for feudal times, and I suspect it of being one of our modern embellishments; a material picture of the past, like a poem by Scott. There may have been some anachronisms in the furniture, but we all use furniture of different ages, when we are not reduced to the fidgety condition of mere gentility. In one corner of the Bitter Saal there stood an ancient vessel to hold water, and beneath it was a porcelain trough to catch the drippings. The water was obtained by turning a cock. The chairs, tables, settees, &c. were all of oak. The coverings of the chairs, _i. e_. backs and bottoms, were richly embroidered in golden thread, the work of different royal personages. The designs were armorial bearings. All the stairs were quaint and remarkable, and, in one instance, we encircled the exterior of a tower, by one of them, at a giddy elevation of near three hundred feet above the river, the tower itself being placed on the uttermost verge of the precipice. From this tower the grate of the beacon thrust itself forward, and as it still smoked, I inquired the reason. We were told that the wad of a small piece of artillery, that had been fired as a signal to the steam-boat, had lodged in the grate, where it was still burning. The signal had been given to enable the Prince and his family to embark, for they had not left the place an hour when we arrived. _Tempora mutantur_ since the inhabitants of such a hold can go from Bingen to Coblentz to dine in a steamer. We saw the bed-rooms. The Prince slept on an inner camp bedstead, but the ladies occupied bunks let into the walls, as in the olden time. The rooms were small, the Bitter Saal excepted, and low, though there were a good many of them. One or two were a little too much modernized, perhaps, though, on the whole, the keeping was surprisingly good. A severe critic might possibly have objected to a few anachronisms in this _romaunt_, but this in a fault that Prince Frederic shares in common with Shakspeare and Sir Walter Scott. I cannot recall a more delightful hour than that we passed in examining this curiosity, which was like handling and feeding, and playing with a living cameleopard, after having seen a dozen that were stuffed. * * * * * In reference to the controversy touching the expenses of the American Government alluded to in page 37, of this volume, the following particulars may not be uninteresting. Early in the day, the party who conducted the controversy for the other side began to make frequent allusions to certain Americans--"_plusieurs honorables Américains_" was the favourite expression--who, he alleged, had furnished him with information that went to corroborate the truth of his positions, and, as a matter of course, to invalidate the truth of ours. Secret information reached me, also, that a part, at least, of our own legation was busy for the other side. At one period, M. Perier, the Premier of France, publicly cited the name of the minister, himself, at the tribune, as having given an opinion against those who conducted the controversy on the side of the American system, and in favour of our opponents. I understand Mr. Rives declares that M. Perier had no authority either for using his name, or for attributing such sentiments to him; although the statement, as yet, stands uncontradicted before the world. You will probably be startled, when I tell you, that this is the third instance, within a few months, in which the public agents of America have been openly quoted as giving evidence against the action of the American system. The two other cases occurred in the British parliament, and, in one of them, as in this of Mr. Rives, the agent was quoted by name! It is not in my power to say whether these gentlemen have or have not been wrongfully quoted; but all cannot be right, when they are quoted at all. Figure to yourself, for a moment, what would be the effect of a member of congress quoting the minister of a foreign government, at Washington, as giving an opinion against a material feature of the polity he represented, and the disclaimers and discussions, not to say quarrels, that would succeed. How is it, that the representatives of exclusion are so much more faithful to the interests of their principals, than the representatives of liberal institutions? Some will tell you that the condition of Europe is critical; that our own relations with certain countries are delicate, and that it is expedient to temporize. In the first place, judging from my own observations, I do not believe there is any of the much-talked-of temporizing spirit about all this compliance, but that in most of the cases in which the agents of the government disown the distinguishing principles of the institutions (and these cases have got to be so numerous as to attract general attention, and to become the subject of sneering newspaper comments) it is "out of the fulness of the heart that the mouth speaketh." But, allowing that the first position is true, and that these gentlemen actually acquiesce for the sake of quiet, and with a view to advance what they conceive to be the interests of America, I shall maintain that the course is to the last degree impolitic and unworthy. Our motto is to "ask nothing but what is right, and to submit to nothing that is wrong." Apart from the sound morality of this sentiment, the wisdom of Solomon could not better express the true policy of a nation situated like our own. It can hardly be pretended, that the "right" for which we ask ought to be purchased at the disgraceful price of abandoning the truth. This would be truly bargaining away a better right for another of less value. These gentlemen of expedients may beat their brains as much as they please, they will never invent any means so simple, and so sure of attaining the great ends included in the political maxim just quoted, as by adhering to the plain, direct dictates of common honesty. Each trifling temporary advantage they may gain, will certainly and speedily be met by some contingent disadvantage, that will render them losers by the exchange.[27] [Footnote 27: As respects France, the result has shown the impolicy of the temporizing system. The French Government, finding such a disposition to compliance in the agents that were placed near it, by America, has quite reasonably inferred that the mass at home acted on the same temporizing and selfish policy, and has treated a solemn compact, that contains a tardy and very insufficient reparation, for some of the greatest outrages that were ever committed by one civilized nation on the rights of another, as a matter quite within its own control. This consequence was foreseen by the writer, and foretold, in a letter that was written in 1832, and published as far back as the year 1833. It was only necessary to be on the spot, and to witness the contempt and indifference engendered by this miserable policy, to predict the events which have since occurred. The accidental situation of Europe has favoured us, and we owe the tardy reparation that has been received more to Russia than to ourselves.] To return to France and the controversy on finance, our opponents had at length the indiscretion to publish a document that they said had been furnished them by some of their "_honorables Américains_" and by which they attempted to prove some one of their various positions; for by this time they had taken a great many, scarcely any two of which agreed. I have no doubt that this document, in the present instance, did come from "Americans," though it originally came from Captain Basil Hall. This gentleman had appended to his travels, a table, which purported to contain an arranged statement of the cost of the state governments. You will form some idea of the value of this table, as a political and statistical document, by an exposure of one or two of its more prominent errors. Taking, for instance, our own state; the receipts from the _property_ of the state, such as its canal, common school, literature, and other funds, necessarily passing through the treasury, the sum total is made to figure against us, as the annual charge of government; which, by these means, is swelled to five times the real amount. Every one knows that the receipts of the canals alone, the moment that the conditions of the loans effected to construct them shall admit of their application, will be more than sufficient to meet the entire charges of the state government twice over; but, by this mystified statement, we are made to appear the poorer for every dollar of properly we possess! And yet this is the nature of the evidence that some of our people furnished to the writers on the French side of this question; a side that, by their own showing, was the side of monarchy? But this is not all. A citizen has been found willing, under his own name, to espouse the argument of the French writers. Of the validity of the statements presented by this gentleman (Mr. Leavitt Harris, of New Jersey), or of the force of his reasoning, I shall say nothing here, for his letter and our answers will sufficiently speak for themselves. The administration party, however, have thought the statements of Mr. Harris of sufficient importance to be published in a separate number of their literary organ, _La Revue Britannique_, and to dwell upon it in all their political organs, as the production of an American who has been intrusted by his government with high diplomatic missions, and who, consequently, is better authority than an unhonoured citizen like myself, who have no claims to attention beyond those I can assemble in my argument.[28] The odds, as you will perceive, are greatly against me; for, in these countries, the public know little of the details of government, and it gives a high sanction to testimony of this nature to be able to say it comes from one, who is, or has been, connected with an administration. Standing as I do, therefore, contradicted by the alleged opinion (true or false) of Mr. Rives, and by this statement of Mr. Harris, you will readily conceive that my situation here is not of the most pleasant nature. Unsalaried and untrusted by my own Government, opposed, in appearance at least, by its agents, I am thrown, for the vindication of truth, completely on my own resources, so far as any American succour has been furnished; and am reduced to the narrow consolation of making this simple record of the facts, which, possibly, at some future day, may answer the purpose of an humble protest in favour of the right. [Footnote 28: The French writers, to make the most of their witness, exaggerated a little; for, at that time, Mr. Harris had never filled any higher diplomatic station than that of one left _chargé des affaires_ of the legation at St. Petersburg, during the absence of Mr. Adams at Ghent. Shortly after the publication of this letter, however, he was appointed by the President and the Senate of the United States of America to represent it at the King of the French, as if _expressly to give value to his testimony_.] This controversy has, at least, served to remove the mask from this Government, on the subject of its disposition towards America and her institutions. To that pretended feeling I have never been even momentarily a dupe; but, failing of arguments--for no talents or ingenuity, after all, can make the wrong the right--most of the writers on the other side of the question have endeavoured to enliven their logic with abuse. I do not remember anything, in the palmy days of the Quarterly Review, that more completely descended to low and childish vituperation than some of the recent attacks on America. Much of what has been written is unmitigated fraud, that has been meant to produce an impression on the public mind, careless of any other object than the end; but much also, I think, has really been imagined to be true, while it is, in fact, the offspring of the prejudices that studied misrepresentation has so deeply implanted in the opinions of Europe. As we are not immaculate, of course, a greater portion of their charges is true than one could wish. Some of the allegations are so absurd, that it may amuse you to hear them. The French consider the Sabbath as a day of recreation, and after going to mass (a duty, by the way, that few besides women discharge in Paris), the rest of the time is devoted to dancing and other amusements. With a view to act on the rooted opinions of the nation, on this subject, the American practice of running a chain across the street in front of the churches, to prevent the rattling of the carriages from disturbing the worship (a practice, by the way, that is quite as much European as it is American, and which has never even been very general among us), has been so represented as to induce the French to believe that our streets are in chains, and that even walking, or using a horse, or any vehicle of a Sunday, is a prohibited thing. In addition to a variety of similar absurdities, we are boldly charged with most of the grosser vices, and, in some instances, intimations have been given that our moral condition is the natural consequence of our descent from convicted felons! To the American, who is a little prone to pride himself on being derived from a stock of peculiar moral purity, this imputation on his origin sounds extraordinary, and is apt to excite indignation. I dare say you are not prepared to learn, that it was a common, perhaps the prevalent opinion of Europe, that our states were settled by convicts. That this, until very lately, was the prevalent opinion of Europe, I entertain no doubt, though I think the few last years have produced some change in this respect; more of the popular attention most probably having been attracted to us, within this period, than during the two centuries that preceded it. You will smile to hear, that the common works of fiction have been the material agents in producing the change; information that has been introduced through the medium of amusement, making its way where the graver labours of the historian have never been able to penetrate. Courier, the cleverest political writer France has produced, perhaps in any age, and a staunch republican, says, it would be quite as unjust to reproach the modern Romans with being descended from ravishers and robbers, as it is to reproach the Americans with being descended from convicts. He wishes to remove the stigma from his political brethren, but the idea of denying the imputation does not appear to have entered his mind. Jefferson, also, alludes to the subject in some of his letters, apparently, in answer to a philosophical inquiry from one of his friends. He estimates the whole number of persons transported to the American colonies, under sentence from the courts, at about two thousand; and, taking into consideration their habits, he was of opinion, half a century ago, that their descendants did not probably exceed the original stock. I do not know where Mr. Jefferson obtained his data for this estimate, but he did not show his ordinary acuteness in ascribing the reason why the convicts left few or no issue. Women were by far too much in request in America, during the first century or two of its political existence, to admit of the probability of men so openly stamped with infamy from obtaining wives, and I think there existed a physical inability for the propagation of the stock, since very few women were transported at any time. Within the last few months, two instances have occurred in the Chamber of Deputies, of members quoting the example of America, in enforcing their arguments in favour of the possibility of forming respectable communities by the transportation of criminals! I had no intention of quoting any part of the controversy on finance, but, on reflection, it may serve a good purpose to give one or two extracts from the letter of Mr. Harris. In order that this may be done fairly, both as it respects the point at issue and the parties concerned, it will be necessary to make a brief preliminary explanation. M. Sauliner, the principal writer of the other side, had made it a charge against our system, that nearly all the public money was derived from the customs, which he assumed was a bad mode of obtaining revenue. Let this be as it might, my answer, was, that, as between France and America, there was no essential variance of system, the only difference lying in the fact that the one got _all_ the revenue it _could_ in this manner, and that the other got all it _wanted_. I added, a tax on exports excepted, that all the usual means of raising revenue known to other nations were available, at need, to the government of the United-States. To this latter opinion Mr. Harris took exceptions, saying, in effect, that the administration of Mr. Adams, the father, had been broken down by resorting to excises, stamp-acts, and direct taxation; and that since his unfortunate experiment, no administration in America had dreamed, even in time of war, of resorting to a mode of obtaining revenue which was so offensive as to produce the revolution of 1776! Of course Mr. Harris was reminded, that the stamp-act, of which the colonists complained, was repealed many years before the epoch of 1776; that the revolution proceeded from a denial of the right in parliament to tax the colonies at all, and not from any particular imposition; and that excises and a stamp-act had all been resorted to, in the war of 1812, without overturning the administration of Mr. Madison, or weakening that of his successor. But of what avail was a statement of this kind, in opposition to the allegations of one who appeared before Europe in the character of an American diplomate? Mr. Harris enjoyed the double advantage of giving his testimony as one in the confidence of both the French and the American governments--an advantage that a quotation from the statute-books themselves could not overcome. Mr. Harris disposed of one knotty point in this controversy with so much ingenuity, that it deserves to be more generally known. Our adversaries had brought the accusation of luxury against the American government, inasmuch as it was said to furnish both a town and a country palace for the President--a degree of magnificence little suspected in France. This point was not treated as a matter of any importance by us, though General Lafayette had slightly and playfully alluded to it, once or twice. The words of Mr. Harris shall speak for themselves: "Le Général Lafayette paraît surtout avoir été frappé de l'erreur dans laquelle est tombé l'auteur de la Revue, à l'égard de la belle maison de campagne dont il a doté la présidence; et c'est peut-être là ce qui l'a porté à faire appel à M. le Général Bernard et à M. Cooper." "L'erreur de l'auteur de la Revue, au sujet de la maison de campagne du président, est de très peu d'importance. Personne ne sait mieux que le Général Lafayette que la résidence affectée par la nation à son president, dans le District de Columbia, est située de manière à jouir des avantages de la ville et de la campagne." Here you perceive the intellectual _finesse_ with which we have had to contend. We are charged with the undue luxury of supporting a town and country house for a public functionary; and, disproving the fact, our opponents turn upon us, with a pernicious subtlety, and show, to such a condensing point has the effeminate spirit reached among us, that we have compressed the essence of two such establishments into one! Mr. Harris might have carried out his argument, and shown also that to such a pass of self-indulgence have we reached, that Washington itself is so "situated as to enjoy the advantages of both town and country!" I have reason to think Mr. Harris gained a great advantage over us by this _tour de logique_. I had, however, a little better luck with another paragraph of his letter. In pages 22 and 23 of this important document, is the following; the state alluded to being Pennsylvania, and the money mentioned the cost of the canals; which Mr. Harris includes in the cost of government, charging, by the way, not only the interest on the loans as an annual burden, but the loans themselves. I translate the text, the letter having appeared in French:--"The greater part of this sum, about twenty-two millions of dollars, has been expended during the last twelve years--that is to say, while the population _was half or two-thirds less than it is to-day_, offering an _average of not more than_ 800,000 _souls_, (the present population of Pennsylvania being 1,350,161:) It follows, that each inhabitant has been _taxed_ about two and a half dollars, annually, for internal improvements during this period." I think, under ordinary circumstances, and as against a logician who did not appear supported by the confidence and favour of the government of the United States of America, I might have got along with this quotation, by showing, that 800,000 is neither the _half of_, nor _two-thirds less_ than 1,350,161; that Pennsylvania, so far from trebling, or even doubling her population in twelve years, had not doubled it in twenty; that Pennsylvania, at the commencement of the twelve years named, had actually a population more than twenty-five per cent. greater than that which Mr. Harris gives as the average of a period, during which he affirms that this population has, at least, doubled; and by also showing that money borrowed and invested in public works, which are expected to return an ample revenue, cannot be presented as an annual charge against the citizen until he is called on to pay it. Having said so much about the part that Mr. Harris has had in this controversy, I owe it to truth to add, that his course has, at least, the merit of frankness, and that he is just so much the more to be commended than that portion of our ex-agents and actual agents who have taken the same side of the question, covertly. I have dwelt on this subject at some length, because I think it is connected, not only with the truth, but with the character, of America. I have already told you the startling manner in which I was addressed by one of the first men in England, on the subject of the tone of our foreign agents; and since that time, occasions have multiplied, to learn the mortifying extent to which this unfavourable opinion of their sincerity has spread. If the United States has neither sufficient force nor sufficient dignity to maintain its interests abroad, without making these sacrifices of opinion and principle, we are in a worse condition than I had believed; but you will require no logic from me, to understand the effect that must be, and is produced, by this contradiction between the language that is studiously used--used to nauseous affectation--at home, and so much of the language that is used by too many of the agents abroad. I very well know that the government of the Union guarantees neither the civil nor religious liberty of the citizen, except as against its own action; that any state may create an establishment, or a close hereditary aristocracy, to-morrow, if it please, the general provision that its polity must be that of a republic, meaning no more than that there should not be an hereditary monarchy; and that is quite within the limits of constitutional possibilities, that the base of the national representation should be either purely aristocratical, purely democratical, or a mixture of both. But in leaving this option to the states, the constitution has, in no manner, impaired the force of facts. The states have made their election, and, apart from the anomaly of a slave population, the fundamental feature of the general government is democratic. Now, it is indisputably the privilege of the citizen to express the opinions of government that he may happen to entertain. The system supposes consultation and choice, and it would be mockery to maintain that either can exist without entire freedom of thought and speech. If any man prefer a monarchy to the present polity of the nation, it is his indefeasible right to declare his opinion, and to be exempt from persecution and reproach. He who meets such a declaration in any other manner than by a free admission of the right, does not _feel_ the nature of the institutions under which he lives, for the constitution, in its spirit, everywhere recognises the principle. But One, greater than the constitution of America, in divine ordinances, everywhere denies the right of a man to profess one thing and to mean another. There is an implied pledge given by every public agent that he will not misrepresent what he knows to be the popular sentiment at home, and which popular sentiment, directly or indirectly, has clothed his language with the authority it carries in foreign countries; and there is every obligation of faith, fidelity, delicacy, and discretion, that he should do no discredit to that which he knows to be a distinguishing and vital principle with his constituents. As respects our agents in Europe, I believe little is hazarded in saying, that too many have done injury to the cause of liberty. I have heard this so often from various quarters of the highest respectability,[29] it has been so frequently affirmed in public here, and I have witnessed so much myself, that, perhaps, the subject presents itself with more force to me, on the spot, than it will to you, who can only look at it through the medium of distance and testimony. I make no objection to a rigid neutrality in the strife of opinions that is going on here, but I call for the self-denial of concealing all predilections in favour of the government of one or of the few; and should any minister of despotism, or political exclusion, presume to cite an American agent as being of his way of thinking, all motives of forbearance would seem to disappear, and, if really an American in more than pretension, it appears to me the time would be come to vindicate the truth with the frankness and energy of a freeman. [Footnote 29: In 1833, the writer was in discourse with a person who had filled one of the highest political situations in Europe, and he was asked who represented the United States at the court of ----. On being told, this person paused, and then resumed, "I am surprised that your government should employ that man. He has always endeavoured to ingratiate himself in my favour, by depreciating everything in his own country." But why name a solitary instance? Deputies, members of parliament, peers of France and of England, and public men of half the nations of Europe, have substantially expressed to the writer the same opinion, under one circumstance or another, in, perhaps, fifty different instances.] LETTER XIII. Ferry across the Rhine.--Village of Rudesheim.--The _Hinter-hausen_ Wine,--Drunkenness.--Neapolitan curiosity respecting America.--The Rhenish Wines enumerated.--Ingelheim.--Johannisberg.--Conventual Wine.--Unseasonable praise.--House and Grounds of Johannisberg.--State of Nassau.--Palace at Biberich.--The Gardens.--Wiesbaden.--Its public Promenade.--Frankfort on the Maine. Dear ----, Within an hour after we left the Ritterstein, we were crossing the bridge that leads into Bingen. Like true _flaneurs_, we had not decided where to sleep, and, unlike _flaneurs_, we now began to look wistfully towards the other side of the Rhine into the duchy of Nassau. There was no bridge, but then there might be a ferry. Beckoning to the postmaster, who came to the side of the carriage, I put the question. "Certainly, as good a ferry as there is in Germany."--"And can we cross with your horses?"--"Ja--ja--we do it often." The affair was arranged in a minute. The leaders were led back to the stable, and with two horses we drove down to the water-side. A skiff was in readiness, and spreading a sprit-sail, we were in the middle of the stream before there was time for thought. In ten minutes we landed in the celebrated Rheingau, and at the foot of a hill that was teeming with the vines of Rudesheim. "Charlemagne observing, from the window of his palace at Ingelheim," says an old legend, "that the snow disappeared from the bluff above Rudesheim earlier than from any of the neighbouring hills, caused the same to be planted with vines." What has become of Charlemagne and his descendants, no one knows; but here are the progeny of his vines to the present hour. François followed us in a few minutes with the carriage and horses, and we were soon comfortably housed in an inn, in the village of Rudesheim. Here, then, we were in the heart of the richest wine region in Europe, perhaps in the world. I looked curiously at mine host, to see what effect this fact might have had on him, but he did nor appear to have abused the advantage. He told me there had just been a sale, at which I should have been most welcome; complained that much sour liquor was palmed off on the incredulous as being the pure beverage; and said that others might prefer Johannisberger, but for his part, good _hinter-hausen_[30] was good enough for him. "Would I try a bottle?" The proposition was not to be declined, and with my dinner I did try a bottle of his oldest and best; and henceforth I declare myself a convert to _Rudesheimer hinter-hausen._ One cannot drink a gallon of it with impunity, as is the case with some of the French wines; but I feel persuaded it is the very article for our _market_, to use the vernacular of a true Manhattanese. It has body to bear the voyage, without being the fiery compound that we drink under the names of Madeira and Sherry. [Footnote 30: _Behind the houses_; so termed, from the vines standing on lower land than the hill, behind the village.] It is a singular fact, that in none but wine growing countries are the true uses of the precious gift understood. In them, wine is not a luxury, but a necessary; its use is not often abused, and its beneficial effect can scarcely be appreciated without being witnessed. I do not mean that there is no drunkenness in these countries, for there is probably as much of the vice in France, Germany, Italy, and Switzerland, as there is with us; but they who drink hard generally drink some of the vile compounds which exist everywhere under the names of brandy, _agua diente_, or something else. I was one day crossing the bay of Naples in my hired craft, La Divina Providenza, rowed by a crew of twenty-one men who cost me just the price of a carriage and horses for the same time, when the _padrone_, who had then been boating about with us several weeks, began to be inquisitive concerning America, and our manner of living, more especially among the labouring classes. The answers produced a strong sensation in the boat; and when they heard that labourers received a ducat a-day for their toil, half of the honest fellows declared themselves ready to emigrate. "_Et, il vino, signore; quale è il prezzo del vino?_" demanded the _padrone_. I told him wine was a luxury with us, and beyond the reach of the labourer, the general sneer that followed immediately satisfied me that no emigrants would go from La Divina Providenza. It is scarcely necessary to tell one of your habits, that the wines we call Hock are Rhenish, and that each properly bears the name of its own vintage. This rule prevails everywhere, the names of Claret, Burgundy, and Sherry, being unknown in France and Spain. It is true the French have their Burgundy wines, and the Spaniards their Xeres wines; but _vin de Bourgogne_ includes liquors of different colours and very different qualities. The same is true of other places. What we call Claret the French term Bordeaux wines; though _Clairet_ is an old French word, still occasionally used, signifying a thin weak potation. The Rheingau, or the part of the Nassau in which we now are, produces the best wines of the Rhine. The principal vineyards are those of Johannisberg, Hochheim, (whence the name of Hock,) Geissenheim, Steinberg, and Rudesheim Johannisberg is now the property of Prince Metternich; Geissenheim belongs to the Count of Ingelheim; and Hochheim and Rudesheim are villages, the vines having different proprietors. I do not know the situation of Steinberg. The best wine of Johannisberg has the highest reputation; that of Geissenheim is also delicious, and is fast growing in value; Hochheimer _Dom_, (or houses growing near the village,) is also in great request; and of the _hinter-hausen_ of Rudesheim you have already heard. Dr. Somerville once told me he had analysed the pure Johannisberger, and that it contained less acidity than any other wine he knew. The Steinberger is coming into favour; it is the highest flavoured of all the German wines, its perfume or _bouquet_, being really too strong. Rudesheim was a Roman station, and it is probable that its wines date from their government. There is still a considerable ruin, belonging, I believe to the Count of Ingelheim, that is supposed to have been built by the Romans, and which has been partially fitted up by its proprietor, as a place of retreat, during the vintage. This is truly a classical _villagiatura_. It was curious to examine these remains, which are extensive, so soon after going over the feudal castle, and it must be confessed that the sons of the South maintained their long established superiority here, as elsewhere. Ingelheim, where Charlemagne had a palace, and where some pretend he was born, is in plain view on the other side of the river, but no traces of the palace are visible from this spot. Such is the difference between the false and the true Roman. There is also a ruin, a small high circular tower, that is connected with our inn, forming even one of our own rooms, and which is very ancient, probably as ancient as the great Frank. We left Rudesheim after breakfast, driving quite near to the hill of Geissenheim, and quitting the main road, for the purpose of visiting Johannisberg, which lies back a mile from the great route. We wound our way around the hill, which on three sides is shaped like a cone, and on the other is an irregular ridge, and approached the house by the rear. If you happen to have a bottle of the wine of this vineyard (real or reputed, for in this respect the false Simon Pure is quite as likely to be true as the real,) you will find a sufficiently good resemblance of this building on its label. I can give you no other reason why this wine was formerly so little known, while that of Hochheim had so great a reputation, than the fact that the mountain, house, and vines were all the property of a religious community, previously to the French revolution, and that the monks probably chose to drink their own liquors. In this particular they were unlike the people of Brie; for walking one day with Lafayette, over his estate at La Grange, I expressed surprise at seeing some labourers making wine. "Oh, yes, my dear friend," returned the General, "we do _make_ wine here, but then we take very good care not to _drink_ it." The monks of Johannisberg most likely both made wine and drank it. Johannisberg has changed owners several times. Shortly after our return from the journey on the Rhine of last year, chance placed me, at Paris, at table between the _chargé d'affaires_ of Nassau and the Duc de Valmy. The former observed that I had lately been in Nassau, and asked how I liked the country. Under such circumstances one would wish to praise, and as I could honestly do so, I expressed my admiration of what I had seen. Among other things, I spoke of its rich vineyards, and, as a matter of course, began to extol that of Johannisberg. The more I praised, the graver the _diplomate_ looked, until thinking I had not come up to his own feelings, I began to be warmer still in my expressions. A touch under the table silenced me. The _chargé_ soon after gave me to understand that Johannisberg produced only sour grapes for my neighbour, as Napoleon had given the estate to the first Duke, and the allies had taken it away from his son. This was not the first time I have had occasion to see the necessity of being guarded how one speaks, lest he offend some political sensibility or other in this quarter of the world. The present owner of Johannisberg has fitted up the house, which is quite spacious, very handsomely, though without gorgeousness, and there is really a suite of large and commodious rooms. I saw few or no signs of the monastery about the building. The vines grow all around the conical part of the hill quite up to the windows. The best wine is made from those near the house, on the south-eastern exposure. The view was beautiful and very extensive, and all that the place wants to make it a desirable residence is shade; an advantage, however, that cannot be enjoyed on the same spot in common with good wine. The nakedness of the ground impaired the effect of the dwelling. The owner is seldom here, as is apparent by the furniture, which, though fresh and suitable, does not extend to the thousand little elegancies that accumulate in a regular abode. The books say that this celebrated vineyard contains sixty-three acres, and this is near the extent I should give it, from the eye. The produce is stated at twenty-five hogsheads, of thirteen hundred bottles each. Some of the wines of the best vintages sell as high as four and even five dollars a bottle. I observed that the soil was mixed with stone much decomposed, of a shelly appearance, and whitish colour. The land would be pronounced unsuited to ordinary agriculture, I suspect, by a majority of farmers. I bought a bottle of wine from a servant who professed to have permission to sell it. The price was two florins and a half, or a dollar, and the quality greatly inferior to the bottle that, for the same money, issued from the cellar of the host at Rudesheim. It is probable the whole thing was a deception, though the inferior wines of Johannisberg are no better than a vast deal of the other common wine of the neighbourhood. From Johannisberg we descended to the plain and took the road to Biberich. This is a small town on the banks of the Rhine, and is the residence of the Duke. Nassau figures in the tables of the Germanic confederation as the fourteenth state, having three hundred and thirty-eight thousand inhabitants, and furnishing three thousand troops as its contingent. The population is probably a little greater. The reigning family is of the ancient line of Nassau, from a junior branch of which I believe the King of Holland is derived; the Duchess is a princess of Wurtemberg, and a sister of the Grand-duchess Helena, of whom I have already spoken so often. This little state is one of the fabricated sovereignties of 1814, being composed of divers fragments, besides the ancient possessions of the family. In short, it would seem to be intended for the government and better management of a few capital vineyards. Nassau has been much agitated of late with liberal opinions, though the government is already what it is the fashion to term representative, on this side of the Atlantic. It is the old theory, that small states can better support a popular form of government than a large state. This is a theory in which I have no faith, and one, in my opinion, that has been fabricated to suit the accidental situation of Europe. The danger of popular governments are popular excesses, such as those truculent errors that men fall into by a misconception of truth, misstatements, ignorance of their interests, and the sort of village-like gossip which causes every man to think he is a judge of character, when he is not even a judge of facts. The abuses of absolutism are straightforward, dogged tyranny, in which the rights of the mass are sacrificed to the interests and policy of a prince and his favourites. Now, in a large country, popular excesses in one part are checked and repressed by the power and interests of the other parts. It is not an easy matter to make a popular error, that leads to popular excesses, extend simultaneously over a very extended surface; and they who are tranquil, control, and finally influence, those who are excited. In a small state, absolutism is held under the checks of neighbourhood and familiarity. Men disregard accidents and crime in a capital, while they reason on them and act on them in the country. Just so will the sovereign of a small state feel and submit to the authority of an active public opinion. If I must have liberty, let it come in large draughts like learning, and form an atmosphere of its own; and if I must be the subject of despotic power, Heaven send that my sovereign be a small prince. The latter is on the supposition that I am an honest man, for he who would rise by servility and a sacrifice of his principles, had better at once choose the greatest monarch he can find for a master. Small states are usually an evil in themselves, but I think they are least so when the authority is absolute. The people of Nassau had better be moderate in their progress, while they of France should press on to their purpose; and yet the people of Nassau will probably be the most urgent, simply because the power with which they have to contend is so feeble, for men rarely take the "just medium," though they are always talking about it. We entered the palace at Biberich, which, without being larger than usual, is an edifice well worth viewing. We could not but compare this abode with the President's house, and certainly, so far as taste and elegance are concerned, the comparison is entirely to the disadvantage of us Americans. It is easy to write unmeaning anathemas against prodigal expenditures, and extorting the hard earnings of the poor, on such occasions, but I do not know that the castle of Biberich was erected by any means so foul. The general denunciation of everything that does not happen to enter into our own system, has no more connexion with true republicanism than cant has to do with religion. Abuses of this nature have existed beyond dispute, and the public money, even among ourselves, is not always honestly or prudently expended; but these are the errors inseparable from human nature, and it is silly to quarrel with all the blandishments of life until we can find faultless substitutes. The simple fact that a nation like our own has suffered an entire generation to go by with its chief magistrate living in a house surrounded by grounds almost as naked as a cornfield, while it proves nothing in favour of its economy, goes to show either that we want the taste and habits necessary to appreciate the privation, (as is probably the case), or the generosity to do a liberal act, since it is notorious that we possess the means. The gardens of Biberich are extensive and beautiful. We are proofs ourselves that they are not reserved, in a niggardly spirit, for the exclusive uses of a few, nor in truth are those of any other prince in Europe where we have been. The interior of the house is much ornamented by a very peculiar marble that is found in the duchy, and which produces a good effect. A circular hall in the centre of the building, surmounted by a dome, is rather striking, from having a colonnade of this material. The family was here, and the preparations were making for dinner in one of the rooms; the whole style of the domestic economy being that of a nobleman of liberal means. The house was very quiet, and we saw but few menials, though we met two of the children, accompanied by a governess, in the grounds. Biberich and the castle, or palace, stand immediately on the banks of the river, which, between Bingen and Mayence, is straggling and well covered with islands, having an entire breadth of near half a mile. The effect, when seen from the neighbouring heights, is not unlike that of a lake. From Biberich we diverged directly into the interior of the Rheingau, taking the road to Wiesbaden, which is a watering-place of some note, and the seat of government of the duchy. We reached it early, for it is no great matter to pass from the frontiers of one of these small states into its centre, ordered dinner, and went out to see the lions. Wiesbaden has little to recommend it by nature, its waters excepted. It stands in a funnel rather than a valley, and it is said to be excessively hot in summer, though a pleasant winter residence. I do not remember a place that so triumphantly proves how much may be made out of a little, as the public promenade of Wiesbaden. The springs are nearly, or perhaps quite a mile from the town, the intervening land being a gentle inclination. From the springs, a rivulet, scarce large enough to turn a village mill, winds its way down to the town. The banks of this little stream have been planted, artificial obstructions and cascades formed, paths cut, bridges thrown across the rivulet, rocks piled, etc., and by these simple means, one walks a mile in a belt of wood a few rods wide, and may fancy himself in a park of two thousand acres. Ten years would suffice to bring such a promenade to perfection, and yet nothing like it exists in all America! One can surely smoke cigars, drink Congress water, discuss party politics, and fancy himself a statesman, whittle, clean his nails in company and never out of it, swear things are good enough for him without having known any other state of society, squander dollars on discomfort, and refuse cents to elegance and convenience, because he knows no better, and call the obliquity of taste patriotism, without enjoying a walk in a wood by the side of a murmuring rill! He may, beyond dispute, if such be his sovereign pleasure, do all this, and so may an Esquimaux maintain that whale's blubber is preferable to beefsteaks. I wonder that these dogged and philosophical patriots do not go back to warlocks, scalps, and paint! The town of Wiesbaden, like all German towns of any consequence I have ever been in, Cologne excepted, is neat and clean. It is also well-built, and evidently improving. You may have heard a good deal of the boulevards and similar places of resort, in the vicinity of French towns, but as a whole, they are tasteless and barren-looking spots. Even the Champs Elysées, at Paris, have little beauty of themselves, for landscape gardening is but just introduced into France; whereas, to me, it would seem that the Germans make more use of it, in and near their towns, than the English. We left Wiesbaden next morning, after enjoying its baths, and went slowly up to Frankfort on the Maine, a distance of about twenty miles. Here we took up our old quarters at the White Swan, a house of a second-rate reputation, but of first-rate civility, into which chance first threw me; and, as usual, we got a capital dinner and good wine. The innkeeper, in honour of Germany, caused a dish, that he said was national and of great repute, to be served to us pilgrims. It was what the French call a _jardinière_, or a partridge garnished with cabbage, carrots, turnips, etc. I seized the opportunity to put myself _au courant_ of the affairs of the world, by going to one of the reading-rooms, that are to be found all over Germany, under the names of _Redoutes, Casinos_, or something of that sort. Pipes appear to be proscribed in the _casino_ of Frankfort, which is altogether a genteel and respectable establishment. As usual, a stranger must be introduced. LETTER XIV. Boulevards of Frankfort.--Political Disturbances in the town.--_Le petit Savoyard_.--Distant glimpse of Homberg.--Darmstadt.--The Bergestrasse.--Heidelberg.--Noisy Market-place.--The Ruins and Gardens.--An old Campaigner.--Valley of the Neckar.--Heilbronn.--Ludwigsberg.--Its Palace.--The late Queen of Wurtemberg.--The Birthplace of Schiller.--Comparative claims of Schiller and Goethe.--Stuttgart.--Its Royal Residences.--The Princess of Hechingen.--German Kingdoms.--The King and Queen of Wurtemberg.--Sir Walter Scott.--Tubingen.--Ruin of a Castle of the middle ages.--Hechingen.--Village of Bahlingen.--The Danube.--The Black Forest.--View from a mountain on the frontier of Baden.--Enter Switzerland. Dear ----, I have little new to tell you of Frankfort. It appeared to be the same busy, clean, pretty, well-built town, on this visit, as it did at the two others. We examined the boulevards a little more closely than before, and were even more pleased with them than formerly. I have already explained to you that the secret of these tasteful and beautiful walks, so near, and sometimes in the very heart (as at Dresden) of the large German towns, is in the circumstance of the old fortifications being destroyed, and the space thus obtained having been wisely appropriated to health and air. Leipsig, in particular, enjoys a picturesque garden, where formerly there stood nothing but grim guns, and frowning ramparts. Frankfort has been the subject of recent political disturbances, and, I heard this morning from a banker, that there existed serious discontents all along the Rhine. As far as I can learn, the movement proceeds from a desire in the trading, banking, and manufacturing classes, the _nouveaux riches_, in short, to reduce the power and influence of the old feudal and territorial nobility. The kingly authority, in our time, is not much of itself, and the principal question has become, how many or how few, or, in short, _who_ are to share in its immunities. In this simple fact lies the germ of the revolution in France, and of reform in England. Money is changing hands, and power must go with it. This is, has been, and ever will be the case, except in those instances in which the great political trust is thrown confidingly into the hands of all; and even then, in half the practical results, money will cheat them out of the advantages. Where the pressure is so great as to produce a recoil, it is the poor against the rich; and where the poor have rights to stand on, the rich are hard at work to get the better of the poor. Such is the curse of Adam, and man himself must be changed before the disease can be cured. All we can do, under the best constructed system, is to mitigate the evil. We left Frankfort at eleven, declining the services of a celebrated _voiturier_, called _le petit Savoyard_, whom François introduced, with a warm recommendation of fidelity and zeal. These men are extensively known, and carry their _soubriquets_, as ships do their names. The little Savoyard had just discharged a cargo of _miladies_, bound to England, after having had them on his charter-party eighteen months, and was now on the look-out for a return freight. As his whole equipments were four horses, the harness, and a long whip, he was very desirous of the honour of dragging my carriage a hundred leagues or so, towards any part of the earth whither it might suit my pleasure to proceed. But it is to be presumed that _miladies_ were of full weight, for even François, who comes of a family of _voituriers_, and has a fellow-feeling for the craft, is obliged to admit that the cattle of _le petit_ appear to have been overworked. This negotiation occupied an hour, and it ended by sending the passport to the post. We were soon beyond the tower that marks the limits of the territory of Frankfort, on the road to Darmstadt. While mounting an ascent, we had a distant glimpse of the town of Homberg, the capital and almost the whole territory of the principality of Hesse Homberg; a state whose last sovereign had the honour of possessing an English princess for a wife. Truly there must be something in blood, after all; for this potentate has but twenty-three thousand subjects to recommend him! Darmstadt is one of those towns which are laid out on so large a scale as to appear mean. This is a common fault, both in Germany and America; for the effect of throwing open wide avenues, that one can walk through in five minutes, is to bring the intention into ludicrous contrast with the result. Mannheim is another of these abortions. The disadvantage, however, ends with the appearance, for Darmstadt is spacious, airy, and neat; it is also well-built. The ancient Landgraves of Hesse Darmstadt have become Grand Dukes, with a material accession of territory, the present sovereign ruling over some 700,000 subjects. The old castle is still standing in the heart of the place, if a town which is all artery can be said to have any heart, and we walked into its gloomy old courts, with the intention of examining it; but the keeper of the keys was not to be found. There is a modern palace of very good architecture near it, and, as usual, extensive gardens, laid out, so far as we could perceive from the outside, in the English taste. A short distance from Darmstadt, the Bergestrasse (mountain road) commences. It is a perfect level, but got its name from skirting the foot of the mountain, at an elevation to overlook the vast plain of the Palatinate; for we were now on the verge of this ancient territory, which has been merged in the Grand Duchy of Baden by the events of the last half century. I may as well add, that Baden is a respectable state, having nearly 1,300,000 subjects. The Bergestrasse has many ruins on the heights that overlook it, though the river is never within a league or two of the road. Here we found postilions worthy of their fine track, and, to say the truth, of great skill. In Germany you get but one postilion with four horses, and, as the leaders are always at a great distance from those on the pole, it is an exploit of some delicacy to drive eight miles an hour, riding the near wheel-horse, and governing the team very much by the use of the whip. The cattle are taught to travel without blinkers, and, like men to whom political power is trusted, they are the less dangerous for it. It is your well-trained animal, that is checked up and blinded, who runs away with the carriage of state, as well as the travelling carriage, and breaks the neck of him who rides. It was quite dark when we crossed the bridge of the Neckar, and plunged into the crowded streets of Heidelberg. Notwithstanding the obscurity, we got a glimpse of the proud old ruin overhanging the place, looking grand and sombre in the gloom of night. The view from the windows next morning was one of life in the extreme. The principal market-place was directly before the inn, and it appeared as if half the peasants of the grand duchy had assembled there to display their fruits and vegetables. A market is always a garrulous and noisy place; but when the advantage of speaking German is added to it, the perfection of confusion is obtained. In all _good_ society, both men and women speak in subdued voices, and there is no need to allude to them; but when one descends a little below the _élite_, strength of lungs is rather a German failing.[31] We went to the ruins while the fogs were still floating around the hill-tops. I was less pleased with this visit than with that of last year, for the surprise was gone, and there was leisure to be critical. On the whole, these ruins are vast rather than fine, though the parts of the edifice that were built in the Elizabethan taste have the charm of quaintness. There is also one picturesque tower; but the finest thing certainly is the view from the garden-terrace above. An American, who remembers the genial soil and climate of his country, must mourn over the want of taste that has left, and still leaves, a great nation (numerically great, at least) ignorant of the enjoyment of those delicious retreats! As Nelson once said, "want of frigates" would be found written on his heart were he to die, I think "want of gardens" would be found written on mine. Our cicerone, on this occasion, was a man who had served in America, during the last war, as one of the corps of De Watteville. He was born in Baden, and says that a large portion of the corps were Germans. He was in most of the battles of the Niagara, and shook his head gravely when I hinted at the attack on Fort Erie. According to his account, the corps suffered exceedingly in the campaign of 1814, losing the greater portion of its men. I asked him how he came to fight us, who had never done him any harm; and he answered that Napoleon had made all Europe soldiers or robbers, and that he had not stopped to examine the question of right. [Footnote 31: Until the revolution of 1830, the writer never met but one noisy woman in Paris. Since that period, however, one hears a little more of the _tintamarre_ of the _comptoir_.] We drove up the valley of the Neckar, after a late breakfast, by an excellent road, and through a beautiful country, for the first post or two. We then diverged from the stream, ascended into a higher portion of undulating country, that gradually became less and less interesting, until, in the end, we all pronounced it the tamest and least inviting region we had yet seen in Europe. I do not say that the country was particularly sterile, but it was common-place, and offered fewer objects of interest than any other we had yet visited. Until now, our destination was not settled, though I had almost decided to go to Nuremberg, and thence, by Ratisbonne and the Danube, to Vienna; but we all came to the opinion that the appearance of things towards the east was too dreary for endurance. We had already journeyed through Bavaria, from its southern to its northern end, and we wished to vary the scene. A member of its royal family had once told me that Wurtemberg offered but little for the traveller, at the same time saying a good word for its capital. When one gets information from so high authority it is not to be questioned, and towards Stuttgart it was determined to turn our faces. At Heilbronn, therefore, we changed direction from east to south. This Heilbronn was a quaint old German town, and it had a few of its houses painted on the exterior, like those already described to you in Switzerland. Weinsberg, so celebrated for its wives, who saved their husbands at a capitulation, by carrying them out of the place on their backs, is near this town. As there are no walled towns in America, and the example could do no good, we did not make a pilgrimage to the spot. That night we slept at a little town called Bessingheim, with the Neckar, which we had again met at Heilbronn, murmuring beneath our windows. The next morning we were off betimes to avoid the heat, and reached Ludwigsberg to breakfast. Here the scene began to change. Troops were at drill in a meadow, as we approached the town, and the postilion pointed out to us a portly officer at the Duke of Wurtemberg, a cadet of the royal family, who was present with his staff. Drilling troops, from time immemorial, has been a royal occupation in Germany. It is, like a Manhattanese talking of dollars, a source of endless enjoyment. Ludwigsberg is the Windsor, the St. Denis, of the Princes of Wurtemberg. There an extensive palace, the place of sepulture, and a town of five or six thousand inhabitants. We went through the former, which is large and imposing, with fine courts and some pretty views, but it is low and Teutonic--in plain English, squat--like some of the old statues in armour that one sees in the squares of the German towns. There is a gallery and a few good pictures, particularly a Rembrandt or two. One of the latter is in the same style as the "Tribute-money" that I possess, and greatly encourages me as to the authenticity of that picture. The late Queen of Wurtemberg was the Princess Royal of England, and she inhabited this palace. Being mistaken for English, we were shown her apartments, in which she died lately, and which were exactly in the condition in which she left them. She must have had strong family attachments, for her rooms were covered with portraits of her relatives. The King of England was omnipresent; and as for her own husband, of whom, by the way, one picture would have been quite sufficient for any reasonable woman, there were no less than six portraits of him in a single room! As one goes north, the style of ornamenting rooms is less graceful, and the German and English palaces all have the same formal and antiquated air. Ludwigsberg does not change the rule, though there was an unusual appearance of comfort in the apartments of the late Queen, which had evidently been Anglicised. While we were standing at a balcony, that overlooks a very pretty tract of wooded country and garden, the guide pointed to a hamlet, whose church tower was peering above a bit of forest, in a distant valley, or rather swell. "Does Mein Herr see it?" "I do--it is no more than a sequestered hamlet, that is prettily enough placed."--It was Marbach, the birth-place of Schiller! Few men can feel less of the interest that so commonly attaches to the habits, habitations, and personal appearance of celebrated men, than myself. The mere sight of a celebrity never creates any sensation. Yet I do not remember a stronger conviction of the superiority enjoyed by true over factitious greatness, than that which flashed on my mind, when I was told this fact. That sequestered hamlet rose in a moment to an importance that all the appliances and souvenirs of royalty could not give to the palace of Ludwigsberg. Poor Schiller! In my eyes he is the German genius of the age. Goethe has got around him one of those factitious reputations that depend as much on gossip and tea-drinking as on a high order of genius, and he is fortunate in possessing a _coddled celebrity_--for you must know there is a fashion in this thing, that is quite independent of merit--while Schiller's fame rests solely on its naked merits. My life for it, that it lasts the longest, and will burn brightest in the end. The schools, and a prevalent taste and the caprice of fashion, can make Goethes in dozens, at any time; but God only creates such men as Schiller. The Germans say, _we_ cannot feel Goethe; but after all, a translation is perhaps one of the best tests of genius, for though bad translations abound, if there is stuff in the original, it will find its way even into one of these. From Ludwigsberg to Stuttgart it is but a single post, and we arrived there at twelve. The appearance of this place was altogether different from what we had expected. Although it contains near 30,000 inhabitants, it has more the air of a thriving Swiss town, than that of a German capital, the abodes and gardens of the royal family excepted. By a Swiss town, I do not mean either such places as Geneva, and Berne, and Zurich, but such towns as Herisau and Lucerne, without including the walls of the latter. It stands at the termination of an irregular valley, at the base of some mountains, and, altogether, its aspect, rustic exterior, and position, took us by surprise. The town, however, is evidently becoming more European, as they say on this side the Atlantic, every day; or, in other words, it is becoming less peculiar. At and around the palaces there is something already imposing. The old feudal castle, which I presume is the cradle of the House of Wurtemberg, stands as a nucleus for the rest of the town. It is a strong prison-like looking pile, composed of huge round towers and narrow courts, and still serves the purposes of the state, though not as a prison, I trust. Another hotel, or royal residence, is quite near it on one side, while the new palace is close at hand on another. The latter is a handsome edifice of Italian architecture, in some respects not unlike the Luxembourg at Paris, and I should think, out of all comparison the best royal residence to be found in the inferior states of Germany, if not in all Germany, those of Prussia and Austria excepted. We took a carriage, and drove through the grounds to a new classical little palace, that crowns an eminence at their other extremity, a distance of a mile or two. We went through this building, which is a little in the style of the Trianons, at Versailles; smaller than Le Grand Trianon, and larger than Le Petit Trianon. This display of royal houses, after all, struck us as a little dis portioned to the diminutive size and poverty of the country. The last is nothing but a _maison de plaisance_, and is well enough if it did not bring taxation with it; nor do I know that it did. Most of the sovereigns have large private fortunes, which they are entitled to use the same as others, and which are well used in fostering elegant tastes in their subjects. There is a watering-place near the latter house, and preparations were making for the King to dine there, with a party of his own choosing. This reminded us of our own dinner, which had been ordered at six, and we returned to eat it. While sitting at a window, waiting the service, a carriage that drove up attracted my attention. It was a large and rather elegant post chariot, as much ornamented as comported with the road, and having a rich blazonry. A single female was in it, with a maid and valet in the rumble. The lady was in a cap, and, as her equipage drove up, appeared to be netting. I have frequently met German families travelling along the highway in this sociable manner, apparently as much at home as when they were under the domestic roof. This lady, however, had so little luggage, that I was induced to enquire who it might be. She was a Princess of Hechingen, a neighbouring state, that had just trotted over probably to take tea with some of her cousins of Wurtemberg. These _quasi_ kingdoms are so diminutive that this sort of intercourse is very practicable, and (a pure conjecture) it may be that German etiquette, so notoriously stiff and absurd, has been invented to prevent the intercourse from becoming too familiar. The mediatising system, however, has greatly augmented the distances between the capitals, though, owing to some accidental influence, there is still here and there a prince, that might be spared, whose territories have been encircled, without having been absolutely absorbed, by those who have been gainers by the change. Bavaria has risen to be a kingdom of four millions of souls, in this manner; and the Dukes of Wurtemberg have become kings, though on a more humble scale, through the liberality or policy of Napoleon. The kingdom of the latter contains the two independent principalities of Hohenzollern (spared on account of some family alliances, I believe) in its bosom. One of the princes of the latter family is married to a Mademoiselle Murat, a niece of Joachim. After dinner we went again to the garden, where we accidentally were witnesses of the return of the royal party from their pic-nic. The King drove the Queen in a pony phaeton, at the usual pace of monarchs, or just as fast as the little animals could put foot to the ground. He was a large and well-whiskered man, with a strong family likeness to the English princes. The attendants were two mounted grooms, in scarlet liveries. A cadet, a dark, Italian-looking personage, came soon after in full uniform, driving himself, also, in a sort of barouche. After a short time we were benefited by the appearance of the cooks and scullions, who passed in a _fourgon_, that contained the remnants and the utensils. Soon after we got a glimpse of the Queen and three or four of the daughters, at a balcony of the palace, the lady of the net-work being among them. They all appeared to be fine women. At the inn I heard with regret that Sir Walter Scott, had passed but two days before. He was represented as being extremely ill; so much so, indeed, as to refuse to quit his carriage, where he kept himself as much as possible out of view. We left Stuttgart early the following morning, and as the carriage wound up the mountain that overlooks the town, I thought the place one of singular incongruities. The hill-sides are in vineyards; the palace, in excellent keeping, was warm and sunny; while the old feudal-looking towers of the castle, rudely recalled the mind to ancient Germany, and the Swissish habitations summoned up the images of winter, snows, and shivering February. Still I question, if a place so sheltered ever endures much cold. The town appears to have been built in the nook it occupies, expressly to save fuel. We met the Neckar again, after crossing a range of wooded mountain, and at Tubingen we once more found a city, a university, the remains of feodality, redoutes, pipes, and other German appliances. Here we breakfasted, and received a visit from a young countryman, whose parents, Germans, I believe, had sent him hither to be educated. He will, probably return with a good knowledge of Greek, perfect master of metaphysics and the pipe, extravagant in his political opinions, a sceptic in religion, and with some such ideas of the poetry of thought, as a New England dancing-master has of the poetry of motion, or a teacher of psalmody, of the art of music. After all, this is better than sending a boy to England, whence he would come back with the notions of Sir William Blackstone to help to overturn or pervert his own institutions, and his memory crammed with second-hand anecdotes of lords and ladies. We labour under great embarrassments on this point of education, for it is not easy to obtain it, suited equally to the right, and to our own peculiar circumstances, either at home or abroad. At home we want science, research, labour, tone, manners, and time; abroad we get the accumulated prejudices that have arisen from a factitious state of things; or, what is perhaps worse, their reaction, the servility of castes, or the truculence of revolution. About a post beyond Tubingen, a noble ruin of a castle of the middle ages appeared in the distance, crowning the summit of a high conical eminence. These were the finest remains we had seen in a long time, and viewed from the road, they were a beautiful object, for half an hour. This was the castle of Hohenzollern, erected about the year 980, and the cradle of the House of Brandenburg. This family, some pretend, was derived from the ancient Dukes of Alsace, which, if true would give it the same origin as those of Austria and Baden; but it is usual, and probably much safer, to say that the Counts of Hohenzollern were its founders. We must all stop somewhere short of Adam. I was musing on the chances that have raised a cadet, or a younger branch, of the old feudal counts who had once occupied this hold, to the fifth throne in Europe, when we entered an irregular and straggling village of some 3000 souls, that was not, by any means, as well built as one of our own towns of the same size. A sign over a door, such as would be occupied by a thriving trader with us, with "Department of War" on it, induced me to open my eyes, and look about me. We were in Hechingen, the capital of Hohenzollern-Hechingen, an independent state, with a prince of its own; who is the head of his family, in one sense, and its tail in another; there being, besides the King of Prussia, a Prince of Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen adjoining, who is his junior in rank, and his better in power; having some 40 or 50,000 subjects, while he of Hechingen has but 15,000. On ascending a hill in the place itself, we passed an unfinished house, all front, that stood on the street, with no grounds of any beauty near it, and which certainly was not as large, nor nearly as well constructed, as one of our own principal country-houses. This building, we were told, was intended for the town residence of the heir-apparent, who is married to a daughter of Eugene Beauharnois, and of course to a niece of the King of Bavaria. All this was an epitome of royalty I had never before witnessed. The Saxon duchies, and Bayreuth and Anspach, now merged in Bavaria, had been the subjects of curious contemplation to us, but they were all the possessions of potentates compared to this principality. I inquired for the abode of the prince, which could not well be far off, without being out of his own dominions. It lay behind a wood a mile distant, and was not visible from the inn where we stopped. Here was a capital mistake; had the old castle, which was but half a mile from the village, been kept up, and it seemed to be in good condition for a ruin, with the title of Count of Hohenzollern and the war and state departments been put in one of the towers, no one could have laughed at the pretension, let him try as hard as he pleased; but-- We had a strong desire to visit the ruin, which puts that of Habsburg altogether in the shade, but were prevented by a thunder-shower which shook the principality to its centre. The Knight's Hall, the chapel and the clock-tower are said to have been restored, and to be now in good condition. We could do no more, however, than cast longing eyes upward as we drove under the hill, the ground being still too wet for female accoutrements to venture. We had a Hechingen postilion in a Hechingen livery, and, although the man was sensible of his dignity and moved with due deliberation, we were just one hour in crossing his master's dominions. Re-entering Wurtemberg, we slept that night at the village of Bahlingen. The country next morning was particularly tame, though uneven, until near noon, when it gradually took more interesting forms and spread itself in pretty valleys and wooded hills. The day was pleasant; and, as we trotted merrily through one of the vales, A---- pointed to a little rivulet that meandered through the meadows on our right, and praised its beauty. "I dare say it has a name; inquire of the postilion." "Wie ist diesen fluschen?" "Mein Herr, der Donau." The Danube! There was something startling in so unexpectedly meeting this mighty stream, which we had seen rolling its dark flow through cities and kingdoms, a rivulet that I could almost leap across. It was to us like meeting one we had known a monarch, reduced to the condition of a private man. I was musing on the particles of water that were gliding past us on their way to the Black Sea, when we drove up to the door of the inn at Tuttlingen. This was in the Black Forest, and what is more, there were some trees in it. The wood was chiefly larches, whence I presume the name. Our host discovered from the servants that we were Americans, and he immediately introduced the subject of emigration. He told us that many people went from Wurtemberg to America, and gave us to understand that we ought to be glad of it--they were all so well educated! This was a new idea, certainly, and yet I will not take it on myself to say that the fact is otherwise. While we were at breakfast, the innkeeper, who was also the postmaster, inquired where we meant to sleep, and I told him at Schaffhausen, on the Rhine. He then gave me to understand that there was a long, but not a steep mountain to ascend, which separated the waters of the Danube from those of the Rhine, and that two extra horses would add greatly to the facility of getting along. Taking a look at the road, I assented, so that we left the inn with the honours of a coach and six. The effect was evident from the start, and after entering Wurtemberg and travelling through it complaining of the dullness of the teams, we left it with _éclat_, and at the rate of ten miles the hour. The frontier of Baden met us again on the summit of the mountain. Here we got a line and extensive view, that included the lake of Constance in its sweep. The water looked dark and wild, and the whole scene had a tint that strongly reminded me of the character of Germanic mysteriousness. We must have been at a great elevation, though the mountains were not prominent objects; on the contrary, the eye ranged until it found the horizon, as at sea, in the curvature of the earth. The rills near us flowed into the Rhine, and, traversing half Europe, emptied themselves into the North Sea; while the stream that wound its way through the valley below, took a south-easterly direction towards the confines of Asia. One gets grand and pleasing images in the associations that are connected with the contemplation of these objects. From this point we began to descend, shorn of our honours in the way of quadrupeds, for it was with a good deal of difficulty we got three horses at the next relay. Thus is it with life, in which at one moment we are revelling in abundance, and at the next suffering with want. We got along, however, as in life, in the best manner we could, and after driving through a pretty and uneven country, that gradually descended, we suddenly plunged down to the banks of the Rhine, and found ourselves once more before an inn-door, in Switzerland! SECOND VISIT TO SWITZERLAND. LETTER XV. A Swiss Inn.--Cataract of the Rhine.--Canton of Zurich.--Town of Zurich.--Singular Concurrence.--Formidable Ascent.--Exquisite View.--Einsiedeln--The Convent.--"_Par exemple_."--Shores of the Lake of Zug.--The _Chemin Creux_.--Water Excursion to Alpnach.--Lake of Lungern.--Lovely Landscape.--Effects of Mists on the prospect.--Natural Barometer.--View from the Brunig.--Enter the great Canton of Berne.--An Englishman's Politics.--Our French Companion.--The Giesbach.--Mountain Music.--Lauterbrunnen.--Grindewald.--Rising of the Waters in 1830.--Anecdote.--Excursion on the Lake to Thoun. Dear ----, We had sought refuge on the Rhine, from the tameness and monotony of Wurtemberg! I dare say the latter country has many beautiful districts, that it contains much to admire and much to awaken useful reflection, but to the mere passer-by it is not a land of interest. Like a boat that has unexpectedly got into a strong adverse current, we had put our helm down and steered out of it, to the nearest shore. Here we were then, and it became necessary to say where we should be next. My own eyes were turned wistfully towards the east, following the road by the Lake of Constance, Inspruck, and Saltzbourg, to Vienna; but several of our party were so young when we were in Switzerland, in 1828, that it seemed ungracious to refuse them this favourable opportunity to carry away lasting impressions of a region that has no parallel. It was, therefore, settled before we slept, again to penetrate the cantons next morning. I heard the drum-like sound of the inn once more with great satisfaction; for although the house, judging from the coronets and armorial bearings about it, had once been the abode of a count, it was not free from the peculiar echoes of a true Swiss tenement, any more than it was free from its neatness. The drum, however, did not prevent us all from sleeping soundly, and after an early breakfast we went forth on this new pilgrimage to the mountains. There was an end to posting, no relays existing in this part of Switzerland, and I had been compelled to confide in the honesty of an unknown _voiturier_; a class of men who are pre-eminently subject to the long-established frailty of all who _deal_ in horses, wines, lamp-oil, and religion. Leaving this functionary to follow with the carriage, we walked along the banks of the river, by a common-place and dirty road, among forges and mills, to the cataract of the Rhine. What accessories to a cataract! How long will it be before the imagination of a people who are so fast getting to measure all greatness, whether in nature or art, by the yard-stick, will think of those embellishments for Niagara? Fortunately the powers of men are not equal to their wishes and a mill by the side of this wonder of the world will be a mill still; whereas these falls of the Rhine are nearly reduced to the level of a raceway, by the spirit of industry. We were less struck with them than ever, and left the place with the conviction that, aided by a few _suitable_ embellishments, they would have been among the prettiest of the pretty cascades that we know, but that, as matters go, they are in danger of soon losing the best part of their charms. We saw no reason, in this instance, to change the impressions made at the former visit, but think, the volume of water excepted, that Switzerland has cascades that outdo this cataract. After following the course of the river, for a few miles, we met the stream, buried low in the earth, at one of its sudden bends, and, descending a sharp declivity, crossed to its left bank, and into the Canton of Zurich. We were taken by surprise, by this sudden rencontre, and could hardly believe it was the mighty Rhine, whose dark waters were hurrying beneath us, as we passed a covered bridge of merely a hundred or two feet in length. One meets with a hundred streams equal to this in width, while travelling in America, though it is rare to find one anywhere with the same majesty of motion, and of its fine cerulean tint. We had travelled an hour or two towards Zurich, before our eyes were greeted with the sight of peaks capped with snow. They looked like the faces of old acquaintances, and, distance depriving them of their severity, they now shone in a mild sublimity. We were all walking ahead, while the horses were eating, when these noble objects came into the view, and, preceding the rest a little, I involuntarily shouted with exultation, as, turning a knoll, they stood ranged along the horizon. The rest of the party hurried on, and it was like a meeting of dear friends, to see those godlike piles encircling the visible earth. The country through which we travelled, was the low land of which I have so often spoken, nor was it particularly beautiful or well cultivated until we drew near the capital, when it assumed the polished look of the environs of a large town; and the approach to Zurich, on this side, though less romantic perhaps, wanting the lake and mountains, we thought, if anything, was more beautiful than that by which we had come in 1828. We were much gratified with the appearance of Zurich; more even than in our former visit, and not the less so at finding it unusually empty. The agitated state of Europe, particularly of England, has kept the usual class of travellers at home, though the cantons are said to be pretty well sprinkled with Carlists, who are accused of assembling here lo plot. M. de Châteaubriand is in the same hotel as ourselves, but it has never been my fortune to see this distinguished writer to know him, even accidentally; although I afterwards learned that, on one occasion, I had sat for two hours on a bench immediately before him, at a meeting of the French Academy. My luck was no better now, for he went away unseen, an hour after we arrived. Some imagine themselves privileged to intrude on a celebrity, thinking that those men will pardon the inconvenience for the flattery, but I do not subscribe to this opinion: I believe that nothing palls sooner than notoriety, and that nothing is more grateful to those who have suffered under it, than retirement. By a singular concurrence, we were at Zurich the second time on Sunday, and almost on the same day of the year. In 1828, we drove along the lake-shore, August 30th, and we now left Zurich, for the same purpose, August 28th, after an interval of four years. The same objects were assembled, under precisely the same circumstances: the lake was covered with boats, whose tall sails drooped in pure laziness; the solemn bells startled the melancholy echoes, and the population was abroad, now as then, in holiday guise, or crowding the churches. The only perceptible changes in the scene were produced by the change in our own direction. Then we looked towards the foot of the lake, and had its village-lined shores before us, and the country that melts away towards the Rhine for a back-ground; while now, after passing the objects in the near view, the sight rested on the confused and mysterious mountains of Glaris. We took our _goûter_ at the _Paon_, and, unwilling to cross the bridge in the carriage, we all preceded it through the crowded streets of Rapperschwyl, leaving the _voiturier_ to follow at his leisure. We were just half an hour on this bridge, which appeared as ticklish as ever, though not so much as to stifle the desire of P---- to see how near its edge he could walk. When we entered Schweitz, the carriage overtook us, and we drove to the foot of the mountain which it is necessary to ascend to reach Einsiedeln. Here we took _chevaux de renfort_, and a reinforcement they proved indeed; for I do not remember two nobler animals than the _voiturier_ obtained for the occasion. They appeared to be moulded on the same scale as the mountains. We were much amused by the fellow's management, for he contrived to check his own cattle in such a way as to throw all the work on the recruits. This was not effected without suspicion; but he contrived to allay it, by giving his own beasts sundry punches in the sides, so adroitly bestowed as to render them too restive to work. By way of triumph, each poke was accompanied by a knowing leer at François, all whose sympathies, a tribute to his extraction, I have had frequent opportunities of observing, to my cost, were invariably on the side of the _voituriers_. So evident, indeed, was this feeling in the gentleman, that had I been accustomed to travel much by this mode, I should not have kept him a month. It was a mild evening as we travelled our way up this formidable ascent, which is one of the severest in Switzerland, and we had loitered so much along the shores of the lake, as to bring us materially behind our time. Still it was too late to return, and we made the best of things as they were. It is always more pleasant to ascend than to descend, for the purposes of scenery; and, as picture after picture broke upon us, the old touzy-mouzy was awakened, until we once more felt ourselves in a perfect fever of mountain excitement. In consequence of diverging by a foot-path, towards the east, in descending this mountain, in 1828, I had missed one of the finest reaches of its different views, but which we now enjoyed under the most favourable circumstances. The entire converging crescent of the north shore of the lake, studded with white churches, hamlets, and cottages, was visible, and as the evening sun cast its mild light athwart the crowded and affluent landscape, we involuntarily exclaimed, "that this even equalled the Neapolitan coast in the twilight." The manner in which the obscurity settled on this picture, slowly swallowing up tower after tower, hamlet, cottage, and field, until the blue expanse of the lake alone reflected the light from the clouds, was indescribably beautiful, and was one of those fine effects that can only be produced amid a nature as grand as that of the Alps. It was dark when we reached the inn at the summit; but it was not possible to remain there, for it had room for little more than kirschwasser. The night came on dark and menacing, and for near two hours we crawled up and down the sharp ascents and descents, and, to make the matter worse, it began to rain. This was a suitable approach to the abodes of monastic votaries, and I had just made the remark, when the carriage stopped before the door of my old inn, the Ox, at Einsiedeln. It was near ten, and we ordered a cup of tea and beds immediately. The next morning we visited the church and the convent. The first presented a tame picture, compared to that I had witnessed in the former visit, for there was not a pilgrim present; the past year it had been crowded. There were, however, a few groups of the villagers kneeling at the shrine, or at the different altars, to aid the picturesque. We ascended into the upper part of the edifice, and walked in those narrow galleries through which I had formerly seen the Benedictines stalking in stealthy watchfulness, looking down at the devotees beneath. I was admitted to the cloisters, cells, library, &c., but my companions were excluded as a matter of course. It is merely a spacious German convent, very neat, and a little _barnish_. A recent publication caused me to smile involuntarily once or twice, as the good father turned over the curiosities of the library, and expatiated on the history and objects of his community; but the book in question had evidently not yet, if indeed it will ever reach this remote spot. We had a little difficulty here in getting along with the French; and our German (in which, by the way, some of the party are rather expert) had been acquired in Saxony, and was taken for base coin here. The innkeeper was an attentive host, and wished to express every thing that was kind and attentive; all of which he succeeded in doing wonderfully well, by a constant use of the two words, "_par exemple_." As a specimen of his skill, I asked him if an extra horse could be had at Einsiedeln, and his answer was, "_Par exemple, monsieur; par exemple, oui; c'est-à-dire, par exemple_." So we took the other horse, _par exemple_, and proceeded. Our road carried us directly across the meadows that had been formed in the lake of Lowertz, by the fall of the Rossberg. When on them, they appeared even larger than when seen from the adjacent mountain; they are quite uneven, and bear a coarse wiry grass, though there are a few rocks on their surface. Crossing the ruin of Goldau, we passed on a trot from the desolation around it, into the beautiful scenery of Arth. Here we dined and witnessed another monastic flirtation. After dinner we drove along the shores of the lake of Zug, winding directly round the base of the cone of the Righi, or immediately beneath the point where the traveller gets the sublime view of which you have already heard. This was one of the pleasantest bits of road we had then seen in Switzerland. The water was quite near us on the right, and we were absolutely shut in on the left by the precipitous mountain, until having doubled it, we came out upon an arm of the lake of Lucerne, at Küsnacht, to which place we descended by the _chemin creux_. Night overtook us again while crossing the beautiful ridge of land that separates the bay of Küsnacht from the foot of the lake, but the road being excellent, we trotted on in security until we alighted, at nine o'clock, in the city of Lucerne. The weather appearing unusually fine the next day, François was ordered round to Berne with the carriage and luggage, and we engaged a guide and took a boat for Alpnach. At eleven we embarked and pulled up under lovely verdant banks, which are occupied by villas, till we reached the arm of the lake that stretches towards the south-west. Here a fair breeze struck us, and making sail, away we went, skimming before it, at the rate of eight miles an hour. Once or twice the wind came with a power that showed how necessary it is to be cautious on a water that is bounded by so many precipitous rocks. We passed the solitary tower of Stanztad on the wing, and reached Alpnach in less than two hours after embarking. Here we took two of the little vehicles of the country and went on. The road carried us through Sarnen, where my companions, who had never before visited the Unterwaldens, stopped to see the lions. I shall not go over these details with you again, but press on towards our resting-place for the night. On reaching the foot of the rocks which form the natural dam that upholds the lake of Lungern, P---- and myself alighted and walked ahead. The ascent being short, we made so much progress as to reach the upper end of the little sheet, a distance of near a league, before we were overtaken by the others; and when we did meet, it was amid general exclamations of delight at the ravishing beauties of the place. I cannot recall sensations of purer pleasure produced by any scenery, than those I felt myself on this occasion, and in which all around me appeared to participate. Our pleasures, tastes, and even our judgments are so much affected by the circumstances under which they are called into action, that one has need of diffidence on the subject of their infallibility, if it be only to protect himself from the imputation of inconsistency. I was pleased with the Lake of Lungern in 1828, but the term is not strong enough for the gratification it gave me on this return to it. Perhaps the day, the peculiar play of light and shade, a buoyancy of spirits, or some auxiliary causes, may have contributed to produce this state of mind; or it is possible that the views were really improved by changing the direction of the route; as all connoisseurs in scenery know that the Hudson is much finer when descending than when ascending its stream; but let the cause be what it might, had I then been asked what particular spot in Europe had given me most delight, by the perfection of its natural beauties, taken in connexion with its artificial accessories, I should have answered that it was the shores of the lake of Lungern. Nor, as I have told you, was I alone in this feeling, for one and all, big and little,--in short, the whole party joined in pronouncing the entire landscape absolutely exquisite. Any insignificant change, a trifle more or less of humidity in the atmosphere, the absence or the intervention of a few clouds, a different hour or a different frame of mind, may have diminished our pleasure, for these are enjoyments which, like the flavour of delicate wines, or the melody of sweet music, are deranged by the condition of the nerves, or a want of harmony, in the chords. After this explanation you will feel how difficult it will be to describe the causes of our delight. The leading features of the landscape, however, were a road that ran along the shore beneath a forest, within ten feet of the water, winding, losing itself, and re-appearing with the sinuosities of the bank; water, limpid as air and blue as the void of the heavens, unruffled and even holy in its aspect, as if it reflected the pure space above; a mountain-side, on the opposite shore, that was high enough to require study to draw objects from its bosom, on the distant heights, and yet near enough below, to seem to be within an arrow's flight; meadows shorn like lawns, scattered over its broad breast; woods of larches, to cast their gloom athwart the glades and to deepen the shadows; brown chalets that seemed to rise out of the sward, at the bidding of the eye; and here and there a cottage poised on a giddy height, with a chapel or two to throw a religious calm over all! There was nothing ambitious in this view, which was rural in every feature, but it was the very _bean idéal_ of rustic beauty, and without a single visible blemish to weaken its effect. It was some such picture of natural objects as is formed of love by a confiding and ingenuous youth of fifteen. We passed the night in the _drum_ of Lungern, and found it raining hard when we rose the following morning. The water soon ceased to fall in torrents, however, changing to a drizzle, at which time the valley, clouded in mists in constant motion, was even more beautiful than ever. So perfect, were the accessories, so minute was everything rendered by the mighty scale, so even was the grass and so pure the verdure that bits of the mountain pasturages, or Alps, coming into view through the openings in the vapour, appeared like highly-finished Flemish paintings; and this the more so, because all the grouping of objects, the chalets, cottages, &c. were exactly those that the artist would seize upon to embellish his own work. Indeed, we have daily, hourly, occasions to observe how largely the dealers in the picturesque have drawn upon the resources of this extraordinary country, whether the pallet, or poetry in some other form, has been the medium of conveying pleasure. The _garçon_ of the inn pointed to some mist that was rolling along a particular mountain, and said it was the infallible barometer of Lungern. We might be certain of getting fair weather within an hour. A real barometer corroborated the testimony of the mist, but the change was slower than had been predicted; and we began to tire of so glorious a picture, under an impatience to proceed, for one does not like to swallow pleasure even, perforce. At ten we were able to quit the inn, one half of the party taking the bridle-path, attended by two horse-keepers, while the rest of us, choosing to use our own limbs, were led by the guide up the mountains by a shorter cut, on foot. The view from the Brunig was not as fine as I had round it in 1828, perhaps because I was then taken completely by surprise, and perhaps because ignorance of the distant objects had then thrown the charm of mystery over its back-ground. We now saw the scene in detail, too, while mounting; for, though it is better to ascend than descend, the finest effects are produced by obtaining the whole at once. We joined the equestrians on the summit, where the horses were discharged, and we proceeded the remainder of the distance on foot. We soon met the Bear of Berne, and entered the great canton. The view of the valley of Meyringen, and of the cataracts, greeted us like an old friend; and the walk, by a path which wound its way through the bushes, and impended over this beautiful panorama, was of course delightful. At length we caught a glimpse of the lake of Brientz, and hurrying on, reached the village before two. Here we ordered a _goûter_, and, while taking it, the first English party we had yet seen, entered the inn, as we were all seated at the same table. The company consisted of this English party, ourselves, and a solitary Frenchman, who eyed us keenly, but said nothing. It soon appeared that some great political crisis was at hand, for the Englishman began to cry out against the growing democracy of the cantons. I did not understand all his allusions, nor do I think he had very clear notions about them himself, for he wound up one of his denunciatory appeals, by the old cant, of "instead of one tyrant they will now have many;" which is a sort of reasoning that is not particularly applicable to the overturning of aristocracy anywhere. It is really melancholy to perceive how few men are capable of reasoning or feeling on political subjects, in any other way than that which is thought most to subserve their own particular interests and selfishness. Did we not know that the real object of human institutions is to restrain human tendencies, one would be almost disposed to give up the point in despair; for I do affirm, that in all my associations in different countries, I do not recollect more than a dozen men who have appeared to me to entertain right notions on this subject, or who have seemed capable of appreciating the importance of any changes that were not likely materially to affect their own pockets. The Frenchman heard us speaking in his own language, which we did with a view of drawing John Bull out, and he asked a passage in the boat I had ordered, as far as Interlachen. Conditioning that he should make the _détour_ to the Giesbach, his application was admitted, and we proceeded forthwith. This was the fourth time I had crossed the lake of Brientz, but the first in which I visited the justly celebrated falls, towards which we now steered on quitting the shore. Our companion proved to be a merry fellow, and well disposed to work his passage by his wit. I have long been cured of the notion "that the name of an American is a passport all over Europe," and have learned to understand in its place, that, on the contrary, it is thought to be _prima facie_ evidence of vulgarity, ignorance, and conceit; nor do I think that the French, as a nation, have any particular regard for us; but knowing the inherent dislike of a Frenchman for an Englishman, and that the new-fangled fraternity, arising out of the trading-principle government, only renders, to a disinterested looker on, the old antipathies more apparent, I made an occasion, indirectly, to let our new associate understand that we came from the other side of the Atlantic. This produced an instantaneous change in his manner, and it was now that he began to favour us with specimens of his humour. Notwithstanding all this facetiousness, I soon felt suspicion that the man was an _employé_ of the Carlists, and that his business in Switzerland was connected with political plots. He betrayed himself, at the very moment when he was most anxious to make us think him a mere amateur of scenery: I cannot tell you how, but still so clearly, as to strike all of us, precisely in the same way. The Giesbach is a succession of falls, whose water comes from a glacier, and which are produced by the sinuosities of the leaps and inclined planes of a mountain side, aided by rocks and precipices. It is very beautiful, and may well rank as the third or fourth cascade of Switzerland, for variety, volume of water, and general effect. A family has established itself among the rocks, to pick up a penny by making boxes of larch, and singing the different _ranz des raches_. Your mountain music does not do so well, when it has an air so seriously premeditated, and one soon gels to be a little _blasé_ on the subject of entertainments of this sort, which can only succeed once, and then with the novice. Alas! I have actually stood before the entrance of the cathedral at Rouen, and the strongest feeling of the moment was that of surprise at the manner in which my nerves had thrilled, when it was first seen. I do not believe that childhood, with its unsophistication and freshness, affords the greatest pleasures, for every hour tells me how much reason and cultivation enhance our enjoyments; but there are certainly gratifications that can be felt but once; and if an opera of Rossini or Meyerbeer grows on us at each representation, or a fine poem improves on acquaintance, the singing of your Swiss nightingales is sweeter in its first notes than in its second. After spending an hour at the Giesbach, we rowed along the eastern, or rather the southern, shore of the lake to Interlachen. The sight of the blue Aar revived old recollections, and we landed on its banks with infinite pleasure. Here a few civil speeches passed between the merry Frenchman and myself, when we separated, he disappearing altogether, and we taking the way to the great lodging-house, which, like most of the other places of resort in Switzerland, was then nearly empty. The Grand-duchess Anna, however, had come down from Ulfnau, her residence on the Aar, for a tour in the Oberland, and was among the guests. We got a glimpse of her coming in from a drive, and she appeared to resemble her brother the Duke, more than her brother the King. In the morning we drove up to Lauterbrunnen, and I am compelled to say that so completely fickle had we become, that I believe all who had seen this valley before, pronounced it less beautiful than that of Lungern. By the way of proving to you how capricious a thing is taste, I liked the Staubbach better than in the former visit. We did not attempt the mountains this time, but drove round in our _chars_ to Grindewald, where we dined and slept. Either a new approach, or improved tastes, or some other cause, wrought another change here; for we now preferred Grindewald to Lauterbrunnen, as a valley. The vulgar astonishment was gone, and our eyes sought details with critical nicety. We went to the lower glacier, whose form had not materially changed in four years, and we had fine views of both of them from the windows of the inn. There was a young moon, and I walked out to watch the effect on the high glaciers, which were rendered even more than usually unearthly in appearance, under its clear bland light. These changes of circumstances strangely increase the glories of the mountains! We left Grindewald quite early next morning, and proceeded towards Neuhaus. The road led us through a scene of desolation that had been caused by a rising of the waters in 1830, and we examined the devastation with the more interest, as some of our acquaintances had nearly perished in the torrent. The family in question were residing temporarily at Interlachen, when two of the ladies with a child, attended by a black servant, drove up the gorge of Lauterbrunnen for an airing. They were overtaken by a tempest of rain, and by the torrent, which rose so rapidly as to cut off all retreat, except by ascending the precipice, which to the eye is nearly perpendicular. There is, however, a hamlet on one of the terraces of the mountain, and thither the servant was despatched for succour. The honest peasants at first believed he was a demon, on account of his colour, and it was not without difficulty they were persuaded to follow him. The ladies eventually escaped up the rocks; but our coachman, who had acted as the coachman on that occasion, assured us it was with the utmost difficulty he saved his horse. This accident, which was neither a _sac d'eau_ nor an avalanche, gives one a good idea of the sudden dangers to which the traveller is liable, in the midst of a nature so stupendous. A large part of the beautiful meadows of Interlachen was laid desolate, and the calamity was so sudden that it overtook two young and delicate females in their morning drive! We drove directly to the little port at Neuhaus, and took a boat for Thoun, pulling cut into the lake, with a fresh breeze directly in our teeth. The picturesque little chateau of Spietz stood on its green promontory, and all the various objects that we had formerly gazed at with so much pleasure, were there, fresh, peculiar, and attractive as ever. At length, after a heavy pull, we were swept within the current of the Aar, which soon bore us to the landing. At Thoun we breakfasted, and, taking a return carriage, trotted up to Berne, by the valley of which you have already heard so much. François was in waiting for us, and we got comfortable rooms at the Crown. Our tastes are certainly altering, whether there be any improvement or not. We are beginning to feel it is vulgar to be astonished, and even in scenery, I think we rather look for the features that fill up the keeping, and make the finish, than those which excite wonder. We have seen too much to be any longer taken in, by your natural clap-traps; a step in advance, that I attribute to a long residence in Italy, a country in which the sublime is so exquisitely blended with the soft, as to create a taste which tells us they ought to be inseparable. In this little excursion to the Oberland, while many, perhaps most, of our old impressions are confirmed, its relative beauties have not appeared to be entitled to as high praises as we should have given them, had they not been seen a second time. We had fine weather, were all in good spirits and happy, and the impression being so general, I am inclined to think, it is no more than the natural effect which is produced by more experience and greater knowledge. I now speak of the valleys, however, for the high Alps are as superior to the caprices of taste, as their magnificent dimensions and faultless outline are beyond change. LETTER XVI. Conspiracy discovered.--The Austrian Government and the French Carlists.--Walk to La Lorraine.--Our old friend "Turc."--Conversation with M. W----.--View of the Upper Alps.--Jerome Bonaparte at La Lorraine.--The Bears of Berne.--Scene on the Plateforme. Dear ----, Soon after we reached Berne, François came to me in a mysterious manner, to inquire if I had heard any news of importance. I had heard nothing; and he then told me that many arrests had just taken place, and that a conspiracy of the old aristocracy had been discovered, which had a counter-revolution for its object. I say a counter-revolution, for you ought to have heard that great political changes have occurred in Switzerland since 1830, France always giving an impulse to the cantons. Democracy is in the ascendant, and divers old opinions, laws, and institutions have been the sacrifice. This, in the land of the Burgerschaft, has necessarily involved great changes, and the threatened plot is supposed to be an effort of the old privileged party to regain their power. As François, notwithstanding he has seen divers charges of cavalry against the people, and has witnessed two or three revolutions, is not very clear-headed in such matters, I walked out immediately to seek information from rather better authority. The result of my inquiries was briefly as follows:--Neufchâtel, whose prince is the King of Prussia, has receded from the confederation, on account of the recent changes, and the leaders of the aristocratic party were accused of combining a plan, under the protection and with the knowledge of the authorities of this state, to produce a counter-revolution in Berne, well knowing the influence of this canton in the confederation. This very day is said to be the one selected for the effort, and rumour adds, that a large body of the peasants of the Oberland were to have crossed the Brunig yesterday, with a view to co-operate in other sections of the country. A merry company we should have been, had it been our luck to have fallen in with this escort! Now, rightfully or not, the Austrian government and the French Carlists are openly accused of being concerned in this conspiracy, and probably not without some cause. The suspicions excited concerning our fellow-traveller, through his own acts, recurred to me, and I now think it probable he was in waiting for the aforesaid peasants, most probably to give them a military direction, for he had the air and _franchise_ of an old French soldier. The plot had been betrayed; some were already arrested, and some had taken refuge in flight. The town was tranquil, but the guards were strengthened, and the popular party was actively on the alert. The next morning we went forth to look once more at picturesque, cloistered, verdant Berne. Nothing appeared to be changed, though the strangers were but few, and there was, perhaps, less movement than formerly. We crossed the Aar, and walked to La Lorraine. As we were going through the fields, several dogs rushed out against us; but when P---- called out "_Turc_" the noble animal appeared to know him, and we were permitted to proceed, escorted, rather than troubled, by the whole pack. This was a good omen, and it was grateful to be remembered, by even a dog, after an absence of four years. We found the same family in possession of the farm, though on the point of removing to another place. Our reception in the house was still more cordial than that given by Turk, and our gratitude in proportion. The old abode was empty, and we walked over it with feelings in which pain and pleasure were mingled; for poor W----, who was with us, full of youth and spirits, when we resided here, is now a tenant of Père Lachaise. When we went away, all the dogs, with Turk at their head, escorted us to the ferry, where they stood looking wistfully at us from the bank, until we landed in Berne. Soon after, I met M. W---- in the streets, and, as he had not been at home, I greeted him, inviting him to dine with us at the Crown. The present aspect of things was of course touched upon during the dinner, when the worthy member of the Burgerschaft lamented the changes, in a manner becoming his own opinions, while I rejoiced in them, in a manner becoming mine. He asked me if I really thought that men who were totally inexperienced in the affairs of government could conduct matters properly,--an old and favourite appeal with the disciples of political exclusion. I endeavoured to persuade him that the art of administering was no great art; that there was more danger of rulers knowing _too much_ than of their knowing _too little_, old soldiers proverbially taking better care of themselves than young soldiers; that he must not expect too much, for they that know the practices of free governments, well know it is hopeless to think of keeping pure and disinterested men long in office, even as men go, there being a corrupting influence about the very exercise of power that forbids the hope; and that all which shrewd observers look for in popular institutions is a greater check than common on the selfishness of those to whom authority is confided. I told him the man who courts popular favour in a republic, would court a prince in a monarchy, the elements of a demagogue and a courtier being exactly the same; and that, under either system, except in extraordinary instances, it was useless to attempt excluding such men from authority, since their selfishness was more active than the feelings of the disinterested; that, in our own case, so long as the impetus of the revolution and the influence of great events lasted, we had great men in the ascendant, but, now that matters were jogging on regularly, and under their common-place aspects, we were obliged to take up with merely clever managers; that one of the wisest men that had ever lived (Bacon) had said, that "few men rise to power in a state, without a union of _great_ and _mean_ qualities," and that this was probably as true at Berne as it is at Washington, and as true at Paris as at either; that the old system in his country savoured too much of the policy of giving the milk of two cows to one calf, and that he must remember it was a system that made very bad as well as very good veal, whereas for ordinary purposes it was better to have the same quantity of merely good veal; and, in short, that he himself would soon be surprised at discovering how soon the new rulers would acquire all the useful habits of their predecessors, and I advised him to look out that they did not acquire some of their bad ones too. I never flattered myself with producing a change of opinion in the captain, who always listened politely, but with just such an air of credulity as you might suppose one born to the benefits of the Burgerschaft, and who had got to be fifty, would listen to a dead attack on all his most cherished prejudices. The next day was Sunday, and we still lingered in our comfortable quarters at the Crown. I walked on the Plateforme before breakfast, and got another of those admirable views of the Upper Alps, which, notwithstanding the great beauty of its position and immediate environs, form the principal attraction of Berne. The peaks were draped rather than veiled in clouds, and it was not easy to say which was the most brilliant, the snow-white vapour that adorned their sides, or the icy glaciers themselves. Still they were distinct from each other, forming some such contrast as that which exists between the raised and sunken parts on the faces of new coin. We went to church and listened to some excellent German, after which we paid our last visit to La Lorraine. This house had been hired by King Jerome for a short time, after his exile in 1814, his brother Joseph occupying a neighbouring residence. The W----s told me that Jerome arrived, accompanied by his amiable wife, like a king, with horses, chamberlains, pages, and all the other appliances of royalty, and that it was curious, as well as painful, to witness how fast these followers dropped off, as the fate of the family appeared to be settled. Few besides the horses remained at the end of ten days! On our return from this visit we went in a body to pay our respect to our old friends, the bears. I believe you have already been told that the city of Berne maintains four bears in certain deep pens, where it is the practice to feed them with nuts, cakes, apples, etc., according to the liberality and humour of the visitor. The usage is very ancient, and has some connexion with a tradition that has given its name to the canton. A bear is also the arms of the state. One of these animals is a model of grace, waddling about on his hind legs like an alderman in a ball-room. You may imagine that P---- was excessively delighted at the sight of these old friends. The Bernese have an engraving of the graceful bear in his upright attitude; and the stove of our salon at the Crown, which is of painted tile, among a goodly assemblage of gods and goddesses, includes Bruin as one of its ornaments. François made his appearance after dinner, accompanied by his friend, _le petit Savoyard_, who had arrived from Frankfort, and came once more to offer his services to conduct us to Lapland, should it be our pleasure to travel in that direction. It would have been ungracious to refuse so constant a suitor, and he was ordered to be in attendance next morning, to proceed towards the lake of Geneva. In the evening we went on the Plateforme to witness the sunset, but the mountains were concealed by clouds. The place was crowded, and refreshments were selling in little pavilions erected for the purpose. We are the only Protestants who are such rigid observers of the Sabbath, the Scotch perhaps excepted. In England there is much less restraint than in America, and on the Continent the Protestants, though less gay than the Catholics, very generally consider it a day of recreation, after the services of the church are ended. I have heard some of them maintain that we have misinterpreted the meaning of the word holy, which obtains its true signification in the term holiday. I have never heard any one go so far, however, as Hannah Moore says was the case with Horace Walpole, who contended that the ten commandments were not meant for people of quality. No one whose mind and habits have got extricated from the fogs of provincial prejudices, will deny that we have many odious moral deformities in America, that appear in the garb of religious discipline and even religious doctrine, but which are no more than the offspring of sectarian fanaticism, and which, in fact, by annihilating charity, are so many blows given to the essential feature of Christianity; but, apart from these, I still lean to the opinion that we are quite as near the great truths as any other people extant. Mr. ----, the English _chargé d'affaires_, whom I had known slightly at Paris, and Mr. ----, who had once belonged to the English legation in Washington, were on the Plateforme. The latter told me that Carroll of Carrolton was dead; that he had been dead a year, and that he had written letters of condolence on the occasion. I assured him that the old gentleman was alive on the 4th July last, for I had seen one of his letters in the public journals. Here was a capital windfall for a regular _diplomate_, who now, clearly, had nothing to do but to hurry home and write letters of felicitation! The late changes in England have produced more than the usual mutations in her diplomatic corps, which, under ordinary circumstances, important trusts excepted, has hitherto been considered at the disposal of any minister. In America we make it matter of reproach that men are dismissed from office on account of their political opinions, and it is usual to cite England as an example of greater liberality. All this is singularly unjust, because in its spirit, like nine-tenths of our popular notions of England, it is singularly untrue. The changes of ministry, which merely involve the changes incident on taking power from one clique of the aristocracy to give it to another, have not hitherto involved questions of sufficient importance to render it matter of moment to purge all the lists of the disaffected; but since the recent serious struggles we have seen changes that do not occur even in America. Every Tory, for instance, is ousted from the legations, if we except nameless subordinates. The same purification is going on elsewhere, though the English system does not so much insist on the changes of _employés_, as that the _employés_ themselves should change their opinions. How long would an English tide-waiter, for instance, keep his place should he vote against the ministerial candidate? I apprehend these things depend on a common principle (_i. e_. self-interest) everywhere, and that it makes little difference, in substance, what the form of government may happen to be. But of all the charges that have been brought against us, the comparative instability of the public favour, supposed to be a consequence of fluctuations in the popular will, is the most audacious, for it is contradicted by the example of every royal government in Christendom. Since the formation of the present American constitution, there have been but two changes of administration, that have involved changes of principles, or changes in popular will;--that which placed Mr. Jefferson in the seat of Mr. Adams, senior, and that which placed Mr. Jackson in the seat of Mr. Adams, junior: whereas, during the short period of my visit to Europe, I have witnessed six or seven absolute changes of the English ministry, and more than twenty in France, besides one revolution. Liberty has been, hitherto, in the situation of the lion whose picture was drawn by a man, but which there was reason to think would receive more favourable touches, when the lion himself should take up the pallet. LETTER XVII. Our Voiturier and his Horses.--A Swiss Diligence.--Morat.--Inconstancy of feeling.--Our Route to Vévey.--Lake Leman.--Difficulty in hiring a House.--"Mon Repos" engaged for a mouth.--Vévey.--Tne great Square--The Town-house.--Environs of Vévey.--Summer Church and Winter Church.--Clergy of the Canton.--Population of Vaud.--Elective qualifications of Vaud. Dear ----, Le Petit Savoyard was punctual, and after breakfasting, away we rolled, along the even and beaten road towards Morat. This man and his team were epitomes of the _voiturier_ caste and their fixtures. He himself was a firm, sun-burned, compact little fellow, just suited to ride a wheeler, while the horses were sinewy, and so lean, that there was no mistaking their vocation. Every bone in their bodies spoke of the weight of _miladi_, and her heavy English travelling chariot, and I really thought they seemed to be glad to get a whole American family in place of an Englishwoman and her maid. The morning was fine, and our last look at the Oberland peaks was sunny and pleasant. There they stood ranged along the horizon, like sentinels (not lighthouses) of the skies, severe, chiseled, brilliant, and grand. Another travelling equipage of the gregarious kind, or in which the carriage as well as the horses was the property of the _voiturier_, and the passengers mere _pic-nics_, was before us in ascending a long hill, affording an excellent opportunity to dissect the whole party. As it is a specimen of the groups one constantly meets on the road, I will give you some idea of the component parts. The _voiturier_ was merely a larger brother of _le petit Savoyard_, and his horses, three in number, were walking bundles of chopped straw. The carriage was spacious, and I dare say convenient, though anything but beautiful. On the top there was a rail, within which effects were stowed beneath an apron, leaving an outline not unlike the ridges of the Alps. The merry rogues within had chosen to take room to themselves, and not a package of any sort encumbered their movements. And here I will remark, that America, free and independent, is the only country in which I have ever journeyed, where the comfort and convenience in the vehicle is the first thing considered, that of the baggage the next, and that of the passengers the last.[32] Fortunately for the horses, there were but four passengers, though the vehicle could have carried eight. One, by his little green cap, with a misshapen shade for the eyes; light, shaggy, uncombed hair; square high shoulders; a coat that appeared to be half-male half-female; pipe and pouch--was undeniably a German student, who was travelling south to finish his metaphysics with a few practical notions of men and things. A second was a Jew, who had trade in every lineament, and who belonged so much to _the_ nation, that I could not give him to any other nation in particular. He was older, more wary, less joyous, and probably much more experienced, than either of his companions. When they laughed, he only smiled; when they sang, he hummed; and when they seemed thoughtful, he grew sad. I could make nothing out of him, except that he ran a thorough bass to the higher pitches of his companions' humours. The third was Italian "for a ducat." A thick, bushy, glossy, curling head of hair was covered by a little scarlet cap, tossed negligently on one side, as if lodged there by chance; his eye was large, mellow, black as jet, and full of fun and feeling; his teeth white as ivory; and the sun, the glorious sun, and the thoughts of Italy, towards which he was travelling, had set all his animal spirits in motion. I caught a few words in bad French, which satisfied me that he and the German were jeering each other on their respective national peculiarities. Such is man; his egotism and vanity first centre in himself, and he is ready to defend himself against the reproofs of even his own mother; then his wife, his child, his brother, his friend is admitted, in succession, within the pale of his self-love, according to their affinities with the great centre of the system; and finally he can so far expand his affections as to embrace his country, when that of another presents its pretensions in hostility. When the question arises, as between humanity and the beasts of the field, he gets to be a philanthropist! [Footnote 32: The Americans are a singularly good-natured people, and probably submit to more impositions, that are presented as appeals to the spirit of accommodation, than any other people on earth. The writer has frequently ridden miles in torture to _accommodate_ a trunk, and the steam-boats manage matters so to _accommodate everybody_, that everybody is put to inconvenience. All this is done, with the most indomitable kindness and good nature, on all sides, the people daily, nay hourly exhibiting, in all their public relations, the truth of the axiom, "that what is everybody's business, is nobody's business."] Morat, with its walls of Jericho, soon received us, and we drove to an inn, where chopped straw was ordered for the horses, and a more substantial _goûter_ for ourselves. Leaving the former to discuss their meal, after finishing our own, we walked ahead, and waited the appearance of the little Savoyard, on the scene of the great battle between the Swiss and the Burgundians. The country has undergone vast changes since the fifteenth century, and cultivation has long since caused the marsh, in which so many of the latter perished, to disappear, though it is easy to see where it must have formerly been. I have nothing new to say concerning Avenche, whose Roman ruins, after Rome itself, scarce caused us to cast a glance at them, and we drove up to the door of the _Ours_ at Payerne, without alighting. When we are children, we fancy that sweets can never cloy, and indignantly repel the idea that tarts and sugar-plums will become matters of indifference to us; a little later we swear eternal constancy to a first love, and form everlasting friendships: as time slips away, we marry three or four wives, shoot a bosom-friend or two, and forget the looks of those whose images were to be graven on our hearts for ever. You will wonder at this digression, which has been excited by the simple fact that I actually caught myself gaping, when something was said about Queen Bertha and her saddle. The state of apathy to which one finally arrives is really frightful! We left Payerne early, and breakfasted at the "inevitable inn" of Moudon. Here it was necessary to decide in what direction to steer, for I had left the charter-party with _le petit Savoyard_, open, on this essential point. The weather was so fine, the season of the year so nearly the same, and most of the other circumstances so very much like those under which we had made the enchanting passage along the head of the Leman four years before, that we yielded to the desire to renew the pleasures of such a transit, and turned our faces towards Vévey. At the point where the roads separate, therefore, we diverged from the main route, which properly leads to Lausanne, inclining southward. We soon were rolling along the margin of the little blue lake that lies on the summit of the hills, so famous for its prawns. We knew that a few minutes would bring us to the brow of the great declivity, and all eyes were busy, and all heads eagerly in motion. As for myself, I took my station on the dickey, determined to let nothing escape me in a scene that I remembered with so much enduring delight. Contrary to the standing rule in such cases, the reality surpassed expectation. Notwithstanding our long sojourn in Italy, and the great variety and magnificence of the scenery we had beheld, I believe there was not a feeling of disappointment among us all. There lay the Leman, broad, blue, and tranquil; with its surface dotted by sails, or shadowed by grand mountains; its shores varying from the impending precipice, to the sloping and verdant lawn; the solemn, mysterious, and glen-like valley of the Rhone; the castles, towns, villages, hamlets, and towers, with all the smiling acclivities loaded with vines, villas, and churches; the remoter pastures, out of which the brown chalets rose like subdued bas-reliefs, and the back-ground of _dents_, peaks, and glaciers. Taking it altogether, it is one of the most ravishing views of an earth that is only too lovely for its evil-minded tenants; a world that bears about it, in every lineament, the impression of its divine Creator! One of our friends used to tell an anecdote of the black servant of a visitor at Niagara, who could express his delight, on seeing the falls, in no other way than by peals of laughter; and perhaps I ought to hesitate to confess it, but I actually imitated the Negro, as this glorious view broke suddenly upon me. Mine, however, was a laugh of triumph, for I instantly discovered that my feelings were not quite worn out, and that it was still possible to awaken enthusiasm within me, by the sight of an admirable nature. Our first resolution was to pass a month in this beautiful region. Pointing to a building that stood a thousand feet below us, on a little grassy knoll that was washed by the lake, and which had the quaint appearance of a tiny chateau of the middle ages, we claimed it, at once, as the very spot suited for the temporary residence of your scenery-hunters. We all agreed that nothing could possibly suit us better, and we went down the descent, among vineyards and cottages, not building "castles in the air," but peopling one in a valley. It was determined to dwell in that house, if it could be had for love or money, or the thing was at all practicable. It was still early when we reached the inn in Vévey, and I was scarcely on the ground, before I commenced the necessary inquiries about the little chateauish house. As is usual in some parts of Europe, I was immediately referred to a female commissionnaire, a sort of domestic broker of all-work. This woman supplies travelling families with linen, and, at need, with plate; and she could greatly facilitate matters, by knowing where and to whom to apply for all that was required; an improvement in the division of labour that may cause you to smile, but which is extremely useful, and, on the whole, like all division of labour, economical. The commissionnaire informed us that there were an unusual number of furnished houses to be let, in the neighbourhood, the recent political movements having driven away their ordinary occupants, the English and Russians. Some of the proprietors, however, might object to the shortness of the time that we could propose for (a month), as it was customary to let the residences by the year. There was nothing like trying, however, and, ordering dinner to be ready against our return, we took a carriage and drove along the lake-shore as far as Clarens, so renowned in the pages of Rousseau. I ought, however, to premise that I would not budge a foot, until the woman assured me, over and over, that the little antiquated edifice, under the mountain, which had actually been a sort of chateau, was not at all habitable for a genteel family, but had degenerated to a mere coarse farm-house, which, in this country, like "love in a cottage," does better in idea than in the reality. We gave up our "castle under the hill" with reluctance, and proceeded to Clarens, where a spacious, unshaded building, without a spark of poetry about it, was first shown us. This was refused, incontinently. We then tried one or two more, until the shades of night overtook us. At one place the proprietor was chasing a cow through an orchard, and, probably a little heated with his exercise, he rudely repelled the application of the commissionnaire, by telling her, when he understood the house was wanted for only a month, that he did not keep a _maison garnie_. I could not affirm to the contrary, and we returned to the inn discomfited, for the night. Early next morning the search was renewed with zeal. We climbed the mountain-side, in the rear of the town, among vines, orchards, hamlets, terraces castles, and villas, to see one of the latter, which was refused on account of its remoteness from the lake. We then went to see a spot that was the very _beau idéal_ of an abode for people like ourselves, who were out in quest of the picturesque. It is called the Chateau of Piel, a small hamlet, immediately on the shore of the lake, and quite near Vévey, while it is perfectly retired. The house is spacious, reasonably comfortable, and had some fine old towers built into the modern parts, a detached ruin, and a long narrow terrace, under the windows, that overhung the blue Leman, and which faced the glorious rocks of Savoy. Our application for their residence was also refused, on account of the shortness of the time we intended to remain.[33] [Footnote 33: It is not easy for the writer to speak of many personal incidents, lest the motive might be mistaken, in a country where there are so many always disposed to attach a base one if they can; but, it is so creditable to the advanced state of European civilization and intelligence, that, at any hazard, he will here say, that even his small pretensions to literary reputation frequently were of great service to him, and, in no instance, even in those countries whose prejudices be had openly opposed, had he any reason to believe it was of any personal disadvantage. This feeling prevailed at the English custom-houses, at the bureaux all over the Continent, and frequently even at the inns. In one instance, in Italy, an apartment that had been denied, was subsequently offered to him on his own terms, on this account; and, on the present occasion, the proprietor of the Chateau de Piel, who resided at Geneva, sent a handsome expression of his regret that his agent should have thought it necessary to deny the application of a gentleman of his pursuits. Even the cow-chaser paid a similar homage to letters. In short, let the truth be said, the only country in which the writer has found his pursuits a disadvantage, _is his own_.] We had in reserve, all this time, two or three regular _maisons meublées_ in the town itself, and finally took refuge in one called "Mon repos," which stands quite near the lake, and in a retired corner of the place. A cook was engaged forthwith, and in less than twenty-four hours after entering Vévey, we had set up our household gods, and were to be reckoned among them who boiled our pot in the commune. This was not quite as prompt as the proceedings had been at Spa; but here we had been bothered by the picturesque, while at Spa we consulted nothing but comfort. Our house was sufficiently large, perfectly clean, and, though without carpets or mats, things but little used in Switzerland, quite as comfortable as was necessary for a travelling bivouac. The price was sixty dollars a month, including plate and linen. Of course it might have been got at a much lower rate, had we taken it by the year. One of the first measures, after getting possession of Mon Repos, was to secure a boat. This was soon done, as there are several in constant attendance, at what is called the port. Harbour, strictly speaking, Vévey has none, though there is a commencement of a mole, which scarcely serves to afford shelter to a skiff. The crafts in use on the lake are large two-masted boats, having decks much broader than their true beam, and which carry most of their freight above board. The sails are strictly neither latine nor lug, but sufficiently like the former to be picturesque, especially in the distance. These vessels are not required to make good weather, as they invariably run for the land when it blows, unless the wind happen to be fair, and sometimes even then. Nothing can be more primitive than the outfit of one of these barks, and yet they appear to meet the wants of the lake. Luckily Switzerland has no custom-houses, and the King of Sardinia appears to be wise enough to let the Savoyards enjoy nearly as much commercial liberty as their neighbours. Three cantons, Geneva, which embraces its foot; Vaud, which bounds nearly the whole of the northern shore; Valais, which encircles the head; together with Savoy, which lies along the cavity of the crescent, are bounded by the lake. There are also many towns and villages on the lake, among which Geneva, Lausanne, and Vévey are the principal. This place lies immediately at the foot of the Chardonne, a high retiring section of the mountains called the Jorat, and is completely sheltered from the north winds. This advantage it possesses in common with the whole district between Lausanne and Villeneuve, a distance of some fifteen miles, and, the mountains acting as great natural walls, the fruits of milder latitudes are successfully cultivated, notwithstanding the general elevation of the lake above the sea is near thirteen hundred feet. Although a good deal frequented by strangers, Vévey is less a place of fashionable resort than Lausanne, and is consequently much simpler in its habits, and I suppose cheaper, as a residence. It may have four or five thousand inhabitants, and possessing one or two considerable squares, it covers rather more ground than places of that population usually do, in Europe. It has no edifice of much pretension, and yet it is not badly built. We passed the first three or four days in looking about us, and, on the whole, we have been rather pleased with the place. Our house is but a stone's throw from the water, at a point where there is what in the Manhattanese dialect would be called a battery.[34] This _battery_ leads to the mole and the great square. At the first corner of the latter stands a small semi-castellated edifice, with the colours of the canton on the window-shutters, which is now in some way occupied for public purposes, and which formerly was the residence of the _bailli_, or the local governor that Berne formerly sent to rule them in the name of the Burgerschaft. The square is quite large, and usually contains certain piles of boards, &c. that are destined for the foot of the lake, lumber being a material article in the commerce of the place. On this square, also, is the ordinary market and several inns. The town-house is an ancient building in a more crowded quarter, and at the northern gate are the remains of another structure that has an air of antiquity, which I believe also belongs to the public. Beyond these and its glorious views, Vévey, in itself, has but little to attract attention. But its environs contain its sources of pride. Besides the lake-shore, which varies in its form and beauties, it is not easy to imagine a more charming acclivity than that which lies behind the town. The inclination is by no means as great, just at this spot, at it is both farther east and farther west, but it admits of cultivation, of sites for hamlets, and is much broken by inequalities and spacious natural terraces. I cannot speak with certainty of the extent of this acclivity, but, taking the eye for a guide, I should think there is quite a league of the inclined plane in view from the town. It is covered with hamlets, chateaux, country-houses, churches and cottages, and besides its vines, of which there are many near the town, it is highly beautiful from the verdure of its slopes, its orchards, and its groves of nut-trees. [Footnote 34: The manner in which the English language is becoming corrupted in America, as well as in England, is a matter of serious regret. Some accidental circumstance induced the Manhattanese to call a certain enclosure the Park. This name, probably, at first was appropriate enough, as there might have been an intention really to form a park, though the enclosure is now scarcely large enough to be termed a paddock. This name, however, has extended to the enclosures in other areas, and we have already, in vulgar parlance, St. John's Park, Washington Park, and _least_ though not _last_, Duane-street _Park_, an enclosure of the shape of, and not much larger than, a cocked-hat. The site of an ancient fort on the water has been converted into a promenade, and has well enough been called _the Battery_. But other similar promenades are projected, and the name is extended to them! Thus in the Manhattanese dialect, any enclosure in a town, _off the water_, that is a _park_, and any similar enclosure, on _the water_, a _battery!_ The worthy aldermen may call this English, but it will not be easy to persuade any but their constituents to believe them.] Among other objects that crowd this back-ground, is a church which stands on a sharp acclivity, about a quarter of a mile on the rear of the town. It is a stone building of some size, and has a convenient artificial terrace that commands, as a matter of course, a most lovely view. We attended service in it the first Sunday after our arrival, and found the rites homely and naked, very much like those of our own Presbyterians. There was a luxury about this building that you would hardly expect to meet among a people so simple, which quite puts the coquetry of our own carpeted, cushioned, closet-like places of worship to shame. This is the summer church of Vévey, another being used for winter. This surpasses the refinement of the Roman ladies, who had their summer and their winter rings, but were satisfied to use the same temples all the year round. After all there is something reasonable in this indulgence: one may love to go up to a high place to worship, whence he can look abroad on the glories of a magnificent nature, which always disposes the mind to venerate Omnipotence, and, unable to enjoy the advantage the year round, there is good sense in seizing such occasions as offer for the indulgence. I have frequently met with churches in Switzerland perched on the most romantic sites, though this is the first whose distinctive uses I have ascertained. There is a monument to the memory of Ludlow, one of Charles' judges, in this church, and an inscription which attributes to him civic and moral merits of a high order. The clergy in this canton, as in most, if not all the others, are supported by the state. There is religious toleration, much as it formerly existed in New England, each citizen being master of his religious professions, but being compelled to support religion itself. Here, however, the salaries are regulated by a common scale, without reference to particular congregations or parishes. The pastors at first receive rather less than three hundred dollars a year. This allowance is increased about fifty dollars at the end of six years, and by the same sum at each successive period of six years, until the whole amounts to two thousand Swiss, or three thousand French francs, which is something less than six hundred dollars. There is also a house and a garden, and pensions are bestowed on the widows and children. On the whole, the state has too much connexion with this great interest, but the system has the all-important advantage of preventing men from profaning the altar as a pecuniary speculation. The population of Vaud is about 155,000 souls, and there are one hundred and fifty-eight Protestant pastors, besides four Catholics, or about one clergyman to each thousand souls, which is just about the proportion that exists in New York. In conversing with an intelligent Vaudois on returning from the church, I found that a great deal of interest is excited in this Canton by the late conspiracy in Berne. The Vaudois have got that attachment to liberty which is ever the result of a long political dependence, and which so naturally disposes the inferior to resist the superior. It is not pretended, however, that the domination of Berne was particularly oppressive, though as a matter of course, whenever the interests of Vaud happened to conflict with those of the great canton, the former had to succumb. Still the reaction of a political dependency, which lasted more than two centuries and a half, had brought about, even previously to the late changes, a much more popular form of government than was usual in Switzerland, and the people here really manifest some concern on the subject of this effort of aristocracy. As you may like to compare the elective qualifications of one of the more liberal cantons of the confederation with some of our own, I will give you an outline of those of Vaud, copied, in the substance, from Picot. The voter must have had a legal domicile in the canton one year, be a citizen, twenty-five years old, and be of the number of _the three-fourths of the citizens who pay the highest land-tax_, or have three sons enrolled and serving in the militia. Domestics, persons receiving succour from the parishes, bankrupts, outlaws, and convicted criminals, are perpetually excluded from the elective franchise. This system, though far better than that of France, which establishes a certain _amount_ of direct taxation, is radically vicious, as it makes property, and that of a particular species, the test of power. It is, in truth, the old English plan a little modified; and the recent revolution that has lately taken place in England under the name of reform, goes to prove that it is a system which contains in itself the seeds of vital changes. As every political question is strictly one of practice, _changes_ become necessary everywhere with the changes of circumstances, and these are truly reforms; but when they become so serious as to overturn principles, they produce the effects of revolutions, though possibly in a mitigated form. Every system, therefore, should be so framed as to allow of all the alterations which are necessary to convenience, with a strict regard to its own permanency as connected with its own governing principle. In America, in consequence of having attended to this necessity from the commencement, we have undergone no revolution in principle in half a century, though constantly admitting of minor changes, while nearly all Europe has, either in theory or in practice, or in both, been effectually revolutionized. Nor does the short period from which our independent existence dates furnish any argument against us, as it is not so much _time_, as the _changes_ of which time is the parent, that tries political systems; and America has undergone the ordinary changes, such as growth, extension of interests, and the other governing circumstances of society, that properly belong to two centuries, within the last fifty years. America to-day, in all but government, is less like the America of 1776, than the France of to-day is like the France of 1600. While it is the fashion to scout our example as merely that of an untried experiment, ours is fast getting to be the oldest political system in Christendom, as applied to one and the same people. _Nations_ are not easily destroyed,--they exist under a variety of mutations, and names last longer than things; but I now speak in reference to distinguishing and prominent facts, without regard to the various mystifications under which personal interests disguise themselves. LETTER XVIII. Neglect of the Vine in America.--Drunkenness in France.--Cholera especially fatal to Drunkards.--The Soldier's and the Sailor's Vice.--Sparkling Champagne and Still Champagne.--Excessive Price of these Wines in America.--Burgundy.--Proper soil for the Vine.--Anecdote.--Vines of Vévey.--The American Fox-grape. Dear ----, A little incident has lately impressed me with the great wealth of this quarter of the world in wines, as compared with our own poverty. By poverty, I do not mean ignorance of the beverage, or a want of good liquors; for I believe few nations have so many varieties, or varieties so excellent, as ourselves. Certainly it is not common to meet as good Bordeaux wines in Paris as in New York. The other good liquors of France are not so common; and yet the best Burgundy I ever drank was in America.[35] This is said without reference to the different qualities of the vineyards--but, by poverty, I mean the want of the vines. [Footnote 35: Since his return, the author can say the same of Rhenish wines; though the tavern wines of Germany are usually much better than the tavern wines of France.] Vineyards abound all over the American continent, within the proper latitudes, except in the portions of it peopled by the colonists who have an English origin. To this fact, then, it is fair to infer, that we owe the general neglect of this generous plant among ourselves. The Swiss, German, and French emigrants are already thinking of the vine, while we have been in possession of the country two centuries without making a cask of wine. If this be not literally true it is so nearly true, as to render it not less a leading fact. I do not attach exactly the same moral consequences to the want of the vine as is usually attributed to the circumstances by political economists; though I am of opinion that serious physical evils may be traced to this cause. Men will seek some stimulus or other, if it be attainable, place them in what situations you will, although wine is forbidden by the Koran, the Mahomedan is often intoxicated; and my own eyes have shown me how much drunkenness exists in the vine-growing countries of Europe. On this subject it may be well to say a word _en passant_. I came to Europe under the impression that there was more drunkenness among us than in any other country, England, perhaps, excepted. A residence of six months in Paris changed my views entirely. You will judge of my surprise when first I saw a platoon of the Royal Guard,--literally a whole platoon, so far as numbers and the order of their promenade was concerned,--staggering drunk, within plain view of the palace of their master. From this time I became more observant, and not a day passed that I did not see men, and even women, in the same situation in the open streets. Usually, when the fact was mentioned to Americans, they expressed surprise, declaring they had never seen such a thing! They were too much amused with other sights to regard this; and then they had come abroad with different notions, and it is easier to float in the current of popular opinion than to stem it. In two or three instances I have taken the unbelievers with me into the streets, where I have never failed to convince them of their mistake in the course of an hour. These experiments, too, were usually made in the better quarters of the town, or near our own residence, where one is much less apt to meet with drunkenness than in the other quarters. On one occasion, a party of four of us went out with this object, and we passed thirteen drunken men, during a walk of an hour. Many of them were so far gone as to be totally unable to walk. I once saw, on the occasion of a festival, three men literally wallowing in the gutter before my window; a degree of beastly degradation I never witnessed in any other country. The usual reply of a Frenchman, when the subject has been introduced, was that the army of occupation introduced the habit into the capital. But I have spoken to you of M----, a man whose candour is only equalled by his information. He laughed at this account of the matter, saying that he had now known France nearly sixty years; it is his native country; and he says that he cannot see any difference, in this particular, in his time. It is probable that, during the wars of Napoleon, when there was so great a demand for men of the lower classes, it was less usual to encounter this vice in the open streets, than now, for want of subjects; but, by all I can learn, there never was a time when drunkards did not abound in France. I do assure you that, in the course of passing between Paris and London, I have been more struck by drunkenness in the streets of the former, than in those of the latter. Not long since, I asked a labourer if he ever got _grisé_, and he laughingly told me--"yes, whenever he could." He moreover added, that a good portion of his associates did the same thing. Now I take it, this word _grisé_ contains the essence of the superiority of wine over whiskey. It means fuddled, a condition from which one recovers more readily, than from downright drunkenness, and of which the physical effects are not so injurious. I believe the consequences of even total inebriety from wine, are not as bad as those which follow inebriety from whiskey and rum. But your real amateur here is no more content with wine than he is with us; he drinks a white brandy that is pretty near the pure alcohol. The cholera has laid bare the secrets of drunkenness, all over Europe. At first we were astonished when the disease got among the upper classes; but, with all my experience, I confess I was astonished at hearing it whispered of a gentleman, as I certainly did in a dozen instances--"_mais il avait l'habitude de boire trop_." Cholera, beyond a question, killed many a sober man, but it also laid bare the fault of many a devotee of the bottle. Drunkenness, almost as a matter of course, abounds in nearly all, if not in all, the armies of Europe. It is peculiarly the soldier's and the sailor's vice, and some queer scenes have occurred directly under my own eyes here, which go to prove it. Take among others, the fact, that a whole guard, not long since, got drunk in the Faubourg St. Germain, and actually arrested people in the streets and confined them in the guard-house. The Invalids are notorious for staggering back to their quarters; and I presume I have seen a thousand of these worthies, first and last, as happy as if they had all their eyes, and arms, and legs about them. The official reports show ten thousand cases of females arrested for drunkenness, in Paris, during the last year.--But to return to our vineyards. Although I am quite certain drunkenness is not prevented by the fact that wine is within the reach of the mass, it is easy to see that its use is less injurious, physically, than that of the stronger compounds and distillations, to which the people of the non-vine-growing regions have recourse as substitutes. Nature is a better brewer than man, and the pure juice of the grape is less injurious than the mixed and fiery beverages that are used in America. In reasonable quantities, it is not injurious at all. Five-and-twenty years since, when I first visited Europe, I was astonished to see wine drunk in tumblers. I did not at first understand that half of what I had up to that time been drinking was brandy, under the name of wine. While our imported wines are, as a whole, so good, we do not always show the same discrimination in choosing. There is very little good champagne, for instance, drunk in America. A vast deal is consumed, and we are beginning to understand that it is properly a table-wine, or one that is to be taken with the meats; but sparkling champagne is, _ex necessitate_, a wine of inferior quality. No wine _mousses_, as the French term it, that has body enough to pass a certain period without fermentation. My friend de V---- is a proprietor of vines at Aï, and he tells me that the English take most of their good wines, which are the "still champagnes," and the Russians and the Americans the poor, or the sparkling. A great deal of the sparkling, however, is consumed in France, the price better suiting French economy. But the wine-growers of Champagne themselves speak of us as consumers of their second-class liquors. I drunk at Paris, as good "sparkling champagne" as anybody I knew, de V---- having the good nature to let me have it, from his cellar, for the price at which it is sold to the dealer and exporter, or at three francs the bottle. The _octroi_ and the transportation bring the price up to about three francs and a half. This then is the cost to the restaurateur and the innkeeper. These sell it again to their customers, at six francs the bottle. Now a bottle of wine ought not, and I presume does not, cost the American dealer any more; the difference in favour of the duty more than equalling the difference against them, in the transportation. This wine is sold in our eating-houses and taverns at two dollars, and even at two dollars and a half, the bottle! In other words, the consumer pays three times the amount of the first cost and charges. Now, it happens, that there is something very like free trade in this article, (to use the vernacular), and here are its fruits; You also see in this fact, the truth of what I have told you of our paying for the want of a class of men who wilt be content to be shopkeepers and innkeepers, and who do not look forward to becoming anything more. I do not say that we are the less respectable for this circumstance, but we are, certainly, as a people, less comfortable. Champagne, Rhenish, and Bordeaux wines ought to be sold in New York, quite as cheap as they are sold in the great towns of the countries in which they are made. They can be bought of the wine-merchants nearly as low, even as things are. If the innkeepers and steam-boat stewards, of America, would buy and sell low-priced Burgundy wines, that, as the French call it, _carry water well_, as well as some other wines that might be named, the custom of drinking this innocent and useful beverage at table would become general, attention would then be paid to the vine, and in twenty years we should be consumers of the products of our own vineyards. The idea that our winters are too severe can hardly be just. There may be mountainous districts where such is the fact, but, in a country that extends from the 27th to the 47th degrees of latitude, it is scarcely possible to suppose the vine cannot flourish. I have told you that wine is made on the Elbe, and it is made in more than half the Swiss cantons. Proper exposures and proper soil are necessary for good wines, anywhere, but nothing is easier than to have both. In America, I fear, we have hitherto sought land that was too rich; or rather, land that is wanting in the proper and peculiar richness that is congenial to the vine. All the great vineyards I have seen, and all of which I can obtain authentic accounts, are on thin gravelly soils; frequently, as is the case in the Rheingau, on decomposed granite, quartz, and sienite. Slate mixed with quartz on a clayish bottom, and with basalt, is esteemed a good soil, as is also marl and gravel. The Germans use rich manures, but I do not think this is the case in France. The grape that makes good wine is rarely fit to eat. Much care is had to reject the defective fruit, when a delicate wine is expected, just as we cull apples to make fine cider. A really good vineyard is a fortune at once, and a tolerable one is as good a disposition as can be made of land. All the fine wines of Hockheim are said to be the produce of only eight or ten acres. There is certainly more land than this, in the vine, south of the village, but the rest is not esteemed to be Hockheimer. Time is indispensable to fine wines, and time is a thing that an American lives too fast to spare. The grapes become better by time, although periodically renewed, and the wine improves in the same way. I have told you in these letters, that I passed a vineyard on the lake of Zurich of which there are records to show it has borne the vine five hundred years. Five centuries since, if historians are to be believed, the winters on this lake must have been as severe as they are usually on Champlain; they are almost as severe, even now. Extraordinary characters are given to some of the vines here. Thus some of the Moselle wines, it is said, will not make good vinegar! If this be true, judging by my own experience, vinegar is converted into wines of the Moselle. I know no story of this sort, after all, that is more marvellous than one I have heard of the grandfather of A----, and which I believe to be perfectly true, as it is handed down on authority that can scarcely be called in question. A pipe of Madeira was sent to him, about the year 1750, which proved to be so bad that, giving it up as a gone case, he ordered it to be put in the sun, with a bottle in its bung-hole, in order that it might, at least, make good vinegar. Bis official station compelled him to entertain a great deal, and his factotum, on these occasions, was a negro, whose name I have forgotten. This fellow, a capital servant when sober, occasionally did as he saw his betters do, and got drunk. Of course this greatly deranged the economy of the government dinners. On one occasion, particular care was taken to keep him in his right senses, and yet at the critical moment he appeared behind his master's chair, as happy as the best of them. This matter was seriously inquired into next day, when it was discovered that a miracle had been going on out of doors, and that the vinegar had been transformed into wine. The tradition is, that this wine was remarkable for its excellence, and that it was long known by the name of the negro, as the best wine of a colony, where more good wine of the sort was drunk, probably, than was ever known by the same number of people, in the same time, anywhere else. Now should one experimenting on a vineyard, in America, find vinegar come from his press, he would never have patience to let it ferment itself back into good liquor. Patience, I conceive, is the only obstacle to our becoming a great wine-growing and a great silk-growing country. I have been led into these remarks by observing the vineyards here. The _qualities_ of wines, of course, are affected by the positions of the vineyards, for all who can make wine do not make good wine, but the vines of Vévey, owing most probably to their exposure, are said to be the best of Switzerland. The best liquor comes from St. Saphorin, a hamlet that is quite near the town, which lies at the foot of the acclivity, described to you in our approach to this place. The little chateau-looking house that so much struck our fancies, on that occasion, is, in fact, in the immediate neighbourhood of the spot. All these circumstances show how much depends on minor circumstances in the cultivation of the vine, and how much may be expected from the plant, when care is had to respect them. The heat may be too great for the vineyard as well as the cold. In Italy there is a practice of causing the vines to run on trees, in order to diminish the effect of the heat, by means of the shade they create. But the good wines are nearly everywhere, if not positively everywhere, produced from the short, clipped standards. This fact has induced me to think that we may succeed better with the vine in the middle, and even in the eastern, than in the southern and western states. I take it, the cold is of no importance, provided it be not so intense as to kill the plant, and the season is long enough to permit the fruit to ripen. It would be absurd in me, who have but a very superficial knowledge of the subject, to pretend to be very skillful in this matter, but I cannot help thinking that, if one had patience to try the experiment, it would be found the common the American fox-grape would in time bring a fine wine. It greatly resembles the grapes of some of the best vineyards here, and the fact of its not being a good eating grape is altogether in its favour. In short, I throw it out as a conjecture more than as an ascertained fact, it is true, but from all I have seen in Europe, I am induced to think that, in making our experiments on the vine, we have been too ambitious to obtain a fat soil, and too warp of the higher latitudes of the country. A gravelly hill-side, in the interior, that has been well stirred, and which has the proper exposure, I cannot but thing would bring good wine, in all the low countries of the middle states. LETTER XIX. The Leman Lake.--Excursions on it.--The coast of Savoy.--Grandeur and beauty of the Rocks.--Sunset.--Evening Scene.--American Families residing on the banks of the Lake.--Conversation with a Vévaisan on the subject of America.--The Nullification Question.--America misrepresented in Europe.--Rowland Stephenson in the United States.--Unworthy arts to bring America into disrepute.--Blunders of Europe in respect of America.--The Kentuckians.--Foreign Associations in the States.--Illiberal Opinions of many Americans.--Prejudices. Dear ----, Our residence at Vévey, thus far, has been fruitful of pleasure. The lake, with its changeful aspects and movement, wears better even than the Oberland Alps, and we have now become thoroughly convinced of our mistake in establishing ourselves at Berne, beautiful as is that place, in 1828. The motive was a desire to be central, but Switzerland is so small that the distances are of no great moment, and I would advise all our friends who intend to pass a summer in the cantons, and who have need of a house, to choose their station somewhere on the shores of the Leman. Two steam-boats ply daily in different directions, and it is of little consequence at which end one may happen to be. Taking everything into consideration "_mon lac est le premier_" is true; though it may be questioned if M. de Voltaire ever saw, or had occasion to see, half of its advantages. We never tire of the Leman, but spend two or three hours every day in the boat. Sometimes we row in front of the town, which literally stands in the water, in some places, musing on the quaint old walls, and listening to the lore of honest John, who moves two crooked oars as leisurely as a lady of the tropic utters, but who has seen great events in his time. Sometimes even this lazy action is too much for the humour of the moment, and we are satisfied with drifting along the shore, for there is generally current enough to carry us the whole length of Vévey in half an hour. Occasionally we are tossed about like an egg-shell, the winds at a distance soon throwing this part of the sheet into commotion. On the whole, however, we have, as yet, had little besides calms, and, what is unusual in Switzerland, not a drop of rain. We have no reason to suspect the lake to be unhealthy, for we are often out until after sunset, without experiencing any ill effects. The shores are everywhere bold about Vévey, though the meadows and the waters meet near the entrance of the Rhone, some eight or ten miles from this place, in a way to raise the thoughts of rushes and lilies, and a suspicion of fevers. The pure air and excellent food of the mountains, however, have done us all good thus far, and we are looking eagerly forward to the season of grapes, which is drawing near, and which every body says make those who are perfectly well, infinitely better. I have not yet spoken to you of the greatest charm in the scenery of Vévey, and the one which perhaps has given us the highest degree of satisfaction. The coast of Savoy, immediately opposite the town, is a range of magnificent rocks, that rises some four or five thousand feet above the surface of the water. In general these precipices are nearly perpendicular, though their surfaces are broken by huge ravines, that may well be termed valleys. This is the region that impends over Meillerie, St. Gingoulph, and Evian, towns or hamlets that cling to the bases of the mountains, and form, of themselves, beautiful objects, from this side of the lake. The distance from Vévey to the opposite shore, agreeably to the authority of old John, our boatman, is about five miles, though the great purity of the atmosphere and the height of the land make it appear less. The summit of the rocks of Savoy are broken into the most fantastical forms, so beautifully and evenly drawn, though they are quite irregular and without design, that I have termed them natural arabesques. No description can give you an accurate idea of their beauty, for I know nothing else in nature to compare them to. As they lie nearly south of us, I cannot account for the unusual glow of the atmosphere behind them, at every clear sunset, except from the reflection of the glaciers; Mont Blanc lying in that direction, at the distance of about fifty miles, though invisible. Now the effect of the outline of these rocks, at, or after sunset, relieved by a soft, golden sky, is not only one of the finest sights of Switzerland, but, in its way, is just the most perfect spectacle I have ever beheld. It is not so apt to extort sudden admiration, as the rosy tints and spectral hues of the high Alps, at the same hour; but it wins on you, in the way the lonely shadows of the Apennines grow on the affections, and, so far from tiring or becoming satisfied with their view, each successive evening brings greater delight than the last. You may get some idea of what I mean, by imagining vast arabesques, rounded and drawn in a way that no art can equal, standing out huge, and dark, and grand, in high relief, blending sublimity with a bewitching softness, against a sky. whose light is slowly passing from the glow of fiery gold, to the mildest tints of evening. I scarcely know when this scene is most to be admired; when the rocks appear distinct and brown, showing their material, and the sky is burnished; or when the first are nearly black masses, on whose surfaces nothing is visible, and the void beyond is just pregnant with sufficient light to expose their exquisite forms. Perhaps this is the perfection of the scene, for the gloom of the hour throws a noble mystery over all. These are the sights that form the grandest features in Swiss scenery. That of the high peaks cut off from the earth by the clouds, is perhaps the most extraordinary of them all; but I think this of the rocks of Savoy the one that wins the most on the affections, although this opinion is formed from a knowledge of the general fact that objects which astonish so greatly at first, do not, as a rule, continue the longest to afford pleasure, for I never saw the former spectacle but twice and on one of those occasions, imperfectly. No _dilettanti_ were ever more punctual at the opening of the orchestra, than we are at this evening exhibition, which, very much like a line and expressive harmony, grows upon us at each repetition. All this end of the lake, as we float lazily before the town, with the water like a mirror, the acclivity behind the town gradually darkening upward under the retiring light, the remote Alpine pastures just throwing out their chalets, the rocks of Savoy and the sublime glen of the Rhone, with the glacier of Mont Velan in its depths, raising its white peak into the broad day long after evening has shadowed everything below, forms the most perfect natural picture I have ever seen. You can easily fancy how much we enjoy all this. John and his boat have been in requisition nearly every evening since our arrival; and the old fellow has dropped so readily into our humours, that his oars rise and fall in a way to produce a melancholy ripple, and little else. The sympathy between us is perfect, and I have almost fancied that his oars daily grow more crooked and picturesque. We are not alone, however, in the possession of so much natural beauty. No less than seven American families, including ourselves, are either temporarily established on or quite near this lake, or are leisurely moving around its banks. The fame of the beauty of the women has already reached our ears, though, sooth to say, a reputation of that sort is not very difficult of attainment in this part of the world. With one of these families we were intimate in Italy, the tie of country being a little increased by the fact that some of their connexions were also ours. They hurried from Lausanne to meet us, the moment they were apprized of our arrival, and the old relations have been re-established between us. Since this meeting excursions have been planned, and it is probable that I may have something to communicate, in reference to them. A day or two since I met a Vévaisan on the public promenade, with whom business had led to a slight acquaintance. We saluted, and pursued our walk together. The conversation soon turned on the news from America, where nullification is, just now, menacing disunion. The Swiss are the only people, in Europe, who appear to me to feel any concern in what has been generally considered to be a crisis in our affairs. I do not wish to be understood as saying that individuals of other nations do not feel the same friendly interest in our prosperity, for perhaps a million such might be enumerated in the different nations of Europe, the extreme liberals everywhere looking to our example as so much authority in favour of their doctrines; but, after excluding the mass, who have too much to do to live, to trouble themselves with concerns so remote, so far as my knowledge extends, the great majority on this side the Atlantic, without much distinction of country, Switzerland excepted, are waiting with confidence and impatience for the knell of the Union. I might repeat to you many mawkish and unmeaning declarations to the contrary of all this, but I deem them to be mere phrases of society to which no one, in the least acquainted with the world, can attach any importance; and which, as they have never deceived me, I cannot wish should be made the means of deceiving you. Men generally hesitate to avow in terms, the selfishness and illiberality that regulate all their acts and wishes, and he who is credulous enough to mistake words for deeds, or even thoughts, in this quarter of the world, will soon become the dupe of more than half of those he meets. I believe I never mentioned to you an anecdote of Sir James Mackintosh, which bears directly on this subject. It was at a dinner given by Sir ----, that some one inquired if he (Sir James Mackintosh) had ever discovered the author of a certain libellous attack on himself. "Not absolutely, though I have no doubt that ---- was the person. I suspected him at once; but meeting him in Pall Mall, soon after the article appeared, he turned round and walked the whole length of the street with me, covering me with protestations of admiration and esteem, and then I felt quite sure of my man!" My Vévaisan made many inquiries as to the probable result of the present struggle, and appeared greatly gratified when I told him that I apprehended no serious danger to the republic. I made him laugh by mentioning the opinion of the witty Abbé Correa, who said, "The Americans are great talkers on political subjects; you would think they were about to fly to their arms, and just as you expect a revolution, _they go home and drink tea_." My acquaintance was anxious to know if our government had sufficient strength to put down nullification by force, for he had learned there was but a single sloop of war, and less than a battalion of troops, in the disaffected part of the country. I told him we possessed all the means that are possessed in other countries to suppress rebellion, although we had not thought it necessary to resort to the same system of organization. Our government was mild in principle, and did not wish to oppress even minorities; but I made no doubt of the attachment of a vast majority to the Union, and, when matters really came to a crisis, if rational compromise could not effect the object, I thought nine men in ten would rally in its defence. I did not believe that even civil war was to produce results in America different from what it produced elsewhere. Men would fight in a republic as they fought in monarchies, until they were tired, and an arrangement would follow. It was not common for a people of the same origin, of similar habits, and contiguous territory, to dismember an empire by civil war, unless violence had been used in bringing them together, or conquest had first opened the way to disunion. I did not know that we were always to escape the evils of humanity any more than others, or why they were to fall heavier on us, when they proceeded from the same causes, than on our neighbours. As respects the small force in Carolina, I thought it argued our comparative strength, rather than our comparative weakness. Here were loud threats of resistance, organized and even legal means to effect it, and yet the laws were respected, when sustained by only a sloop of war and two companies of artillery. If France were to recall her battalions from La Vendée, Austria her divisions from Italy, Russia her armies from Poland, or England her troops from India or Ireland, we all know that those several countries would be lost, in six months, to their present possessors. As we had our force in reserve, it really appeared to me that either our disaffection was very different from the disaffection of Europe, or that our institutions contained some conservative principle that did not usually exist in this hemisphere. My Vévaisan was curious to know to which of these circumstances I ascribed the present quiet in Carolina. I told him to both. The opposition in that state, as a whole, were honest in their views; and, though some probably meant disunion, the greater part did not. It was a governing principle of our system to seek redress by appeals to the source of power, and the majority were probable looking still, to that quarter, of relief. Under other systems, rebellion, nine times in ten, having a different object, would not be checked by this expectation. The Swiss listened to all this attentively, and remarked that America had been much misrepresented in Europe, and that the opinion was then getting to be general in his country, from improper motives. He told me that a great deal had been said about the proceedings in the case of Rowland Stephenson, and he frankly asked me to explain them; for, being a commercial man, he admitted that injurious impressions had been made even on himself in relation to that affair. This was the third Swiss who had alluded to this subject, the other two instances occurring at Rome. In the latter cases, I understood pretty distinctly that there were reports current that the Americans were so desirous of obtaining rich emigrants, that they had rescued a criminal in order to reap the benefit of his gold! Of course I explained the matter, by simply stating the facts, adding, that the case was an admirable illustration of the treatment America had received from Europe, ever since 1776. An Englishman, _a member of Parliament, by the way_, had absconded from his own country, taking shelter in ours, by the mere accident of meeting at sea a Swedish brig bound thither. A reward was offered for his arrest, and certain individuals had taken on themselves, instigated by whom I know not, to arrest him on a retired road, in Georgia, and to bring him covertly within the jurisdiction of New York, with the intention to send him clandestinely on board a packet bound to Europe. Now a grosser abuse than an act like this could not well be committed. No form of law was observed, and the whole proceeding was a violation of justice, and of the sovereignty of the two states interested. It is true the man arrested was said to be guilty of gross fraud; but where such practices obtain, guilt will soon cease to be necessary in order to commit violence. The innocent may be arrested wrongfully, too. As soon as the circumstances became known, an application was made to the proper authorities for relief, which was granted on a principle that obtained in all civilized countries, where right is stronger than might. Had any one been transferred from Canada to England, under similar circumstances, he would have been entitled to the same relief, and there is not a jurist in England who does not know the fact; and yet this transaction, which, if it redound to the discredit of either nation at all, (an exaggerated opinion, I admit,) must redound to the discredit of that which produced the delinquent, and actually preferred him to one of its highest legislative stations, has been so tortured all over Europe, as to leave an impression unfavourable to America! Now I tell you, dear ----, as I told my Vévaisan, that this case is a very fair example of the manner in which, for seven years, I have now been an attentive observer of the unworthy arts used to bring us into disrepute. The power to injure, in order to serve their own selfish views, which old-established and great nations possess over one like our own, is not fully appreciated in America, nor do we attach sufficient importance to the consequences. I am not conscious of a disposition to shut my eyes to our own peculiar national defects, more especially since the means of comparison have rendered me more sensible of their nature and existence; but nothing can be more apparent to any man of ordinary capacity, who has enjoyed the opportunities necessary to form a correct judgment, than the fact, that the defects usually imputed to us here, such as the want of morals, honesty, order, decency, liberality, and religion, are, in truth, _as the world goes_, the strong points of American character; while some of those on which we are a little too apt to pride ourselves,--intelligence, taste, manners, and education, for instance, as applied to all beyond the base of society,--are, in truth, those on which it would most become us to be silent. Others may tell you differently, especially those who are under the influence of the "trading humanities," a class that is singularly addicted to philanthropy or vituperation, as the balance-sheet happens to show variations of profit and loss. I told my Swiss that one of the reasons why Europe made so many blunders in her predictions about America, was owing to the fact that she sought her information in sources ill qualified, and, perhaps, ill disposed to impart it. Most of the information of this nature that either entered or left America, came, like her goods, through two or three great channels, or sea-ports, and these were thronged with the natives of half the countries of Europe; commercial adventurers, of whom not one in five ever got to feel or think like Americans. These men, in some places, possess even a direct influence over a portion of the press, and by these means, as well as by their extended correspondence, they disseminate erroneous notions of the country abroad. The cities themselves, as a rule, or rather the prominent actors in the towns, do not represent the tone of the nation, as is proved on nearly every distinctive political question that arises, by the towns almost uniformly being found in the minority, simply because they are purely trading communities, follow the instinct of their varying interests, and are ready to shout in the rear of any leader who may espouse them. Now these foreign merchants, as a class, are always found on the side which is the most estranged from the regular action of the institutions of the country. In America, intelligence is not confined to the towns; but, as a rule, there is less of it there than among the rural population. As a proof of the errors which obtain on the subject of America in Europe, I instanced the opinion which betrayed itself in England, the nation which ought to know us best, during the war of 1812. Feeling a commercial jealousy itself, its government naturally supposed her enemies were among the merchants, and that her friends were to be found in the interior. The fact would have exactly reversed this opinion, an opinion whose existence is betrayed in a hundred ways, and especially in the publications of the day. It was under this notion that our invaders made an appeal to the Kentuckians for support! Now, there was not, probably, a portion of the earth where less sympathy was to be found for England than in Kentucky, or, in short, along the whole western frontier of America, where, right or wrong, the people attribute most of their Indian wars to the instigation of that power. Few foreigners took sufficient interest in the country to probe such a feeling; and England, being left to her crude conjectures, and to theories of her own, had probably been thus led into one of the most absurd of all the blunders of this nature that she could possibly have committed. I believe that a large proportion of the erroneous notions which exist in Europe, concerning American facts, proceed from the prejudices of this class of the inhabitants.[36] [Footnote 36: This was the opinion of the writer, while in Europe. Since his return, he has seen much reason to confirm it. Last year, in a free conversation with a foreign diplomatic agent on the state of public feeling in regard to certain political measures, the _diplomate_ affirmed that, according to his experience, the talent, property, and respectability of the country were all against the government. This is the worn-out cant of England; and yet, when reform has been brought to the touchstone, its greatest opponents have been found among the _parvenus_. On being requested to mention individuals, the diplomatic man in question named three New York merchants, all of whom are foreigners by birth, neither of whom can speak good English, neither of whom could influence a vote--neither of whom had, probably, ever read the constitution or could understand it if he had read it, and neither of whom was, in principle, any more than an every-day common-place reflection of the antiquated notions of the class to which he belonged in other nations, and in which he had been, educated, and under the influence of which he had arrived here.] In order to appreciate the influence of such a class of men, it is necessary to recollect their numbers, wealth, and union, it has often been a source of mortification to me to see the columns of the leading journals of the largest town of the republic, teeming with reports of the celebrations of English, Irish, German, French, and Scotch societies; and in which the sentiments promulgated, half of the time, are foreign rather than American. Charitable associations, _as charities_, may be well enough, but the institutions of the country, so generous and liberal in themselves, are outraged by every factitious attempt to overshadow them by these appeals to the prejudices and recollections of another state of society. At least, we might be spared the parade in the journals, and the offensive appearance of monopolizing the land, which these accounts assume. Intelligent travellers observe and comment on these things, and one of them quaintly asked me, not long since, "if really there were no Americans in America?" Can it be matter of surprise that when the stranger sees these men so prominent in print and in society, (in many instances quite deservedly), he should mistake their influence, and attach an importance to their opinions which they do not deserve? That Europe has been receiving false notions of America from some source, during the present century, is proved by the results so completely discrediting her open predictions; and, while I know that many Americans have innocently aided in the deception, I have little doubt that the foreign merchants established in the country have been one of the principal causes of the errors. It is only necessary to look back within our own time, to note the progress of opinion, and to appreciate the value of those notions that some still cherish, as containing all that is sound and true in human policy. Thirty years ago, the opinion that it was unsafe to teach the inferior classes to read, "_as it only enabled then to read bad books_," was a common and favourite sentiment of the upper classes in England. To-day, it is a part of the established system of Austria to instruct her people! I confess that I now feel mortified and grieved when I meet with an American gentleman who professes anything but liberal opinions, as respects the rights of his fellow-creatures. Although never illiberal, I trust, I do not pretend that my own notions have not undergone changes, since, by being removed from the pressure of the society in which I was born, my position, perhaps, enables me to look around, less influenced by personal considerations than is usual; but one of the strongest feelings created by an absence of so many years from he me, is the conviction that no American can justly lay claim to be, what might be and ought to be the most exalted of human beings, the milder graces of the Christian character excepted, an American gentleman, without this liberality entering thoroughly into the whole composition of his mind. By liberal sentiments, however, I do not mean any of the fraudulent cant that is used, in order to delude the credulous; but the generous, manly determination to let all enjoy equal political rights, and to bring those to whom authority is necessarily confided, as far as practicable, under the control of the community they serve. Opinions like these have little in common with the miserable devices of demagogues, who teach the doctrine that the people are infallible; or that the aggregation of fallible parts, acting, too, with diminished responsibilities, form an infallible whole; which is a doctrine almost as absurd as that which teaches us to believe "the people are their own worst enemies;" a doctrine, which, if true, ought to induce those who profess it, to forbid any man from managing his own affairs, but compel him to confide them to the management of others; since the elementary principle is the same in communities and individuals, and, as regards interests, neither would go wrong unless deceived. I shall not conceal from you the mortification and regret I have felt at discovering, from this distance, and it is more easily discovered from a distance than when near by, how far, how very far, the educated classes of America are, in opinion, (in my poor judgment, at least), behind the fortunes of the country. Notions are certainly still entertained at home, among this class, that are frankly abandoned here, by men of any capacity, let their political sect be what it may; and I have frequently seen assertions and arguments used, in Congress, that, I think, the dullest Tory would now hesitate about using in Parliament. I do not say that certain great prejudices are not yet prevalent in England, that are exploded with us; but my remark applies to some of the old and cherished theories of government, which have been kept alive as theories in England, long after they have ceased to be recognised in practice, and some of which, indeed, like that of the doctrine of a balance between different powers in the state, never had any other than a theoretical existence, at all. The absurd doctrine just mentioned has many devout believers, at this moment, in America, when a moment's examination must show its fallacy. The democracy of a country, in the nature of things, will possess its physical force. Now give to the physical force of a community an equal political power, and the moment it finds itself gravely interested in supporting or defeating any measure, it will fall back on its strength, set the other estates at defiance, and blow your boasted balance of power to the winds! There never has been an active democratical feature in the government of England; nor have the commons, since they have enjoyed anything like independence, been aught but an auxiliary to the aristocracy, in a modified form. While the king was strong, the two bodies united to put him down, and, as he got to be weak, they gradually became identified, to reap the advantages. What is to come remains to be seen. LETTER XX. The Equinox.--Storm on the Lake.--Chase of a little Boat.--Chateau of Blonay.--Drive to Lausanne.--Mont Benon.--Trip to Geneva in the Winkelried.--Improvements in Geneva.--Russian Travellers.--M. Pozzo di Borgo.--Table d'hôte.--Extravagant Affirmations of a Frenchman.--Conversation with a Scotchman.--American Duels.--Visit at a Swiss Country-house.--English Customs affected in America.--Social Intercourse in the United States.--Difference between a European and an American Foot and Hand.--Violent Gale.--Sheltered position of Vévey.--Promenade.--Picturesque View.--The great Square.--Invitation.--Mountain Excursion.--An American Lieutenant.--Anecdote.--Extensive Prospect.--Chateau of Glayrole. Dear ----, We have had a touch of the equinox, and the Leman has been in a foam, but its miniature anger, though terrible enough at times, to those who are embarked on its waters, can never rise to the dignity of a surf and a rolling sea. The rain kept me housed, and old John and I seized the occasion to convert a block of pine into a Leman bark, for P----. The next day proving fair, our vessel, fitted with two latine sails, and carrying a weather helm, was committed to the waves, and away she went, on a wind, toward the opposite shore. P----, of course, was delighted, and clapped his hands, until, perceiving that it was getting off the land, he compelled us to enter the boat and give chase. A chase it was, truly; for the little thing went skipping from wave, to wave, in such a business-like manner, that I once thought it would go all the way to Savoy. Luckily a flaw caused it to tack, when it soon became our prize. We were a long distance off when the boat was overtaken, and I thought the views behind the town finer, at that position, than when nearer in. I was particularly struck with the appearance of the little chateau of Blonay, which is still the residence of a family of the same name, that has been seated, for more than seven centuries, on the same rocky terrace. I was delighted to hear that its present owner is a liberal, as every ancient gentleman should be. Such a man ought to be cautious how he tarnishes his lineage with unjust or ungenerous sentiments. The equinoctial blow returned the next day, and the lake became really fine, in a new point of view; for, aided by the mountains, it succeeded in getting up a very respectable appearance of fury. The sail-boats vanished, and even the steamers went through it with a good deal of struggling and reluctance. As soon as the weather became better, we went to Lausanne, preferring the road, with a view to see the country. It is not easy to fancy anything prettier than this drive, which ran, nearly the whole distance, along the foot of hills, that would be mountains anywhere else, and quite near the water. The day was beautiful, and we had the lake, with its varying scenery and movement, the whole time in sight; while the road, an excellent solid wheel-track, wound between the walls of vineyards, and was so narrow as scarcely to admit the passage of two carriages at a time. At a short distance from Lausanne, we left the margin of the lake, and ascended to the level of the town, through a wooded and beautifully ornamented country. We found our friends established in one of the numberless villas that dot the broken land around the place, with their windows commanding most of that glorious view that I have already described to you. Mont Benon, a beautiful promenade, was close at hand, and, in the near view, the eye ranged over fields, verdant and smooth lawns, irregular in their surfaces, and broken by woods and country-houses. A long attenuated reach of the lake stretched away towards Geneva, while the upper end terminated in its noble mountains, and the mysterious, glen-like gorge of Valais. We returned from this excursion in the evening, delighted with the exterior of Lausanne, and more and more convinced that, all things considered, the shores of this lake unite greater beauties, with better advantages as a residence, than any other part of Switzerland. After remaining at Vévey a day or two longer, I went to Geneva, in the Winkelried, which had got a new commander; one as unaffected as his predecessor had been fantastical. Our progress was slow, and, although we reached the port early enough to prevent being locked out, with the exception of a passage across Lake George, in which the motion seemed expressly intended for the lovers of the picturesque, I think this the most deliberate run, or rather _walk_, I ever made by steam. I found Geneva much changed, for the better, in the last four years. Most of the hideous sheds had been pulled down from the fronts of the houses, and a stone pier is building, that puts the mighty port of New York, with her commercial _energies_, to shame. In other respects, I saw no material alterations in the place. The town was crowded, more of the travellers being French, and fewer English, than common. As for the Russians, they appear to have vanished from the earth, to my regret; for in addition to being among the most polished people one meets, (I speak of those who travel), your Russian uniformly treats the American kindly. I have met with more personal civilities, conveyed in a delicate manner, from these people, and especially from the diplomatic agents of Russia, than from any others in Europe, and, on the whole, I have cause, personally, to complain of none; or, in other words, I do not think that personal feeling warps my judgment, in this matter. M. Pozzo di Borgo, when he gave large entertainments, sent a number of tickets to Mr. Brown to be distributed among his countrymen, and I have heard this gentleman say, no other foreign minister paid him this attention. All this may be the result of policy, but it is something to obtain civil treatment in this world, on any terms. You must be here, to understand how completely we are overlooked. Late as we were, we were in time for dinner, which I took at a _table d'hôte_ that was well crowded with French. I passed as an Englishman, as a matter of course, and had reason to be much amused with some of the conversation. One young Frenchman very coolly affirmed that two members had lately fought with pistols in the hall of Congress, during the session, and his intelligence was received with many very proper exclamations of horror. The young man referred to the rencontre which took place on the terrace of the Capitol, in which the party assailed _was_ a member of Congress; but I have no doubt he believed all he said, for such is the desire to blacken the American name just now, that every unfavourable incident is seized upon and exaggerated, without shame or remorse. I had a strong desire to tell this young man that the affair to which he alluded, did not differ essentially from that of M. Calémard de Lafayette[37], with the exception that no one was slain at Washington; but I thought it wiser to preserve my _incognito_. [Footnote 37: This unfortunate gentleman was no relation of the family of Lafayette, his proper appellation being that of M. Calémard. _Fayette_, so far as I can discover, is an old French word, or perhaps a provincial word, that signifies a sort of _hedge_, and has been frequently used as a territorial appellation, like _de la Haie_.] The next day our French party was replaced by another, and the master of the house promoted me to the upper end of his table, as an old boarder. Here I found myself, once more, in company with an Englishman, an Irishman, and a Scotchman. The two former sat opposite to me, and the last at my side. The civilities of the table passed between us, especially between the Scotchman and myself, with whom I fell into discourse. After a little while, my neighbour, a sensible shrewd fellow enough, by the way of illustrating his opinion, and to get the better of me, cited some English practice, in connexion with "you in England." I told him I was no Englishman. "No Englishman! you are not a Scotchman?" "Certainly not." "Still less an Irishman!" "No." My companion now looked at me as hard as a well-bred man might, and said earnestly, "Where did you learn to speak English so well?" "At home, as you did--I am an American." "Umph!" and a silence of a minute; followed by abruptly putting the question of--"What is the reason that your duels in America are so bloody?--I allude particularly to some fought in the Mediterranean by your naval officers. We get along, with less vindicative fighting." As this was rather a sharp and sudden shot, I thought it best to fire back, and I told him, "that as to the Mediterranean, our officers were of opinion they were ill-treated, till they began to shoot those who inflicted the injuries; since which time all had gone on more smoothly. According to their experience, their own mode of fighting was much the most efficacious, in that instance at least." As he bore this good-naturedly, thinking perhaps his abrupt question merited a saucy answer, we soon became good friends. He made a remark or two, in better taste than the last, on the facts of America, and I assured him he was in error, showing him wherein his error lay. He then asked me why some of our own people did not correct the false impressions of Europe, on the subject of America, for the European could only judge by the information laid before him. He then mentioned two or three American writers, who he thought would do the world a service by giving it a book or two, on the subject. I told him that if they wrote honestly and frankly, Europe would not read their books, for prejudice was not easily overcome, and no favourable account of us would be acceptable. It would not be enough for us to confess our real faults, but we should be required to confess the precise faults that, according to the notions of this quarter of the world, we are morally, logically, and politically bound to possess. This he would not admit, for what man is ever willing to confess that his own opinions are prejudiced? I mention this little incident, because its spirit, in my deliberate judgment, forms the _rule_, in the case of the feeling of all British subjects, and I am sorry to say the subjects of most other European countries; and the mawkish sentiment and honeyed words that sometimes appear in toasts, tavern dinners, and public speeches, the exception. I may be wrong, as well as another, but this, I repeat for the twentieth time, is the result of my own observations; you know under what opportunities these observations have been made, and how far they are likely to be influenced by personal considerations. In the evening I accompanied a gentleman, whose acquaintance I had made at Rome, to the country-house of a family that I had also had the pleasure of meeting during their winter's residence in that town. We passed out by the gate of Savoy, and walked a mile or two, among country-houses and pleasant alleys of trees, to a dwelling not unlike one of our own, on the Island of Manhattan, though furnished with more taste and comfort than it is usual to meet in America. M. and Mad. N---- were engaged to pass the evening at the house of a connexion near by, and they frankly proposed that we should be of the party. Of course we assented, leaving them to be the judges of what was proper. At this second dwelling, a stone's throw from the other, we found a small party of sensible and well-bred people, who received me as a stranger, with marked politeness, but with great simplicity. I was struck with the repast, which was exactly like what a country tea is, or perhaps I ought to say, used to be, in respectable families, at home, who have not, or had not, much of the habits of the world. We all sat round a large table, and, among other good things that were served, was an excellent fruit tart! I could almost fancy myself in New England, where I remember a judge of a supreme court once gave me _custards_, at a similar entertainment. The family we had gone to see, were perhaps a little too elegant for such a set-out, for I had seen them in Rome with _mi-lordi_ and _monsignori_, at their six o'clock dinners; but the quiet good sense with which everybody dropped into their own distinctive habits at home, caused me to make a comparison between them and ourselves, much to the disadvantage of the latter. I do not mean that usages ought not to change, but that usages should be consistent with themselves, and based on their general fitness and convenience for the society for which they are intended. This is good sense, which is commonly not only good-breeding, but high-breeding. The Genevois are French in their language, in their literature, and consequently in many of their notions. Still they have independence enough to have hours, habits, and rules of intercourse that they find suited to their own particular condition. The fashions of Paris, beyond the point of reason, would scarcely influence them; and the answer would probably be, were a discrepancy between the customs pointed out, "that the usage may suit Paris, but it does not suit Geneva." How is it with, us? Our women read in novels and magazines, that are usually written by those who have no access to the society they write about, and which they oftener caricature than describe, that people of quality in England go late to parties; and they go late to parties, too, to be like English people of quality. Let me make a short comparison, by way of illustration. The English woman of quality, in town, rises at an hour between nine and twelve. She is dressed by her maid, and if there are children, they are brought to her by a child's maid: nourishing them herself is almost out of the question. Her breakfast is eaten between eleven and one. At three or four she may lunch. At four she drives out; at half-past seven she dines. At ten she begins to think of the evening's amusement, and is ready for it, whatever it may be, unless it should happen to be the opera, or the theatre, (the latter being almost proscribed as vulgar), when she necessarily forces herself to hours a little earlier. She returns home, between one and four, is undressed by her maid, and sleeps until ten or even one, according to circumstances. These are late hours, certainly, and in some respects unwise; but they have their peculiar advantages, and, at all events, _they are consistent with themselves_. In New York, the house is open for morning visits at twelve, and with a large straggling town, bad attendance at the door, and a total want of convenience in public vehicles, unless one travels in a stage-coach, yclept an omnibus, it is closed at three, for dinner. _Sending_ a card would be little short of social treason. We are too country-bred for such an impertinence. After dinner, there is an interval of three hours, when tea is served, and the mistress of the house is at a loss for employment until ten, when she goes into the world, in order to visit at the hour she has heard, or read, that fashion prescribes such visits ought to be made, in other countries, England in particular. Here she remains until one or two, returns home, undresses herself, passes a sleepless morning, perhaps, on account of a cross child, and rises at seven to make her husband's coffee at eight! There is no exaggeration in this, for such is the dependence and imitation of a country that has not sufficient tone to think and act for itself, in still graver matters, that the case might even be made stronger, with great truth.--The men are no wiser. When _invited_, they dine at six; and at home, as a rule, they dine between three and four. A man who is much in society, dines out at least half his time, and consequently he is eating one day at four and the next at six, all winter! The object of this digression is to tell you that, so far as my observation goes, we are the only people who do not think and act for ourselves, in these matters. French millinery may pass current throughout Christendom, for mere modes of dress are habits scarce worth resisting; but in Germany, Belgium, Italy, Switzerland, or wherever we have resided, I have uniformly found that, in all essentials, the people have hours and usages of their own, founded on their own governing peculiarities of condition. In America, there is a constant struggle between the force of things and imitation, and the former often proving the strongest, it frequently renders the latter lame, and, of course, ungraceful. In consequence of this fact, social intercourse with us is attended with greater personal sacrifices, and returns less satisfaction, than in most other countries. There are other causes, beyond a doubt, to assist in producing such a result; more especially in a town like New York, that doubles its population in less than twenty years; but the want of independence, and the weakness of not adapting our usages to our peculiar condition, ought to be ranked among the first. In some cases, necessity compels us to be Americans, but whenever there is a tolerable chance, we endeavour to become "second chop English." In a fit of gallantry, I entered a jeweller's shop, next day, and bought a dozen or fifteen rings, with a view to distribute them, on my return, among my young country women at Vévey, of whom there were now not less than eight or ten, three families having met at that place. It may serve to make the ladies of your family smile, when I add, that, though I was aware of the difference between a European and an American foot and hand,[38] every one of my rings, but three, had to be cut, in order to be worn! It will show you how little one part of mankind know the other, if I add, that I have often met with allusions in this quarter of the world to the females of America, in which the writers have evidently supposed them to be coarse and masculine! The country is deemed vulgar, and by a very obvious association, it has been assumed that the women of such a country must have the same physical peculiarities as the coarse and vulgar here. How false this notion is, let the rings of Geneva testify; for when I presented my offerings, I was almost laughed out of countenance. [Footnote 38: The southern parts of Europe form an exception.] A wind called the _bise_ had been blowing for the last twenty-four hours, and when we left Vévey the gale was so strong, that the steam-boat had great difficulty in getting ahead. This is a north wind, and it forces the water, at times, into the narrow pass at the head of the lake, in a way to cause a rise of some two or three feet. We had taken a large empty bark in tow, but by the time we reached Nyon, where the lake widens suddenly, the boat pitched and struggled so hard, as to render it advisable to cast off the tow, after which we did much better. The poor fellow, as he fell off broadside to the sea, which made a fair breach over him, and set a shred of sail, reminded me of a man who had been fancying himself in luck, by tugging at the heels of a prosperous friend, but who is unexpectedly cut adrift, when he is found troublesome. I did not understand his philosophy, for, instead of hauling in for the nearest anchorage, he kept away before it, and ran down for Geneva, as straight as a bee that is humming towards its hive. The lake gradually grew more tranquil as we proceeded north, and from Lausanne to Vévey we actually had smooth water. I saw vessels becalmed, or with baffling winds, under this shore, while the _bise_ was blowing stiff, a few leagues farther down the lake. When I got home I was surprised to hear that the family had been boating the previous evening, and that there had scarcely been any wind during the day. This difference was owing to the sheltered position of Vévey, of which the fact may serve to give you a better notion than a more laboured description. The following morning was market-day, and I walked upon the promenade early, to witness the arrival of the boats. There was not a breath of wind, even to leeward, for the _bise_ had blown itself out of breath. The bay of Naples, in a calm, scarcely presents a more picturesque view, than the head of the lake did, on this occasion. I counted more than fifty boats in sight; all steering towards Vévey, stealing along the water, some crossing from Savoy, in converging lines, some coming down, and others up the sheet, from different points on the Swiss side. The great square was soon crowded, and I walked among the peasants to observe their costumes and listen to their language. Neither, however, was remarkable, all speaking French, and, at need, all I believe using a _patois_, which does not vary essentially from that of Vaud. There was a good deal of fruit, some of which was pretty good, though it did not appear in the abundance we had been taught to expect. The grapes were coming in, and they promised to be fine. Though it is still early for them, we have them served at breakfast, regularly, for they are said to be particularly healthful when eaten with the morning dew on them. We try to believe ourselves the better for a regimen that is too agreeable to be lightly dropped. Among other things in the market, I observed the inner husks of Indian corn, that had been dried in a kiln or oven, rubbed, and which were now offered for sale as the stuffing of beds. It struck me that this was a great improvement on straw. I had received a visit the day before from a principal inhabitant of Vévey, with an invitation to breakfast, at his country-house, on the heights. This gratuitous civility was not to be declined, though it was our desire to be quiet, as we considered the residence at Vévey, a sort of _villagiatura_, after Paris. Accordingly, I got into a _char_, and climbed the mountain for a mile and a half, through beautiful pastures and orchards, by narrow winding lanes, that, towards the end, got to be of a very primitive character. Without this little excursion, I should have formed no just idea of the variety in the environs of the place, and should have lost a good deal of their beauty. I have told you that this acclivity rises behind the town, for a distance exceeding a mile, but I am now persuaded it would have been nearer the truth had I said a league. The majesty of Swiss nature constantly deceives the eye, and it requires great care and much experience to prevent falling into these mistakes. The house I sought, stood on a little natural terrace, a speck on the broad breast of the mountain, or what would be called a mountain, were it not for the granite piles in its neighbourhood, and was beautifully surrounded by woods, pastures, and orchards. We were above the vine. A small party, chiefly females, of good manners and great good sense, were assembled, and our entertainment was very much what it ought to be, simple, good, and without fuss. After I had been formally presented to the rest of the company, a young man approached, and was introduced as a countryman. It was a lieutenant of the navy, who had found his way up from the Mediterranean squadron to this spot. It is so unusual to meet Americans under such circumstances, that his presence was an agreeable surprise. Our people abound in the taverns and public conveyances, but it is quite rare that they are met in European society at all. One of the guests to-day recounted an anecdote of Cambacérè's, which was in keeping with a good banquet. He and the _arch-chancelier_ were returning from a breakfast in the country, together, when he made a remark on the unusual silence of his companion. The answer was, "_Je digère_." We walked through the grounds, which were prettily disposed, and had several good look-outs. From one of the latter we got a commanding view of all the adjacent district. This acclivity is neither a _côte_, as the French call them, nor a hill-side, nor yet a mountain, but a region. Its breadth is sufficiently great to contain hamlets, as you already know, and, seen from this point, the town of Vévey came into the view, as a mere particle. The head of the lake lay deep in the distance, and it was only when the eye rose to the pinnacles of rock, hoary with glaciers above, that one could at all conceive he was not already perched on a magnificent Alp. The different guests pointed out their several residences, which were visible at the distance of miles, perhaps, all seated on the same verdant acclivity. I descended on foot, the road being too precipitous in places to render even a _char_ pleasant. On rejoining the domestic circle, we took boat and pulled towards the little chateau-looking dwelling, on a narrow verdant peninsula, which, as you may remember, had first caught my eye on approaching Vévey, as the very spot that a hunter of the picturesque would like for a temporary residence. The distance was about a mile, and, the condition of the house excepted, a nearer view confirmed all our first impressions. It had been a small chateau, and was called Glayrole. It stands near the hamlet of St. Saphorin, which, both François and Jean maintain, produces the best wines of Vaud, and, though now reduced to the condition of a dilapidated farm-house, has still some remains of its ancient state. There is a ceiling, in the Ritter Saal, that can almost vie with that of the castle of Habsburg, though it is less smoked. The road, more resembling the wheel-track of a lawn than a highway, runs quite near the house on one side, while the blue and limpid lake washes the foot of the little promontory. LETTER XXI. Embark in the Winkelried.--Discussion with an Englishman.--The Valais.--Free Trade.--The Drance.--Terrible Inundation.--Liddes.--Mountain Scenery.--A Mountain Basin.--Dead-houses.--Melancholy Spectacle.--Approach of Night.--Desolate Region.--Convent of the Great St. Bernard.--Our Reception there.--Unhealthiness of the Situation.--The Superior.--Conversation during Supper.--Coal-mine on the Mountain.--Night in the Convent. Dear ----, After spending a few more days in the same delightful and listless enjoyments, my friend C---- came over from Lausanne, and we embarked in the Winkelried, on the afternoon of the 25th September, as she hove-to off our mole, on her way up the lake. We anchored off Villeneuve in less than an hour, there being neither port, nor wharf, nor mole at that place. In a few minutes we were in a three-horse conveyance, called a diligence, and were trotting across the broad meadows of the Rhone towards Bex, where we found one of our American families, the T----s, on their way to Italy. C---- and myself ate some excellent quails for supper in the public room. An Englishman was taking the same repast, at another table, near us, and he inquired for news, wishing particularly to know the state of things about Antwerp. This led to a little conversation, when I observed that, had the interests of France been consulted at the revolution of 1830, Belgium would have been received into the kingdom. Our Englishman grunted at this, and asked me what Europe would have said to it. My answer was, that when both parties were agreed, I did not see what Europe had to do with the matter; and that, at all events, the right Europe could have to interfere was founded in might; and such was the state of south-western Germany, Italy, Savoy, Spain, and even England, that I was of opinion Europe would have been glad enough to take things quietly. At all events, a war would only have made the matter worse for the allied monarchs. The other stared at me in amazement, muttered an audible dissent, and, I make no doubt, set me down as a most disloyal subject; for, while extending her empire, and spreading her commercial system, (her Free Trade _à l'Anglaise!_) over every nook and corner of the earth where she can get footing, nothing sounds more treasonable to the ears of a loyal Englishman than to give the French possession of Antwerp, or the Russians possession of Constantinople. So inveterate become his national feelings on such subjects, that I am persuaded a portion of his antipathy to the Americans arises from a disgust at hearing notions that have been, as it were, bred in and in, through his own moral system, contemned in a language that he deems his own peculiar property. Men, in such circumstances, are rarely very philosophical or very just. We were off in a _char_ with the dawn. Of course you will understand that we entered the Valais by its famous bridge, and passed St. Maurice, and the water-fall _à la Teniers_; for you have already travelled along this road with me. I saw no reason to change my opinion of the Valais, which looked as chill and repulsive now as it did in 1828, though we were so early on the road as to escape the horrible sight of the basking _crétins_, most of whom were still housed. Nor can I tell you how far these people have been elevated in the scale of men by an increasing desire for riches. At Martigny we breakfasted, while the innkeeper sent for a guide. The canton has put these men under a rigid police, the prices being regulated by law, and the certificate of the traveller becoming important to them. This your advocate of the absurdity called Free Trade will look upon as tyranny, it being more for the interest of human intercourse than the traveller who arrives in a strange country should be cheated by a hackney-coachman, or the driver of a cart, or stand higgling an hour in the streets, than to violate an abstraction that can do no one any good! If travelling will not take the minor points of free tradeism out of a man, I hold him to be incorrigible. But such is humanity! There cannot be even a general truth, that our infirmities do not lead us to push it into falsehood, in particular practice. Men are no more fitted to live under a system that should carry out the extreme doctrines of this theory, than they are fitted to live without law; and the legislator who should attempt the thing in practice, would soon find himself in the condition of Don Quixote, after he had liberated the galley-slaves from their fetters:--in other words, he would be cheated the first moment circumstances compelled him to make a hard bargain with a stranger. Were the canton of Valais to say, you _shall_ be a guide, and such _shall_ be your pay, the imputation of tyranny might lie; by saying, you _may_ be a guide, and such _must_ be your pay, it merely legislates for an interest that calls for particular protection in a particular way, to prevent abuses. Our guide appeared with two mules harnessed to a _char à banc_, and we proceeded. The fragment of a village which the traveller passes for Martigny, on his way to Italy, is not the true hamlet of that name, but a small collection of houses that has sprung up since the construction of the Simplon road. The real place is a mile distant, and of a much more rural and Swiss character. Driving through this hamlet, we took our way along the winding bank of a torrent called the Drance, the direction, at first, being south. The road was not bad, but the valley had dwindled to a gorge, and, though broken and wild, was not sufficiently so to be grand. After travelling a few miles, we reached a point where our own route diverged from the course of the Drance, which came in from the east, while we journeyed south. This Drance is the stream that produced the terrible inundation a few years since. The calamity was produced by an accumulation of ice higher in the gorges, which formed a temporary lake. The canton made noble efforts to avert the evil, and men were employed as miners, to cut a passage for the water, through the ice, but their labour proved useless, although they had made a channel, and the danger was greatly lessened. Before half the water had escaped, however, the ice gave way, and let the remainder of the lake down in a flood. The descent was terrific, sweeping before it every thing that came in its way, and although so distant, and there was so much space, the village of Martigny was deluged, and several of its people lost their lives. The water rose to the height of several feet on the plain of the great valley, before it could disgorge itself into the Rhone. The ascents now became more severe, though we occasionally made as sharp descents. The road lay through a broken valley, the mountains retiring from each other a little, and the wheel-track was very much like those we saw in our own hilly country, some thirty years since, though less obstructed by mud. At one o'clock we reached Liddes, a crowded, rude, and dirty hamlet, where we made a frugal repast. Here we were compelled to quit the _char_, and to saddle the mules. The guide also engaged another man to accompany us with a horse, that carried provender for himself, and for the two animals we had brought with us. We then mounted, and proceeded. On quitting Liddes, the road, or rather path, for it had dwindled to that, led through a valley that had some low meadows; after which the ascents became more decided, though the course had always been upward. The vegetation gradually grew less and less, the tree diminishing to the bush, and finally disappearing altogether, while the grasses became coarse and wiry, or were entirely superseded by moss. We went through a hamlet or two, composed of stones stained apparently with iron ore, and, as the huts were covered with the same material, instead of lending the landscape a more humanized air, they rather added to its appearance of sterile dreariness. There were a few tolerably good bits of savage mountain scenes, especially in a wooded glen or two by the wayside; but, on the whole, I thought this the least striking of the Swiss mountains I had ascended. We entered a sort of mountain basin, that was bounded on one side by the glacier of Mont Vélan; that which so beautifully bounds the view up the Valais, as seen from Vévey. I was disappointed in finding an object which, in the distance, was so white and shining, much disfigured and tarnished by fragments of broken rock. Still the summit shone, in cold and spotless lustre. There was herbage for a few goats here, and some one had commenced the walls of a rude building that was intended for an inn. No one was at work near it, a hut of stone, for the shelter of the goatherds, being all that looked like a finished human habitation. Winding our way across and out of this valley, we came to a turn in the rocks, and beheld two more stone cabins, low and covered, so as to resemble what in America are called root-houses. They stood a little from the path, on the naked rock. Crossing to them, we dismounted and looked into the first. It was empty, had a little straw, and was intended for a refuge, in the event of storms. Thrusting my head into the other, after the eye had got a little accustomed to the light, I saw a grinning corpse seated against the remotest side. The body looked like a mummy, but the clothes were still on it, and various shreds of garments lay about the place. The remains of other bodies, that had gradually shrunk into shapeless masses, were also dimly visible. Human bones, too, were scattered around. It is scarcely necessary to add that this was one of the dead-houses, or places in which the bodies of those who perish on the mountain are deposited, to waste away, or to be claimed, as others may or may not feel an interest in their remains. Interment could only be effected by penetrating the rock, for there was no longer any soil, and such is the purity of the atmosphere that putrescence never occurs. I asked the guide if he knew anything of the man, whose body still retained some of the semblance of humanity. He told me he remembered him well, having been at the convent in his company. It was a poor mason, who had crossed the _col_, from Piémont, in quest of work; failing of which, he had left Liddes, near nightfall, in order to enjoy the unremitting hospitality of the monks on his return, about a fortnight later. His body was found on the bare rock, quite near the refuge, on the following day. The poor fellow had probably perished in the dark, within a few yards of shelter, without knowing it. Hunger and cold, aided, perhaps, by that refuge of the miserable, brandy, had destroyed him. He had been dead now two years, and yet his remains preserved a hideous resemblance to the living man. Turning away from this melancholy spectacle, I looked about me with renewed interest. The sun had set, and evening was casting its shadows over the valley below, which might still be seen through the gorges of our path. The air above, and the brown peaks that rose around us like gloomy giants, were still visible in a mellow saddened light, and I thought I had never witnessed a more poetical, or a more vivid picture of the approach of night. Following the direction of the upward path, a track that was visible only by the broken fragments of rock, and which now ascended suddenly, an opening was seen between two dark granite piles, through which the sky beyond still shone, lustrous and pearly. This opening appeared to be but a span. It was the _col_, or the summit of the path, and gazing at it, in that pure atmosphere, I supposed it might be half a mile beyond and above us. The guide shook his head at this conjecture, and told me it was still a weary league! At this intelligence we hurried to bestride our mules, which by this time were fagged, and as melancholy as the mountains. When we left the refuge there were no traces of the sun on any of the peaks or glaciers. A more sombre ascent cannot be imagined. Vegetation had absolutely disappeared, and in its place lay scattered the fragments of the ferruginous looking rocks. The hue of every object was gloomy as desolation could make it, and the increasing obscurity served to deepen the intense interest we felt. Although constantly and industriously ascending towards the light, it receded faster than we could climb. After half an hour of toil, it finally deserted us to the night. At this moment the guide pointed to a mass that I had thought a fragment of the living rock, and said it was the roof a building. It still appeared so near, that I fancied we had arrived; but minute after minute went by, and this too was gradually swallowed up in the gloom. At the end of another quarter of an hour, we came to a place where the path, always steep since quitting the refuge, actually began to ascend by a flight of broad steps formed in the living rock, like that already mentioned on the Righi, though less precipitous. My weary mule seemed at times, to be tottering beneath my weight, or hanging in suspense, undecided, whether or not to yield to the downward pressure. It was quite dark, and I thought it best to trust to his instinct and his recollections. This unpleasant struggle between animal force and the attraction of gravitation, in which the part I played was merely to contribute to the latter, lasted nearly a quarter of an hour longer, when the mules appeared to be suddenly relieved. They moved more briskly for a minute, and then stopped before a pile of rock, that a second look in the dark enabled us to see was made of stone, thrown into the form of a large rude edifice. This was the celebrated convent of the Great St. Bernard! I bethought me of the Romans, of the marauders of the middle ages, of the charity of a thousand years, and of Napoleon, as throwing a leg over the crupper, my foot first touched the rock. Our approach had been heard, for noises ascend far through such a medium, and we were met at the door by a monk in a black gown, a queer Asiatic-looking cap, and a movement that was as laical as that of a _garçon de café_. He hastily enquired if there were any ladies, and I thought he appeared disappointed when we told him no. He showed us very civilly, however, into a room, that was warmed by a stove, and which already contained two travellers, who had the air of decent tradesmen who were crossing the mountain on business. A table was set for supper, and a lamp or two threw a dim light around. The little community soon assembled, the prior excepted, and the supper was served. I had brought a letter for the _clavier_, a sort of caterer, who is accustomed to wander through the vallies in quest of contributions; and this appeared to be a good time for presenting it, as our reception had an awkward coldness that was unpleasant. The letter was read, but it made no apparent difference in the warmth of our treatment then or afterwards. I presume the writer had unwittingly thrown the chill, which the American name almost invariably carries with it, over our reception. By this time seven of the Augustines were in the room; four of whom were canons, and three novices. The entire community is composed of about thirty, who are professed, with a suitable number who are in their noviciate; but only eight in all are habitually kept on the mountain, the rest residing in a convent in the _bourg_, as the real village of Martigny is called. It is said that the keen air of the _col_ affects the lungs after a time, and that few can resist its influence for a long continued period. You will remember that this building is the most elevated permanent abode in Europe, if not in the Old World, standing at a height of about 8,000 English feet above the sea. As soon as the supper was served, the superior or prior entered. He had a better air than most of his brethren, and was distinguished by a gold chain and cross. The others saluted him by removing their caps; and proceeding to the head of the table, he immediately commenced the usual offices in Latin, the responses being audibly made by the monks and novices. We were then invited to take our places at table, the seats of honour being civilly left for the strangers. The meal was frugal, without tea or coffee, and the wine none of the best. But one ought to be too grateful for getting anything in such a place, to be too fastidious. During supper there was a free general conversation, and we were asked for news, the movements in La Vendée being evidently a subject of great interest with them. Our French fellow-traveller on the lake of Brientz had been warm in his eulogiums on this community, and, coupling his conversation with the present question, the suspicion that they were connected by a tie of common feeling flashed upon me. A few remarks soon confirmed this conjecture, and I found, as indeed was natural for men in their situation, that these religious republicans[39] took a strong interest in the success of the Carlists. Men may call themselves what they will, live where they may, and assume what disguises artifice or necessity may impose, political instincts, like love, or any other strong passion, are sure to betray themselves to an experienced observer. How many of our own republicans, of the purest water, have I seen sighing for ribands and stars--ay, and men too who appear before the nation as devoted to the institutions and the rights of the mass. The Romish church is certain to be found in secret on the side of despotic power, let its pretensions to liberty be what it may, its own form of government possessing sympathies with that of political power too strong to be effectually concealed. I will not take on myself to say that the circumstance of our being Americans caused the fraternity to manifest for us less warmth than common, but I will say that our Carlist of the lake of Brientz eloquently described the warm welcome and earnest hospitality of _les bons pères_, as he called them, in a way that was entirely inapplicable to their manner towards us. In short, the only way we could excite any warmth in them, was by blowing the anthracite coal, of which we had heard they had discovered a mine on the mountain. This was a subject of great interest, for you should know that, water excepted, every necessary of life is to be transported, for leagues to this place, up the path we came, on the backs of mules; and that about 8,000 persons cross the mountain annually; all, or nearly all, of whom lodge, of necessity, at the convent. The elevation renders fires constantly necessary for comfort, to say nothing of cooking; and a mine of gold could scarcely be as valuable to such a community, as one of coal. Luckily, C----, like a true Pennsylvanian, knew something about anthracite, and by making a few suggestions, and promising further intelligence, he finally succeeded in throwing one or two of the community into a blaze. [Footnote 39: Your common-place logicians argue from these sentiments that distinctions are natural, and ought to be maintained. These philosophers forget that human laws are intended to restrain the natural propensities, and that this argument would be just as applicable to the right of a strong man to knock down a weak one, and to take the bread from his mouth, as it is to the institution of exclusive political privileges.] A little before nine, we were shown into a plain but comfortable room, with two beds loaded with blankets, and were left to our slumbers. Before we fell asleep, C---- and myself agreed, that, taking the convent altogether, it was a _rum_ place, and that it required more imagination than either of us possessed, to throw about it the poetry of monastic seclusion, and the beautiful and simple hospitality of the patriarchs. LETTER XXII. Sublime Desolation.--A Morning Walk.--The Col.--A Lake.--Site of a Roman Temple.--Enter Italy.--Dreary Monotony.--Return to the Convent--Tasteless Character of the Building.--Its Origin and Purposes.--The Dead-house.--Dogs of St. Bernard.--The Chapel.--Desaix interred here.--Fare of St. Bernard, and Deportment of the Monks.--Leave the Convent.--Our Guide's Notion of the Americans.--Passage of Napoleon across the Great St. Bernard.--Similar Passages in former times.--Transport of Artillery up the Precipices.--Napoleon's perilous Accident.--Return to Vévey. Dear ----, The next morning we arose betimes, and on thrusting my head out of a window, I thought, by the keen air, that we had been suddenly transferred to Siberia. There is no month without frost at this great elevation, and as we had now reached the 27th September, the season was essentially beginning to change. Hurrying our clothes on, and our beards off, we went into the air to look about us. Monks, convent, and historical recollections were, at first, all forgotten, at the sight of the sublime desolation that reigned around. The _col_ is a narrow ravine, between lofty peaks, which happens to extend entirely across this point of the Upper Alps, thus forming a passage several thousand feet lower than would otherwise be obtained. The convent stands within a few yards of the northern verge of the precipice, and precisely at the spot where the lowest cavity is formed, the rocks beginning to rise, in its front and in its rear, at very short distances from the buildings. A little south of it, the mountains recede sufficiently to admit the bed of a small, dark, wintry-looking sheet of water, which is oval in form, and may cover fifty or sixty acres. This lake nearly fills the whole of the level part of the _col_, being bounded north by the site of the convent, east by the mountain, west by the path, for which there is barely room between the water and the rising rocks, and south by the same path, which is sheltered on its other side by a sort of low wall of fragments, piled some twenty or thirty feet high. Beyond these fragments, or isolated rocks, was evidently a valley of large dimensions. We walked in the direction of this valley, descending gradually from the door of the convent, some thirty feet to the level of the lake. This we skirted by the regular path, rock smoothed by the hoof of horse and foot of man, until we came near the last curve of the oval formation. Here was the site of a temple erected by the Romans in honour of Jupiter of the Snows, this passage of the Alps having been frequented from the most remote antiquity. We looked at the spot with blind reverence, for the remains might pass for these of a salad-bed of the monks, of which there was one enshrined among the rocks hard by, and which was about as large, and, I fancy, about as productive, as those that are sometimes seen on the quarter-galleries of ships. At this point we entered Italy! Passing from the frontier, we still followed the margin of the lake, until we reached a spot where its waters trickled, by a low passage, southward. The path took the same direction, pierced the barrier of low rocks, and came out on the verge of the southern declivity, which was still more precipitous than that on the other side. For a short distance the path ran _en corniche_ along the margin of the descent, until it reached the remotest point of what might be called the _col_, whose southern edge is irregular, and then it plunged, by the most practicable descent which could be found, towards its Italian destination. When at this precise point our distance from the convent may have been half a mile, which, of course, is the breadth of the _col_. We could see more than half a league down the brown gulf below, but no sign of vegetation was visible. Above, around, beneath, wherever the eye rested--the void of the heavens, the distant peaks of snow, the lake, the convent and its accessories excepted--was dark, frowning rock, of the colour of iron rust. As all the buildings, even to the roofs, were composed of this material, they produced little to relieve the dreary monotony. The view from the _col_ is in admirable keeping with its desolation. One is cut off completely from the lower world, and, beyond its own immediate scene, nothing is visible but the impending arch of heaven, and heaving mountain tops. The water did little to change this character of general and savage desolation, for it has the chill and wintry air of all the little mountain reservoirs that are so common in the Alps. If anything, it rather added to the intensity of the feeling to which the other parts of the scenery gave rise. Returning from our walk, the convent and its long existence, the nature of the institution, its present situation, and all that poetical feeling could do for both, were permitted to resume their influence; but, alas! the monks were common-place, their movements and utterance wanted the calm dignity of age and chastened habits, the building had too much of the machinery, smell, and smoke of the kitchen; and, altogether, we thought that the celebrated convent of St. Bernard was more picturesque on paper than in fact. Even the buildings were utterly tasteless, resembling a _barnish_-looking manufactory, and would be quite abominable, but for the delightfully dreary appearance of their material. It is a misfortune that vice so often has the best of it in outward appearance. Although a little disposed to question the particular instance of taste, in substance, I am of the opinion of that religionist who was for setting his hymns to popular airs, in order "that the devil might not monopolize all the good music," and, under this impression, I think it a thousand pities that a little better keeping between appearances and substance did not exist on the Great St. Bernard. The convent is said to have been established by a certain Bernard de Menthon, an Augustine of Aoste, in 962, who was afterwards canonized for his holiness. In that remote age the institution must have been eminently useful, for posting and Macadamized roads across the Alps were not thought of. It even does much good now, as nine-tenths who stop here are peasants that pay nothing for their entertainment. At particular seasons, and on certain occasions, they cross in great numbers, my guide assuring me he had slept at the convent when there were eight hundred guests; a story, by the way, that one of the monks confirmed. Some fair or festival, however, led to this extraordinary migration. Formerly the convent was rich, and able to bear the charges of entertaining so many guests; but since the Revolution it has lost most of its property, and has but a small fixed income. It is authorized, however, to make periodical _quêtes_ in the surrounding country, and obtains a good deal in that way. All who can pay, moreover, leave behind them donations of greater or less amount, and by that means the charity is still maintained. As many perish annually on the mountain, and none are interred, another dead-house stands quite near the convent for the reception of the bodies. It is open to the air, and contained forty or fifty corpses in every stage of decay apart from putrescency, and was a most revolting spectacle. When the flesh disappears entirely, the bones are cast into a small enclosure near by, in which skulls, thigh-bones, and ribs were lying in a sort of waltz-like confusion. Soon after our return from the walk into Italy, a novice opened a little door in the outer wall of the convent, and the famous dogs of St. Bernard rushed forth like so many rampant tigers, and most famous fellows they certainly were. Their play was like that of elephants, and one of them rushing past me, so near as to brush my clothes, gave me to understand that a blow from him might be serious. There were five of them in all, long-legged, powerful mastiffs, with short hair, long bushy tails, and of a yellowish hue. I have seen very similar animals in America. They are trained to keep the paths, can carry cordials and nourishment around their necks, and frequently find bodies in the snow by the scent. But their instinct and services have been greatly exaggerated, the latter principally consisting in showing the traveller the way, by following the paths themselves. Were one belated in winter on this pass, I can readily conceive that a dog of this force that knew him, and was attached to him, would be invaluable. Some pretend that the ancient stock is lost, and that their successors show the want of blood of all usurpers. We were now shown into a room where there was a small collection of minerals, and of Roman remains found about the ruins of the temple. At seven we received a cup of coffee and some bread and butter, after which the prior entered, and invited us to look at the chapel, which is of moderate dimensions, and of plain ornaments. There is a box attached to a column, with _tronc pour les pauvres_, and as all the poor in this mountain are those who enjoy the hospitality of the convent, the hint was understood. We dropped a few francs into the hole, while the prior was looking earnestly the other way, and it then struck us we were at liberty to depart. The body of Desaix lies in this chapel, and there is a small tablet in it, erected to his memory. It would be churlish and unreasonable to complain of the fare, in a spot where food is to be had with so much difficulty; and, on that head, I shall merely say, in order that you may understand the fact, that we found the table of St. Bernard very indifferent. As to the deportment of the monks, certainly, so far as we were concerned, it had none of that warmth and hospitality that travellers have celebrated; but, on the contrary, it struck us both as cold and constrained, strongly reminding me, in particular, of the frigidity of the ordinary American manner.[40] This might be discipline; it might be the consequence of habitual and incessant demands on their attentions and services; it might be accidental; or it might be prejudice against the country from which we came, that was all the stronger for the present excited state of Europe. [Footnote 40: The peculiar coldness of our manners, which are too apt to pass suddenly from the repulsive to the familiar, has often been commented on, but can only be appreciated by those who have been accustomed to a different. Two or three days after the return of the writer from his journey in Europe (which had lasted nearly eight years), a public dinner was given, in New York, to a distinguished naval officer, and he was invited to attend it, _as a guest_. Here he met a crowd, one half of whom he knew personally. Without a single exception, those of his acquaintances who did speak to him (two-thirds did not), addressed him as if they had seen him the week before, and so cold and constrained did every man's manner seem, that he had great difficulty in persuading himself there was not something wrong. He could not believe, however, that he was especially invited to be neglected, and he tried to revive his old impressions; but the chill was so thorough, that he found it impossible to sit out the dinner.] Our mules were ready, and we left the _col_ immediately after breakfast. A ridge in the rock, just before the convent, is the dividing line for the flow of the waters. Here a little snow still lay; and there were patches of snow, also, on the northern face of the declivity, the remains of the past winter. We chose to walk the first league, which brought us to the refuge. The previous day, the guide had given us a great deal of gossip; and, among other things, be mentioned having been up to the convent lately, with a family of Americans, whom he described as a people of peculiar appearance, and _peculiar odour_. By questioning him a little, we discovered that he had been up with a party of coloured people from St. Domingo. His head was a perfect Babel as it respected America, which was not a hemisphere, but one country, one government, and one people. To this we were accustomed, however; and, finding that we passed for English, we trotted the honest fellow a good deal on the subject of his nasal sufferings from travelling in such company. On the descent we knew that we should encounter the party left at Bex, and our companion was properly prepared for the interview. Soon after quitting the refuge, the meeting took place, to the astonishment of the guide, who gravely affirmed, after we had parted, that there must be two sorts of Americans, as these we had just left did not at all resemble those he had conducted to the convent. May this little incident prove an entering wedge to some new ideas in the Valais, on the subject of the "twelve millions!" The population of this canton, more particularly the women, were much more good-looking on the mountain than in the valley. We saw no _crétins_ after leaving Martigny; and soft lineaments, and clear complexions, were quite common in the other sex. You will probably wish to know something of the celebrated passage of Napoleon, and of its difficulties. As far as the ascent was concerned, the latter has been greatly exaggerated. Armies have frequently passed the Great St. Bernard. Aulus Coecinna led his barbarians across in 69; the Lombards crossed in 547; several armies in the time of Charlemagne, or about the year 1000; and in the wars of Charles le Téméraire, as well as at other periods, armies made use of this pass. Near the year 900, a strong body of Turkish corsairs crossed from Italy, and seized the pass of St. Maurice. Thus history is full of events to suggest the idea of crossing. Nor is this all. From the time the French entered Switzerland in 1796, troops occupied, manoeuvred, and even _fought_ on this mountain. The Austrians having succeeded in turning the summit, contended an entire day with their enemies, who remained masters of the field, or rather rock. Ebel estimates the number of the hostile troops who were on this pass, between the years 1798 and 1801, 150,000, including the army of Napoleon, which was 30,000 strong. These facts of themselves, and I presume they cannot be contested, give a totally different colouring, from that which is commonly entertained, to the conception of the enterprise of the First Consul, so far as the difficulties of the ascent were concerned. If the little community can transport stores for 8,000 souls to the convent, there could be no great difficulty in one, who had all France at his disposal, in throwing an army across the pass. When we quitted Martigny, I began to study the difficulties of the route, and though the road as far as Liddes has probably been improved a little within thirty years, taking its worst parts, I have often travelled, in my boyhood, during the early settlement of our country, in a heavy, high, old-fashioned coach over roads that were quite as bad, and, in some places, over roads that were actually more dangerous, than any part of this, _as far as Liddes_. Even a good deal of the road after quitting Liddes is not worse than that we formerly travelled, but wheels are nearly useless for the last league or two. As we rode along this path, C---- asked me in what manner I would transport artillery up such an ascent. Without the least reflection I answered, by making sledges of the larches, which is an expedient that I think would suggest instantly itself to nineteen men in twenty. I have since understood from the Duc de ----, who was an aide of Napoleon, on the occasion of the passage, that it was precisely the expedient adopted. Several thousand Swiss peasants were employed in drawing the logs, thus loaded, up the precipices. I do not think it absolutely impracticable to take up guns limbered, but the other plan would be much the easiest, as well as the safest. In short, I make no doubt, so far as mere toil and physical difficulties are concerned, that a hundred marches have been made through the swamps and forests of America, in every one of which, mile for mile, greater natural obstacles have been overcome than those on this celebrated passage. The French, it will be remembered, were unresisted, and had possession of the _col_, a garrison having occupied the convent for more than a year. The great merit of the First Consul was in the surprise, the military manner in which the march was effected, and the brilliant success of his subsequent movements. Had he been defeated, I fancy few would have thought so much of the simple passage of the mountain, unless to reproach him for placing the rocks between himself and a retreat. As he _was not_ defeated, the _audace_ of the experiment, a great military quality sometimes, enters, also, quite properly into the estimate of his glory. The guide pointed to a place where, according to his account of the matter, the horse of the First Consul stumbled and pitched him over a precipice, the attendants catching him by his great-coat, assisted by a few bushes. This may be true, for the man affirmed he had heard it from the guide who was near Napoleon at the time, and a mis-step of a horse might very well produce such a fall. The precipice was both steep and high, and had the First Consul gone down it, it is not probable he would ever have gone up the St. Bernard. At Liddes we re-entered the _char_ and trotted down to Martigny in good time. Here we got another conveyance, and pushed down the valley, through St. Maurice, across the bridge, and out of the gate of the canton, again, reaching Bex a little after dark. The next morning we were off early for Villeneuve, in order to reach the boat. This was handsomely effected, and heaving-to abreast of Vévey, we succeeded in eating our breakfast at "Mon Repos." LETTER XXIII. Democracy in America and in Switzerland.--European Prejudices.--Influence of Property.--Nationality of the Swiss.--Want of Local Attachments in Americans.--Swiss Republicanism.--Political Crusade against America.--Affinities between America and Russia.--Feeling of the European Powers towards Switzerland. Dear ----, It is a besetting error with those who write of America, whether as travellers, political economists, or commentators on the moral features of ordinary society, to refer nearly all that is peculiar in the country to the nature of its institutions. It is scarcely exaggerated to say that even its physical phenomena are ascribed to its democracy. Reflecting on this subject, I have been struck by the fact that no such flights of the imagination are ever indulged in by those who speak of Switzerland. That which is termed the rudeness of liberty and equality, with us, becomes softened down here into the frankness of mountaineers, or the sturdy independence of republicans; what is vulgarity on the other side of the Atlantic, is unsophistication on this, and truculence in the States dwindles to be earnest remonstrances in the cantons! There undeniably exist marked points of difference between the Swiss and the Americans. The dominion of a really popular sway is admitted nowhere here, except in a few unimportant mountain cantons, that are but little known, and which, if known, would not exercise a very serious influence on any but their own immediate inhabitants. With us, the case is different. New York and Pennsylvania and Ohio, for instance, with a united population of near five millions of souls, are as pure democracies as can exist under a representative form of government, and their trade, productions, and example so far connect them with the rest of Christendom, as to render them objects of deep interest to all who look beyond the present moment, in studying the history of man. We have States, however, in which the franchise does not materially differ from those of many of the cantons, and yet we do not find that strangers make any material exceptions even in _their_ favour. Few think of viewing the States in which there are property qualifications, in a light different from those just named; nor is a disturbance in Virginia deemed to be less the consequence of democratic effervescence, than it is in Pennsylvania. There must be reasons for all this. I make no doubt they are to be found in the greater weight of the example of a large and growing community, of active commercial and political habits, than in one like this, which is satisfied with simply maintaining a quiet and secure existence; in our total rejection of the usual aristocratical distinctions which still exist, more or less, all over Switzerland; in the jealousy of commercial and maritime power, and in the recollections which are inseparable from the fact that the parties once stood to each other, in the relation of principals and dependants. This latter feeling, an unavoidable consequence of metropolitan sway, is more general than you may imagine, for, as nearly all Europe once had colonies, the feelings of superiority they uniformly excite, have as naturally led to jealousy of the rising importance of our hemisphere. You may smile at the suggestion, but I do not remember a single European in whom, under proper opportunities, I have not been able to trace some lingering feeling of the old notion of the moral and physical superiority of the man of Europe over the man of America. I do not say that all I have met have betrayed this prejudice, for in not one case in ten have I had the means to probe them; but such, I think, has uniformly been the case, though in very different degrees, whenever the opportunity has existed. Though the mountain, or the purely rural population, here, possess more independence and frankness of manner than those who inhabit the towns and advanced valleys, neither has them in so great a degree, as to leave plausible grounds for believing that the institutions are very essentially connected with the traits. Institutions may _depress men below_ what may be termed the natural level of feeling in this respect, as in the case of slavery; but, in a civilized society, where property has its influence, I much question if any political regulations can raise them above it. After allowing for the independence of manner and feeling that are coincident to easy circumstances, and which is the result of obvious causes, I know no part of America in which this is not also the fact. The employed is, and will be everywhere, to a certain point, dependent on his employer, and the relations between the two cannot fail to bring forth a degree of authority and submission, that will vary according to the character of individuals and the circumstances of the moment. I infer from this that the general aspects of society, after men cease to be serfs and slaves, can never be expected to vary essentially from each other, merely on account of the political institutions, except, perhaps, as those institutions themselves may happen to affect their temporal condition. In other words, I believe that we are to look more to property and to the absence or presence of facilities of living, for effects of this nature, than to the breadth or narrowness of constituencies. The Swiss, as is natural from their greater antiquity, richer recollections, and perhaps from their geographical position, are more national than the Americans. With us, national pride and national character exist chiefly in the classes that lie between the yeomen and the very bottom of the social scale; whereas, here, I think the higher one ascends, the stronger the feeling becomes. The Swiss moreover is pressed upon by his wants, and is often obliged to tear himself from his native soil, in order to find the means of subsistence; and yet very few of them absolutely expatriate themselves. The emigrants that are called Swiss in America, either come from Germany, or are French Germans, from Alsace and Lorrain. I have never met with a migration of a body of true Swiss, though some few cases probably have existed. It would be curious to inquire how far the noble nature of the country has an influence in producing their strong national attachments. The Neapolitans love their climate, and would rather be Lazzaroni beneath their sun, than gentlemen in Holland, or England. This is simple enough, as it depends on physical indulgence. The charm that binds the Swiss to his native mountains, must be of a higher character, and is moral in its essence. The American character suffers from the converse of the very feeling which has an effect so beneficial on that of the Swiss. The migratory habits of the country prevent the formation of the intensity of interest, to which the long residence of a family in a particular spot gives birth, and which comes, at last, to love a tree, or a hill, or a rock, because they are the same tree, and hill, and rock, that have been loved by our fathers before us. These are attachments that depend on sentiment rather than on interest, and which are as much purer and holier, as virtuous sentiment is purer and holier than worldly interestedness. In this moral feature, therefore, we are inferior to all old nations, and to the Swiss in particular, I think, as their local attachments are both quickened and heightened by the exciting and grand objects that surround them. The Italians have the same local affections, in a still stronger degree; for with a nature equally, or even more winning, they have still prouder and more-remote recollections. I do not believe the Swiss, at heart, are a bit more attached to their institutions than we are ourselves; for, while I complain of the _tone_ of so many of our people, I consider it, after all, as the tone of people who, the means of comparison having been denied them, neither know that which they denounce, nor that which they extol. Apart from the weakness of wishing for personal distinctions, however, I never met with a Swiss gentleman, who appeared to undervalue his institutions. They frequently, perhaps generally, lament the want of greater power in the confederation; but, as between a monarchy and a republic, so far as my observation goes, they are uniformly Swiss. I do not believe there is such a thing, in all the cantons, as a man, for instance, who pines for the Prussian despotism! They will take service under kings, be their soldiers, body-guards--real Dugald Dalgettys--but when the question comes to Switzerland, one and all appear to think that the descendants of the companions of Winkelried and Stauffer must be republicans. Now, all this may be because there are few in the condition of gentlemen, in the democratic cantons, and the gentlemen of the other parts of the confederation prefer that things should be as they are (or rather, so lately were, for the recent changes have hardly had time to make an impression), to putting a prince in the place of the aristocrats. Self is so prominent in everything of this nature, that I feel no great faith in the generosity of men. Still I do believe that time and history, and national pride, and Swiss _morgue_, have brought about a state of feeling that would indispose them to bow down to a Swiss sovereign. A policy is observed by the other states of Europe towards this confederation, very different from that which is, or perhaps it would be better to say, has been observed toward us. As respects ourselves, I have already observed it was my opinion, there would have been a political crusade got up against us, had not the recent changes taken place in Europe, and had the secret efforts to divide the Union failed. Their chief dependence, certainly, is on our national dissensions; but as this would probably fail them, I think we should have seen some pretence for an invasion. The motive would be the strong necessity which existed for destroying the example of a republic, or rather of a democracy, that was getting to be too powerful. Strange as you may think it, I believe our chief protection in such a struggle would have been Russia. We hear and read a great deal about the "Russian bear," but it will be our own fault if this bear does us any harm. Let the Edinburgh Review, the advocate of mystified liberalism, prattle as much as it choose, on this topic, it becomes us to look at the subject like Americans. There are more practical and available affinities between America and Russia, at this very moment, than there is between America and any other nation in Europe. They have high common political objects to obtain, and Russia has so little to apprehend from the example of America, that no jealousy of the latter need interrupt their harmony. You see the counterpart of this in the present condition of France and Russia. So far as their general policy is concerned, they need not conflict, but rather ought to unite, and yet the mutual jealousy on the subject of the institutions keeps them alienated, and almost enemies. Napoleon, it is true, said that these two nations, sooner or later, must fight for the possession of the east, but it was the ambition of the man, rather than the interests of his country, that dictated the sentiment. The France of Napoleon, and the France of Louis-Philippe, are two very different things. Now, as I have told you, Switzerland is regarded by the powers who would crush America, with other eyes. I do not believe that a congress of Europe would convert this republic into a monarchy, if it could, to-morrow. Nothing essential would be gained by such a measure, while a great deal might be hazarded. A king must have family alliances, and these alliances would impair the neutrality it is so desirable to maintain. The cantons are equally good, as outworks, for France, Austria, Bavaria, Wurtemburg, Lombardy, Sardinia, and the Tyrol. All cannot have them, and all are satisfied to keep them as a defence against their neighbours. No one hears, in the war of opinion, that is going on here, the example of the Swiss quoted on the side of liberty! For this purpose, they appear to be as totally out of view, as if they had no existence. LETTER XXIV. The Swiss Mountain Passes.--Excursion in the neighbourhood of Vévey.--Castle of Blonay.--View from the Terrace.--Memory and Hope.--Great Antiquity of Blonay.--The Knight's Hall.--Prospect from the Balcony.--Departure from Blonay.--A Modern Chateau.--Travelling on Horseback.--News from America.--Dissolution of the Union predicted.--The Prussian Polity.--Despotism in Prussia. Dear ----, You may have gathered from my last letters that I do not rank the path of the Great St. Bernard among the finest of the Swiss mountain passes. You will remember, however, that we saw but little of the Italian side, where the noblest features and grandest scenes on these roads are usually found. The Simplon would not be so very extraordinary, were it confined to its Swiss horrors and Swiss magnificence, though, by the little I have seen of them, I suspect that both the St. Gothard and the Splugen do a little better on their northern faces. The pass by Nice is peculiar, being less wild and rocky than any other, while it possesses beauties entirely its own (and extraordinary beauties they are), in the constant presence of the Mediterranean, with its vast blue expanse, dotted with sails of every kind that the imagination can invent. It has always appeared to me that poets have been the riggers of that sea. C---- and myself were too _mountaineerish_ after this exploit to remain contented in a valley, however lovely it might be, and the next day we sallied forth on foot, to explore the hill-side behind Vévey. The road led at first through narrow lanes, lined by vineyards; but emerging from these, we soon came out into a new world, and one that I can compare to no other I have ever met with. I should never tire of expatiating on the beauties of this district, which really appear to be created expressly to render the foreground of one of the sublimest pictures on earth worthy of the rest of the piece. It was always mountain, but a mountain so gradual of ascent, so vast, and yet so much like a broad reach of variegated low land, in its ornaments, cultivation, houses, villages, copses, meadows, and vines, that it seemed to be a huge plain canted into a particular inclination, in order to give the spectator a better opportunity to examine it in detail, and at his leisure, as one would hold a picture to the proper light. Some of the ascents, nevertheless, were sufficiently sharp, and more than once we were glad enough to stop to cool ourselves, and to take breath. At length, after crossing some lovely meadows, by the margin of beautiful woods, we came out at the spot which was the goal we had aimed at from the commencement of the excursion. This was the castle of Blonay, of whose picturesque site and pleasant appearance I have already spoken in my letters, as a venerable hold that stands about a league from the town, on one of the most striking positions of the mountain. The family of Blonay has been in possession of this place for seven hundred years. One branch of it is in Sardinia; but I suppose its head is the occupant of the house, or castle. As the building was historical, and the De Blonays of unquestionable standing, I was curious to examine the edifice, since it might give me some further insight into the condition of the old Swiss nobility. Accordingly we applied for admission, and obtained it without difficulty. The Swiss castles, with few exceptions, are built on the breasts, or spurs, of mountains. The immediate foundation is usually a rock, and the sites were generally selected on account of the difficulties of the approach. This latter peculiarity, however, does not apply so rigidly to Blonay as to most of the other holds of the country, for the rock which forms its base serves for little else than a solid foundation. I presume one of the requisites of such a site was the difficulty or impossibility of undermining the walls, a mode of attack that existed long before gunpowder was known. The buildings of Blonay are neither extensive nor very elaborate. We entered by a modest gateway in a retired corner, and found ourselves at once in a long, narrow, irregular court. On the left was a _corps de bâtiment_, that contained most of the sleeping apartments, and a few of the others, with the offices; in front was a still older wing, in which was the knight's hall, and one or two other considerable rooms; and on the right was the keep, an old solid tower, that was originally the nucleus and parent of all the others, as well as a wing that is now degraded to the duties of a storehouse. These buildings form the circuit of the court, and complete the edifice; for the side next the mountain, or that by which we entered, had little besides the ends of the two lateral buildings and the gate. The latter was merely a sort of chivalrous back-door, for there was another between the old tower and the building of the knight's hall, of more pretension, and which was much larger. The great gate opens on a small elevated terrace, that is beautifully shaded by fine trees, and which commands a view, second, I feel persuaded, to but few on earth. I do not know that it is so perfectly exquisite as that we got from the house of Cardinal Rufo, at Naples, and yet it has many admirable features that were totally wanting to the Neapolitan villa. I esteem these two views as much the best that it has ever been my good fortune to gaze at from any dwelling, though the beauties of both are, as a matter of course, more or less shared by all the houses in their respective neighbourhoods. The great carriage-road, as great carriage-roads go on such a mountain-side, comes up to this gate, though it is possible to enter also by the other. Blonay, originally, must have been a hold of no great importance, as neither the magnitude, strength, nor position of the older parts, is sufficient to render the place one to be seriously assailed or obstinately defended. Without knowing the fact, I infer that its present interest arises from its great antiquity, coupled with the circumstance of its having been possessed by the same family for so long a period. Admitting a new owner for each five-and-twenty years, the present must be somewhere about the twenty-fifth De Blonay who has lived on this spot! A common housemaid showed us through the building, but, unfortunately, to her it was a house whose interest depended altogether on the number of floors there were to be scrubbed, and windows to be cleaned. This labour-saving sentiment destroys a great deal of excellent poetry and wholesome feeling, reducing all that is venerable and romantic to the level of soap and house-cloths. I dare say one could find many more comfortable residences than this, within a league of Vévey; perhaps "Mon Repos" has the advantage of it, in this respect: but there must be a constant, quiet, and enduring satisfaction, with one whose mind is properly trained, in reflecting that he is moving, daily and hourly, through halls that have been trodden by his fathers for near a thousand years! Hope is a livelier, and, on the whole, a more useful, because a more stimulating, feeling, than that connected with memory; but there is a solemn and pleasing interest clinging about the latter, that no buoyancy of the first can ever equal. Europe is fertile of recollections; America is pregnant with hope. I have tried hard, aided by the love which is quickened by distance, as well as by the observations that are naturally the offspring of comparison, to draw such pictures of the latter for the future, as may supplant the pictures of the past that so constantly rise before the mind in this quarter of the world; but, though reasonably ingenious in castle-building, I have never been able to make it out. I believe laziness lies at the bottom of the difficulty. In our moments of enjoyment we prefer being led, to racking the brain for invention. The past is a fact; while, at the best, the future is only conjecture. In this case the positive prevails over the assumed, and the imagination finds both and easier duty, and all it wants, in throwing around the stores of memory, the tints and embellishments that are wanting to complete the charm. I know little of the history of Blonay, beyond the fact of its great antiquity, nor is it a chateau of remarkable interest as a specimen of the architecture and usages of its time; and yet, I never visited a modern palace, with half the intense pleasure with which I went through this modest abode. Fancy had a text, in a few unquestionable facts, and it preached copiously on their authority. At Caserta, or St. Cloud, we admire the staircases, friezes, salons, and marbles, but I never could do anything with your kings, who are so much mixed up with history, as to leave little to the fancy; while here, one might imagine not only time, but all the various domestic and retired usages that time brings forth. The Ritter Saal, or Knight's Hall, of Blonay has positive interest enough to excite the dullest mind. Neither the room nor its ornaments are very peculiar of themselves, the former being square, simple, and a good deal modernized, while the latter was such as properly belonged to a country gentleman of limited means. But the situation and view form its great features; for all that has just been said of the terrace, can be better said of this room. Owing to the formation of the mountain, the windows are very high above the ground, and at one of them is a balcony, which, I am inclined to think, is positively without a competitor in this beautiful world of ours. Cardinal Rufo has certainly no such balcony. It is _le balcon des balcons_. I should despair of giving you a just idea of the mingled magnificence and softness of the scene that lies stretched before and beneath the balcony of Blonay. You know the elements of the view already,--for they are the same mysterious glen, or valley, the same blue lake, the same _côtes_, the same solemn and frowning rocks, the same groupings of towers, churches, hamlets, and castles, of which I have had such frequent occasion to speak in these letters. But the position of Blonay has about it that peculiar nicety, which raises every pleasure to perfection. It is neither too high, nor too low; too retired, nor too much advanced; too distant, nor too near. I know nothing of M. de Blonay beyond the favourable opinion of the observant Jean, the boatman, but he must be made of flint, if he can daily, hourly, gaze at the works of the Deity as they are seen from this window, without their producing a sensible and lasting effect on the character of his mind. I can imagine a man so far _blasé_, as to pass through the crowd of mites, who are his fellows, without receiving or imparting much; but I cannot conceive of a heart, whose owner can be the constant observer of such a scene, without bending in reverence to the hand that made it. It would be just as rational to suppose one might have the Communion of St. Jerome hanging in his drawing-room, without ever thinking of Domenichino, as to believe one can be the constant witness of these natural glories without thinking of God. I could have liked, above all things, to have been in this balcony during one of the fine sunsets of this season of the year. I think the creeping of the shadows up the acclivities, the growing darkness below, and the lingering light above, with the exquisite arabesques of the rocks of Savoy, must render the scene even more perfect than we found it. Blonay is surrounded by meadows of velvet, the verdure reaching its very walls, and the rocks that occasionally do thrust their heads above the grass, aid in relieving rather than in lessening their softness. There are just enough of them to make a foreground that is not unworthy of the rocky belt which encircles most of the picture, and to give a general idea of the grand geological formation of the whole region. We left Blonay with regret, and not without lingering some time on its terrace, a spot in which retirement is better blended with a bird's eye view of men and their haunts, than any other I know. One is neither in nor out of this world at such a spot; near enough to enjoy its beauties, and yet so remote as to escape its blemishes. In quilting the castle, we met a young female of simple lady-like carriage and attire, whom I saluted as the Lady of Blonay, and glad enough we were to learn from an old dependant, whom we afterwards fell in with, that the conjecture was true. One bows with reverence to the possessor of such an abode. From Blonay we crossed the meadows and orchards, until we hit a road that led us towards the broad terrace that lies more immediately behind Vévey. We passed several hamlets, which lie on narrow stripes of land more level than common, a sort of _shelves_ on the broad breast of the mountain, and which were rural and pretty. At length we came to the object of our search, a tolerably spacious modern house, that is called a _château_, and whose roofs and chimneys had often attracted our eyes from the lake. The place was French in exterior, though the grounds were more like those of Germany than those of France. The terrace is irregular but broad, and walks wind prettily among woods and copses. Altogether, the place is quite modern and much more extensive than is usual in Switzerland. We did not presume to enter the house, but, avoiding a party that belonged to the place, we inclined to the left, and descended, through the vines, to the town. The true mode to move about this region is on horseback. The female in particular, who has a good seat, possesses a great advantage over most of her sex, if she will only improve it; and all things considered, I believe a family could travel through the cantons in no other manner so pleasantly; always providing that the women can ride. By riding, however, I do not mean sticking on a horse, by dint of rein and clinging, but a seat in which the fair one feels secure and entirely at her ease. Otherwise she may prove to be the _gazee_ instead of the gazer. On my return home, I went to a reading-room that I have frequented during our residence here, where I found a good deal of feeling excited by the news from America. The Swiss, I have told you, with very few exceptions, wish us well, but I take it nothing would give greater satisfaction to a large majority of the upper classes in most of the other countries of Europe, than to hear that the American republic was broken up: if buttons and broadcloths could be sent after us, it is not too much to add, or sent to the nether world. This feeling does not proceed so much from inherent dislike to us, as to our institutions. As a people, I rather think we are regarded with great indifference by the mass; but they who so strongly detest our institutions and deprecate our example, cannot prevent a little personal hatred from mingling with their political antipathies. Unlike the woman who was for beginning her love "with a little aversion," they begin with a little philanthropy, and end with a strong dislike for all that comes from the land they hate. I have known this feeling carried so far as to refuse credit even to the productions of the earth! I saw strong evidences of this truth, among several of the temporary _habitués_ of the reading-room in question, most of whom were French. A speedy dissolution of the American Union was proclaimed in all the journals, on account of some fresh intelligence from the other side of the Atlantic; and I dare say that, at this moment, nine-tenths of the Europeans, who think at all on the subject, firmly and honestly believe that our institutions are not worth two years' purchase. This opinion is very natural, because falsehood is so artfully blended with truth, in what is published, that it requires a more intimate knowledge of the country to separate them, than a stranger can possess. I spent an hour to-day in a fruitless attempt to demonstrate to a very sensible Frenchman that nothing serious was to be apprehended from the present dispute, but all my logic was thrown away, and nothing but time will convince him of that which he is so strongly predisposed not to believe. They rarely send proper diplomatic men among us, in the first place; for a novel situation like that in America requires a fertile and congenial mind,--and then your diplomatist is usually so much disposed to tell every one that which he wishes to hear! We mislead, too, ourselves, by the exaggerations of the opposition. Your partizan writes himself into a fever, and talks like any other man whose pulse is unnatural. This fact ought to be a matter of no surprise, since it is one of the commonest foibles of man to dislike most the evils that press on him most; although an escape from them to any other might even entail destruction. It is the old story of King Log and King Stork. As democracy is in the ascendant, they revile democracy, while we all feel persuaded we should be destroyed, or muzzled, under any other form of government. A few toad-eaters and court butterflies excepted, I do not believe there is a man in all America who could dwell five years in any country in Europe, without being made sensible of the vast superiority of his own free institutions over those of every other Christian nation. I have been amused of late, by tracing, in the publications at home, a great and growing admiration for the Prussian polity! There is something so absurd in an American's extolling such a system, that it is scarcely possible to say where human vagaries are to end. The Prussian government is a _despotism_; a mode of ruling that one would think the world understood pretty well by this time. It is true that the government is mildly administered, and hence all the mystifying that we hear and read about it. Prussia is a kingdom compounded of heterogenous parts; the north is Protestant, the south Catholic; the nation has been overrun in our own times, and the empire dismembered. Ruled by a king of an amiable and paternal disposition, and one who has been chastened by severe misfortunes, circumstances have conspired to render his sway mild and useful. No one disputes, that the government which is controlled by a single will, when that will is pure, intelligent, and just, is the best possible. It is the government of the universe, which is perfect harmony. But men with pure intentions, and intelligent and just minds, are rare, and more rare among rulers, perhaps, than any other class of men. Even Frederic II, though intelligent enough, was a tyrant. He led his subjects to slaughter for his own aggrandizement. His father, Frederic William, used to compel tall men to marry tall women. The time for the latter description of tyranny may be past, but oppression has many outlets, and the next king may discover some of them. In such a case his subjects would probably take refuge in a revolution and a constitution, demanding guarantees against this admirable system, and blow the new model-government to the winds! Many of our people are like children who, having bawled till they get a toy, begin to cry to have it taken away from them. Fortunately the heart and strength of the nation, its rural population, is sound and practical, else we might prove ourselves to be insane as well as ridiculous. LETTER XXV. Controversy respecting America.--Conduct of American Diplomatists.--_Attachés_ to American Legations.--Unworthy State of Public Opinion in America. Dear ----, The recent arrivals from America have brought a document that has filled me with surprise and chagrin. You may remember what I have already written you on the subject of a controversy at Paris, concerning the cost of government, and the manner in which the agents of the United States, past and present, wrongfully or not, were made to figure in the affair. There is a species of instinct in matters of this sort, which soon enables a man of common sagacity, who enjoys the means of observation, to detect the secret bias of those with whom he is brought in contact. Now, I shall say, without reserve, that so far as I had any connexion with that controversy, or had the ability to detect the feelings and wishes of others, the agents of the American government were just the last persons in France to whom I would have applied for aid or information. The minister himself stood quoted by the Prime Minister of France in the tribune, as having assured him (M. Perier) that we were the wrong of the disputed question, and that the writers of the French government had truth on their side. This allegation remains before the world uncontradicted to the present hour. It was made six months since, leaving ample time for a knowledge of the circumstance to reach America, but no instructions have been sent to Mr. Rives to clear the matter up; or, if sent, they have not been obeyed. With these unquestionable facts before my eyes, you will figure to yourself my astonishment at finding in the papers, a circular addressed by the Department of State to the different governors of the Union, formally soliciting official reports that may enable us to prove to the world, that the position taken by our opponents is not true! This course is unusual, and, as the Federal government has no control over, or connexion with, the expenditures of the States, it may even be said to be extra-constitutional. It is formally requesting that which the Secretary of State had no official right to request. There was no harm in the proceeding, but it would be undignified, puerile, and unusual, for so grave a functionary to take it, without a commensurate object. Lest this construction should be put on his course, the Secretary has had the precaution to explain his own motives. He tells the different governors, in substance, _that the extravagant pretension is set up flat freedom is more costly than despotism, and that what he requests may be done, will be done in the defence of liberal institutions_. Here then we have the construction that has been put on this controversy by our own government, _at home_, through one of its highest and ablest agents. Still the course of its agents _abroad_ remains unchanged! _Here_ the American functionaries are understood to maintain opinions, which a distinguished functionary _at home_ has openly declared to be injurious to free institutions. It may be, _it must be_, that the state of things here is unknown at Washington. Of this fact I have no means of judging positively; but when I reflect on the character and intelligence of the cabinet, I can arrive at no other inference. It has long been known to me that there exists, not only at Washington, but all through the republic, great errors on the subject of our foreign relations; on the influence and estimation of the country abroad; and on what we are to expect from others, no less than what they expect from us. But these are subjects which, in general, give me little concern, while this matter of the finance controversy has become one of strong personal interest. The situation of the private individual, who, in a foreign nation, stands, or is supposed to stand, contradicted in his facts, by the authorized agents of their common country, is anything but pleasant. It is doubly so in Europe, where men fancy those in high trusts are better authority, than those who are not. It is true that this supposition under institutions like ours, is absurd; but it is not an easy thing to change the settled convictions of an entire people. In point of truth, other things being equal, the American citizen who has been passing his time in foreign countries, employed in diplomacy, would know much less of the points mooted in his discussion, than the private citizen who had been living at home, in the discharge of his ordinary duties; but this is a fact not easily impressed on those who are accustomed to see not only the power, but all the machinery of government in the hands of a regular corps of _employés_. The name of Mr. Harris was introduced into the discussion, as one thus employed and trusted by our government. It is true he was falsely presented, for the diplomatic functions of this gentleman were purely accidental, and of very short continuance; but there would have been a littleness in conducting an argument that was so strong in its facts, by stooping to set this matter right, and it was suffered to go uncontradicted by me. He therefore possessed the advantage, the whole time, of appearing as one who enjoyed the confidence of his own government. We had this difficulty to overcome, as well as that of disproving his arguments, if, indeed, the latter could be deemed a difficulty at all.[41] [Footnote 41: The American government, soon after the date of this letter, appointed Mr. Harris to be _chargé d'affaires_ at Paris.] The private individual, like myself, who finds himself in collision with the agents of two governments, powerful as those of France and America, is pretty sure to get the worst of it. It is quite probable that such has been my fortune in this affair (I believe it to be so in public opinion, both in France and at home), but there is one power of which no political combination can deprive an honest man, short of muzzling him:--that of telling the truth. Of this power I have now availed myself, and the time will come when they who have taken any note of the matter may see reason to change their minds. Louis-Philippe sits on a throne, and wields a fearful force; but, thanks to him of Harlem (or of Cologne, I care not which), it is still within my reach to promulgate the facts. His reign will, at least, cease with his life, while that of truth will endure as long as means can be found to disseminate it. It is probable the purposes of the French ministers are answered, and that they care little now about the controversed points at all; but _their_ indifference to facts can have no influence with _me_. Before dismissing this subject entirely, I will add another word on that of the tone of some of our agents abroad. It is not necessary for me to say, for the tenth time, that it is often what it ought not to be; the fact has been openly asserted in the European journals, and there can, therefore, be no mistake as to the manner in which their conduct and opinions are viewed by others. Certainly every American has a right to his opinions, and, unless under very peculiar circumstances, a right to express them; but, as I have already said to you in these letters, one who holds a diplomatic appointment is under these peculiar circumstances. We are strangely, not to say disgracefully, situated, truly, if an American _diplomate_ is to express his private opinions abroad on political matters only when they happen to be adverse to the system and action of his own government! I would promptly join in condemning the American agent who should volunteer to unite against, or freely to give his opinions, even in society, against the political system of the country to which he is accredited. Discretion and delicacy both tell him to use a proper reserve on a point that is of so much importance to others, while it is no affair of his, and by meddling with which he may possibly derange high interests that are entrusted to his especial keeping and care. All this is very apparent, and quite beyond discussion. Still circumstances may arise, provocations may be given, which will amply justify such a man in presenting the most unqualified statements in favour of the principles he is supposed to represent. Like every other accountable being, when called to speak at all, he is bound to speak the truth. But, admitting in the fullest extent the obligations and duties of the diplomatic man towards the country to which he is sent, is there nothing due to that from which he comes? Is he to be justified in discrediting the principles, denying the facts, or mystifying the results of his own system, in order to ingratiate himself with those with whom he treats? Are rights thus to be purchased by concessions so unworthy and base? I will not believe that we have yet reached the degraded state that renders a policy so questionable, or a course so mean, at all necessary. It really appears to me, that the conduct of an American minister on all these points ought to be governed by a very simple rule. He should in effect tell the other party, "Gentlemen, I wish to maintain a rigid neutrality, as is due to you; but I trust you will manifest towards me the same respect and delicacy, if not on my own account, at least on account of the country I represent. If you drag me into the affair in any way, I give you notice that you may expect great frankness on my part, and nothing but the truth." Such a man would not only get a _treaty_ of indemnity, but he would be very apt to get the _money_ into the bargain. The practice of naming _attachés_ to our legations leads to great abuses of this nature. In the first place the Constitution is violated; for, without a law of Congress to that effect (and I believe none exists), not even the President has a right to name one, without the approval of the Senate. In no case can a minister appoint one legally, for the Constitution gives him under no circumstances any such authority; and our system does not admit of the constructive authority that is used under other governments, unless it can be directly referred to an expressly delegated power. Now the power of appointment to office is expressly delegated; but it is to another, or rather to another through Congress, should Congress choose to interfere. This difficulty is got over by saying an _attaché_ is not an officer. If not an officer of the government, he is nothing. He is, at all events, deemed to be an officer of the government in foreign countries, and enjoys immunities as such. Besides, it is a dangerous precedent to name to any situation under a pretence like this, as the practice may become gradually enlarged. But I care nothing as to the legality of the common appointments of this nature, the question being as to the _tone_ of the nominees. You may be assured that I shall send you no idle gossip; but there is more importance connected with these things than you may be disposed at first to imagine. Here, these young men are believed to represent the state of feeling at home, and are listened to with more respect than they would be as simple travellers. It would be far better not to appoint them at all; but, if this is an indulgence that it would be ungracious to withhold, they should at least be made to enter into engagements not _to deride the institutions they are thought to represent_; for, to say nothing of principle, such a course can only re-act, by discrediting the national character. In writing you these opinions, I wish not to do injustice to my own sagacity. I have not the smallest expectation, were they laid to-morrow before that portion of the American public which comprises the reading classes, that either these facts or these sentiments would produce the least effect on the indomitable selfishness, in which nine men in ten, or even a much larger proportion, are intrenched. I am fully aware that so much has the little national pride and national character created by the war of 1812 degenerated, that more of this class will forgive the treason to the institutions, on account of their hatred of the rights of the mass, than will feel that the republic is degraded by the course and practices of which I complain. I know no country that has retrograded in opinion so much as our own, within the last five years. It appears to me to go back, as others advance. Let me not, therefore, be understood as expecting any _immediate_ results, were it in my power to bring these matters promptly and prominently before the nation. I fully know I should not be heard, were the attempt made; for nothing is more dull than the ear of him who believes himself already in possession of all the knowledge and virtue of his age, and peculiarly entitled, in right of his possessions, to the exclusive control of human affairs. The most that I should expect from them, were all the facts published to-morrow, would be the secret assent of the wise and good, the expressed censure of the vapid and ignorant (a pretty numerous clan, by the way), the surprise of the mercenary and the demagogue, and the secret satisfaction of the few who will come after me, and who may feel an interest in my conduct or my name. I have openly predicted bad consequences, in a political light, from the compliance of our agents here, and we shall yet see how far this prediction may prove true.[42] [Footnote 42: Has it not? Have we not been treated by France, in the affair of the treaty, in a manner she would not have treated any second-rate power of Europe.] LETTER XXVI. Approach of Winter.--The _Livret_.--Regulations respecting Servants.--Servants in America.--Governments of the different Cantons of Switzerland.--Engagement of Mercenaries.--Population of Switzerland.--Physical Peculiarities of the Swiss.--Women of Switzerland.--Mrs. Trollope and the American Ladies.--Affected manner of Speaking in American Women.--Patois in America.--Peculiar manner of Speaking at Vévey.--Swiss Cupidity. Dear ----, The season is giving warning for all intruders to begin to think of quitting the cantons. We have not been driven to fires, as in 1828, for Vévey is not Berne; but the evenings are beginning to be cool, and a dash of rain, with a foaming lake, are taken to be symptoms, here, as strong as a frost would be there. Speaking of Berne, a little occurrence has just recalled the Burgerschaft, which, shorn of its glory as it is, had some most praiseworthy regulations. During our residence near that place, I hired a Bernois, as a footman, discharging the man, as a matter of course, on our departure for Italy. Yesterday I got a doleful letter from this poor fellow, informing me, among a series of other calamities, that he had had the misfortune to lose his _livret_, and begging I would send him such testimonials of character, as it might suit my sense of justice to bestow. It will be necessary to explain a little, in order that you may know what this _livret_ is. The commune, or district, issues to the domestics, a small certified blank book (_livret_), in which all the evidences of character are to be entered. The guides have the same, and in many instances, I believe, they are rendered necessary by law. The free-trade system, I very well know, would play the deuce with these regulations; but capital regulations they are, and I make no doubt, that the established fidelity of the Swiss, as domestics, is in some measure owing to this excellent arrangement. If men and women were born servants, it might a little infringe on their natural rights, to be sure; but as even a von Erlach or a de Bonestetten would have to respect the regulation, were they to don a livery, I see no harm in a _livret_. Now, by means of this little book, every moment of a domestic's time might be accounted for, he being obliged to explain what he was about in the interregnums. All this, to be sure, might be done by detached certificates, but neither so neatly nor so accurately; for a man would pretend a need, that he had lost a single certificate, oftener than he would pretend that he had lost those he really had, or in other words, his book. Besides, the commune gives some relief, I believe, when such a calamity can be proved, as proved it probably might be. In addition, the authorities will not issue a _livret_ to any but those who are believed to be trust-worthy. Of course I sent the man a character, so far as I was concerned, for he had conducted himself perfectly well during the short time he was in my service. A regulation like this could not exist in a very large town, without a good deal of trouble, certainly; and yet what is there of more moment to the comfort of a population, than severe police regulations on the subject of servants? America is almost--perhaps the only civilized country in which the free-trade system is fully carried out in this particular, and carried out it is with a vengeance. We have the let-alone policy, _in puris naturalibus_, and everything is truly let alone, but the property of the master. I do not wish, however, to ascribe effects to wrong causes. The dislike to being a servant in America, has arisen from the prejudice created by our having slaves. The negroes being of a degraded caste, by insensible means their idea is associated with service; and the whites shrink from the condition. This fact is sufficiently proved by the circumstance that he who will respectfully and honestly do your bidding in the field--be a farm-servant, in fact--will not be your domestic servant. There is no particular dislike in our people to obey, and to be respectful and attentive to their duties, as journeymen, farm-labourers, day-labourers, seamen, soldiers, or anything else, domestic servants excepted, which is just the duties they have been accustomed to see discharged by blacks and slaves. This prejudice is fast weakening, whites taking service more readily than formerly, and it is found that, with proper training, they make capital domestics, and are very faithful. In time the prejudice will disappear, and men will come to see it is more creditable to be trusted about the person and house, than to be turned into the fields. It is just as difficult to give a minute account of the governments of the different cantons of Switzerland, as it is to give an account of the different state governments of America. Each differs, in some respect, from all the others; and there are so many of them in both cases, as to make it a subject proper only for regular treatises. I shall therefore confine the remarks I have to make on this subject to a few general facts. Previously to the recent changes, there were twenty-two cantons; a number that the recent secession of Neufchâtel has reduced to twenty-one.[43] Until the French revolution, the number was not so great, many of the present cantons being then associated less intimately with the confederation, as _allies_, and some of them being held as political dependents, by those that were cantons. Thus Vaud and Argovie were both provinces, owned and ruled by Berne. [Footnote 43: Berne, Soleure, Zurich, Lucerne, Schweitz, Unterwalden, Uri, Glarus, Tessino, Valais, Vaud, Geneva, Basle, Schaffhausen, Argovie, Thourgovie, Zug, Fribourg, St. Gall, Appenzell, and the Grisons. They are named here without reference to their rank or antiquity.] The system is that of a confederation, which leaves each of its members to do pretty much as it pleases, in regard to its internal affairs. The central government is conducted by a Diet, very much as our affairs were formerly managed by the old Congress. In this Diet, each canton has one vote. The executive power, such as it is, is wielded by a committee or council. Its duties do not extend much beyond being the organ of communication between the Diet and the Cantons, the care of the treasury (no great matter), and the reception of, and the treating with, foreign ministers. The latter duty, however, and indeed all other acts, are subject to a revision by the Diet. Although the cantons themselves are only known to the confederation as they are enrolled on its list, many of them are subdivided into local governments that are perfectly independent of each other. Thus there are two Unterwaldens in fact, though only one in the Diet; two Appenzells, also; and I may add, half a dozen Grisons and Valais. In other words, the two Unterwaldens are absolutely independent of each other, except as they are connected through the confederation, though they unite to choose common delegates to the Diet, in which they are known as only one canton, and possess but one vote. The same is true of Appenzell, and will soon, most probably, be true of Schweitz and Basle; in both of which there are, at this moment, serious dissensions that are likely to lead to internal separations.[44] The Grisons is more of a consolidated canton than these examples, but it is subdivided into _leagues_, which have a good many strong features of independence. The same is true of Valais, where the subdivisions are termed _dizains_. The Diet does little beyond controlling the foreign relations of the republic. It makes peace and war, receives ambassadors, forms treaties, and enters into alliances. It can only raise armies, however, by calling on the cantons for their prescribed contingents. The same is true as respects taxes. This, you will perceive, is very much like our own rejected confederation, and has most of its evils; though external pressure, and a trifling commerce, render them less here than they were in America. I believe the confederation has some control over the public mails, though I think this is done, also, _through_ the cantons. The Diet neither coins money, nor establishes any courts, beyond its own power to decide certain matters that may arise between the cantons themselves. In short, the government is a very loose one, and it could not hold together in a crisis, were it not for the jealousy of its neighbours. [Footnote 44: Basle is now divided into what are called "Basle town" and "Basle country;" or the city population and the rural. Before the late changes, the former ruled the latter.] I have already told you that there exists a strong desire among the intelligent to modify this system. Consolidation, as you know from my letters, is wished by no one, for the great difference between the town and the rural populations causes both to wish to remain independent. Three languages are spoken in Switzerland, without including the Rhetian, or any of the numerous _patois_. All the north is German. Geneva, Vaud, and Valais are French, as are parts of Berne; while Tessino, lying altogether south of the Alps, is Italian. I have been told, that the states which treat with Switzerland for mercenaries, condition that none of them shall be raised in Tessino. But the practice of treating for mercenaries is likely to be discontinued altogether, though the republic has lately done something in this way for the Pope. The objection is to the Italian character, which is thought to be less constant than that of the real Swiss. Men, and especially men of narrow habits and secluded lives, part reluctantly with authority. Nothing can to be more evident than the fact, that a common currency, common post-offices, common custom-houses, if there are to be any at all, and various other similar changes, would be a great improvement on the present system of Switzerland. But a few who control opinion in the small cantons, and who would lose authority by the measure, oppose the change. The entire territory of the republic is not as great as that of Pennsylvania, nor is the entire population much greater than that of the same state. It is materially less than the population of New York. On the subject of their numbers, there exists a singular, and to me an inapplicable, sensitiveness. It is not possible to come at the precise population of Switzerland. That given in the tables of the contingents is thought to be exaggerated, though one does not very well understand the motive. I presume the entire population of the country is somewhere between 1,500,000, and 1,900,000. Some pretend, however, there are 2,000,000. Admitting the latter number, you will perceive that the single state of New York considerably surpasses it.[45] More than one-third of the entire population of Switzerland is probably in the single canton of Berne, as one-seventh of that of the United States is in New York. The proportion between surface and inhabitants is not very different between New England and Switzerland, if Maine be excluded. Parts of the cantons are crowded with people, as Zurich for instance, while a large part is uninhabitable rocks and ice. [Footnote 45: The population of New York, to-day, is about 2,200,000, or not greatly inferior to that of Scotland; and superior to that of Hanover, or Wurtemberg, or Denmark, or Saxony, all of which are kingdoms. The increase of population in the United States, at present, the immigration included, is not far from 500,000 souls annually, which is equal to the addition of an average state each year! The western speculations find their solution in this fact.] The Swiss have most of the physical peculiarities of the different nations that surround them. The German part of the population, however, are, on the whole, both larger and better-looking than the true Germans. All the mountaineers are fresher and have clearer complexions than those in the lower portions of the country, but the difference in size is not very apparent. Nowhere is there such a population as in our south-western states; indeed, I question if large men are as common in any other country. Scotland, however, may possibly form an exception. The women of Switzerland are better-looking than those of France or Germany, but beauty, or even extreme prettiness, is rare. Light, flexible, graceful forms are quite uncommon. Large hands and feet are met with everywhere, those of our women being miraculous in comparison. But the same thing is true nearly all over the north of Europe. Even our men--meaning the gentlemen--I think, might be remarked for the same peculiarities in this part of the world. The English have absurd notions on this subject, and I have often enjoyed a malicious pleasure in bringing my own democratic paws and hoofs (no prodigies at home) in contrast with their aristocratic members. Of course, the climate has great influence on all these things. I scarcely think the Swiss women of the mountains entitled to their reputation for beauty. If strength, proportions on a scale that is scarcely feminine, symmetry that is more anatomically than poetically perfect, enter into the estimate, one certainly sees in some of the cantons, female peasants who may be called fine women. I remember, in 1828, to have met one of these in the Grisons, near the upper end of the valley of the Rhine. This woman had a form, carriage, and proportions that would have made a magnificent duchess in a coronation procession; but the face, though fresh and fair, did not correspond with the figure. The women of our own mountains excel them altogether, being a more true medium between strength and coarseness. Even Mrs. Trollope admits that the American women (perhaps she ought to have said the girls) are the most beautiful in the world, while they are the least interesting. Mrs. Trollope has written a vast deal of nonsense, putting cockneyisms into the mouths of Americans, and calling them Americanisms, but she has also written a good many truths. I will not go as far as to say she was right in the latter part of this charge; but if our girls would cultivate neater and more elegant forms of expression; equally avoiding vulgar oh's and ah's! and set phrases; be more careful not to drawl; and not to open the mouth, so as to call "hot," "haut;" giggle less; speak lower; have more calmness and more dignity of manner, and _think_ instead of _pulsating_,--I would put them, for all in all, against any women in the world. They lose half of these defects when they marry, as it is; but the wisdom of Solomon would come to our ears with a diminished effect, were it communicated through the medium of any other than a neat enunciation. The great desideratum in female education, at home, is to impart a graceful, quiet, lady-like manner of speaking. Were it not for precisely this place, Vévey, I should add, that the women of America speak their language worse than the women of any other country I ever was in. We all know, that a calm, even, unemphatic mode of speaking, is almost a test of high-breeding; that a clear enunciation is, in short, an indispensable requisite, for either a gentleman or a lady. One may be a fool, and utter nonsense gracefully; but aphorisms lose their force when conveyed in a vulgar intonation. As a nation, I repeat, there is more of this fault in America, perhaps, than among an equal portion of educated people anywhere else. Contrary to the general rule too, the men of America speak better than the women; though the men, as a class, speak badly. The peculiar dialect of New England, which prevails so much all over the country, is derived from a provincial mode of speaking in England which is just the meanest in the whole island; and though it is far more intelligible, and infinitely better grammar is used with us, than in the place whence the _patois_ came, I think we have gained little on the score of elegance. I once met in England a distinguished man, who was one of the wealthiest commoners of his county, and he had hardly opened his mouth before I was struck with this peculiarity. On inquiry, I learned that he came from the West of England. It is by no means uncommon to meet with bad grammar, and an improper use of words as relates to their significations, among the highest classes in England, though I think not as often as in America, but it is rare, indeed, that a gentleman or a lady does not express himself or herself, so far as utterance, delivery, and intonation go, as a gentleman and lady should. The fault in America arises from the habits of drawling, and of opening the mouth too wide. Any one knows that, if he open the stop of an organ, and keep blowing the bellows, he will make anything but music. We have some extraordinary words, too: who, but a Philadelphian, for instance, would think of calling his mother a _mare_? But I am digressing; the peculiar manner of speaking which prevails at Vévey having led me from the main subject. These people absolutely sing in their ordinary conversation, more especially the women. In the simple expression of "_Bon jour, madame_" each alternate syllable is uttered on an octave higher than the preceding. This is not a _patois_ at all, but merely a vicious and ungraceful mode of utterance. It prevails more among the women than among the men; and, as a matter of course, more among the women of the inferior, than among those of the superior classes. Still it is more or less general. To ears that are accustomed to the even, unemphatic, graceful enunciation of Paris, it is impossible to describe to you, in words, the ludicrous effect it produces. We have frequently been compelled to turn away, in the shops, to avoid downright laughter. There exists the same sensitiveness, on the subject of the modes of speech, between the French Swiss and their French neighbours, as is to be found between us and the English. Many intelligent men here have laboured to convince me that the Genevese, in particular, speak purer French than even the Parisians. I dare say a part of this pretension may be true, for a great people take great liberties with everything; but if America, with her fifteen millions, finds it difficult to maintain herself in such matters, even when in the right, against the influence of England, what can little Geneva look for, in such a dispute with France, but to be put down by sheer volubility. She will be out-talked as a matter of course, clever as her citizens are. On the subject of the prevalent opinion of Swiss cupidity, I have very little to say: the practice of taking service as mercenaries in other countries, has probably given rise to the charge. As is usually the case in countries where the means of obtaining a livelihood are not easy, the Swiss strike me as being more influenced by money than most of their neighbours, though scarcely more so than the common classes of France. To a man who gains but twenty in a day, a sou is of more account than to him who gains forty. I presume this is the whole amount of the matter. I shall not deny, however, that the _honorarium_ was usually more in view, in a transaction with a Swiss, than in a transaction with a Frenchman, though I think the first the most to be depended on. Notwithstanding one or two instances of roguery that I have encountered, I would as soon depend on a Swiss, a clear bargain having been made, as on any other man I know. LETTER XXVII. Departure from Vévey.--Passage down the Lake.--Arrival at Geneva.--Purchase of Jewellery.--Leave Geneva.--Ascent of the Jura.--Alpine Views.--Rudeness at the Custom-house.--Smuggling.--A Smuggler detected.--The second Custom-house.--Final View of Mont Blanc.--Re-enter France.--Our luck at the Post-house in Dôle.--A Scotch Traveller.--Nationality of the Scotch.--Road towards Troyes.--Source of the Seine. Dear ----, Notwithstanding all the poetry of our situation, we found some of the ills of life in it. A few light cases of fever had occurred among us, which gave reason to distrust the lake-shore at this late season, and preparations were accordingly made to depart. Watching an opportunity, the skiff of honest Jean was loaded with us and our effects to the water's edge, and we embarked in the Leman, as she lay-to, in one of her daily trips, bidding a final adieu to Vévey, after a residence of about five weeks. The passage down the lake was pleasant, and our eyes rested on the different objects with melancholy interest, for we knew not that they would ever be again looked upon by any among us. It is an exquisite lake, and it grows on us in beauty each time that we look at it, the surest sign of perfection. We reached Geneva early, and took lodgings at _l'Ecu_, in season for the ladies to make some purchases. The jewellery of this town is usually too tempting to be resisted by female self-denial, and when we met at dinner, we had a course of ear-rings, chains and bracelets served up, by a succession of shopmen, who understand, as it were by instinct, the caprices of the daughters of Eve. One of the party had taken a fancy to a pair of unfinished bracelets, and had expressed her regrets that she could not carry them with her. "Madame goes to Paris?" "Yes." "If she will leave her address, they shall be sent to her in a month." As we were strangers in France, and the regulation which prevented travellers from buying articles of this sort for their personal use, however necessary, has always appeared to me inhospitable, I told the man that if delivered in Paris, they should be received, and paid for. The bargain was made, and the jewels have already reached us. Of course I have asked no questions, and am ignorant whether they came by a balloon, in the luggage of an ambassador, or by the means of a dog. The next day it rained tremendously; but having ordered horses, we left Geneva in the afternoon, taking the road to Ferney. Not an individual of the whole party had any desire to visit the _chateau_, however, and we drove through the place on a gallop. We took French post-horses at the foot of the Jura, where we found the first post-house, and began to climb the mountains. Our party made a droll appearance just at that moment. The rain was falling in torrents, and the carriage was dragging slowly through the mud up the long winding ascent. Of course the windows were shut, and we were a sort of full-dress party within, looking ridiculously fine, and, from time to time, laughing at our silly appearance. Everybody was in travelling dresses, jewellery excepted. The late purchases, however, were all on our persons, for we had been told they would certainly be seized at the custom-houses, if left in their boxes in the trunks. The _douaniers_ could tell a recent purchase by instinct. Accordingly, all our fingers were brilliant with rings, brows glittered with _ferronières_, ear-rings of the newest mode were shining beneath travelling caps and hats, and chains abounded. I could not persuade myself that this masquerade would succeed, but predicted a failure. It really appeared to me that so shallow a distinction could avail nothing against harpies who denied the right of strangers to pass through their country with a few purchases of this nature, that had been clearly made for their own use. But, while the sumptuary laws of the custom-houses are very rigid, and set limits to the wants of travellers without remorse, like quarantine regulations, they have some rules that seem framed expressly to defeat their own ordinances. The road led up the mountain, where a view that is much praised exists. It is the counterpart of that which is seen everywhere, when one touches on the eastern verge of the Jura, and first gets sight of Switzerland proper. These views are divided into that which embraces the valley of the Aar and the Oberland range, and this which comprises the basin of the Leman, and the mountains that surround it. Mont Blanc, of course, is included in the other. On the whole, I prefer the first, although the last is singularly beautiful. We got clear weather near the summit, and stopped a few minutes to dissect the elements of this scene. The view is very lovely, beyond a question; but I think it much inferior to that which has been so often spoken of between us above Vévey, notwithstanding Mont Blanc enters into this as one of its most conspicuous objects. I have, as yet, nowhere seen this mountain to so much advantage. In size, as compared with the peaks around it, it is a hay-stack among hay-cocks, with the advantage of being a pile of shining ice, or frozen snow, while everything else near it is granite. By insulating this mountain, and studying it by itself, one feels its mild sublimity; but still, as a whole, I give the preference greatly to the other view. From this point the lake is too distant, the shores of Savoy dwindle in the presence of their mightier neighbour, and the mysterious-looking Valais, which in its peculiar beauty has scarcely a rival on earth, is entirely hid from sight. Then the lights and shades are nearly lost from the summit of the Jura; and, after all, it is these lights and shades, the natural _chiaroscuro_, that finishes the picture. We reached the first custom-house a little before sunset; but, as there was a reasonably good inn opposite, I determined to pass the night there, in order to be able to defend my rights against the myrmidons of the law at leisure, should it be necessary. The carriage was driven to the door of the custom-house, and we were taken into separate rooms to be examined. As for myself, I have no reason to complain; but the ladies were indignant at being subjected to a personal examination by a female harpy, who was equally without politeness and propriety. Surely France--polished, refined, intellectual France--cannot actually need this violation of decorum, not to say of decency! This is the second time that similar rudeness has been encountered by us, on entering the country; and, to make the matter worse, females have been the sufferers. I made a pretty vigorous remonstrance, in very animated French, and it had the effect of preventing a repetition of the rudeness. The men pleaded their orders, and I pleaded the rights of hospitality and propriety, as well as a determination not to submit to the insults. I would have made a _détour_ of a hundred leagues to enter at another point in preference. In the course of the conversation that succeeded, the officers explained to me the difficulties they had to contend with, which certainly are not trifling. As to station, they said that made no great difference, your duchess being usually an inveterate smuggler. Travellers are not content to supply their own wants, but they purchase for all their friends. This I knew to be true, though not by experience, you will permit me to say, the ambassador's bags, half the time, containing more prohibited articles than despatches. But, notwithstanding this explanation, I did not deem the case of one who bought only for himself the less hard. It is so easy to conceal light articles, that, except in instances where is reason for distrust, it were better to confide in character. If anything could induce me to enter seriously into the contraband, it would be such treatment. The officers explained to me the manner in which smuggling is conducted. The usual mode is to cross the fields in the night; for when two custom-houses are passed, the jewellery may be put in a common trunk, and sent forward by the diligence, unless there is some particular grounds of suspicion. They know perfectly well, that bargains are constantly made in Geneva, to deliver purchases in Paris; but, with all their care and vigilance, the smugglers commonly succeed. On a recent occasion, however, the officers had been more successful. A cart loaded with split wood (larch) had boldly passed the door of the _douane_. The man who drove it was a peasant, and altogether he appeared to be one driving a very common burthen to his own home. The cart, however, was stopped and the wood unloaded; while reloading, for nothing but wood was found, one stick attracted attention. It was muddy, as if it had fallen into the road. The mud, however, had a suspicious _malice prepense_ air about it; it seemed as if it were _smeared_ on, and by examining it closely, two _seams_ were discovered, which it had been hoped the mud would conceal. The billet had been split in two, hollowed, and reunited by means of pegs. The mud was to hide these pegs and the seams, as I have told you, and in the cavity were found seventy gold watches! I saw the billet of wood, and really felt less resentment at the old virago who had offended us. The officers caught relenting in my eyes and inquired what I thought of it, and I told them that _we_ were not muddy logs of larch. The next morning we were off betimes, intending to push through the mountains and the custom-houses that day. The country was wild and far from fruitful, though there were bits of naked mountain, through which the road wound in a way to recall, on a greatly diminished scale however, that peculiar charm of the Apennines. The villages were clean but dreary, and nowhere, for leagues, did we see a country that was genial, or likely to reward agriculture. This passage of the Jura is immeasurably inferior to that by Salins and Neufchâtel. At first I was afraid it was my worn-out feelings that produced the impression; but, by close comparisons, and by questioning my companions, some of whom scarcely recollected the other road, I feel certain that such is the fact. Indeed it would be like comparing a finished painting to an _esquisse_. We had not much trouble at the second custom-house, though the officers eyed our ornaments with a confiscating rapacity. For my part I took my revenge, by showing off the only ornament I had to the utmost. A---- had made me a present of a sapphire-ring, and this I flourished in all sorts of ways, as it might be in open defiance. One fellow had an extreme longing for a pretty _ferronière_, and there was a private consultation about it, among them, I believe; but after some detention, and a pretty close examination of the passports, we were permitted to proceed. If François smuggled nothing, it must have been for want of funds, for speculation is his hobby, as well as his misfortune, entering into every bone of his body. We were all day busy in those barren, sterile, and unattractive mountains--thrice unattractive after the God-like Alps--and were compelled to dip into the night, in order to get rid of them. Once or twice on looking back, we saw the cold, chiseled peak of Mont Blanc, peering over our own nearer ridges; and as the weather was not very clear, it looked dim and spectral, as if sorry to lose us. It was rather late when we reached a small town, at the foot of the Jura, and stopped for the night. This was France again,--France in cookery, beds, tone, and thought. We lost the Swiss simplicity (for there is still relatively a good deal of it), and Swiss directness, in politeness, _finesse_, and _manner_. We got "_monsieur sait--monsieur pense--monsieur fera_"--for "_que voulez-vous, monsieur?_" We had no more to do with mountains. Our road next morning was across a wide plain, and we plunged at once into the undeviating monotony of French agriculture. A village had been burned, it was thought to excite political commotion, and the postilions began to manoeuvre with us, to curtail us of horse-flesh, as the road was full of carriages. It now became a matter of some moment to push on, for "first come, first served," is the law of the road. By dint of bribes and threats, we reached the point where the two great routes unite a little east of Dôle, before a train of several carriages, which we could see pushing for the point of junction with the same object as ourselves, came up. No one could pass us, on the same road, unless we stopped, and abandoning all idea of eating, we drove up to the post-house in Dôle, and preferred our claim. At the next moment, four other carriages stopped also. But five horses were in the stable, and seventeen were needed! Even these five had just arrived, and were baiting. Four of them fell to my share, and we drove off with many handsome expressions of regret at being obliged to leave but one for the four other carriages. Your travelling is an epitome of life, in which the lucky look upon the unlucky with a supercilious compassion. A league or two beyond Dôle, we met two carriages coming the other way, and exchanged horses; and really I had some such generous feelings on the occasion, as those of a rich man who hears that a poor friend has found a bank note. The carriage with which we exchanged was English, and it had an earl's coronet. The pair within were man and wife; and some fine children, with an attendant or two, were in the one that followed. They were Scotch at a glance: the master himself wearing, besides the stamp of his nation on his face, a bonnet with the colours of his clan. There is something highly respectable in this Scotch nationality, and I have no doubt it has greatly contributed towards making the people what they are. If the Irish were as true to themselves, English injustice would cease in a twelvemonth. But, as a whole, the Irish nobles are a band of mercenaries, of English origin, and they prefer looking to the flesh-pots of Egypt, to falling back sternly on their rights, and sustaining themselves by the proud recollections of their forefathers. Indeed half of them would find their forefathers among the English speculators, when they found them at all. I envied the Scotchman his cap and tartan, though I dare say both he and his pretty wife had all the fine feelings that such an emblem is apt to inspire. Your earldoms are getting to be paltry things; but it is really something to be the chief of a clan! You have travelled the road between Dôle and Dijon with me once, already, and I shall say no more than that we slept at the latter town. The next morning, with a view to vary the route, and to get off the train of carriages, we took the road towards Troyes. Our two objects were effected, for we saw no more of our competitors for post-horses, and we found ourselves in an entirely new country; but, parts of Champagne and the Ardennes excepted, a country that proved to be the most dreary portion of France we had yet been in. While trotting along a good road, through this naked, stony region, we came to a little valley in which there was a village that was almost as wild in appearance, as one of those on the Great St. Bernard. A rivulet flowed through the village, and meandered by our side, among the half sterile meadows. It was positively the only agreeable object that we had seen for some hours. Recollecting the stream at Tuttlingen, A---- desired me to ask the postilion, if it had a name. "_Monsieur, cette petite rivière s'appelle la Seine._" We were, then, at the sources of the Seine! Looking back I perceived, by the formation of the land, that it must take its rise a short distance beyond the village, among some naked and dreary-looking hills. A little beyond these, again, the streams flow towards the tributaries of the Rhone, and we were consequently in the high region where the waters of the Atlantic and the Mediterranean divide. Still there were no other signs of our being at such an elevation, except in the air of sterility that reigned around. It really seemed as if the river, so notoriously affluent in mud, had taken down with it all the soil. LETTER XXVIII. Miserable Inn.--A French Bed.--Free-Trade.--French Relics.--Cross Roads.--Arrival at La Grange.--Reception by General Lafayette.--The Nullification Strife.--Conversation with Lafayette.--His Opinion as to a Separation of the Union in America.--The Slave Question.--Stability of the Union.--Style of living at La Grange.--Pap.--French Manners, and the French Cuisine.--Departure from La Grange.--Return to Paris. Dear ----, I have little to say of the next two days' drive, except that ignorance, and the poetical conceptions of a postilion, led us into the scrape of passing a night in just the lowest inn we had entered in Europe. We pushed on after dark to reach this spot, and it was too late to proceed, as all of the party were excessively fatigued. To be frank with you, it was an _auberge aux charretiers_. Eating was nearly out of the question; and yet I had faith to the last, in a French bed. The experience of this night, however, enables me to say all France does not repose on excellent wool mattresses, for we were obliged to put up with a good deal of straw. And yet the people were assiduous, anxious to please, and civil. The beds, moreover, were tidy; our straw being clean straw. The next night we reached a small town, where we did much better. Still one can see the great improvements that travellers are introducing into France, by comparing the taverns on the better roads with those on the more retired routes. At this place we slept well, and _à la Française_. If Sancho blessed the man who invented sleep after a nap on Spanish earth, what would he have thought of it after one enjoyed on a French bed! The drums beat through the streets after breakfast, and the population crowded their doors, listening, with manifest interest, to the proclamation of the crier. The price of bread was reduced; an annunciation of great interest at all times, in a country where bread is literally the staff of life. The advocates of free-trade prices ought to be told that France would often be convulsed, literally from want, if this important interest were left to the sole management of dealers. A theory will not feed a starving multitude, and hunger plays the deuce with argument. In short, free-trade, as its warmest votaries now carry out their doctrines, approaches suspiciously near a state of nature: a condition which might do well enough, if trade were a principal, instead of a mere incident of life. With some men, however, it is a principal--an all in all--and this is the reason we frequently find those who are notoriously the advocates of exclusion and privileges in government, maintaining the doctrine, as warmly as those who carry their liberalism, in other matters, to extremes. There was a small picture, in the manner of Watteau, in this inn, which the landlady told me had been bought at a sale of the effects of a neighbouring chateau. It is curious to discover these relics, in the shape of furniture, pictures, porcelain, &c., scattered all over France, though most of it has found its way to Paris. I offered to purchase the picture, but the good woman held it to be above price. We left this place immediately after breakfast, and soon quitted the great route to strike across the country. The _chemins vicinaux_, or cross-roads of France, are pretty much in a state of nature; the public, I believe, as little liking to work them, as it does at home. Previously to the revolution, all this was done by means of the _corvée_; a right which empowered the _seigneur_ to oblige his tenants to perform a certain amount of labour, without distinction, on the highways of his estate. Thus, whenever M. le Marquis felt disposed to visit the chateau, there was a general muster, to enable him and his friends to reach the house in safety, and to amuse themselves during their residence; after which the whole again reverted to the control of nature and accident. To be frank, one sometimes meets with by-roads in this old country, which are positively as bad as the very worst of our own, in the newest settlements. Last year I actually travelled post for twenty miles on one of these trackless ways. We were more fortunate, however, on the present occasion; the road we took being what is called a _route départementale_, and little, if any, inferior to the one we had left. Our drive was through a slightly undulating country that was prettily wooded, and in very good agriculture. In all but the wheel-track, the traveller gains by quitting the great routes in France, for nothing can be more fatiguing to the eye than their straight undeviating monotony. They are worse than any of our own air-line turnpikes; for in America the constant recurrence of small isolated bits of wood greatly relieves the scenery. We drove through this country some three or four leagues, until we at length came to an estate of better arrangements than common. On our left was a wood, and on our right a broad reach of meadow. Passing the wood, we saw a wide, park-like lawn, that was beautifully shaded by copses, and in which there were touches of landscape-gardening, in a taste altogether better than was usual in France. Passing this, another wood met us, and turning it, we entered a private road--you will remember the country has neither fence nor hedge, nor yet scarcely a wall--which wound round its margin, describing an irregular semicircle. Then it ran in a straight line for a short distance, among a grove of young evergreens, towards two dark picturesque towers covered with ivy, crossed a permanent bridge that spanned a ditch, and dashing through a gateway, in which the grooves of the portcullis are yet visible, we alighted in the court of La Grange! It was just nine, and the family was about assembling in the drawing-room. The "_le Général sera charmé de vous voir, monsieur_," of the faithful Bastien, told us we should find his master at home; and on the great stairs, most of the ladies met us. In short, the patriarch was under his own roof, surrounded by that family which has so long been the admiration of thousands--or, precisely as one would most wish to find him. It is not necessary to speak of our reception, where all our country are welcome. We were soon in the drawing-room, which I found covered with American newspapers, and in a few minutes I was made acquainted with all that was passing on the other side of the Atlantic. Mr. Rives had sailed for home; and as M. Perier was dead, General Lafayette had not explained in the Chamber the error into which that minister had permitted himself to fall, agreeably to a tardy authority to that effect received from Mr. Rives. The ministry was on the point of dissolution in France; and it was said the _doctrinaires_ were to come in--and the nullification strife ran high at home. On the latter subject, Lafayette spoke with a reserve that was unusual on subjects connected with America, though he strongly deprecated the existence of the controversy. There is great weakness in an American's betraying undue susceptibility on the score of every little unpleasant occurrence that arises at home. No one of the smallest intelligence can believe that we are to be exempt from human faults, and we all ought to know that they will frequently lead to violence and wrongs. Still there is so much jealousy here on this subject, the votaries of monarchies regard all our acts with so much malevolence, and have so strong a desire to exaggerate our faults, that it is not an easy matter at all times to suppress these feelings. I have often told our opponents that they pay us the highest possible compliment, in their constant effort to compare the results of the system with what is purely right in the abstract, instead of comparing its results with those of their own. But the predominance of the hostile interests are so great here, that reason and justice go for nothing in the conflict of opinions. If a member of congress is flogged, it is no answer to say that a deputy or a member of parliament has been murdered. They do not affirm, but they always _argue_ as if they thought we ought to be better than they! If we have an angry discussion and are told of it, one would think it would be a very good answer, so far as comparative results are concerned, to tell them that half-a-dozen of their provinces are in open revolt; but to this they will not listen. They expect _us_ never to quarrel! We must be without spot in all things, or we are worse than they. All this Lafayette sees and feels; and although it is impossible not to detect the unfairness and absurdity of such a mode of forming estimates of men, it is almost equally impossible, in the present situation of Europe, for one who understands the influence of American example, not to suffer these unpleasant occurrences to derange his philosophy. Before breakfast the General took me into his library, and we had a long and a much franker conversation on the state of South Carolina. He said that a separation of the Union would break his heart. "I hope they will at least let me die," he added, "before they commit this _suicide_ on _our_ institutions." He particularly deprecated the practice of talking about such an event, which he thought would accustom men's minds to it. I had not the same apprehensions. To me it appeared that the habit of menacing dissolution, was the result of every one's knowing, and intimately feeling, the importance of hanging together, which induced the dissatisfied to resort to the threat, as the shortest means of attaining their object. It would be found in the end, that the very consciousness which pointed out this mode as the gravest attack that could be made on those whom the discontented wish to influence, would awaken enough to consequences to prevent any consummation in acts. This menace was a natural argument of the politically weak in America, just as the physically weak lay hold of knives and clubs, where the strong rely on their hands. It must be remembered that the latter, at need, can resort to weapons, too. I do not believe there could be found in all America any great number of respectable men who wish the Union dissolved; and until that shall be the case, I see no great grounds of apprehension. Moreover, I told him that so long as the northern states were tranquil I had no fears, for I felt persuaded that no great political change would occur in America that did not come from that section of the Union. As this is a novel opinion, he inquired for its reasons, and, in brief, this was the answer:-- There is but one interest that would be likely to unite all the south against the north, and this was the interest connected with slavery. Now, it was notorious that neither the federal government nor the individual states have anything to do with this as a national question, and it was not easy to see in what manner anything could be done that would be likely to push matters as far as disunion on such a point There might be, and there probably would be, discussion and denunciations--nay, there often had been; but a compromise having been virtually made, by which all new states at the north are to be free states, and all at the south slave-holding, I saw nothing else that was likely to be serious.[46] As respects all other interests, it would be difficult to unite the whole south. Taking the present discussion as an example: those that were disaffected, to use the strongest term the case admits of, were so environed by those that were not, that a serious separation became impossible. The tier of states that lies behind the Carolinas, Virginia, and Georgia, for instance, are in no degree dependent on them for an outlet to the sea, while they are so near neighbours as to overshadow them in a measure. Then the south must always have a northern boundary of free states, if they separate _en masse_--a circumstance not very desirable, as they would infallibly lose most of their slaves. [Footnote 46: Recent facts have confirmed this opinion.] On the other hand, the north is very differently situated. New England, New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and the tier of states west, are closely connected geographically, must and would go together, and they have one frontier that is nearly all water. They contain already a free population of eight millions, which is rapidly increasing, and are strong enough, and united enough, to act as they please. It is their interest to remain united with the south, and it is also a matter of feeling with them, and I apprehend little to the Union so long as these states continue of this mind.[47] [Footnote 47: This was written before the recent events in Texas, which give a new aspect to the question.] Lafayette wished to know if I did not think the Union was getting too large for its safety. I thought not, so long as the means of necessary intercommunication were preserved, but just the reverse, as the larger the Union, the less probability there would be of agitating its whole surface by any one interest; and the parties that were tranquil, as a matter of course, would influence those that were disturbed. Were the Union to-day, for instance, confined to the coast, as it was forty years since, there would be no south-western states to hold the southern in check, as we all know is the fact at present, and the danger from nullification would be doubled. These things act both ways; for even the state governments, while they offer positive organised and _quasi_ legal means of resisting the federal government, also afford the same organized local means of counteracting them in their own neighbourhood. Thus, Carolina and Georgia do not pull together in this very affair, and, in a sense, one neutralizes the other. The long and short of the matter was, that the Union was a compromise that grew out of practical wants and _facts_, and this was the strongest possible foundation for any polity. Men would assail it in words, precisely as they believed it important and valued by the public, to attain their ends.--We were here summoned to the breakfast. I was well laughed at the table for my ignorance. The family of La Grange live in the real old French style, with an occasional introduction of an American dish, in compliment to a guest. We had obtained hints concerning one or two capital things there, especially one for a very simple and excellent dish, called _soupe au lait_; and I fancied I had now made discovery the second. A dish was handed to me that I found so excellent, _so very appropriate to breakfast_, that I sent it to A----, with a request that she would get its history from Madame George Lafayette, who sat next her. The ladies put their heads together, and I soon saw that they were amused at the suggestion. A---- then informed me, that it was an American as well as a French dish, and that she knew great quantities of it had been consumed in the hall at C----, in particular. Of course I protested that I had no recollection of it. "All this is very likely, for it is a good while since you have eaten any. The dish is neither more nor less than pap!" Two capital mistakes exist in America on the subject of France. One regards its manners, and the other its kitchen. We believe that French deportment is superficial, full of action, and exaggerated. This would truly be a wonder in a people who possess a better tone of manners, perhaps, than any other; for quiet and simplicity are indispensable to high breeding. The French of rank are perfect models of these excellences. As to the _cuisine_, we believe it is high-seasoned. Nothing can be farther from the truth; spices of all sorts being nearly proscribed. When I went to London with the Vicomte de V----, the first dinner was at a tavern. The moment he touched the soup, he sat with tears in his eyes, and with his mouth open, like a chicken with the pip! "_Le diable!_" he exclaimed, "_celle-ci est infernale!_" And infernal I found it too; for after seven years' residence on the Continent, it was no easy matter for even me to eat the food or to drink the wines of England; the one on account of the high seasoning, and the other on account of the brandy. We left La Grange about noon, and struck into the great post-road as soon as possible. A succession of accidents, owing to the random driving of the postilions, detained us several hours, and it was dark before we reached the first _barrière_ of Paris. We entered the town on our side of the river, and drove into our own gate about eight. The table was set for dinner; the beds were made, the gloves and toys lay scattered about, _à la Princesse d'Orange_, and we resumed our customary mode of life, precisely as if we had returned from an airing in the country, instead of a journey of three months! THE END. 
17107	----	A BIBLIOGRAPHICAL _Antiquarian_ AND PICTURESQUE TOUR. PRINTED BY WILLIAM NICOL, AT THE Shakespeare Press. [Illustration: ANN OF BRITTANY. From an Illustrated Missal in the Royal Library at Paris.] London. Published June 1829. by R. Jennings. Poultry. A BIBLIOGRAPHICAL _Antiquarian_ AND PICTURESQUE TOUR IN FRANCE AND GERMANY. BY THE REVEREND THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN, D.D. MEMBER OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY AT ROUEN, AND OF THE ACADEMY OF UTRECHT. SECOND EDITION. VOLUME II. DEI OMNIA PLENA. LONDON: PUBLISHED BY ROBERT JENNINGS, AND JOHN MAJOR. 1829. CONTENTS OF VOLUME II. CONTENTS. VOLUME II. LETTER I. PARIS. _The Boulevards. Public Buildings. Street Scenery. Fountains_. 1 LETTER II. _General Description of the Bibliothèque du Roi. The Librarians_. 42 LETTER III. _The same subject continued_. 64 LETTER IV. _The same subject continued_. 82 LETTER V. PARIS. _Some Account of the early printed and rare Books in the Royal Library_. 101 LETTER VI. _Conclusion of the Account of the Royal Library. The Library of the Arsenal_. 144 LETTER VII. _Library of Ste. Geneviève. The Abbé Mercier St. Léger. Library of the Mazarine College, or Institute. Private Library of the King. Mons. Barbier, Librarian_. 169 _Introduction to Letter VIII_. 209 LETTER VIII. _Some Account of the late Abbé Rive. Booksellers. Printers. Book Binders_. 214 LETTER IX. _Men of Letters. Dom Brial. The Abbé Bétencourt. Messrs. Gail, Millin, and Langlès. A Roxburghe Banquet_. 251 LETTER X. _The Collections of Denon, Quintin Craufurd, and the Marquis de Sommariva_. 279 LETTER XI. _Notice of M. Willemin's Monumens Français inédits. Miscellaneous Antiquities. Present State of the Fine Arts. General Observations upon the National Character_. 317 LETTER XII. _Paris to Strasbourg. Nancy_. 343 LETTER XIII. STRASBOURG. _Establishment of the Protestant Religion. The Cathedral. The Public Library_. 374 LETTER XIV. _Society. Environs of Strasbourg. Domestic Architecture. Manners and Customs. Literature. Language_. 413 [Illustration] _LETTER I._ PARIS. THE BOULEVARDS. PUBLIC BUILDINGS. STREET SCENERY. FOUNTAINS.[1] _Paris, June 18, 1818_. You are probably beginning to wonder at the tardiness of my promised Despatch, in which the architectural minutiæ of this City were to be somewhat systematically described. But, as I have told you towards the conclusion of my previous letter, it would be to very little purpose to conduct you over every inch of ground which had been trodden and described by a host of Tourists, and from which little of interest or of novelty could be imparted. Yet it seems to be absolutely incumbent upon me to say _something_ by way of local description. Perhaps the BOULEVARDS form the most interesting feature about Paris. I speak here of the _principal_ Boulevards:--of those, extending from _Ste. Madelaine_ to _St. Antoine_; which encircle nearly one half the capital. Either on foot, or in a carriage, they afford you singular gratification. A very broad road way, flanked by two rows of trees on each side, within which the population of Paris seems to be in incessant agitation--lofty houses, splendid shops, occasionally a retired mansion, with a parterre of blooming flowers in front--all manner of merchandize exposed in the open air--prints, muslins, _kaleidoscopes_, (they have just introduced them[2]) trinkets, and especially watch chains and strings of beads, spread in gay colours upon the ground--the undulations of the chaussée--and a bright blue sky above the green trees--all these things irresistibly rivet the attention and extort the admiration of a stranger. You may have your boots cleaned, and your breakfast prepared, upon these same boulevards. Felicitous junction of conveniences! This however is only a hasty sketch of what may be called a morning scene. AFTERNOON approaches: then, the innumerable chairs, which have been a long time unoccupied, are put into immediate requisition: then commences the "high exchange" of the loungers. One man hires two chairs, for which he pays two sous: he places his legs upon one of them; while his body, in a slanting position, occupies the other. The places, where these chairs are found, are usually flanked by coffee houses. Incessant reports from drawing the corks of beer bottles resound on all sides. The ordinary people are fond of this beverage; and for four or six sous they get a bottle of pleasant, refreshing, small beer. The draught is usually succeeded by a doze--in the open air. What is common, excites no surprise; and the stream of population rushes on without stopping one instant to notice these somniferous indulgences. Or, if they are not disposed to sleep, they sit and look about them: abstractedly gazing upon the multitude around, or at the heavens above. Pure, idle, unproductive listlessness is the necessary cause of such enjoyment. Evening approaches: when the Boulevards put on their gayest and most fascinating livery. Then commences the bustle of the _Ice Mart_: in other words, then commences the general demand for ices: while the rival and neighbouring _caffés_ of TORTONI and RICHE have their porches of entrance choked by the incessant ingress and egress of customers. The full moon shines beautifully above the foliage of the trees; and an equal number of customers, occupying chairs, sit without, and call for ices to be brought to them. Meanwhile, between these loungers, and the entrances to the caffés, move on, closely wedged, and yet scarcely in perceptible motion, the mass of human beings who come only to exercise their eyes, by turning them to the right or to the left: while, on the outside, upon the chaussée, are drawn up the carriages of visitors (chiefly English ladies) who prefer taking their ice within their closed morocco quarters. The varieties of ice are endless, but that of the _Vanille_ is justly a general favourite: not but that you may have coffee, chocolate, punch, peach, almond, and in short every species of gratification of this kind; while the glasses are filled to a great height, in a pyramidal shape, and some of them with layers of strawberry, gooseberry, and other coloured ice--looking like pieces of a Harlequin's jacket--are seen moving to and fro, to be silently and certainly devoured by those who bespeak them. Add to this, every one has his tumbler and small water-bottle by the side of him: in the centre of the bottle is a large piece of ice, and with a tumbler of water, poured out from it, the visitor usually concludes his repast. The most luxurious of these ices scarcely exceeds a shilling of our money; and the quantity is at least half as much again as you get at a certain well-known confectioner's in Piccadilly. It is getting towards MIDNIGHT; but the bustle and activity of the Boulevards have not yet much abated. Groups of musicians, ballad-singers, tumblers, actors, conjurors, slight-of-hand professors, and raree-shew men, have each their distinct audiences. You advance. A little girl with a raised turban (as usual, tastefully put on) seems to have no mercy either upon her own voice or upon the hurdy-gurdy on which she plays: her father shews his skill upon a violin, and the mother is equally active with the organ; after "a flourish"--not of "trumpets"--but of these instruments--the tumblers commence their operations. But a great crowd is collected to the right. What may this mean? All are silent; a ring is made, of which the boundaries are marked by small lighted candles stuck in pieces of clay. Within this circle stands a man--apparently strangled: both arms are extended, and his eyes are stretched to their utmost limits. You look more closely--and the hilt of a dagger is seen in his mouth, of which the blade is introduced into his stomach! He is almost breathless, and ready to faint--but he approaches, with the crown of a hat in one hand, into which he expects you should drop a sous. Having made his collection, he draws forth the dagger from its carnal sheath, and, making his bow, seems to anticipate the plaudits which invariably follow.[3] Or, he changes his plan of operations on the following evening. Instead of the dagger put down his throat, he introduces a piece of wire up one nostril, to descend by the other--and, thus self-tortured, demands the remuneration and the applause of his audience. In short, from one end of the Boulevards to the other, for nearly two English miles, there is nought but animation, good humour, and, it is right to add, good order;--while, having strolled as far as the Boulevards _de Bondy_, and watched the moon-beams sparkling in the waters which play there within the beautiful fountain so called,--I retread my steps, and seek the quiet quarters in which this epistle is penned. The next out-of-door sources of gratification, of importance, are the _Gardens of the Thuileries_, the _Champs Elysées_, and the promenade within the _Palais Royal_; in which latter plays a small, but, in my humble opinion, the most beautifully constructed fountain which Paris can boast of. Of this, presently. The former of these spots is rather pretty than picturesque: rather limited than extensive: a raised terrace to the left, on looking from the front of the Thuileries, is the only commanding situation--from which you observe the Seine, running with its green tint, and rapid current, to the left--while on the right you leisurely examine the rows of orange trees and statuary which give an imposing air of grandeur to the scene. At this season of the year, the fragrance of the blossoms of the orange trees is most delicious. The statues are of a colossal, and rather superior kind ... for garden decoration. There are pleasing vistas and wide gravel walks, and a fine evening usually fills them with crowds of Parisians. The palace is long, but rather too low and narrow; yet there is an air of elegance about it, which, with the immediately surrounding scenery, cannot fail to strike you very agreeably. The white flag of St. Louis floats upon the top of the central dome. The _Champs Elysées_ consist of extensive wooded walks; and a magnificent road divides them, which serves as the great attractive mall for carriages-- especially on Sundays--while, upon the grass, between the trees, on that day, appear knots of male and female citizens enjoying the waltz or quadrille. It is doubtless a most singular, and animated scene: the utmost order and good humour prevailing. The _Place Louis Quinze_, running at right angles with the Thuileries, and which is intersected in your route to the _Rue de la Paix_, is certainly a most magnificent front elevation; containing large and splendid houses, of elaborate exterior ornament. When completed, to the right, it will present an almost matchless front of domestic architecture, built upon the Grecian model. It was in this place, facing his own regal residence of the Thuileries, that the unfortunate Louis--surrounded by a ferocious and bloodthirsty mob--was butchered by the guillotine. Come back with me now into the very heart of Paris, and let us stroll within the area of the _Palais Royal_. You may remember that I spoke of a fountain, which played within the centre of this popular resort. The different branches, or _jets d'eau_, spring from a low, central point; and crossing each other in a variety of angles, and in the most pleasing manner of intersection, produce, altogether, the appearance of the blossom of a large flower: so silvery and transparent is the water, and so gracefully are its glassy petals disposed. Meanwhile, the rays of the sun, streaming down from above, produce a sort of stationary rainbow: and, in the heat of the day, as you sit upon the chairs, or saunter beneath the trees, the effect is both grateful and refreshing. The little flower garden, in the centre of which this fountain seems to be for ever playing, is a perfect model of neatness and tasteful disposition: not a weed dare intrude: and the earth seems always fresh and moist from the spray of the fountain-- while roses, jonquils, and hyacinths scatter their delicious fragrance around. For one minute only let us visit the _Caffé des Mille Colonnes_: so called (as you well know) from the number of upright mirrors and glasses which reflect the small columns by which the ceiling is supported. Brilliant and singular as is this effect, it is almost eclipsed by the appearance of the Mistress of the House; who, decorated with rich and rare gems, and seated upon a sort of elevated throne--uniting great comeliness and (as some think) beauty of person--receives both the homage and (what is doubtless preferable to her) the _francs_ of numerous customers and admirers. The "wealth of either Ind" sparkles upon her hand, or glitters upon her attire: and if the sun of her beauty be somewhat verging towards its declension, it sets with a glow which reminds her old acquaintance of the splendour of its noon-day power. It is yet a sharply contested point whether the ice of this house be preferable to that of Tortoni: a point, too intricate and momentous for my solution. "Non nostrum est ... tantas componere lites." Of the _Jardin des Plantes_, which I have once visited, but am not likely to revisit--owing to the extreme heat of the weather, and the distance of the spot from this place--scarcely too much can be said in commendation: whether we consider it as a _dépôt_ for live or dead animals, or as a school of study and instruction for the cultivators of natural history. The wild animals are kept, in their respective cages, out of doors, which is equally salutary for themselves and agreeable to their visitors. I was much struck by the perpetual motion of a huge, restless, black bear, who has left the marks of his footsteps by a concavity in the floor:--as well as by the panting, and apparently painful, inaction of an equally huge white or gray bear--who, nurtured upon beds of Greenland ice, seemed to be dying beneath the oppressive heat of a Parisian atmosphere. The same misery appeared to beset the bears who are confined, in an open space, below. They searched every where for shade; while a scorching sun was darting its vertical rays upon their heads. In the Museum of dead, or stuffed animals, you have every thing that is minute or magnificent in nature, from the creeping lizard to the towering giraffe, arranged systematically, and in a manner the most obvious and intelligible: while Cuvier's collection of fossil bones equally surprises and instructs you. It is worth all the _catacombs_ of all the capitals in the world. If we turn to the softer and more beauteous parts of creation, we are dazzled and bewildered by the radiance and variety of the tribes of vegetables--whether as fruits or flowers; and, upon the whole, this is an establishment which, in no age or country, hath been surpassed. It is not necessary to trouble you with much more of this strain. The out-of-door enjoyments in Paris are so well known, and have been so frequently described--and my objects of research being altogether of a very different complexion--you will not, I conclude, scold me if I cease to expatiate upon this topic, but direct your attention to others. Not however but that I think you may wish to know my sentiments about the principal ARCHITECTURAL BUILDINGS of Paris--as you are yourself not only a lover, but a judge, of these matters--and therefore the better qualified to criticise and correct the following remarks--which flow "au bout de la plume"--as Madame de Sévigné says. In the first place, then, let us stop a few minutes before the THUILERIES. It hath a beautiful front: beautiful from its lightness and airiness of effect. The small central dome is the only raised part in the long horizontal line of this extended building: not but what the extremities are raised in the old fashioned sloping manner: but if there had been a similar dome at each end, and that in the centre had been just double its present height, the effect, in my humble opinion, would have harmonised better with the extreme length of the building. It is very narrow; so much so, that the same room contains windows from which you may look on either side of the palace: upon the gardens to the west, or within the square to the east. Adjoining to the Thuileries is the LOUVRE: that is to say, a long range of building to the south, parallel with the Seine, connects these magnificent residences: and it is precisely along this extensive range that the celebrated _Gallery of the Louvre_ runs. The principal exterior front, or southern extremity of the Louvre, faces the Seine; and to my eye it is nearly faultless as a piece of architecture constructed upon Grecian and Roman models. But the interior is yet more splendid. I speak more particularly of the south and western fronts: that facing the north being more ancient, and containing female figure ornaments which are palpably of a disproportionate length. The Louvre quadrangle (if I may borrow our old college phrase) is assuredly the most splendid piece of ornamental architecture which Paris contains. The interior of the edifice itself is as yet in an unfinished condition;[4] but you must not conclude the examination of this glorious pile of building, without going round to visit the _eastern_ exterior front--looking towards Notre-Dame. Of all sides of the square, within or without, this colonnade front is doubtless the most perfect of its kind. It is less rich and crowded with ornament than any side of the interior--but it assumes one of the most elegant, airy, and perfectly proportionate aspects, of any which I am just now able to recollect. Perhaps the basement story, upon which this double columned colonnade of the Corinthian Order runs, is somewhat too plain--a sort of affectation of the rustic. The alto-relievo figures in the centre of the tympanum have a decisive and appropriate effect. The advantage both of the Thuileries and Louvre is, that they are well seen from the principal thoroughfares of Paris: that is to say, along the quays, and from the chief streets running from the more ancient parts on the south side of the Seine. The evil attending our own principal public edifices is, that they are generally constructed where they _cannot_ be seen to advantage. Supposing one of the principal entrances or malls of London, both for carriages and foot, to be on the _south_ side of the Thames, what could be more magnificent than the front of _Somerset House_, rising upon its hundred columns perpendicularly from the sides of a river... three times as broad as the Seine, with the majestic arches of _Waterloo Bridge!_--before which, however, the stupendous elevation of _St. Paul's_ and its correspondent bridge of _Black Friars_, could not fail to excite the wonder, and extort the praise, of the most anti-anglican stranger. And to crown the whole, how would the venerable nave and the towers of _Westminster Abbey_--with its peculiar bridge of Westminster ... give a finish to such a succession of architectural objects of metropolitan grandeur! Although in the very heart, of Parisian wonder, I cannot help, you see, carrying my imagination towards our own capital; and suggesting that, if, instead of furnaces, forges, and flickering flames--and correspondent clouds of dense smoke--which give to the southern side of the Thames the appearance of its being the abode of legions of blacksmiths, and glass and shot makers--we introduced a little of the good taste and good sense of our neighbours--and if ... But all this is mighty easily said--though not quite so easily put in practice. The truth however is, my dear friend, that we should _approximate_ a little towards each other. Let the Parisians attend somewhat more to our domestic comforts and commercial advantages--and let the Londoners sacrifice somewhat of their love of warehouses and manufactories--and then you will have hit the happy medium, which, in the metropolis of a great empire, would unite all the conveniences, with all the magnificence, of situation. Of other buildings, devoted to civil purposes, the CHAMBER OF DEPUTIES, the HÔTEL DES INVALIDES, with its gilded dome (a little too profusely adorned,) the INSTITUTE, and more particularly the MINT, are the chief ornaments on the south side of the Seine. In these I am not disposed to pick the least hole, by fastidious or hypercritical observations. Only I wish that they would contrive to let the lions, in front of the façade of the Institute, (sometimes called the _Collège Mazarin_ or _des Quatre Nations_--upon the whole, a magnificent pile) discharge a good large mouthful of water-- instead of the drivelling stream which is for ever trickling from their closed jaws. Nothing can be more ridiculous than the appearance of these meagre and unappropriate objects: the more to be condemned, because the French in general assume great credit for the management of their fountains. Of the four great buildings just noticed, that of the Mint, or rather its façade, pleases me most. It is a beautiful elevation, in pure good taste; but the stone is unfortunately of a coarse grain and of a dingy colour. Of the BRIDGES thrown across the Seine, connecting all the fine objects on either side, it must be allowed that they are generally in good taste: light, yet firm; but those, in iron, of Louis XVI. and _des Arts_, are perhaps to be preferred. The _Pont Neuf_, where the ancient part of Paris begins, is a large, long, clumsy piece of stone work: communicating with the island upon which _Notre Dame_ is built. But if you look eastward, towards old Paris, from the top of this bridge--or if you look in the same direction, a little towards the western side, or upon the quays,--you contemplate, in my humble opinion, one of the grandest views of street scenery that can be imagined! The houses are very lofty--occasionally of six or even eight stories--the material with which they are built is a fine cream-coloured stone: the two branches of the river, and the back ground afforded by _Notre Dame_, and a few other subordinate public buildings, altogether produce an effect--especially as you turn your back upon the sun, sinking low behind the _Barrière de Neuilly_--which would equally warm the hearts and exercise the pencils of the TURNERS and CALCOTS of our own shores. Indeed, I learn that the former distinguished artist has actually made a drawing of this picture. But let me add, that my own unqualified admiration had preceded the knowledge of this latter fact. Among other buildings, I must put in a word of praise in behalf of the HALLE-AUX-BLÉ'S--built after the model of the Pantheon at Rome. It is one hundred and twenty French feet in diameter; has twenty-five covered archways, or arcades, of ten feet in width; of which six are open, as passages of ingress and egress--corresponding with the like number of opposite streets. The present cupola (preceded by one almost as large as that of the Pantheon at Rome) is built of iron and brass--of a curious, light, and yet sufficiently substantial construction--and is unassailable by fire. I never passed through this building without seeing it well stocked with provender; while its area was filled with farmers, who, like our own, assemble to make the best bargain. Yet let me observe that, owing to the height of the neighbouring houses, this building loses almost the whole of its appropriate effect. Nor should the EXCHANGE, in the _Rue des Filles St. Thomas_, be dismissed without slight notice and commendation. It is equally simple, magnificent, and striking: composed of a single row, or peristyle, of Corinthian pillars, flanking a square of no mean dimensions, and presenting fourteen pillars in its principal front. At this present moment, it is not quite finished; but when completed, it promises to be among the most splendid and the most perfect specimens of public architecture in Paris.[5] Beautiful as many may think _our_ Exchange, in my humble opinion it has no pretensions to compete with that at Paris. The HÔTEL DE VILLE, near the _Place de Grève_, is rather in the character of the more ancient buildings in France: it is exceedingly picturesque, and presents a noble façade. Being situated amidst the older streets of Paris, nothing can harmonise better with the surrounding objects. Compared with the metropolis, on its present extended scale, it is hardly of sufficient importance for the consequence usually attached to this kind of building; but you must remember that the greater part of it was built in the sixteenth century, when the capital had scarcely attained half its present size. The _Place de Grève_ during the Revolution, was the spot in which the guillotine performed almost all its butcheries. I walked over it with a hurrying step: fancying the earth to be yet moist with the blood of so many immolated victims. Of other HÔTELS, I shall mention only those of DE SENS and DE SOUBISE. The entrance into the former yet exhibits a most picturesque specimen of the architecture of the early part of the XVIth century. Its interior is devoted to every thing ... which it ought _not_ to be. The Hôtel de Soubise is still a consequential building. It was sufficiently notorious during the reigns of Charles V. and VI.: and it owes its present form to the enterprising spirit of Cardinal Rohan, who purchased it of the Guise family towards the end of the XVIIth century. There is now, neither pomp nor splendour, nor revelry, within this vast building. All its aristocratic magnificence is fled; but the antiquary and the man of curious research console themselves on its possessing treasures of a more substantial and covetable kind. You are to know that it contains the _Archives of State_ and the _Royal Printing Office_. Paris has doubtless good reason to be proud of her public buildings; for they are numerous, splendid, and commodious; and have the extraordinary advantage over our own of not being tinted with soot and smoke. Indeed, when one thinks of the sure invasion of every new stone or brick building in London, by these enemies of external beauty, one is almost sick at heart during the work of erection. The lower tier of windows and columns round St. Paul's have been covered with the dirt and smoke of upwards of a century: and the fillagree-like embellishments which distinguish the recent restorations of Henry the VIIth's chapel, in Westminster Abbey, are already beginning to lose their delicacy of appearance from a similar cause. But I check myself. I am at Paris--and not in the metropolis of our own country. A word now for STREET SCENERY. Paris is perhaps here unrivalled: still I speak under correction--having never seen Edinburgh. But, although _portions_ of that northern capital, from its undulating or hilly site, must necessarily present more picturesque appearances, yet, upon the whole, from the superior size of Paris, there must be more numerous examples of the kind of scenery of which I am speaking. The specimens are endless. I select only a few--the more familiar to me. In turning to the left, from the _Boulevard Montmartre_ or _Poissonière_, and going towards the _Rue St. Marc_, or _Rue des Filles St. Thomas_ (as I have been in the habit of doing, almost every morning, for the last ten days--in my way to the Royal Library) you leave the _Rue Montmartre_ obliquely to the left. The houses here seem to run up to the sky; and appear to have been constructed with the same ease and facility as children build houses of cards. In every direction about this spot, the houses, built of stone, as they generally are, assume the most imposing and picturesque forms; and if a Canaletti resided here, who would condescend to paint without water and wherries, some really magnificent specimens of this species of composition might be executed--equally to the credit of the artist and the place. If you want old fashioned houses, you must lounge in the long and parallel streets of _St. Denis_ and _St. Martin_; but be sure that you choose dry weather for the excursion. Two hours of heavy rain (as I once witnessed) would cause a little rushing rivulet in the centre of these streets--and you could only pass from one side to the other by means of a plank. The absence of _trottoirs_--- or foot-pavement--is indeed here found to be a most grievous defect. With the exception of the _Place Vendome_ and the _Rue de la Paix_, where something like this sort of pavement prevails, Paris presents you with hardly any thing of the kind; so that, methinks, I hear you say, "what though your Paris be gayer and more grand, our London is larger and more commodious." Doubtless this is a fair criticism. But from the _Marché des Innocens_--a considerable space, where they sell chiefly fruit and vegetables,[6]--(and which reminded me something of the market-places of Rouen) towards the _Hôtel de Ville_ and the _Hôtel de Soubise_, you will meet with many extremely curious and interesting specimens of house and street scenery: while, as I before observed to you, the view of the houses and streets in the _Isle St. Louis_, from the _Pont des Ars_, the _Quai de Conti_, the _Pont Neuf_, or the _Quai des Augustins_--or, still better, the _Pont Royal_--is absolutely one of the grandest and completest specimens of metropolitan scenery which can be contemplated. Once more: go as far as the _Pont Louis XVI._, cast your eye down to the left; and observe how magnificently the Seine is flanked by the Thuileries and the Louvre. Surely, it is but a sense of justice and a love of truth which compel an impartial observer to say, that this is a view of regal and public splendor--without a parallel in our own country! The _Rue de Richelieu_ is called the Bond-street of Paris. Parallel with it, is the _Rue Vivienne_. They are both pleasant streets; especially the former, which is much longer, and is rendered more striking by containing some of the finest hotels in Paris. Hosiers, artificial flower makers, clock-makers, and jewellers, are the principal tradesmen in the Rue de Richelieu; but it has no similarity with Bond-street. The houses are of stone, and generally very lofty--while the _Academie de Musique_[7] and the _Bibliothèque du Roi_ are public buildings of such consequence and capacity (especially the former) that it is absurd to name the street in which they are situated with our own. The Rue Vivienne is comparatively short; but it is pleasing, from the number of flowers, shrubs, and fruits, brought thither from the public markets for sale. No doubt the _Place Vendome_ and the _Rue de la Paix_ claim precedence, on the score of magnificence and comfort, to either of these, or to any other streets; but to my taste there is nothing (next to the Boulevards) which is so thoroughly gratifying as the Rue de Richelieu. Is it because some few hundred thousand _printed volumes_ are deposited therein? But of all these, the _Rue St. Honoré_, with its faubourg so called, is doubtless the most distinguished and consequential. It seems to run from west to east entirely through Paris; and is considered, on the score of length, as more than a match for our Oxford street. It may be so; but if the houses are loftier, the street is much narrower; and where, again, is your foot-pavement--to protect you from the eternal movements of fiacre, cabriolet, voiture and diligence? Besides, the undulating line of our Oxford-street presents, to the tasteful observer, a sight--perfectly unrivalled of its kind--especially if it be witnessed on a clear night, when its thousand gas-lighted lamps below emulate the starry lustre of the heavens above! To an inexperienced eye, this has the effect of enchantment. Add to the houses of Oxford-street but two stories, and the appearance of this street, in the day time, would be equally imposing: to which add--what can never be added--the atmosphere of Paris! You will remark that, all this time, I have been wholly silent about the _Palace de Luxembourg_, with its beautiful though flat gardens--of tulips, jonquils, roses, wall flowers, lilac and orange trees--its broad and narrow walks--its terraces and statues. The façade, in a line with the _Rue Vaugirard_, has a grand effect--in every point of view. But the south front, facing the gardens, is extremely beautiful and magnificent; while across the gardens, and in front,--some short English mile--stands the OBSERVATORY. Yet fail not to visit the interior square of the palace, for it is well worth your notice and admiration. This building is now the _Chambre des Pairs_. Its most celebrated ornament was the famous suite of paintings, by Rubens, descriptive of the history of Henry IV. These now adorn the gallery of the Louvre. It is a pity that this very tasteful structure--which seems to be built of the choicest stone--should be so far removed from what may be called the fashionable part of the city. It is in consequence reluctantly visited by our countrymen; although a lover of botany, or a florist, will not fail to procure two or three roots of the different species of _tulips_, which, it is allowed, blow here in uncommon luxuriance and splendor. The preceding is, I am aware, but a feeble and partial sketch--compared with what a longer residence, and a temperature more favourable to exercise (for we are half scorched up with heat, positive and reflected)--would enable me to make. But "where are my favourite ECCLESIASTICAL EDIFICES?" methinks I hear you exclaim. Truly you shall know as much as I know myself; which is probably little enough. Of NOTRE-DAME, the west front, with its marygold window, is striking both from its antiquity and richness. It is almost black from age; but the alto-relievos, and especially those above the doors, stand out in almost perfect condition. These ornaments are rather fine of their kind. There is, throughout the whole of this west front, a beautiful keeping; and the towers are, _here_, somewhat more endurable--and therefore somewhat in harmony. Over the north-transept door, on the outside, is a figure of the Virgin--once holding the infant Jesus in her arms. Of the latter, only the feet remain. The drapery of this figure is in perfectly good taste: a fine specimen of that excellent art which prevailed towards the end of the XIIIth century. Above, is an alto-relievo subject of the slaughter of the Innocents. The soldiers are in quilted armour. I entered the cathedral from the western door, during service-time. A sight of the different clergymen engaged in the office, filled me with melancholy--and made me predict sad things of what was probably to come to pass! These clergymen were old, feeble, wretchedly attired in their respective vestments--and walked and sung in a tremulous and faltering manner. The architectural effect in the interior is not very imposing: although the solid circular pillars of the nave--the double aisles round the choir--and the old basso-relievo representations of the life of Christ, upon the exterior of the walls of the choir--cannot fail to afford an antiquary very singular satisfaction. The choir appeared to be not unlike that of St. Denis. The next Gothic church, in size and importance, is that of St. GERVAIS-- situated to the left, in the Rue de Monceau. It has a very lofty nave, but the interior is exceedingly flat and divested of ornament. The pillars have scarcely any capitals. The choir is totally destitute of effect. Some of the stained glass is rich and old, but a great deal has been stolen or demolished during the Revolution. There is a good large modern picture, in one of the side chapels to the right: and yet a more modern one, much inferior, on the opposite side. In almost every side chapel, and in the confessionals, the priests were busily engaged in the catechetical examination of young people previous to the first Communion on the following sabbath, which was the Fête-Dieu. The western front is wholly Grecian--perhaps about two hundred years old. It is too lofty for its width--but has a grand effect, and is justly much celebrated. Yet the _situation_ of this fine old Gothic church is among the most wretched of those in Paris. It is preserved from suffocation, only by holding it head so high. Next in importance to St. Gervais, is the Gothic church of St. EUSTACHE: a perfect specimen, throughout, of that adulterated style of Gothic architecture (called its _restoration!_) which prevailed at the commencement of the reign of Francis I. Faulty, and even meretricious, as is the whole of the interior, the choir will not fail to strike you with surprise and gratification. It is light, rich, and lofty. This church is very large, but not so capacious as St. Gervais--while situation is, if possible, still more objectionable. Let me not forget my two old favourite churches of ST. GERMAIN DES PRÈS, _and St. Geneviève_; although of the latter I hardly know whether a hasty glimpse, both of the exterior and interior, be not sufficient; the greater part having been destroyed during the Revolution.[8] The immediate vicinity of the former is sadly choaked by stalls and shops--and the west-front has been cruelly covered by modern appendages. It is the church dearest to antiquaries; and with reason.[9] I first visited it on a Sunday, when that part of the Service was performed which required the fullest intonations of the organ. The effect altogether was very striking. The singular pillars-- of which the capitals are equally massive and grotesque, being sometimes composed of human beings, and sometimes of birds and beasts, especially towards the choir--the rising up and sitting down of the congregation, and the yet more frequent movements of the priests--the swinging of the censers--and the parade of the vergers, dressed in bag wigs, with broad red sashes of silk, and silk stockings--but, above all, the most scientifically touched, as well as the deepest and loudest toned, organ I ever heard-- perfectly bewildered and amazed me! Upon the dispersion of the congregation--which very shortly followed this religious excitation--I had ample leisure to survey every part of this curious old structure; which reminded me, although upon a much larger scale, of the peculiarities of St. Georges de Bocherville, and Notre Dame at Guibray. Certainly, very much of this church is of the twelfth century--and as I am not writing to our friend P*** I will make bold to say that some portions of it yet "smack strongly" of the eleventh. Nearer to my residence, and of a kindred style of architecture, is the church of ST. GERMAIN AUX AUXERROIS. The west front or porch is yet sound and good. Nothing particularly strikes you on the entrance, but there are some interesting specimens of rich old stained glass in the windows of the transepts. The choir is completely and cruelly modernised. In the side chapels are several good modern paintings; and over an altar of twisted columns, round which ivy leaves, apparently composed of ivory, are creeping, is a picture of three figures in the flames of purgatory. This side-chapel is consecrated to the offering up of orisons "_for the souls in purgatory_." It is gloomy and repulsive. Death's heads and thigh bones are painted, in white colours, upon the stained wall; and in the midst of all these fearful devices, I saw three young ladies intensely occupied in their devotions at the railing facing the altar. Here again, I observed priests examining young people in their catechism; and others in confessionals, receiving the confessions of the young of both sexes, previous to their taking the first sacrament on the approaching _Fête-Dieu_. Contiguous to the Sorbonne church, there stands, raising its neatly constructed dome aloft in air, the _Nouvelle Eglise Ste. Geneviève_, better known by the name of the PANTHEON. The interior presents to my eye the most beautiful and perfect specimen of Grecian architecture with which I am acquainted. In the crypt are seen the tombs of French warriors; and upon the pavement above, is a white marble statue of General Leclerc (brother in law of Bonaparte,) who died in the expedition to St. Domingo. This, statue is too full of conceit and affectation both in attitude and expression. The interior of the building is about 370 English feet in length, by 270 in width; but it is said that the foundation is too weak. From the gallery, running along the bottom of the dome--the whole a miniature representation of our St. Paul's--you have a sort of Panorama of Paris; but not, I think, a very favourable one. The absence of sea-coal fume strikes you very agreeably; but, for picturesque effect, I could not help thinking of the superior beauty of the panorama of Rouen from the heights of Mont Ste. Catharine. It appears to me that the small lantern on the top of the dome wants a finishing apex.[10] Yonder majestic portico forms the west front of the church called St. SULPICE ... It is at once airy and grand. There are two tiers of pillars, of which this front is composed: the lower is Doric; the upper Ionic: and each row, as I am told, is nearly forty French feet in height, exclusively of their entablatures, each of ten feet. We have nothing like this, certainly, as the front of a parish church, in London. When I except St. Paul's, such exception is made in reference to the most majestic piece of architectural composition, which, to my eye, the wit of man hath yet devised. The architect of the magnificent front of St. Sulpice was SERVANDONI; and a street hard by (in which Dom Brial, the father of French history, resides) takes its name from this architect. There are two towers--one at each end of this front,--about two hundred and twenty feet in height from the pavement: harmonising well with the general style of architecture, but of which, that to the south (to the best of my recollection) is left in an unaccountably, if not shamefully, unfinished state.[11] These towers are said to be about one _toise_ higher than those of Notre Dame. The interior of this church is hardly less imposing than its exterior. The vaulted roofs are exceedingly lofty; but for the length of the nave, and more especially the choir, the transepts are disproportionably short. Nor are there sufficiently prominent ornaments to give relief to the massive appearance of the sides. These sides are decorated by fluted pilasters of the Corinthian order; which, for so large and lofty a building, have a tame effect. There is nothing like the huge, single, insulated column, or the clustered slim pilasters, that separate the nave from the side aisles of the Gothic churches of the early and middle ages. The principal altar, between the nave and the choir, is admired for its size, and grandeur of effect; but it is certainly ill-placed, and is perhaps too ornamental, looking like a detached piece which does not harmonise with the surrounding objects. Indeed, most of the altars in French churches want simplicity and appropriate effect: and the whole of the interior of the choir is (perhaps to my fastidious eye only,) destitute of that quiet solemn character, which ought always to belong to places of worship. Rich, minute, and elaborate as are many of the Gothic choirs of our own country, they are yet in harmony; and equally free from a frivolous or unappropriate effect. Behind the choir, is the Chapel of Our Lady: which is certainly both splendid and imposing. Upon the ceiling is represented the Assumption of the Virgin, and the walls are covered with a profusion of gilt ornament, which, upon the whole, has a very striking effect. In a recess, above the altar, is a sculptured representation of the Virgin and Infant Christ, in white marble, of a remarkably high polish: nor are the countenances of the mother and child divested of sweetness of expression. They are represented upon a large globe, or with the world at their feet: upon the top of which, slightly coiled, lies the "bruised" or dead serpent. The light, in front of the spectator, from a concealed window, (a contrivance to which the French seem partial) produces a sort of magical effect. I should add, that this is the largest parochial church in Paris; and that its organ has been pronounced to be matchless. The rival churches of St. Sulpice--rival ones, rather from similarity of structure, than extent of dimensions--are the ORATOIRE and St. ROCH: both situated in the Rue St. Honoré. St. Roch is doubtless a very fine building--with a well-proportioned front--and a noble flight of steps; but the interior is too plain and severe for my taste. The walls are decorated by unfluted pilasters, with capitals scarcely conformable to any one order of architecture. The choir however is lofty, and behind it, in Our Lady's Chapel if I remember rightly, there is a striking piece of sculpture, of the Crucifixion, sunk into a rock, which receives the light from an invisible aperture as at St. Sulpice. To the right, or rather behind this chapel, there is another--called the _Chapel of Calvary_,--in which you observe a celebrated piece of sculpture, of rather colossal dimensions, of the entombment of Christ. The dead Saviour is borne to the sepulchre by Joseph of Arimathea, St. John, and the three Maries. The name of the sculptor is _Deseine_. Certainly you cannot but be struck with the effect of such representations--which accounts for these two chapels being a great deal more attended, than the choir or the nave of the church. It is right however to add, that the pictures here are preferable to those at St. Sulpice: and the series of bas-reliefs, descriptive of the principal events in the life of Christ, is among the very best specimens of art, of that species, which Paris can boast of. Very different from either of these interiors is that of _St. Philippe du Roule_; which presents you with a single insulated row of fluted Ionic pillars, on each side of the nave; very airy, yet impressive and imposing. It is much to my taste; and I wish such a plan were more generally adopted in the interiors of Grecian-constructed churches. The choir, the altar ... the whole is extremely simple and elegant. Nor must the roof be omitted to be particularly mentioned. It is an arch, constructed of wood; upon a plan originally invented by Philibert Delorme--so well known in the annals of art in the sixteenth century. The whole is painted in stone colour, and may deceive the most experienced eye. This beautiful church was built after the designs of Chalgrin, about the year 1700; and is considered to be a purer resemblance of the antique than any other in Paris. This church, well worth your examination, is situated in a quarter rarely visited by our countrymen--in the _Rue du Faubourg du Roule_, not far from the barriers. Not very remotely connected with the topic of CHURCHES, is that of the SABBATHS ... as spent in Paris. They are nearly the same throughout all France. As Bonaparte had no respect for religion itself, so he had less for the forms connected with the upholding of it. Parades, battles, and campaigns--were all that he cared about: and the Parisians, if they supplied him with men and money--the _materiel_ for the execution of these objects--were left to pray, preach, dance, or work, just as they pleased on the Sabbath day. The present King,[12] as you well know, attempted the introduction of something like an _English Sabbath_: but it would not do. When the French read and understand GRAHAME[13] as well as they do THOMSON, they will peradventure lend a ready and helping hand towards the completion of this laudable plan. At present, there is much which hurts the eye and ear of a well-educated and well-principled Englishman. There is a partial shutting up of the shops before twelve; but after mid-day the shop-windows are uniformly closed throughout Paris. Meanwhile the cart, the cabriolet, the crier of herbs and of other marketable produce--the sound of the whip or of the carpenter's saw and hammer--the shelling of peas in the open air, and the plentiful strewing of the pod hard by--together with sundry, other offensive and littering accompaniments--all strike you as disagreeable deviations from what you have been accustomed to witness at home. Add to this, the half-dirty attire--the unshaven beard of the men, and the unkempt locks of the women--produce further revolting sensations. It is not till past mid-day that the noise of labour ceases, and that the toilette is put into a complete state for the captivation of the beholder. By four or five o'clock the streets become half thinned. On a Sunday, every body rushes into the country. The tradesman has his little villa, and the gentleman and man of fortune his more capacious rural domain; and those, who aspire neither to the one or the other, resort to the _Bois de Boulogne_ and the _Champs Elysées_, or to the gardens of _Beaujon_, and _Tivoli_--or to the yet more attractive magnificence of the palace and fountains of _Versailles_--where, in one or the other of these places, they carouse, or disport themselves--in promenades, or dancing groups--till ... Majores.. cadunt de montibus umbræ. This, generally and fairly speaking, is a summer Sabbath in the metropolis of France. Unconscionable as you may have deemed the length of this epistle, I must nevertheless extend it by the mention of what I conceive to be a very essential feature both of beauty and utility in the street scenery of Paris. It is of the FOUNTAINS that I am now about to speak; and of some of which a slight mention has been already made. I yet adhere to the preference given to that in the _Palais Royal_; considered with reference to the management of the water. It is indeed a purely aqueous exhibition, in which architecture and sculpture have nothing to do. Not so are the more imposing fountains of the MARCHÉ DES INNOCENS, DE GRENELLE, and the BOULEVARD BONDY. For the first of these,[14] the celebrated _Lescot_, abbé de Clagny, was the designer of the general form; and the more celebrated Jean Goujon the sculptor of the figures in bas-relief. It was re-touched and perfected in 1551, and originally stood in the angle of the two streets, of _aux Fers_ and _St. Denis_, presenting only two façades to the beholder. It was restored and beautified in 1708; and in 1788 it changed both its form and its position by being transported to the present spot-- the _Marché des Innocens_--the market for vegetables. Two other similar sides were then added, making it a square: but the original performances of Goujon, which are considered almost as his master-piece, attract infinitely more admiration than the more recent ones of Pajou. Goujon's figures are doubtless very delicately and successfully executed. The water bubbles up in the centre of the square, beneath the arch, in small sheets, or masses; and its first and second subsequent falls, also in sheets, have a very beautiful effect. They are like pieces of thin, transparent ice, tumbling upon each other; but the _lead_, of which the lower half of the fountain is composed--as the reservoir of the water--might have been advantageously exchanged for _marble_. The lion at each corner of the pedestal, squirting water into a sarcophagus-shaped reservoir, has a very absurd appearance. Upon the whole, this fountain is well deserving of particular attention. The inscription upon it is FONTIVM NYMPHIS; but perhaps, critically speaking, it is now in too exposed a situation for the character of it's ornaments. A retired, rural, umbrageous recess, beneath larch and pine-- whose boughs Wave high and murmur in the hollow wind-- seems to be the kind of position fitted for the reception of a fountain of this character. The FONTAINE DE GRENELLE is almost entirely architectural; and gives an idea of a public office, rather than of a conduit. You look above--to the right and the left--but no water appears. At last, almost by accident, you look down, quite at its base, and observe two insignificant streams trickling from the head of an animal. The central figure in front is a representation of the city of Paris: the recumbent figures, on each side, represent, the one the Seine, the other the Marne. Above, there are four figures which represent the four Seasons. This fountain, the work of Bouchardon, was erected in 1739 upon the site of what formed a part of an old convent. A more simple, and a more striking fountain, to my taste, is that of the ECOLE DE CHIRURGIE; in which a comparatively large column of water rushes down precipitously between two Doric pillars--which form the central ones of four--in an elegant façade. Yet more simple, more graceful, and more capacious, is the fountain of the BOULEVARD BONDY--which I first saw sparkling beneath the lustre of a full moon. This is, in every sense of the word, a fountain. A constant but gentle undulation of water, from three aqueous terraces, surmounted by three basins, gradually diminishing in size, strike you with peculiar gratification--view it from whatever quarter you will: but seen in the neighbourhood of _trees_, the effect, in weather like this, is absolutely heart-refreshing. The only objectionable part of this elegant structure, on the score of art, are the lions, and their positions. In the first place, it is difficult to comprehend why the mouth of a _lion_ is introduced as a channel for the transmission of water; and, in the second place, these lions should have occupied the basement portion of the structure. This beautiful fountain, of which the water is supplied by the _Canal d'Ourcq_, was finished only about seven or eight years ago. Nor let the FOUNTAIN OF TRIUMPH or VICTORY, in the _Place du Châtelet_, be forgotten. It is a column, surmounted by a gilt statue of Victory, with four figures towards its pedestal. The four jets-d'eau, from its base,--which are sufficiently insignificant--empty themselves into a circular basin; but the shaft of the column, to my eye, is not free from affectation. The names of some of Bonaparte's principal victories are inscribed upon that part of the column which faces the Pont au Change. There is a classical air of elegance about this fountain, which is fifty feet in height. But where is the ELEPHANT Fountain?--methinks I hear you exclaim. It is yet little more than in embryo: that is to say, the plaster-cast of it only is visible--with the model, on a smaller scale, completed in all its parts, by the side of it. It is really a stupendous affair.[15] On entering the temporary shed erected for its construction, on the site of the Bastille, I was almost breathless with astonishment for a moment. Imagine an enormous figure of the unwieldy elephant, _full fifty feet high!_ You see it, in the front, foreshortened--as you enter; and as the head is the bulkiest portion of the animal, you may imagine something of the probable resulting effect. Certainly it is most imposing. The visitor, who wishes to make himself acquainted with the older, and more original, national character of the French--whether as respects manners, dresses, domestic occupations, and public places of resort--will take up his residence in the _Rue du Bac_, or at the _Hotel des Bourbons_; within twenty minutes walk of the more curious objects which are to be found in the Quartiers Saint André des Arcs, du Luxembourg, and Saint Germain des Près. Ere he commence his morning perambulations, he will look well at his map, and to what is described, in the route which he is to take, in the works of Landon and of Legrand, or of other equally accurate topographers. Two things he ought invariably to bear in mind: the first, not to undertake too much, for the sake of saying how _many_ things he has seen:--and the second, to make himself thoroughly master of what he _does_ see. All this is very easily accomplished: and a fare of thirty sous will take you, at starting, to almost any part of Paris, however remote: from whence you may shape your course homewards at leisure, and with little fatigue. Such a visitor will, however, sigh, ere he set out on his journey, on being told that the old Gothic church of _St. André-des-Arcs_--the Abbey of _St. Victor_--the churches of the _Bernardins_, and of _St. Etienne des Près_, the _Cloisters_ of _the Cordeliers_, and the _Convent of the Celestins_ ... exist no longer ... or, that their remains are mere shadows of shades! But in the three quarters of Paris, above mentioned, he will gather much curious information--in spite of the havoc and waste which the Revolution has made; and on his return to his own country he will reflect, with pride and satisfaction, on the result of his enterprise and perseverance. To my whimsically formed taste, OLD PARIS has in it very much to delight, and afford valuable information. Not that I would decry the absolute splendor, gaiety, comfort, and interminable variety, which prevail in its more modern and fashionable quarters. And certainly one may fairly say, that, on either side the Seine, Paris is a city in which an Englishman,-- who is resolved to be in good humour with all about him, and to shew that civility to others which he is sure to receive from the better educated classes of society here--cannot fail to find himself pleased, perfectly at ease, and well contented with his fare. Compared with the older part of London, the more ancient division of Paris is infinitely more interesting, and of a finer architectural construction. The conical roofs every now and then remind you of the times of Francis I.; and the clustered arabesques, upon pilasters, or running between the bolder projections of the façades, confirm you in the chronology of the buildings. But time, caprice, fashion, or poverty, will, in less than half a century, materially change both the substance and surfaces of things. It is here, as at Rouen--you bewail the work of destruction which has oftentimes converted cloisters into workshops, and consecrated edifices into warehouses of every description. Human nature and the fate of human works are every where the same. Let two more centuries revolve, and the THUILERIES and the LOUVRE may possibly be as the BASTILLE and the TEMPLE. Such, to my feelings, is Paris--considered only with reference to its _local_: for I have really done little more than perambulate its streets, and survey its house-tops--with the important exceptions to be detailed in the succeeding letters from hence. Of the treasures contained _beneath_ some of those "housetops"--more especially of such as are found in the shape of a BOOK--whether as a MS. or a Printed Volume--prepare to receive some particulars in my next. [1] [Several Notes in this volume having reference to MONS. CRAPELET, a Printer of very considerable eminence at Paris, it may be proper to inform the Reader that that portion of this Tour, which may be said to have a more exclusive reference to France, usually speaking--including the notice of Strasbourg--was almost entirely translated by Mons. Crapelet himself. An exception however must be made to those parts which relate to the _King's Private Library_ at Paris, and to _Strasbourg_: these having been executed by different pens, evidently in the hands of individuals of less wrongheadedness and acrimony of feeling than the Parisian Printer. Mons. Crapelet has prefixed a Preface to his labours, in which he tells the world, that, using my more favourite metaphorical style of expression, "a CRUSADE has risen up against the INFIDEL DIBDIN." Metaphorical as may be this style, it is yet somewhat alarming: for, most assuredly, when I entered and quitted the "beau pays" of France, I had imagined myself to have been a courteous, a grateful, and, under all points of view, an ORTHODOX Visitor. It seems however, from the language of the French Typographer, that I acted under a gross delusion; and that it was necessary to have recourse to his sharp-set sickle to cut away all the tares which I had sown in the soil of his country. Upon the motive and the merit of his labours, I have already given my unbiassed opinion.[A] Here, it is only necessary to observe, that I have not, consciously, falsified his opinions, or undervalued his worth. Let the Reader judge between us. [A] Vide Preface. [2] [They have now entirely lost the recollection, as well as the sight, of them.] [3] ["The Parisians would doubtless very willingly get rid of such a horrid spectacle in the streets and places of the Metropolis: besides, it is not unattended with danger to the Actors themselves."--CRAPELET.] [4] ["And will continue to be so, it is feared--to the regret of all Frenchmen--for a long time. It is however the beginning of a new reign. The building of some new Edifices will doubtless be undertaken. But if the King were to order the _finishing_ of all the public Buildings of Paris, the epoch of the reign of Charles X. would assuredly be the most memorable for Arts, and the embellishment of the Capital." CRAPELET. 1825.] [5] [It is now completed: but seven years elapsed, after the above description, before the building was in all respects considered to be finished.] [6] [A most admirable view of this Market Place, with its picturesque fountain in the centre, was painted by the younger Mr. Chalon, and exhibited at Somerset House. A well executed _print_ of such a thoroughly characteristic performance might, one would imagine, sell prosperously on either side of the channel.] [7] [This building, which may perhaps be better known as that of the _Opera_, is now rased to the ground--in consequence of the assassination of the Duke de Berri there, in February, 1820, on his stepping into his carriage on quitting the Opera. But five years were suffered to elapse before the work of demolition was quite completed. And when will the monument to the Duke's memory be raised?--CRAPELET.] [8] [It is now entirely demolished, to make way for a large and commodious Street which gives a complete view of the church of St. Stephen. CRAPELET.] [9] The views of it, as it appeared in the XVIth century, represent it nearly surrounded by a wall and a moat. It takes its name as having been originally situated _in the fields_. [10] [Two years ago was placed, upon the top of this small lantern, a gilt cross, thirty-eight feet high: 41 of English measurement: and the church has been consecrated to the Catholic service. CRAPELET. Thus, the criticism of an English traveller, in 1818, was not entirely void of foundation.] [11] [Our public buildings, which have continued long in an unfinished state, strike the eyes of foreigners more vividly than they do our own: but it is impossible to face the front of St. Sulpice without partaking of the sentiment of the author. CRAPELET.] [12] [Louis XVIII.] [13] [_read and understand_ GRAHAME.]--Mr. Grahame is both a very readable and understandable author. He has reason to be proud of his poem called the SABBATH: for it is one of the sweetest and one of the purest of modern times. His _scene_ however is laid in the country, and not in the metropolis. The very opening of this poem refreshes the heart--and prepares us for the more edifying portions of it, connected with the performance of the religious offices of our country. This beautiful work will LIVE as long as sensibility, and taste, and a virtuous feeling, shall possess the bosoms of a British Public. [14] See the note p. 20, ante. [15] It is now completed. _LETTER II._ GENERAL DESCRIPTION OF THE BIBLIOTHÈQUE DU ROI. THE LIBRARIANS. _Hôtel des Colonies, Rue de Richelieu_. The moment is at length arrived when you are to receive from me an account of some of the principal treasures contained in the ROYAL LIBRARY of Paris. I say "_some_":--because, in an epistolary communication, consistently with my time, and general objects of research--it must be considered only as a slight selection, compared with what a longer residence, and a more general examination of the contents of such a collection, might furnish. Yet, limited as my view may have been, the objects of that view are at once rich and rare, and likely to afford all true sons of BIBLIOMANIA and VIRTU the most lively gratification. This is a bold avowal: but I fear not to make it, and: the sequel shall be the test of its modesty and truth. You observe, I have dated my letter from a different quarter. In fact, the distance of my former residence from the Bibliothèque du Roi--coupled with the oppressive heat of the weather--rendered my morning excursions thither rather uncomfortable; and instead of going to work with elastic spirits, and an untired frame, both Mr. Lewis and myself felt jaded and oppressed upon our arrival. We are now, on the contrary, scarcely fifty yards from the grand door of entrance into the library. But this is only tantalizing you. To the LIBRARY, therefore, at once let us go. The exterior and interior, as to architectural appearance, are rather of a sorry description: heavy; comparatively low, without ornament, and of a dark and dingy tint. Towards the street, it has the melancholy air of a workhouse. But none of the apartments, in which the books are contained, look into this street; so that, consequently, little inconvenience is experienced from the incessant motion and rattling of carts and carriages--the Rue de Richelieu being probably the most frequented in Paris. Yet, repulsive as may be this exterior, it was observed to me--on my suggesting what a fine situation the quadrangle of the Louvre would make for the reception of the royal library--that, it might be questioned whether even _that_ quadrangle were large enough to contain it;--and that the present building, however heavy and ungracious of aspect, was better calculated for its present purpose than probably any other in Paris. In the centre of the edifice--for it is a square, or rather a parallelogram-shaped building--stands a bronze naked figure of Diana; stiff and meagre both in design and execution. It is of the size of life; but surely a statue of _Minerva_ would have been a little more appropriate? On entering the principal door, in the street just mentioned, you turn to the right, and mount a large stone staircase--after attending to the request, printed in large characters, of "_Essuyez vos Souliers_"--as fixed against the wall. This entrance goes directly to the collection of PRINTED BOOKS. On reaching the first floor, you go straight forward, within folding doors; and the first room, of considerable extent, immediately receives you. The light is uniformly admitted by large windows, to the right, looking into the quadrangle before mentioned. You pass through this room--where scarcely any body lingers--and enter the second, where are placed the EDITIONES PRINCIPES, and other volumes printed in the fifteenth century. To an _experienced_ eye, the first view of the contents of this second room is absolutely magical; Such copies of such rare, precious, magnificent, and long-sought after impressions!... It is fairy-land throughout. There stands the _first Homer_, unshorn by the binder; a little above, is the first _Roman edition of Eustathius's_ Commentary upon that poet, in gorgeous red morocco, but printed UPON VELLUM! A Budæus _Greek Lexicon_ (Francis I.'s own copy) also UPON VELLUM! The _Virgils, Ovids, Plinies_ ... and, above all, the _Bibles_--But I check myself; in order to conduct you regularly through the apartments, ere you sit down with me before each volume which I may open. In this second-room are two small tables, rarely occupied, but at one or the other of which I was stationed (by the kind offices of M. Van Praet) for fourteen days--with almost every thing that was exquisite and rare, in the old book-way, behind and before me. Let us however gradually move onwards. You pass into the third room. Here is the grand rendezvous of readers. Six circular or rather oval tables, each capable of accommodating twelve students, and each generally occupied by the full number, strike your eye in a very pleasing manner, in the centre of this apparently interminable vista of printed volumes. But I must call your particular attention to the _foreground_ of this magical book-view. To the left of this third room, on entering, you observe a well-dressed Gentleman (of somewhat shorter stature than the author of this description) busied behind a table; taking down and putting up volumes: inscribing names, and numbers, and titles, in a large folio volume; giving orders on all sides; and putting several pairs of legs into motion in consequence of those orders--while his own are perhaps the least spared of any. This gentleman is no less a personage than the celebrated Monsieur VAN PRAET; one of the chief librarians in the department of the printed books. His aspect is mild and pleasant; while his smart attire frequently forms a striking contrast to habiliments and personal appearances of a very different, and less conciliating description, by which he is surrounded.[16] M. Van Praet must be now approaching his sixtieth year; but his age sits bravely upon him--for his step is rapid and firm, and his physiognomical expression indicative of a much less protracted period of existence.[17] He is a Fleming by birth; and, even in shewing his first Eustathius, or first Pliny, UPON VELLUM, you may observe the natural enthusiasm of a Frenchman tempered by the graver emotions of a native of the Netherlands. This distinguished Bibliographer (of whom, somewhat more in a future epistle) has now continued nearly forty years in his present situation; and when infirmity, or other causes, shall compel him to quit it, France will never replace him by one possessing more appropriate talents! He doats upon the objects committed to his trust. He lives almost entirely among his dear books ... either on the first floor or on the ground floor: for when the hour of departure, two o'clock, arrives, M. Van Praet betakes him to the quieter book realms below--where, surrounded by _Grolier, De Thou_, and _Diane de Poictiers_, copies, he disports him till his dinner hour of four or five--and 'as the evening shades prevail,' away hies he to his favourite '_Théatre des Italiens_,' and the scientific treat of Italian music. This I know, however--and this I will say--in regard to the amiable and excellent gentleman under description--that, if I were King of France, Mons. Van Praet should be desired to sit in a roomy, morocco-bottomed, mahogany arm chair--not to stir therefrom--but to issue out his edicts, for the delivery of books, to the several athletic myrmidons under his command. Of course there must be occasional exceptions to this rigid, but upon the whole salutary, "Ordonnance du Roy." Indeed I have reason to mention a most flattering exception to it--in my own favour: for M. Van Praet would come into the second room, (just mentioned) and with his own hands supply me with half a score volumes at a time--of such as I wished to examine. But, generally speaking, this worthy and obliging creature is too lavish of his own personal exertions. He knows, to be sure, all the bye-passes, and abrupt ascents and descents; and if he be out of sight--in a moment, through some secret aperture, he returns as quickly through another equally unseen passage. Upon an average, I set his bibliomaniacal peregrinations down at the rate of a full French league per day. It is the absence of all pretension and quackery--the quiet, unobtrusive manner in which he opens his well-charged battery of information upon you--but, more than all, the glorious honours which are due to him, for having assisted to rescue the book treasures of the Abbey of St. Germain des Près from destruction, during the horrors of the Revolution--that cannot fail to secure to him the esteem of the living, and the gratitude of posterity. [Illustration: GOLD MEDAL OF LOUIS XII. From the Cabinet des Medailles at Paris.] We must now leave this well occupied and richly furnished chamber, and pass on to the fourth room--in the centre of which is a large raised bronze ornament, representing Apollo and the Muses--surrounded by the more eminent literary characters of France in the seventeenth century. It is raised to the glory of the grand monarque Louis XIV. and the figure of Apollo is intended for that of his Majesty. The whole is a palpable failure: a glaring exhibition of bad French taste. Pegasus, the Muses, rocks, and streams, are all scattered about in a very confused manner; without connection, and of course without effect. Even the French allow it to be "mesquin, et de mauvais goût." But let me be methodical. As you enter this fourth room, you observe, opposite--before you turn to the right--a door, having the inscription of CABINET DES MEDAILLES. This door however is open only twice in the week; when the cabinet is freely and most conveniently shewn. Of its contents--in part, precious beyond comparison--this is the place to say only one little word or two: for really there would be no end of detail were I to describe even its most remarkable treasures. Francis I. and his son Henry II. were among its earliest patrons; when the cabinet was deposited in the Louvre. The former enriched it with a series of valuable gold medals, and among them with one of Louis XII., his predecessor; which has not only the distinction of being beautifully executed, but of being the largest, if not the first of its kind in France.[18] The specimens of Greek art, in coins, and other small productions, are equally precious and select. Vases, shields, gems, and cameos--the greater part of which are described in Caylus's well-known work--are perfectly enchanting. But the famous AGAT of the STE. CHAPELLE--supposed to be the largest in the world, and which has been engraved by Giradet in a manner perfectly unrivalled--will not fail to rivet your attention, and claim your most unqualified commendation. The sardonyx, called the VASE of PTOLEMY, is another of the great objects of attraction in the room where we are now tarrying--and beautiful, and curious, and precious, it unquestionably is. Doubtless, in such a chamber as this, the classical archæologist will gaze with no ordinary emotions, and meditate with no ordinary satisfaction. But I think I hear the wish escape him--as he casts an attentive eye over the whole--"why do they not imitate us in a publication relating to them? Why do they not put forth something similar to what we have done for our _Museum Marbles_? Or rather, speaking more correctly, why are not the _Marlborough Gems_ considered as an object of rivalry, by the curators of this exquisite cabinet? Paris is not wanting both in artists who design, and who engrave, in this department, with at least equal skill to our own."[19] Let us now return to the Books. In the fourth book-room there is an opening in the centre, to the left, nearly facing the bronze ornament--through which, as you enter, and look to the left, appear the upper halves of two enormous GLOBES. The effect is at first, inconceivably puzzling and even startling: but you advance, and looking down the huge aperture occasioned by these gigantic globes, you observe their bases resting on the ground floor: both the upper and ground floor having the wainscots entirely covered by books. These globes are the performance of Vincent Coronelli, a Venetian; and were presented to Louis XIV. by the Cardinal d'Etrées, who had them made for his Majesty. You return back into the fourth room--pace on to its extremity, and then, at right angles, view the fifth room--or, comprising the upper and lower globe rooms, a seventh room; the whole admirably well lighted up from large side windows. Observe further--the whole corresponding suite of rooms, on the ground floor, is also nearly filled with printed books, comprising the _unbound copies_--and one chamber, occupied by the more exquisite specimens of the presses of the _Alduses_, the _Giuntæ_, the _Stephens_, &c. UPON VELLUM, or on _large paper_. Another chamber is exclusively devoted to large paper copies of _all_ descriptions, from the presses of all countries; and in one or the other of these chambers are deposited the volumes from the Library of _Grolier_ and _De Thou_--names, dear to Book-Collectors; as an indifferent copy has hardly ever yet been found which was once deposited on the shelves of either. You should know that the public do not visit this lower suite of rooms, it being open only to the particular friends of the several Librarians. The measurement of these rooms, from the entrance to the extremity of the fifth room, is upwards of 700 feet. Now, my good friend, if you ask me whether the interior of this library be superior to that of our dear BODLEIAN, I answer, at once, and without fear of contradiction--it is very much _inferior_. It represents an interminable range of homely and commodious apartments; but the Bodleian library, from beginning to end--from floor to ceiling--is grand, impressive, and entirely of a bookish appearance. In that spacious and lofty receptacle--of which the ceiling, in my humble opinion, is an unique and beautiful piece of workmanship--all is solemn, and grave, and inviting to study: yet echoing, as it were, to the footsteps of those who once meditated within its almost hallowed precincts--the _Bodleys_, the _Seldens_, the _Digbys_, the _Lauds_ and _Tanners_, of other times![20] But I am dreaming: forgetting that, at this moment, you are impatient to enter the _MS. Department_ of the Royal Library at Paris. Be it so, therefore. And yet the very approach to this invaluable collection is difficult of discovery. Instead of a corresponding lofty stone stair-case, you cross a corner of the square, and enter a passage, with an iron gate at the extremity--leading to the apartments of Messrs. Millin and Langlès. A narrow staircase, to the right, receives you: and this stair-case would appear to lead rather to an old armoury, in a corner-tower of some baronial castle, than to a suite of large modern apartments, containing probably, upon the whole, the finest collection of _Engravings_ and of _Manuscripts_, of all ages and characters, in Europe. Nevertheless, as we cannot mount by any other means, we will e'en set footing upon this stair-case, humble and obscure as it may be. You scarcely gain the height of some twenty steps, when you observe the magical inscription of CABINET DES ESTAMPES. Your spirits dance, and your eyes sparkle, as you pull the little wire--and hear the clink of a small corresponding bell. The door is opened by one of the attendants in livery-- arrayed in blue and silver and red--very handsome, and rendered more attractive by the respectful behaviour of those who wear that royal costume. I forgot to say that the same kind of attendants are found in all the apartments attached to this magnificent collection--and, when not occupied in their particular vocation of carrying books to and fro, these attendants are engaged in reading, or sitting quietly with crossed legs, and peradventure dosing a little. But nothing can exceed their civility; accompanied with a certain air of politeness, not altogether divested of a kind of gentlemanly deportment. On entering the first of those rooms, where the prints are kept, you are immediately struck with the narrow dimensions of the place--for the succeeding room, though perhaps more than twice as large, is still inadequate to the reception of its numerous visitors.[21] In this first room you observe a few of the very choicest productions of the burin, from the earliest periods of the art, to the more recent performances of _Desnoyer_, displayed within glazed frames upon the wainscot. It really makes the heart of a connoisseur leap with ecstacy to see such _Finiguerras, Baldinis, Boticellis, Mantegnas, Pollaiuolos, Israel Van Meckens, Albert Durers, Marc Antonios, Rembrandts, Hollar, Nanteuils, Edelincks, &c._; while specimens of our own great master engravers, among whom are _Woollet_ and _Sharp_, maintain a conspicuous situation, and add to the gratification of the beholder. The idea is a good one; but to carry it into complete effect, there should be a gallery, fifty feet long, of a confined width, and lighted from above:[22] whereas the present room is scarcely twenty feet square, with a disproportionably low ceiling. However, you cannot fail to be highly gratified--and onwards you go--diagonally--and find yourself in a comparatively long room--in the midst of which is a table, reaching from nearly one end to the other, and entirely filled (every day) with visitors, or rather students--busied each in their several pursuits. Some are quietly turning over the succeeding leaves, on which the prints are pasted: others are pausing upon each fine specimen, in silent ecstacy--checking themselves every instant lest they should break forth into rapturous exclamations!... "silence" being rigidly prescribed by the Curators--and, I must say, as rigidly maintained. Others again are busied in deep critical examination of some ancient ruin from the pages of _Piranesi_ or of _Montfaucon_--now making notes, and now copying particular parts. Meanwhile, from the top to the bottom of the sides of the, room, are huge volumes of prints, bound in red morocco; which form indeed the materials for the occupations just described.[23] But, hanging upon a pillar, at the hither end of this second room, you observe a large old drawing of a head or portrait, in a glazed frame; which strikes you in every respect as a great curiosity. M. Du Chesne, the obliging and able director of this department of the collection, attended me on my first visit. He saw me looking at this head with great eagerness. "Enfin voilà quelque chose qui mérite bien vôtre attention"--observed he. It was in fact the portrait of "their good but unfortunate KING JOHN"--as my guide designated him. This Drawing is executed in a sort of thick body colour, upon fine linen: the back-ground is gold: now almost entirely tarnished--and there is a sort of frame, stamped, or pricked out, upon the surface of the gold--as we see in the illuminations of books of that period. It should also seem as if the first layer, upon which the gold is placed, had been composed of the white of an egg--or of some such glutinous substance. Upon the whole, it is an exceedingly curious and interesting relic of antient graphic art. To examine minutely the treasures of such a collection of prints--whether in regard to ancient or modern art--would demand the unremitted attention of the better part of a month; and in consequence, a proportionate quantity of time and paper in embodying the fruits of that attention.[24] There is only one other curiosity, just now, to which I shall call your attention. It is the old wood cut of ST. CHRISTOPHER--of which certain authors have discoursed largely.[25] They suppose they have an impression of it here-- whereas that of Lord Spencer has been hitherto considered as unique. His Lordship's copy, as you well know, was obtained from the Buxheim monastery, and was first made public in the interesting work of Heineken.[26] The copy now under consideration is not pasted upon boards, as is Lord Spencer's-- forming the interior linings in the cover or binding of an old MS.--but it is a loose leaf, and is therefore subject to the most minute examination, or to any conclusion respecting the date which may be drawn from the _watermark_. Upon _such_ a foundation I will never attempt to build an hypothesis, or to draw a conclusion; because the same water-mark of Bamberg and of Mentz, of Venice and of Rome, may be found within books printed both at the commencement and at the end of the fifteenth century. But for the print--as it _is_. I have not only examined it carefully, but have procured, from M. Coeuré, a fac-simile of the head only--the most essential part--and both the examination and the fac-simile convince me... that the St. Christopher in the Bibliothèque du Roi is NOT an impression from the _same block_ which furnished the St. Christopher now in the library of St. James's Place. The general character of the figure, in the Royal Library here, is thin and feeble compared with that in Lord Spencer's collection; and I am quite persuaded that M. Du Chesne,--who fights his ground inch by inch, and reluctantly (to his honour, let me add) assents to any remarks which may make his own cherished St. Christopher of a comparatively modern date-- will, in the end, admit that the Parisian impression is a _copy_ of a later date--and that, had an opportunity presented itself of comparing the two impressions with each other,[27] it would never have been received into the Library at the price at which it was obtained--I think, at about 620 francs. However, although it be not THE St. Christopher, it is a graphic representation of the Saint which may possibly be as old as the year 1460. But we have tarried quite long enough, for the present, within the cabinet of Engravings. Let us return: ascend about a dozen more steps; and enter the LIBRARY OF MANUSCRIPTS. As before, you are struck with the smallness of the first room; which leads, however, to a second of much larger dimensions--then to a third, of a boudoir character; afterwards to a fourth and fifth, rather straitened--and sixthly, and lastly, to one of a noble length and elevation of ceiling--worthy in all respects of the glorious treasures which it contains. Let me, however, be more explicit. In the very first room you have an earnest of all the bibliomaniacal felicity which these MSS. hold out. Look to the left--upon entering--and view, perhaps lost in a very ecstacy of admiration--the _Romances_ ... of all sizes and character, which at first strike you! What _Launcelot du Lacs, Tristans, Leonnois, Arturs, Ysaises_, and feats of the _Table Ronde_, stand closely wedged within the brass-wired doors that incircle this and every other apartment! _Bibles, Rituals, Moralities_, ... next claim your attention. You go on--_History, Philosophy, Arts and Sciences_ ... but it is useless to indulge in these rhapsodies. The fourth apartment, of which I spake, exhibits specimens of what are seen more plentifully, but not of more curious workmanship, in the larger room to which it leads. Here glitter, behind glazed doors, old volumes of devotion bound in ivory, or gilt, or brass, studded with cameos and precious stones; and covered with figures of all characters and ages--some of the XIIth--and more of the immediately following centuries. Some of these bindings (among which I include _Diptychs_) may be as old as the eleventh--and they have been even carried up to the tenth century. Let us however return quickly back again; and begin at the beginning. The first room, as I before observed, has some of the most exquisitely illuminated, as well as some of the most ancient MSS., in the whole library. A phalanx of _Romances_ meets the eye; which rather provokes the courage, than damps the ardor, of the bibliographical champion. Nor are the illuminated _Bibles_ of less interest to the graphic antiquary. In my next letter you shall see what use I have made of the unrestrained liberty granted me, by the kind-hearted Curators, to open what doors, and examine what volumes, I pleased. Meanwhile let me introduce you to the excellent MONSIEUR GAIL, who is sitting at yonder desk--examining a beautiful Greek MS. of Polybius, which once belonged to Henry II. and his favourite Diane de Poictiers. M. Gail is the chief Librarian presiding over the Greek and Latin MSS., and is himself Professor of the Greek language in the royal college of France. Of this gentleman I shall speak more particularly anon. At the present moment it may suffice only to observe that he is thoroughly frank, amiable, and communicative, and dexterous in his particular vocation: and that he is, what we should both call, a hearty, good fellow-- a natural character. M. Gail is accompanied by the assistant librarians MM. De. l'EPINE, and MÉON: gentlemen of equal ability in their particular department, and at all times willing to aid and abet the researches of those who come to examine and appreciate the treasures of which they are the joint Curators. Indeed I cannot speak too highly of these gentlemen-- nor can I too much admire the system and the silence which uniformly prevail. Another principal librarian is M. LANGLÈS:[28] an author of equal reputation with Monsieur Gail--but his strength lies in Oriental literature; and he presides more especially over the Persian, Arabic, and other Oriental MSS. To the naïveté of M. Gail, he adds the peculiar vivacity and enthusiasm of his countrymen. To see him presiding in his chair (for he and M. Gail take alternate turns) and occupied in reading, you would think that a book worm could scarcely creep between the tip of his nose and the surface of the _Codex Bombycinus_ over which he is poring. He is among the most short-sighted of mortals--as to _ocular_ vision. But he has a bravely furnished mind; and such a store of spirits and of good humour--talking withal unintermittingly, but very pleasantly---that you find it difficult to get away from him. He is no indifferent speaker of our own language; and I must say, seems rather proud of such an acquirement. Both he and M. Gail, and M. Van Praet, are men of rather small, stature-- _triplicates_, as it were, of the same work[29]--but of which M. Gail is the tallest copy. One of the two head librarians, just mentioned, sits at a desk in the second room--and when any friends come to see, or to converse with him--the discussion is immediately adjourned to the contiguous boudoir-like apartment, where are deposited the rich old bindings of which you have just had a hasty description. Here the voices are elevated, and the flourishes of speech and of action freely indulged in. In the way to the further apartment, from the boudoir so frequently mentioned, you pass a small room--in which there is a plaster bust of the King--and among the books, bound, as they almost all are, in red morocco, you observe two volumes of tremendously thick dimensions; the one entitled _Alexander Aphrodiæsus, Hippocrates, &c._--the other _Plutarchi Vitæ Parallelæ et Moralia, &c._ They contain nothing remarkable for ornament, or what is more essential, for intrinsic worth. Nevertheless you pass on: and the last--but the most magnificent--of _all_ the rooms, appropriated to the reception of books, whether in ms. or in print, now occupies a very considerable portion of your attention. It is replete with treasures of every description: in ancient art, antiquities, and both sacred and profane learning: in languages from all quarters, and almost of all ages of the world. Here I opened, with indescribable delight the ponderous and famous _Latin Bible of Charles the Bald_--and the religious manual of his brother the _Emperor Lotharius_--composed chiefly of transcripts from the Gospels. Here are ivory bindings, whether as diptychs, or attached to regular volumes. Here are all sorts and sizes of the uncial or capital-letter MSS-- in portions, or entire. Here, too, are very precious old illuminations, and specimens--almost without number--admirably arranged, of every species of BIBLIOGRAPHICAL VIRTÙ, which cannot fail to fix the attention, enlarge the knowledge, and improve the judgment, of the curious in this department of research. Such, my dear friend, is the necessarily rapid--and, I fear, consequently imperfect--sketch which I send you of the general character of the BIBLIOTHÈQUE DU ROI; both as respects its dead and its living treasures. It remains to be seen how this sketch will be completed.--- and I hereby give you notice, that my next letter will contain some account of a few of the more ancient, curious, and splendid MANUSCRIPTS--to be followed by a second letter, exclusively devoted to a similar account of the PRINTED BOOKS. If I execute this task according to my present inclinations--and with the disposition which I now feel, together with the opportunities which have been afforded me--it will not, I trust, be said that I have been an idle or unworthy visitor of this magnificent collection. [16] [Mons. Crapelet takes fire at the above passage: simply because he misunderstands it. In not one-word, or expression of it, is there any thing which implies, directly or indirectly, that "it would be difficult to find another public establishment where the officers are more active, more obliging, more anxious to satisfy the Public than in the above." I am talking only of _dress_--and commending the silk stockings of Mons. Van Praet at the expense of those by whom he is occasionally surrounded.] [17] So, even NOW: 1829. [18] In the year 1814, the late M. Millin published a dissertation upon this medal, to which he prefixed an engraving of the figure of Louis. There can indeed be but one opinion that the Engraving is unworthy of the Original. [For an illustration of the _Medallic History of France_, I scarcely recollect any one object of Art which would be more gratifying, as well as apposite, than a faithful Engraving of such a Medal: and I call upon my good friend M. DU CHESNE to set such a History on foot. There is however another medal, of the same Monarch, of a smaller size, but of equal merit of execution, which has been selected to grace the pages of this second edition--in the OPPOSITE PLATE. The inscription is as follows: LUDOVICO XII. REGNANTE CÆSARE ALTERO. GAUDET OMNIS NATIO: from which it is inferred that the Medal was struck in consequence of the victory of Ravenna, or of Louis's triumphant campaigns in Italy. A short but spirited account is given of these campaigns in Le Noir's _Musée des Monumens Français_, tome ii. p. 145-7.] [19] ["And it is Mr. DIBDIN who makes this confession! Let us render justice to his impartiality on this occasion. Such a confession ought to cause some regret to those who go to seek engravings in London." CRAPELET, vol. ii. p. 89. The reader shall make his own remark on the force, if there be any, of this gratuitous piece of criticism of the French Translator.] [20] [And, till within these few months, those of the REV. DR. NICOLL, Regius Professor of the Hebrew Language! That amiable and modest and surprisingly learned Oriental Scholar died in the flower of his age (in his 36th year) to the deep regret of all his friends and acquaintances, and, I had well nigh said, to the irreparable loss of the University.] [21] ["This observation is just; and it is to be hoped that they will soon carry into execution the Royal ordonance of October, 1816, which appropriates the apartments of the Treasury, contiguous, to be united to the establishment, as they become void. However, what took place in 1825, respecting some buildings in the Rue Neuve des Petits Champs, forbids us to suppose that this wished for addition will take place." CRAPELET, p. 93.] [22] [M. Crapelet admits the propriety of such a suggested improvement; and hopes that government will soon take it up for the accommodation of the Visitors--who sometimes are obliged to wait for a _vacancy_, before they can commence these researches.] [23] [Mons. Crapelet estimates the number of these splendid volumes (in 1825,) at "more than six thousand!"] [24] [M. Crapelet might have considered this confession as a reason, or apology, sufficient for not entering into all those details or descriptions, which he seems surprised and vexed that I omitted to travel into.] [25] _An enquiry into the History of Engraving upon Copper and in Wood_, 1816, 4to. 2 vol. by W.Y. Ottley. Mr. Ottley, in vol. i. p. 90, has given the whole of the original cut: while in the first volume p. iii. of the _Bibliotheca Spenceriana_, only the figure and date are given. [26] _Idée générale d'une Collection complette des Estampes. Leips._ 1771. 8vo. [27] Since the above was written, the RIVAL ST. CRISTOPHER have been placed _side by side_. When Lord Spencer was at Paris, last year, (1819,) on his return from Italy--he wrote to me, requesting I would visit him there, and bring St. Christopher with me. That Saint was therefore, in turn, carried across the water--and on being confronted with his name-sake, at the Royal Library ... it was quite evident, at the first glance, as M. Du Chesne admitted--that they were impressions taken from _different blocks_. The question therefore, was, after a good deal of pertinacious argument on both sides--which of the two impressions was the MORE ANCIENT? Undoubtedly it was that of Lord[B] Spencer's. [B] [The reasons, upon which this conclusion was founded, are stated at length in the preceding edition of this work: since which, I very strongly incline to the supposition that the Paris impression is a _proof_--of one of the _cheats_ of DE MURR.] [28] He died in 1824 and a notice of his Life and Labours appeared in the _Annales Encyclopèdiques_. [29] "M. Dibdin may well make the _fourth_ copy--as to size." CRAPELET, p. 115. _LETTER III._ THE SAME SUBJECTS CONTINUED. _Paris, June 14, 1818_. As I promised, at the conclusion of my last, you shall accompany me immediately to the ROYAL LIBRARY; and taking down a few of the more ancient MANUSCRIPTS relating to _Theology_--especially those, which, from age, art, or intrinsic worth, demand a more particular examination--we will both sit down together to the enjoyment of what the librarians have placed before us. In other words, I shall proceed to fill up the outline (executed with a hurrying pencil) which was submitted to you in my previous letter. First, therefore, for BIBLES, LITURGIES, RITUALS, LEGENDS, MORAL TREATISES, &C. _Quatuor Evangelia. "Codex Membranaceus, Olim Abbatiæ S. Medardi Suessionensis in uncialibus litteris et auricis scriptus. Sæc. VI."_ The preceding is written in an old hand, inserted in the book. It is a folio volume of unquestionably great antiquity; but I should apprehend that it is _antedated_ by at least _two_ centuries. It is full of embellishment, of a varied and splendid character. The title to each Gospel is in very large capital letters of gold, upon a purple ground: both the initial letter and the border round the page being elaborately ornamented. The letter prefixed to St. Matthew's Gospel is highly adorned, and in very good taste. Each page consists of two columns, in capital letters of gold, throughout: within borders of a quiet purple, or lilac tint, edged with gold. It has been said that no two borders are alike altogether. A portrait of each Evangelist is prefixed to the title; apparently coeval with the time: the composition is rather grotesque; the colours are without any glaze, and the perspective is bad. LATIN BIBLE OF CHARLES THE BALD. Folio. When this volume was described by me, on a former occasion,[30] from merely printed authorities, of course it was not in my power to do it, if I may so speak, "after the life,"--for although nearly ten centuries have elapsed since this Bible has been executed, yet, considering its remote age, it may be said to be fresh and in most desirable condition. The authority, just hinted at, notices that this magnificent volume was deposited in the library by _Baluze_, the head librarian to Colbert; but a note in that eminent man's hand writing, prefixed, informs us that the Canons of the Cathedral church at Metz made Colbert a present of it. The reverse of the last leaf but one is occupied by Latin verses, in capital letters of gold, at the top of which, in two lines, we make out--" _Qualiter uiuian monachus sci martini consecrat hanc bibliam Karolo ipatorj_," &c. The ensuing and last leaf is probably, in the eye of an antiquarian virtuoso, more precious than either of its decorative precursors. It exhibits the PORTRAIT OF CHARLES THE BALD; who is surrounded by four attendants, blended, as it were, with a group of twelve below--in the habits of priests--listening to the oration of one, who stands nearly in the centre.[31] This illumination, in the whole, measures about fourteen inches in height by nearly ten and a half in width: the purple ground being frequently faded into a greenish tint. The volume itself is about twenty inches in height by fifteen wide. PSALTER OF CHARLES THE BALD. This very precious volume was also in the library of the Great Colbert. It is a small quarto, bound in the most sumptuous manner. The exterior of the first side of the binding has an elaborate piece of sculpture, in ivory, consisting of small human figures, beasts, &c.; and surrounded with oval and square coloured stones. The exterior of the other, or corresponding, side of the binding has the same species of sculpture, in ivory; but no stones. The text of the volume is in gold capitals throughout; but the ornaments, as well as the portrait of Charles, are much inferior to those in that just described. However, this is doubtless a valuable relic. PRAYER BOOK OF CHARLES THE BALD; in small 4to. This is rather an _Evangelistarium_, or excerpts from the four Gospels. The writing is a small roman lower-case. The illuminations, like those in the Bible, are rubbed and faded, and they are smaller. The exterior ornament of the binding, in the middle, contains a group of ivory figures--taken from the _original_ covering or binding. BOOK OF THE GOSPELS, OF THE EMPEROR LOTHARIUS. Although it is very probable that this book may be of a somewhat earlier date than the MS. just described, yet as its original possessor was brother to _Charles the Bald_, it is but courtesy to place him in the second rank after the French monarch; and accordingly I have here inserted the volume in the order which I apprehend ought to be observed. An ancient ms. memorandum tells us that this book was executed in the 855th year of the Christian era, and in the 15th of the Emperor's reign. On the reverse of the first leaf is the portrait of the Emperor, with an attendant on each side. The text commences on the recto of the second leaf. On the reverse of the same leaf, is a representation of the Creator. Upon the whole, this book may be classed among the most precious specimens of early art in this library. On the cover are the royal arms. LATIN BIBLE. Fol. This MS. of the sacred text is in four folio volumes, and undoubtedly cannot be later than the thirteenth century. The text is written with three columns in each page. Of the illuminations, the figures are sketches, but freely executed: the colouring coarse and slightly put on: the wings of some of the angels reminded me of those in the curious _Hyde-Book_, belonging to the Marquis of Buckingham at Stowe; and of which, as you may remember, there are fac-similes in _the Bibliographical Decameron_.[32] The group of angels (on the reverse of the fourth leaf of the first volume), attending the Almighty's commands, is cleverly managed as to the draperies. The soldiers have quilted or net armour. The initial letters are sometimes large, in the fashion of those in the Bible of Charles the Bald, but very inferior in execution. In this MS. we may trace something, I think, of the decline of art. PSALTERIUM LATINÈ, 8vo. If I were called upon to select any one volume, of given octavo dimensions, I do not know whether I should not put my hand upon the _present_--for you are hereby to know that this was the religious manual of ST. LOUIS:--his own choice copy--selected, I warrant, from half a score of performances of rival scribes, rubricators, and illuminators. Its condition is absolutely wonderful--nor is the history of its locomotiveness less surprising. First, for an account of its contents. On the reverse of the first fly-leaf, we read the following memorandum--in red: "_Cest psaultier fu saint loys. Et le dona la royne Iehanne deureux au roy Charles filz du roy Iehan, lan de nres' mil troys cens soissante et neuf. Et le roy charles pnt filz du dit Roy charles le donna a madame Marie de frace sa fille religieuse a poissi. le iour saint michel lan mil iiij^c._" This hand writing is undoubtedly of the time. A word now about the history of this volume. As this extract indicates, it was deposited in a monastery at Poissy. When that establishment was dissolved, the book was brought to M. Chardin, a bookseller and a bibliomaniac. He sold it, some twenty-five years ago, to a Russian gentleman, from whom it was obtained, at Moscow, by the Grand Duke Nicholas.[33] The late King of France, through his ambassador, the Count de Noailles, obtained it from the Grand Duke--who received, in return, from his Majesty, a handsome present of two Sèvre vases. It is now therefore safely and judiciously lodged in the Royal Library of France. It is in wooden covers, wrapped in red velvet. The vellum is singularly soft, and of its original pure tint. HISTORICAL PARAPHRASE OF THE BIBLE. Lat. and Fr. Folio. If any MS. of the sacred text were to be estimated according to the _number of the illuminations_ which it contained, the present would unquestionably claim precedence over every other. In short, this is the MS. of which Camus, in the _Notices et Extraits des MSS. de la Bibliothèque Nationale_, vol. vi. p. 106, has given not only a pretty copious account, but has embellished that account with fac-similes--one large plate, and two others--each containing four subjects of the illuminations. After an attentive survey of the various styles of art observable in these decorations, I am not disposed to allow the antiquity of the MS. to go beyond the commencement of the XVth century. A sight of the frontispiece causes a re-action of the blood in a lover of genuine large margins. The book is cropt--not _quite_ to the quick!... but then this frontispiece displays a most delicate and interesting specimen of graphic art. It is executed in a sort of gray tone:--totally destitute of other colour. According to Camus, there are upwards of five thousand illuminations; and a similar work, in his estimation, could not _now_ be executed under 100,000 francs. A SIMILAR MS. This consists but of one volume, of a larger size, of 321 leaves. It is also an historical Bible. The illuminations are arranged in a manner like those of the preceding; but in black and white only, delicately shaded. The figures are tall, and the females have small heads; just what we observe in those of the _Roman d'Alexandre_, in the Bodleian library. It is doubtless a manuscript of nearly the same age, although this may be somewhat more recent. LIBER GENERATIONIS IHI XTI. Of all portions of the sacred text--not absolutely a consecutive series of the Gospels, or of any of the books of the Old Testament--the present is probably, not only the oldest MS. in that particular department, but, with the exception of the well known _Codex Claromontanus_, the most ancient volume in the Royal Library. It is a folio, having purple leaves throughout, upon which the text is executed in silver capitals. Both the purple and the silver are faded. On the exterior of the binding are carvings in ivory, exceedingly curious, but rather clumsy. The binding is probably coeval with the MS. They call it of the ninth century; but I should rather estimate it of the eighth. It is undoubtedly an interesting and uncommon volume. EVANGELIUM STI. IOHANNIS. This is a small oblong folio, bound in red velvet. It is executed in a very large, lower-case, coarse gothic and roman letter, alternately:--in letters of gold throughout. The page is narrow, the margin is large, and the vellum soft and beautiful. There is a rude portrait of the Evangelist prefixed, on a ground entirely of gold. The capital initial letter is also rude. The date of this manuscript is pushed as high as the eleventh century: but I doubt this antiquity. LIBER PRECUM: CUM NOTIS, CANTICIS ET FIGURIS. I shall begin my account of PRAYER BOOKS, BREVIARIES, &C. with the present: in all probability the most ancient within these walls. The volume before me is an oblong folio, not much unlike a tradesman's day-book. A ms. note by Maugerard, correcting a previous one, assigns the composition of this book to a certain Monk, of the name of _Wickingus_, of the abbey of Prum, of the Benedictin order. It was executed, as appears on the reverse of the forty-eighth leaf, "_under the abbotships of Gilderius and Stephanus_." It is full of illuminations, heavily and clumsily done, in colours, which are now become very dull. I do not consider it as older than the twelfth century, from the shield with a boss, and the depressed helmet. There are interlineary annotations in a fine state of preservation. In the whole, ninety-one leaves. It is bound in red morocco. BREVIARE DE BELLEVILLE: Octavo. 2 volumes. Rich and rare as may be the graphic gems in this marvellous collection, I do assure you, my good friend, that it would be difficult to select two octavo volumes of greater intrinsic curiosity and artist-like execution, than are those to which I am now about to introduce you:--especially the first. They were latterly the property of Louis XIV. but had been originally a present from Charles VI. to our Richard II. Thus you see a good deal of personal history is attached to them. They are written in a small, close, Gothic character, upon vellum of the most beautiful colour. Each page is surrounded by a border, (executed in the style of the age--perhaps not later than 1380) and very many pages are adorned by illuminations, especially in the first volume, which are, even now, as fresh and perfect as if just painted. The figures are small, but have more finish (to the best of my recollection) than those in our Roman d'Alexandre, at Oxford. At the end of the first volume is the following inscription--written in a stiff, gothic, or court-hand character: the capital letters being very tall and highly ornamented. "_Cest Breuiare est a l'usaige des Jacobins. Et est en deux volumes Dont cest cy Le premier, et est nomme Le Breuiaire de Belleville. Et le donna el Roy Charles le vj^e. Au roy Richart Dangleterre, quant il fut mort Le Roy Henry son successeur L'envoya a son oncle Le Duc de Berry, auquel il est a present."_ This memorandum has the signature of "Flamel," who was Secretary to Charles VI. On the opposite page, in the same ancient Gothic character, we read: "_Lesquelz volumes mon dit Seigneur a donnez a ma Dame Seur Marie de France. Ma niepce."_ Signed by the same. The Abbé L'Epine informs me that Flamel was a very distinguished character among the French: and that the royal library contains several books which belonged to him. BREVIARY OF JOHN DUKE OF BEDFORD. Pursuing what I imagine to be a tolerably correct chronological order, I am now about to place before you this far-famed _Breviary_: companion to the MISSAL which originally belonged to the same eminent Possessor, and of which our countrymen[34] have had more frequent opportunities of appreciating the splendour and beauty than the Parisians; as it is not likely that the former will ever again become the property of an Englishman. Doubtless, at the sale of the Duchess of Portland's effects in 1786, some gallant French nobleman, if not Louis XVI. himself, should have given an unlimited commission to purchase it, in order that both _Missal_ and _Breviary_ might have resumed that close and intimate acquaintance, which no doubt originally subsisted between them, when they lay side by side upon the oaken shelves of their first illustrious Owner. Of the _two_ performances, however, there can be no question that the superiority lies decidedly with the _Missal_: on the score of splendour, variety, and skilfulness of execution. The last, and by much the most splendid illumination, is _that_ for which the artists of the middle age, and especially the old illuminators, seem to have reserved all their powers, and upon which they lavished all their stock of gold, ultramarine, and carmine. You will readily anticipate that I am about to add--the _Assumption of the Virgin_. One's memory is generally fallacious in these matters; but of all the exquisite, and of all the minute, elaborate, and dazzling works of art, of the illuminatory kind, I am quite sure that I have not seen any thing which _exceeds_ this. To _equal_ it--there may be some few: but its superior, (of its own particular class of subject) I think it would be very difficult to discover. HORÆ BEATÆ MARIÆ VIRGINIS. This may be called either a large thick octavo, or a very small folio. Probably it was originally more decidedly of the latter kind. It is bound in fish skin; and a ms. note prefixed thus informs us. "_Manuscrit aqui du C^{en} Papillon au commencement du mois de Frimaire de lan XII. de la République."_ This is without doubt among the most superb and beautiful books, of its class, in the Royal Library. The title is ornamented in an unusual but splendid manner. Some of the larger illuminations are elaborately executed; especially the first--representing the _Annunciation_. The robe of the Angel, kneeling, is studded with small pearls, finished with the minutest touches. The character of ART, generally throughout, is that of the time and manner of the volume last described: but the present is very frequently inferior in merit to what may be observed in the Bedford Breviary. In regard to the number of decorations, this volume must also be considered as less interesting: but it possesses some very striking and very brilliant performances. Thus, _St. Michael and the Devil_ is absolutely in a blaze of splendor; while the illumination on the reverse of the same leaf is not less remarkable for a different effect. A quiet, soft tone--from a profusion of tender touches of a grey tint, in the architectural parts of the ornaments--struck me as among the most pleasing specimens of the kind I had ever seen. The latter and larger illuminations have occasionally great power of effect, from their splendid style of execution--especially that in which the central compartment is occupied by _St. George and the Dragon_. Some of the smaller illuminations, in which an Angel is shewing the cruelties about to be inflicted on the wicked, by demons, are terrific little bits! As for the vellum, it is "de toute beauté." HISTORIA BEATÆ MARIÆ VIRGINIS. Folio. This is briefly described in the printed catalogue, under number 6811. It is a large and splendid folio, in a very fine state of preservation; but of which the art is, upon the whole, of the ordinary and secondary class of merit. Yet it is doubtless a volume of great interest and curiosity. Even to English feelings, it will be gratifying to observe in it the portrait of _Louisa of Savoy_, mother of Francis I. That illustrious lady is sitting in a chair, surrounded by her attendants; and is in all probability a copy from the life. The performance is a metrical composition, in stanzas of eleven verses. I select the opening lines, because they relate immediately to the portrait in question. _Tres excellente illustre et magnificque Fleur de noblesse exquise et redolente Dame dhonneur princesse pacifique Salut a ta maieste precellente Tes seruiteurs par voye raisonnable Tant iusticiers que le peuple amyable. De amyens cite dicte de amenite Recomandant sont par humilite Leur bien publicque en ta grace et puissance Toy confessant estre en realite Mere humble et franche au grant espoir de France_. The text is accompanied by the common-place flower Arabesques of the period. HOURS OF ANNE OF BRITTANY. The order of this little catalogue of a few of the more splendid and curious ILLUMINATED MANUSCRIPTS, in the Royal Library of France, has at length, my worthy friend, brought me in contact with the magical and matchless volume usually designated by the foregoing title. You are to know--in the first place--that, of ALL the volumes in this most marvellous Library, the present is deemed THE MOST PRECIOUS. Not even the wishes and regulations of Royalty itself allow of its migration beyond the walls of the public library. There it is kept: there it is opened, and shewn, and extolled beyond any limits fixed to the admiration of the beholder. It is a rare and bewitching piece of art, I do assure you: and so, raising your expectations to their highest pitch, I will allow you to anticipate whatever is wonderful in FRANCESCO VERONESE and gorgeous in GIROLAMO DEI LIBRI.[35] Perhaps, however, this is not the most happy illustration of the art which it displays. The first view of this magical volume is doubtless rather disheartening: but the sight of the original silver clasps (luckily still preserved) will operate by way of a comforter. Upon them you observe this ornament: [Illustration.] denoting, by the letter and the ducal crown, that the book belonged to Anne, Duchess of Brittany. On the reverse of the second leaf we observe the _Dead Christ_ and the _three Maries_. These figures are about six inches in height. They are executed with great delicacy, but in a style somewhat too feeble for their size. One or two of the heads, however, have rather a good expression. Opposite to this illumination is the _truly invaluable_ PORTRAIT OF ANNE herself: attended by two females, each crowned with a glory; one is displaying a banner, the other holding a cross in her hand. To the left of these attendants, is an old woman, hooded, with her head encircled by a glory. They are all three sweetly and delicately touched; but there are many evident marks of injury and ill usage about the surface of the colouring. Yet, as being _ideal_ personages, my eye hastily glided off them to gaze upon the illustrious Lady, by whose orders, and at whose expense, these figures were executed. It is upon the DUCHESS that I fix my eye, and lavish my commendations. Look at her[36] as you here behold her. Her gown is brown and gold, trimmed with dark brown fur. Her hair is brown. Her necklace is composed of coloured jewels. Her cheek has a fresh tint; and the missal, upon which her eyes are bent, displays highly ornamented art. The cloth upon the table is dark crimson. The _Calendar_ follows; in which, in one of the winter months, we observe a very puerile imitation of flakes of snow falling over the figures and the landscape below. The calendar occupies a space of about six inches by four, completely enclosed by a coloured margin. Then begins a series of the most beautiful ornaments of FLOWERS, FRUITS, INSECTS, &C. for which the illuminators of this period were often eminently distinguished. These ornaments are almost uniformly introduced in the fore-edges, or right-side margins, of the leaves; although occasionally, but rarely, they encircle the text. They are from five to six inches in length, or height; having the Latin name of the plant at top, and the French name at the bottom. Probably these titles were introduced by a later hand. It is really impossible to describe many of them in terms of adequate praise. The downy plum is almost bursting with ripeness: the butterfly's wings seem to be in tremulous motion, while they dazzle you by their varied lustre: the hairy insect puts every muscle and fibre into action, as he insinuates himself within the curling of the crisped leaves; while these leaves are sometimes glittering with dew, or coated with the finest down. The flowers and the vegetables are equally admirable, and equally true to nature. To particularise would be endless. Assuredly these efforts of art have no rival--of their kind. _Scripture Subjects. Saints, Confessors, &c._ succeed in regular order, with accompaniments of fruits and flowers, more or less exquisitely executed:--the whole, a collection of peculiar, and, of its kind, UNRIVALLED ART. This extraordinary volume measures twelve inches by seven and a half. HOURS BELONGING TO POPE PAUL III. 8vo. The portrait of the Pope is at the bottom of the first ornament, which fixes the period of its execution to about the middle of the sixteenth century. Towards the end the pages are elaborately ornamented in the arabesque manner. There are some pleasing children: of that style of art which is seen in the Missal belonging to Sir M.M. Sykes, of the time of Francis I.[37] The scription is very beautiful. The volume afterwards belonged to Pius VI., whose arms are worked in tambour on the outside. It is kept in a case, and is doubtless a fine book. MISSALS: numbers 19-4650. Under this head I shall notice two pretty volumes of the devotional kind; of which the subjects are executed in red, blue, &c.--and of which the one seems to be a copy of the other. The borders exhibit a style of art somewhat between that of Julio Clovio and what is seen in the famous Missal just mentioned. MISSAL OF HENRY IV. No. 1171. This book is of the end of the XVIth century. The ground is gold, with a small brilliant, roman letter for text. The subjects are executed in a pale chocolate tint, rather capricious than tasteful. It has been cropt in the binding. The name and arms of Henry are on the exterior. Thus much, my dear friend, for the SACRED TEXT--either in its original, uninterrupted state--or as partially embodied in _Missals_, _Hours_, or _Rituals_. I think it will now be but reasonable to give you some little respite from the toil of further perusal; especially as the next class of MSS. is so essentially different. In the mean while, I leave you to carry the image of ANNE OF BRITTANY to your pillow, to beguile the hours of languor or of restlessness. A hearty adieu. [30] _Bibliographical Decameron_, vol. i. p. xxxi. [31] Earl Vivian, and eleven monks, in the act of presenting the volume to Charles. [32] Vol. i. p. lvi.-vii. [33] The present Emperor of Russia. [34] A very minute and particular description of this Missal, together with a fac-simile of the DUKE OF BEDFORD kneeling before his tutelary SAINT GEORGE, will be found in the _Bibliographical Decameron_, vol. i. p. cxxxvi-cxxxix. [35] For an account of these ancient worthies in the art of illumination, consult the _Bibliographical Decameron_, vol. i. p. cxlii.-clxiv. [36] See the OPPOSITE PLATE. [The beautiful copy of the Original, by Mr. G. Lewis, from which the Plates in this work were taken, is now in the possession of Thomas Ponton, Esq.] [37] [It was bought at Sir Mark's sale, by Messrs. Rivington and Cochrane. See a fac-simile of one of the illuminations in the _Bibliographical Decameron_, vol. i. p. clxxix.] _LETTER IV._ THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. Are you thoroughly awake, and disenchanted from the magic which the contents of the preceding letter may have probably thrown around you? Arouse--to scenes of a different aspect, but of a not less splendid and spirit-stirring character. Buckle on your helmet, ... for the trumpet sounds to arms. The _Knights of the Round Table_ call upon you, from their rock-hewn, or wood-embowered, recesses, to be vigilant, faithful, enterprising, and undaunted. In language less elevated, and somewhat more intelligible, I am about to place before you a few illuminated MSS. relating to HISTORY and ROMANCE; not without, in the first place, making a digression into one or two volumes of MORALITIES, if they may be so called. Prepare therefore, in the first place, for the inspection of a couple of volumes--which, for size, splendor, and general state of preservation, have no superior in the Royal Library of France. CITÉ DE DIEU: No. 6712: folio. 2 vols. These are doubtless among the most magnificent _shew-books_ in this collection; somewhat similar, in size and style of art, to the MS. of _Valerius Maximus_, in our British Museum--of which, should you not have forgotten it, some account may be read in the _Bibliographical Decameron_.[38] At the very first page we observe an assemblage of Popes, Cardinals, and Bishops, with a King seated on his throne in the midst of them. The figures in the fore-ground are from four to five inches high; and so in gradation upwards. The colouring of some of the draperies is in a most delightful tone. The countenances have also a soft and quiet expression. The arms of _Graville_ (Grauille?) are in the circular border. Three leaves beyond, a still larger and more crowded illumination appears--in a surprising state of freshness and beauty; measuring nearly a foot and a half in height. It is prefixed to the _First Book_, and is divided into a group in the clouds, and various groups upon the earth below. These latter are representations of human beings in all situations and occupations of life--exhibiting the prevalence both of virtues and vices. They are encircled at bottom by a group of Demons. The figures do not exceed two inches in height. Nothing can exceed the delicacy and brilliancy of this specimen of art about the middle of the fifteenth century:---a ms. date of 1469 shewing the precise period of its execution. This latter is at the end of the first volume. Each book, into which the work is divided, has a large illumination prefixed, of nearly equal beauty and splendor. LES ECHECS AMOUREUX. Folio. No. 6808. The title does not savour of any moral application to be derived from the perusal of the work. Nevertheless, there are portions of it which were evidently written with that view. It is so lovely, and I had almost said so matchless, a volume, that you ought to rejoice to have an account of it in any shape. On the score of delicate, fresh, carefully-executed art, this folio may challenge comparison with any similar treasure in the Bibliothèque du Roi. The subjects are not crowded, nor minute; nor of a very wonderful and intricate nature; but they are quietly composed, softly executed, and are, at this present moment, in a state of preservation perfectly beautiful and entire. BOCCACE; DES CAS DES NOBLES HOMMES ET FEMMES: No. 6878. The present seems to be the fit place to notice this very beautiful folio volume of one of the most popular works of Boccaccio. Copies of it, both in ms. and early print--are indeed common in foreign libraries. There is a date of 1409 at the very commencement of the volume: but I take the liberty to question whether that be the date of its actual execution. The illuminations in this manuscript exhibit a fine specimen of the commencement of that soft, and as some may think woolly, style of art, which appears to so much advantage in the _Bedford Missal and Bedford Breviary_; and of which, indeed, a choice specimen of circular ornaments is seen round the first large illumination of the creation and expulsion of Adam and Eve. These illuminations are not of first rate merit, nor are they all by the same hand. THE SAME WORK: with the same date--but the hand-writing is evidently more modern. Of the illuminations, it will be only necessary to mention the large one at fol. iij.c. (ccc.) in which the gray tints and the gold are very cleverly managed. At the end is seen, in a large sprawling character, the following inscription: "_Ce Livre est A Le Harne. Fille Et Seur de Roys de France, Duchesse de Bourbonnois et dauuergne. Contesse de Clermont et de Tourez. Dame de Beaujeu."_ This inscription bears the date of 1468; not very long before which I suspect the MS. to have been executed. THE SAME: of the same date--which date I am persuaded was copied by each succeeding scribe. The illuminations are here generally of a very inferior character: but the first has much merit, and is by a superior hand. The text is executed in a running secretary Gothic. There are two other MSS. of the same work which I examined; and in one of which the well known subject of the _wheel of fortune_ is perhaps represented for the first time. It usually accompanied the printed editions, and may be seen in that of our Pynson, in 1494,[39] folio. I suspect, from one of the introductory prefaces, that the celebrated _Laurent le Premier Fait_ was the principal scribe who gave a sort of fashion to this MS. in France. PTOLEMÆUS, _Latinè_. A magnificent MS.--if size and condition be alone considered. It is however precious in the estimation of Collectors of portraits, as it contains one of Louis XII;[40]--This portrait is nearly in the centre of the frontispiece to the book. Behind the monarch stand two men; one leaning upon his staff. A large gothic window is above. A crucifix and altar are beneath it. There is but one other similar illumination in the volume; and each nearly occupies the whole of the page--which is almost twenty-three inches long by fourteen wide. The other illumination is hardly worth describing. This noble volume, which almost made the bearer stoop beneath its weight, is bound in wood:--covered with blue velvet, with a running yellow pattern, of the time of Louis--but now almost worn away. TITE-LIVE. Fol. A noble and magnificent MS. apparently of the beginning of the XVth. century. It seems to point out the precise period when the artists introduced those soft, full-coloured, circular borders--just after the abandonment of the sharp outline, and thin coat of colour--discoverable in the illuminations of the XIIIth and XIVth centuries. The first grand illumination, with a circular border, is an interesting illustration of this remark. The backgrounds to the pictures are the well-known small bright squares of blue and gold. The text is in a firm square and short gothic character. L'HISTOIRE ROMAINE: No. 6984: Folio, 3 vols. written in the French language. These are among the _shew books_ of the library. The exterior pattern of the binding is beautiful in the extreme. Such a play of lines, in all directions, but chiefly circular, I never before saw. The date, on the outside, is 1556. The writing and the illuminations are of the latter part of the XVth century; and although they are gorgeous, and in a fine state of preservation, yet is the character of the art but secondary, and rather common. ROYAL BIOGRAPHY OF FRANCE. Fol. This exquisite volume may be justly designated as the _nonpareil_ of its kind. It is rather a book of PORTRAITS, than a MS. with intermixed illuminations. The scription, in a sort of cursive, secretary gothic character, merits not a moment's attention: the pencil of the artist having wholly eclipsed the efforts of the scribe. Such a series of exquisitely finished portraits, of all the Kings of France (with the unaccountable omission, unless it has been taken out, of that of Louis XII.) is perhaps no where else to be seen. M. Coeuré, the French artist employed by me, stood in ecstasies before it! These portraits are taken from old monuments, missals, and other ancient and supposed authentic documents. They are here touched and finished in a manner the most surprisingly perfect. The book appears to have been executed expressly for CHARLES IX.--to whom it was in fact presented by _Dutilliet_, (the artist or the superintendant of the volume) in his proper person. The gilt stamp of the two reversed C's are on the sides of the binding. I should add, that the portraits are surrounded by borders of gold, shaded in brown, in the arabesque manner. All the portraits are whole lengths; and if my time and pursuits had permitted it, I should, ere this, have caused M. Coeuré to have transfused a little of his enthusiasm into faithful facsimiles of those of Francis I.--my avowed favourite--of which one represents him in youth, and the other in old age. Why do not the Noblesse of France devote some portion of that wealth, which may be applied to worse purposes, in obtaining a series of engravings executed from this matchless volume?! ROMANCES, BOOKS OF TOURNAMENT, &c. LANCELOT DU LAC shall lead the way. He was always considered among the finest fellows who ever encircled the _Table Ronde_--and _such_ a copy of his exploits, as is at this moment before me, it is probably not very easy for even Yourself to conceive. If the height and bulk of the knight were in proportion to this written record of achievements, the plume of his helmet must have brushed the clouds. This enormous volume (No. 6783) is divided into three books or parts: of which the first part is illuminated in the usual coarse style of the latter end of the XIVth century. The title to this first part, in red ink, is the most perfect resemblance of the earliest type used by Caxton, which I remember to have seen in an ancient manuscript. The other titles do not exhibit that similarity. The first part has ccxlviij. leaves. The second part has no illuminations: if we except a tenderly touched outline, in a brownish black, upon the third leaf--which is much superior to any specimen of art in the volume. This second part has cccj. leaves. At the end:-- _Sensuit le liure du saint graal_. The spaces for illuminations are regularly preserved, but by what accident or design they were not filled up remains to be conjectured. The third part, or book, is fully illuminated like the first. There is a very droll illumination on folio vij.^{xx}. xij. At the end of the volume, on folio ccxxxiij., recto, is the following date: "_Aujourduy iiij. Jour du Jullet lan mil ccc. soixante dix a este escript ce livre darmes par Micheaugatelet prestre demeurant en la ville de Tournay_." Just before the colophon, on the reverse of the preceding leaf, is a common-place illumination of the interment of a figure in a white sheet--with this incription: ICI: GIST. LECORS: GALAHAVT: SEIGNEVR DES. LOINTENES. ILES. ET. AVECQVES. LVI. REPOVSE: MESIRE LANCELOT. DVLAC. MELLIEVR. CHRL. DV. MVDE. APRES. GVALEAT. There are two or three more illuminated MSS. of our well-beloved Lancelot. One, in six volumes, has illuminations, but they are of the usual character of those of the fifteenth century. LANCELOT DU LAC, &C. This MS. is in three volumes. The first contains only, as it were, an incipient illumination: but there is preserved, on the reverse of the binding, and written in the same character with the text, three lines--of which the private history, or particular application, is now forgotten--although we learn, from the word _bloys_ being written at top, that this MS. came from the library of Catherine de Medici--when she resided at Blois. The second volume of this copy is in quite a different character, and much older than the first. The colophon assigns to it the date of 1344. The volume is full of illuminations, and the first leaf exhibits a fair good specimen of those drolleries which are so frequently seen in illuminated MSS. of that period. The third volume is in a still different hand-writing: perhaps a little more ancient. It has a few slight illuminations, only as capital initials. LANCELOT DU LAC: No. 6782. This MS. is executed in a small gothic character, in ink which has now become much faded. From the character of the illuminations, I should consider it to be much more ancient than either of the preceding--even at the commencement of the thirteenth century. Among the illuminations there is a very curious one, with this prefix; _Vne dame venant a.c. chr. q dort en son lit & ele le volt baisier. mais vne damoiselle li deffendi_ You will not fail to bear in mind that the history of Lancelot du Lac will be also found in those of Tristan and Arthur. I shall now therefore introduce you to a MS. or two relating to the former. TRISTAN. No. 6957, 2 vols. _folio_. This is a very fine old MS. apparently of the middle of the XIVth century. The writing and the embellishments fairly justify this inference. The first volume contains three hundred and fifty-one leaves. On the reverse of the last leaf but one, is the word "_anne_" in large lower-case letters; but a ms. memorandum, in a later hand, at the end, tells us that this copy was once the property of "_the late Dame Agnes" &c_. The second volume is written in more of the secretary gothic character--and is probably somewhat later than the first. It is executed in double columns. The illuminations are little more than outlines, prettily executed upon a white ground--or rather the vellum is uncoloured. This volume seems to want a leaf at the commencement, and yet it has a title at top, as if the text actually began there. The colophon is thus: _Explicit le Romat de. T. et de yseut qui fut fait lan mille. iijc. iiijxx. et xix. la veille de pasques grans._ TRISTAN, FILS DE MELIADUS. No. 6773. A folio of almost unparalleled breadth of back;--measuring more than six inches and a quarter, without the binding. A beautiful illumination once graced the first leaf, divided into four compartments, which is now almost effaced. In the third compartment, there are two men and two women playing at chess, in a vessel. What remains, only conveys an imperfect idea of its original beauty. The lady seems to have received check-mate, from the melancholy cast of her countenance, and her paralised attitude. The man is lifting up both hands, as if in the act of exultation upon his victory. The two other figures are attendants, who throw the dice. Upon the whole, this is among the prettiest bits I have yet seen. It is worth noticing that the yellow paint, like our Indian yellow, is here very much used; shaded with red. The generality of the illuminations are fresh; but there is none of equal beauty with that just described. From the scription, and the style of art, I should judge this MS. to have been executed about the year 1400 or 1420; but a memorandum, apparently in a somewhat later hand, says it was finished in 1485:--_Par Michean gonnot de la brouce pstre demeurant a croysant._ Some lines below have been scratched out. The colophon, just before, is on the recto of the last leaf: _Explicit le romans de tristan et de la Royne Yseult la blonde Royne de cornoalle._ TRISTAN: No. 6774. _Folio._ 2 vols. The illuminations are magnificent, but lightly coloured and shaded. The draperies are in good taste. The border to the first large illumination, in four parts, is equally elegant in composition and colouring, and a portion of it might be worth copying. There is a pretty illumination of two women sitting down. A table cloth, with dinner upon it, is spread upon the grass between them:--a bottle is plunged into a running stream from a fountain, with an ewer on one side in the fore-ground. One woman plays upon the guitar while the other eats her dinner. The second volume has a fine illumination divided into four parts, with a handsome border--not quite perhaps so rich as the preceding. Among the subjects, there is a singular one of Lancelot du Lac helping a lady out of a cauldron in a state of nudity: two gentlemen and a lady are quietly looking on. The text appertaining to this subject runs thus: "_Et quant elle voit lancelot si lui dist hoa sire cheualiers pour dieu ostes moy de ceste aure ou il a eaue qui toute mait Et lancelot vint a la aure et prent la damoiselle par la main et lentrait hors. Et quant elle se voit deliure elle luy chiet aux pies et lui baise la iambe et lui dist sire benoite soit leure que vous feustes oncques nes, &c_." The top of the last leaf is cut off: and the date has been probably destroyed. The colophon runs thus: _Cy fenist le livre de tristan et de la royne yseult de cornouaille et le graal que plus nen va_. The present is a fine genuine old copy: in faded yellow morocco binding-- apparently not having been subjected to the torturing instruments of De Rome. LE ROY ARTUS. No. 6963. Folio. I consider this to be the oldest illuminated MS. of the present Romance which I have yet seen. It is of the date of 1274, as its colophon imports. It is written in double columns, but the illuminations are heavy and sombre;--about two inches in height, generally oblong. There are grotesques, attached to letters, in the margin. The backgrounds are thick, shining gold. At the end: _Explicit de lanselot. del lac[41] Ces Roumans fu par escris. En lan del Incarnation nostre Segnor. mil deus cens et sixante et quatorse le semedi apres pour ce li ki lescrist_. It is in a fine state of preservation. Mons. Méon shewed me a manuscript of the ST. GRAAL, executed in a similar style, and written in treble columns. LE MEME. This is a metrical MS of the XIIIth century: executed in double columns. The illuminations are small but rather coarse. It is in fine preservation. Bound in green velvet. Formerly the outsides of this binding had silver gilt medallions; five on each side. These have been latterly stolen. I also saw a fine PERCEFOREST, in four large folio volumes upon vellum, written in a comparatively modern Gothic hand. The illuminations were to be _supplied_--as spaces are left for them. There is also a paper MS. of the same Romance, not illuminated. ROMAN DE LA ROSE: No. 6983. I consider this to be the oldest MS. of its subject which I have seen. It is executed in a small Gothic character, in two columns, with ink which has become much faded: and from the character, both of the scription and the embellishments, I apprehend the date of it to be somewhere about the middle of the XIVth century. The illuminations are small, but pretty and perfect; the backgrounds are generally square, diamond-wise, without gold; but there are backgrounds of solid shining gold. The subjects are rather quaintly and whimsically, than elegantly, treated. In the whole, one hundred and sixty leaves. From Romances, of all and of every kind, let us turn our eyes towards a representation of subjects intimately connected with them: to wit, A BOOK OF TOURNAMENTS. No. 8351. Folio. This volume is in a perfect blaze of splendour. Hither let PROSPERO and PALMERIN resort--to choose their casques, their gauntlets, their cuirasses, and lances: yea, let more than one-half of the Roxburghers make an annual pilgrimage to visit this tome!-- which developes, in thirteen minutes, more chivalrous intelligence than is contained even in the mystical leaves of the _Fayt of Arms and Chyvalrye_ of our beloved Caxton. Be my pulse calm, and my wits composed, as I essay the description of this marvellous volume. Beneath a large illumination, much injured, of Louis XI. sitting upon his throne--are the following verses: _Pour exemple aulx nobles et gens darmes Qui appetent les faitz darmes hautes Le Sire de gremthumsé duyt es armes Volut au roy ce livre presenter_. Next ensue knights on horseback, heralds, &c.--with a profusion of coat-armours: each illumination occupying a full page. On the reverse of the ninth leaf, is a most interesting illumination, in which is seen the figure of _John Duke of Brittany_. He is delivering a sword to a king at arms, to carry to his cousin, the Duke of Bourbon; as he learns, from general report, that the Duke is among the bravest champions in Christendom, and in consequence he wishes to break a lance with him. The illumination, where the Duke thus appears, is quite perfect, and full of interest: and I make no doubt but the countenance of the herald, who is kneeling to receive the sword, is a faithful portrait. It is full of what may be called individuality of character. The next illumination represents the _Duke of Bourbon accepting the challenge_, by receiving the sword. His countenance is slightly injured. The group of figures, behind him, is very clever. The ensuing illumination exhibits the herald offering the Duke de Bourbon the choice of eight coats of armour, to put on upon the occasion. A still greater injury is here observable in the countenance of the Duke. The process of conducting the tournay, up to the moment of the meeting of the combatants, is next detailed; and several illuminations of the respective armours of the knights and their attendants, next claim our attention. On the reverse of the xxxijnd, and on the recto of the xxxiijd leaf, the combat of the two Dukes is represented. The seats and benches of the spectators are then displayed: next a very large illumination of the procession of knights and their attendants to the place of contest. Then follows an interesting one of banners, coat armours, &c. suspended from buildings--and another, yet larger and equally interesting, of the entry of the judges. I am yet in the midst of the emblazoned throng. Look at yonder herald, with four banners in his hand. It is a curious and imposing sight. Next succeeds a formal procession--preparing for the combat. It is exceedingly interesting, and many of the countenances are full of natural expression. This is followed by a still more magnificent cavalcade, with judges in the fore-ground; and the "dames et damoiselles," in fair array to the right. We have next a grand rencontre of the knights attendant--carried on beneath a balcony of ladies whose bright eyes Reign influence, and decide the prize. These ladies, thus comfortably seated in the raised balcony, wear what we should now call the _cauchoise_ cap. A group of grave judges is in another balcony, with sundry mottos spread below. In the rencontre which takes place, the mace seems to be the general instrument of attack and defence. Splendid as are these illuminations, they yield to those which follow; especially to that which _immediately_ succeeds, and which displays the preparation for a tournament to be conducted upon a very large scale. We observe throngs of combatants, and of female spectators in boxes above. These are rather more delicately touched. Now comes ... the mixed and stubborn fight of the combatants. They are desperately engaged with each other; while their martial spirit is raised to the highest pitch by the sharp and reverberating blasts of the trumpet. The trumpeters blow their instruments with all their might. Every thing is in animation, bustle, energy, and confusion. A man's head is cut off, and extended by an arm, to which--in the position and of the size we behold--it would be difficult to attach a body. Blood flows copiously on all sides. The reward of victory is seen in the next and _last_ illumination. The ladies bring the white mantle to throw over the shoulders of the conqueror. In the whole, there are only lxxiiij. leaves. This is unquestionably a volume of equal interest and splendor; and, when it was fresh from the pencil of the illuminator, its effect must have been exquisite.[42] BOOK OF TOURNAMENTS: No. 8204. 8vo. We have here a sort of miniature exhibition of the chief circumstances displayed in the previous and larger MS. It is questionless a very precious book; but has been cruelly cropt. The text and ornaments are clearly of the end of the fifteenth century; perhaps about 1470. Nothing can well exceed the brilliancy and power of many of the illuminations, which are very small and very perfect. The knight, with a representation of the trefoil, (or what is called club, in card playing) upon a gold mantle, kills the other with a black star upon a white mantle. This mortal combat is the last in the book. Each of the knights, praying before going to combat, is executed with considerable power of expression. The ladies have the high (cauchoise) cap or bonnet. The borders, of flowers, are but of secondary merit. POLYBIUS, _Græcè_. Folio. M. Gail placed before me, in a sly manner--as if to draw off my attention from the volumes of chivalry just described,--the present beautiful MS. of Polybius. It is comparatively recent, being of the very commencement of the sixteenth century: but the writing exhibits a perfect specimen of that style or form of character which the Stephenses and Turnebus, &c. appear to have copied in their respective founts of the Greek letter. It has also other, and perhaps stronger, claims to notice. The volume belonged to Henry II. and Diane de Poictiers, and the decorations of the pencil are worthy of the library to which it was attached. The top ornament, and the initial letter,--at the beginning of the text--are each executed upon a blue ground, shaded in brown and gold, in the most exquisitely tasteful manner. This initial letter has been copied "ad amussim" by old Robert Stephen. Upon the whole, this is really an enchanting book, whether on the score of writing or of ornament. Farewell, now, therefore--to the Collection of MSS. in the _Bibliothèque du Roi_ at Paris. Months and years may be spent among them, and the vicissitudes of seasons (provided fires were occasionally introduced) hardly felt. I seem, for the last fortnight, to have lived entirely in the "olden time;" in a succession of ages from that of Charles the Bald to that of Henri Quatre: and my eyes have scarcely yet recovered from the dazzling effects of the illuminator's pencil. "II faut se reposer un peu." [38] Vol. i. p. ccxx-i. [39] See _Bibl. Spenceriana_, vol. iv p. 421. [40] The fac-simile drawing of this portrait, by M. Coeuré--from which the print was taken, in the previous edition of this work--is also in the possession of my friend Mr. Ponton. See note, page 79 ante. [41] The words "del lac" are in a later hand. [42] What is rather singular, there is a duplicate of this book: a copy of every illumination, done towards the beginning of the sixteenth century; but the text is copied in a smaller hand, so as to compress the volume into lxviij. leaves. Unluckily, the copies of the illuminations are not only comparatively coarse, but are absolutely faithless as to resemblances. There is a letter prefixed, from a person named _Le Hay_, of the date of 1707, in which the author tells some gentleman that he was in hopes to procure the volume for 100 crowns; but afterwards, the owner obstinately asking 200, _Le Hay_ tells his friend to split the difference, and offer 150. This book once belonged to one "_Hector Le Breton Sievr de la Doynetrie_"--as the lettering upon the exterior of the binding implies--and as a letter to his son, of the date of 1660, within the volume, also shows. This letter is signed by Le Breton. _LETTER V._ SOME ACCOUNT OF EARLY PRINTED AND RARE BOOKS IN THE ROYAL LIBRARY. As the ART of PRINTING rather suddenly, than gradually, checked the progress of that of writing and illuminating--and as the pressman in consequence pretty speedily tripped up the heels of the scribe--it will be a natural and necessary result...that I take you with me to the collection of PRINTED BOOKS. Accordingly, let us ascend the forementioned lofty flight of stone steps, and paying attention to the affiche of "wiping our shoes," let us enter: go straight forward: make our obeisance to Monsieur Van Praet, and sit down doggedly but joyfully to the glorious volumes...many of them Rough with barbaric gold, which, through his polite directions, are placed before us. To come to plain matter of fact. Receive, my good friend, in right earnest and with the strictest adherence to truth, a list of some of those rarer and more magnificent productions of the ancient art of printing, which I have been so many years desirous of inspecting, and which now, for the first time, present themselves to my notice and admiration. After the respectable example of M. Van Praet,[43] I shall generally, add the sizes, or measurement[44] of the respective books examined--not so much for the sake of making those unhappy whose copies are of less capacious dimensions, as for the consolation of those whose copies may lift up their heads in a yet more aspiring attitude. One further preliminary remark. I send you this list precisely in the order in which chance, rather than a preconcerted plan, happened to present the books to me. RECUEIL DES HISTOIRES DE TROYE. _Printed by Caxton_. Folio. The late M. De La Serna Santander, who was Head Librarian of the public Library at Brussels, purchased this book for the Royal Library for 150 francs.[45] It is in the finest possible state of preservation; and is bound in red morocco, with rather a tawdry lining of light blue water-tabby silk. THE SAME WORK. _Printed by Verard, without date_. Folio. This copy is UPON VELLUM; in the finest possible condition both for size and colour. It is printed in Verard's small gothic type, in long lines, with a very broad margin. The wood-cuts are coloured. The last leaf of the first book is MS.: containing only sixteen lines upon the recto of the leaf. This fine copy is bound in red morocco. HORÆ BEATÆ VIRGINIS, Gr. _Printed by Aldus_. 1497. 12mo. Perhaps the rarest Aldine volume in the world:--when found in a perfect state. M. Renouard had not been able to discover a copy to enrich his instructive annals of the Aldine typography.[46] The present copy is four inches and five eighths, by three inches and a half. It is in its original clasp binding, with stamped leather-outsides.[47] THE SHYPPE OF FOOLES. _Printed by Wynkyn de Worde_. 1509. 8vo. At length this far-famed and long talked of volume has been examined. It is doubtless a prodigious curiosity, and unique--inasmuch as this copy is UPON VELLUM. The vellum is stout but soft. I suspect this copy to be rather cropt. It is bound in red morocco, and is perfectly clean and sound throughout. ROMAN DE JASON. In French. _Printed by Caxton_. Folio. A little history is attached to the acquisition of this book, which may be worth recital. An unknown, and I may add an unknowing, person, bought this most exceedingly rare volume, with the _Qudriloge of Alain Chartier_, 1477, Folio, in one and the same ancient wooden binding, for the marvellously moderate sum of-- _one louis_! The purchaser brought the volume to M. de La Serna Santander, and asked him if he thought _two_ louis too much for their value. That wary Bibliographer only replied, "I do not think it is." He became the purchaser; and instantly and generously consigned the volumes to their present place of destination.[48] You may remember that the collection of Anthony Storer, in the library of Eton College, also possesses this book-- at present wanting in Lord Spencer's library. The present copy contains one hundred and thirty-two leaves, including a blank leaf; and is in a perfect state of preservation. PSALTERIUM, Latinè. _Printed by Fust and Schoiffher_. 1457. Folio. EDITIO PRINCEPS. This celebrated volume is a recent acquisition. It was formerly the copy of Girardot de Préfond, and latterly that of Count M'Carthy; at whose sale it was bought for 12,000 francs. It is cruelly cropt, especially at the side margins; and is of too sombre and sallow a tint. Measurement-- fourteen inches, by nine and a half. It is doubtless an absolutely necessary volume in a collection like the present. Only SEVEN known copies in the world. PSALTERIUM, Latinè. _Printed by the same_. 1459: Folio. _Editio Secunda_. The first six leaves have been evidently much thumbed; and the copy, from the appearance of the first leaf alone, is as evidently cropt. For the colophon, both of this and of the preceding edition, examine the catalogue of Lord Spencer's library.[49] Upon the whole, it strikes me, as far as recollection may serve, that his Lordship's copy of each edition is preferable to those under consideration.[50] This copy measures sixteen inches and a quarter, by twelve and one-eighth. PSALTERIUM, Latinè. _Printed by Schoiffher_. 1490. Folio. A magnificent volume: and what renders it still more desirable, it is printed UPON VELLUM. Lord Spencer's copy is upon paper. The _previous_ editions are _always_ found upon vellum. Fine and imposing as is the copy before me, it is nevertheless evident--from the mutilated ancient numerals at top--that it has been somewhat cropt. This fine book measures sixteen inches and five eighths, by eleven inches and seven eighths. PSALTERIUM, Latinè. _Printed by Schoiffher_. 1502. Folio. This book (wanting in the cabinet at St. James's Place) is upon paper. As far as folio Cxxxvij. the leaves are numbered: afterwards, the printed numerals cease. A ms. note, in the first leaf, says, that the text of the first sixteen leaves precisely follows that of the first edition of 1457. The present volume will be always held dear in the estimation of the typographical antiquary. It is THE LAST in which the name of _Peter Schoiffher_, the son-in-law of Fust, appears to have been introduced. That printer died probably a short time afterwards. It measures fifteen inches and one eighth in height, by ten inches and seven eighths in width. PSALTERIUM, Latinè. _Printed by Schoiffher's Son_. 1516. Folio. A fine and desirable copy, printed UPON VELLUM. It is tolerably fair: measuring fifteen inches, by ten inches and three quarters. I have little hesitation in estimating _these five copies_ of the earlier editions of the Psalter, to be worth, at least, one thousand pounds. BIBLIA LATINA. (_Supposed to have been printed in 1455.)_ Folio. This is the famous edition called the MAZARINE BIBLE, from the first known copy of it having been discovered in the library of that Cardinal, in the college founded by himself. Bibliography has nearly exhausted itself in disquisitions upon it. But this copy--which is upon paper--is THE COPY _of all copies_; inasmuch as it contains the memorable inscription, or coeval ms. memorandum, of its having been illuminated in 1456.[51] In the first volume, this inscription occurs at the end of the printed text, in three short lines, but to the best of my recollection, the memorandum resembles the printed text rather more than the fac-simile of it formerly published by me. In the second volume, this inscription is in three long lines and is well enough copied in the M'Carthy catalogue. It may be as well to give you a transcript of this celebrated memorandum, as it proves unquestionably the impression to have been executed before any known volume with a printed date. It is taken from the end of the second volume.[52] THE SAME EDITION.--This is a sound and desirable copy, printed UPON VELLUM; but much inferior in every respect, to another similar copy in the possession of Messrs. G. and W. Nicol, booksellers to his Majesty.[53] It measures fifteen inches and three-fourths, by nearly eleven and six eighths. BIBLIA LATINA. _Printed by Pfister, at Bamberg_. Folio. Three volumes. The rarest of all Latin Bibles, when found in a perfect state. This was Lord Oxford's copy, and is not to be equalled for its beauty and soundness of condition. What renders it precious and unique, is an undoubted coeval ms. date, in red ink, of 1461. Some of the leaves in the first volume are wholly uncut. It is in handsome, substantial russia binding. DURANDI RATIONALE DIV. OFF. _Printed by Fust and Schoiffher_. 1459. Folio. Here are not fewer than _three_ copies of this early, and much coveted volume: all of course UPON VELLUM. The tallest of them measures sixteen inches and a half, by twelve and one eighth; and is in red morocco binding. BIBLIA GERMANICA. _Supposed to be printed by Mentelin_. _Without date_. Folio. If we except the earlier leaves--of which the first is in ms., upon vellum, and the three succeeding, which are a little tender and soiled-- this is a very fine copy; so large, as to have many bottom rough margins. At the end of the second volume an ancient ms. memorandum absurdly assigns the printing of this edition to Fust, and its date to 1472. The paper of this impression is certainly not very unlike that of the _Catholicon_ of 1460. BIBLIA PAUPERUM. A block-book. This is a cropt, but clean and uncoloured copy. I suspect, however, that it has been washed in some parts. It is in red morocco binding. BIBLIA POLONICA. 1563. Folio. This is the famous Protestant Polish Bible, put forth under the patronage of Prince Radziwill; and concerning which a good deal has been already submitted to the public attention.[54] But the copy under consideration was a _presentation_ copy from a descendant of Prince Radziwill--to the public Library of Sedan, to be there deposited through the intervention of Lord James Russell; as the following memorandum, in the Prince's own hand writing, attests: "_Hoc sacrarum Literarum Veteris Nouique Testamenti opus, fidelissima Cura Maiorum meorum vetustis Typis Polonicis excusum, In Bibliothecam Sedanensem per Nobilem Virum Dominum Jacobum Russelium, Ill^{mi} Principis Friderici Mauritii Bullionei ad me exlegatum inferendum committo_. _H. Radziwill_." It is nevertheless an imperfect copy, as it wants the title-page. M. Van Praet thinks it otherwise complete, but I suspect that it is not so. BIBLIA SCLAVONICA; 1587. Folio. Of this exceedingly scarce volume--which M. Van Praet placed before me as almost unique--the present is a fine and desirable copy: in its original binding--with a stamped ornament of the Crucifixion on each side. One of these ornaments is quite perfect: the other is somewhat injured. BIBLIA BOHEMICA. _Printed in 1488_. Folio. Among the rarest of the early-printed versions of the sacred text: and this copy happens to be a most beautiful and desirable one. It is wanting in Lord Spencer's collection; which renders a minute description of it the more desirable. The first signature, _a i_, appears to be blank. On _a ii_ begins a prologue or prefatory proheme, ending on the reverse of _a vj_. It has a prefix, or title, in fifteen lines, printed in red. The text is uniformly printed in double columns, in a sharp secretary-gothic character, with ink sufficiently black, upon paper not remarkably stout, but well manufactured. There are running titles, throughout. The last eight leaves upon signature _i_ are printed in red and black lines alternately, and appear to be an index. The colophon, in nineteen lines, is at the bottom of the second column, on the reverse of _mm viij_. This book is thought to have been printed at _Prague_. The present copy is bound in blue morocco. NEW TESTAMENT: _in the Dutch and Russian languages_. This volume, which is considered to be unique, and of which indeed I never saw, or heard of, another copy, bears the imprint of "_'T Gravenhage--Iohannes Van Duren, Boecverkoper_. MDCCXVII." Folio. The Dutch text is uniformly printed in capital letters; the Russian, in what I conceive to be lowercase, and about two-thirds the size of the Dutch. The cause of the scarcity of perfect copies is, that very nearly the whole of the impression was _lost at sea_. The present copy undoubtedly affords decided demonstrations of a marine soaking: parts of it being in the most piteous condition. The first volume contains 255 leaves: the second, 196 leaves. The copy is yet in boards, in the most tender condition. M. Van Praet thinks it _just_ possible that there may be a _second_ similar copy. The _third_ (if there be a second) is known to have perished in the flames at Moscow. THE PENTATEUCH: _in Hebrew_. _Printed in 1491_. _Folio_. A very fine copy, printed UPON VELLUM. The press work has a rich and black appearance; but the vellum is rather soiled. One leaf presents us with the recto covered by ms. of a brown tint--and the reverse covered by printed text. The last page is certainly ms. This however is a rare and costly tome. TRACTS PRINTED BY PFISTER, _at Bamberg_; Folio. This is really a matchless volume, on the score of rarity and curiosity. It begins with a tract, or moral treatise, upon death. The wood cuts, five in number, are very large, filling nearly the whole page. One of them presents us with death upon a white horse; and the other was immediately recognised by me, as being the identical subject of which a fac-simile of a portion is given to the public in Lord Spencer's Catalogue[55]--but which, at that time, I was unable to appropriate. This tract contains twenty-four leaves, having twenty-eight lines in a full page. In all probability it was the _first_ of the tracts printed by Pfister in the present volume. The FOUR HISTORIES, so fully detailed in the work just referred to, immediately follow. This is of the date of 1462. Then the BIBLIA PAUPERUM, also fully described in the same work. This treatise is without date, and contains seventeen leaves; with a profusion of wood cuts, of which fac-similes have been given by me to the public. These three copies are in remarkably fine preservation; and this volume will be always highly treasured in the estimation of the typographical antiquary. The Latin Bible, by Pfister, has been just described to you. There was a yet MORE PRECIOUS typographical gem ... in this very library; by the same printer--with very curious wood cuts,--of one of which Heineken has indulged us with a fac-simile. I mean the FABLES ... with the express date of 1461. But recent events have caused it to be restored to its original quarters.[56] LACTANTII INSTITUTIONES, &C. _Printed in the Soubiaco Monastery_. 1465. Folio. This was Lord Oxford's copy, and may be called almost uncut. You are to learn, that copies of this beautifully printed book are by no means very uncommon--although formerly, if I remember rightly, De Bure knew but of one copy in France--but copies in a fine state, and of such dimensions as are Mr. Grenville's and the one now before me, must be considered as of extremely rare occurrence. This copy measures thirteen inches, one-eighth, and one-sixteenth--by very nearly nine inches one-eighth. You will smile at this particularity; but depend upon it there are ruler-carrying collectors who will thank me heartily for such a rigidly minute measurement. STS. AUGUSTINUS DE CIVITATE DEI. _Printed in the Soubiaco Monastery_. 1467. Folio. It always does the heart of a bibliographer good to gaze upon a fine copy of this resplendent volume. It is truly among the master-pieces of early printing: but what will be your notions of the copy NOW under description, when I tell you, not only that it once belonged to our beloved FRANCIS I., but that, for amplitude and condition, it rivals the copy in the library at _St. James's Place_? In short, it was precisely between _this very copy_, and that of my Lord Spencer, that M. Van Praet paused-- ("J'ai balancé" were, I think, the words used to me by that knowing bibliographer) and pondered and hesitated ... again and again ... ere he could decide upon which of the two was to be parted with! But, supposing the size and condition of each to be fairly "balanced" against the other, M. Van Praet could not, in honour and conscience, surrender the copy which had been formerly in the library of one of the greatest of the French monarchs ... and so the spirit of Francis I. rests in peace ... as far as the retention of this copy may contribute to its repose. It is doubtless more brilliant and more attractive than Lord Spencer's--which, however, has no equal on the _other_ side of the channel: but it is more beaten, and I suspect, somewhat more cropt. I forgot to say, that there are several capital initials in this copy tolerably well illuminated, apparently of the time of Francis--who, I am persuaded, loved illuminators of books to his heart. I shall now continue literally as I began:--without any regard to dates, or places where printed. CATHOLICON. _Printed by Gutenburg_: 1460. Folio. 2 vols. This copy is UPON VELLUM; but yet much inferior to the absolutely unrivalled membranaceous copy in Mr. Grenville's precious library. This copy measures fifteen inches one eighth, by eleven inches one eighth. It is bound in red morocco. GRAMMATICA RHYTHMICA. _Printed by Fust and Schoiffher_; 1466. Folio. How you would start back with surprise--peradventure mingled with indignation-- to be told that, for this very meagre little folio, somewhat cropt, consisting but of eleven leaves cruelly scribbled upon ... not fewer than _three thousand three hundred livres_ were given--at the sale of Cardinal Lomenie's library, about thirty years ago! It is even so. And wherefore? Because only _one_ other copy of it is known:--and that "other" is luckily reposing upon the mahogany shelves in St. James's Place. The present copy measures ten inches seven eighths, by eight inches. VOCABULARIUS. _Printed by Bechtermuntze_; 1467. Quarto. EDITIO PRINCEPS-- one of the rarest books in the world. Indeed I apprehend this copy to be absolutely UNIQUE. This work is a Latin and German Vocabulary, of which a good notion may be formed by the account of the _second_ edition of it, in 1469, in a certain descriptive catalogue.[57] To be perfect, there should be 215 leaves. A full page has thirty-five lines. This copy is in as fine, clean, and crackling condition, as is that of Lord Spencer of the second impression. It is eight inches and a half in height, by five inches and five eighths in width. HARTLIEB'S BOOK OF CHIROMANCY. _Supposed to have been printed with wooden blocks_. Folio. You may remember the amusement which you said was afforded you by the account of, and the fac-similes from, this very strange and bizarre production--in the _Bibliographical Decameron_. The copy before me is much larger and finer than that in Lord Spencer's collection. The figure of the Doctor and of the Princess Anna are also much clearer in their respective impressions; and the latter has really no very remote resemblance to what is given in the _Bibl. Spenceriana_[58] of one of the Queens of Hungary. If so, perhaps the period of its execution may not be quite so remote as is generally imagined: for the Hungarian Chronicle, from which that regal figure was taken, is of the date of 1485. HISTORIA BEATÆ VIRGINIS. _Without date_. This is doubtless rather an extraordinary volume. The text is printed only on one side of the leaf: so as to leave, alternately, the reverses and rectos blank--facing each other. But this _alone_ is no proof of its antiquity; for, from the character both of the wood cuts and the type, I am quite persuaded that this volume could not have been executed much before the year 1480. It is not improbable that this book might have been printed at _Ulm_. It is a very beautiful copy, and bound in blue morocco. VIRGILIUS. _Printed by Sweynheym and Pannartz_. 1469. Folio. EDITIO PRINCEPS. The enormous worth and rarity of this exceedingly precious volume may be estimated from this very copy having been purchased, at the sale of the Duke de la Valliere's library, in 1783, for four thousand one hundred and one livres. The first leaf of the _Bucolics_, of which the margin of the page is surrounded by an ancient illumination, gives unfortunate evidence of the binding of Chamot.[59] In other words, this copy, although in other respects white and sound, has been too much cropt. It measures eleven inches and six eighths, by nearly seven inches and five eighths. VIRGILIUS. _Printed by Vindelin de Spira_. 1470. Here are not fewer than _two_ delicious copies of this exceedingly rare impression--and the most delicious happens to be UPON VELLUM. "O rare felicity!... (you exclaim) to spend so many hours within scarcely more than an arm's length of such cherished and long-sought after treasures!" But it is true nevertheless. The vellum copy demands our more immediate attention. It is very rarely, indeed, that this volume can be obtained in any state, whether upon vellum or paper;[60] but in the condition in which it is here found, it is a very precious acquisition. Some few leaves are a little tawny or foxy, and the top of the very first page makes it manifest that the volume has suffered a slight degree of amputation. But such defects are only as specks upon the sun's disk. This copy, bound in old yellow morocco binding of the Gaignat period, measures very nearly twelve inches and three quarters, by eight inches and five eighths. The SAME EDITION. A copy upon paper: in the most unusual condition. The pages are numbered with a pen, rather neatly: but these numerals had better have been away. A frightful (gratuitous) ms. title--copied in a modern hand, from another of the date of 1474--strikes us; on opening the volume, in a very disagreeable manner. At top we read "_Ad usum H.D. Henrici E.C.M.C._" The first page of the text is surrounded by an old illumination: and the title to the Bucolics is inserted, by the hand, in gold capital letters. From the impression appearing on the six following leaves, it should seem that this illuminated border had been stamped, after the book was bound. The condition of this classical treasure may be pronounced, upon the whole, to be equally beautiful and desirable. Perhaps there has been the slightest possible cropping; as the ancient ms. numerals are occasionally somewhat invisible. However, this is a most lovely book: measuring thirteen inches and one quarter, in height, by nine inches and very nearly one quarter in width. VIRGILIUS. _Printed by Sweynheym and Pannartz_. 1471. Folio. SECOND ROMAN EDITION; of yet greater scarcity than the first. This was Politian's own copy, and is so large as to be almost _uncut_: having the margins filled with Scholia, and critical observations, in almost the smallest hand-writing to be met with: supposed to be also from the pen of Politian. The autograph and subscription of that eminent scholar meet our eye at the top of the very first fly leaf. Of all ancient editions of Virgil, this is probably not only the most estimable, but is so scarce as to have been, till lately, perfectly unknown. According to the ancient ms. numerals in this copy, there should be 225 leaves--to render the volume perfect. In our own country, it is-- with a sigh I speak it!--only to be found (and _that_, in an _imperfect_ state) in the library of Dr. Wm. Hunter at Glasgow.[61] This invaluable volume is preserved in good, sound, characteristic old binding. VIRGILIUS. _Printed by Ghering_. 1478. _Quarto_. This impression is perhaps rather rare than valuable; although I am free to admit it is yet a desideratum in the Spencerian collection. It commences with an address by the famous Beroaldus to I. Francus, his pupil, on the reverse of the first leaf--in which the tutor expresses his admiration of Virgil in the following manner: "te amantissime mi Johannes hortor, te moneo, et si pateris oro, ut VIRGILIUM lectites. Virgilio inhies: Illum colas; illum dies noctesque decates. Ille sit semper in manibus. Et ut præceptoris fungar officio, illud potissimum tibi pecipia et repetens iterumque iterumque monebo: ut humanitatis studia ac masuetiores musas avidissime complectaris." This edition is executed in the printer's second (handsome) fount of roman type, upon very thick paper.[62] The present copy, although apparently cropt, is sound and desirable. PLINII HIST. NATURALIS. _Printed by J. de Spira_. 1469. Folio. EDITIO PRINCEPS:--but oh,! marvellous specimen--a copy UPON VELLUM! Fair is the colour and soft is the texture of this exquisite production--bound in two volumes. I examined both volumes thoroughly, and am not sure that I discovered what might be fairly called one discoloured leaf. It is with equal pain and difficulty that one withdraws one's eyes from such a beautiful book-gem. This copy measures fifteen inches and a half, by ten inches and three-eighths. The SAME EDITION. Upon paper. A remarkably fine copy: well beaten however-- and, I should be loth to assert positively, not free from some washing--for the ancient red numerals, introduced by the pencil of the rubricator, and designating the several books and chapters, seem to have faded and been retouched. I observe also, that some of the ancient illuminated letters, which had probably faded during the process of washing or cleaning, have been retouched, and even painted afresh--especially in the blue back-grounds. The first page is prettily illuminated; but there are slight indications of the worm at the end of the volume. Upon the whole, however, this is a magnificent book, and inferior only to Lord Spencer's unrivalled copy--upon paper. It measures sixteen inches and five eighths, by eleven inches and one sixteenth, and is handsomely bound in red morocco. PLINII HISTORIA NATURALIS. _Printed by Jenson_, 1472. Folio. A copy UPON VELLUM: but, upon the whole, I was disappointed in the size and condition of this book. The vellum has not had justice done to it in the binding, being in parts crumpled. The first page is however beautifully illuminated. This copy measures sixteen inches, by ten and three eighths. PLINII HIST. NAT. Italicè. _Printed by Jenson_. 1476. Folio. A copy UPON VELLUM. About the first forty leaves are cruelly stained at top. The last eight or ten leaves are almost of a yellow tint. In other parts, where the vellum is white, (for it is of a remarkably fine quality) nothing can exceed the beauty of this book: but it has been, I suspect, very severely cropt--if an opinion may be formed from its companion upon paper, about to be described. It is fifteen inches in height, by ten and a quarter in width. THE SAME EDITION. _Printed by the same Printer_. I suspect this to be perhaps the finest paper copy in the world: as perfect as Lord Spencer's copy of the first edition of the same author. Every thing breathes of its pristine condition: the colour and the substance of the paper: the width of the margin, and the purity of the embellishments:[63] This copy will also serve to convince the most obstinate, that, when one catches more than a glimpse of the ms. numerals at top, and ms. signatures at bottom, one has hopes of possessing the book in its primitive plenitude. It is sixteen inches and three quarters in height, by nearly eleven inches and a quarter in width. LIVIUS. _Printed by Sweynheym and Pannartz_. 1469. Folio. EDITIO PRINCEPS. A fine copy, in three thin volumes. The margins, however, are not free from ms. notes, and there are palpable evidences of a slight truncation. Yet it is a fine copy: measuring fifteen inches and very nearly three quarters, by eleven inches one eighth. In red morocco binding. LIVIUS. _Printed by Ulric Han_. _Without Date_. Folio. In three thin volumes. A large copy, but evidently much washed, from the faint appearance of the marginal notes. Some leaves are very bad--especially the earlier ones of the preface and the text. The latter, however, have a very pretty ancient illumination. This copy measures fifteen inches five eighths, by ten seven eighths.[64] LIVIUS. _Printed by Vindelin de Spira_. 1470. Fol. A magnificent copy, in two volumes: much preferable to either of the preceding. The first page of text has a fine old illumination. It is clean and sound throughout: measuring fifteen inches five eighths, by eleven inches--within an eighth. THE SAME EDITION. Printed UPON VELLUM. This copy, if I remember rightly, is considered to be unique.[65] It is that which was formerly preserved in the public library at Lyons, and had been lent to the late Duke de la Vallière during his life only--to enrich his book-shelves--having been restored to its original place of destination upon the death of the Duke. It is both in an imperfect and lacerated condition: the latter, owing to a cannon ball, which struck it during the siege of Lyons. The first volume, which begins abruptly thus: "ex parte altera ripe, &c." is a beautiful book; the vellum being of a uniform, but rather yellow tint. It measures fourteen inches five eighths, by nine and six eighths. The second volume makes a kind-hearted bibliographer shudder. The cannon ball took it obliquely, so as to leave the first part of the volume less lacerated than the latter. In the latter part, however, the direction of the destructive weapon went, capriciously enough, across the page. This second volume yet exhibits a fine old illumination on the first page. LIVIUS. _Printed by Sweynheym and Pannartz_. 1472. Fol. 2 vols. A fine copy, and larger than either of the preceding: but the beginning of the first volume and the conclusion of the second are slightly wormed. There is a duplicate leaf of the beginning of the text, which is rather brown, but illuminated in the ancient manner. This copy measures fifteen inches and a half, by eleven one eighth. Let me now vary the bibliographical theme, by the mention of a few copies of works of a miscellaneous but not unamusing character. And first, for a small cluster of CAXTONS and MACHLINIAS. TULLY OF OLD AGE, &C. _Printed by Caxton_, 1481. A cropt and soiled copy; whereas copies of this Caxtonian production are usually in a clean and sound condition. The binding is infinitely too gaudy for the state of the interior. It appears to want the treatise upon Friendship. This book once belonged to William Burton the Leicestershire historian; as we learn from this inscription below the colophon: "_Liber Willmi Burton Lindliaci Leicestrensis socij inter. Templi, ex dono amici mei singularis M^{ri}. Iohanis Price, socij Interioris. Templi, 28. Jan. 1606. Anno regni regis Iacobi quarto_." On the reverse is a fac-simile of the same subscription, beneath an exceedingly well executed head of Burton, in pen and ink. ART AND CRAFTE TO KNOW WELL TO DYE. _Printed by Caxton_. 1490. Folio. This book was sold to the Royal Library of France, many years ago, by Mr. Payne, for the moderate sum of £10. 10s. It is among the rarest of the volumes from the press of Caxton. Every leaf of this copy exhibits proof of the skill and care of Roger Payne; for every leaf is inlaid and mounted, with four lines of red ink round each page--not perhaps in the very best taste. The copy is also cramped or choked in the back. STATUTES OF RICHARD III. _Printed by Machlinia_. Folio. _Without Date_. A perfect copy for size and condition; but the binding is much too gay. I refer you to the Typographical Antiquities[66] for an account of this edition: NOVA STATUTA. _Printed by the Same_. Folio. You must examine the pages last referred to, for a description of this elaborately executed volume; printed upon paper of an admirable quality. The present is a sound, clean, and desirable copy: but why in such gay, red morocco, binding? LIBER MODORUM SIGNIFICANDI. _Printed at St. Alban's_; 1480. Quarto. The only copy of this rare volume I have ever seen. It appears to be bound in what is called the old Oxford binding, and the text is preceded by a considerable quantity of old coeval ms. relating to the science of arithmetic. A full page has thirty-two lines. The signatures _a_, _b_, _c_, _d_, _e_, run in eights: _f_ has six leaves. On the recto of _f_ vj is the colophon: This copy had belonged successively to Tutet and Wodhull. A ms. treatise, in a later hand, concludes the volume. The present is a sound and desirable copy. BOCCACCIO. IL DECAMERONE. _Printed by Valdarfer_. 1471. Folio. This is the famous edition about which all the Journals of Europe have recently "rung from side to side." But it wants much in value of THE yet more famous COPY[67] which was sold at the sale of the Duke of Roxburghe's library; inasmuch as it is defective in the first leaf of the text, and three leaves of the table. In the whole, according to the comparatively recent numerals, there are 265 leaves. This copy measures eleven inches and a half, by seven inches and seven eighths. It is bound in red morocco, with inside marble leaves. THE SAME WORK. _Printed by P. Adam de Michaelibus_. _Mantua_, 1472. An edition of almost equal rarity with the preceding; and of which, I suspect, there is only one perfect copy (at Blenheim) in our own country. The table contains seven leaves; and the text, according to the numbers of this copy, has 256 leaves. A full page has forty-one lines. The present is a sound, genuine copy; measuring, exclusively of the cover, twelve inches three eighths, by eight seven eighths. BOCCACE. RUINES DES NOBLES HOMMES & FEMMES. _Printed by Colard Mansion, at Bruges_. 1476. Folio. This edition is printed in double columns, in Mansion's larger type, precisely similar to what has been published in the Bibliotheca Spenceriana.[68] The title is in red--with a considerable space below, before the commencement of the text, as if this vacuum were to be supplied by the pencil of the illuminator. The present is a remarkably fine copy. The colophon is in six lines. FAIT DE LA GUERRE. _Printed by Colard Mansion_. _Without Date_. Folio. This rare book is printed in a very different type from that usually known as the type of Colard Mansion: being smaller and closer--but decidedly gothic. A full page has thirty-two lines. There are neither numerals, signatures, nor catchwords. On the recto of the twenty-ninth and last leaf, we read _Impressum brugis per Colardum Mansion._ The reverse is blank. This is a fine genuine copy, in red morocco binding. LASCARIS GRAMMATICA GRÆCA. 1476. Quarto. The first book printed in the Greek language; and, as such, greatly sought after by the curious. This is a clean, neat copy, but I suspect a little washed and cropt. Nevertheless, it is a most desirable volume.[69] AULUS GELLIUS. _Printed by Sweynheym and Pannartz_. 1469. Folio. Editio Princeps. A sound and rather fine copy: almost the whole of the old ms. numerals at top remaining. It is very slightly wormed at the beginning. This copy measures thirteen inches by nine. CÆSAR. _Printed by Sweynheym and Pannartz_. 1469. Folio. Editio Princeps: with ms. notes by Victorius. A large sound copy, but the first few leaves are soiled or rather thumbed. The marginal edges are apparently uncut. It measures twelve inches seven eighths by nine inches one eighth. APULEIUS. _Printed by the Same_. 1469. Folio. Editio Princeps. All these FIRST EDITIONS are of considerable rarity. The present copy is, upon the whole, large and sound: though not free from marginal notes and stains. The first few leaves at top are slightly injured. It measures thirteen inches one eighth, by nine inches.[70] AUSONIUS. 1472. Folio: with all the accompanying pieces.[71] Editio Princeps; and undoubtedly much rarer than either of the preceding volumes. Of the present copy, the first few leaves are wormed in the centre, and a little stained. The first illuminated leaf of the text is stained; so is the second leaf, not illuminated. In the whole, eighty-six leaves. The latter leaves are wormed. This copy is evidently cropt. CATULLUS, TIBULLUS & PROPERTIUS. 1472. Folio. Editio Princeps. Of equal, if not greater, rarity than even the Ausonius. This is a sound and very desirable copy--displaying the ancient ms. signatures. The edges of the leaves are rather of a foxy tint. After the Catullus, a blank leaf. This copy measures eleven inches one eighth, by very nearly seven inches five eighths. HOMERI OPERA. Gr. 1488. Folio. Editio Princeps. When you are informed that this copy is ... UNCUT ... you will necessarily figure to yourself a volume of magnificent, as well as pristine, dimensions. Yet, without putting on spectacles, one discovers occasionally a few foxy spots towards the edges; and the first few leaves are perhaps somewhat tawny. Upon the whole, however, the condition is wonderful: and I am almost ashamed of myself at having talked about foxy spots and tawny tints. This copy is bound in red morocco, in a sensible, unassuming manner. For the comfort of such, whose copies aspire to the distinction of being _almost_ uncut, I add, that this volume measures fourteen inches, by about nine inches and five eighths. HOMERI OPERA. Gr. 1808. _Printed by Bodoni_. Folio. 2 volumes. This grand copy is printed UPON VELLUM, and is the presentation copy to Bonaparte--to whom this edition was dedicated, by Bodoni.[72] Splendid, large, and beautiful, as is this typographical performance, I must candidly own that there is something about it which "likes me not." The vellum, however choice, and culled by Bodoni's most experienced foragers, is, to my eye, too white--which arises perhaps from the text occupying so comparatively small a space in the page. Nor is the type pleasing to my taste. It is too cursive and sparkling; and the upper strokes are uniformly too thin. In short, the whole has a cold effect. However, this is questionless one of the most magnificent productions of the modern press. The volumes measure two feet in length. CRONIQUES DE FRANCE. _Printed by Verard_. 1493. Folio. Three vols. A glorious copy--printed UPON VELLUM! The wood-cuts are coloured. It is bound in red morocco. LAUNCELOT DU LAC. _Printed by Verard_. 1494. Folio. 3 vols. Also UPON VELLUM. In red morocco binding. There is yet another copy of the same date, upon vellum, but with different illuminations: equally magnificent and covetable. In red morocco binding. GYRON LE COURTOYS: auecques la devise des armes de tous les cheualiers de la table ronde. _Printed by Verard_. _Without Date_. Folio. Printed UPON VELLUM. This was once a fine thumping fellow of a copy!--but it has lost somewhat of its stature by the knife of the binder--or rather from the destruction of the Library of St. Germain des Près: whence it was thrown into the streets, and found next day by M. Van Praet. Many of the books, from the same library, were thrown into cellars. It is evident, from the larger illuminations, and especially from the fourth, on the recto of _d vj_, that this volume has suffered in the process of binding. In old blue morocco. ROMAN DE LA ROSE. _Printed by Verard_. _Without Date_. Small folio. In double columns, in prose. This superbly bound volume--once the property of H. Durfé, having his arms in the centre, and corner embellishments, in metal, on which are the entwined initials T.C.--is but an indifferent copy. It is printed UPON VELLUM; and has been, as I suspect, rather cruelly cropt in the binding. Much of the vellum is also crumpled and tawny. L'HORLOGE DE SAPIENCE. _Printed by Verard_. 1493. Folio. One of the loveliest books ever opened, and printed UPON VELLUM. Every thing is here perfect. The page is finely proportioned, the vellum is exceedingly beautiful, and the illuminations have a brilliance and delicacy of finish not usually seen in volumes of this kind. The borders are decorated by the pencil, and the second may be considered quite perfect of its kind. This book is bound by Bradel l'Ainé. MILLES ET AMYS. _Printed by Verard_. _Without Date_. Folio. A copy UPON VELLUM. From the same library as the copy of the Roman de la Rose, just described; and in the same style of binding. It is kept in the same case; but, although cropt, it is a much finer book. The cuts are coloured, and the text is printed in double columns. I do not at this present moment remember to have seen another copy of this edition of the work. IEU DES ESCHEZ. _Without name of Printer (but probably by Verard) or Date_. Folio.[73] This is one of the numerous French originals from which Caxton printed his well known moralised work, under the title of the _Game and Play of the Chesse_. This fine copy is printed UPON VELLUM, in a large gothic letter, in double columns. The type has rather an uneven appearance, from the thickness of the vellum. There are several large prints, which, in this copy, are illuminated. L'ARBRE DES BATAILLES. _Printed by Verard_. 1493. Folio. Another fine volume, printed UPON VELLUM. With the exception only of one or two crumpled or soiled leaves, this copy is as perfect as can be desired. Look from _d iiij_. to _ej_, for a set of exquisitely printed leaves upon vellum, which cannot be surpassed. The cuts are here coloured in the usually bold and brilliant style. LA CHASSE ET LE DEPART D'AMOURS. _Printed by Verard_. 1509. Folio. This volume of interesting old French poetry, UPON VELLUM, which is printed in double columns, formerly belonged to the abbey of St. Germain des Près--as an inscription upon the title denotes. The work abounds with very curious, and very delectable old French poetry. Look, amongst a hundred other similar things, at the _"Balade ioyeuse des taverniers_," on the reverse _Q_. i: each stanza ending with _Les tauerniers qui brouillent nostre vin._ LA NEF DES FOLZ DU MONDE. _Printed by Verard. Without Date_. Folio. A most magnificent copy; printed UPON VELLUM. Every page is highly illuminated, with ample margins. What is a little extraordinary, the reverse of the sixth leaf has ms. text above and below the large illumination; while the recto of the same leaf has printed text. The present noble volume, which has the royal arms stamped on the exterior, is one of the few old books which has not suffered amputation by recent binding. THE SAME WORK. _Printed by the Same_. Folio. The poetry is in double columns, and the cuts are coloured. I apprehend this copy to be much cropt. It is UPON VELLUM: rather tawny, but upon the whole exceedingly sound and desirable. L'ART DE BIEN MOURIR. _Printed for Verard_. _Without Date_. Folio. A fragment only of the Work. In large gothic type; double columns: cuts coloured. There are two cuts of demons torturing people in a cauldron, such as may be seen in the second volume of my Typographical Antiquities.[74] Some of these cuts, in turn, may be taken from the older ones in block books. The present copy is UPON VELLUM, rather tawny: but it is large and sound. In calf binding. PARABOLES [de] MAISTRE ALAIN [De Lille] _Printed by Verard_, 1492. Folio. A magnificent volume, for size and condition. It is printed in Verard's large type, in long lines. The illuminations are highly coloured. This copy is UPON VELLUM.[75] Suppose, now, I throw in a little variety from the preceding, by the mention of a rare _Italian_ book or two? Let me place before you a choice copy of the MONTE SANCTO DI DIO. _Printed in 1477_. Folio. This, you know, is the volume about which the collectors of early copper-plate engraving are never thoroughly happy until they possess a perfect copy of it: perhaps a copy of a more covetable description than that which is now before me. There is a duplicate of the first cut: of which one impression is faint, and miserably coloured, and the other is so much cut away to the left, as to deprive the man, looking up, of his left arm. There is an exceedingly well executed duplicate of the large Christ, drawn with a pen. In the genuine print there is too much of the burr. The impression of the Devil eating human beings, within the lake of fire, is a good bold one. This copy is bound in red morocco, but in a flaunting style of ornament. LA SFORZIADA. _Printed in 1480_. Folio. It is just possible you may not have forgotten the description of a copy of this work--like the present, struck off UPON VELLUM--which appears in the _Bibliographical Decameron_.[76] That copy, you may remember, adorns the choice collection of our friend George Hibbert, Esq.[77] The book before me is doubtless a most exquisite one; and the copy is of large dimensions. The illuminated first page very strongly resembles that in the copy just mentioned. The portraits appear to be the same: but the Cardinal is differently habited, and his phisiognomical expression is less characteristic here than in the same portrait in Mr. Hibbert's copy. The head of Duke Sforza, his brother, seems to be about the same. The lower compartment of this splendidly illuminated page differs materially from that of Mr. Hibbert's copy. There are two figures kneeling, apparently portraits; with the sea in the distance. The figure of St. Louis appears in the horizon--very curious. To the right, there are rabbits within an enclosure, and human beings growing into trees. The touch and style of the whole are precisely similar to what we observe in the other copy so frequently mentioned. The capital initials are also very similar. It is a pity that, during the binding, (which is in red morocco) the vellum has been so very much crumpled. This copy measures thirteen inches and seven eighths, by nine inches and three eighths. I must now lay before you a few more Classics, and conclude the whole with miscellaneous articles. TERENTIUS. _Printed by Ulric Han_. Folio. _Without date_. In all probability the first edition of the author by Ulric Han, and perhaps the second in chronological order; that of Mentelin being considered the first. It is printed in Ulric Han's larger roman type. This may be considered a fine genuine copy--in old French binding, with the royal arms. ARISTOTELIS OPERA. _Printed by Aldus_. 1495, &c. 6 vols. Would you believe it--here are absolutely TWO copies of this glorious effort of the Aldine Press, printed UPON VELLUM!? One copy belonged to the famous _Henri II. and Diane de Poictiers_, and is about an eighth of an inch taller and wider than the other; but the other has not met with fair play, from the unskilful manner in which it has been bound--in red morocco. Perhaps the interior of this second copy may be preferred to that of Henri II. The illuminations are ancient, and elegantly executed, and the vellum seems equally white and beautiful. Probably the tone of the vellum in the other copy may be a _little_ more sombre, but there reigns throughout it such a sober, uniform, mellow and genuine air--that, brilliant and captivating as may be the red morocco copy--_he_ ought to think more than _once_ or _twice_ who should give it the preference. The arms of the morocco copy, in the first page of the Life of Aristotle, from Diogenes Laertius, have been cut out. This copy came from the monastery of St. Salvador; and the original, roughly stamped, edges of the leaves are judiciously preserved in the binding. Both copies have the _first_ volume upon _paper_. Indeed it seems now clearly ascertained that it was never printed upon vellum.[78] The copy of Henri II. measures twelve inches and a quarter, by eight and an eighth. PLUTARCHI OPUSCULA MORALIA. _Printed by Aldus_. 1509. Folio. 2 vols. Another, delicious MEMBRANACEOUS treasure from the fine library of Henri II. and Diane de Poictiers; in the good old original coverture, besprinkled with interlaced D's and H's. It is in truth a lovely book--measuring ten inches and five eighths, by seven inches and three eighths; but I suspect a little cropt. Some of the vellum is also rather tawny--especially the first and second leaves, and the first page of the text of Plutarch. These volumes reminded me of the first Aldine Plato, also UPON VELLUM, in the library of Dr. W. Hunter; but I question if the Plato be _quite_ so beautiful a production. EUSTATHIUS IN HOMERUM. 1542. Folio. 4 vols. Printed UPON VELLUM--and probably unique. A set of matchless volumes--yet has the binder done them great injustice, by the manner in which the backs are cramped or choked. The exteriors, in blazing red morocco, are not in the very best taste. A good deal of the vellum is also of too yellow a tint, but it is of a most delicate quality. ARISTOTELIS ETHICA NICHOMACHEA. Gr. This volume forms a part only of the first Aldine edition of the Nichomachean ethics of Aristotle. The margins are plentifully charged with the Scholia of Basil the Great, as we learn from an original letter of "Constantinus Palæocappa, grecus" to Henry the Second--whose book it was, and who shewed the high sense he entertained of the Scholia, by having the volume bound in a style of luxury and splendour beyond any thing which I remember to have seen--as coming from his library. The reverse of the first leaf exhibits a beautiful frame work, of silver ornaments upon a black ground--now faded; with the initials and devices of Henry and Diane de Poictiers. Their arms and supporters are at top. Within this frame work is the original and beautifully written letter of Constantine Palæocappa. On the opposite page the text begins--surrounded by the same brilliant kind of ornament; having an initial H of extraordinary beauty. The words, designating the Scholia, are thus: [Greek: META SCHOLIÔN BASILEIOU TOU MEGALOU.] These Scholia are written in a small, close, and yet free Greek character, with frequent contractions. Several other pages exhibit the peculiar devices of Henry and Diana--having silver crescents and arrow-stocked quivers. This book is bound in boards, and covered with dark green velvet, now almost torn to threads. In its original condition, it must have been an equally precious and resplendent tome. It measures twelve inches and a quarter, by eight inches and three eighths. EUCLIDES. _Printed by Ratdolt_. 1482. Folio. A copy UPON VELLUM. The address of Ratdolt, as it sometimes occurs, is printed in golden letters; but I was disappointed in the view of this book. Unluckily the first leaf of the text is ms. but of the time. At the bottom, in an ancient hand, we read "_Monasterii S. Saluatoris bonon. signatus In Inuentario numero 524._" It is a large copy, but the vellum is rather tawny. PRISCIANUS. _Printed by V. de Spira_. 1470. Folio. First edition, UPON VELLUM. This is a book, of which, as you may remember, some mention has been previously made;[79] and I own I was glad to turn over the membranaceous leaves of a volume which had given rise, at the period of its acquisition, to a good deal of festive mirth. At the first glance of it, I recognised the cropping system. The very first page of the text has lost, if I may so speak, its head and shoulders: nor is such amputation to be wondered at, when we read, to the left, "_Relié par_ DEROME dit le Jeune." Would you believe it--nearly one half of the illumination, at top, has been sliced away? The vellum is beautifully delicate, but unluckily not uniformly white. Slight, but melancholy, indications of the worm are visible at the beginning--which do not, however, penetrate a great way. Yet, towards the end, the ravages of this book-devourer are renewed: and the six last leaves exhibit most terrific evidences of his power. This volume is bound in gay green morocco--with water-tabby pink lining. BUDÆUS. COMMENT. GR. LING. 1529. Folio. Francis the First's own copy--and UPON VELLUM! You may remember that this book was slightly alluded to at the commencement of a preceding letter. It is indeed a perfect gem, and does one's heart good to look at it. Budæus was the tutor of Francis, and I warrant that he selected the very leaves, of which this copy is composed, for his gallant pupil. Old Ascensius was the printer: which completes the illustrious trio. The illuminations, upon the rectos of the first and second leaves, are as beautiful as they are sound. Upon the whole, this book may fairly rank with any volume in either of the vellum sets of the Aldine Aristotle. It is bound in red morocco; a little too gaudily. CICERONIS ORATIONES. _Printed by Valdarfer_. 1471: Folio. Still revelling among VELLUM copies of the early classics. This is a fine book, but it is unluckily imperfect. I should say that it was of large and genuine dimensions, did not a little close cropping upon the first illuminated page tell a different tale. It measures twelve inches and six eighths, by eight inches and a half. Upon the whole, though there be a few uncomfortably looking perforations of the worm, this is a very charming copy. Its imperfections do not consist of more than the deficiency of one leaf, which contains the table. OVIDII OPERA OMNIA. _Printed by Azoguidi_. 1471. Folio. 3 vols. The supposed FIRST EDITION, and perhaps (when complete)[80] the rarest Editio Princeps in existence. The copy before me partakes of the imperfection of almost every thing earthly. It wants two leaves: but it is a magnificent, and I should think unrivalled, copy--bating such imperfection. It measures very nearly thirteen inches and a quarter, by little more than eight inches three quarters. It is bound in red morocco. ÆSOPUS. Latinè. _Printed by Dom. de Vivaldis, &c_. 1481. Folio. A most singular volume--in hexameter and pentameter, verses. To every fable is a wood cut, quite in the ballad style of execution, with a back-ground like coarse mosaic work. The text is printed in a large clumsy gothic letter. The present is a sound copy, but not free from stain. Bound in blue morocco. ÆSOPUS. Italicè. _Edited by Tuppi_. 1485. Folio. A well known and highly coveted edition: but copies are very rare, especially when of goodly dimensions. This is a large and beautiful book; although I observe that the border, on the right margin of the first leaf, is somewhat cut away. The graphic art in this volume has a very imposing appearance. ---- Germanicè. _Without Date or Name of Printer_. Folio. This edition is printed in a fine large open gothic type. There is the usual whole length cut of Æsop. The other cuts are spirited, after the fashion of those in Boccacio De Malis Mulier. Illust.--printed by John Zeiner at Ulm in 1473. The present is a fine, sound copy: in red morocco binding. ÆSOPUS. Germanicè. _Without Date, &c_. Folio. This impression, which, like the preceding, is destitute of signatures and catchwords, is printed in a smaller gothic type. The wood cuts are spirited, with more of shadow. Some of the initial letters are pretty and curious. Some of the pages (see the last but fifteen) contain as many as forty-five lines. The present is a fine, large copy. ---- Hispanicè. _Printed at Burgos._ 1496. Folio. This is a beautiful and interesting volume, full of wood cuts. The title is within a broad bold border, thus: "_Libro del asopo famoso fabulador historiado en romace_." On the reverse is the usual large wood cut of Æsop, but his mouth is terribly diminished in size. The leaves are numbered in large roman numerals. A fine clean copy, in blue morocco binding. And now, my dear friend, let us both breathe a little, by way of cessation from labour: yourself from reading, and your correspondent from the exercise of his pen. I own that I am fairly tired ... but in a few days I shall resume the BOOK THEME with as much ardour as heretofore. [43] In his meditated Catalogue raisonné of the books PRINTED UPON VELLUM in the Royal Library. [This Catalogue is now printed, in 8vo. 5 vols. 1822. There are copies on LARGE PAPER. It is a work in all respects worthy of the high reputation of its author. A _Supplement_ to it--of books printed UPON VELLUM in _other_ public, and many distinguished _private_ libraries, appeared in 1824, 8vo. 3 vols.--with two additional volumes in 1828. These volumes are the joy of the heart of a thorough bred Bibliographer.] [44] The measurement is necessarily confined to the leaves--_exclusively_ of the binding. [45] See the Art. "_Roman de Jason_" [46] [There are, now, ten known _perfect_ copies of this book, of which six are in England. M. Renouard, in his recent edition of the _Annals of the Aldine Press_, vol. i. p. 36, has been copious and exact.] [47] [Since bound in blue morocco by Thouvenin.] [48] [This anecdote, in the preceding Edition of the Tour, was told, inaccurately, as belonging to the Caxton's edition of the _Recueil des Hist. de Troye_: see p. 102 ante. I thank M. Crapelet for the correction.] [49] _Bibl. Spenceriana_, vol. i. p. 107, &c. [50] [The finest copy in the world of the second edition, as to amplitude, is, I believe, that in the Bodleian library at Oxford. A very singular piece of good fortune has now made it PERFECT. It was procured by Messrs. Payne and Foss of M. Artaria at Manheim.] [51] Nine years ago I obtained a fac-simile of this memorandum; and published an Essay upon the antiquity of the date of the above Bible, in the _Classical Journal_, vol. iv. p. 471-484. of Mr. J.A. Valpy. But latterly a more complete fac-simile of it appeared in the Catalogue of Count M'Carthy's books. [52] "_Iste liber illuminatus, ligatus & completus est per Henricum Cremer vicariu ecclesie sancti Stephani Maguntini sub anno dni Millesimo quatringentesimo quinquagesimo sexto, festo Assumptionis gloriose virginis Marie. Deo gracias. Alleluja_." [53] [This copy having one leaf of MS.--but executed with such extraordinary accuracy as almost to deceive the most experienced eye--was sold in 1827, by public auction, for 504_l_. and is now in the collection of Henry Perkins, Esq.] [54] _Bibl. Spenceriana_; vol. i. p. 85-89. [55] _Bibl. Spenceriana_; vol. i. p. 103-4; where there is also an account of the book itself--from the description of Camus. The work is entitled by Camus, The ALLEGORY OF DEATH. [56] This subject is briefly noticed in the _Bibliographical Decameron_, vol. i. 371; and the book itself is somewhat particularly described there. I think I remember Lord Spencer to have once observed, that more than a slight hope was held out to him, by the late Duke of Brunswick, of obtaining this typographical treasure. This was before the French over-ran Prussia. [57] See _Bibl. Spenceriana_; vol. iii. p. 129, vol. iv. p. 500. [58] Vol. iii. p. 484. [59] [I had said "De Rome"--incorrectly--in the previous edition. "M. Dibdin poursuit partout d'un trait vengeur le coupable Derome: mais ici c'est au relieur CHAMOT qu'il doit l'addresser." CRAPELET; vol. iii. p. 268.] [60] [The very sound copy of it, upon paper, belonging to the late Sir M.M. Sykes, Bart. was sold at the sale of his library for 100 guineas.] [61] That sigh has at length ceased to rend my breast. It will be seen, from the sequel of this Tour, that a good, sound, perfect copy of it, now adorns the shelves of the _Spencerion Library_. The VIRGILS indeed, in that library, are perfectly unequalled throughout Europe. [62] [There is a fine copy of this very rare edition in the Public Library at Cambridge.] [63] [Fine as is this book, it is yet inferior in _altitude_ to the copy in the Public Library at Cambridge.] [64] [There was another copy of this edition, free from the foregoing objections, which had escaped me. This omission frets M. Crapelet exceedingly; but I can assure him that it was unintentional; and that I have a far greater pleasure in describing _fine_, than _ordinary_, copies--be they WHOSE they may.] [65] [Not so. There was another copy upon vellum, in the library of Count Melzi, which is now in that of G.H. Standish, Esq. I _know_ that 500 guineas were once offered for this most extraordinary copy, bound in 3 volumes in foreign coarse vellum.] [66] Vol. ii. p. 11: or to the _Bibliotheca Spenceriana_; vol. iv. p. 385. [67] Now in Lord Spencer's Collection. [68] Vol. i. p. 281-2. [69] [To the best of my recollection and belief, the finest copy of this most estimable book, is that in the Library of the Rt. Hon. Thomas Grenville.] [70] [The finest copy of this valuable edition, which I ever saw, is that in the Public Library at Cambridge.] [71] _See Bibl. Spenceriana_; vol. i. page 272. [72] [I had called it a UNIQUE copy; but M. Crapelet says, that there was a second similar copy, offered to the late Eugene Beauharnais.] [73] [It is the Edition of Verard, of the date of 1504. The copy looks as if it had neither Printer's name or date, because the last lines of the colophon have been defaced. See _Cat. des Livr. Iniprim. sur Vèlin de la Bibl. du Roi_. vol. iii. p. 35. CRAPELET.] [74] At page 599, &c. [75] [See _Cat. des Livr. sur Vélin_, vol. iv. No. 236.] [76] Vol. iii. p. 176. [77] [Mr. Hibbert's beautiful copy, above referred to, is about to be sold at the sale of his library, in the ensuing Spring; and is fully described in the Catalogue of that Library, at p. 414: But the fac-simile portrait of Francis Sforza, prefixed to the Catalogue, wants, I suspect, the high finished brilliancy, or force, of the original.] [78] [Not so: see the _Introduction to the Classics_, vol. 1. p. 313. edit. 1827 The _only known_ copy of the first volume, UPON VELLUM, is that in the Library of New College, Oxford.] [79] See the _Bibliographical Decameron_; vol. iii. p. 165. [80] [The only ENTIRELY PERFECT copy in Europe, to my knowledge, is that in the library of the Right Hon. Thomas Grenville.] _LETTER VI._ CONCLUSION OF THE ACCOUNT OF THE ROYAL LIBRARY. THE LIBRARY OF THE ARSENAL. My last letter left me on the first floor of the Royal Library. I am now about to descend, and to take you with me to the ground floor--where, as you may remember I formerly remarked, are deposited the _Aldine Vellums_ and _Large Papers_, and choice and curious copies from the libraries of _Grolier, Diane de Poictiers_, and _de Thou_. The banquet is equally delicious of its kind, although the dishes are of a date somewhat more remote from the time of Apicius. Corresponding with the almost interminable suite of book-rooms above, is a similar suite below stairs: but the general appearance of the latter is comparatively cold, desolate, and sombre. The light comes in, to the right, less abundantly; and, in the first two rooms, the garniture of the volumes is less brilliant and attractive. In short, these first two lower rooms may be considered rather as the depot for the cataloguing and forwarding of all modern books recently purchased. Let me now conduct you to the _third room_ in this lower suite, which may probably have a more decided claim upon your attention. Here are deposited, as I just observed, the VELLUM ALDUSES and other curious and choice old printed volumes. I will first mention nearly the whole of the former. HOMERI OPERA. Gr. _Printed by Aldus. Without Date_. 8vo. 2 vols. A white and beautiful copy--with large, and genuine margins--printed UPON VELLUM. In its original binding, with the ornaments tolerably entire:--and what binding should this be, but that of Henry the Second and Diane de Poictiers? Let me just notice that this copy measures six inches and a half, by three inches and six eighths. EURIPIDIS OPERA. Gr. 1503. 8vo. 2 vols. A fair and desirable copy UPON VELLUM; but a little objectionable, as being ruled with red lines rather unskilfully. It is somewhat coarsely bound in red morocco, and preserved in a case. This vellum treasure is among the desiderata of Earl Spencer's library; and I sincerely wish his Lordship no worse luck than the possession of a copy like that before me.[81] HECUBA, ET IPHIGENIA IN AULIDE. Gr. and Lat. 1507. 8vo. A very rare book, and quite perfect, as far as it goes. This copy, also UPON VELLUM, is much taller than the preceding of the entire works of Euripides; but the vellum is not of so white a tint. ANTHOLOGIA GRÆCA. Gr. 1503. 8vo. A very fine genuine copy, upon excellent VELLUM. I suspect this copy to be a little broader, but by no means taller, than a similar copy in Lord Spencer's collection. HORATIUS. 1501. 8vo. UPON VELLUM: a good, sound copy; although inferior to Lord Spencer's. MARTIALIS. 1502. 8vo. Would you believe it?--here are _two_ copies UPON VELLUM, and _both_ originally belonged to Grolier. They are differently illuminated, but the tallest--measuring six inches three eighths, by three inches six eighths--is the whitest, and the preferable copy, notwithstanding one may discern the effects of the nibbling of a worm at the bottom corner. It is, however, a beautiful book, in every respect. The initial letters are gold. In the other copy there are the arms of Grolier, with a pretty illumination in the first page of the text. It is also a sound copy. LUCRETIUS. 1515. 8vo. This copy, UPON VELLUM, is considered to be unique. It is fair, sound, and in all respects desirable. CICERO DE OFFICIIS. _Without Date_. 8vo. This is but a moderate specimen of the Aldine VELLUM, if it be not a counterfeit--which I suspect.[82] CICERONIS ORATIONES. 1519. 8vo. UPON VELLUM. Only the first volume, which however is quite perfect and desirable--measuring six inches and a quarter, by very nearly four inches. But prepare for an account of a perfect, and still more magnificent, vellum copy of the Orations of Cicero--when I introduce you to the _Library of St. Geneviève_. HIST. AUGUST. SCRIPTORES. 1521. 8vo. 2 vols. A sound and fair copy--of course UPON VELLUM--but too much cropt in the binding. The foregoing are all the _Aldine, Greek and Latin Classics_, printed UPON VELLUM, which the liberal kindness of M. Van Praet enabled me to lay my hands upon. But here follows another membranaceous gem of the Aldine Family. PETRARCHA. 1501. 8vo. A beautiful, white copy, measuring six inches and a half, by three and three quarters. It is, however, somewhat choked in the binding, (in blue morocco) as too many of Bozerian's performances usually are.[83] Close to this book is the Giunta reprint of 1515--ALSO UPON VELLUM: but of a foxy and unpleasing tint. Now for a few LARGE PAPER ALDUSES--of a variety of forms and of characters. But I must premise that the ensuing list of those upon vellum, is very far indeed from being complete. HORÆ. Gr. 1497. 12mo. A beautiful copy, among the very rarest of books which have issued from the Aldine press. Here is also _one_ volume of the Aldine ARISTOTLE, upon _large paper_: and only one. Did the _remaining_ volumes ever so exist? I should presume they did. BIBLIA GRÆCA. 1518. Folio. Upon _thick paper_. Francis the First's own copy. A glorious and perhaps matchless copy. Yet it is rebacked, in modern binding, in a manner ... almost shameful! PLAUTUS. 1522. Small quarto. A very fine copy; in all appearance large paper, and formerly belonging to Grolier. AUSONIUS. 1517. 8vo. Large paper; very fine; and belonging to the same. VALERIUS MAXIMUS. 1534. 8vo. The same--in _all_ respects. PRISCIANUS. 1527. 8vo. Every characteristic before mentioned. SANNAZARII ARCADIA. _Ital_. 1514. 8vo. The same. ---- _De Partu Virginis_. 1533. 8vo. An oblong, large paper Grolier, like most of the preceding. ISOCRATES. Gr. 1534. Folio. EUSTRATIUS IN ARISTOT. Gr. 1536. Both upon _large paper_, of the largest possible dimensions, and in the finest possible condition; add to which--rich and rare old binding! Both these books, upon large paper, are wanting in Lord Spencer's collection; but then, as a pretty stiff set-off, his Lordship has the THEMISTIUS of 1534-- which, for size and condition, may challenge either of the preceding--and which is here wanting. GALENUS. 1525. Gr. Folio. 5 vols. A matchless set, upon _large paper_. The binding claims as much attention, before you open the volumes, as does a finely-proportioned Greek portico--ere you enter the temple or the mansion. The foregoing are all, doubtless, equally splendid and uncommon specimens of the beauty and magnificence of the press of the _Alduses_: and they are also, with very few exceptions, as intrinsically valuable as they are fine. I shall conclude my survey of these lower-book-regions by noticing a few more uncommon books of their kind. CATHARIN DE SIENA. 1500. Folio. This volume is also a peculiarity in the Aldine department. It is, in the first place, a very fine copy--and formerly belonged to Anne of Brittany. In the second place, it has a wood-cut prefixed, and several introductory pieces, which, if I remember rightly, do not belong to Lord Spencer's copy of the same edition. ISOCRATES. Gr. _Printed at Milan_. 1493. Folio. What is somewhat singular, there is another copy of this book which has a title and imprint of the date of 1535 or 1524; in which the old Greek character of the body of the work is rather successfully imitated.[84] BIBLIA POLYGLOTTA COMPLUTENSIA. 1516-22. Fol. 6 vols. I doubt exceedingly whether this be not the largest and finest copy in existence. It may possibly be even _large paper_--but certainly, if otherwise, it is among the most ample and beautiful. The colour, throughout, is white and uniform; which is not the usual characteristic of copies of this work. It measures fourteen inches and three quarters in height, and belonged originally to Henry II. and Diane de Poictiers. It wanted only _this_ to render it unrivalled; and it now undoubtedly _is_ so. TESTAMENTUM NOVUM. Gr. _Printed by R. Stephen_. 1550. Folio. Another treasure from the same richly-fraught collection. It is quite a perfect copy; but some of the silver ornaments of the sides have been taken off. Let me now place before you a few more testimonies of the splendour of that library, which was originally the chief ornament of the _Chateau d'Anet_,[85] and not of the Louvre. HERODOTUS. Gr. _Printed by Aldus_, 1502. Folio. I had long supposed Lord Spencer's copy--like this, upon LARGE PAPER--to be the finest first Aldine Herodotus in existence: but the first glimpse only of the present served to dissipate that belief. What must repeated glimpses have produced? LUCIANUS. Gr. _Printed by the Same_. 1503. Folio. Equally beautiful--large, white, and crackling--with the preceding. SUIDAS. Gr. _Printed by the Same_. 1503. Folio. The same praise belongs to this copy; which, like its precursors, is clothed in the first mellow and picturesque binding. EUSTATHIUS IN HOMERUM. 1542. Folio. 3 vols. A noble copy--eclipsed perhaps, in amplitude only, by that in the collection of Mr. Grenville. DION CASSIUS. Gr. 1548. Folio. APPIANUS. Gr. 1551. Folio. DIONYSIUS HALICARNASSENSIS. 1546. Folio. These exquisitely well printed volumes are from the press of the Stephens. The present copies, clothed in their peculiar bindings, are perhaps the most beautiful that exist. They are from the library of the Chateau d'Anet. Let it not be henceforth said that the taste of Henri II. was not _well_ directed by the influence of Diane de Poictiers, in the choice of BOOKS. CICERONIS OPERA OMNIA. _Printed by the Giunti_, 1534. Folio. 4 vols. I introduce this copy to your notice, because there are four leaves of _Various Readings_, at the end of the fourth volume, which M. Van Praet said he had never observed, nor heard of, in any other copy.[86] I think also that there are two volumes of the same edition upon LARGE PAPER:--the rest being deficient. Does any perfect copy, of this kind, exist? POETÆ GRÆCI HEROICI. 1556. _Printed by H. Stephen._ Folio. De Thou's own copy--and, upon the whole, perhaps MATCHLESS. The sight of this splendid volume would repay the toil of a pilgrimage of some fourscore miles, over Lapland snows. There is another fine copy of the same edition, which belonged to Diana and her royal slave; but it is much inferior to De Thou's. The frequent mention of DE THOU reminds me of the extraordinary number of copies, which came from his library, and which are placed upon the shelves of the _fourth_ or following room. Perhaps no other library can boast of such a numerous collection of similar copies. It was, while gazing upon these interesting volumes along with M. Van Praet, that the latter told me he remembered seeing the ENTIRE LIBRARY of De Thou--before it was dispersed by the sale of the collection of the Prince de Soubise in 1788--in which it had been wholly embodied, partly by descent, and partly by purchase. And now farewell ... to the BIBLIOTHÈQUE DU ROI. We have, I think, tarried in it a good long time; and recreated ourselves with a profusion of RICH AND RARE GEMS in the book-way--whether as specimens of the pencil, or of the press. I can never regret the time so devoted--nor shall ever banish from my recollection the attention, civility, and kindness which I have received, from all quarters, in this magnificent library. It remains only to shake hands with the whole _Corps Bibliographique_, who preside over these regions of knowledge, and whose names have been so frequently mentioned--and, making our bow, to walk arm in arm together to the LIBRARY OF THE ARSENAL. The way thither is very interesting, although not very short. Whether your hackney coachman take you through the _Marché des Innocents_, or straight forward, along the banks of the Seine--passing two or three bridges--you will be almost equally amused. But reflections of a graver cast will arise, when you call to mind that it was in his way to THIS VERY LIBRARY--to have a little bibliographical, or rather perhaps political, chat with his beloved Sully--that Henry IV. fell by the hand of an Assassin.[87] They shew you, at the further end of the apartments--distinguished by its ornaments of gilt, and elaborate carvings--the _very boudoir_ ... where that monarch and his prime minister frequently retired to settle the affairs of the nation. Certainly, no man of education or of taste can enter such an apartment without a diversion of some kind being given to the current of his feelings. I will frankly own that I lost, for one little minute, the recollection of the hundreds and thousands of volumes-- including even those which adorn the chamber wherein the head librarian sits--which I had surveyed in my route thither. However, my present object must be exclusively confined to an account of a very few choice articles of these hundreds and thousands of volumes. BIBLIA LATINA. _Printed by Fust and Schoiffher_, 1462. 2 vols. There are not fewer than _three_ copies of this edition, which I shall almost begin to think must be ranked among books of ordinary occurrence. Of these three, two are UPON VELLUM, and the third is upon paper. The latter, or paper copy, is cruelly cropt, and bad in every respect. Of the two upon vellum, one is in vellum binding, and a fair sound copy; except that it has a few initials cut out. The other vellum copy, which is bound in red morocco-- measuring full fifteen inches and a half, by eleven inches and a quarter-- affords the comfortable evidence of ancient ms. signatures at bottom. There are doubtless some exceptionable leaves; but, upon the whole, it is a very sound and desirable copy. It was obtained of the elder M. Brunet, father of the well-known author of the Manuel du Libraire. M. Brunet senior found it in the garret of a monastery, of which he had purchased the entire library; and he sold it to the father of the present Comte d'Artois for six hundred livres ... only! ROMAUNT DE JASON, _Supposed to be printed by Caxton_. Folio. _Without date_. This is a finer copy than the one in the Royal Library; but it is imperfect, wanting two leaves. Here is a copy of the very rare edition of the MORLINI _Novella Comoediæ et Fabulæ_, printed in 1520 in 4to.:--also of the _Teatro Jesuitico--impresso en Coimbra_, 1634, 4to.:--and of the _Missa Latina_, printed by Mylius in 1557, 8vo. which latter is a satire upon the mass, and considered exceedingly rare. I regretted to observe so very bad a copy of the original _Giunta_ Edition of the BOCCACCIO of 1527, 4to. MISSALE PARISIENSE. 1522. Folio. A copy UPON VELLUM. I do not think it possible for any library, in any part of the world, to produce a more lovely volume than that upon which, at this moment, I must be supposed to be gazing! In the illuminated initial letters, wood-cuts, tone and quality of the vellum, and extreme skilfulness of the printer--it surely cannot be surpassed. Nor is the taste of the binding inferior to its interior condition. It is habited in the richly-starred morocco livery of Claude d'Urfé: in other words, it came from that distinguished man's library. Originally it appears to have been in the "_Bibliothèque de l'Eglise à Paris_." _Mozarabic Missal and Breviary_. 1500, 1502. Folio. Original Editions. These copies are rather cropt, but sound and perfect. THE DELPHIN STATIUS. Two copies: of which that in calf is the whitest, and less beaten: the other is in dark morocco. The Abbé Grosier told me that De Bure had offered him forty louis for one of them: to which I replied, and now repeat the question, "where is the use of keeping _two_?" Rely upon it, that, within a dozen years from hence, it will turn out that these Delphin Statiuses have never been even _singed_ by a fire![88] I begin to suspect that this story may be classed in the number of BIBLIOGRAPHICAL DELUSIONS-- upon which subject our friend * * could publish a most interesting crown octavo volume: meet garniture for a Bibliomaniac's breakfast table. Here is the ALDINE BIBLE of 1518, in Greek, upon _thick paper_, bound in red morocco. Also a very fine copy of the _Icelandic Bible_ of 1644, folio, bound in the same manner. Among the religious formularies, I observed a copy of the _Liturgia Svecanæ Ecclesiæ catliolicæ et orthodoxæ conformis_, in 1576, folio--which contains only LXXVI leaves, besides the dedication and preface. It has a wood-cut frontispiece, and the text is printed in a very large gothic letter. The commentary is in a smaller type. This may be classed among the rarer books of its kind. But I must not forget a MS. of _The Hours of St. Louis_--considered as _contemporaneous_. It is a most beautiful small folio, or rather imperial octavo; and is in every respect brilliant and precious. The gold, raised greatly beyond what is usually seen in MSS. of this period, is as entire as it is splendid. The miniature paintings are all in a charming state of preservation, and few things of this kind can be considered more interesting. This library has been long celebrated for its collection of _French Topography_ and of early _French_ and _Spanish Romances_; a great portion of the latter having been obtained at the sale of the Nyon Library. I shall be forgiven, I trust, if I neglect the former for the latter. Prepare therefore for a list of some choice articles of this description--in every respect worthy of conspicuous places in all future _Roxburghe_ and _Stanley_ collections. The books now about to be described are, I think, almost all in that apartment which leads immediately into Sully's boudoir. They are described just as I took them from the shelves. RICHARD-SANS PEUR, &c. "_A Paris Par Nicolas et Pierre Bonfons_," &c. _Without Date_. 4to. It is executed in a small roman type, in double columns. There is an imposing wood-cut of Richard upon horseback, in the frontispiece, and a very clumsy one of the same character on the reverse. The signatures run to E in fours. An excellent copy. LE MEME ROMANT. "_Imprime nouuelement a Paris_." At the end, printed by "_Alain Lotrain et Denis Janot_." 4to. _Without Date_. The title, just given is printed in a large gothic letter, in red and black lines, alternately, over a rude-wood cut of Richard upon horseback. The signatures A, B, C, run in fours: D in eight, and E four. The text is executed in a small coarse gothic letter, in long lines. The present is a sound good copy. ROBERT LE DYABLE. "La terrible Et merueilleuse vie de Robert Le Dyable iiii C." 4to. _Without Date_. The preceding is over a large wood-cut of Robert, with a club in his hand, forming the frontispiece. The signatures run to D, in fours; with the exception of A, which has eight leaves. The work is printed in double columns, in a small gothic type. A sound desirable copy. SYPPERTS DE VINEUAULX. "Lhystoire plaisante et recreative faisant metion des prouesses et vaillaces du noble Sypperts de Vineuaulx Et de ses dix septs filz Nouuellement imprime." At the end: printed for "_Claude veufue de feu Iehan sainct denys_," 4to. _Without Date_. On the reverse of this leaf there is a huge figure of a man straddling, holding a spear and shield, and looking over his left shoulder. I think I have seen this figure before. This impression is executed in long lines, in a small gothic letter. A sound copy of a very rare book.[89] GUY DE VVARWICH. "Lhystoire de Guy de vvarwich Cheualier dagleterre &c. 4to. _No Date_. The preceding is over a wood-cut of the famous Guy and his fair Felixe. At bottom, we learn that it is executed in a small gothic type, in double columns. The colophon is on the reverse of V. six. MESSER NOBILE SOCIO. "Le Miserie de li Amanti di Messer Mobile Socio." Colophon: "_Stampata in Vinegia per Maestro Bernardino de Vitali Veneciano_ MDXXXIII." 4to. This impression is executed in long lines, in a fair, good, italic letter. The signatures, from _a_ to _y_ inclusively, run in fours. The colophon, just given, is on the reverse of _z_ i. Of this romance I freely avow my total ignorance. CASTILLE ET ARTUS D'ALGARBE. 4to. This title is over what may be called rather a spirited wood-cut. The date below is 1587. It is printed in double columns, in a small roman type. In the whole, forty-eight leaves. A desirable copy. LA NEF DES DAMES. 4to, _Without Date_. This title is composed of one line, in large lower-case gothic, in black, (just as we see in some of the title pages of Gerard de Leeu) with the rest in four lines, in a smaller gothic letter, printed in red. In this title page is also seen a wood-cut of a ship, with the virgin and child beneath. This book exhibits a fine specimen of rich gothic type, especially in the larger fount--with which the poetry is printed. There is rather an abundant sprinkling of wood cuts, with marginal annotations. The greater part of the work is in prose, in a grave moral strain. The colophon is a recapitulation of the title, ending thus: "_Imprime a Lyon sur le rosne par Iaques arnollet_." This is a sound but somewhat soiled copy. In torn parchment binding. NOVELAS FOR MARIA DE ZAYAS, &c. _En Zaragoça, en el Hospital Real_, &c. _Ano 1637_." 4to. These novels are ten in number; some of them containing Spanish poetry. An apparently much enlarged edition appeared in 1729. 4to. "_Corregidas y enmendadas en esta ultima impression_." NOVELAS AMOROSAS. _Madrid_, 1624. 4to. Twelve novels, in prose: 192 leaves. Subjoined in this copy, are the "Heroydas Belicas, y Amoras, &c." _En Barcelona_, &c. 1622. 4to. The whole of these latter are in three-line stanzas: 109 leaves. SVCESSOS Y PRODIGOS DE AMOR. _En Madrid_. 1626. 4to. 166 leaves. At the end: "Orfeo, en lengva Castellana. A la decima Mvsa." By the same author: in four cantos: thirty-one leaves. EL CAVALLERO CID. "El Cid rvy Diez de Viuar." The preceding title is over a wood-cut of a man on horseback, trampling upon four human bodies. At bottom: _Impresso con licencia en Salamanca, Ano de 1627_." 4to.: 103 pages. At the end are, the "_Seys Romances del Cid Ruy Diaz de Biuar_." The preceding is on A (i). Only four leaves in the whole; quite perfect, and, as I should apprehend, of considerable rarity. This slender tract appears to have been printed at _Valladolid por la viuda de Francisco de Cordoua, Ano de 1627_." 4to. FIORIO E BIANCIFIORE. "_Impressa, &c. ne bologna, Delanno del nostro signore m.cccclxxx. adi. xxiii. di decembre. Laus deo."_ Folio. Doubtless this must be the _Prima Edizione_ of this long popular romance; and perhaps the present may be a unique copy of it. Caxton, as you may remember, published an English prosaïc version of it in the year 1485; and no copy of _that_ version is known, save the one in the cabinet at St. James's Place. This edition has only eight leaves, and this copy happens unluckily to be in a dreadfully shattered and tender state. At the end: _Finito e il libra del fidelissimo Amore Che portorno insieme Fiorio e Biancifiore_ Subjoined to the copy just described is another work, thus entitled: SECRETO SOLO e in arma ben amaistrato Sia qualunqua nole essere inamorato. Got gebe ir eynen guten seligen mogen. The preceding, line for line, is printed in a large gothic type: the rest of the work in a small close gothic letter. Both pieces, together, contain sixty-three leaves. COMMEDIA DE CELESTINA. "_Vendese la presente obra en la ciudad de Anuers_," &c. 18mo. _Without Date_. I suspect however that this scarce little volume was _printed_ as well as "_sold_" at Paris. MILLES ET AMYS. "_A Rouen chez la Veufue de Louys Costé_." 4to. Without Date. The frontispiece has a wood-cut of no very extraordinary beauty, and the whole book exhibits a sort of ballad-style of printing. It is executed in a roman letter, in double columns. OGIER LE DANOIS. "_On les vend a Lyon_, &c." Folio. At the end is the date of 1525, over the printer's device of a lion couchant, and a heart and crown upon a shield. It is a small folio, printed in a neat and rather brilliant gothic type, with several wood-cuts. GALIEN ET JAQUELINE. "_Les nobles prouesses et vaillances de Galien restaure_," &c. 1525, Folio. The preceding is over a large wood-cut of a man on horseback; and this romance is printed by the same printer, in the same place, and, as you observe, in the same year--as is that just before described. HUON DE BOURDEAUX. Here are four editions of this Romance:--to which I suspect fourscore more might be added. The first is printed at _Paris_ for _Bonfons_, in double columns, black letter, with rude wood-cuts. A fine copy: from the Colbert Collection. The second edition is of the date of 1586: in long lines, roman letter, approaching the ballad-style of printing. The third edition is "_A Troyes, Chez Nicolas Oudot_, &c. 1634." 4to. in double columns, small roman letter. No cuts, but on the recto and reverse of the frontispiece. The fourth edition is also "_A Troyes Chez Pierre Garnier_, 1726," 4to. in double columns, roman letter. A very ballad-like production. LES QUATRE FILZ AYMON, Two. editions. One. "_à Lyon par Benoist Rigaud_, 1583," 4to. The printing is of the ballad-kind, although there are some spirited wood-cuts, which have been wretchedly pulled. The generality are as bad as the type and paper. MABRIAN. &c. "_A Troyes, Chez Oudot_, 1625," 4to. A vastly clever wood-cut frontispiece, but wretched paper and printing. From the _Cat. de Nyon_; no. 8135. MORGANT LE GEANT. "_A Troyes, Chez Nicholas Oudot_, 1650, 4to." A pretty wood-cut frontispiece, and an extraordinary large cut of St. George and the Dragon on the reverse. There was a previous Edition by the same Printer at Rouen, in 1618, which contains the second book--wanting in this copy. GERARD COMTE DE NEVERS, &C. 1526, 4to. The title is over the arms of France, and the text is executed in a handsome gothic letter, in long lines. At the end, it appears to have been printed for _Philip le Noir_. It is a very small quarto, and the volume is of excessive rarity. The present is a fine copy, in red morocco binding. CRONIQUE DE FLORIMONT, &C. At "_Lyons--par Olivier Arnoullet_," 4to. At the end is the date of 1529. This impression is executed in a handsome gothic type, in long lines. TROYS FILZ DE ROYS. Printed for "_Nicolas Chrestien--en la Rue neufue nostre Dame_," &c. Without date, 4to. The frontispiece displays a large rude wood cut; and the edition is printed in the black letter, in double columns. All the cuts are coarse. The book, however, is of uncommon occurrence. PARIS ET VIENNE:--"_à Paris, Chez Simon Caluarin rue St. Jacques_." Without date: in double columns; black letter, coarsely printed. A pretty wood-cut at the beginning is repeated at the end. This copy is from the Colbert Library. PIERRE DE PROVENCE ET LA BELLE MAGUELONNE. 1490. 4to. The title is over a large wood-cut of a man and woman, repeated on the reverse of the leaf. The impression is in black letter, printed in long lines, with rather coarse wood-cuts. I apprehend this small quarto volume to be of extreme rarity. JEHAN DE SAINTRE--"_Paris, pour Jehan Bonfons_," &c. 4to. _Without date_. A neatly printed book, in double columns, in the gothic character. There is no cut but in the frontispiece. A ms. note says, "This is the first and rarest edition, and was once worth twelve louis." The impression is probably full three centuries old. BERINUS ET AYGRES DE LAYMANT. At bottom: sold at "_Paris par Jehan de Bonfons_, 4to. _No date._ It is in double columns, black letter, with the device of the printer on the reverse of the last leaf. A rare book. JEAN DE PARIS. "Le Romat de Iehan de Paris, &c. _à Paris, par Jehan Bonfons_, 4to. _Without date_. In black letter, long lines: with rather pretty wood-cuts. A ms. note at the end says: "Ce roman que jay lu tout entier est fort singulier et amusant--cest de luy douvient le proverbe "_train de Jean de Paris_." Cest ici la plus ancienne edition. Elle est rare." The present is a sound copy. There are some pleasing wood-cuts at the end. CRONIQUE DE CLERIADUS, &C. "_On les vend à Lyon au pres de nostre dame de confort cheulx Oliuier Arnoullet_. At the end; 1529. 4to. This edition, which is very scarce, is executed in a handsome gothic type, in long lines. The present is a cropt but sound copy. GUILLAUME DE PALERNE, &C. At bottom--beneath a singular wood-cut of some wild animal (wolf or fox) running away with a child, and a group of affrighted people retreating--we read: "_On les vent a Lyon aupres Dame de Confort chez Oliuier Arnoulle_." At the end is the date of 1552. ---- Another edition of the same romance, _printed at Rouen, without date, by the widow of Louis Costé_, 4to. A mere ballad-style of publication: perhaps not later than 1634.--the date of our wretched and yet most popular impression of the Knights of the Round Table. DAIGREMONT ET VIVIAN. _Printed by Arnoullet, at Lyons_, in 1538, 4to. It is executed in a handsome gothic letter, in long lines. This copy is bound up with the _first_ edition of the Cronique de Florimont--for which turn to a preceding page[90]. In the same volume is a third romance, entitled LA BELLE HELAYNE, 1528, 4to.:--_Printed by the same printer_, with a singular wood-cut frontispiece; in a gothic character not quite so handsome as in the two preceding pieces. JOURDAIN DE BLAVE. _A Paris, par Nicolas Chrestien_," 4to. _Without date_. Printed in double columns, in a small coarse gothic letter. DOOLIN DE MAYENCE. _A Paris--N. Bonfons_. _Without date_, 4to. Probably towards the end of the sixteenth century; in double columns, in the roman letter. Here is another edition, _printed at Rouen_, by _Pierre Mullot_; in roman letter; in double columns. A coarse, wretched performance. MEURVIN FILS D'OGER, &C. _A Paris;--Nicolas Bonfons_." 4to. _Without date_. In the roman letter, in double columns. A fine copy. MELUSINE. Evidently by _Philip le Noir_, from his device at the end. It is executed in a coarse small gothic letter; with a strange, barbarous frontispiece. Another edition, having a copy of the same frontispiece,-- "_Nouuellement Imprimee a Troyes par Nicolas Oudot. 1649."_ 4to. Numerous wood-cuts. In long lines, in the roman letter. TREBISOND. At the end: for "_Iehan Trepperel demourat en la rue neufue nostre dame A lenseigne de lescu de frac_. Without date, 4to. The device of the printer is at the back of the colophon. This impression is executed in the black letter, in double columns, with divers wood-cuts. HECTOR DE TROYE. The title is over a bold wood-cut frontispiece, and _Arnoullet_ has the honour of being printer of the volume. It is executed in the black letter, in long lines. After the colophon, at the end, is a leaf containing a wood-cut of a man and woman, which I remember to have seen more than once before. And now, methinks, you have had a pretty liberal assortment of ROMANCES placed before you, and may feel disposed to breathe the open air, and quit for a while this retired but interesting collection of ancient tomes. Here, then, let us make a general obeisance and withdraw; especially as the official announce of "deux heures viennent de sonner" dissipates the charm of chivalrous fiction, and warns us to shut up our volumes and begone. [81] [The only copy of it in England, UPON VELLUM, is that in the Royal Library in the British Museum.] [82] [It seems that it is a production of the GIUNTI Press. Cat. _des Livr. &c. sur Vélin_, vol. ii. p. 59.] [83] [I learn from M. Crapelet that this book is a _Lyons Counterfeit_ of the Aldine Press; and that the _genuine_ Aldine volume, upon vellum, was obtained, after my visit to Paris, from the Macarthy Collection.] [84] [I had blundered sadly, it seems, in the description of this book in the previous edition of this work: calling it a _Theocritus_, and saying there was a second copy on _large paper_. M. Crapelet is copious and emphatic in his detection of this error.] [85] [I thank M. Crapelet for the following piece of information--from whatever source he may have obtained it: "The library of Henri II. and Diane de Poictiers was sold by public auction in 1724, after the death of Madame La Princesse Marie de Bourbon, wife of Louis-Joseph, Duc de Vendome, who became Proprietor of the Chateau d'Anet. The Library, was composed of a great number of MSS. and Printed Books, exceedingly precious. The sale catalogue of the Library, which is a small duodecimo of 50 pages, including the addenda, is become very scarce." CRAPELET; vol. iii. 347. My friend M. GAIL published a very interesting brochure, about ten years ago, entitled _Lettres Inedites de Henri II. Diane de Poitiers, Marie Stuart, François, Roi Dauphin &c_. Amongst these letters, there was only ONE specimen which the author could obtain of the _united_ scription, or rather signatures, of Henry and Diana. Of these signatures he has given a fac-simile; for which the Reader, in common with myself, is here indebted to him. Below this _united_ signature, is one of Diana HERSELF--from a letter entirely written in her own hand. It must be confessed that she was no Calligraphist. [Autographs: Henri II, Diane de Poitiers] [86] [My friend Mr. Drury possessed a similar copy.] [87] It may not be generally known that one of the most minute and interesting accounts of this assassination is given in _Howell's Familiar Letters_. The author had it from a friend who was an eye-witness of the transaction. [88] As for the "_singeing_."--or the reputed story of the greater part of them having been _burnt_--my opinion still continues to be as implied above: I will only now say that FORTUNATE is that _Vendor_ who can obtain _25l._ for a copy--be that copy brown or fair. [89] [My friend, the late Robert Lang, Esq. whose extraordinary Collection of Romances was sold at the close of the preceding year, often told me, that THE ABOVE was the _only_ Romance which he wanted to complete his Collection.] [90] Page 164, ante. _LETTER VII._ LIBRARY OF STE. GENEVIÈVE. THE ABBÉ MERCIER ST. LÉGER. LIBRARY OF THE MAZARINE COLLEGE, OR INSTITUTE. PRIVATE LIBRARY OF THE KING. MONS. BARBIER, LIBRARIAN. It is just possible that you may not have forgotten, in a previous letter, the mention of STE. GENEVIÈVE--situated in the old quarter of Paris, on the other side of the Seine; and that, in opposition to the _ancient_ place or church, so called, there was the _new_ Ste. Geneviève--or the Pantheon. My present business is with the _old_ establishment: or rather with the LIBRARY, hard by the old church of Ste. Geneviève. Of all interiors of libraries, this is probably the most beautiful and striking; and it is an absolute reproach to the taste of antiquarian art at Paris, that so beautiful an interior has not been adequately represented by the burin. There is surely spirit and taste enough in this magnificent capital to prevent such a reproach from being of a much longer continuance. But my business is with the _original_, and not with any _copy_ of it--however successful. M. Flocon is the principal librarian, but he is just now from home[91]. M. Le Chevalier is the next in succession, and is rarely from his official station. He is a portly gentleman; unaffected, good-natured, and kind-hearted. He has lived much in England, and speaks our language fluently: and catching my arm, and leaning upon it, he exclaimed, with a sort of heart's chuckle--in English, "with all my soul I attend you to the library." On entering that singularly striking interior, he whispered gently in my ear "you shall be consigned to a clever attendant, who will bring you what you want, and I must then leave you to your occupations." "You cannot confer upon me a greater favour," I replied. "Bon, (rejoined he) je vois bien que vous aimez les livres. A ça, marchons." I was consigned to a gentleman who sat at the beginning of the left rectangular compartment--for the library is in the form of a cross--and making my bow to my worthy conductor, requested he would retire to his own more important concerns. He shook me by the hand, and added, in English--"Good day, God bless you, Sir." I was not wanting in returning a similar salutation. The LIBRARY OF STE. GENEVIÈVE exhibits a local of a very imposing, as well as extensive, appearance. From its extreme length,--which cannot be less than two hundred and thirty feet, as I should conjecture--it looks rather low. Yet the ceiling being arched, and tolerably well ornamented, the whole has a very harmonious appearance. In the centre is a cupola: of which the elder Restout, about ninety years ago, painted the ceiling. They talk much of this painting, but I was not disposed to look at it a second time. The charm of the whole arises, first, from the mellow tone of light which is admitted from the glazed top of this cupola; and, secondly, from the numerous busts, arranged along the sides, which recal to your remembrance some of the most illustrious characters of France--for arts, for arms, for learning, and for public spirit. These busts are at the hither end, as you enter. Busts of foreigners continue the suite towards the other extremities. A good deal of white carved ornament presents itself, but not unpleasantly: the principal ground colour being of a sombre tint, harmonising with that of the books. The floor is of glazed tile. It was one of the hottest of days when I first put my foot within this interior; and my very heart seemed to be refreshed by the coolness--the tranquillity--the congeniality of character--of every thing around me! In such a place, "hours" (as Cowper somewhere expresses it) may be "thought down to moments." A sort of soft, gently-stealing, echo accompanies every tread of the foot. You long to take your place among the studious, who come every day to read in the right compartment of the cross; and which compartment they as regularly _fill_. Meanwhile, scarcely a whisper escapes them. The whole is, indeed, singularly inviting to contemplation, research, and instruction. But it was to the left of the cupola--and therefore opposite the studious corps just mentioned--that M. Le Chevalier consigned me to my bibliographical attendant. I am ignorant of his name, but cannot be forgetful of his kind offices. The MS. Catalogue (they have no printed one) was placed before me, and I was requested to cater for myself. Among the _Libri Desiderati_ of the fifteenth century, I smiled to observe the _Naples Horace of_ 1474 ... but you wish to be informed of the _acquired_, and not of the _desiderated_, treasures. Prepare, therefore, for a treat-- of its kind. LACTANTIUS. _Printed in the Soubiaco Monastery_. 1465. Folio. This was Pope Pius the Sixth's copy. Indeed the greater number of the more valuable early books belonged to that amiable Pontiff; upon whom Audiffredi (as you may well remember) has passed so warm and so well merited an eulogium[92]. The papal copy, however, has its margins scribbled upon, and is defective in the leaf which contains the errata. AUGUSTINUS DE CIVITATE DEI. _Printed in the same Monastery_. 1467. Folio. The margins are broad, but occasionally much stained. The copy is also short. From the same papal collection. CICERO DE ORATORE. _Printed in the same Monastery_. _Without Date_. Folio. A sound copy, but occasionally scribbled upon. The side margins are rather closely cropt. BIBLIA LATINA. 1462. Folio. 2 vols. I saw only the first volume, which displays a well-proportioned length and breadth of margin. The illuminations appear to be nearly coeval, and are of a soft and pleasing style of execution. Yet the margins are rather deformed by the designation of the chapters, in large roman numerals, of a sprawling character. BIBLIA ITALICA. _Kalend. de Octobrio_. 1471. Folio. 2 vols. A perfectly magnificent copy (measuring sixteen inches three eighths, by ten and six eighths) of this very rare edition; of which a minute and particular account will be found in the Catalogue of Earl Spencer's Library.[93] After a careful inspection--rather than from actual comparison--I incline to think that these noble volumes came from the press of _Valdarfer_. The copy under description is bound in brown calf, with red speckled edges to the leaves. This is a copy of an impression of which the library may justly be proud. BIBLIA POLONICA. 1599. Folio. In style of printing and embellishment like our Coverdale's Bible of 1535. Whether it be a reprint (which is most probable) of the famous Polish Bible of 1563, I am unable to ascertain. VIRGILIUS. _Printed by Sweynheym and Pannartz_. (1469.) Folio. FIRST EDITION; of the greatest rarity. Probably this is the finest copy (once belonging to Pius VI.) which is known to exist; but it must be considered as imperfect--wanting the Priapeia. And yet it may be doubted whether the latter were absolutely printed by Sweynheym and Pannartz for their _first_ edition? This copy, bound in white calf, with the papal arms on the sides, measures twelves inches and a quarter in length, by eight inches and five eighths in width: but the state of the illumination, at the beginning of the Bucolics, shews the volume to have been cropt--however slightly. All the illuminations are quiet and pretty. Upon the whole, this is a very precious book; and superior in most respects to the copy in the Royal Library.[94] PLINIUS SENIOR. 1469. Folio. EDITIO PRINCEPS. A copy from the same papal library; very fine, both as to length and width.--You rarely meet with a finer copy. _The Jenson edition_ of 1472 is here comparatively much inferior. CICERO. RHETORICA VETUS. _Printed by Jenson_. 1470. Folio. A great curiosity: inasmuch as it is a copy UPON VELLUM. It has been cruelly cut down, but the vellum is beautiful. It is also choked in the back, in binding. From the collection of the same Pope. SUETONIUS. _Printed by I.P. de Lignamine_. 1470. Folio. A magnificent copy; measuring thirteen inches and one eighth in height. The first leaf is, however, objectionable. From the same collection. QUINTILIANUS. INSTITUTIONES. _By the same Printer_. 1470. Folio. This and the preceding book are FIRST EDITIONS. A copy of equal beauty and equal size with the Suetonius. From the same Collection. PRISCIANUS. _Printed by V. de Spira_. 1470. Folio. First Edition. We have here a truly delicious copy--UPON VELLUM--and much superior to a similar copy in the Royal Library[95] I ought slightly to notice that a few of the leaves, following the date, are tawny, and others mended. Upon the whole, however, this is a book which rejoices the eye and warms the heart of a classical bibliographer. It is bound in pale calf, with gilt stamped edges, and once belonged to the Pontiff from whose library almost every previously-described volume was obtained. DANTE. _Printed by Petrus [Adam de Michaelibus.] Mantua_. 1472. Folio. A large and fair copy of an exceedingly rare edition. It appears to be quite perfect. BOETIUS. _Printed by Frater Iohannes_ 1474. 4to. It is for the first time that I open the leaves of this scarce edition. It is printed in a sharp and rather handsome roman type, and this copy has sixty-three numbered leaves. ANTHOLOGIA GRÆCA. 1498. 4to. We have here a most desirable copy--UPON VELLUM, which is equally soft and white. It has been however peppered a little by a worm, at the beginning and end; especially at the end. It is coated in a goodly sort ofGaignat binding. CICERONIS OPERA OMNIA. _Milan_. 1498. Folio. 4 vols. This is the finest copy of this rare set of volumes which it has been my lot yet to examine; but the dedication of the printer, Minutianus, to I.I. Trivulcius, on the reverse of the first leaf of the first volume, is unluckily wanting. There are, who would call this a _large paper_ copy. MARSILIUS FICINUS: IN DIONYSIUM AREOPAGITAM. _Printed by Laurentius, the Son of Franciscus a Venetian; at Florence. Without Date_. Folio. This is certainly a very beautiful and genuine book, in this particular condition-- UPON VELLUM--but the small gothic type, in which it is printed, is a good deal blurred. The binding is in its first state: in a deep red-coloured leather, over boards. I should apprehend this impression to be chiefly valuable on the score of rarity and high price, when it is found upon vellum. The foregoing are what I selected from the _Fifteeners_; after running an attentive eye over the shelves upon which the books, of that description are placed. In the same case or division where these Fifteeners are lodged, there happen to be a few _Alduses_, UPON VELLUM--so beautiful, rare, and in such uncommon condition, that I question whether M. Van Praet doth not occasionally cast an envious eye upon these membranaceous treasures-- secretly, and perhaps commendably, wishing that some of them may one day find their way into the Royal Collection!... You shall judge for yourself. HOMERI OPERA. Gr. _Printed by Aldus. Without date_. 12mo. 2 vols. First Aldine impression; and this copy perhaps yields only to the one in the Royal Library.[96] These volumes are differently bound; but of the two, that containing the _Iliad_, gains in length what it loses in breadth. The vellum is equally soft, white, and well-conditioned; and perhaps, altogether, the copy is only one little degree inferior to that in the Royal Library. The Odyssey is bound in old red morocco, with stampt gilt edges. This copy was purchased from the Salviati Library. CICERONIS ORATIONES. _Printed at the Aldine Press_. 1519. 8vo. 3 vols. Surely this copy is the _ne plus ultra_ of a VELLUM ALDUS! In size, condition, and colour, nothing can surpass it. When I say this, I am not unmindful of the Royal copies here, and more particularly of the _Pindar and Ovid_ in St. James's Place. But, in truth, there reigns throughout the rectos and reverses of each of these volumes, such a mellow, quiet, and genuine tone of colour, that the most knowing bibliographer and the most fastidious Collector cannot fail to express his astonishment on turning over the leaves. They are bound in old red morocco, with the arms of a Cardinal on the exterior; and (with the exception of the first volume, which is some _very_ little shorter) full six inches and a half, by four inches. Shew me its like if you can! I shall mention only three more volumes; but neither of them Aldine; and then take leave of the library of Ste. Geneviève. MISSALE MOZARABICUM. 1500. Folio. A fine copy for size and colour; but unluckily much wormed at the beginning, though a little less so at the end. It measures nearly thirteen inches one quarter, by nine three eighths. From the stamped arms of three stars and three lizards, this copy appears to have belonged to the _Cardinal Juigné_, Archbishop of Paris; who had a fine taste for early printed books. VITRUVIUS, _Printed by the Giunti_, 1513. 8vo. A delicious copy; upon white, soft, spotless VELLUM. I question if it be not superior to Mr. Dent's;[97] as it measures six inches and three-quarters, by four. A cruel worm, however, has perforated as far as folio 76; leaving one continued hole behind him. The binding of this exquisite book is as gaudy as it is vulgar. TEWERDANCKHS. _Printed in 1517_. Folio. First Edition. This is doubtless a fine copy--upon thick, but soft and white, VELLUM. Fortunately the plates are uncoloured, and the copy is quite complete in the table. It measures fifteen inches in length, by nine inches three quarters in width. Such appeared to me, on a tolerably careful examination of the titles of the volumes, to be among the chief treasures in the early and more curious department of books belonging to the STE. GENEVIÈVE LIBRARY. Without doubt, many more may be added; but I greatly suspect that the learned in bibliography would have made pretty nearly a similar selection; Frequently, during the progress of my examinations, I looked out of window upon the square, or area, below--which was covered at times by numerous little parties of youths (from the College of Henry IV.) who were partaking of all manner of amusements, characteristic of their ages and habits. With, and without, coats--walking, sitting, or running,--there they were! All gay, all occupied, all happy:--unconscious of the alternate miseries and luxuries of the _Bibliomania_!--unknowing in the nice distinctions of type from the presses of _George Laver_, _Schurener de Bopardia_, and _Adam Rot_: uninitiated in the agonising mysteries of rough edges, large margins, and original bindings! But ... Where ignorance is bliss 'Tis folly to be wise. This is soberly quoted--not meaning thereby to scratch the cuticle, or ruffle the temper, of a single Roxburgher. And now, my friend, as we are about to quit this magnificent assemblage of books, I owe it to myself--but much more to your own inextinguishable love of bibliographical history--to say "one little word, or two"--ere we quit the threshold--respecting the Abbé MERCIER SAINT LÉGER ... the head librarian, and great living ornament of the collection, some fifty years ago. I am enabled to do this with the greater propriety, as my friend M. Barbier is in possession of a number of literary anecdotes and notices respecting the Abbé--and has supplied me with a brochure, by Chardon De La Rochette, which contains a notice of the life and writings of the character in question. I am sure you will be interested by the account, limited and partial as it must necessarily be: especially as I have known those, to whose judgments I always defer with pleasure and profit, assert, that, of all BIBLIOGRAPHERS, the Abbé Mercier St. Léger was the FIRST, in eminence, which France possessed, I have said so myself a hundred times, and I repeat the asseveration. Yet we must not forget Niceron. Mercier Saint Léger was born on the 1st of April, 1734. At fifteen years of age, he began to consider what line of life he should follow. A love of knowledge, and a violent passion for study and retirement, inclined him to enter the congregation of the _Chanoines Réguliers_--distinguished for men of literature; and, agreeably to form, he went through a course of rhetoric and philosophy, before he passed into divinity, as a resident in the Abbey _de Chatrices_ in the diocese of _Chalons sur Marne_. It was there that he laid the foundation of his future celebrity as a literary bibliographer. He met there the venerable CAULET, who had voluntarily resigned the bishopric of Grenoble, to pass the remainder of his days in the abbey in question--of which he was the titular head--in the midst of books, solitude, and literary society. Mercier Saint Léger quickly caught the old man's eye, and entwined himself round his heart. Approaching blindness induced the ex-bishop to confide the care of his library to St. Léger--who was also instructed by him in the elements of bibliography and literary history. He taught him also that love of order and of method which are so distinguishable in the productions of the pupil. Death, however, in a little time separated the master from the scholar; and the latter scarcely ever mentioned the name, or dwelt upon the virtues, of the former, without emotions which knew of no relief but in a flood of tears. The heart of Mercier St. Léger was yet more admirable than his head. St. Léger, at twenty years of age, returned to Paris. The celebrated Pingré was chief librarian of the Ste. GENEVIEVE COLLECTION; and St. Léger attached himself with ardour and affection to the society and instructions of his Principal. He became joint SECOND LIBRARIAN in 1759; when Pingré, eminent for astronomy, departing for India to observe the transit of Venus over the sun's disk, St. Léger was appointed to succeed him as CHIEF--and kept the place till the year 1772. These twelve years were always considered by St. Léger as the happiest and most profitable of his life. During this period he lent a helping hand in abridging the _Journal de Trevoux_. In September, 1764, Louis XV. laid the foundation-stone, with great pomp and ceremony, of the new church of Ste. Geneviève. After the ceremony, he desired to see the library of the old establishment--in which we have both been so long tarrying. Mercier spread all the more ancient and curious books upon the table, to catch the eye of the monarch: who, with sundry Lords of the bed-chamber, and his _own_ librarian BIGNON, examined them with great attention, and received from Mercier certain information respecting their relative value, and rarity. Every now and then Louis turned round, and said to Bignon, "Bignon, have I got that book in my library?" The royal librarian ... answered not a word--but hiding himself behind CHOISEUL, the prime minister, seemed to avoid the sight of his master. Mercier, however, had the courage and honesty to reply, "No, Sire, that book is _not_ in your library." The king spent about an hour in examining the books, chatting with the librarian, (Mercier) and informing himself on those points in which he was ignorant. It was during this conversation, that the noble spirit of Mercier was manifested. The building of the library of St. Victor was in a very crazy state: it was necessary to repair it, but the public treasury could not support that expense. "I will tell your Majesty, (said Mercier) how this may be managed without costing you a single crown. The headship of the Abbey of St. Victor is vacant: name a new Abbot; upon condition, each year, of his ceding a portion of his revenue to the reparation of the Library." If the king had had one spark of generous feeling, he would have replied by naming Mercier to the abbey in question, and by enjoining the strict fulfilment of his own proposition. But it was not so. Yet the scheme was carried into effect, although others had the glory of it. However, the king had not forgotten Mercier, nor the bibliographical lesson which he had received in the library of Ste. Geneviève. One of these lessons consisted in having the distinctive marks pointed out of the famous _Bible of Sixtus V_. published in 1590. A short time after, on returning from mass, along the great gallery of Versailles, Louis saw the head librarian of Ste. Geneviève among the spectators.. and turning to his prime minister, exclaimed "Choiseul, how can one distinguish the _true_ Bible of Sixtus V.?" "Sire, (replied the unsuspecting minister) I never was acquainted with that book." Then, addressing himself to Mercier, the king repeated to him--without the least hesitation or inaccuracy--the lesson which he had learnt in the library of Ste. Geneviève. There are few stories, I apprehend, which redound so much to this king's credit. Louis gave yet more substantial proofs of his respect for his bibliographical master, by appointing him, at the age of thirty-two, to the headship of the abbey of _St. Léger de Soissons_--and hence our hero derives his name. In 1772 Mercier surrendered the Ste. Geneviève library to Pingré, on his return from abroad--and in the privacy of his own society, set about composing his celebrated _Supplément à l'Histoire de l'Imprimerie par Prosper Marchand_--of which the second edition, in 1775, is not only more copious but more correct. The Abbé Rive, who loved to fasten his teeth in every thing that had credit with the world, endeavoured to shake the reputation of this performance.. but in vain. Mercier now travelled abroad; was received every where with banqueting and caresses; a distinction due to his bibliographical merits--and was particularly made welcome by Meerman and Crevenna. M. Ochéda, Earl Spencer's late librarian--and formerly librarian to Crevenna--has often told me how pleased he used to be with Mercier's society and conversation during his visit to Crevenna. On his return, Mercier continued his work, too long suspended, upon the LATIN POETS OF THE MIDDLE AGE. His object was, to give a brief biography of each; an analysis of their works, with little brilliant extracts and piquant anecdotes; traits of history little known; which, say Chardon De La Rochette and M. Barbier, (who have read a great part of the original MS.) "are as amusing as they are instructive." But the Revolution was now fast approaching, and the meek spirit of Mercier could ill sustain the shock of such a frightful calamity. Besides, he loved his country yet dearer than his books. His property became involved: his income regularly diminished; and even his privacy was invaded. In 1792 a decree passed the convention for issuing a "Commission for the examination of monuments." Mercier was appointed one of the thirty-three members of which the commission was composed, and the famous Barrère was also of the number. Barrère, fertile in projects however visionary and destructive, proposed to Mercier, as a _bright thought_, "to make a short extract from every book in the national library: to have these extracts superbly printed by Didot;--and to ... BURN ALL THE BOOKS FROM WHICH THEY WERE TAKEN!" It never occurred to this revolutionising idiot that there might be a _thousand_ copies of the _same work_, and that some hundreds of these copies might be OUT of the national library! Of course, Mercier laughed at the project, and made the projector ashamed of it.[98] Robespierre, rather fiend than man, now ruled the destinies of France. On the 7th of July, 1794, Mercier happened to be passing along the streets when he saw _sixty-seven human beings_ about to undergo the butchery of the GUILLOTINE. Every avenue was crowded by spectators--who were hurrying towards the horrid spectacle. Mercier was carried along by the torrent; but, having just strength enough to raise his head, he looked up ... and beheld his old and intimate friend the ex-abbé ROGER ... in the number of DEVOTED VICTIMS! That sight cost him his life. A sudden horror ... followed by alternate shiverings, and flushings of heat ... immediately seized him. A cold perspiration hung upon his brow. He was carried into the house of a stranger. His utterance became feeble and indistinct, and it seemed as if the hand of death were already upon him. Yet he rallied awhile. His friends came to soothe him. Hopes were entertained of a rapid and perfect recovery. He even made a few little visits to his friends in the vicinity of Paris. But ... his fine full figure gradually shrunk: the colour as gradually deserted his cheek--and his eye sensibly lacked that lustre which it used to shed upon all around. His limbs became feeble, and his step was both tremulous and slow. He lingered five years ... and died at ten at night, on the 13th of May 1799, just upon the completion of his jubilee of his bibliographical toil. What he left behind, as annotations, both in separate papers, and on the margins of books, is prodigious. M. Barbier shewed me his projected _third_ edition of the _Supplément to Marchand_, and a copy of the _Bibliothèque Françoise of De La Croix du Maine_, &c. covered, from one end to the other, with marginal notes by him.[99] That amiable biographer also gave me one of his little bibliographical notices, as a specimen of his hand writing and of his manner of pursuing his enquiries.[100] Such are the feelings, and such the gratifications; connected with a view of the LIBRARY of STE. GENEVIÈVE. Whenever I visit it, I imagine that the gentle spirit of MERCIER yet presides there; and that, as it is among the most ancient, so is it among the most interesting, of BOOK LOCALS in Paris. Come away with me, now, to a rival collection of books--in the MAZARINE COLLEGE, or Institute. Of the magnificence of the exterior of this building I have made mention in a previous letter. My immediate business is with the interior; and more especially with that portion of it which relates to _paper_ and _print_. You are to know, however, that this establishment contains _two Libraries_; one, peculiar to the Institute, and running at right angles with the room in which the members of that learned body assemble: the other, belonging to the College, to the left, on entering the first square--from the principal front. The latter is the _old_ collection, of the time of Cardinal Mazarin, and with _that_ I begin. It is deposited chiefly on the first floor; in two rooms running at right angles with each other: the two, about 140 feet long. These rooms may be considered very lofty; certainly somewhat more elevated than those in the Royal Library. The gallery is supported by slender columns, of polished oak, with Corinthian capitals. The general appearance is airy and imposing. A huge globe, eight feet in diameter, is in the centre of the angle where the two rooms meet. The students read in either apartment: and, as usual, the greatest order and silence prevail. But not a _Fust and Schoiffher_--nor a _Sweynheym and Pannartz_--nor an _Ulric Han_--in this lower region ... although they say the collection contains about 90,000 volumes. What therefore is to be done? The attendant sees your misery, and approaches: "Que desirez vous, Monsieur?" That question was balm to my agitated spirits. "Are the old and more curious books deposited here?" "Be seated, Sir. You shall know in an instant." Away goes this obliging creature, and pulls a bell by the side of a small door. In a minute, a gentleman, clothed in black--the true bibliographical attire--descends. The attendant points to me: we approach each other: "A la bonne heure--je suis charmé...." You will readily guess the remainder. "Donnez vous la peine de monter." I followed my guide up a small winding stair-case, and reached the topmost landing place. A succession of small rooms--(I think _ten_ in number) lined with the _true_ furniture, strikes my astonished eye, and makes warm my palpitating heart. "This is charming"--exclaimed I, to my guide, Monsieur Thiebaut--"this is as it should be." M. Thieubaut bowed graciously. The floors are all composed of octagonal, deeply-tinted red, tiles: a little too highly glazed, as usual; but cool, of a good picturesque tint, and perfectly harmonising with the backs of the books. The first little room which you gain, contains a plaster-bust of the late Abbé HOOKE,[101] who lived sometime in England with the good Cardinal----. His bust faces another of Palissot. You turn to the right, and obtain the first foreshortened view of the "ten little chambers" of which I just spoke. I continued to accompany my guide: when, reaching the _first_ of the last _three_ rooms, he turned round and bade me remark that these last three rooms were devoted exclusively to "books printed in the _Fifteenth Century_: of which they possessed about fifteen hundred." This intelligence recruited my spirits; and I began to look around with eagerness. But alas! although the crop was plentiful, a deadly blight had prevailed. In other words, there was number without choice: quantity rather than quality. Yet I will not be ill-natured; for, on reaching the third of these rooms, and the last in the suite, Monsieur Thiebaut placed before me the following select articles. BIBLIA LATINA. _Printed by Fust and Schoiffher: Without Date, but supposed to be in the year 1455 or 1456_. Folio. 2 vols. For the last dozen years of my life, I had earnestly desired to see this copy: not because I had heard much of its beauty, but because it is the _identical_ copy which gave rise to the calling of this impression the MAZARINE BIBLE.[102] Certainly, all those copies which I had previously seen--and they cannot be fewer than ten or twelve--were generally superior; nor must this edition be henceforth designated as "of the very first degree of rarity." BIBLIA LATINA. _Printed by the Same_, 1462. Folio. 2 vols. A fair, sound, large copy: UPON VELLUM. The date is printed in red, at the end of each volume--a variety, which is not always observable. This copy is in red morocco binding. BIBLIA ITALICA. _Printed by Vindelin de Spira, Kalend. August. 1471_. Folio. 2 vols. A fine copy of an extremely rare edition; perhaps the rarest of all those of the early Italian versions of the Bible. It is in calf binding, but cropt a little. LEGENDA SANCTORUM. Italicè. "_Impresse per Maestro Nicolo ienson, &c. Without Date_. Folio. The author of the version is _Manerbi_: and the present is the _first impression_ of it. It is executed in double columns, in the usually delicate style of printing by Jenson: and this volume is doubtless among the rarer productions of the printer. SERVIUS IN VIRGILIUM. _Printed by Ulric Han. Without Date_. Folio. This is a volume of the most unquestionable rarity; and _such_ a copy of it as that now before me, is of most uncommon occurrence.[103] Can this be surprising, when I tell you that it once belonged to Henri II. and Diane de Poictiers! The leaves absolutely talk to you, as you turn them over. Yet why do I find it in my heart to tell you that, towards the middle, many leaves are stained at the top of the right margin?! There are also two worm holes towards the end. But what then? The sun has its spots. PLAUTUS. 1472. Folio. Editio Princeps. Although _this_ volume came also from the collection of the _illustrious Pair_ to whom the previous one belonged, yet is it unworthy of such owners. I suspect it has been cropt in its second binding. It is stained all through, at top, and the three introductory leaves are cruelly repellent. CÆSAR. 1469. Folio. Editio Princeps. A very fine, genuine copy; in the original binding--such as all Sweynheym and Pannartz's _ought_ to be. It is tall and broad: but has been unluckily too much written upon. LACTANTIUS. 1470. _By the same Printers_. Perhaps, upon the whole, the finest copy of this impression which exists. Yet a love of truth compels me to observe--only in a very slight sound, approaching to a whisper--that there are indications of the ravages of the worm, both at the beginning and end; but very, very trivial. It is bound like the preceding volume; and measures thirteen inches and nearly three quarters, by about nine inches and one eighth. CICERO DE OFFICIIS. 1466. 4to. Second Edition, upon paper; and therefore rare. But this copy is sadly stained and wormed. CICERO DE NATURA DEORUM, &c. _Printed by Vindelin de Spiraa_. 1471. Folio. A fine sound copy, in the original binding. SILIUS ITALICUS. _Printed by Laver_. 1471. Folio. A good, sound copy; and among the very rarest books from the press of Laver, in such condition. CATULLUS, TIBULLUS, ET PROPERTIUS. 1472. Folio. The knowing, in early classical bibliography, are aware that this _Editio Princeps_ is perhaps to be considered as only _one_ degree below the first impressions of Lucretius and Virgil in rarity. The longest life may pass away without an opportunity of becoming the purchaser of such a treasure. The present is a tall, fair copy; quite perfect. In red morocco binding. DANTE. _Printed by Numeister_. 1472. Folio. Considered to be the earliest impression. This is rather a broad than a tall copy; and not free from stain and the worm. But it is among the very best copies which I have seen. * * * * * It will not be necessary to select more flowers from this choice corner of the tenth and last room of the upper suite of apartments: nor am I sure that, upon further investigation, the toil would be attended with any very productive result. Yet I ought not to omit observing to you that this Library owes its chief celebrity to the care, skill, and enthusiasm of the famous _Gabriel Naudé_, the first librarian under the Cardinal its founder. Of Naudé, you may have before read somewhat in certain publications;[104] where his praises are set forth with no sparing hand. He was perhaps never excelled in activity, bibliographical _diplomacy_, or zeal for his master; and his expressive countenance affords the best index of his ardent mind. He purchased every where, and of all kinds, of bodies corporate and of individuals. But you must not imagine that the _Mazarine Library_, as you now behold it, is precisely of the same dimensions, or contains the same books, as formerly. If many rare and precious volumes have been disposed of, or are missing, or lost, many have been also procured. The late librarian was LUCAS JOSEPH HOOKE, and the present is Mons. PETIT RADEL.[105] We will descend, therefore, from these quiet and congenial regions; and passing through the lower rooms, seek the _other_ collection of books attached to this establishment. The library, which is more immediately appropriated to the INSTITUTE OF FRANCE, may consist of 20,000 volumes,[106] and is contained in a long room--perhaps of one hundred feet--of which the further extremity is supposed to be _adorned_ by a statue of VOLTAIRE. This statue is raised within a recess, and the light is thrown upon it from above from a concealed window. Of all deviations from good taste, this statue exhibits one of the most palpable. Voltaire, who was as thin as a hurdle, and a mere bag of bones, is here represented as an almost _naked_ figure, sitting: a slight mantle over his left arm being the only piece of drapery which the statue exhibits. The poet is slightly inclining his head to the left, holding a pen in his right hand. The countenance has neither the fire, force, nor truth, which Denon's terra-cotta head of the poet seems to display. The extremities are meagre and offensive. In short, the whole, as it appears to me, has an air approaching the burlesque. Opposite to this statue are the colossal busts of LA-GRANGE and MALESHERBES; while those of PEIRESC and FRANKLIN are nearly of the size of nature. They are all in white marble. That of Peiresc has considerable expression. This may be called a collection of _Books of Business_; in other words, of books of almost every day's reference--which every one may consult. It is particularly strong in _Antiquities_ and _History_: and for the latter, it is chiefly indebted to Dom Brial--the living father of French history[107]--that excellent and able man (who is also one of the Secretaries of the Institute) having recommended full two-thirds of the _long sets_ (as they are called) which relate to ancient history. The written catalogue is contained in fourteen folio volumes, interleaved; there being generally only four articles written in a page, and those four always upon the recto of each leaf. This is a good plan: for you may insert your acquisitions, with the greatest convenience, for a full dozen years to come. No _printed_ catalogue of either of these libraries, or of those of the Arsenal and Ste. Geneviève, exists: which I consider to be a _stain_--much more frightful than that which marks the copy of the "_Servius in Virgilium_," just before described! It remains now to make mention of a _third_ Collection of Books--which may be considered in the light both of a public and a private Library. I mean, the Collection appropriated more particularly for the _King's private use_,[108] and which is deposited beneath the long gallery of the Louvre. Its local is as charming as it is peculiar. You walk by the banks of the Seine, in a line with the south side of the Louvre, and gain admittance beneath an archway, which is defended by an iron grating. An attendant, in the royal livery, opens the door of the library--just after you have ascended above the entresol. You enquire "whether Monsieur BARBIER, the chief Librarian, be within?" "Sir, he is never absent. Be pleased to go straight forward, as far as you can see."[109] What a sight is before me! Nothing less than _thirteen_ rooms, with a small arched door in the centre, through which I gaze as if looking through a tube. Each of these rooms is filled with books; and in one or the other of them are assembled the several visitors who come to read. The whole is perfectly magical. Meanwhile the nephew of M. Barbier walks quickly, but softly, from one room to another, to take down the several volumes enquired after. At length, having paced along upwards of 200 feet of glazed red tile, and wondering when this apparently interminable suite of apartments will end, I view my estimable friend, the HEAD LIBRARIAN deeply occupied in some correction of Bayle or of Moreri--sitting at the further extremity. His reception of me is more than kind. It is hearty and enthusiastic. "Now that I am in this magical region, my good friend, allow me to inspect the famous PRAYER BOOK of CHARLEMAGNE?"--was my first solicitation to Mons. Barbier. "Gently,"--said my guide. "You are almost asking to partake of forbidden fruit. But I suppose you must not be disappointed." This was only sharpening the edge of my curiosity--for "wherefore this mystery, good M. Barbier?" "_That_ you may know another time. The book is here: and you shall immediately inspect it."--was his reply. M. Barbier unlocked the recess in which it is religiously preserved; took off the crimson velvet in which it is enveloped; and springing backward only two feet and a half, exclaimed, on presenting it, "Le voilà--dans toute sa beauté pristine." I own that I even forgot _Charles the Bald_--and eke his imperial brother _Lotharius_,[110]--as I gazed upon the contents of it. With these contents it is now high time that you should be made acquainted. EVANGELISTARIUM, or PRAYER BOOK--once belonging to CHARLEMAGNE. Folio. The subject-matter of this most precious book is thus arranged. In the first place, there are five large illuminations, of the entire size of the page, which are much discoloured. The first four represent the _Evangelists_: each sitting upon a cushion, not unlike a bolster. The fifth is the figure of our SAVIOUR. The back ground is purple: the pillow-like seat, upon which Christ sits, is scarlet, relieved by white and gold. The upper garment of the figure is dark green: the lower, purple, bordered in part with gold. The foot-stool is gold: the book, in the left hand, is red and gold: the arabesque ornaments, in the border, are blue, red, and gold. The hair of our Saviour is intended to be flaxen. The text is in double columns, upon a purple ground, within an arabesque border of red, purple, yellow, and bluish green. It is uniformly executed in letters of gold, of which the surface is occasionally rather splendid. It consists of a series of gospel extracts, for the whole year, amounting to about two hundred and forty-two. These extracts terminate with "_Et ego resuscitabo eum in novissimo die. Amen_" Next comes a Christian Calendar, from the dominical year Dcclxxv. to Dccxcvii. On casting the eye down these years, and resting it on that of Dcclxxxi, you observe, in the columns of the opposite leaf, this very important entry, or memorandum--in the undoubted writing of the time: "_In isto Anno ivit Dominus_, REX KAROLUS, _ad scm Petrvm et baptisatus est filius eius_ PIPPINUS _a Domino Apostolico_;" from which I think it is evident (as is observed in the account of this precious volume in the _Annales Encyclopédiques_, vol. iii. p. 378) that this very book was commanded to be written chiefly to perpetuate a notice of the baptism, by Pope Adrian, of the emperor's son PIPPIN.[111] There is no appearance whatever of fabrication, in this memorandum. The whole is coeval, and doubtless of the time when it is professed to have been executed. The last two pages are occupied by Latin verses, written in a lower-case, cursive hand; but contemporaneous, and upon a purple ground. From these verses we learn that the last scribe, or copyist, of the text of this splendid volume, was one GODESCALE, or GODSCHALCUS, a German. The verses are reprinted in the _Décades Philosophiques_. This MS. was given to the _Abbey of St. Servin_, at Toulouse; and it was religiously preserved there, in a case of massive silver, richly embossed, till the year 1793; when the silver was stolen, and the book carried off, with several precious relics of antiquity, by order of the President of the Administration, (Le Sieur S*****) and thrown into a magazine, in which were many other vellum MSS. destined ... TO BE BURNT! One's blood curdles at the narrative. There it lay--- expecting its melancholy fate; till a Monsieur de Puymaurin, then detained as a prisoner in the magazine, happened to throw his eye upon the precious volume; and, writing a certain letter about it, to a certain quarter--(which letter is preserved in the fly leaves, but of which I was denied the transcription, from motives of delicacy--) an order was issued by government for the conveyance of the MS. to the metropolis. This restoration was effected in May 1811.[112] I think you must admit, that, in every point of view, THIS MS. ranks among the most interesting and curious, as well as the most ancient, of those in the several libraries of Paris. But this is the _only_ piece of antiquity, of the book kind, in the Library. Of modern performances, I ought to mention a French version of OSSIAN, in quarto, which was the favourite reading book of the ex-Emperor; and to which Isabey, at his express command, prefixed a frontispiece after the design of Gérard. This frontispiece is beautifully and tenderly executed: a group of heroes, veiled in a mist, forms the back-ground. The only other modern curiosity, in this way, which I deem it necessary to notice, is a collection of ORIGINAL DRAWINGS of flowers, in water colours, by RÉDOUTÉ, upon vellum: in seven folio volumes; and which cost 70,000 francs.[113] Nothing can exceed--and very few efforts of the pencil can equal--this wonderful performance. Such a collection were reasonable at the fore-mentioned price. And now, my good friend, suppose I furnish you with an outline of the worthy head-librarian himself? A.A. BARBIER has perhaps not long "turned the corner" of his fiftieth year. Peradventure he may be fifty three.[114] In stature, he is above the middle height, but not very tall. In form, he is robust; and his countenance expressive of great conciliatoriness and benignity. There is a dash of the "old school" about the attire of M. Barbier, which I am Goth enough to admire: while his ardour of conversation, and rapidity of utterance, relieved by frequent and expressive smiles, make his society, equally agreeable and instructive. He is a literary bibliographer to the very back bone; and talks of what he has done, and of what he purposes to do, with a "gaieté de coeur" which is quite delightful. He is now engaged in an _Examen Critique et Complément des Dictionnaires Historiques les plus repandus_;[115] while his _Dictionnaire des Auteurs Anonymes et Pseudonymes_, in 4 vols. 8vo., and his _Bibliothéque d'un Homme de gout_," in five similar volumes, have already placed him in the foremost rank of French bibliographers. Such is his attention to the duties of his situation, as Librarian, that from one year's end to the other, with the exception of Sundays, he has _no holiday_. His home-occupations, after the hours of public employment (from twelve to four) are over, are not less unintermitting--in the pursuits of literary bibliography. It was at this home, that M. Barbier shewed me, in his library, some of the fruits of his long and vigorously pursued "travail." He possesses Mercier Saint Léger's own copy of his intended _third_ edition of the _Supplement to Marchand's History of Printing_. It is, in short, the second edition, covered with ms. notes in the hand-writing of Mercier himself.[117] He also possesses (but as the property of the Royal Library) the same eminent bibliographer's copy of the _Bibliothèque Française De La Croix du Maine_, in six volumes, covered in like manner with ms. notes by the same hand. To a man of M. Barbier's keen literary appetite, this latter must prove an inexhaustible feast. I was shewn, in this same well-garnished, but unostentatious collection, GOUJET'S own catalogue of his own library. It is in six folio volumes; well written; with a ruled frame work round each page, and an ornamental frontispiece to the first volume. Every book in the catalogue has a note subjoined; and the index is at once full and complete.[118] M. Barbier has rather a high notion, and with justice, of Goujet: observing to me, that _five_ volumes, out of the _ten_ of the last edition of Moreri's Dictionary--which were edited by Goujet--as well as his _Bibliothéque Française_, in eighteen duodecimo volumes--entitled him to the lasting gratitude of posterity. On my remarking that the want of an index, to this _latter_ work, was a great drawback to the use which might be derived from it, M.B. readily coincided with me--and hoped that a projected new edition would remedy this defect. M.B. also told me that Goujet was the editor of the _Dictionnaire de Richelet_, of 1758, in three folio volumes--which had escaped my recollection. My first visit to M. Barbier was concluded by his begging my acceptance of a copy of the _first edition of Phædrus_, in 1596, 12mo.; which contained, bound up with it, a copy of the _second_ edition of 1600; with various readings to the _latter_, from a MS. which was burnt in 1774. This gift was expressly intended for Lord Spencer's library, and in a few months from hence (as I have previously apprized his Lordship) it shall "repose upon the shelves" of his Collection.[119] It is now high time to relieve you; as you must begin to be almost wearied with BIBLIOGRAPHY. You have indeed, from the tenor of these five last letters, been made acquainted with some of the chief treasures in the principal libraries of Paris. You have wandered with me through a world of books; and have been equally, with myself, astonished and delighted with what has been placed before you. Here, then, I drop the subject of bibliography--only to be resumed as connected with an account of book-men. [91] [Because I have said that M. FLOCON was "from home" at the time I visited the library, and that M. Le CHEVALIER was rarely to be found abroad, M. Crapelet lets loose such a tirade of vituperation as is downright marvellous and amusing to peruse. Most assuredly I was not to know M. Flocon's bibliographical achievements and distinction by _inspiration_; and therefore I hasten to make known both the one and the other--in a version of a portion of the note of my sensitive translator: "M. Flocon is always at work; and one of the most zealous Librarians in Paris: he has worked twenty years at a Catalogue of the immense Library of Ste. Geneviève, of which the fruits are, twenty-four volumes--ready for press. Assuredly such a man cannot be said to pass his life away from his post." CRAPELET, vol iv. p. 3, 4. Most true--and who has said that HE DOES? Certainly not the Author of this Work. My translator must have here read without his spectacles.] [92] _Editiones Italicæ_; 1793. _Præf._ [93] Vol. i. p. 63-7. It is there observed that "there does not seem to be any reason for assigning this edition, to a _Roman_ press." [94] See page 116 ante [95] See page 139 ante. [96] See page 145 ante. [97] [Now the property of the Right Hon. T. Grenville; having been purchased at the sale of Mr. Dent's Library for 107_l_.] [98] M. Crapelet doubts the truth of this story. He need not. [99] [See the account of M. Barbier, post.] [100] It is on a small piece of paper, addressed to M. Barbier: "Cherchez dans les depôts bien soigneusement, tous les ouvrages d'ANDRE CIRINE: entr'autres ses _De Venatione libri ii: Messanæ_ 1650. 8vo. _De natura et solertia Canum; Panormi_, 1653. 4to. _De Venatione et Natura Animalium Libri V. ibid_, 1653. 3 vol. in 4to.--tous avec figures gravées en bois. Peut être dans la _Bibl. des Théatres_ y étoient-ils. Je me recommande toujours à M, Barbier pour la _Scala Coeli_, in folio, pour les _Lettres de Rangouge_, et pour les autres livres qu'il a bien voulu se charger de rechercher pour moy." ST. LEGER. [101] The Abbé Hooke preceded the abbé Le Blond; the late head librarian. The present head librarian M. PETIT RADEL, has given a good account of the Mazarine Library in his _Recherches sur les Bibliotheques_, &c. 1819, 8vo.; but he has been reproached with a sort of studied omission of the name of Liblond--who, according to a safe and skilful writer, may be well considered the SECOND FOUNDER of the Mazarine Library. The Abbé Liblond died at St. Cloud in 1796. In M. Renouard's Catalogue of his own books, vol. ii. p. 253, an amusing story is told about Hooke's successor, the Abbé Le Blond, and Renouard himself. [102] _Bibl. Spenceriana_, vol. i. p. 3, &c. and page 154 ante. [103] When Lord Spencer was at Paris in 1819, he told MM. Petit Radel and Thiebaut, who attended him, that it was "the finest copy he had ever seen." Whereupon, one of these gentlemen wrote with a pencil, in the fly-leaf, "Lord Spencer dit que c'est le plus bel exemplaire qu'il ait vu." And well might his Lordship say so. [104] _Bibliomania_, p. 50. _Bibliographical Decameron_, vol. ii. p. 493. [105] Mons. Petit-Radel has lately (1819) published an interesting octavo volume, entitled "_Recherches sur les Bibliothéques anciennes et modernes,&c._ with a "_Notice Historique sur la Bibliothéque Mazarine_: to which latter is prefixed a plate, containing portraits in outline, of Mazarin, Colbert, Naudé and Le Blond." At the end, is a list of the number of volumes in the several public libraries at Paris: from which the following is selected. ROYAL LIBRARY _Printed Volumes_ about 350,000 _Ditto, as brochures_, &c. 350,000 Manuscripts 50,000 LIBRARY OF THE ARSENAL Printed Volumes 150,000 Manuscripts 5,000 LIBRARY OF ST. GENEVIEVE Printed Volumes 110,000 Manuscripts 2,000 MAZARINE LIBRARY Printed Volumes 90,000 Manuscripts 3,500 LIBRARY OF THE PREFECTURE (Hotel de la Ville) Printed Volumes 15,000 ------- INSTITUTE Printed Volumes 50,000 This last calculation I should think very incorrect. M. Petit Radel concludes his statement by making the WHOLE NUMBER OF ACCESSIBLE VOLUMES IN Paris amount to _One Million, one hundred and twenty-five thousand, four hundred and thirty-seven_. In the several DEPARTMENTS OF FRANCE, collectively, there is _more_ than that number. But see the note ensuing. [106] [Mons. Crapelet says, 60,000 volumes: but I have more faith in the first, than in the second, computation: not because it comes from myself, but because a pretty long experience, in the numbering of books, has taught me to be very moderate in my numerical estimates. I am about to tell the reader rather a curious anecdote connected with this subject. He may, or he may not, be acquainted with the Public Library at Cambridge; where, twenty-five years ago, they boasted of having 90,000 volumes; and now, 120,000 volumes. In the year 1823, I ventured to make, what I considered to be, rather a minute and carefull calculation of the whole number: and in a sub note in the _Library Companion_, p. 657, edit. 1824, stated my conviction of that number's not exceeding 65,000 volumes, including MSS. In the following year, a very careful estimate was made, by the Librarians, of the whole number:--and the result was, that there were only.... 64,800 volumes!] [107] Now, numbered with THE DEAD. Vide post. [108] [The translation of the whole of the concluding part of this letter, beginning from above, together with the few notes supplied, as seen in M. Crapelet's publication, is the work of M. Barbier's nephew.] [109] [For M. Barbier Junior's note, which, in M. Crapelet's publication, is here subjoined, consult the end of the Letter.] [110] See pages 65-7 ante. [111] [This conclusion is questioned with acuteness and success by M. Barbier's nephew. It seems rather that the MS. was finished in 781, to commemorate the victories of Charlemagne over his Lombardic enemies in 774.] [112] [This restoration, in the name of the City of Toulouse, was made in the above year--on the occasion of the baptism of Bonaparte's son. But it was not placed in the King's private library till 1814. BARBIER Jun.] [113] [Now complete in 8 volumes--at the cost of 80,000 francs!] [114] [The latter was the true guess: for M. Barbier died in 1825, in his 60th year.] [115] It was published in 1821. In one of his recent letters to me, the author thus observes--thereby giving a true portraiture of himself-- "Je sais, Monsieur, quelle est votre ardeur pour le travail: je sais aussi que c'est le moyen d'être heureux: ainsi je vous félicite d'être constamment occupé." M. Barbier is also one of the contributors to the _Biographie Universelle_,[116] and has written largely in the _Annales Encyclopédiques_. Among his contributions to the latter, is a very interesting "_Notice des principaux écrits relatifs à la personne et aux ouvrages de J.J. Rousseau_." His "_Catalogue des livres dans la Bibliothéque du Conseil d'Etat_, transported to Fontainbleau in 1807, and which was executed in a handsome folio volume, in 1802, is a correct and useful publication. I boast with justice of a copy of it, on fine paper, of which the author several years ago was so obliging as to beg my acceptance. [From an inscription in the fly-leaf of this Catalogue, I present the reader with a fac-simile of the hand-writing of its distinguished author.] [Autograph] [116] [I "ALONE am responsible for this Sin. _Suum Cuique_." BARBIER, Jun.] [117] [These volumes form the numbers 1316 and 1317 of the Catalogue of M. Barbier's library, sold by auction in 1828.] [118] [Consult _Bibl. Barbier_: Nos. 1490, 1491, 1861.] [119] [The agreeable and well instructed Bibliographer, to the praises of whom, in the preceding edition of this work, I was too happy to devote the above few pages, is now NO MORE. Mons. Barbier died in 1825, and his library--the richest in literary bibliography in Paris,--was sold in 1828. On referring to page 197 ante, it will be seen that I have alluded to a note of M. Barbier's nephew, of which some mention was to be made in this place. I will give that note in its _original language_, because the most felicitous version of it would only impair its force. It is subjoined to these words of my text: "Be pleased to go strait forward as far as you can see." "L'homme de service lui-même ne ferait plus cette rêponse aujourd'hui. Peu de temps après l'impression du Voyage de M. Dibdin, ce qu'on appelle une _organisation_ eut lieu. Après vingt-sept ans de travaux consacrés à la bibliographique et aux devoirs de sa place, M. Barbier, que ses fonctions paisibles avoient protégés contre les terribles dénonciations de 1815, n'a pu régister, en 1822, aux délations mensongères de quelque commis sous M. Lauriston. _Insere nunc, Meliboee, pyros; pone ordine vites_! J'ai partagé pendant vingt ans les travaux de mon oncle pour former la bibliothéque de la couronne, et j'ai du, ainsi que lui, être mis a la retraite au moment de la promotion du nouveau Conservateur." CRAPELET, vol. iv. p. 45. I will not pretend to say _what_ were the causes which led to such a disgraceful, because wholly unmerited, result. But I have reason to BELIEVE that a dirty faction was at work, to defame the character of the Librarian, and in consequence, to warp the judgment of the Monarch. Nothing short of infidelity to his trust should have moved SUCH a Man from the Chair which he had so honourably filled in the private Library of Louis XVIII. But M. Barbier was beyond suspicion on this head; and in ability he had perhaps, scarcely an equal--in the particular range of his pursuits. His _retreating_ PENSION was a very insufficient balm to heal the wounds which had been inflicted upon him; and it was evident to those, who had known him long and well, that he was secretly pining at heart, and that his days of happiness were gone. He survived the dismissal from his beloved Library only five years: dying in the plenitude of mental vigour. I shall always think of him with no common feelings of regret: for never did a kinder heart animate a well-stored head. I had hoped, if ever good fortune should carry me again to Paris, to have renewed, in person, an acquaintance, than which none had been more agreeable to me, since my first visit there in 1818: But ... "Diis aliter visum est." There is however a mournful pleasure in making public these attestations to the honour of his memory; and, in turn, I must be permitted to quote from the same author as the nephew of M. Barbier has done.... His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani Munere.... Perhaps the following anecdote relating to the deceased, may be as acceptable as it is curious. Those of my readers who have visited Paris, will have constantly observed, on the outsides of houses, the following letters, painted in large capitals: MACL: implying--as the different emblems of our Fire Offices imply-- "M[aison] A[ssurée] C[ontre] L'[incendie]:" in plain English, that such houses are insured against fire. Walking one afternoon with M. Barbier, I pointed to these letters, and said, "You, who have written upon _Anonymes_ and _Pseudonymes_, do you know what those letters signify?" He replied, "Assuredly--and they can have but _one_ meaning." "What is that?" He then explained them as I have just explained them. "But (rejoined I) since I have been at Paris, I have learnt that they also imply _another_ meaning." "What might that be?" Stopping him, and gently touching his arm, and looking round to see that we were not overheard, I answered in a suppressed tone:-- "M[es] A[mis] C[hassez] L[ouis]." He was thunderstruck. He had never heard it before: and to be told it by a stranger! "Mais (says he, smiling, and resuming his steps) "voila une chose infiniment drole!" Let it be remembered, that this HERETICAL construction upon these Initial Capitals was put at a time when the _Bonaparte Fever_ was yet making some of the pulses of the Parisians beat 85 strokes to the minute. _Now_, his Majesty Charles X. will smile as readily at this anecdote as did the incomparable Librarian of his Regal Predecessor. [INTRODUCTION TO LETTER VIII.] Before entering upon the perusal of this memorable Letter--which, in the previous edition, was numbered LETTER XXX,--(owing to the Letters having been numbered consecutively from the beginning to the end) I request the Reader's attention to a few preliminary remarks, which may possibly guide him to form a more correct estimate of its real character. MONS. LICQUET having published a French version of my Ninth Letter, descriptive of the Public Library at Rouen, (and to which an allusion has been made in vol. i. p. 99.) MONS. CRAPELET (see p. 1, ante) undertook a version of the _ensuing_ Letter: of which he printed _one hundred copies_. Both translations were printed in M. Crapelet's office, to arrange, in type and form of publication, as much as possible with my own; so that, if the _intrinsic_ merit of these versions could not secure purchasers, the beauty of the paper and of the press work (for both are very beautiful) might contribute to their circulation. To the version of M. Crapelet[120] was prefixed a _Preface_, combining such a mixture of malignity and misconception, that I did not hesitate answering it, in a privately printed tract, entitled "A ROLAND FOR AN OLIVER." Of this Tract, "only _thirty-six copies were printed_." "So much the better for the Author"--says M. Crapelet. The sequel will shew. In the publication of the _entire_ version of my Tour, by M.M. Licquet and Crapelet, the translation of this VIIIth Letter appears as it did in the previous publication--with the exception of the omission of the _Preface_: but in lieu of which, there is another and a short preface, by M. Crapelet, to the third volume, where, after telling his readers that his previous attempt had excited my "holy wrath," he seems to rejoice in the severity of those criticisms, which, in certain of our _own_ public Journals, have been passed upon my subsequent bibliographical labours. With these criticisms I have here nothing to do. If the authors of them can reconcile them to their own good sense and subsequent reflections, and the Public to their own INDEPENDENCE of JUDGMENT, the voice of remonstrance will be ineffectual. Time will strike the balance between the Critic and the Author: and without pretending to explore the mysteries of an occasional _getting-up_ of Reviews of particular articles, I think I can speak in the language of justice, as well as of confidence, of the Author of ONE of these reviews, by a quotation from the _Ajax Flagellifer_ of SOPHOCLES. [Greek: Blepô gar echthron phôta, kai tach' an kakois Gelôn, ha dê kakourgos exikoit' anêr.--] To return to M. Crapelet; and to have done with him. The _motive_ for his undertaking the version of this memorable Letter, about "BOOKSELLERS, PRINTERS, and BOOKBINDERS at Paris," seems to be wholly inconceivable; since the logic of the undertaking would be as follows. BECAUSE I have spoken favourably of the whole typographical fraternity--and because, in particular, of M. Crapelet, his _Ménage_, and Madame who is at the head of it--_because_ I have lauded his Press equally with his Cellar--THEREFORE the "_un_holy wrath" of M. Crapelet is excited; and he cannot endure the freedom taken by the English traveller. It would be abusing the confidence reposed in me by written communications, from characters of the first respectability, were I to make public a few of the sentiments contained in them--expressive of surprise and contempt at the performance of the French typographer. But in mercy to my adversary, he shall be spared the pain of their perusal. [120] [A young stranger, a Frenchman--living near the mountainous solitudes between Lyons and the entrance into Italy--and ardently attached to the study of bibliography--applied himself, under the guidance of a common friend--dear to us both from the excellence of his head and heart--to a steady perusal of the _Bibliographical Decameron_, and the _Tour_. He mastered both works within a comparatively short time. He then read _A Roland for an Oliver_--and voluntarily tendered to me his French translation of it. How successfully the whole has been accomplished, may be judged from the following part--being the version of my preface only. OBSERVATION PRELIMINAIRE. "La production de M. Crapelet rappelée, dans le titre précédent, sera considérée comme un phénomène dans son genre. Elle est, certes, sans antécédent et, pour l'honneur de la France, je desire qu'elle n'ait pas d'imitateurs. Quiconque prendra la peine de lire la trentième lettre de mon voyage, soit dans l'original, soit dans la version de M. Crapelet, en laissant de coté les notes qui appartiennent an traducteur, conviendra facilement que cette lettre manifeste les sentimens les plus impartiaux et les plus honorables à l'état actuel de la librairie et de l'imprimerie à Paris. Dans plusieurs passages, où l'on compare l'éxécution typographique, dans les deux pays, la supériorité est décidée en faveur de la France. Quant a _l'esprit_ qui a dicté cette lettre, je déclare, comme homme d'honneur, ne l'avoir pas composée, dans un systême d'opposition, envers ceux qu'elle concerne plus particulièrement. "Cependant, il n'en a pas moins plu à M. Crapelet, imprimeur de Paris, l'un de ceux dont il y est fait plus spécialement l'éloge, d'accompagner sa traduction de cette lettre, de notes déplacées et injurieuses pour le caractère de l'auteur et de son ouvrage. Par suite probablement du peu d'étendue de ses idées et de l'organisation vicieuse de ses autres sens, ce typographe s'est livré a une séries d'observations qui outragent autant la raison que la politesse, et qui décèlent hautement sa malignité et sa noirceur. Les formes de son procédé ne sont pas moins méprisables que le fond. Avec la prétention avouée de ne répandre que partiellement sa version, (Voulant blesser et cependant timide pour frapper) il s'est servi de ses propres presses et il a imprimé le texte et les notes avec des caractères et sur un papier aussi semblables que possible à ceux de l'ouvrage qu'il venait de traduire. Il en a surveillé, a ce qu'on assure, l'impression, avec l'attention personelle la plus scrupuleuse, en sorte qu'il n'est aucune _epreuvé égarée_, qui ait été soumise à d'autres yeux que les siens. Il a prit soin, en outre, d'en faire tirer, au moins, cent exemplaires, et de les répandre.[C] Comme ces cent exemplaires seront probablement lus par dix fois le même nombre de personnes, il y aurait eu plus de franchisé et peut-être plus de bon sens de la part de M. Crapelet à diriger publiquement ses coups contre moi que de le faire sous la couverture d'un _pamphlet privé_. Il a fait choix de ce genre d'attaque; il ne me reste plus qu'à adopter une semblable méthode de défense: si ce n'est, qu'au lieu de cent exemplaires, ces remarques ne seront véritablement imprimée qu'a _trente six_. Ce procédé est certes plus délicat que celui de mon adversaire; mais soit que M. Crapelet ait préféré l'obscurité à la lumière, il n'en est pas moins évident que son intention a été d'employer tous ses petits moyens, a renverser la réputation d'un ouvrage, dont il avoue lui-même avoir à peine lu la cinquantième partie! "Par le contenu de ses notes, on voit qu'il a cherché, avec une assiduité condamnable, a recueillir le mal qu'il me suppose avoir eu l'intention de dire des personnes que j'ai citées, et cependant, après tout ce travail, a peine a-t-il pû découvrir l'ombre d'une seule allusion maligne. Jamais on ne fit un usage plus déplorable de son tems et de ses peines, car toutes les phrases de cette production sont aussi obscures que tirées de loin. "Il est difficile, ainsi que je l'ai déjà observé, de se rendre compte des motifs d'une telle conduite. Mais M. Crapelet n'a fait part de son secret à personne, et d'après l'échantillon dont il s'agit ici, je n'ai nulle envie de le lui demander. T.F.D. "J'avais eu d'abord l'intention de relever chacunes des notes de M. Crapelet, mais de plus mûres réfléxions m'ont fait connaitre l'absurdité d'une telle enterprise. Je m'en suis donc tenu à la préface, sans toutefois, ainsi que le lecteur pourra s'en appercevoir, laisser tomber dans l'oubli le mérite des notes. Encore un mot; M. Crapelet m'a attaqué et je me suis défendu. Il peut récommencer, si cela lui fait plaisir; mais désormais je ne lui répondrai que par le silence et le mépris." [C] "M. Crapelet, en sa qualité de critique, a mis ici du raffinement; car je soupçonne qu'il y a eu au moins vingt cinq exemplaires tirés sur papier vélin. C'est ainsi qu'il sait dorer sa pillule, pour la rendre plus présentable aux dignes amis de l'auteur, les bibliophiles de Paris. Mais ces Messieurs ont trop bon gout pour l'accepter. _LETTER VIII._ SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LATE ABBÉ RIVE. BOOKSELLERS. PRINTERS. BOOK-BINDERS. I make no doubt that the conclusion of my last letter has led you to expect a renewal of the BOOK THEME: but rather, I should hope, as connected with those Bibliographers, Booksellers, and Printers, who have for so many years shed a sort of lustre upon _Parisian Literature_. It will therefore be no unappropriate continuation of this subject, if I commence by furnishing you with some particulars respecting a Bibliographer who was considered, in his life time, as the terror of his acquaintance, and the pride of his patron: and who seems to have never walked abroad, or sat at home, without a scourge in one hand, and a looking-glass in the other. Droll combination!-- you will exclaim. But it is of the ABBÉ RIVE of whom I now speak; the very _Ajax flagellifer_ of the bibliographical tribe, and at the same time the vainest and most self-sufficient. He seems, amidst all the controversy in which he delighted to be involved, to have always had _one_ never-failing source of consolation left:--that of seeing himself favourably reflected-- from the recollection of his past performances--in the mirror of his own conceit! I have before[121] descanted somewhat upon probably the most splendid of his projected performances, and now hasten to a more particular account of the man himself. It was early one morning--before I had even commenced my breakfast--that a stranger was announced to me. And who, think you, should that stranger turn out to be? Nothing less than the _Nephew_ of the late Abbé Rive. His name was MORENAS. His countenance was somewhat like that which Sir Thomas More describes the hero of his Utopia to have had. It was hard, swarthy, and severe. He seemed in every respect to be "a travelled man." But his manners and voice were mild and conciliating. "Some one had told him that I had written about the Abbé Rive, and that I was partial to his work. Would I do him the favour of a visit? when I might see, at his house, (_Rue du Vieux Colombier, près St. Sulpice_) the whole of the Abbé's MSS. and all his projected works for the press. They were for sale. Possibly I might wish to possess them?" I thanked the stranger for his intelligence, and promised I would call that same morning. M. Morenas has been indeed a great traveller. When I called, I found him living up two pair of stairs, preparing for another voyage to Senegal. He was surrounded by _trunks_ ... in which were deposited the literary remains of his uncle. In other words, these remains consisted of innumerable _cards_, closely packed, upon which the Abbé had written all his memoranda relating to ... I scarcely know what. But the whole, from the nephew's statement, seemed to be an encyclopædia of knowledge. In one trunk, were about _six thousand_ notices of MSS. of all ages; and of editions in the fifteenth century. In another trunk, were wedged about _twelve thousand_ descriptions of books in all languages, except those of French and Italian, from the sixteenth century to his own period: these were professed to be accompanied with critical notes. In a third trunk was a bundle of papers relating to the _History of the Troubadours_; in a fourth, was a collection of memoranda and literary sketches, connected with the invention of Arts and Sciences, with Antiquities, Dictionaries, and pieces exclusively bibliographical. A fifth trunk contained between _two and three thousand_ cards, written upon on each side, respecting a collection of prints; describing the ranks, degrees, and dignities of all nations--of which eleven folio _cahiers_ were published, in 1779--without the letter-press-- but in a manner to make the Abbé extremely dissatisfied with the engraver. In a sixth trunk were contained his papers respecting earthquakes, volcanoes, and geographical subjects: so that, you see, the Abbé Rive at least fancied himself a man of tolerably universal attainments. It was of course impossible to calculate the number, or to appreciate the merits, of such a multifarious collection; but on asking M. Morenas if he had made up his mind respecting the _price_ to be put upon it, he answered, that he thought he might safely demand 6000 francs for such a body of miscellaneous information. I told him that this was a sum much beyond my means to adventure; but that it was at least an object worthy of the consideration of the "higher powers" of his own government. He replied, that he had little hopes of success in those quarters: that he was anxious to resume his travels; talked of another trip to Senegal; for that, after so locomotive a life, a sedentary one was wearisome to him.... ... "trahit sua quemque voluptas!" Over the chimney-piece was a portrait, in pencil, of his late uncle: done from the life. It was the only one extant. It struck me indeed as singularly indicative of the keen, lively, penetrating talents of the original. On the back of the portrait were the lines which are here subjoined: _Dès sa plus tendre enfance aux études livré, La soif de la science l'a toujours dévoré. Une immense lecture enrichit ses écrits, Et la critique sure en augmente le prix._ These lines are copied from the _Journal des Savans_ for October 1779. Iean Joseph Rive was born at Apt, in 1730, and died at Marseilles in 1791. He had doubtless great parts, natural and acquired: a retentive memory, a quick perception, and a vast and varied reading. He probably commenced amassing his literary treasures as early as his fourteenth year; and to his latest breath he pursued his researches with unabated ardour. But his career was embittered by broils and controversies; while the frequent acts of kindness, and the general warmth of heart, evinced in his conduct, hardly sufficed to soften the asperity, or to mitigate the wrath, of a host of enemies--which assailed him to the very last. But Cadmus-like, he sowed the seeds from which these combatants sprung. Whatever were his defects, as a public character, he is said to have been, in private, a kind parent, a warm friend, and an excellent master. The only servant which he ever had, and who remained with him twenty-four years, mourned his loss as that of a father. Peace to his ashes! From bibliography let me gently, and naturally, as it were, conduct you towards BIBLIOPOLISM. In other words, allow me to give you a sketch of a few of the principal Booksellers in this gay metropolis; who strive, by the sale of instructive and curious tomes, sometimes printed in the black letter of _Gourmont_ and _Marnef_, to stem the torrent of those trivial or mischievous productions which swarm about the avenues of the Palais Royal. In ancient times, the neighbourhood of the SORBONNE was the great mart for books. When I dined in this neighbourhood, with my friend M. Gail, the Greek Professor at the College Royale, I took an opportunity of leisurely examining this once renowned quarter. I felt even proud and happy to walk the streets, or rather tread the earth, which had been once trodden by _Gering_, _Crantz_, and _Fiburger_.[122] Their spirits seemed yet to haunt the spot:--but no volume, nor even traces of one--executed at their press-- could be discovered. To have found a perfect copy of _Terence_, printed in their first Roman character, would have been a _trouvaille_ sufficiently lucky to have compensated for all previous toil, and to have franked me as far as Strasbourg. The principal mart for booksellers, of old and second hand books, is now nearer the Seine; and especially in the _Quai des Augustins_. _Messrs. Treuttel and Würtz, Panckoucke, Renouard_, and _Brunet_, live within a quarter of a mile of each other: about a couple of hundred yards from the _Quai des Augustins_. Further to the south, and not far from the Hotel de Clugny, in the _Rue Serpente_, live the celebrated DEBURE. They are booksellers to the King, and to the Royal Library; and a more respectable house, or a more ancient firm, is probably not to be found in Europe. Messrs. Debure are as straight-forward, obliging, and correct, in their transactions, as they are knowing in the value, and upright in the sale, of their stock in trade. No bookseller in Paris possesses a more judicious stock, or can point to so many rare and curious books. A young collector may rely with perfect safety upon them; and accumulate, for a few hundred pounds, a very respectable stock of _Editiones principes_ or _rarissimæ_. I do not say that such young collector would find them _cheaper there_, or _so cheap_ as in _Pall-Mall_; but I do say that he may rest assured that Messieurs Debure would never, knowingly, sell him an imperfect book. Of the Debure, there are two brothers: of whom the elder hath a most gallant propensity to _portrait-collecting_--and is even rich in portraits relating to _our_ history. Of course the chief strength lies in French history; and I should think that Monsieur Debure l'ainé shewed me almost as many portraits of Louis XIV. as there are editions of the various works of Cicero in the fifteenth century.[123] But my attention was more particularly directed to a certain boudoir, up one pair of stairs, in which Madame Debure, their venerable and excellent mother, chooses to deposit some few very choice copies of works in almost every department of knowledge. There was about _one_ of the _best_ editions in each department: and whether it were the Bible, or the History of the Bucaineers--whether a lyrical poet of the reign of Louis XIV. or the ballad metres of that of François Premier ... there you found it!--bound by Padaloup, or Deseuille, or De Rome. What think you, among these "choice copies," of the _Cancionero Generale_ printed at Toledo in 1527, in the black letter, double columned, in folio? Enough to madden even our poet-laureat--for life! I should add, that these books are not thus carefully kept together for the sake of _shew_: for their owner is a fair good linguist, and can read the Spanish with tolerable fluency. Long may she yet read it.[124] The Debure had the selling, by auction, of the far-famed M'CARTHY LIBRARY; and I saw upon their shelves some of the remains of that splendid membranaceous collection. Indeed I bought several desirable specimens of it: among them, a fine copy of _Vindelin de Spira's_ edition (1471) of _St. Cyprians Epistles_, UPON VELLUM.[125] Like their leading brethren in the neighbourhood, Messieurs Debure keep their country house, and there pass the Sabbath. The house of TREUTTEL and WURTZ is one of the richest and one of the most respectable in Europe. The commerce of that House is chiefly in the wholesale way; and they are, in particular, the publishers and proprietors of all the great classical works put forth at _Strasbourg_. Indeed, it was at this latter place where the family first took root: but the branches of their prosperity have spread to Paris and to London with nearly equal luxuriance. They have a noble house in the _Rue de Bourbon_, no. 17: like unto an hotel; where each day's post brings them despatches from the chief towns in Europe. Their business is regulated with care, civility, and dispatch; and their manners are at once courteous and frank. Nothing would satisfy them but I must spend a Sabbath with them, at their country house at _Groslai_; hard by the village and vale of Montmorenci. I assented willingly. On the following Sunday, their capacious family coach, and pair of sleek, round, fat black horses, arrived at my lodgings by ten o'clock; and an hour and three quarters brought me to Groslai. The cherries were ripe, and the trees were well laden with fruit: for Montmorenci cherries, as you may have heard, are proverbial for their excellence. I spent a very agreeable day with mine hosts. Their house is large and pleasantly situated, and the view of Paris from thence is rather picturesque. But I was most struck with the conversation and conduct of Madame Treuttel. She is a thoroughly good woman. She has raised, at her own expense, an alms-house in the village for twelve poor men; and built a national school for the instruction of the poor and ignorant of both sexes. She is herself a Lutheran Protestant; as are her husband and her son-in-law M. Würtz. At first, she had some difficulties to encounter respecting the _school_; and sundry conferences with the village Curé, and some of the head clergy of Paris, were in consequence held. At length all difficulties were surmounted by the promise given, on the part of Madame Treuttel, to introduce only the French version of the Bible by _De Sacy_. Hence the school was built, and the children of the village flocked in numbers to it for instruction. I visited both the alms-house and the school, and could not withhold my tribute of hearty commendation at the generosity, and thoroughly Christian spirit, of the foundress of such establishments. There is more good sense and more private and public virtue, in the application of superfluous wealth in this manner, than in the erection of a hundred palaces like that at _Versailles!_[126] A different, and a more touching object presented itself to my view in the garden. Walking with Madame, we came, through various détours, into a retired and wooded part: where, on opening a sort of wicket gate, I found myself in a small square space, with hillocks in the shape of _tumuli_ before me. A bench was at the extremity. It was a resting place for the living, and a depository of the dead. Flowers, now a good deal faded, were growing upon these little mounds--beneath which the dead seemed to sleep in peace. "What might this mean?" "Sir," replied Madame Treuttel, "this is consecrated ground. My son-in-law sleeps here--and his only and beloved child lies by the side of him. You will meet my daughter, his wife, at dinner. She, with myself, visit this spot at stated seasons--when we renew and indulge our sorrows on the recollection of those who sleep beneath. These are losses which the world can never repair. We all mean to be interred within the same little fenced space.[127] I have obtained a long lease of it--for some fifty years: at the expiration of which time, the work of dissolution will be sufficiently complete with us all." So spake my amiable and enlightened guide. The remainder of the day--during which we took a stroll to Montmorenci, and saw the house and gardens where Rousseau wrote his _Emile_--was spent in a mixed but not irrational manner: much accordant with my own feelings, and most congenial with a languid state of body which had endured the heats of Paris for a month, without feeling scarcely a breath of air the whole time. ANTOINE-AUGUSTIN RENOUARD, living in the _Rue St. André des Arts_, is the next bibliopolist whom I shall introduce to your attention. He is among the most lynx-eyed of his fraternity: has a great knowledge of books; a delightful ALDINE LIBRARY;[128]--from which his Annals of the Aldine Press were chiefly composed--and is withal a man in a great and successful line of business. I should say he is a rich man; not because he has five hundred bottles of Burgundy in his cellar, which some may think to be of a more piquant quality than the like number of his _Alduses_--but because he has published some very beautiful and expensive editions of the Latin and French Classics, with equal credit to himself and advantage to his finances.[129] He _debuted_ with a fine edition of _Lucan_ in 1795, folio; and the first catalogue of his books was put forth the following year. From that moment to the present, he has never slackened head, hand, or foot, in the prosecution of his business; while the publication of his _Annals of the Aldine Press_ places him among the most skilful and most instructive booksellers in Europe. It is indeed a masterly performance: and as useful as it is elegantly printed.[130] M. Renouard is now occupied in an improved edition of _Voltaire_, which he means to adorn with engravings; and of which he shewed me the original drawings by Moreau, with many of the plates.[131] He seems in high spirits about the success of it, and leans with confidence upon the strength of a host of subscribers. Nor does a rival edition, just struggling into day, cause him to entertain less sanguine expectations of final success. This enterprising bookseller is now also busily occupied about a _Descriptive Catalogue of his own library_, in which he means to indulge himself in sundry gossipping notes, critical disquisitions, and piquant anecdotes. I look forward with pleasure to its appearance; and turn a deaf ear to the whispers which have reached me of an intended _brush_ at the Decameron.[132] M. Renouard has allowed me free access to his library; which also contains some very beautiful copies of books printed in the fifteenth century. Among these latter, his VELLUM VALDARFER is of course considered, by himself and his friends, as the _keimelion_ of the collection. It is the edition of the _Orations of Cicero_, printed by Valdarfer, at Venice, in 1471, folio: a most exquisite book--which may be fairly considered as perfect throughout. It is in its second binding, but _that_ may be as old as the time of Francis I.: perhaps about the middle of the sixteenth century. This copy measures thirteen inches in height, by eight inches and seven-eighths in width:--almost, I conceive, in its original state of amplitude. I will frankly own that I turned over the leaves of this precious book, again and again--"sighed and looked, &c." "But would no price tempt the owner to part with it?" "None. It is reserved as the bijou of my catalogue, and departs not from hence." Severe, but just decree! There is only one other known copy of it upon vellum, which is in the Royal Library[133]--but which wants a leaf of the table; an imperfection, not belonging to the present copy. The other "great guns," as VELLUM BOOKS, in the collection of M. Renouard, are what is called the _Familiar Epistles of Cicero_ printed by _Aldus_ in 1502, 12mo: and the _Petrarch_ of 1514, 8vo. also printed by Aldus. Of these, the _latter_ is by much the preferable volume. It is almost as large as it can well be: but badly bound in red morocco.[134] The Cicero is short and sallow-looking. It was on the occasion of his son starting for the first time on a bibliographical tour, and, on crossing the Rhine, and finding this Cicero and the almost equally rare _Aldine Virgil_ of 1505, that a relation of this "fortunate youth" invoked his muse in some few verses, which he printed and gave to me.[135] These are little "plaisanteries" which give a relish to our favourite pursuits; and which may at some future day make the son transcend the father in bibliographical renown. Perhaps the father has already preferred a prayer upon the subject, as thus: [Greek: Zeu, alloi te Theoi, dote dê kai tonde genesthai Paid emon ôs kai egô per, ....] There are some few noble volumes, from the press of _Sweynheym and Pannartz_, in this collection; and the finest copy of the FIRST LUCIAN in Greek, which perhaps any where exists.[136] It was obtained at a recent sale, (where it was coated in a lapping-over vellum surtout) at a pretty smart price; and has been recently clothed in blue morocco. M. Renouard has also some beautiful copies from the library of _De Thou_, and a partly uncut _Aldine Theophrastus_ of 1497, which belonged to Henry the Second and Diane de Poictiers; as well as a completely uncut copy of the first _Aldine Aristotle_.[137] Few men probably have been luckier in obtaining several of their choice articles; and the little anecdotes which he related to me, are such as I make no doubt will appear in the projected catalogue raisonné of his library. He is just now briskly engaged in the pursuit of _uncut Elzevirs_ ... and coming to breakfast with me, the other morning, he must needs pick up a beautiful copy of this kind, in two small volumes, neatly half bound, (of which I have forgotten the title,) and of which he had been for some time in the pursuit. M. Renouard also took occasion to tell me that, in his way to my chambers, he had sold, or subscribed, of a forthcoming work to be published by him--just _nine hundred and ninety-nine copies!_ Of course, after such a _trouvaille_ and such a subscription, he relished his breakfast exceedingly. He is a man of quick movements, of acute perceptions, of unremitting ardour and activity of mind and body-- constantly engaged in his business, managing a very extensive correspondence, and personally known to the most distinguished Collectors of Italy. Like his neighbours, he has his country-house, or rather farm, in Picardy[138] whither he retires, occasionally to view the condition and growing strength of that species of animal, from the backs of which his beloved Aldus of old, obtained the _matériel_ for his vellum copies. But it is time to wish M. Renouard a good morning, and to take you with me to his neighbour-- MONS. BRUNET, THE YOUNGER. This distinguished bibliographer, rather than bookseller, lives hard by--in the _Rue Gît-Le-Coeur_. He lives with his father, who superintends the business of the shop. The Rue Gît-Le-Coeur is a sorry street--very diminutive, and a sort of cropt copy--to what it should have been, or what it might have been. However, there lives JACQ. CH. BRUNET, FILS: a writer, who will be known to the latest times in the bibliographical world. He will be also thanked as well as known; for his _Manuel du Libraire_ is a performance of incomparable utility to all classes of readers and collectors. You mount up one pair of stairs:--the way is gloomy, and might well lead to a chamber in the monastery of La Trappe. You then read an incription, which tells you that "in turning the button you pull the bell." The bell sounds, and _Mons. Brunet, Pere_, receives you--with, or without, a silken cap upon his head. He sits in a small room, sufficiently well filled with books. "Is the Son at home?" "Open that door, Sir, you will find him in the next room." The door is immediately opened--and there sits the son, surrounded by, and almost imprisoned in, papers and books. His pen is in his hand: his spectacles are upon his nose: and he is transcribing or re-casting some precious little bit of bibliographical intelligence; while, on looking up and receiving you, he seems to be "full of the labouring God!" In short, he is just now deeply and unintermittingly engaged in a new and _third_ edition of his _Manuel_.[139] The shelves of his room almost groan beneath the weight of those writers from whom he gathers his principal materials. "Vous voilà, Mons. Brunet, bien occupé!;" "Oui, Monsieur, cela me fait autant de plaisir que de peine." This is a very picture of the man.... "The labour we delight in physics pain,"--said Lady Macbeth of old; and of a most extraordinary kind must the labour of Mons. Brunet be considered, when the pleasure in the prosecution of it balances the pain. We talked much and variously at our first interview: having previously interchanged many civilities by letter, and myself having been benefitted by such correspondence, in the possession of a _large paper_ copy of his first edition--of which he was pleased to make me a present, and of which only twenty copies were struck off. I told him that I had given Charles Lewis a carte blanche for its binding, and that I would back _his_ skill--the result of such an order--against any binding at that time visible in any quarter of Paris! Mons. B. could not, in his heart, have considered any other binding superior. He told me, somewhat to my astonishment, and much to my gratification, that, of the first edition of his _Manuel_, he had printed and sold _two thousand_ copies. This could never have been done in our country: because, doubting whether it would have been so accurately printed, it could never have been published, in the same elegant manner, for the same price. The charges of our printers would have been at least double. In the typographical execution of it, M. Crapelet has almost outdone himself. Reverting to the author, I must honestly declare that he has well merited all he has gained, and will well merit all the gains which are in store for him. His application is severe, constant, and of long continuance. He discards all ornament,[140] whether graphic or literary. He is never therefore digressive; having only a simple tale to tell, and that tale being almost always _well_ and _truly_ told.[141] In his opinions, he is firm and rational, and sometimes a little pugnacious in the upholding of them. But he loves only to breathe in a bibliographical element, and is never happier than when he has detected some error, or acquired some new information; especially if it relate to an _Editio Princeps_.[142] There is also something very naïf and characteristic in his manner and conversation. He copies no one; and may be said to be a citizen of the world. In short, he has as little _nationality_ in his opinions and conversation, as any Frenchman with whom I have yet conversed. Thus much for the leading booksellers of Paris on the south side of the Seine: or, indeed, I may say in the whole city. But, because the south is a warm and genial aspect in the bringing forth of all species of productions, it does not necessarily follow that ... there should be _no_ bibliopolistic vegetation on the _north_ side of the Seine. Prepare therefore to be introduced to MONS. CHARDIN, in the _Rue St. Anne_, no. 19; running nearly at right angles with the _Rue St. Honoré_, not far from the _Eglise St. Roq._ M. Chardin is the last surviving remains of the OLD SCHOOL of booksellers in Paris; and as I love antiquities of almost all kinds, I love to have a little occasional gossip with M. Chardin. A finer old man, with a more characteristic physiognomy, hath not appeared in France from the time of Gering downwards. M. Chardin is above the mean height; is usually attired in a rocquelaure; and his fine flowing grey locks are usually surmounted by a small black silk cap. His countenance is penetrating, but mild: and he has a certain air of the "Old School" about him, which is always, to my old-fashioned taste, interesting and pleasing. In his youth he must have been handsome, and his complexion is yet delicate. But good old M. Chardin is an oddity in his way. He physics "according to the book"--that is, according to the Almanack; although I should think he had scarcely one spare ounce of blood in his veins. Phlebotomy is his "dear delight." He is always complaining, and yet expects to be always free from complaint. But Madame will have it so, and Monsieur is consenting. He lives on the floor just above the entresol, and his two or three small apartments are gaily furnished with books. The interior is very interesting; for his chief treasures are locked up within glazed cabinets, which display many a rich and rare article. These cabinets are beautifully ornamented: and I do assure you that it is but justice to their owner to say, that they contain many an article which does credit to his taste. This taste consists principally in a love of ornamented MSS. and printed books UPON VELLUM, in general very richly bound.[143] It is scarcely seven years ago since M. Chardin published an octavo catalogue, of nearly two hundred pages, of MSS. and printed books ... all upon vellum. He has been long noted for rarities of this kind. "Il n'y a que des livres rares" is his constant exclamation--as you open his glazed doors, and stretch forth your hand to take down his treasures. He is the EDWARDS of France, but upon a smaller scale of action. Nor does he push his _wares_, although he does his _prices_. You may buy or not, but you must _pay_ for what you _do_ buy. There is another oddity about this courteous and venerable bibliopolist. He has a great passion for making his _Alduses_ perfect by means of _manuscript_; and I must say, that, supposing this plan to be a good one, he has carried it into execution in a surprisingly perfect manner: for you can scarcely, by candle-light, detect the difference between what is printed and what is executed with a pen. I think it was the whole of the _Scholia_ attached to the Aldine _Discorides_, in folio, and a great number of leaves in the _Grammatical Institutes of Urbanus_, of 1497, 4to. with several other smaller volumes, which I saw thus rendered perfect: How any scribe can be sufficiently paid for such toil, is to me inconceivable: and how it can answer the purpose of any bookseller so to complete his copies, is also equally unaccountable: for be it known, that good M. Chardin leaves _you_ to make the _discovery_ of the MS. portion; and when you _have_ made it,--he innocently subjoins--"Oui, Monsieur, n'est il pas beau?" In a sort of passage, between his principal shew-room and his bed room, is contained a very large collection of tracts and printed volumes relating to the FAIR SEX: being, in fact, nothing less than a prodigious heap of publications "FOR and AGAINST" the ladies. M. Chardin will not separate them--adding that the "bane and antidote must always go together." This singular character is also vehemently attached to antiquarian _nick-knackery_. Old china, old drawings, old paintings, old carvings, and old relics--of whatever kind--are surveyed by him with a curious eye, and purchased with a well-laden purse. He never speaks of GOUJIN but in raptures. We made an exchange the other day. M. Chardin hath no small variety of walking canes. He visited me at the Hôtel one morning, leaning upon a fine dark bamboo-stick, which was _headed_ by an elaborately carved piece of ivory--the performance of the said Goujon. It consisted of a recumbent female, (with a large flapped hat on) of which the head was supported by a shield of coat armour.[144] We struck a bargain in five minutes. He presented me the _stick_, on condition of my presenting him with a choice copy of the _Ædes Althorpianæ_. We parted well satisfied with each other; but I suspect that the purchase of about four-score pounds worth of books, added much to the satisfaction on his part. Like all his brethren of the same craft, M. Chardin disports himself on Saturdays and Sundays at his little "ferme ornée," within some four miles of Paris-- having, as he gaily told me "nothing now to do but to make poesies for the fair sex."[145] With Chardin I close my bibliopolistic narrative; not meaning thereby to throw other booksellers into the least degree of shade, but simply to transmit to you an account of such as I have seen and have transacted business with. And now, prepare for some account of PRINTERS ... or rather of _three presses_ only,--certainly the most distinguished in Paris. I mean those of the DIDOT and that of M. CRAPELET. The name of Didot will last as long as learning and taste shall last in any quarter of the globe: nor am I sure, after all, that what _Bodoni, Bensley_, and _Bulmer_ have done, collectively, has redounded _more_ to the credit of their countries than what Didot has achieved for France. In ancient classical literature, however, Bodoni has a right to claim an exception and a superiority. The elder, _Pierre Didot_, is Printer to his Majesty. But when Pierre Didot l'ainé chose to adopt his _own_ fount of letter--how exquisitely does his skill appear in the folio _Virgil_ of 1798, and yet more, perhaps, in the folio Horace of 1799!? These are books which never have been, and never _can_ be, eclipsed. Yet I own that the Horace, from the enchanting vignettes of _Percier_, engraved by Girardais, is to my taste the preferable volume.[146] FIRMIN DIDOT now manages the press in the _Rué Jacob;_ and if he had never executed any thing but the _Lusiad_ of _Camoens_, his name would be worthy to go down to posterity by the side of that of his uncle. The number of books printed and published by the Didots is almost incredible; especially of publications in the Latin and French languages. Of course I include the _Stereotype_ productions: which are very neat and very commodious--but perhaps the page has rather too dazzling an effect. I paid a visit the other day to the office of Firmin Didot; who is a letter founder "as well as a printer.[147] To a question which I asked the nephew, (I think) respecting the number of copies and sizes, of the famous _Lusiad_ just mentioned, he answered, that there were only _two hundred_ copies, and those only of _one size_. Let that suffice to comfort those who are in terror of having the small paper, and to silence such as try to depreciate the value of the book, from the supposed additional number of copies struck off. I wished to know the costs and charges of _printing_, &c.--from which the comparative price of labour in the two countries might be estimated. M. Didot told me that the entire charges for printing, and pulling, one thousand copies of a full octavo size volume--containing thirty lines in a page, in a middle-size-letter--including _every thing_ but _paper_--was thirty-five francs per sheet. I am persuaded that such a thing could not be done at home under very little short of double the price:--whether it be that our printers, including the most respectable, are absolutely more extravagant in their charges, or that the wages of the compositors are double those which are given in France. After Didot, comes CRAPELET--in business, skill, and celebrity. He is himself a very pleasant, unaffected man; scarcely thirty-six; and likely, in consequence, to become the richest printer in Paris. I have visited him frequently, and dined with him once--when he was pleased to invite some agreeable, well-informed, and gentlemanly guests to meet me. Among them was a M. REY, who has written "_Essais Historiques et Critiques sur Richard III. Roi d'Angleterre_," just printed in a handsome octavo volume by our Host. Our conversation, upon the whole; was mixed; agreeable, and instructive. Madame Crapelet, who is at this moment (as I should conjecture) perhaps pretty equally divided between her twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth year, and who may be classed among the prettier ladies of Paris, did the honours of the fête in a very agreeable manner: nor can it be a matter of surprise that the choicest Chambertin and Champagne sparkled upon the table of _one_--who, during the libations of his guests; had the tympans and friskets of _twenty-two Presses_ in full play![148] We retired, after dinner, into a spacious drawing room to coffee and liqueurs: and anon, to a further room, wherein was a BOOK-CASE filled by some of the choicest specimens of the press of its owner, as well as of other celebrated printers. I have forgotten what we took down or what we especially admired: but, to a question respecting the _present_ state of business, as connected with _literature_ and _printing_, at Paris, M. Crapelet replied (as indeed, if I remember rightly, M. Didot did also) that "matters never went on better." Reprints even of old authors were in agitation: and two editions of _Montaigne_ were at that moment going on in his own house. I complimented M. Crapelet--and with equal sincerity and justice--upon the typographical execution of M. Brunet's _Manuel du Libraire_. No printer in our own country, could have executed it more perfectly. "What might have been the charge per sheet?" My host received the compliment very soberly and properly; and gave me a general item about the expense of printing and paper, &c., which really surprised me; and returned it with a warm eulogy upon the paper and press-work of a recent publication from the _Shakspeare press_--which, said he, "I despair of excelling." "And then (added he), your prettily executed vignettes, and larger prints! In France this branch of the art is absolutely not understood[149]--and besides, we cannot publish books at _your_ prices!" We must now bid adieu to the types of M. Crapelet below stairs, and to his "good cheer" above; and with him take our leave of Parisian booksellers and printers.[150] What then remains, in the book way, worthy of especial notice? Do you ask this question? I will answer it in a trice--BOOK-BINDING. Yes ... some few hours of my residence in this metropolis have been devoted to an examination of this _seductive_ branch of book commerce. And yet I have not seen--nor am I likely to see--one single binder: either _Thouvenin, or Simier, or Braidel, or Lesné_. I am not sure whether Courteval, or either of the Bozérians, be living: but their _handy works_ live and are lauded in every quarter of Paris. The restorer, or the Father, (if you prefer this latter appellative) of modern Book-binding in France, was the Elder Bozérian: of whose productions the book-amateurs of Paris are enthusiastically fond. Bozérian undoubtedly had his merits;[151] but he was fond of gilt tooling to excess. His ornaments are too minute and too profuse; and moreover, occasionally, very unskilfully worked. His choice of morocco is not always to my taste; while his joints are neither carefully measured, nor do they play easily; and his linings are often gaudy to excess. He is however hailed as the legitimate restorer of that taste in binding, which delighted the purchasers in the Augustan age of book-collecting. One merit must not be denied him: his boards are usually square, and well measured. His volumes open well, and are beaten ... too unmercifully. It is the reigning error of French binders. They think they can never beat a book sufficiently. They exercise a tyranny over the leaves, as bad as that of eastern despots over their prostrate slaves. Let them look a little into the bindings of those volumes before described by me, in the lower regions of the Royal Library[152]--and hence learn, that, to hear the leases crackle as they are turned over, produces _nearly_ as much comfort to the thorough-bred collector, as does the prattling of the first infant to the doating parent. THOUVENIN[153] and SIMIER are now the morning and evening stars in the bibliopegistic hemisphere. Of these, Thouvenin makes a higher circle in the heavens; but Simier shines with no very despicable lustre. Their work is good, substantial, and pretty nearly in the same taste. The folio Psalter of 1502, (I think) in the Royal Library, is considered to be the _ne plus ultra_ of modern book-binding at Paris; and, if I mistake not, Thouvenin is the artist in whose charcoal furnace, the tools, which produced this _êchantillon_, were heated. I have no hesitation in saying, that, considered as an extraordinary specimen of art, it is a failure. The ornaments are common place; the lining is decidedly bad; and there is a clumsiness of finish throughout the whole. The head-bands--as indeed are those of Bozérian--are clumsily managed: and I may say that it exhibits a manifest inferiority even to the productions of Mackinlay, Hering, Clarke, and Fairbairn. Indeed either of these artists would greatly eclipse it. I learn that Thouvenin keeps books in his possession as long as does a _certain_ binder with us--- who just now shall be nameless. Of course Charles Lewis would smile complacently if you talked to _him_ about rivalling such a performance![154] There is a book-binder of the name of LESNÉ--just now occupied, as I learn, in writing a poem upon his Art[155]--who is also talked of as an artist of respectable skill. They say, however, that he _writes_ better than he _binds_. So much the worse for his little ones, if he be married. Indeed several very sensible and impartial collectors, with whom I have discoursed, also seem to think that the art of book-binding in France is just now, if not retrograding, at least stationary--and apparently incapable of being carried to a higher pitch of excellence. I doubt this very much. They can do what they have done before. And no such great conjuration is required in going even far beyond it. Let Thouvenin and Simier, and even the _Poet_ himself, examine carefully the choice of tools, and manner of gilding, used by our more celebrated binders, and they need not despair of rivalling them. Above all, let them look well to the management of the backs of their books, and especially to the headbands. The latter are in general heavy and inelegant. Let them also avoid too much choking and beating, (I use technical words--- which you understand as well as any French or English bookbinder) and especially to be square, even, and delicate in the bands; and the "Saturnia regna" of book-binding in France may speedily return. [121] _Bibliomania_; p. 79. _Bibliographical Decameron_; vol. i. p. xxii. [122] See the _Bibliographical Decameron_; vol. ii. p. 20. [123] [Consistently with the plan intended to be pursued in this edition, I annex a fac-simile of their autograph.] [Illustration] [124] [Madame Debure died a few years ago at an advanced age.] [125] [Mr. Hibbert obtained this volume from me, which will be sold at the sale of his Library in the course of this season.] [126] [Nothing can be more perfectly ridiculous and absurd than the manner in which M. Crapelet flies out at the above expression! He taunts us, poor English, with always drawing comparisons against other nations, in favour of the splendour and opulence of our own Hospitals and Charitable Foundations--a thought, that never possessed me while writing the above, and which would require the peculiar obliquity, or perversity of talents, of my translator to detect. I once thought of _dissecting_ his petulant and unprovoked note--but it is not worth blunting the edge of one's pen in the attempt.] [127] [In a few years afterwards, the body of the husband of Madame Treuttel was consigned to _this_, its _last_ earthly resting-place. M. JEAN-GEORGE TREUTTEL, died on the 14th Dec. 1825, not long after the completion of his 82d year: full of years, full of reputation, and credit, and of every sublunary comfort, to soothe those who survived him. I have before me a printed Memoir of his Obsequies--graced by the presence and by the orations of several excellent Ministers of the Lutheran persuasion: by all the branches of his numerous family; and by a great concourse of sympathising neighbours. Few citizens of the world, in the largest sense of this expression, have so adorned the particular line of life in which they have walked; and M. Treuttel was equally, to his country and to his family, an ornament of a high cast of character. "O bon et vertueux ami, que ne peut tu voir les regrets de tous ceux qui t' accompagnent à ta derniere demeure, pour te dire encore une fois à REVOIR!" _Discours_ de M. COMARTIN _Maire de Groslai_: Dec. 17.] [128] ["Delightful" as was this Library, the thought of the money for which it might sell, seems to have been more delightful. The sale of it-- consisting of 1028 articles--took place in the spring of last year, under the hammer of Mr. Evans; and a surprisingly prosperous sale it was. I would venture to stake a good round sum, that no one individual was _more_ surprized at this prosperous result than the OWNER of the Library himself. The gross produce was £2704. 1s. The net produce was such... as ought to make that said owner grateful for the spirit of competition and high liberality which marked the biddings of the purchasers. In what country but OLD ENGLAND could such a spirit have been manifested! Will Mons. Renouard, in consequence, venture upon the transportation of the _remaining_ portion of his Library hither? There is a strong feeling that he _will_. With all my heart--but let him beware of his MODERN VELLUMS!!] [129] [I shall _now_ presume to say, that M. Renouard is a "VERY rich man;" and has by this time added _another_ 500 bottles of high-flavoured Burgundy to his previous stock. The mention of M. Renouard's Burgundy has again chafed M. Crapelet: who remarks, that "it is useless to observe how ridiculous such an observation is." Then why _dwell_ upon it--and why quote three verses of Boileau to bolster up your vapid prose, Mons. G.A. Crapelet.?] [130] [The _second_ edition of this work, greatly enlarged and corrected, appeared in 1825, in 3 volumes: printed very elegantly at the son's (Paul Renouard's) office. Of this improved edition, the father was so obliging as to present me with a copy, accompanied by a letter, of which I am sure that its author will forgive the quotation of its conclusion--to which is affixed his autograph. "Quoiqu'il en soit, je vous prie de vouloir bien l'agréer comme un témoignage de nos anciennes liaisons, et d'être bien persuadé du dévouement sincere et amical avec lequel je n'ai jamais cessé d'être. Votre très humble Serviteur, [Autograph: AulAug. Renouard] [131] [Now completed in 60 volumes 8vo.: and the most copious and correct of ALL the editions of the author. It is a monument, as splendid as honourable, of the Publisher's spirit of enterprise. For particulars, consult the _Library Companion_, p. 771, edit. 1824.] [132] The year following the above description, the Catalogue, alluded to, made its appearance under the title of "_Catalogue de la Bibliothèque d'un Amateur_," in four not _very_ capacious octavo volumes: printed by CRAPELET, who finds it impossible to print--_ill_. I am very glad such a catalogue has been published; and I hope it will be at once a stimulus and a model for other booksellers, with large and curious stocks in hand, to do the same thing. But I think M. Renouard might have conveniently got the essentials of his bibliographical gossipping into _two_ volumes; particularly as, in reading such a work, one must necessarily turn rapidly over many leaves which contain articles of comparatively common occurrence, and of scarcely common interest. It is more especially in regard to _modern_ French books, of which he seems to rejoice and revel in the description--(see, among other references, vol. iii. p. 286-310) that we may be allowed to regret such dilated statements; the more so, as, to the fastidious taste of the English, the engravings, in the different articles described, have not the beauty and merit which are attached to them by the French. Yet does M. Renouard narrate pleasantly, and write elegantly. In regard to the "_brush_ at the Decameron," above alluded to, I read it with surprise and pleasure--on the score of the moderate tone of criticism which it displayed--and shall wear it in my hat with as much triumph as a sportsman does a "brush" of a different description! Was it _originally_ more _piquan?_ I have reason not only to suspect, but to know, that it WAS. Be this as it may, I should never, in the first place, have been backward in returning all home thrusts upon the aggressor--and, in the second place, I am perfectly disposed that my work may stand by the test of such criticism. It is, upon the whole, fair and just; and _justice_ always implies the mention of _defects_ as well as of excellencies. It may, however, be material to remark, that the _third_ volume of the Decameron is hardly amenable to the tribunal of French criticism; inasmuch as the information which it contains is almost entirely national--and therefore partial in its application. [133] [Not so. Messrs. Payne and Foss once shewed me a yet _larger_ copy of it upon vellum, than even M. Renouard's: but so many of the leaves had imbibed an indelible stain, which no skill could eradicate, that it was scarcely a saleable article. It was afterwards bought by Mr. Bohn at a public auction.] [134] [It was sold at the Sale of his Aldine Library for £68. 15s. 8d. and is now, I believe, in the fine Collection of Sir John Thorold, Bart, at Syston Park. The Cicero did not come over for sale.] [135] [In the previous edition I had supposed, erroneously, that it was the Father, M. Renouard himself, who had invoked his name on the occasion. The verses are pretty enough, and may as well find a place _here_ as in M. Crapelet's performance. Je l'ai vu ce fameux bouquin Qui te fait un titre de gloire: Tout Francois qui passe le Rhin Doit remporter une Victoire.] [136] [M. Renouard obtained it at a public sale in Paris, against a very stiff commission left for it by myself. A copy of equal beauty is in the Library of the Right Hon. T. Grenville.] [137] [The Theophrastus was sold for £12 1s. 6d. and the Aristotle for £40. The latter is in the Library of the Rt. Hon. T. Grenville, having been subsequently coated in red morocco by C. Lewis.] [138] [It seems that I have committed a very grave error, in the preceding edition, by making Mons. Renouard "superintend the gathering in of his VINTAGE," at his country-house (St. Valerie) whereas there are no Vineyards in Picardy. France and Wine seemed such synonymes, that I almost naturally attached a vineyard to every country villa.] [139] [It was published in 1820.] [140] "The luxurious English Bibliographer is astonished at the publication of the "Manuel" without the accompaniment of Plates, Fac-similes, Vignettes, and other graphic attractions. It is because _intrinsic merit_ is preferable to form and ornament: _that_ at once establishes its worth and its success." CRAPELET, vol. iv. p. 88. This amiable Translator and sharp-sighted Critic never loses an opportunity of a _fling_ at the "luxurious English Bibliographer!" [141] [My translator again brandishes his pen in order to draw _good-natured_ comparisons. "It would be lucky for him, if, to the qualities he possesses, M. Dibdin would unite those which he praises in M. Brunet: his work and the public would be considerable gainers by it: his books would not be so costly, and would be more profitable. The English Author describes nothing in a _sang-froid_ manner: he is for ever _charging_: and, as he does not want originality in his vivacity, he should seem to wish to be the CALLOT of Bibliography." CRAPELET. _Ibid_. I accept the title with all my heart.] [142] When he waited upon Lord Spencer at Paris, in 1819, and was shewn by his Lordship the _Ulric Han Juvenal_ (in the smallest character of the printer) and the _Horace_ of 1474, by _Arnoldus de Bruxella_, his voice, eyes, arms, and entire action ... gave manifest proofs how he FELT upon the occasion! [It only remains to dismiss this slight and inadequate account of so amiable and well-versed a bibliographer, with the ensuing-fac-simile of his autograph.] [Autograph: Brunet, Libraire, rue Gît-le-Couer, No 10.] [143] Chardin passe surtout parmi les amateurs Pour le plus vétilleux de tous les connaisseurs; Il fait naître, encourage, anime l'industrie; LES BEAUX LIVRES font seul le CHARME DE SA VIE. LA RELIURE, _poëme didactique_. Par LESNE'. 1820, 8vo. p. 31. [144] [This curiosity is now in the limited, but choice and curious, collection of my old and very worthy friend Mr. Joseph Haslewood. The handle of the stick is decorated by a bird's head, in ivory, which I conjectured to be that of an _Eagle_; but my friend insisted upon it that it was the head of an _Hawk_. I knew what this _meant_--and what it would _end_ in: especially when he grasped and brandished the Cane, as if he were convinced that the sculptor had anticipated the possession of it by the Editor of Juliana Barnes. It is whispered that my friend intends to surprise the ROXBURGHE CLUB (of which he is, in all respects a most efficient member) with proofs of an _Engraving_ of this charming little piece of old French carving.] [145] Mons. Chardin is since dead at a very advanced age. His mental faculties had deserted him a good while before his decease: and his decease was gentle and scarcely perceptible. The portrait of him, in the preceding edition of this work, is literally the MAN HIMSELF. M. Crapelet has appended one very silly, and one very rude, if not insulting, note, to my account of the deceased, which I will not gratify him by translating, or by quoting in its original words. [146] [A copy of the Horace UPON VELLUM (and I believe, the _only_ one) with the original drawings of Percier, will be sold in the library of Mr. Hibbert, during the present season.] [147] ["And unquestionably the best Letter Founder. His son, M. Amb. Firmin Didot; who has for a long time past cut the punches for his father, exhibits proof of a talent worthy, of his instructor." CRAPELET.] [148] [The translation of the above passage runs so smoothly and so evenly upon "all fours," that the curious reader may be gratified by its transcription: "On ne doit pas être surpris que le meilleur vin de Champagne et de Chambertin ait été servi sur la tablé de celui qui, au milieu des toasts de ses convives, avait pour accompagnement le bruit agréable. des frisquettes et des tympans de vingt-deux presses.".Vol. ii. 102.] [149] ["Would one not suppose that I had told M. Dibdin that it was impossible for the French to execute as fine plates as the English? If so, I should stand alone in that opinion. I only expatiated on the beauty of the wood-cut vignettes which adorn many volumes of the 4to. Shakspeare by Bulmer. (N.B. Mr. Bulmer never printed a Shakspeare in 4to. or with wood cuts; but Mr. Bensley _did_--in an 8vo. form.) Their execution is astonishing. Wood engraving, carried to such a pitch of excellence in England, is, in fact, very little advanced in France: and on this head I agree with M. Dibdin." CRAPELET, iv. 104.] [150] ["How can M. Dibdin forget the respect due to his readers, to give them a recital of dinners, partaken of at the houses of private persons, as if he were describing those of a tavern? How comes it that he was never conscious of the want of good taste and propriety of conduct, to put the individuals, of whom he was speaking, into a sort of dramatic form, and even the MISTTRESSES OF THE HOUSE! CRAPELET: Vol. iv. 106. I have given as unsparing a version as I could (against myself) in the preceding extract; but the _sting_ of the whole matter, as affecting M. Crapelet, may be drawn from the concluding words. And yet, where have I spoken ungraciously and uncourteously of Madame?] [151] [_Bozérian undoubtedly had his merits_.]--Lesné has been singularly lively in describing the character of Bozérian's binding. In the verse ... Il dit, et secouant le joug de la manie.... he appears to have been emulous of rivalling the strains, of the Epic Muse; recalling, as it were, a sort of Homeric scene to our recollection: as thus--of Achilles rushing to fight, after having addressed his horses: [Greek: E ra, kai en prôtois iachôn eche mônuchas hippos] [152] Some account of French bookbinders may be also found in the _Bibliographical Decameron_, vol. ii. p. 496-8. [153] Cependant Thouvenin est un de ces hommes extraordinaires qui, semblables à ces _corps lumineux_ que l'on est convenu d'appeler _cometes_, paraissent une fois en un siècle. Si, plus ambitieux de gloire que de fortune, il continue à, se surveiller; si, moins ouvrier qu'artiste, il s'occupe sans relache du perfectionnement de la reliure, il fera époque dans son art comme ces grands hommes que nous admirons font époque dans la littérature. p. 117. [154] [In the year 1819, Lord Spencer sent over to the Marquis de Chateaugiron, a copy of the _Ovid De Tristilus, translated by Churchyard_, 1578, 4to. (his contribution to the Roxburghe Club) as a present from ONE President of Bibliophiles to ANOTHER. It was bound by Lewis, in his very best style, in morocco, with vellum linings, within a broad border of gold, and all other similar seductive adjuncts. Lewis considered it as a CHALLENGE to the whole bibliopegistic fraternity at Paris:--a sort of book-gauntlet;--thrown down for the most resolute champion to pick up--if he dare! Thouvenin, Simier, Bozérian (as has been intimated to me) were convened on the occasion:--they looked at the gauntlet: admired and feared it: but no man durst pick it up! Obstupuere animi:---- Ante omnes stupet ipse Dares[D].... In other words, the Marquis de Chateaugiron avowed to me that it was considered to be the _ne plus ultra_ of the art. What say you to this, Messrs. Lesné and Crapelet? [D] _Thouvenin_. [155] This poem appeared early in the year 1820, under the following title. "_La Reliure, poème didactique en six chants_; précédé d'une idée analytique de cet art, suivi de notes historiques et critiques, et d'un Mémoire soumis à la Société d'Encouragement, ainsi qu'au Jury d'exposition de 1819, relatif à des moyens de perfectionnement, propres à retarder le renouvellement des reliures. PAR LESNÉ. Paris, 1820. 8vo. pp. 246. The motto is thus: Hâtez-vous lentement, et sans perdre courage, Vingt fois sur le métier remettez votre ouvrage; Polissez-le sans cesse et le repolissez. _Boileau Art. Poét._ ch. 1. This curious production is dedicated to the Author's Son: his first workman; seventeen years of age; and "as knowing, in his business at that early period of life as his father was at the age of twenty-seven." The dedication is followed by a preface, and an advertisement, or "Idée analytique de la Reliure." In the preface, the author deprecates both precipitate and severe criticism; "He is himself but a book-binder--and what can be expected from a muse so cultivated?" He doubts whether it will be read all through; but his aim and object have been to fix, upon a solid basis, the fundamental principles of his art. The subject, as treated in the Dictionary of Arts and Trades by the French Academy, is equally scanty and inaccurate. The author wishes that all arts were described by artists, as the reader would gain in information what he would lose in style. "I here repeat (says he) what I have elsewhere said in bad verse. There are amateur collectors who know more about book-binding, than even certain good workmen; but there are also others, of a capricious taste, who are rather likely to lead half-instructed workmen astray, than to put them in the proper road." In the poetical epistle which concludes the preface, he tells us that he had almost observed the Horatian precept: his poem having cost eight years labour. The opening of it may probably be quite sufficient to give the reader a proper notion of its character and merits. Je célèbre mon art; je dirai dans mes vers, Combien il éprouva de changemens divers; Je dirai ce que fut cet art en sa naissance; Je dirai ses progrès, et, de sa décadence. Je nommerai sans fard les ineptes auteurs: Oui, je vais dérouler aux yeux des amateurs: Des mauvais procédés la déplorable liste. Je nommerai le bon et le mauvais artiste; _LETTER IX._ MEN OF LETTERS. DOM BRIAL. THE ABBÉ BÉTENCOURT. MESSRS. GAIL, MILLIN, AND LANGÈS. A ROXBURGHE BANQUET. _Paris, June 20, 1818_. MY DEAR FRIEND, We have had of late the hottest weather in the memory of the oldest Parisian: but we have also had a few flying thunder showers, which have helped to cool the air, and to refresh both the earth and its inhabitants. In consequence, I have made more frequent visits; and have followed up my morning occupations among BOOKS, by the evening society of those who are so capable, from their talents, of adding successfully to their number. Among the most eminent, as well as most venerable of historical antiquaries, is the celebrated Dom BRIAL, an ex-Benedictin. He lives in the _Rue Servandoni_, on the second-floor, in the very bosom, as it were, of his library, and of city solitude. My first visit to him, about three weeks ago, was fortified by an introductory letter from our friend * * *. The old gentleman (for he is about seventy four) was busily occupied at his dinner--about one o'clock; and wearing a silk night cap, and habited en rocquelaure, had his back turned as his servant announced me. He is very deaf; but on receiving the letter, and recognising the hand-writing of our friend, he made me heartily welcome, and begged that I would partake of his humble fare. This I declined; begging, on the other hand that he would pursue his present occupation, and allow me to examine his library. "With the greatest pleasure (replied he); but you will find it a very common-place one." His books occupy each of the four rooms which form the suite of his dwelling. Of course I include the bed room. They are admirably selected: chiefly historical, and including a very considerable number in the ecclesiastical department. He has all the historians relating to our own country. In short, it is with tools like these, and from original MSS. lent him from the Royal Library--which his official situation authorizes--- that he carries on the herculean labour of the _Recueil des Historiens des Gaules, &c._ commenced by BOUQUET and other editors, and of which he shewed me a great portion of the XVIIth volume--as well as the commencement of the XVIIIth--already printed. Providence may be graciously pleased to prolong the life of this learned and excellent old man till the _latter_ volume be completed; but _beyond_ that period, it is hardly reasonable or desirable to wish it; for if he die, he will then have been gathered to his fathers in a good old age.[156] But the labours of Dom Brial are not confined to the "Recueil," just mentioned. They shine conspicuous in the "_Histoire Littéraire de la France_," of which fifteen goodly quarto volumes are already printed; and they may be also traced in the famous work entitled _L'Art de, Verifier les Dates_, in three large folio volumes, published in 1783, &c. "Quand il est mort, il n'a point son élevè"[157]--says his old and intimate friend the ABBÉ BÉTENCOURT; an observation, which, when I heard it, filled me with mingled regret and surprise--for why is this valuable, and most _patriotic_ of all departments of literature, neglected _abroad_ as well as _at home_? It is worth all the _digamma_ disquisitions in the world; and France, as well as Italy, was once rich in historical Literati. Dom Brial is very little above the mean height. He stoops somewhat from age; but, considering his years, and incessantly sedentary labours, it is rather marvellous that he does not exhibit more striking proofs of infirmity. His voice is full and strong; his memory is yet retentive, and his judgment sound. His hand-writing is extremely firm and legible. No man ever lived, or ever will, or can live, more completely devoted to his labours. They are his meat and drink--as much as his "bouilli et petites poies:"--of which I saw him partaking on repeated visits. Occupied from morning till night in the prosecution of his studies--in a quarter of Paris extremely secluded--he appears to be almost unconscious of passing occurrences without;[158] except it be of the sittings of the _Institute_, which he constantly attends, on Fridays, as one of the Secretaries. I have twice dined with him; and, each time, in company with the Abbé Bétencourt, his brother Secretary at the Institute; and his old, long-tried, and most intimate friend. The Abbé BÉTENCOURT was not unknown to me during his late residence in England, as an Emigré: but he is still-better known to our common friend * * *, who gave me the letter of introduction to Dom Brial. That mutual knowledge brought us quickly together, and made us as quickly intimate. The Abbé is above the middle height; wears his own grey hair; has an expressive countenance, talks much; and well, and at times drolly. Yet his wit or mirth is well attempered to his years. His manner of _rallying_ his venerable friend is very amusing; for Dom Brial, from his deafness, (like most deaf men) drops at times into silence and abstraction. On each of my dinner-visits, it was difficult to say which was the hotter day. But Dom Brial's residence, at the hour of dinner, (which was four--for my own accommodation) happened luckily to be in the _shade_. We sat down, three, to a small circular table, (in the further or fourth room) on the tiled floor of which was some very ancient wine, within the immediate grasp of the right hand of the host. An elderly female servant attended in the neighbouring room. The dinner was equally simple, relishing, and abundant; and the virtues of the "old wine" were quickly put into circulation by the Benedictin founder of the feast. At six we rose from table, and walked in the Luxembourg gardens, hard by. The air had become somewhat cooler. The sun was partially concealed by thin, speckled clouds: a gentle wind was rising; and the fragrance of innumerable flowers, from terraces crowded with rose-trees, was altogether so genial and refreshing, that my venerable companions--between whom I walked arm in arm--declared that "they hardly knew when the gardens had smelt so sweetly." We went straight onward--towards the _Observatoire_, the residence of the Astronomer Royal. In our way thither we could not avoid crossing the _Rue d' Enfer_, where Marshal Ney was shot. The spot, which had been stained with his blood, was at this moment covered by skittles, and groups of stout lads were enjoying themselves in all directions. It should seem that nothing but youthful sports and pastimes had ever prevailed there: so insensibly do succeeding occupations wear away all traces of the past. I paused for half a minute, casting a thoughtful eye towards the spot. The Abbé Bétencourt moralised aloud, and Dom Brial seemed inwardly to meditate. We now reached the Observatory. The Sub-Principal was at home, and was overjoyed to receive his venerable visitors. He was a fellow-townsman of Dom Brial, and we were shewn every thing deserving of notice. It was nearly night-fall, when, on reaching the Rue Servandoni, I wished my amiable companions adieu, till we met again. I have before mentioned the name of M. GAIL. Let me devote a little more time and attention to him. He is, as you have been also previously told, the curator of the Greek and Latin MSS. in the Royal Library, and a Greek Professor in the Collège Royale. There is no man, at all alive to a generous and kind feeling, who can deny M. Gail the merit of a frank, benevolent, and hearty disposition. His Greek and Latin studies, for the last thirty-five years, have neither given a severe bias to his judgment, nor repressed the ebullitions of an ardent and active imagination. His heart is yet all warmth and kindness. His fulfilment of the duties of his chair has been exemplary and beneficial; and it is impossible for the most zealous and grateful of her sons, to have the prosperity of the Collège Royale more constantly in view, than my friend I.B. Gail has that of the University of Paris. His labours, as a scholar, have been rather useful than critical. He has edited _Anacreon_ more than once: and to the duodecimo edition of 1794, is prefixed a small portrait--medallion-wise--of the editor; which, from the costume of dress and juvenility of expression, does not much remind me of the Editor as he now is. M. Gail's great scholastic work is his Greek, Latin, and French, editions of _Xenophon_ and _Thucydides_, in twenty-four quarto volumes; but in the execution of this performance he suffered himself to be rather led astray by the attractions of the _Bibliomania_. In other words, he chose to indulge in membranaceous propensities; and nothing would serve M. Gail's turn but he must have a unique COPY UPON VELLUM! in a quarto form.[159] Twenty four quarto volumes upon vellum!.. enough to chill the ardour and drain the purse of the most resolute and opulent publisher. When I dined with the Editor, the other day, I was shewn these superb volumes with all due form and solemnity: and I must say that they do very great credit to the press of the Elder Didot. Yet I fear that it will be a long time before the worthy M. Gail is remunerated for his enterprising and speculative spirit. In all the duties attached to his situation in the Royal Library, this worthy character is equally correct and commendable. He is never so fully occupied with old Greek and Latin MSS., but that he will immediately attend to your wants; and, as much as depends upon himself, will satisfy them most completely. Anacreon has left behind some little deposit of good humour and urbanity, which has continued to nourish the heart of his Translator; for M. Gail is yet jocose, and mirth-loving; fond of a lively repartee, whether in conversation or in writing. He may count some sixty-two years. But it is high time to introduce you to another of these "Confrères" at the Bibliothèque du Roi; of whom indeed, hitherto, I have made but a slight mention. You will readily guess that this must be the well-known AUBIN LOUIS MILLIN--the Head of the department of Antiquities; or the principal _Archaeologist_ of the establishment. My friend Mr. Dawson Turner having furnished me with introductory credentials, I called upon M. Millin within twenty-four hours of my arrival at Paris. In consequence, from that time to this, I have had frequent intercourse with him. Indeed I am willing to hope that our acquaintance has well nigh mellowed into friendship. He is a short, spare, man; with a countenance lighted up by intelligence rather than moulded by beauty. But he is evidently just now (and indeed, as I learn, has been for some time past) labouring under severe indisposition. He is the thorough Frenchman both in figure and manners: light, cheerful, active, diligent, and exceedingly good natured and communicative. His apartments are admirably furnished: and his LIBRARY does him infinite honour--considering the limited means by which it has been got together. His abode is the constant resort of foreigners, from all countries, and of all denominations; and the library is the common property of his friends, and even of strangers--when they are well recommended to him. Millin has been a great traveller; but, if the reports which have reached me prove true, his second voyage to Italy, recently accomplished, have sown the seeds of incurable disease in his constitution. Indeed: when I look at him, at times, I fancy that I discover _that_ in his countenance ... which I wish were not so palpable ... to my observation. His collection of drawings, of fac-similes of all descriptions--of prints and of atlasses--is immense. They are freely laid open to the inspection of any curious observer: and I have already told you how heartily M. Millin begged that Mr. Lewis would consider his house as his _home_--for the prosecution of his drawings from the illuminated MSS. in the Royal Library, when the regular time of attendance in that place was closed. The other day, we had a superb déjeuné à la fourchette at M. Millin's--about three o'clock. It was attended by two Marchionesses, of the _bas bleu_ order; and by the whole corps of the confrères bibliographiques of the Royal Library. Several other literary _distingués_ were of the party: and we sat down, a very agreeable mélange, both to gossip and to eat and drink. M. Langlès was all animation and all intelligence; and M. Van Praet seemed for a time to have forgotten VELLUM ARISTOTLES and VIRGILS in alternate libations of champagne and noyeau. Meanwhile, the worthy Gail, by his playful sallies and repartees, afforded a striking contrast to the balanced attitude and grave remarks of the respectable Caperonnier, the senior Librarian. Poor Millin himself had no appetite, but picked a little here and there. We sat down about fourteen; rose at six--to coffee and conversazione; and retired shortly after: some to the theatre, and others to their country houses. This is pretty nearly a correct picture of the bettermost society of Paris at this time of the year. In regard to the literary reputation of MILLIN, I well know that, in England, it is rather the fashion to sneer at him; but this sneer may proceed as often from ignorance, as from superiority of information. The truth is, M. Millin does _too much_ to do every thing _well_. At one moment, he is busied with a dyptych: at another, he is examining a coin or a medal: during the third, he is lost in admiration over a drawing of a tomb or statue:--his attendant enters with a proof-sheet to engage his fourth moment--and so it goes on--from sunrise to sunset; with pen in hand, or blank or printed paper before him, he is constantly occupied in the pursuit of some archaeological enquiry or other. THIS praise, however--and no mean or unperishable praise it is--most indisputably belongs to him. He was almost the ONLY ONE in France; who, during the reign of terror, bloodshed, and despotism--cherished and kept alive a taste for NATIONAL ANTIQUITIES. But for _his_ perseverance, and the artists employed by _him_, we should not now have had those _graphic_ representations of many buildings, and relics of art, which have since perished irretrievably. Another praise also belongs to him; of no very insignificant description. He is among the most obliging and communicative of literary Parisians; and does not suffer his good nature to be soured, or his activity to abate, from the influence of _national_ prejudice. He has a large acquaintance among foreigners; and I really think that he loves the English next best to his own countrymen. But whoever applies to him with civility, is sure to be as civilly received. So much for MILLIN.[160] This group of literary _whole lengths_ would however be imperfect without the introduction of Monsieur LANGLÈS. The _forte_ of M. Langlès consists in his cultivation of, and enthusiastic ardor for, _oriental literature_. He presides, in fact, over the Persian, Arabic, and other Oriental MSS. and he performs the duties of his office, as a public librarian, with equal punctuality and credit. He has also published much upon the languages of the East, but is considered less profound than DE SACY: although both his conversation and his library attest his predilection for his particular studies. M. Langlès is eclipsed by no one for that "gaieté de coeur" which, when joined with good manners and honourable principles, renders a well-bred Frenchman an exceedingly desirable companion. He loves also the arts; as well of sculpture as of painting and of engraving. His further room affords unquestionable evidence of his attachment to _English Prints_. Wilson, West, and Wilkie--from the burins of Woollett, Raimbach, and Burnet--struck my eye very forcibly and pleasingly. M. Langlès admires and speaks our language. "Your charming Wilkie (says he) pleases me more and more. Why does he not visit us? He will at least find here some _good proofs_ of my respect for his talents." Of course he could not mean to pun. I was then told to admire his impression of Woollett's _Battle of La Hogue_; and indeed I must allow that it is one of the very best which I have seen. He who possesses _that_, need not distress himself about any of the impressions of the _Death of Wolfe_; which is also in the collection of Langlès. His library is probably less extensive than Millin's; but it is not less choice and valuable. His collection of books (in which are a great number of our best Voyages and Travels) relating to Asia--and particularly his philological volumes, as connected with the different languages of that country, cannot be too much commended. I saw Sir John Malcolm's _History of Persia_ lying upon his table. "How do you like that work, M. Langlès?" "Sir (replied he) I more than like it--I love it: because I love the author." In fact, I knew that Sir John and he were well acquainted with each other, and I believe that the copy in question bore the distinctive mark of being "ex dono auctoris." I have had a good deal of interesting conversation with M. Langlès about the history of books during the Revolution; or rather about that of the ROYAL LIBRARY. He told me he was appointed one of the commissioners to attend to the distribution of those countless volumes which were piled up in different warehouses, as the produce of the _ransacked monasteries_. I am not sure, whether, within the immediate neighbourhood of the Royal Library, he did not say that there were at least _half a million of books_. At that time, every public meeting of Parisians--whatever might be the professed object--was agitated, and often furious. One of the red-hot demagogues got up in the assembly, and advised "mangling, maiming, or burning the books: they were only fit for cartridges, wadding, or fuel: they were replete with marks of feudalism and royalty--for they had arms or embellishments on them, which denoted them to belong to Aristocrats." This speech made some impression: his comrades were for carrying the motion immediately into execution, by sword and faggot.... But M. Langlès rose ... calm, collected, and actuated by feelings a little more accordant with the true spirit of patrotism. "Citizens," said the Orientalist, "we must not do mischief, in the desire of doing good. Let the books remain where they are. If you set fire to them, can you say how far the flames shall extend? Our own great national library, so renowned and celebrated throughout Europe! may become the prey of the devouring element, and _then_ how will you be reproached by posterity! Again--if you convert them to _other_ purposes of destruction, how can you hope to prevent the same example from being followed in other places? The madness of the multitude will make no distinction; and as many pikes and swords may be carried within the great library, as within the various depositories of the monastic books. Pause awhile. Respect those collections of books, and you will both respect yourselves and preserve the great national library. In due time, we shall make a proper selection from them, and enrich the book stores of the capital!" So spake M. Langlès; and the Assembly assented to his contre-projet--luckily for Paris and themselves.[161] But nearly all these worthy characters, of whom I have just made mention, had an opportunity of exhibiting their social qualities, of whatever description, at a sort of FESTIVAL which I gave the other day (last Wednesday) in honour of the _Roxburghe Club_--which met on that same day, I presume, at the Clarendon Hotel. This Parisian Roxburghe Banquet went off upon the whole with flying colours. You shall know as much about it as is likely to interest you. Having secured my guests, (Messrs. DENON, GAIL, LANGLÈS, VAN PRAET and MILLIN) and fixed both the place and hour of repast, I endeavoured to dress out a little bill of fare of a _bibliomaniacal_ description--to rival, in its way, that of _Mons. Grignon_, in the _Rue Neuve des Petits Champs_, (within two minutes walk of the Royal Library,) where we were to assemble, at five o'clock. I knew that Millin would put my toasts or sentiments into good French, and so I took courage against the hour of meeting. I had secured a ground-floor apartment, looking upon a lawn, with which it communicated by open doors. The day was unusually hot and oppressive. After finishing my labours at the Royal Library, I returned to my hotel, arranged my little matters connected with the by-play of the festival--dressed--and resorted to Grignon's. Every thing looked well and auspiciously. Our room was in the shade; and a few lingering breezes seemed to play beneath the branches of an acacia. The dark green bottles, of various tapering shapes, were embedded in pails of ice, upon the table: and napkins and other goodly garniture graced the curiously woven cloth. I hung up, in the simplicity of my heart--over the seat which I was to occupy,-- the portrait of _John King of France_, which M. Coeuré had just finished;-- not considering that this said John had been beaten and taken prisoner, at the battle of Poictiers by our Black Prince! Never was a step more injudicious, or an ornament more unappropriate. However, there it hung throughout the day. A dinner of the very best description, exclusively of the wine, was to be served up for _twelve francs_ a head. I make no doubt but the Club paid a _little_ more where they assembled in London! At length came the hour of dinner, and with the hour the guests. I requested Brother Van Praet to be deputy chairman; and taking my seat beneath the unfortunate John King of France, gave the signal for a general attack--upon whatever was placed before the guests. Monsieur Denon, however, did not arrive till after the first course. He had been detained by a visit from the Duke of Bedford. M. Millin sat at my right hand, and M. Gail at my left. The first course consisted chiefly of fruit, and slices of anchovy, crossed. A large paper copy of a _melon_ cut a magnificent appearance in the centre; but all this quickly gave way to fish, flesh, and fowl of a various but substantial description. Poor Millin had no appetite, and would only carve. He looked particularly ill. The rest ate, drank, and were merry. The desert was of the very best quality: and this was succeeded by the introduction of a little of English fashion and manners. We drank toasts, connected with the object of the day's festival; and never were a set of guests more disposed to relish both the wine and the sentiment which accompanied each glass. They even insisted upon a "three times three" for "Lord Spencer and the Club!" But if we were merry, we were wise. Shortly after dinner, M. Gail rose, as if in a moment of inspiration, from his seat--and recited the Latin verses which are here enclosed.[162] They will at least make you admire the good humour of thé poet. He afterwards chanted a song: his own literal version of thé XIXth ode of Anacreon, beginning [Greek: Hê gê melaina pinei]. The guests declared that they had never sat so long at table, or were more happy. I proposed a stroll or a seat upon the lawn. Chairs and benches were at hand; and we requested that the coffee might be brought to us out of doors. It was now after sun-set; and a lurid sky was above our head. Our conversation was desultory as to topics, but animated as to manner. I had never witnessed M. Van Praet more alive to social disquisition. We talked of books, of pictures, and of antiquities... and I happened, with the same witless simplicity which had pinned the portrait of King John over my seat at dinner, to mention that volume, of almost unparalleled rarity, ycleped _the Fables of Pfister, printed at Bamberg_ in 1461:--which they had recently RESTORED to the Wolfenbuttel Library! It was "more than enough" for the acute feelings of the devoted head-librarian. M. Van Praet talked with legs and arms, as well as with tongue, in reply to my observations upon the extraordinary worth and singular rarity of that singular volume. "Alas, Sir, nothing pained me more. Truly--"Here a smart flash of lightning came across us--which illumined our countenances with due effect: for it had been sometime past almost wholly dark, and we had been talking to each other without perceiving a feature in our respective faces. M. Langlès joined in M. Van Praet's lamentation; and the Baron Denon, who (as I learnt) had been the means of obtaining that identical precious volume, united his tones of commiseration with those of his brethren. The lightning now became more frequent, and in larger flashes--but neither sharp nor very dazzling. Meanwhile the notes of a skilfully touched harp were heard from one of the windows of a neighbouring house, with a mingled effect which it was difficult to describe. _Pfister_, books, busts, and music, now wholly engrossed our attention--and we were absolutely enveloped in blue lightning. We had continued our discourse till towards midnight, had not the rain come down in a manner equally sudden and severe. It was one of the heaviest showers which I remember to have witnessed. The storm was directly in the centre of Paris, and over our heads. We retreated precipitately to the deserted banqueting room; and had a reinforcement of coffee. After such a series of melting hot weather, I shall not easily forget the refreshing sweetness emitted from every shrub upon the lawn. About ten o'clock, we thought of our respective homes.[163] I went into another room to pay the reckoning; liberated King John from his second confinement; shook hands very heartily with my guests--and returned to my lodgings by no means out of humour or out of heart with the day's entertainment. Whether they have been more rational, or more _economical_, in the celebration of the same festival, AT HOME, is a point, which I have some curiosity, but no right, to discuss. Certainly they could not have been happier. Having come to the conclusion of my account of the ROXBURGHE BANQUET, and it being just now hard upon the hour of midnight, I must relinquish my correspondent for my pillow. A good night. [156] He died on the 24th of May, 1828; on the completion of his 85th year. See the next note but one. [157] The reader may be amused with the following testy note of my vigilant translator, M. Crapelet: the very Sir Fretful Plagiary of the minor tribe of French critics! "Cette phrase, qui n'est pas Française, est ainsi rapportée par l'auteur. M. l'Abbé Bétencourt, aura dit a peu près: "Il mourra sans laisser d'élève." M. Dibdin qui parle et entend fort bien le Français, EST IL EXCUSABLE DE FAIRE MAL PARLER UN ACADEMICIEN FRANÇAIS, et surtout de rendre vicieuses presque toutes les phrases qu'il veut citer textuellement? L'exactitude! l'exactitude! C'est la première vertu du bibliographe; on ne saurait trop le répéter a M. Dibdin." CRAPELET. vol. iv. 124. Quære tamen? Ought not M. Crapelet to have said "il mourrira?" The sense implies the future tense: But ... how inexpiable the offence of making a French Academician speak bad French!!--as if every reader of common sense would not have given _me_, rather than the _Abbé Bétencourt_, credit for this bad speaking? [158] [In a short, and pleasing, memoir of him, in the _Révue Encyclopédique, 115th livraison, p. 277, &c._ it is well and pleasantly observed, that, "such was his abstraction from all surrounding objects and passing events, he could tell you who was Bishop of such a diocese, and who was Lord of such a fief, in the XIIth century, much more readily, and with greater chance of being correct, than he would, who was the living Minister of the Interior, or who was the then Prefect of the department of the Seine?" By the kindness of a common friend, I have it in my power to subjoin a fac-simile of the autograph of this venerable Departed:] [Autograph] [159] The _Thucydides_ was published first; in twelve volumes 8vo. VOL. II. 1807; with various readings, for the first time, from thirteen MSS. not before submitted to the public eye. The French version, in four volumes, with the critical notes of the Editor, may be had separately. The VELLUM 4to. copy of the Thucydides consists of fourteen volumes; but as the volumes are less bulky than those of the Xenophon, they may be reduced to seven. The _Xenophon_ was published in 1809, in seven volumes, 4to. The Latin version is that of Leunclavius; the French version and critical notes are those of M. Gail. The vellum copy, above alluded to, is divided into ten volumes; the tenth being an Atlas of fifty-four maps. Some of these volumes are very bulky from the thickness of the vellum. Upon this unique copy, M. Gail submitted to me, in writing, the following remarks. "Of the Xenophon, two vellum copies were printed; but of these, one was sent to the father of the present King of Spain, and received by him in an incomplete state--as the Spanish Ambassador told M. Gail: only six volumes having reached the place of their destination. The Editor undertakes to give authenticated attestations of this fact." "If," say M. Gail's written observations, "one considers that each sheet of vellum, consisting of eight pages, cost five francs ten sous, and three more francs in working off--and that skins of vellum were frequently obliged to be had from foreign countries, owing to the dearth of them at Paris--whereby the most extravagant demands were sometimes obliged to be complied with--add to which, that fifteen years have passed away since these sums were paid down in hard cash,--the amount of the original expenses is doubled." The volumes are in stout boards, and preserved in cases. In one of his letters to me, respecting the sale of his vellum copy--the worthy Professor thus pleasantly remarks: "Je ne veux pas m'enricher avec ce livre qui, lorsque je serai cendres, aura un bien grand prix. Je n'ai que le desir de me débarrasser d'une richesse qui m'est à charge, et ne convient nullement à un modeste et obscur particulier, comme moi." I subjoin the autograph of this worthy and learned Professor: hoping yet to shake the hand heartily which guided the pen. [Autograph] [160] M. Millin DIED about the middle of the following month, ere I had reached Vienna. His library was sold by auction in May 1819, under the superintendence of Messrs. Debure, who compiled the sale catalogue. It produced 53,626 francs. The catalogue contained 2556 articles or numbers; of which several were very long sets. One article alone, no. 866., consisted of 326 volumes in folio, quarto, and octavo. It is thus designated, "RECUEIL DE PIECES SUR LES ARTS, LA LITTE'RATURE, LES ANTIQUITE'S, _en Latin, en Italien, et en François_. This article produced 4501 francs, and was purchased by the Grand Duke of Tuscany. Millin had brought up from boyhood, and rescued from poverty and obscurity, a lad of the name of _Mention_. This lad lived with him many years, in the capacity of a valet and private secretary. In his second and last voyage to Italy, Millin declined taking him with him, but left him at home, in his house, with a salary of fifty francs per month. Five months after his departure, in February, 1812, a great quantity of smoke was seen issuing from the windows of Millin's apartments. Several people rushed into the room. They found the drawings and loose papers taken from the portfolios, rolled up lightly, and the room on fire at the four corners! A lighted candle was placed in the middle of the room. Suspicion immediately fell upon Mention. They ran to his bed chamber: found the door fastened: burst it open--and saw the wretched valet weltering in his blood ... yet holding, in his-right hand, the razor with which he had cut his throat! He was entirely dead. Millin's collection of Letters from his numerous Correspondents perished in the flames. This accident, which also deprived Millin of a fund of valuable materials that he was preparing for a _Dictionary of the Fine Arts_, and for a _Recueil de Pièces gravées Inédites_--might have also had an infinitely more fatal tendency: as it occurred _within_ the walls which contain the ROYAL LIBRARY! Millin received the news of this misfortune, in Italy, with uncommon fortitude and resignation. But this second voyage, as has been already intimated, (see p. 260) hastened his dissolution. He planned and executed infinitely too much; and never thoroughly recovered the consequent state of exhaustion of body and mind. As he found his end approaching, he is reported to have said--"I should like to have lived longer, in order to have done more good--but God's will be done! I have lived fifty-nine years, the happiest of men--and should I not be ungrateful towards Providence, if I complained of its decrees?!" And when still nearer his latter moments--he exclaimed: "I have always lived, and I die, a Frenchman: hating no one: complaining only of those who retard the cause of reason and truth. I have never, intentionally, hurt a single creature. If I have injured any one, I ask pardon of him for the error of my understanding." He died on the 18th of August, and his body was interred in the churchyard of Père la Chaise. His old friend and colleague, M. GAIL, pronounced a funeral discourse over his grave--in which, as may be well supposed, his feelings were most acutely excited. I subjoin a facsimile of Millin's autograph: from the richly furnished collection of Mr. Upcott, of the London Institution. [Autograph: A.L. Millin] [161] [Mons. Langlès survived the above account between five and six years; dying January 28, 1824. His Library was sold by auction in March, 1825. It was copious and highly creditable to his memory. From the source whence the preceding autograph was derived, I subjoin the following autograph. [Autograph: L Langlès] [162] Monsieur Millin had been before hand in his description of this day's festival, but his description was in prose. It appeared in the _Annales Encyclopédiques_, for the ensuing month, July, 1818, and was preceded by a slight historical sketch of the Club, taken chiefly from the Bibliographical Decameron. His account of the festival may amuse some of my readers, who have not been accustomed to peruse _English toasts_ cloathed in French language. It is briefly thus: "Pendant que les membres du Roxburghe Club célébroient le 17 juin 1818 la mémoire des premiers imprimeurs de Boccace, à Venise et en Angleterre, sous la présidence de sa grâce lord Spencer; M. Dibdin, vice-président, s'unissoit à ce banquet bibliographique par une répétition qu'il en faisoit à Paris. Il avoit appelé à ce banquet M. DENON, à qui la France doit encore une grande partie des manuscrits et des éditions rares dont elle s'est enrichie, et plusieurs conservateurs de la bibliothèque royale, MM. VANPRAET, LANGLE'S, GAIL, et MILLIN. On pense bien que l'histoire littéraire, la bibliographie, devinrent un inépuisable sujet pour la conversation. L'entretien offrit un mélange de gaïté et de gravité qui convient aux banquets des muses; et selon l'adage antique, les convives étoient plus que trois et moins que neuf. M. Gail lut sur cette réunion des vers latins, dont les toasts bruyans ne permirent pas de savourer d'abord tout le sel et l'esprit. Ils doivent être imprimés dans _l'Hermes Romanus_. "M.D., amphitryon et président du festin, porta, comme il convenoit, les premiers toasts: 1°. A la santé de milord Spencer et des honorables membres du Roxburghe Club. 2°. A la mémoire de Christophe Valdarfer, inprimeur du Boccace de 1471; livre dont l'acquisition fait par le duc de Marlborough, fut l'occasion de la fondation du Roxburghe Club. 3°. A la mémoire immortelle de Guillaume Caxton, premier imprimeur anglois. 4°. A la gloire de la France. 5°. A l'union perpétuelle de la France et de l'Angleterre. 6°. A la prospérité de la bibliothèque royale de France. 7°. A la santé de ses dignes conservateurs, dont le savoir est inépuisable, et dont l'obligeance ne se lasse jamais. 8°. A la propagation des sciences, des arts, des lettres, et de la bibliomanie. 9°. Au désir de se revoir le même jour chaque année. "Les convives ont rendu ces toasts par un autre qu'ils ont porté, avec les hurras et les trois fois d'usage en Angleterre, au vice-président du Roxburghe-Club, qui leur avoit fait l'honneur de les rassembler. "La Séance a fini à l'heure où le président du Roxburghe-Club lève celle de Londres; et le vice-président, M. Dibdin, a soigneusement réuni les bouchons, pour les porter en Angleterre comme un signe commémoratif de cet agréable banquet."[E] The verses of Monsieur Gail were as follow:--but I should premise that he recited them with zest and animation. Auspice jam Phæbo, SPENCEROQUE AUSPICE, vestrum Illa renascentis celebravit gaudia lucis Concilium, stupuit quondam quâ talibus emptus Boccacius cunctorum animis, miratus honores Ipse suos, atque ipsa superbiit umbra triumpho. Magna quidem lux illa, omni lux tempore digna. Cui redivivus honos et gloria longa supersit _Atque utinam ex vobis unus, vestræque fuissem_ Lætitiæ comes, et doctæ conviva _trapezæ_. Sed nune invitorque epulis, interque volentes Gallus Apollineâ sedeo quasi lege Britannos. Arridet D***: habet nos una voluptas. Me quoque librorum meministis amore teneri, Atque virûm studiis, quos Gallia jactat alumnos: Nam si _Caxtonio_ felix nunc Anglia gaudet, Non minus ipsa etiam _Stephanorum_ nomina laudat. Hic nonnulla manent priscæ vestigia famæ. Nobis Thucydides, Xenophon quoque pumice et auro, Quem poliit non parca manus; felicior ille Si possit ...[F] melius conjungere Musas! [Greek: Koina ta panta philôn] perhibent: at semper amici Quidquid doctorum est: tantis ego lætor amicis. Æternum hæc vigeat concordia pocula firment Artesque et libri, quæ nectant foedera reges, Utramque et socient simul omnia vincula gentem. CECINIT JOAN. B. GAIL, Lector regius in biblioth. regiâ codd. gr. et lat. præfectus. While one of the London morning newspapers (which shall be here nameless) chose to convert this harmless scene of festive mirth into a coarse and contemptible attack upon its author, the well-bred Bibliomanes of Paris viewed it with a different feeling, and drew from it a more rational inference. It was supposed, by several gentlemen of education and fortune, that a RIVAL SOCIETY might be established among themselves--partaking in some degree of the nature of that of the ROXBURGHE, although necessarily regulated by a few different laws. Taking the regulations of the ROXBURGHE CLUB (as laid down in the _Ninth Day_ of the _Decameron_) as the basis, they put together a code of laws for the regulation of a similar Society which they chose, very aptly, to call LES BIBLIOPHILES. Behold then, under a new name, a _Parisian Roxburghe Society_. When I visited Paris, in the summer, of 1819, I got speedily introduced to the leading Members of the club, and obtained, from M. DURAND DE LANÇON, (one of the most devoted and most efficient of the members) that information--which is here submitted to the public: from a persuasion that it cannot be deemed wholly uninteresting, or out of order, even by the most violent enemies of the _cause_." The _object_ of this Society of the BIBLIOPHILES must be expressed in the proper language of the country. It is "_pour nourrir, reléver, et faire naître méme la passion de la_ _Bibliomanie_." I put it to the conscience of the most sober-minded observer of men and things--if any earthly object can be more orthodox and legitimate? The Society meet, as a corporate body, twice in the year: once in April, the second time in December; and date the foundation of their Club from the 1st of January 1820. Whatever they print, bears the general title of "_Mélanges_;"[G] but whether this word will be executed in the black-letter, lower-case, or in roman capitals, is not yet determined upon. One or two things, however, at starting, cannot fail to be premised; and indeed has been already observed upon--as a species of _heresy_. The Society assemble to a "déjeuné à la fourchette," about twelve o'clock: instead of to a "seven o'clock dinner," as do the London Roxburghers: whereby their constitutions and pockets are less affected. The other thing, to observe upon, is, that they do not print (and publish among themselves) such very strange, and out-of-the way productions, as do the London Roxburghers. For truly, of _some_ of the latter, it may be said with the anonymous poet in the _Adversaria_ of Barthius, Verum hæc nee puer edidici, nee tradita patre Accepi, nee Aristotelis de moribus umquam Librum, aut divini Platonis dogmata legi. _Edit. Fabri_. 1624, col. 345, vol. i. And why is it thus? Because these reprints are occasionally taken (quoting Caspar Barthius himself, in the xxth chapter of his iid book of Adversaria, _Edit. Ead_.) "ex libro egregiè obscuro et a blattis tineisque fere confecto." But, on the other hand, they are perfectly harmless: Sweet without soure, and honny without gall: as Spenser observes in his _Colin Clout's come home again: edit._ 1595: sign. E.F. Or, as is observed in _Les Illustrations de France, edit_. 1513, 4to. litt. goth.: Le dedens nest, ne trop cler, ne trop brun, Mais delectable a veoir...comme il me semble. _Sign. Cii. rev_. A genuine disciple of the Roxburghe Club will always exclaim "delectable a veoir" let the contents of the book be "cler," or "brun." Nor will such enthusiastic Member allow of the epithets of "hodg-podge, gallimaufry, rhapsody," &c. which are to be found in the "Transdentals General," of Bishop Wilkins's famous "_Essay towards a real character and a philosophical language:"_ edit. 1668, fol. p. 28--as applicable to his beloved reprints! I annex the names of the Members of the Societé des Bibliophiles, as that club was first established. 1. Le Marquis de Chateaugiron, _Président_. 2. Guilbert de Pixérécours, _Secrétaire_. 3. Le Chevalier Walckenaer, _Membre de l'Institut, Trésorier._ 4. Alph. de Malartic, _Maître des Requêtes._ 5. Durand de Lançon. 6. Edouard de Chabrol. 7. Berard, _Maître des Requêtes_. 8. Le Vcte. de Morel-Vindé, _Pair de France._ 9. Madame la Duchesse de Raguse, (_par courtoisie_.) 10. Pensier. 11. Comte Juste de Noailles. 12. Le Baron Hely d'Oisel, _Conseiller d'etat._ 13. Le Marquis Scipion du Nocere, _Officier Superieur du Garde du Corps_. 14. Hippolyte de la Porte. 15. De Monmerqué, _Conseiller à la Cour Royale_. 16. Coulon, _à Lyon._ 17. Le Duc de Crussol. 18. Le Comte d'Ourches, _à Nancy._ 19. Le Chevalier Langlès, _Membre de l'Institut._ 20. Duriez, _à Lille._ 21. Le Marquis Germain Garnier, _Pair de France_. 22. Monsieur le Chevalier Artaud, _Secrétaire d' Ambass. à Rome_. It remains to conclude this, I fear unconscionably long, note, as the above letter is concluded, with the mention of ANOTHER BANQUET. This banquet was given by the Bibliophiles to the NOBLE PRESIDENT of the Roxburghe Club, when the latter was at Paris in the Spring of the year 1820. The Vice-President of the Roxburghe Club, who happened at the same time to be at Paris, also received the honour of an invitation. The festival took place at _Beauvilliers'_, the modern Apicius of Parisian restorateurs. About twelve guests sat down to table. The Marquis de Chateaugiron was in the chair. They assembled at six, and separated at half-past nine. All that refinement and luxury could produce, was produced on the occasion. Champagnes of different tints, and of different qualities--_lively_ like M. Langlès, or _still_ like Monsieur ****; fish, dressed as they dress it à la Rocher de Cancale-- poultry, and pastry--varied in form, and piquant in taste--but better, and more palatable than either, conversation--well regulated and instructive--mingled with the most respectful attention to the ILLUSTRIOUS GUEST for whom the banquet had been prepared--gave a charm and a "joyaunce" to the character of that festival--which will not be easily effaced from the tablets of the narrator's memory. Where all shine pretty equally, it seems invidious to particularise. Yet I may be allowed to notice the hearty urbanity of the Marquis, the thorough good humour and bibliomaniacal experience of the Comte d'Ourches, (who, ever and anon, would talk about an edition of _Virgil's Pastorals printed by Eggesteyn_) the vivacious sallies of the Chevalier Langlès, the keen yet circumspect remarks of the Comte Noailles, the vigilant attention and toast-stirring propensities of M.D. de Lançon, the _Elzevirian_ enthusiasm of M. Berard, the ... But enough ... "Claudite jam rivos pueri--sat prata biberunt." [E] These Corks are yet (1829) in my possession: preserved in an old wooden box, with ribs of iron, of the time of Louis XI. [F] The word here in the original is not clear. [G] [They have now published FOUR VOLUMES, in royal 8vo. of singular beauty and splendour: but the fourth vol. falls far short of its precursors in the intrinsic value of its contents. The first volume is so scarce, as to have brought £20. at a sale in Paris. I possess the three latter vols. only, by the kindness of the Society, in making me, with Earl Spencer, an Honorary Associate.] [163] [The Reader must not break up with the party, until he has cast his eye upon the autograph of an Individual, of as high merit and distinction in the department which he occupies, as any to which he has yet been introduced. It only remains to say--it is the autograph of Mons. [Autograph] _LETTER X._ THE COLLECTIONS OF DENON, QUINTIN CRAUFURD, AND THE MARQUIS DE SOMMARIVA. All the world has heard of the famous DENON, the Egyptian traveller; and editor of the great work of the _Antiquities of Egypt_, published in 1802, in two sumptuous folio volumes. As you possess a copy of the French work,[164] with choice impressions of the plates, I need say nothing further upon the subject--except that I believe it to be one of the very finest works of the kind, which has ever appeared ... on the score of art. But the author has other claims to attention and popularity. He was an intimate friend--and certainly the confidential adviser--of Buonaparte, in all public schemes connected with the acquisition of pictures and statues: and undoubtedly he executed the task confided to him with _ability_. He was verging oh his sixtieth year, when he started with his master upon the Egyptian expedition--a proof at least of energy, as well as of good disposition, in the cause. But Denon has been a great European traveller: he has had access to private, as well as to public, cabinets; and has brought home some rich fruits of his enterprise and taste. His house, on the _Quai Malaquais_, is the rendezvous of all the English of any taste--who have respectable letters of introduction; and I must do him the justice to say, that, never did a man endure the _inconveniences_ which must frequently result from keeping such open house, with greater adroitness and good humour than does the Baron Denon. I have sometimes found his principal rooms entirely filled by my countrymen and countrywomen; and I once, from the purest accident, headed a party of _twenty-two_ ... in which were three British officers, and more than that number of members of either University. I will fairly own that, on receiving us, he drew me quietly aside, and observed:--"Mon ami, quand vous viendrez une autre fois, ne commandez pas, je vous prie, une armée si nombreuse. Je m'imaginois encore en Egypte." What was still more perplexing, we found there a party of English as numerous as ourselves. It was thus, however, that he rebuked my indiscretion. We had twice exchanged visits and cards before we met. The card of Denon was worth possessing, from the simple, unaffected modesty which it evinced. You merely read the word DENON upon it!... The owner of the collection which I am about to describe, is certainly "un peu passé" as to years; but he has a cheerful countenance, with the tint of health upon it; small, gray, sparkling eyes, and teeth both regular and white.[165] He is generally dressed in black, and always as a gentleman. His figure, not above the middle height, is well formed; and his step is at once light and firm. There is doubtless a good deal which is very prepossessing in his manners. As he understands nothing of the English language, he can of course neither read nor speak it. It is now time to give you some idea of this curious collection. You ascend a lofty and commodious stone staircase (not very common in Paris) and stop at the _first_ floor:--another comfort, also very rare in Paris. This collection is contained in about half a dozen rooms: lofty, airy, and well furnished. The greater number of these rooms faces the Seine. The first contains a miscellaneous assemblage of bronze busts, and pictures of Teniers, Watteau, and of the more modern School of Paris. Of these, the Watteau is singular, rather than happy, from its size.[166] The two Teniers are light, thin, pictures; sketches of pigs and asses; but they are very covetable morsels of the artist.[167] In a corner, stands the skeleton of a female mummy in a glass case, of which the integuments are preserved in a basket. This is thought to be equally precious and uncommon. M. Denon shews the foot of the figure (which is mere bone and muscle) with amazing triumph and satisfaction. He thinks it is as fine as that of the Venus de Medicis, but there is no accounting for tastes. Among the busts is one of West, of Neckar, and of Denon himself: which latter I choose here to call "_Denon the First_." The second room contains a very surprising, collection of Phoenician, Egyptian, and other oriental curiosities: and in a corner, to the left, is a set of small drawers, filled with very interesting medals of eminent characters, of all descriptions, chiefly of the sixteenth century. Above them is a portrait of the owner of the collection--which I choose to call "_Denon the Second_." This room exhibits a very interesting mélange. Over the fire place are some busts; of which the most remarkable are those of _Petrarch_ and _Voltaire_; the former in bronze, the latter in terra-cotta; each of the size of life. Voltaire's bust strikes me as being the best representation of the original extant. It is full of character; a wonderful mixture of malignity, wit, and genius.[168] The third room is the largest, and the most splendidly hung with pictures. Of these, the circular little Guercino--a holy family--is, to my poor judgment, worth the whole.[169] The Rysdael and Both are very second rate. As you approach the fire-place, your attention is somewhat powerfully directed to a small bronze whole length figure of Buonaparte--leaning upon a table, with his right hand holding a compass, and his left resting upon his left thigh.[170] Some charts, with a pair of compasses, are upon the table; and I believe this represents him in his cabin, on his voyage to Egypt. Is there any representation of him, in the same situation, upon his _return_? However, it is an admirable piece of workmanship. In this room is also (if I remember rightly) the original colossal head of the ex-emperor, when a young man, in white marble, by CANOVA. But I must not omit informing you that here is also another portrait, in oil, of the owner of the collection--which, if you please, we will call "_Denon the Third_." You next enter a narrow, boudoir-shaped apartment, which contains, to my taste, the most curious and precious morsels of art which the Baron Denon possesses. They are specimens of the earlier schools of painting, commencing with what are called _Giottos_ and _Cimabues_--down to a very striking modern picture of a group of children, by a late French artist, just before the time of our Reynolds. This latter you would really conceive to have been the production of Sir Joshua himself. Of the specimens of the earlier schools, I was most struck with the head of PISANI, the inventor of medals--of the fifteenth century--painted by _Antonello da Messina_, a pupil of John Van Eyk. It is full of nature and of character. I could not get away from it. "Is it possible to obtain a copy of this picture?"--said I to its owner. "I understand you, (replied Denon) you wish to carry that copy to your own country. And to have it engraved there?" ... "Most unquestionably"--resumed I. "It is at your service (he rejoined); Laurent will copy it admirably." I hardly knew how to thank Mons. Denon sufficiently.[171] [Illustration: PISANI.] [Illustration: DENON.] There was another head ...but "non omnia possumus omnes." I mean, one of a female in profile, by MASACCIO. It was full of expression.[172] "What, (said its owner,) must you have an engraving of _that_ head also? It is bespoke; by myself. In short, every thing which you behold in these rooms (including even your favourite Pisani) will be _lithographised_ for the publication of my own collection." Of course, after this declaration, I was careful of what I did or said. "But there was yet _one_ thing in this collection--of which, as I saw such a variety, he could not refuse me a copy." "What might that be?" "A portrait of HIMSELF: from marble, from oil, or from enamel." "Take your choice: he replied: "faites ce que vous voulez,"--and it was agreed that M. Laguiche should make a drawing of the bust, in white marble, (I think the sculptor's name is Bosio) which is indeed very like him.[173] There is also a large and beautiful enamel of Denon, full dressed with all his orders, by Augustin; perhaps the most perfect specimen of that artist which France possesses. It is the work of several years past, when Denon had more flesh upon his cheek, and more fire in his eye. We may therefore say that this room contains "_Denon the Fourth, and Denon the Fifth_!" In the same room you observe a very complete specimen of a papyrus inscription; brought from Egypt. Indeed the curiosities brought from that country (as might naturally be supposed) are numerous and valuable. But my attention was directed to more _understandable_ objects of art. Opposite to the bust of Denon, is one of his late master, the ex-Emperor, in bronze: and above this latter, is a small picture, by _Lucas Cranach_, of a man with a bag of money tempting a young woman: full of character, and singularly striking. This room--or the one adjoining, I have forgotten which--contains M. Denon's collection of the prints of MARC ANTONIO or of REMBRANDT--or of both; a collection, which is said to be _unequalled_.[174] Whether the former be more precious than the latter, or whether both be superior to what our British Museum contains of the same masters, is a point which has not yet been fairly determined. But I asked, one morning, for a glimpse of the Rembrandts. We were alone; just after we had breakfasted together. M. Denon commenced by shewing me two different states of the _Coach Landscape_, and the two _great Coppinols_ with _white grounds_--each varying somewhat!!! "Enough," cried I--holding up both hands,--"you beat all in England and all in France!" From hence you pass into a fourth room, which is M. Denon's bed-chamber. About the fire-place are numerous little choice bits of the graphic art. Two small _Watteaus_, in particular, are perfectly delicious;[175] as well as a very small _Sebastian Bourdon_; of a holy family. In a corner, too much darkened, is a fine small portrait of _Parmegiano_ in profile: full of expression--and, to the best of my recollection, never engraved. These are, I think, the chief bijoux in the bed-room; except that I might notice some ancient little bronzes, and an enamel or two by Petitot. You now retrace your steps, and go into a fifth room, which has many fair good pictures, of a comparatively modern date; and where, if I mistake not, you observe at least _one_ portrait in oil of the master of the premises. This therefore gives us "_Denon the Seventh_!" It is here that the master chiefly sits: and he calls it his workshop. His drawers and port-folios are, I think, filled with prints and old-drawings: innumerable, and in the estimation of the owner, invaluable. You yet continue your route into a further room,-- somewhat bereft of furniture, or en dishabille. Here, among other prints, I was struck with seeing that of _the late Mr. Pitt_; from Edridge's small whole length. The story attached to it is rather singular. It was found on board the first naval prize (a frigate) which the French made during the late war; and the Captain begged Monsieur Denon's acceptance of it. Here were also, if I remember rightly, prints of Mr. Fox and Lord Nelson; but, as objects of _art_, I could not help looking with admiration--approaching to incredulity--upon three or four large prints, after Rembrandt and Paul Potter, which M. Denon assured me were the production of _his_ burin! I could scarcely believe it. Whatever be the merits of Denon, as a critical judge of art, ancient or modern, there is no person, not wholly blinded by prejudice, or soured by national antipathies, that can deny him great zeal, great talent, and great feeling ... in the several pursuits of art, of which his apartments furnish such splendid evidence. But, you may be disposed to add, "has this celebrated man no collection of Books?--no LIBRARY? At least he must have a _missal_ or two?" 'Tis even so, my friend. Library, he has none: for as "one swallow does not make a summer," so three or four pretty little illuminated volumes do not constitute a library. However, what he has of this kind, has been freely exhibited to me; and I here send you a transscript of some notes taken upon the spot. I was first shewn a small missal, prettily executed in a gothic type, of the Italian form, after the models of those of Jenson and Hailbrun. The calendar has the paintings injured. On the reverse of the last leaf of the Calendar, we read, in roman capitals, the following impressive annotation: DEUM TIME, PAUPERES SUSTINE, MEMENTO FINIS. On the reverse of the ensuing leaf, is a large head of Christ, highly coloured: but with the lower part of the face disproportionately short: not unlike a figure of a similar kind, in the Duke of Devonshire's Missal, described on a former occasion.[176] The crucifixon, on the next leaf but one, is full of spirit and effect. Then commence the _Drolleries_: or a series of subjects most whimsically conceived, but most sweetly touched and finished. You cannot imagine any thing more perfect of their kind and for their size, than are the beasts, birds, insects, fruits, and flowers. The vellum harmonises admirably, from its colour and quality. There are several comparatively large illuminations: some with very small figures; and two (one of St. John the Baptist, and the other of Christ mocked) are of great beauty in respect to force of colour. The initial capitals are executed with equal attention to taste in composition, and delicacy in colouring. This diminutive volume is only four inches high, by about two inches and three quarters wide. It is bound in red velvet, and mounted with silver knobs, with heads of cherubim upon them. It is fastened by a silver clasp; upon which is painted, and glazed, a head of Christ--of the time, as I conceive. M. Denon told me he bought this little gem of a bookseller in Italy, for 400 francs. He has another Missal, about half an inch wider and taller, in the binding of the time, with stamped ornaments. This exhibits flowers, fruits, and birds, in the margins; touched with great delicacy and truth. Some of the borders have a gold ground, shaded with brown, upon which the fruit is richly brought out in relief: others have human figures; and the border, encircling the temptation of our first Parents, has nothing superior to it--and is really worth an engraved fac-simile: but not in _lithography!_ It is on the forty-fifth leaf. One of the heads, in the border, is like that of our Edward VI. The third illuminated ms. volume, in M. Denon's possession, is probably the most valuable. It is a quarto, written in the Spanish language, and bearing the date of 1553. The scription is in red and black letters, alternately. This book contains several large illuminations, and coloured borders; and I was told, by its owner, that it was the _very book_ upon which the OATHS OF INITIATION INTO THE SPANISH INQUISITION were administered. Its condition is most perfect. The first large illumination represents a Saint, with his scull divided by a sword, and blood streaming copiously from him: a palm, with three crowns, is in his right hand; a book is in his left: at top we read "_Exsurge Domine, et judica Causam tuam_." The Saint is surrounded by a border of fruits and flowers. It is the principal embellishment in the volume. This book is in its original, black leather, stamped binding, with knobs and clasps. A marginal note thus remarks: "_ynoscan obligados asseruier cargome off^o. de ella salbo si de su voluntad loquisier en servi_." In my last visit to Denon,[177] I met with ANDRIEU; a name which reflects lustre upon the Fine Arts. As a medallist, he has no equal, nor perhaps ever had any, among the French. Our own SIMON enables us to oppose to him a rival of great and unquestionable talents; but we have slept soundly, both in the _medallic_ and _numismatic_ art, since the time of Cromwell: except that we were shook a little out of our slumbers during the reigns of Anne and George I. Andrieu has more of the pure Greek feeling about him, than Simon ever evinced: and prefers executing his _hair_ more in masses than in detail. He is therefore on this head, a copyist; but he transfuses into the countenance that soul and intelligence which we delight to contemplate, and which we are prompt to own, in the countenances upon Greek coins. The series of _Bonaparte-Medals_ are, almost entirely, I believe, the work of his hand. But _every_ head is _safe_ with Andrieu. He had just brought a medal of the present King (Louis XVIII.) to shew Denon. It was about the size of our half crown, in bronze. The countenance was in profile:--an admirable, and a very strong resemblance. The reverse was the equestrian statue of Henri IV., upon the Pont-Neuf.[178] Upon the whole, quite as good, as an effort of _art_, as what has been done for Bonaparte. The artist had well nigh succeeded in drawing me into a sort of half temptation to bespeak an impression of the medal _in gold_. "It was but a trifling sum--some twenty louis, or thereabouts. It would look so sharp and splendid in gold! and...." "I thank you much Sir, (replied I) but twenty louis will carry me almost to _Strasbourg_, whither I am to proceed in about a week or ten days." One thing I must add, much to his good sense and pure patriotic feeling:--he had been indirectly solicited to strike some medals, commemorative of the illustrious achievements of our WELLINGTON: but this he pointedly declined. "It was not, Sir, for _me_ to perpetuate the name of a man who had humbled the power, and the military glory, of my _own country_." Such was his remark to me. What is commendable in MUDIE,[179] would have been ill-timed, if not disgraceful, in Andrieu. Come with me, now, to a very different exhibition: to a unique collection, of its kind: to a collection, not frequently visited: as little known; but undoubtedly well deserving both of being often visited and described. It is of the _Collection of Paintings_ belonging to MR. QUINTIN CRAUFURD, living in the _Rue d'Anjou_, no. 21, that I am about to speak:--the fruits of a long residence (upwards of thirty years) in France; during the alternate commotions of republicanism and despotism. A letter of introduction procured me every facility of access to make repeated examinations of these treasures; and during my sojournings I fancied myself holding converse alternately with some of the grandees of the time of Francis I. and Louis XIV. Such a collection of _French portraits_--almost entirely of characters who have cut a figure in _history_--is no where else to be seen in Paris. In my estimation, it is beyond all price. Facing you, as you enter, stands--firmly upon his legs, and looking you manfully in the face--- the gallant and faithful _Comte De Brienne, Grand Master of the Ceremonies to Francis I. and Henry II._ A fine picture; and quite perfect.[180] To the left, is a charming whole length portrait, by _Velasquez_: a tender and exquisitely careful specimen of art. Of other whole lengths, but subordinately executed, you should notice one of _Christine, Duchesse de Savoie_, daughter of Henry II. and Catherine de Medicis; very curious, and in perfect preservation. There is a duplicate of this picture in the Louvre. A much more curious picture is a whole length, supposed to be of _Agnes Sorel_, mistress of Charles VII. One minute's reflection will correct this designation of the portrait. In the time of Agnes Sorel, portrait painting, in oil, was unknown--at least in France. The costume betrays the misnomer: for it is palpably not of the time of Agnes Sorel. Here is also a whole length of _Isabella, daughter of Philip II._ and Governess of the Low Countries. There are several small fancy pictures; among which I was chiefly, and indeed greatly struck, with a woman and two children by _Stella_. 'Tis a gem of its kind. [Illustration: COMTE DE BRIENNE, From an original Painting in the Collection of the late Quintin Crauford Esq. London, Published June 1829, by R. Jennings, Poultry.] Leaving this room, you turn, to the left--into a small room, but obscurely lighted. Here is a Virgin and Child, by _Sasso Ferrato_, that cannot be surpassed. There is a freedom of design, a crispness of touch, and a mellowness of colouring, in this picture, that render it a performance very much above the usual representations of this subject. In the same room is a spirited, but somewhat singular, picture of the _birth of Venus_. It exhibits the conception and touch of a master. The colouring is very sober. The name of the artist is not upon the frame, and as I was generally alone when I made my memoranda, I had no one to instruct me. You leave this room, and pass on--catching a glimpse of a lawn richly bedecked with flowers and shrubs--into a long and lofty room, which unites the two enviable distinctions of LIBRARY and GALLERY. Here you are bewildered for an instant: that is to say, you are divided in your attention between the admiration of the proportion and structure of the room, and the alternate captivation of books, busts, and pictures. But as you have had enough of _paper_ and _print_ in former despatches, I shall confine myself here exclusively to the _pencil_ and the _chisel_. Let us first walk leisurely about the ground floor, ere we mount the gallery. To begin with the busts. That of the late _Abbé Barthelemi_, in white marble, immediately strikes you.[181] It is full of nature and of character; and the hair has just enough of the antique gusto about it to render the toute ensemble equally classical and individualised--if you will allow this latter expression. Here is a terra-cotta head of _Corneille_, of very indifferent workmanship; and much inferior to a similar representation of him at Rouen. The terra-cotta head of _Rousseau_ is considerably better. But the marble bust of _Voltaire_, by Houdon, throws every thing about it into tameness. It is as fine as is the terra-cotta bust of the same person which Denon possesses. Here, however, the poet is in a peruque, or dress-wig. His eyes sparkle with animation. Every feature and every muscle seems to be in action: and yet it is perfectly free from caricature or affectation. A surprising performance. This head and that of Barthelemi are quite perfect of their kind. And yet I am not sure whether I should not have preferred the fine bronze bust of _Henri II._, somewhat larger than life, to either of the preceding. But I must not forget the colossal head of _Bonaparte_, when a young man, by Canova. It is of white marble: considered to be the original. Denon has a similar head, by the same artist. I am not sure if I do not prefer Mr. Craufurd's. Of paintings, on this floor, the head of _Francis I_. by Titian--(which may be called rather a finished sketch, and which is retouched in parts) is a very desirable performance; but it is inferior to the same head, by the same artist, in the Louvre. Here is a charming portrait of a Lady in the time of Louis XV., who chose to lead the life of a _Réligieuse_: sweetly and naturally touched. A fine portrait of _Grotius_ is also here; well deserving a conspicuous place in any cabinet of learning.[182] We will now walk up stairs to the gallery. Of course, in the confined space between the balustrade and the wainscot (not much more than three feet), it is barely possible to appreciate the full effect of the paintings; but I here send you a list of the greater part of them, with brief remarks, upon the general accuracy of which you may rely. _Madame Scarron_, with the _Duc du Maine_; apparently by Mignard: in a very fresh and perfect state. A fine head of _Racine_, and similar one of _De La Motte_. _Mademoiselle de Guiche, Princesse de Monaco_; in all probability by Mignard. Good. _Mademoiselle Hamilton, Comtesse de Grammont_; by Mignard. If the Comte de Grammont chose to fall in love only with beautiful women, he could scarcely, upon his own principles, (which indeed were any thing but moral) have found any one so lovely as was his WIFE. Yet I have seen handsomer portraits of her than this. _Anne de Gonzague_. She was Princess Palatine, and daughter of Charles Duke of Nevers. This is a half length portrait. A garland is in her right hand. A gay and pleasing picture. _Le Chancelier d'Aguesseau_. By Rigaud. A fine mellow portrait. _Louis XI_. A whole length; supposed to be by Leonardo da Vinci. Not very credible. It is a fine, bold, horribly-looking portrait: not in the very best state of preservation. _Blaise Pascal_. Very fine. The artist's name is not inscribed; but there is a Murillo-like effect about this portrait, which is very striking. Pascal holds a letter in his hand. Next to Pascal is a prodigiously fine oval portrait (is it of _Fontaine_?) by Rigaud. No name is subjoined. _Comtesse de la Fayette_. A fine countenance: hands apparently recoloured. In yellow drapery. _Julie-Lucie d'Augennes, Duchesse de Montausier._ She died in 1671. The portrait is by Mignard. It represents this celebrated female, when young, _encadred_ by flowers. The carnation tints of the flesh, and the blue lustre of the eye, have nothing finer in the whole circle of Mignard's performances. This is a picture from which the eye is withdrawn with no common reluctance. It is clear, bright, fresh, and speaking.[183] The _Wife of P. de Champagne_. She holds a small oval portrait of the mother of her husband, the famous painter, in her lap. The picture is by P. de Champagne himself. The head of the mother is very clever: but the flesh has perhaps too predominant a tint of pinkish-purple throughout. _Madame de la Sabliere_. Oval: very clever. _Madame Deshoulieres_. Similar, in both repects. _Madame Cornuel_. Oval: a stiff performance. _Madame la Duchesse d'Orleans_. She is represented as Hebe. A pretty picture; but a little too much "frenchified." _Madame de Staal_. Oval. Beautiful and perfect. _Madame la Marquise de Rambouillet_. A° 1646. A most beautiful picture. The head and shoulders are worthy of Vandyke. The curtain, in the background, is flowered; and perhaps too hard. _Madame la Duchesse de la Valliere, mère du dernier duc de ce nom_. She was the mother of the Duke de la Valliere who had the celebrated library; and died in 1782, within three months of reaching her hundredth year! She was an old woman, but yet very handsome, when this portrait was painted. Her colour is yet tender, and her features are small and regular. The eyes have unusual intelligence, for so protracted a period of life. It is a half length, and I should think by Rigaud. She is sitting in a chair, holding a tea spoon in her right hand, and a tea cup in her left. This may have some allusion, of which I am ignorant. The whole picture is full of nature, and in a fine tone of colour. The _Duke of Monmouth_. He is sitting: holding a truncheon in his right hand. A helmet and plume are before him. He wears a white sash. This is a dark, but may be called a finely painted, picture. Yet the Duke is not represented as a handsome man. _Turenne_. By P. de Champagne. Fine. _Bossuet_. By Rigaud. This is not only considered as the chef-d'oeuvre of Rigaud, but it has been pronounced to be the finest portrait ever executed within the last century of the French School.[184] It is a whole length; and is well known to you from the wonderful print of it by Drevet. The representation is worthy of the original; for Bossuet was one of the last of the really great men of France. He had a fine capacity and fine scholarship: and was as adroit in polemics as Richelieu was in politics. He resembled somewhat our Horsley in his pulpit eloquence,--and was almost as pugnacious and overbearing in controversy. He excelled in quickness of perception, strength of argument, and vehemence of invective; yet his sermons are gradually becoming neglected--while those of Fenelon, Massillon, and Saurin are constantly resorted to ... for the fine taste, pure feeling, and Christianlike consolation which breathe throughout them. One thing, in this fine whole length portrait of Bossuet, cannot fail to be noticed by the curious. The head seems to have been separately painted, on a small square piece of canvass, and _let into_ the picture. There is certainly a _rifacimento_ of some kind or other; which should denote the head to have been twice painted. _C. Paulin_. By Champagne. Paulin was first confessor to Louis XIV.; and had therefore, I should apprehend, enough upon his hands. This is a fine portrait. _William III_. Harsh and stiff. It is a performance (as most of those of William seem to be) for the model of a head of a ship. _Colbert, Evéque de Montpellier_. A fine head. _Fléchier, Evéque de Nismes_. A very fine portrait. The name of the painter does not appear. A fine half length portrait of a _Marshal of France_, with a truncheon in his hand. Both the hands are beautifully drawn and coloured. _Maréchal duc d'Harcourt_. By Rigaud. _Eliz. Angelique de Montmorenci, Duchesse de Chatillon_. She died in 1695 in her 69th year. This is a fine picture, but injured and retouched. The left hand rests upon a lion's head. _F. Marie de Bourbon, fille de Madame de Montespan, et femme du Régent_. A stiffish picture; but the countenance is pleasing. _Madame la Duchesse de Névers, fille de Madame de Thianges, et nièce de Madame de Montespan_. A bow is in her right hand, and a dog in her left. The countenance is beautiful and well painted. The eyes and mouth in particular have great sweetness of expression. _Duc de Montausier_; in a hat and red feather. By Rigaud. _Madame la Duchesse de Sforce: fille cadette de Madame de Thianges_. A small whole length, sitting: with two greyhounds in her lap, and a third at her side. _Le Ministre Colbert_. By Mignard. A fine picture.[185] _Marie Leezinska, femme de Louis XV_. A cleverly painted head. _Le Cardinal Mazarin_. By P. de Champagne. Whole length. A fine portrait-- which I never contemplate without thinking of the poor unfortunate "man in an iron mask!" _Madame de Motteville_. She died in her 74th year, in 1689. This is merely the head and shoulders; but in the Vandyke style of execution. _Charles Paris d'Orleans, dernier Duc de Longueville._ He was killed in the famous passage of the Rhine, at Tolhuys, in 1672. _Charles I_. By Vandyke. A beautiful half length portrait. Perhaps too highly varnished. _Le Marquis de Cinq-Mars_. He was beheaded at the age of twenty-two, in September 1642. There is also a whole length of him, in a rich, white, flowered dress. A genuine and interesting picture. _Mary Queen of Scots_. Whole length: in a white dress. A copy; or, if an old picture, repainted all over. _Don Carlos_, the unfortunate son of Philip II. of Spain. A beautiful youth; but this picture, alleged to have been painted by Alfonso Sanchez Coello, must be a copy. The foregoing are the principal decorations along the gallery of this handsome and interesting room. In an adjoining closet, where were once two or three portraits of Bonaparte, is a beautiful and highly finished small whole length of _Philip Duke of Orleans_, Regent of France. Also a whole length of _Marmontel_, sitting; executed in crayon. The curiously carved frame, in a brown-coloured wood, in which this latter drawing is contained, is justly an object of admiration with visitors. I have scarcely seen a more appropriate ornament, for a choice cabinet, than this estimable portrait of Marmontel. Here are portraits of _Neckar_, and _Clement Marot_, in crayons: the latter a copy. Here is, too, a cleverly painted portrait of _L. de Boulogne_. We descend--to a fourth room, or rather to a richly furnished cabinet-- below stairs. Every thing here is "en petit." Whether whole lengths, or half lengths, they are representations in miniature. What is this singular portrait, which strikes one to the left, on entering? Can it be so? Yes ... DIANE DE POICTIERS again! She yet lives every where in France. 'Tis a strange performance; but I have no hesitation in calling it AN ORIGINAL ... although in parts it has been palpably retouched. But the features--and especially the eyes--(those "glasses of the soul," as old Boiastuau calls them[186]) seem to retain their former lustre and expression. This highly curious portrait is a half length, measuring only ten inches by about eight. It represents the original without any drapery, except a crimson mantle thrown over her back. She is leaning upon her left arm, which is supported by a bank. A sort of tiara is upon her head. Her hair is braided. Above her, within a frame, is the following inscription, in capital roman letters: "_Comme le Cerf brait après le décours des Eaues; ainsi brait mon Ame, après Toy, ô Dieu_." Ps. XLII. Upon the whole, this is perhaps the most legitimate representation of the original which France possesses.[187] In the same boudoir is a small and beautifully coloured head of _Francis I._ Here is a portrait of the famous _Duchess of Portsmouth_, on horseback, in red; and another of the _Duchess of Nevers_, in a blue riding jacket. But much more estimable, and highly to be prized--as works of art--- are the TWO MURILLOS: one, apparently of St. Francis, which was always religiously preserved in the bed-chamber of Madame de Maintenon, having been given to her by Louis XIV. The other, although fine, has less general interest. I could hardly sufficiently admire the whole length of _Jacques Callot_, painted by himself. It is delicious, of its kind. There is a very curious and probably coeval picture representing whole length portraits of the _Cardinals of Guise and Lorraine_, and the _Dukes of Guise and Mayenne_,[188] The figures are very small, but appear to be faithful representations. An old portrait of _Louis Roi de Sicile, Père de Réné_,--a small head, supposed to be of the fifteenth century--is sufficiently singular, but I take this to be a copy. Yet the likeness may be correct. A whole length of _Washington_, with a black servant holding his horse, did not escape my attention. Nor, as an antiquary, could I refuse bestowing several minutes attention upon the curious old portrait (supposed to be by _Jean de Bruges_) of _Charlotte, Wife of Louis XI._ It is much in the style of the old illuminations. In one of the lower rooms, I forget which, is a portrait of Bonaparte; the upper part of the same representation of him which appeared in London from the pencil of David. He is placed by the side of a portrait (of the same dimensions) of his conqueror, Wellington: but I am not much disposed to admire the style of execution of our hero. It is a stiff, formal, and severely executed picture. Assuredly the present school of French portrait painters is most egregiously defective in expression; while ours, since the days of Reynolds, has maintained a most decided superiority. I believe I have now noticed every thing that is more particularly deserving of attention in the Collection of Mr. Quintin Craufurd ... But I cannot retrace my steps without again expressing my admiration of the _local_ of this little domain. The garden, offices, and neighbourhood render it one of the most desirable residences in Paris.[189] As I happen to be just now in the humour for gossiping about the fine arts, suppose I take you with me to the collection of paintings of the MARQUIS DE SOMMARIVA, in the _Rue du Bas Rempart_? It is among the most distinguished, and the most celebrated, in Paris; but I should say it is rather eminent for sculpture than for painting. It is here that Canova reigns without a rival. The early acquaintance and long tried friend of the Marquis, that unrivalled sculptor has deposited here what he considers to be the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of his art, as a single figure. Of course, I speak of his _Magdalen_. But let me be methodical. The open day for the inspection of his treasures is _Friday_. When I entered, not a creature was in the rooms. The general effect was splendid and imposing. I took out my memorandum-book, and went directly to work; noticing only those subjects which appeared, on one account or other, to be more particularly deserving of attention. There is a pretty picture of CUPID AND PSYCHE, by _Carlo Cignani_; the simple and quiet effect of which is much heightened by being contrasted with the very worst representation of the _same subject_, which I ever saw, by _David_: painted last year at Brussels. How the Marquis can afford so many square yards of his walls for the reception of such a performance, is almost marvellous. It is, throughout, in the worst possible taste. The countenance of Cupid, who is sitting on the bed or couch with the vacant grin of an ideot, is that of a negro. It is dark, and of an utterly inane expression. The colouring is also too ruddy throughout. Near to this really heartless picture, is one of a woman flying; well drawn, and rather tenderly coloured. Opposite, is a picture of Venus supported in the air by a group of Cupids. The artist is _Prudhon_. In the general glare of colour, which distinguishes the French school, it is absolutely refreshing to have the eye soothed by something like an attempt, as in this picture, at a mellow chiaro-oscuro. It has undoubted merit. It is, upon the whole, finely coloured; but the countenance of Venus is so pale as to have an almost deathly effect. It is intended to represent her as snatched away from the sight of her dead Adonis. In common courtesy I must make but brief mention of a very clumsy, and ill-drawn child, by De Broisefremont: and hasten, in the next room, to the magnificent picture of _Diana and Endymion_, painted by Guerin in 1810, and lately engraved. This picture is a very fair illustration of the merits and demerits of the FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. The drawing of Endymion is, upon the whole, good; but a palpable copy of the antique. This necessarily gives it somewhat an air of affectation. The shepherd lies upon a bed of clouds, (terminated by an horizon which is warmed by the rays of a setting sun) very gracefully and perhaps naturally. He seems to sleep soundly. His whole figure and countenance glow with the warmth of beauty and youth. I will not disturb his slumbers by finding the least fault--even with the disposition of the extremities. But his nightly visitor--the enamoured goddess--is, of all female figures which I have ever seen upon canvass, one of the most affected, meagre, and uninteresting. Diana has been exchanged for an opera dancer. The waist is pinched in, the attitude is full of conceit, and there is a dark shadow about the neck, as if she had been trying some previous experiment with a _rope_! Endymion could never open his eyes to gaze upon a figure so utterly unworthy of the representation of an enamoured deity.[190] The Cupids must also be condemned; for they are poor in form, and indifferent in execution. The back ground has considerable merit: but I fear the picture is too highly glazed. In this room also is the famous picture of _Belisarius_, engraved with so much éclat by Desnoyers. I own that I like the engraving better than the painting; for I see no occasion for such a disproportionate quantity of warm colouring as this picture exhibits. Pope (in his Epistle to Jarvis, I think) says of artists, that, "to paint the naked is their dear delight." No artists ever delighted so much in this branch of painting as the French. Does not this taste argue a want--not only of respect, but--of _feeling?_ It was therefore pleasing to me, my dear friend, to turn my attention from the studied display of naked goddesses, in the collection of the worthy Marquis of Sommariva, towards objects a little more qualified to gratify the higher feelings connected with art:--and the first thing which soothed me, when I _had_ so turned my attention, was, the _Terpsichore_ of _Canova_. You know it from the print by Morghen. The countenance, to my eye, is the perfection of female beauty:--yet it is a countenance which seems to be the abstract--the result of study, and of combination--rather than of beauty, as seen "in mortal race which walks the earth." The drapery appears to be studiously neglected--giving it the appearance of the antique, which had been battered and bruised by the casualties of some two thousand years. By this, I mean that the folds are not only numerous, but the intermediate parts are not marked by that degree of precision and finish, which, in my opinion, they ought to have received. Yet the whole has an enchantingly simple air: at once classical, pure, and impressive. The Marquis has indeed great reason to be proud of it. But if I pat the right cheek of Canova with one hand, I must cuff his left cheek with the other. Here is a Cupid by him, executed in 1787. It is evidently the production of a mind not ripened to its fullest powers. In other words, I should call it "a poor, flat thing." We approach the far-famed MAGDALEN. Immediately opposite the boudoir, where the last mentioned treasures are deposited, you observe a door, or aperture, half covered with silken drapery of a greyish brown tint. There was something mysterious in the appearance, and equally so in the approach. I had no intimation of what it led to; for, as I told you, not a creature besides myself was in the rooms. With a gently raised hand I drew the drapery aside, entered ... and looked before me. There stood the MAGDALEN. There she was, (more correctly speaking) kneeling; in anguish and wretchedness of soul--her head hanging down--contemplating a scull and cross, which were supported by her knees. Her dishevelled hair flowed profusely over her back and shoulders. Her cheeks were sunk. Her eyes were hollow. Her attitude was lowly and submissive. You could not look at her without feeling pity and compassion. Such, in few words, is the Magdalen of Canova. For the first five minutes I was lost in surprise and admiration. The windows are hid by white curtains; and the interior is hung all over with the same grey silk drapery, before noticed. A glass, placed behind the figure, affords you a view of the back while you are contemplating the front. This is very ingenious; but it is probably too artificial. The effect of the room, however--from the silken drapery with which it is entirely covered--is, although studied, upon the whole excellent. Of course the minutes flew away quickly in such a place, and before such an object; and I think I viewed the figure, in every possible direction, for full three quarters of an hour. The result of that view--after the first feelings of admiration had subsided--I proceeded forthwith to impart: and shall be most happy to be set right if I have erred, in the conclusion which I draw. In truth, there can be only one or two little supposed impeachments of the artist's judgment, in the contemplation of this extraordinary figure. The Magdalen has probably too much of the abject expression of _mendicity_ in her attitude; and, for a creature thus poor and prostrate, one is surprised to find her gazing upon a _golden_ cross. It is a piece of finery ill placed in the midst of such wretchedness. But Canova is fond of gilt; yet what is appropriate in _Hebe_ may be discordant in the _Magdalen_. This penitent creature, here so touchingly expressed, is deeply wrapped in meditation upon her crucified Master. She has forsaken the world ... to follow the cross!--but surely this idea would have been more powerfully expressed, if the cross had _not_ been _visible_?. Was this object necessary to tell the tale?--or, rather, did not the sculptor deem it necessary to _balance_ (as is called) the figure? Nor am I over well satisfied with the scull. It is common-place. At any rate, if scull and cross must be there, I wish the cross had been simply of stone--as is the scull. My next objection relates to a somewhat more important point. I think the _face_ and _figure_ do not seem to belong to the _same_ human being: the former is shrunken, ghastly, and indicative of extreme constitutional debility: the latter is plump, well formed, and bespeaks a subject in the enjoyment of full health. Can such an union, therefore, be quite correct? In the different views of this figure, especially in profile, or behind, you cannot fail to be struck with the general beauty of the form; but this beauty arises from its fulness and just proportion. In gazing upon it, in front, you are pained by the view of a countenance shrunk almost to emaciation! Can this be in nature? And do not mental affliction and bodily debility generally go together? The old painters, even as far back as the time of illuminators of books, used to represent the Magdalen as plump, even to fatness,--and stout in all respects; but her _countenance_ usually partook of this vigour of stamina. It was full, rosy, and healthful. The older artists sometimes placed the Magdalen in a very awkward, and perhaps impossible, situation; and she was even made to be buried up to the bosom in earth--still exercising her devotions. Canova has doubtless displayed great pathos in the wretched aspect, and humiliated attitude, of his Magdalen; but he has, at the same time, not been inattentive to beauty of form. I only wish she appeared to be in as good condition as the _torso_ indicates. A fastidious observer might say the figure was not _quite balanced_, and that she must fall backward--if she retained such an attitude for a quarter of an hour. But this is hyper-criticism. The date of the execution of this figure is 1796: and parts of it clearly indicate that, if the sculptor were now to re-execute it, he would have paid even yet more attention to the finishing of the hair. Upon the whole, however, it is a masterly effort of modern art. It is almost fixed that we leave Paris within a week or ten days from hence:--and then, for green fields, yellow corn, running streams, ripened fruit, and all the rural evidences of a matured summer. [164] It was translated into English, and published in this country on a reduced scale, both as to text and engravings--but a reprint of it, with a folio volume of plates, &c. had appeared also in 1802. At the time, few publications had such a run; or received a commendation, not more unqualified than it was just. See an account of this work in the _Library Companion_, p. 442. edit. 1824. [165] [M. Denon DIED in 1825, aged 78. The sale of his _Marbles, Bronzes, Pictures, Engravings, &c._ took place in 1826.] [166] [It was sold at the sale of M. Denon's pictures for 650 francs, and is numbered 187 in the Catalogue.] [167] [One of these pictures brought 1,400, and the other 220 francs: prices, infinitely below their real worth. They should have been sold HERE!] [168] [M. Crapelet says--this bust was modelled after the life by PIGALLE: and was, in turn, the model of that belonging to the figure of Voltaire in the library of the Institute: see p. 195 ante.] [169] [The result--judging from the comparative prices obtained at the sale--has confirmed the propriety of my predilection. It brought 5000 francs. In the sale catalogue, is the following observation attached: "On admire dans ce précieux tableau de chevalet la facilité surprenante de pinceau et cette harmonic parfaite de couleur qui faisaient dire au Tiarini, peintre contemporain, "Seigneur Guerchin, vous faites ce que vous voulez, et nous autres ce que nous pouvons." No. 14.] [170] ["This figure was cast from a model made by Montoni in 1809. There were ONLY six copies of it, of which four were in _bronze_ and two in _silver_." _Cat._ No. 717. I have not been able to learn the price for which it was sold.] [171] The OPPOSITE PLATE will best attest the truth of the above remark. It exhibits a specimen of that precise period of art, when a taste for the gothic was beginning somewhat to subside. The countenance is yet hard and severely marked; but the expression is easy and natural, and the _likeness_ I should conceive to be perfect. As such, the picture is invaluable. [So far in the preceding edition. The sequel is a little mortifying. The above picture, an undoubted _original_--and by a master (the supposed pupil of John Van Eyk) who introduced the art of oil-painting into Italy--was sold for only 162 francs: whereas the _copy_ of it, in oil, by Laurent, executed expressly for the accompanying plate (and executed with great skill and fidelity) cost 400 francs!] [172] [What a taste have the Virtuosi at Paris! This interesting picture was allowed to be sold for 162 francs only. Who is its fortunate Possessor?] [173] [The OPPOSITE PLATE, which exhibits the head in question, is a sufficient confirmation of the above remark.] [174] [First, of the MARC ANTONIOS. Since the sale of the _Silvestre_ Collection, in 1810, nothing had been seen at Paris like that of M. Denon. It was begun to be formed in the eighteenth century: from which it is clear, that, not only was every proof at least an hundred years old, but, at that period, ZANETTI, the previous possessor of this Collection, sought far and wide, and with unremitting diligence, for the acquisition of the choicest impressions of the engraver. In fact, this Collection, (contained in an imperial folio volume, bound in morocco--and of which I necessarily took but a hasty glance) consisted of 117 _original_ impressions, and of 26 of such as were executed in the _school_ of M. Antonio. Of the original impressions, the whole, with the exception of four only, belonged to Zanetti. "If, says the compiler of the Catalogue, (1826, 8vo. p. ij.) some of the impressions have a dingy tint, from the casualties of time, none have been washed, cleaned, or passed through chemical experiments to give them a treacherous look of cleanliness." This is sound orthodoxy. The whole was put up in one lot, and ... BOUGHT IN. Secondly, for the REMBRANDTS. The like had never been before submitted to public auction. The Collections of _Silvestre_ and _Morel de Vindé_ out and out eclipsed! _Zanetti_ again--the incomparable--the felicitous--the unrivalled Zanetti had been the possessor of THIS Collection also. But yet more ... John Peter Zoomer, a contemporary (and peradventure a boon companion) of Rembrandt, was the original former of the Collection. It is therefore announced as being COMPLETE in all respects--"exhibiting all the changes, retouches, beautiful proofs, on India and other paper: ample margins, unstained, uninjured; and the impressions themselves, in every stage, bright, rich, and perfect. The result of all the trouble and expence of 50 years toil of collection is concentrated in this Collection." So says John Peter Zoomer, the original collector and contemporary of Rembrandt. It consisted of 394 original pieces: 3, attributed to Rembrandt, without his name: 11, of John Lievens, Ferdinand Bol, and J.G. Villet: 11 copies: and 9 engraved in the manner of Rembrandt. The whole contained in 3 large folio volumes, bound in red morocco. No reasonable man will expect even a précis of the treasures of this marvellous Collection: A glance of the text will justify every thing to follow: but the "Advertisement" to the Catalogue prepares the purchaser for the portrait of _Rembrandt with the bordered cloak_-- Ditto, _with the Sabre--Ephraim Bonus_ with the _black ring_--the _Coppinol_, as above described--the _Advocate Tolling_--the _Annunciation of Christ's Nativity to the Shepherds--the _Resurrection of Lazarus--Christ healing the Sick_; called the _Hundred Guilders_[H]--the _Astrologer asleep_--and several _Landscapes_ not elsewhere to be found--of which one, called the _Fishermen_ (No. 456) had escaped Bartsch, &c. &c. The descriptions of the several articles of which this Collection was composed, occupy 47 pages of the Catalogue. The three volumes were put up to sale--as a SINGLE LOT--at the price of 50,000 francs:--and there was _no purchaser_. Of its present destiny, I am ignorant: but there are those in this country, who, to my knowledge, would have given 35,000 francs. I ought to add, that M. Denon's collection of CALLOT'S WORKS, in three large folio volumes,--bound in calf--also once the property of Zanetti--and than which a finer set is supposed never to have been exhibited for sale--produced 1000 francs: certainly a moderate sum, if what Zanetti here says of it (in a letter to his friend Gaburri, of the date of 1726) be true. "If ever you do this country (Venice) the honour of a visit, you will see in my little cabinet a collection of CALLOTS, such as you will not see elsewhere--not in the royal collection at Paris, nor in the Prince Eugene's, at Vienna--where the finest and rarest impressions are supposed to be collected. I possess _every_ impression of the plates which Callot executed; many of them containing first proofs, retouched and corrected by the engraver himself in red chalk. I bought this Collection at Paris, and it cost me 1950 francs. They say it was formed by the engraver himself for his friend M. Gérard an Amateur of Prints." "It should seem that Zanetti's description was a little overcharged; but in _his_ time there was no complete catalogue of the artists." Cat. p. 153. [H] It formed No. 345 of the Catalogue; where it is described as being "a magnificent proof upon India paper, with a margin of 15 lines all round it. It was with the bur, and before the cross-hatchings upon the mane of the Ass." The finest copy of this subject, sold in this country, was that formerly in the collection of M. Bernard; and recently purchased by T. Wilson, Esq. Will the reader object to disporting himself with some REMBRANDTIANA, in the _Bibliomania_ p. 680-2.? [175] One of those pictures (No. 188 in the Catalogue) produced 3015 francs: the other, only 180 francs. The Sebastian Bourdon (No. 139,) was sold for 67 francs, and the Parmegiano, (No. 34) for 288 francs. [176] See the _Bibliographical Decameron_; vol. i. p. clvii. &c. [M. Denon's Missal was purchased by an English amateur, and sold at the sale of the Rev. Theodore Williams's Library for £143. 17s.] [177] [Ere we take leave of this distinguished Frenchman, let us dwell for two seconds on his autograph. [Autograph: Denon] [178] There has been recently struck (I think, in 1819) a medal with the same obverse and reverse, of about the size between an English farthing and halfpenny. The statue of Henry is perhaps the MIRACLE OF ART: but it requires a microscopic glass to appreciate its wonders. Correctly speaking, probably, such efforts are not in the purest good taste. Simplicity is the soul of numismatic beauty. [179] The Artist who struck the series of medals to commemorate the campaigns of the Duke of Wellington, from his landing in Portugal to the battle of Waterloo. [180] [See the OPPOSITE PLATE, which represents the upper part of the Picture.] [181] [I sent a commission for it, for a friend, at the sale of Mr. Craufurd's effects, but lost it.] [182] [Purchased by myself: and now at Hodnet.] [183] [This picture was purchased for the gallery at ALTHORP. There is an exquisite drawing of it by Wright, for the purpose of a stipling engraving.] [184] It was purchased by the late King of France for 10,000 francs. [185] [Purchased for the gallery at ALTHORP.] [186] The above quotation is incomplete; for the passage alluded to runs thus.--"Where is the painter so well sorting his colours, that could paint these faire eyes that are the _windows of the body, and glasses of the soul_." The continuation is in a very picturesque style. See the _Theatre or Rule of the World_, p. 236-7, quoted in a recent (1808) edition of _More's Utopia_, vol. ii. p. 143. But _Primaudaye's French Academy_, Lond. 1605, 4to. runs very much in the same strain. [187] A little graphic history belongs to this picture. I obtained a most beautiful and accurate copy of it by M. Le Coeuré, on a reduced scale: from which Mr. J. Thomson made an Engraving, as a PRIVATE PLATE, and only 75 copies were struck off. The plate was then destroyed; the impressions selling for a guinea. They are now so rare as to be worth treble that sum: and proofs upon India paper, before the letter, may be worth £5. 5s. Three proofs only were struck off of the plate in its _mutilated_ state; of which my friends Mr. Haslewood and Mr. G. H. Freeling rejoice in their possession of a copy. The drawing, by Coeuré, was sold for 20 guineas at the sale of my drawings, by Mr. Evans, in 1822, but it has been subsequently sold for only _nine_ guineas; and of which my worthy friend A. Nicholson, Esq.--"a good man, and a true"--is in the possession. Subsequently, the ABOVE ORIGINAL picture was sold; and I was too happy to procure it for the gallery at Althorp for _twelve_ guineas only! [188] [A magnificent whole length portrait of this first DUKE DE GUISE, painted by PORBUS--with a warmth and vigour of touch, throughout, which are not unworthy of Titian--now adorns the very fine gallery at Althorp: where is also a whole length portrait of ANNE OF AUSTRIA, by Mignard. Both pictures are from the same Collection; and are each probably the masterpiece of the artist. They are of the size of life.] [189] [Mr. Craufurd died at Paris in 1821.] [190] ["Amateurs, connaisseurs, examinateurs, auteurs de revues du Salon, parodistes même, vous n'entendez rien à ce genre de critique; prenez M. Dibdin pour modèle: voila' la _bonne école_!" CHAPELET, vol. iv. p. 200. My translator shall here have the full benefit of his own bombastical nonsense.] _LETTER XI._ NOTICE OF M. WILLEMIN'S MONUMENS FRANÇAIS INÉDITS. MISCELLANEOUS ANTIQUITIES. PRESENT STATE OF THE FINE ARTS. GENERAL OBSERVATIONS UPON THE NATIONAL CHARACTER. _July 8, 1818_. I rejoice that it is in my power once more--and certainly for the last time, from hence--to address you upon a few subjects, which, from your earlier replies to my Paris letters, you seem to think that I have lost sight of. These subjects, relate chiefly to ANTIQUITIES. Be assured that I have never, for one moment, been indifferent to them; but in the vast bibliographical field which the public libraries of this place held out for my perambulation, it was impossible, in the first instance, not to take advantage of the curious, and probably useful information, to be derived from thence. I must begin therefore by telling you that I had often heard of the unassuming and assiduous author of the _Monumens Français Inédits_, and was resolved to pay him a visit. I found him in the _Rue Babile_ towards the eastern end of the Rue St. Honoré, living on the third floor. Several young females were in the ante-room, colouring the plates of that work; which are chiefly in outline and in aqua-tint. Each livraison contains six plates, at twelve francs the livraison. The form is folio, and about twenty-eight numbers are printed.[191] There is something in them of every thing: furniture, dresses, houses, castles, churches, stained glass, paintings, and sculpture. Illuminated MSS. are as freely laid under contribution as are the outsides and insides of buildings, of whatsoever description. Indeed I hardly ever visited the Public Library without finding M. Willemin busied, with his pencil and tracing paper, with some ancient illuminated MS. The style of art in the publication here noticed, is, upon the whole, feeble; but as the price of the work is moderate, no purchaser can reasonably complain. The variety and quantity of the embellishments will always render M. Willemin's work an acceptable inmate in every well-chosen library. I recommend it to you strongly; premising, that the author professedly discards all pretension to profound or very critical antiquarian learning. For himself, M. Willemin is among the most enthusiastic, but most modest, of his antiquarian brethren. He has seen better days. His abode and manners afford evidence that he was once surrounded by comparative affluence and respectability. A picture of his deceased wife hung over the chimney-piece. The back-ground evinced a gaily furnished apartment. "Yes, Sir, (said M.W.--on observing that I noticed it) such was _once_ my room, and its _chief ornament_"--Of course I construed the latter to be his late wife. "Alas! (resumed he) in better days, I had six splendid cabinets filled with curiosities. I have now--not a single one! Such is life." He admitted that his publication brought him a very trifling profit; and that, out of his own country, he considered the _London_ market as the most advantageous to him. A large broken phial, containing water and a fleur-de-lis in full bloom, was the only, ornament of his mantle piece. "Have you no curiosities of any kind--(said I to him) for sale?" "None--" replied he; but he had _drawings_ of a few. "Have the kindness to shew me some of these drawings"--and forthwith appeared the case and _pocket-knife of Diane de Poictiers_, drawn from the original by Langlois. "Where is the original?" observed I, hastily. "Ha, Sir, you are not singular in your question. A nobleman of your country was almost losing his wits because he could not purchase it:--and yet, this original was once to be obtained for _twenty louis_!" I confess I was glad to obtain the drawing of Langlois for two napoleons. It is minutely and prettily executed, and apparently with great fidelity. M. Willemin proceeded to shew me a few more drawings for his national work, telling me precisely what he _meant_, and what he did _not_ mean, to publish. His own drawings with a pen are, some of them, of a masterly execution; and although of a less brilliant and less classical style than those of LE NOIR, M. Willemin is still an artist of whom his country will always have reason to be proud. I bought several drawings of him.[192] One represents the sculptured figures upon the outside of the _grand portal_ of the _Cathedral of Chartres._ These figures seem to be of the thirteenth century. The other drawing is of a rich piece of _fayence_, or of painted and glazed earthenware dish, and about the middle of the sixteenth century: of which I remember to have seen some very curious specimens at Denon's. But nothing can be more singular, and at the same time more beautiful of its kind, than the present specimen--supposed to be the work of the famous Bernard Palissy. Paris is full of such treasures. Of all cities, PARIS is probably that which abounds with rich and curious relics of ancient art. Its churches, its palaces, its public buildings-- sometimes grotesque and sometimes magnificent--furnish alike subjects for admiration and materials for collection. But the genius of the French does not lie in this pursuit. From the commencement of the sixteenth century, the ANTIQUITIES OF PARIS might have supplied a critical antiquary with matter for a publication which could have been second only to the immortal work of Piranesi. But with the exception of Montfaucon, (which I admit to be a most splendid exception) and recently of MILLIN and LE NOIR, France hardly boasts of an indigenous Antiquary. In our own country, we have good reason to be proud of this department of literature. The names of Leland, Camden, Cotton, Dugdale, Gibson, Tanner, Gough, and Lysons, place us even upon a level with the antiquarians of Italy. It was only the other day that M. Willemin was urging me, on my return to England, to take _Beauvais_ in my way, in order to pay a visit to Madame la Comtesse de G., living at a chateau about three leagues from that place. She possesses a collection of carved wood, in bas-reliefs, porches, stair-cases, &c. all from a neighbouring dilapidated abbey; and, among other things, one singular piece of sculpture, descriptive of the temptation of St Anthony. He had reason to think that the Countess might be more successfully tempted than was the Saint just mentioned; in other words, that these things were to be had rather for "money" than for "love." For specimens of the costume of the lower classes, the _south_ side of the Seine must be chiefly visited. The great streets which lead thither are those of _St. Victor, St. Jaques_, and _De La Harpe_. Mr. Lewis had frequently strolled to this quarter of Paris; and his attention was one morning particularly directed to a group of _Blanchisseuses_--who were halting beneath their burdens to have a little gossip with each other. See how characteristically he has treated the subject. [Illustration] One of the causes of the want of encouragement in NATIONAL ANTIQUITIES, among the French, may arise from the natural love of the people for what is gay and gaudy, rather than for what is grave and instructive. And yet, when will nations learn that few things tend so strongly to keep alive a pure spirit of PATRIOTISM as _such_ a study or pursuit? As we reverence the past, so do we anticipate the future. To love what our forefathers have done in arts, in arms, or in learning, is to lay the surest foundation for a proper respect for our own memories in after ages. But with Millin, I fear, the study of Archaeology will sleep soundly, if not expire, among the Parisians. VISCONTI has doubtless left a splendid name behind him here; but Visconti was an Italian. No; my friend--the ARTS have recently taken an exclusive turn for the admiration, even to adoration, of portrait and historical painters: No LYSONSES, no BLORES, no MACKENZIES are patronised either at Paris or in the other great cities of France. I must however make an honourable exception in favour of the direction given to the splendid talents of MADAME JAQUOTOT. And I cannot, in common justice, omit, on this occasion, paying a very sincere tribute of respect to the PRESENT KING[193]--who has really been instrumental to this direction. I have lately paid this clever lady a morning visit, with a letter of introduction from our common friend M. Langlès. As I was very courteously received, I begged that I might only see such specimens of her art as would give her the least possible trouble, and afford me at the same time an opportunity of judging of her talents. Madame Jaquotot was as liberal in the display of her productions, as she was agreeable and polite in her conversation. I saw all her performances. Her copies of Leonardo da Vinci and Guido, in black crayons, are beautiful of their kind; but her enamel copies, upon porcelaine, of the _Portraits of the more celebrated Characters of France_--executed at the desire and expense of his Majesty--perfectly delighted me. The plan is as excellent as its execution is perfect. But such performances have not been accomplished without a heavy previous expense, on the score of experiments. I was told that the artist had sunk a sum little short of five or six hundred pounds sterling, in the different processes for trying and fixing her colours. But she seems now to walk upon firm ground, and has nothing but an abundant harvest to look forward to. Indeed, for every portrait, square, or oval, (although scarcely more than _three inches_ in height) she receives a hundred louis d'or. This is a truly princely remuneration: but I do not consider it overpaid. Some of the earlier portraits are taken from illuminated manuscripts; and, among them, I quickly recognised that of my old friend _Anne of Brittany_,--head and shoulders only: very brilliant and characteristic--but Mr. Lewis is "yet a painter." As all these bijoux (amounting perhaps to twelve or fifteen in number) were displayed before me, I fancied I was conversing with the very Originals themselves. The whole length of _Henri IV_., of the same size as the original in the Louvre, is probably the chef d'oeuvre of Madame Jaquotot. It is exquisitely perfect. When she comes down to the reign of Louis XIV., she has necessarily recourse to the originals of PETITOT; of which the Louvre contains a precious glazed case, enclosing about four or five dozen, of them. Here again the copyist treads closely upon the heels of her predecessor; while her portrait of _Anne of Austria_ comes fully up to every thing we discover in the original. Upon the whole, I spent a pleasant and most instructive hour with this accomplished lady; and sincerely wish that all talents, like hers, may receive a similar direction and meet with an equally liberal reward. You must not fail to bear in mind that, in my humble judgment, this department of art belongs strictly to NATIONAL ANTIQUITIES. For _one_, who would turn his horse's head towards Madame Jaquotot's dwelling, in the _Rue Jacob_, fifty would fly with rapture to view a whole length by GÉRARD, or a group by DAVID. In portrait painting, and historical composition, these are the peculiar heroes. None dare walk within their circle: although I think GIRODET may sometimes venture to measure swords with the latter. Would you believe it? The other day, when dining with some smart, lively, young Parisians, I was compelled to defend RAFFAELLE against David? the latter being considered by them _superior_ to the Italian artist in a _knowledge of drawing_. Proh pudor! This will remind you of Jervas's celebrated piece of nonsensical flattery to himself--when, on Pope's complimenting that artist upon one of his portraits, he compassionately exclaimed "_Poor little Tit_!"--Surely all these national prejudices are as unwise as they are disgusting. Of Gérard, I would wish to speak with respect; but an artist, who receives from fifteen to twenty thousand francs for the painting of a whole length portrait, stands upon an eminence which exposes him to the observation of every man. In the same degree, also, does his elevation provoke the criticism of every man. But, however respectfully I may wish to speak of Gérard, I do not, in my conscience, consider him superior to what may be called the _second rate_ class of portrait-painters in England.[194] His outline is often hard, and full of affectation of a knowledge of drawing: his colouring is as frequently severe and metallic, and there is rarely any expression of mind or soul in his faces. I saw at Laugier's the other day, his portrait of Madame de Stael--painted from _recollection_. He certainly had _forgotten_ how to _colour_ when he executed it. Forster (a very clever, sensible, and amiable young man) is busied, or rather has just finished, the engraving of a portrait of the Duke of Wellington, by the same painter. What has depended upon _him_ has been charmingly done: but the figure of the great Original--instead of giving you the notion of the FIRST CAPTAIN OF HIS AGE[195]--is a poor, trussed-up, unmeaning piece of composition: looking-out of the canvas with a pair of eyes, which, instead of seeming to anticipate and frustrate (as they _have_ done) the movements of his adversary, as if by magic, betray an almost torpidity or vacancy of expression! The attitude is equally unnatural and ungraceful. Another defect, to my eye, in Gérard's portraits, is, the quantity of flaunting colour and glare of varnish with which his canvas is covered. The French cognoscenti swear by "the _swearing of the Horatii_" of David. I saw a reduced copy of the large picture at the Luxembourg, by the artist himself--at Didot's: and it was while discussing the comparative merits and demerits of this famous production, that I ventured to observe that Raffaelle would have drawn the hands better. A simultaneous shout of opposition followed the remark. I could scarcely preserve common gravity or decorum: but as my antagonists were serious, I was also resolved to enact a serious part. It is not necessary to trouble you with a summary of my remarks; although I am persuaded I never talked so much French, without interruption, for so long a space of time. However, my opponents admitted, with a little reluctance, that, if the hands of the Horatii were not ill drawn, the _position_ of them was sufficiently affected. I then drew their attention, to the _Cupid and Psyche_ of the same master, in the collection of the Marquis of Sommariva, (in the notice of which my last letter was pretty liberal) but I had here a less obstinate battle to encounter. It certainly appeared (they admitted) that David did not improve as he became older. Among the Painters of eminence I must not forget to mention LAURENT. The French are not very fond of him, and certainly they under-rate his talents. As a colourist, some of his satins may vie with those of Vanderwerf. He paints portraits, in small, as well as fancy-subjects. Of the former, that of his daughter is beautifully executed. Of the latter, his _Young Falconer_ is a production of the most captivating kind. But it is his _Joan of Arc_ which runs away with the prize of admiration. The Government have purchased the house in which that celebrated female was born,[196] and over the door of which an ancient statue of her is to be seen. Laurent's portrait is also purchased to be placed over the chimney-piece of the room; and it is intended to supply furniture, of the character which it originally might have possessed. But if France cannot now boast her Mignard, Rigaud, or the Poussins, she has reason to be proud of her present race of _Engravers_. Of these, DESNOYERS evidently takes the lead. He is just now in Italy, and I shall probably not see him--having twice called in vain. I own undisguisedly that I am charmed with all his performances; and especially with his sacred subjects from Raffaelle:--whom, it is just possible, he may consider to be a somewhat better draftsman than David. There is hardly any thing but what he adorns by his touch. He may consider the whole length portrait of _Bonaparte_ to be his chef-d'oeuvre; but his _Vierge au Linge, Vierge dite la Belle Jardinière_,--and perhaps, still finer, that called _au Donataire_--are infinitely preferable, to my taste. The portrait has too much of detail. It is a combination of little parts; of flowered robes, with a cabinet-like background: every thing being almost mechanical, and the shield of the ex-Emperor having all the elaborate minutiæ of Grignion. I am heretic enough to prefer the famous whole length of poor Louis XVI, by Bervic after Callet: there is such a flow of line and gracefulness of expression in this latter performance! But Desnoyers has uncommon force, as well as sweetness and tenderness, in the management of historical subjects: although I think that his recent production of _Eliezer and Rebecca_, from _Nicolo Poussin_, is unhappy--as to choice. His females have great elegance. His line never flows more freely than in the treatment of his female figures; yet he has nothing of the style of finishing of our STRANGE. His _Francis_ I, and _Marguerite de Valois_ is, to my eye, one of the most finished, successful, and interesting of his performances. It is throughout a charming picture, and should hang over half the mantle pieces in the kingdom. His portrait of _Talleyrand_ is brilliant; but there are parts very much too black. It will bear no comparison with the glorious portrait of our _John Hunter_, by Sharp--from Sir J. Reynolds. Desnoyers engraves only for himself: that is to say, he is the sole proprietor of his performances, and report speaks him to be in the receipt of some twenty-five thousand francs per annum. He deserves all he has gained--both in fortune and reputation. MASSARD works in the same school with Desnoyers. He is harder in his style of outline as well as of finishing; but he understands his subject thoroughly, and treats it with skill and effect. ANDOUIN is lately come out with a whole length portrait of the present king: a palpable copy, as to composition, of that of his late brother. There are parts of the detail most exquisitely managed, but the countenance is rather too severely marked. LIGNON is the prince of portrait-engravers. His head of _Mademoiselle Mars_--though, upon the whole, exhibiting a flat, and unmeaning countenance, when we consider that it represents the first comic actress in Europe--is a master-piece of graphic art. It is wrought with infinite care, brilliancy, and accuracy. The lace, over the lady's shoulder, may bid defiance even to what Drevet and Masson have effected of the like kind. The eyes and the gems of Mademoiselle Mars seem to sparkle with a rival lustre; but the countenance is too flat, and the nose wants elevation and beauty. For this latter, however, neither Gérard nor Lignon are amenable to criticism. Upon the whole, it is a very surprising performance. If I were called upon to notice Lignon's chef d'oeuvre, I would mention the frontispiece to the magnificent impression of _Camoens' Lusiad_, containing the head of the author, surrounded by an arabesque border of the most surprising brilliancy of composition and execution. You must however remember, that it is in the splendid work entitled LE MUSÉE FRANÇAIS, that many fine specimens of all the artists just mentioned are to be found. There is no occasion to be more particular in the present place. I must not omit the notice of FORSTER and LAUGIER: both of whom I have visited more than once. At the same time, I beg it may be distinctly understood that the omission of the names of _other_ engravers is no implication that they are passed over as being unworthy of regard. On the contrary, there are several whom I could mention who might take precedence even of the two last noticed. Some of Forster's academic figures, which gained him the prize, are very skilfully treated; both as to drawing and finishing. His print of _Titian's Mistress_ exhibits, in the face and bosom of the female, a power and richness of effect which may contend with some of the best efforts of Desnoyers's burin. The reflex-light, in the mirror behind, is admirably managed; but the figure of Titian, and the lower parts of his Mistress--especially the arms and hands--are coarse, black, and inharmonious. His _Wellington_ is a fine performance, as to mechanical skill. M. Bénard, the well-known print-seller to his Majesty, living on the _Boulevards Italiens_, laughed with me the other day at the rival Wellington--painted by Lawrence, and engraved by Bromley,--as a piece of very inferior art! But men may laugh on the wrong side of the face. I consider, however, that what has depended upon Forster, has been done with equal ability and truth. Undoubtedly the great failing of the picture is, that it can hardly be said to have even a faint resemblance of the original. M. Laugier has not yet reached his full powers of maturity; but what he has done is remarkable for feeling and force. His _Daphne and Chloe_, and _Hero and Leander_ are early performances, but they are full of promise, and abound in excellences. Colour and feeling are their chief merit. The latter print has the shadows too dark. The former is more transparent, more tender, and in better keeping. The foreground has, in some parts, the crispness and richness of Woollett. They tell me that it is a rare print, and that only 250 copies were struck off--at the expense of the Society of Arts. Laugier has recently executed a very elaborate print of Leander, just in the act of reaching the shore--(where his mistress is trembling for his arrival in a lighted watch-tower) but about to be buried in the overwhelming waves. The composition of the figure is as replete with affectation, as its position is unnatural, if not impossible. The waves seem to be suspended over him--on purpose to shew off his limbs to every degree of advantage. He is perfectly canopied by their "gracefully-curled tops." The engraving itself is elaborate to excess: but too stiff, even to a metallic effect. It can never be popular with us; and will, I fear, find but few purchasers in the richly garnished repertoire of the worthy Colnaghi. Indeed it is a painful, and almost repulsive, subject. Laugier's portrait of _Le Vicomte de Chateaubriand_ exhibits his prevailing error of giving blackness, rather than depth, to his shadows. Black hair, a black cravat, and black collar to the coat--with the lower part of the background almost "gloomy as night"--are not good accessories. This worthy engraver lives at present with his wife, an agreeable and unaffected little woman, up four pair of stairs, in the _Rue de Paradis_. I told him--and as I thought with the true spirit of prediction--that, on a second visit to Paris I should find him descended--full two stories: in proportion as he was ascending in fortune and fame. The French are either not fond of, or they do not much patronise, engraving in the _stippling_ manner: "_au poinctilliet_"--as they term it. Roger is their chief artist in this department. He is clever, undoubtedly; but his shadows are too black, and the lighter parts of his subjects want brilliancy. What he does "en petit," is better than what he does upon a larger scale." In _mezzotint_ the Parisians have not a single artist particularly deserving of commendation. They are perhaps as indifferent as we are somewhat too extravagantly attached, to it. Speaking of the FRENCH SCHOOL OF ENGRAVING, in a general and summary manner--especially of the line engravers--one must admit that there is a great variety of talent; combined with equal knowledge of drawing and of execution; but the general effect is too frequently hard, glittering, and metallic. The draperies have sometimes the severity of armour; and the accessories, of furniture or other objects, are frequently too highly and elaborately finished. Nor is the flesh always free from the appearance of marble. But the names I have mentioned, although not entirely without some of these defects, have great and more than counter-balancing excellences. In the midst of all the graphic splendour of modern Paris, it was delightful music to my ears to hear WILKIE and RAIMBACH so highly extolled by M. Bénard. "Ha, votre _Wilkie_--voilà un génie distingué!" Who could say "nay?" But let BURNET have his share of graphic praise; for the _Blind Fiddler_ owes its popularity throughout Europe to _his_ burin. They have recently copied our friend Wilkie's productions on a small scale, in aqua-tint; cleverly enough--for three francs a piece. I told Benard that the Duke of Wellington had recently bespoke a picture from Mr. Wilkie's pencil. "What is the subject to be?"--demanded he, quickly. I replied, in the very simplicity of my heart, "Soldiers regaling themselves, on receiving the news of the victory of Waterloo." Mons. Bénard was paralised for one little moment: but rallying quickly, he answered, with perfect truth, as I conceive "_Comment donc_, TOUT EST WATERLOO, _chez vous!_" M. Bénard spoke very naturally, and I will not find fault with him for such a response; for he is an obliging, knowing, and a very pleasant tradesman to do business with. He admits, readily and warmly, that we have great artists, both as painters and engravers; and pointing to Sharpe's _John Hunter_ and _The Doctors of the Church_--which happened to be hanging just before us--he observed that "these, efforts had never been surpassed by his own countrymen." I told him (while conversing about the respective merits of the British and French Schools of Engraving) that it appeared to me, that in France, there was no fine feeling for LANDSCAPE ENGRAVING; and that, as to ANTIQUARIAN art, what had been produced in the publications of Mr. Britton, and in the two fine topographical works--Mr. Clutterbuck's Hertfordshire," and. Mr. Surtees' Durham--exhibited such specimens of the burin, in that department, as could scarcely be hoped to be excelled.[197] M. Bénard did not very strenuously combat these observations. The great mart for _Printselling_ is the Boulevards; and more especially that of the _Boulevards Italiens_. A stranger can have no conception of the gaiety and brilliance of the print-shops, and print-stalls, in this neighbourhood. Let him first visit it in the morning about nine o'clock; with the sun-beams sparkling among the foliage of the trees, and the incessant movements of the populace below, who are about commencing another day's pilgrimage of human life. A pleasant air is stirring at this time; and the freshness arising from the watering of the footpath--but more particularly the fragrance from innumerable bouquets, with mignonette, rose trees, and lilacs--extended in fair array--is altogether quite charming and singularly characteristic. But my present business is with prints. You see them, hanging in the open air--framed and not framed--for some quarter of a mile: with the intermediate space filled by piles of calf-bound volumes and sets of apparently countless folios. Here are _Moreri, Bayle_, the _Dictionnaire de Trévoux, Charpentier_, and the interminable _Encyclopédie_: all very tempting of their kind, and in price:--but all utterly unpurchasable--on account of the heavy duties of importation, arising from their weight. However--again I say--my present business is with _Prints_. Generally speaking, these prints are pleasing in their manner of execution, reasonable in price, and of endless variety. But the perpetual intrusion of subjects of studied nudity is really at times quite disgusting. It is surprising (as I think I before remarked to you) with what utter indifference and apathy, even females, of respectable appearance and dress, will be gazing upon these subjects; and now that the art of _lithography_ is become fashionable, the print-shops of Paris will be deluged with an inundation of these odious representations, which threaten equally to debase the art and to corrupt morals. This cheap and wholesale circulation of what is mischievous, and of really most miserable execution, is much to be deplored. Even in the better part of art, lithography will have a pernicious effect. Not only a well-educated and distinguished engraver will find, in the long run his business slackening from the reduced prices at which prints. are sold, but a _bad taste_ will necessarily be the result: for the generality of purchasers, not caring for comparative excellence in art, will be well pleased to give _one_ franc, for what, before, they could not obtain under _three_ or _five_. Hence we may date the decline and downfall of art itself. I was surprised, the other day, at hearing DENON talk so strongly in favour of lithography. I told him "it was a bastard art; and I rejoiced, in common with every man of taste or feeling, that _that_ art had not made its appearance before the publication of his work upon Egypt." It may do well for "The whisker'd pandour and the fierce hussar"-- or it may, in the hands of such a clever artist as VERNET, be managed with good effect in representations of skirmishes of horse and foot--groups of banditti--a ruined battlement, or mouldering tower--overhanging rocks-- rushing torrents--or umbrageous trees--but, in the higher department of art, as connected with portrait and historical engraving, it cannot, I apprehend, attain to any marked excellence.[198] Portraits however--of a particular description--_may_ be treated with tolerable success; but when you come to put lithographic engraving in opposition to that of _line_--the _latter_ will always and necessarily be ... velut inter ignes LUNA minores! I cannot take leave of A CITY, in which I have tarried so long, and with so much advantage to myself, without saying one word about the manners, customs, and little peculiarities of character of those with whom I have been recently associating. Yet the national character is pretty nearly the same at Rouen and at Caen, as at Paris; except that you do not meet with those insults from the _canaille_ which are but too frequent at these first-mentioned places. Every body here is busy and active, yet very few. have any thing _to do_--in the way of what an Englishman would call _business_. The thoughtful brow, the abstracted, look, the hurried step.. which you see along Cheapside and Cornhill ... are here of comparatively rare appearance. Yet every body is "sur le pavé." Every body seems to live out of doors. How the _ménage_ goes on--and: how domestic education is regulated--strikes the inexperienced eye of an Englishman as a thing quite inconceivable. The temperature of Paris is no doubt very fine, although it has been of late unprecedentedly hot; and a French workman, or labourer, enjoys, out of doors--from morning till night those meals, which, with us, are usually partaken of within. The public places of entertainment are pretty sure to receive a prodigious proportion of the population of Paris every evening. A mechanic, or artisan, will devote two thirds of his daily gains to the participation of this pleasure. His dinner will consist of the most meagre fare--at the lowest possible price--provided, in the evening, he can hear _Talma_ declaim, _or Albert_ warble, or see _Pol_ leap, or _Bigotini_ entrance a wondering audience by the grace of her movements, and the pathos of her dumb shew, in _Nina._ The preceding strikes me as the general complexion of character of three fourths of the Parisians: but then they are gay, and cheerful, and apparently happy. If they have not the phlegm of the German, or the thoughtfulness of ourselves, they are less cold, and less insensible to the passing occurrences of life. A little pleases them, and they give in return much more than they receive. One thing, however, cannot fail to strike and surprise an attentive observer of national character. With all their quickness, enthusiasm, and activity, the mass of French people want that admirable quality which I unfeignedly think is the particular characteristic of ourselves:--I mean, _common sense_. In the midst of their architectural splendor--while their rooms are refulgent with gilding and plate-glass; while their mantle-pieces sparkle with or-molu clocks; or their tables are decorated with vases, and artificial flowers of the most exquisite workmanship--and while their carpets and curtains betray occasionally all the voluptuousness of eastern pomp ... you can scarcely obtain egress or ingress into the respective apartments, from the wretchedness of their _locks_ and _keys!_ Mechanical studies or improvements should seem to be almost entirely uncultivated--for those who remember France nearly half a century ago, tell me that it was pretty much then as it is now. Another thing discomposes the sensitive nerves of the English; especially those of our notable housewives. I allude to the rubbishing appearance of their _grates_--and the dingy and sometimes disgusting aspect of carpets and flowered furniture. A good mahogany dining table is a perfect rarity[199]--and let him, who stands upon a chair to take down a quarto or octavo, beware how he encounter a broken shin or bruised elbow, from the perpendicularity of the legs of that same chair. The same want of common-sense, cleanliness, and convenience--is visible in nearly the whole of the French ménage. Again, in the streets--their cabriolet drivers and hackney coachmen are sometimes the most furious of their tribe. I rescued, the other day, an old and respectable gentleman-- with the cross of St. Louis appendant to his button-hole--from a situation, in which, but for such a rescue, he must have been absolutely knocked down and rode over. He shook his cane at the offender; and, thanking me very heartily for my protection, observed, "these rascals improve daily in their studied insult of all good Frenchmen." The want of _trottoirs_ is a serious and even absurd want; as it might be so readily supplied. Their carts are obviously ill-constructed, and especially in the caps of the wheels; which, in a narrow street--as those of Paris usually are--unnecessarily occupy a _foot_ of room, where scarcely an _inch_ can be spared. The rubbish piled against the posts, in different parts of the street, is as disgusting as it is obviously inconvenient. A police "ordonnance" would obviate all this in twenty-four hours. Yet in many important respects the Parisian multitude read a lesson to ourselves. In their public places of resort, the French are wonderfully decorous; and along the streets, no lady is insulted by the impudence of either sex. You are sure to walk in peace, if you conduct yourself peaceably. I had intended to say a word upon morals: and religion; but the subject, while it is of the highest moment, is beyond the reach of a traveller whose stay is necessarily short, and whose occupations, upon the whole, have been confined rather among the dead than the living. Farewell, therefore, to PARIS. I have purchased a very commodious travelling carriage; to which a pair of post-horses will be attached in a couple of days--and then, for upwards of three hundred miles of journey--towards STRASBOURG! No schoolboy ever longed for a holiday more ardently than I do for the relaxation which this journey will afford me. A thousand hearty farewells! [191] [The work is now perfect in 3 volumes.] [192] [I here annex a fac-simile of his autograph from the foot of the account for these drawings.] [Illustration] [193] Then, Louis XVIII. [194] ["Sir T. Lawrence, who painted the portrait of the late Duke de Richlieu, which was seen at the last exhibition, is undoubtedly of the first class of British Portrait painters; but, according to Mr. Dibdin's judgment, many artists would have preferred to have sided with our Gérard." CRAPELET. vol. iv. 220. I confess I do not understand this reasoning: nor perhaps will my readers.] [195] [Here, Mons. Crapelet drily and pithily says, "Translated from the English." What then? Can there be the smallest shadow of doubt about the truth of the above assertion? None--with Posterity.] [196] At Domremi, in Lorraine. [197] When Desnoyers was over here, in 1819, he unequivocally expressed his rapture about our antiquarian engravings--especially of Gothic churches. Mr. Wild's _Lincoln Cathedral_ produced a succession of ecstatic remarks. "When your fine engravings of this kind come over to Paris we get little committees to sit upon them"--observed Desnoyers to an engraver--who communicated the fact to the author. [198] [The experience of ten years has confirmed THE TRUTH of the above remark.] [199] [Not so now! Mahogany, according to M. Crapelet, is every where at Paris, and at the lowest prices.] _LETTER XII._ PARIS TO STRASBOURG. _Hotel de l'Esprit, Strasbourg, July 20, 1818_. I can hardly describe to you the gratification I felt on quitting the "trein-trein".of Paris for the long, and upon the whole interesting, journey to the place whence I date this despatch. My love of rural sights, and of rural enjoyments of almost every kind, has been only equalled by my admiration of the stupendous Cathedral of this celebrated city. But not a word about the city of Strasbourg itself, for the present. My description, both of _that_ and of its _curiosities_, will be properly reserved for another letter; when I shall necessarily have had more leisure and fitter opportunities for the execution of the task. On the eleventh of this month, precisely at ten o'clock, the rattling of the hoofs of two lusty post horses--together with the cracking of an _experimental_ flourish or two of the postilion's whip--were heard in the court-yard of the Hôtel des Colonies. Nothing can exceed the punctuality of the Poste Royale in the attendance of the horses at the precise hour of ordering them. Travellers, and especially those from our _own_ country, are not _quite_ so punctual in availing themselves of this regularity; but if you keep the horses for the better part of an hour before you start, you must pay something extra for your tardiness. Of all people, the _English_ are likely to receive the most useful lesson from this wholesome regulation. By a quarter past ten, Mr. Lewis and myself having mounted our voiture, and given the signal for departure, received the "derniers adieux" of Madame the hostess, and of the whole corps of attendants. On leaving the gates of the hotel, the postilion put forth all his energies in sundry loud smackings of his whip; and as we went at a cautious pace through the narrower streets, towards the _Barriers of St. Martin_, I could not but think, with inward satisfaction, that, on visiting and leaving a city, so renowned as Paris, for the _first_ time, I had gleaned more intellectual fruit than I had presumed to hope for; and that I had made acquaintances which might probably ripen into a long and steady friendship. In short, my own memoranda, together with the drawings of Messrs. Lewis and Coeuré, were results, which convinced me that my time had not been mispent, and that my objects of research were not quite undeserving of being recorded. Few reflections give one so much pleasure, on leaving, a city--where there are so many thousand temptations to abuse time and to destroy character. The day of our departure was very fine, tending rather to heat. In a little half hour we cleared the barrier of St. Martin, and found ourselves on the broad, open, route royale--bordered by poplars and limes. To the right, was the pretty village of _Belleville:_ to the left, at the distance of some six or eight English miles, we observed _Montmorenci, St. Germain en Laye_, and, considerably nearer, _St. Denis_. All these places, together with _Versailles,_ I had previously visited--Montmorenci and St. Denis twice-- and intended to have given you an account of them; but you could have received from me scarcely any thing more than what the pages of the commonest tour would have supplied you with. We first changed horses at _Bondy_, the forest of which was once very extensive and much celebrated. You now behold little more than a formal avenue of trees. The _Castle of Raincy_, situated in this forest, is to the right, well-wooded--and the property of the Duke of Orleans. _Ville-Parisis_ was the next prettiest spot, in our route to _Claye_, where we again changed horses. The whole route, from _Ville-Parisis_ to _Meaux_, was exceedingly pleasing and even picturesque. At Meaux we dined, and have reason to remember the extravagant charges of the woman who kept the inn. The heat of the day was now becoming rather intense. While our veal-cutlet was preparing, we visited the church; which had frequently, and most picturesquely, peeped out upon us during our route. It is a large, cathedral-like looking church, without transepts, Only one tower (in the west front), is built--with the evident intention of raising another in the same aspect. They were repairing the west front, which is somewhat elaborately ornamented; but so intensely hot was the sun--on our coming out to examine it--that we were obliged to retreat into the interior, which seemed to contain the atmosphere of a different climate. A tall, well-dressed, elderly priest, in company with a middle-aged lady, were ascending the front steps to attend divine service. Hot as it was, the priest saluted us, and stood a half minute without his black cap--with the piercing rays of the sun upon a bald head. The bell tolled softly, and there was a quiet calm about the whole which almost invited, us to _postpone_ our attack upon the dinner we had ordered. Ten francs for a miserable cutlet--and a yet more wretchedly-prepared fricandeau--with half boiled artichokes, and a bottle of undrinkable vin ordinaire--was a charge sufficiently monstrous to have excited the well known warmth of expostulation of an English traveller--but it was really too hot to talk aloud! The landlady pocketed my money, and I pocketed the affront which so shameful a charge may be considered as having put upon me. We now rolled leisurely on towards _La Ferté-sous-Jouarre:_ about five French-leagues from Meaux--not without stopping to change horses at _St. Jean,_ &c. The heat would not even allow of the exercise of the postilion's whip. Every body, and every thing seemed to be oppressed by it. The labourer was stretched out in the shade, and the husbandman slept within the porch of his cottage. We had no sooner entered the little town of La Ferté-sous-Jouarre, and driven to the post-house, when not fewer than four blacksmiths came rushing out of their respective forges, to examine every part of the carriage. "A nail had started here: a screw was wanting there: and a fracture had taken place in another direction: even the perch was given way in the centre!" "Alas, for my voiture de voyage!" exclaimed I to my companion. Meanwhile, a man came forward with a red-hot piece of iron, in the shape of a cramp, to fix round the perch--which hissed as the application was made. And all this--before I could say wherefore! or even open my mouth to express astonishment! They were absolutely about to take off the wheels of the carriage; to examine, and to grease them--but it was then for the first time, that I opened a well-directed fire of expostulation; from which I apprehend that they discovered I was not perfectly ignorant either of their language or of their trickery. However, the rogues had _four_ francs for what they had the impudence to ask _six_; and considering my vehicle to be now proof against the probability of an accident, I was resolved to leave the town in the same good humour in which I had entered it. On quitting, we mounted slowly up a high ascent, and saw from thence the village of _Jouarre_, on a neighbouring summit, smothered with trees. It seemed to consist of a collection of small and elegant country houses, each with a lawn and an orchard. At the foot of the summit winds the unostentatious little stream of _Le Petit Morin_ The whole of this scenery, including the village of _Montreuil-aux-Lions_--a little onwards--was perfectly charming, and after the English fashion: and as the sky became mellowed by the rays of the declining sun, the entire landscape assumed a hue and character which absolutely refreshed our spirits after the heat of the previous part of the journey. We had resolved to sleep at _Chateau-Thierry_, about seven leagues off, and the second posting-place from where we had last halted. Night was coming on, and the moon rose slowly through a somewhat dense horizon, as we approached our rendezvous for the evening. All was tranquil and sweet. We drove to the inn called the _Sirène_, situated in the worst possible part of the town: but we quickly changed our determination, and bespoke beds for the night, and horses for the following morning, at the _Poste Royale_. The landlady of the Inn was a tartar--of her species. She knew how to talk civilly; and, for her, a more agreeable occupation--how to charge! We had little rest, and less sleep. By a quarter past five I was in the carriage; intending to breakfast at _Epernay_, about twenty-five miles off. The first post-station is _Parois_. It is a beautiful drive thither, and the village itself is exceedingly picturesque. From _Parois_ to _Dormans_, the next post village, the road continues equally interesting. We seemed to go each post like the wind; and reached _Epernay_ by nine o'clock. The drive from Dormans to Epernay is charming; and as the sky got well nigh covered by soft fleecy clouds when we reached the latter place, our physical strength, as well as animal spirits, seemed benefited by the change. I was resolved to _bargain_ for every future meal at an inn: and at Epernay I bespoke an excellent breakfast of fruit, eggs, coffee and tea, at three francs a head. This town is the great place in France for the manufacture of _Vin de Champagne_. It is here where they make it in the greatest quantities; although _Sillery_, near Rheims, boasts of champagne of a more delicate quality. I learnt here that the Prussians, in their invasion of France in 1814, committed sad havoc with this tempting property. They had been insulted, and even partially fired upon--as they passed through the town,--and to revenge themselves, they broke open the cellars of M ..., the principal wine merchant; and drank the contents of only--_one hundred thousand bottles of champagne_!" "But," said the owner of these cellars, (beyond the reach of the hearing of the Prussians, as you may be well assured!) "they did not break open my _largest vault_ ... where I had _half as much again!_. "Indeed, I was told that the wine vaults of Epernay were as well worth inspection, as the catacombs of Paris. I should observe to you that the river _Marne_, one of the second-rate rivers, of France, accompanies you pretty closely all the way from Chateau Thierry to Chalons--designated as _Chalons-sur-Marne._ From Epernay to Chalons you pass through nothing but corn fields. It is a wide and vast ocean of corn--with hardly a tree, excepting those occasionally along the road, within a boundary of ten miles. Chalons is a large and populous town; but the churches bear sad traces of revolutionary fury. Some of the porches, once covered with a profusion of rich, alto-relievo sculpture, are absolutely treated as if these ornaments had been pared away to the very quick! Scarcely a vestige remains. It is in this town where the two great roads to STRASBOURG--one by _Metz_, and the other by _Nancy_--unite. The former is to the north, the latter to the south. I chose the latter; intending to return to Paris by the former. On leaving Chalons, we purposed halting to dine at _Vitry-sur-Marne_--distant two posts, of about four leagues each. _La Chaussée,_ which we reached at a very smart trot, was the first post town, and is about half way to Vitry. From thence we had "to mount a huge hill"--- as the postilion told us; but it was here, as in Normandy--these huge hills only provoked our laughter. However, the wheel was subjected to the drag-chain--and midst clouds of white dust, which converted us into millers, we were compelled to descend slowly. Vitry was seen in the distance, which only excited our appetite and made us anxious to increase our pace. On reaching Vitry, I made my terms for dinner with the landlady of the principal inn--who was literally as sharp as a razor. However, we had a comfortable room, a good plain dinner, with an excellent bottle of _Vin de Beaune_, for three francs each. "Could Monsieur refuse this trifling payment?" He could not. Before dinner I strolled to the principal church-- which is indeed a structure of a most noble appearance--like that of St. Sulpice in form, and perhaps of a little more than half its size. It is the largest parish church which I have yet seen; but it is comparatively modern. It was Sunday; and a pleasing spectacle presented itself on entering. A numerous group of young women, dressed almost entirely in white, with white caps and veils, were singing a sort of evening hymn-- which I understood to be called the _Chaplet of the Virgin_. Their voices, unaccompanied by instrumental music, sounded sweetly from the loftiness of the roof; and every singer seemed to be touched with the deepest sense of devotion. They sang in an attitude with the body leaning forward, and the head gently inclined. The silence of the place--its distance from the metropolis--the grey aspect of the heavens--and the advanced hour of the day ... all contributed to produce in our minds very pleasing and yet serious sensations. I shall not easily forget the hymn called THE CHAPLET OF THE VIRGIN, as it was sung in the church of Vitry. After leaving this place we successively changed horses at _Longchamp_ and at _St. Dizier_. To our great comfort, it began to threaten rain. While the horses were being changed at the former place, I sat down upon a rough piece of stone, in the high road, by the side of a well dressed paysanne, and asked her if she remembered the retreat of Bonaparte in the campaign of 1814--and whether he had passed there? She said she remembered it well. Bonaparte was on horseback, a little in advance of his troops--and ambled gently, within six paces of where we were sitting. His head was rather inclined, and he appeared to be very thoughtful. _St. Dizier_ was the memorable place upon which Bonaparte made a rapid retrograde march, in order to get into the rear of the allied troops, and thus possess himself of their supplies. But this desperate movement, you know, cost him his capital, and eventually his empire. St. Dizier is rather a large place, and the houses are almost uniformly white. Night and rain came on together as we halted to change horses. But we were resolved upon another stage--to _Saudrupt_: and were now about entering the department of LORRAINE. The moon struggled through a murky sky, after the cessation of rain, as we entered _Saudrupt_: which is little better than a miserable village. Travellers seldom or never sleep here; but we had gone a very considerable distance since five in the morning, and were glad of any thing in the shape of beds. Not an inn in Normandy which we had visited, either by day or by night, seemed to be more sorry and wretched than this, where we--stretched our limbs, rather than partook of slumber. At one in the morning, a young and ardent lover chose to serenade his mistress, who was in the next house, with a screaming tune upon a half-cracked violin--which, added to the never-ceasing smacking of whips of farmers, going to the next market town-- completed our state of restlessness and misery. Yet, the next morning, we had a breakfast ... so choice, so clean, and so refreshing--in a place of all others the least apparently likely to afford it--that we almost fancied our strength had been recruited by a good night's sleep. The landlord could not help his miserable mansion, for he was very poor: so I paid him cheerfully and liberally for the accommodation he was capable of affording, and at nine o'clock left Saudrupt in the hope of a late dinner at NANCY-- the capital of Lorraine. The morning was fresh and fair. In the immediate neighbourhood of Saudrupt is the pretty village of _Brillon_, where I noticed some stone crosses; and where I observed that particular species of domestic architecture, which, commencing almost at Longchamps, obtains till within nearly three stages of Strasbourg. It consists in having rather low or flat roofs, in the Italian manner, with all the beams projecting _outside_ of the walls: which gives it a very unfinished and barbarous look. And here too I began to be more and more surprised at the meagreness of the population of the _country_. Even on quitting Epernay, I had noticed it to my companion. The human beings you see, are chiefly females--ill-featured, and ill complexioned-- working hard beneath the rays of a scorching sun. As to that sabbath-attire of cleanliness, even to smartness among our _own_ country people, it is a thing very rarely to be seen in the villages of France. At Brillon, we bought fine cherries, of a countrywoman for two sous the pound. _Bar-le Duc_ is the next post-town. It is a place of considerable extent and population: and is divided into the upper and lower town. The approach to it, along hilly passes, covered with vineyards, is pleasant enough. The driver wished to take us to the upper town--to see the church of St. Peter, wherein is contained "a skeleton perforated with worm-holes, which was the admiration of the best connoisseurs." We civilly declined such a sight, but had no objection to visit the church. It was a Saint's day: and the interior of the church was crowded to excess by women and lads. An old priest was giving his admonition from the high altar, with great propriety and effect: but we could not stay 'till the conclusion of the service. The carriage was at the door; and, reascending, we drove to the lower town, down a somewhat fearful descent, to change horses. It was impossible to avoid noticing the prodigious quantity of fruit--especially of currants and strawberries. _Ligny_ was our next halting place, to change horses. The route thither was sufficiently pleasant. You leave the town through rather a consequential gateway, of chaste Tuscan architecture, and commence ascending a lofty hill. From hence you observe, to the left, an old castle in the outskirts of the town. The road is here broad and grand: and although a very lively breeze was playing in our faces, yet we were not insensible to the increasing heat of the day. We dined at _St. Aubin_. A hearty good-humoured landlady placed before us a very comfortable meal, with a bottle of rather highly-flavoured vin ordinaire. The inn was little better than a common ale house in England: but every thing was "très propre." On leaving, we seemed to be approaching high hills, through flat meadows--where very poor cattle were feeding. A pretty drive towards _Void_ and _Laye_, the next post-towns: but it was still prettier on approaching _Toul_, of which the church, at a distance, had rather a cathedral-like appearance. We drank tea at Toul--but first proceeded to the church, which we found to be greatly superior to that of Meaux. Its interior is indeed, in parts, very elegant: and one lancet-shaped window, in particular, of stained glass, may even vie with much of what the cathedral of this place affords. At Toul, for the first time since quitting Paris, we were asked for our passports; it being a fortified town. Our next stage was _Dommartin_; behind which appeared to be a fine hilly country, now purpled by the rays of a declining sun. The church of Toul, in our rear, assumed a more picturesque appearance than before. At _Velaine_, the following post-town, we had a pair of fine mettlesome Prussian horses harnessed to our voiture, and started at a full swing trot--through the forest of Hayes, about a French league in length. The shade and coolness of this drive, as the sun was getting low, were quite refreshing. The very postilion seemed to enjoy it, and awakened the echoes of each avenue by the unintermitting sounds of numberless flourishes of his whip. "How tranquil and how grand!" would he occasionally exclaim. On clearing the forest, we obtained the first glimpse of something like a distant mountainous country: which led us to conclude that we were beginning to approach the VOSGES--or the great chain of mountains, which, running almost due north and south, separates France from ALSACE. Below, glittered the spires of _Nancy_--as the sun's last rays rested upon them. A little distance beyond, shot up the two elegant towers of _St. Nicholas_; but I am getting on a little too fast.... The forest of Hayes can be scarcely less than a dozen English miles in breadth. I had never before seen so much wood in France. Yet the want of water is a great draw-back to the perfection of rural scenery in this country. We had hardly observed one rivulet since we had quitted the little glimmering stream at Chateau-Thierry. We now gained fast upon NANCY, the capital of Lorraine. It is doubtless among the handsomest provincial towns in Europe; and is chiefly indebted for its magnificence to Stanislaus, King of Poland, who spent the latter part of his life there, and whose daughter was married to Louis XV. The annexation of Lorraine to France has been considered the masterpiece of Louis's policy. Nancy may well boast of her broad and long streets: running chiefly at right angles with each other: well paved, and tolerably clean. The houses are built chiefly of stone. Here are churches, a theatre, a college, a public library--palace-like buildings--public gardens-- hospitals, coffee houses, and barracks. In short, Nancy is another Caen; but more magnificent, although less fruitful in antiquities. The _Place de la Liberté_ et _d'alliance_ et _de la Carriére_ may vie with the public buildings of Bath; but some of the sculptured ornaments of the _former_, exhibit miserable proofs of the fury of the Revolutionists. Indeed Nancy was particularly distinguished by a visit of the Marseillois gentry, who chose to leave behind pretty strong proofs of their detestation of what was at once elegant and harmless. The headless busts of men and women, round the house of the governor, yet prove the excesses of the mob; and the destruction of two places of worship was the close of their devastating labours. Nancy is divided into the _Old_ and the _New Town_. The four principal streets, dividing the latter nearly at right angles, are terminated by handsome arches, in the character of _gateways_. They have a noble appearance. On the first evening of our arrival at Nancy, we walked, after a late cup of tea, into the public garden--at the extremity of the town. It was broad moon light; and the appearance of the _Caffés_, and several _Places_, had quite a new and imposing effect; they being somewhat after the Parisian fashion. After a day of dust, heat, and rapid motion, a seat upon one of the stone-benches of the garden--surrounded by dark green trees, of which the tops were tipt with silver by the moon beam--could not fail to refresh and delight me: especially as the tranquillity of the place was only disturbed by the sounds of two or three groups of _bourgeoises_, strolling arm in arm, and singing what seemed to be a popular, national air--of which the tune was somewhat psalm-like. The broad walks abounded with bowers, and open seats; and the general effect was at once singular and pleasing. The Hotel-Royal is an excellent inn; and the owners of it are very civil people. My first visits were paid to churches and to bookseller's shops. Of churches, the _Cathedral_ is necessarily the principal. It is large, lofty, and of an elegant construction, of the Grecian order: finished during the time of Stanislaus. The ornamental parts are too flaunting; too profuse, and in bad taste. This excess of decoration pervades also the house of the Governor; which, were it not so, might vie with that of Lord Burlington; which it is not unlike in its general appearance. In the Cathedral, the monument of Stanislaus, by Girardon, is _considered_ to be a chef-d'ouvre. There was a Girardet--chief painter to Stanislaus, who is here called "the rival of Apelles:" a rival with a vengeance! From thence I went to an old church--perhaps of the thirteenth, but certainly of the fourteenth century. They call it, I think, _St. Epreuve._ In this church I was much struck with a curious old painting, executed in distemper, upon the walls of a side aisle, which seemed to be at least three hundred years old. It displayed the perils and afflictions of various Saints, on various emergencies, and how they were all eventually saved by the interposition of the Virgin. A fine swaggering figure, in the foreground, dressed out in black and yellow-striped hose, much delighted me. Parts of this curious old picture were worth copying. Near to this curiosity seemed to be a fine, genuine painting, by Vandyke, of the Virgin and Child--the first exhibition of the kind which I had seen since leaving Paris. It formed a singular contrast to the picture before described. On quitting this old church, I could not help smiling to observe a bunch of flowers, in an old mustard pot--on which was inscribed "_Moutarde Fine de Nageon, à Dijon_--" placed at the feet of a statue of the Virgin as a sacred deposit! On leaving the church, I visited two booksellers: one of them rather distinguished for his collection of _Alduses_--as I was informed. I found him very chatty, very civil, but not very reasonable in his prices. He told me that he had plenty of old books--_Alduses_ and _Elzevirs, &c_.--with lapping-over vellum-bindings. I desired nothing better; and followed him up stairs. Drawer after drawer was pulled out. These M. Renouard had seen: those the Comte d'Ourches had wished to purchase; and a third pile was destined for some nobleman in the neighbourhood. There was absolutely nothing in the shape of temptation--except a _Greek Herodian_, by Theodore Martin of Louvain, and a droll and rather rare little duodecimo volume, printed at Amsterdam in 1658, entitled _La Comédie de Proverbes_. The next bookseller I visited, was a printer. "Had he any thing old and curious?" He replied, with a sort of triumphant chuckle, that he "once had _such_ a treasure of this kind!" "What might it have been?" "A superb missal--for which a goldsmith had offered him twelve sous for each initial letter upon a gold ground--but which he had parted with, for 100 francs, to the library of a Benedictin monastery--now destroyed. It had cost him twelve sous." "But see, Sir, (continued he) is not this curious?" "It is a mere reprint, (replied I) of what was first published three hundred years ago." "No matter--buy it, and read it--it will amuse you--and it costs only five sous." I purchased two copies, and I send you here the title and the frontispiece. "_Le Dragon Rouge, ou l'art de commander les Esprits Célestes, Aériens, Terrestres, Infernaux. Avec le vrai Secret de faire parler les Morts; de gagner toutes les fois qu'on met aux Lotteries; de découvrir les Trésors," &c_. [Illustration] The bookseller told me that he regularly sold hundreds of copies of this work, and that the country people yet believed in the efficacy of its contents! I had been told that it was in this very town that a copy of _the Mazarine Bible_ had been picked up for some _half_ _dozen francs!_--and conveyed to the public library at Munich. Towards the evening, I visited the public library by appointment. Indeed I had casually met the public librarian at the first Bouquiniste's: and he fixed the hour of half-past six. I was punctual almost to the minute; and on entering the library, found a sort of BODLEY in miniature: except that there was a great mass of books in the middle of the room--placed in a parallelogram form--which I thought must have a prodigiously heavy pressure upon the floor. I quickly began to look about for _Editiones Principes_; but, at starting, my guide placed before me two copies of the celebrated _Liber Nanceidos_:[200] of which _one_ might be fairly said to be _large paper_. On continuing my examination, I found civil and canon law-- pandects, glosses, decretals, and commentaries--out of number: together with no small sprinkling of medical works. Among the latter was a curious, and _Mentelin_-like looking, edition of _Avicenna_. But _Ludolphus's Life of Christ_, in Latin, printed in the smallest type of _Eggesteyn_, in 1474, a folio, was a volume really worth opening and worth coveting. It was in its original monastic binding--large, white, unsullied, and abounding with rough marginal edges. It is supposed that the library contains 25,000 volumes. Attached to it is a Museum of Natural History. But alas! since the revolution it exhibits a frightful picture of decay, devastation, and confusion. To my eye, it was little better than the apothecary's shop described by Romeo. It contained a number of portraits in oil, of eminent Naturalists; which are palpable copies, by the same hand, of originals ... that have probably perished. The museum had been gutted of almost every thing that was curious or precious. Indeed they want funds, both for the museum and the library. It was near night-fall when I quitted the library, and walked with the librarian in a pleasant, open space, near one of the chief gates or entrances before mentioned. The evening was uncommonly sweet and serene: and the moon, now nearly full, rose with more than her usual lustre ... in a sky of the deepest blue which I had yet witnessed. I shall not readily forget the conversation of that walk. My companion spoke of his own country with the sincerity of a patriot, but with the good sense of an honest, observing, reflecting man. I had never listened to observations better founded, or which seemed calculated to produce more beneficial results. Of _our_ country, he spoke with an animation approaching to rapture. It is only the exercise of a grateful feeling to record this--of a man--whose name I have forgotten, and whose person I may never see again. On quitting each other, I proceeded somewhat thoughtfully, to an avenue of shady trees, where groups of men and women were sitting or strolling--beneath the broad moon beam--and chanting the popular airs of their country. The next morning I quitted Nancy. The first place of halting was _St. Nicholas_--of which the elegant towers had struck us on the other side of Nancy. It was no post town: but we could not pass such an ecclesiastical edifice without examining it with attention. The village itself is most miserable; yet it could once boast of a _press_ which gave birth to the _Liber Nanceidos_.[201] The space before the west front of the church is absolutely choked by houses of the most squalid appearance--so that there is hardly getting a good general view of the towers. The interior struck us as exceedingly interesting. There are handsome transepts; in one of which is a large, circular, central pillar; in the other, an equally large one, but twisted. One is astonished at finding such a large and beautiful building in such a situation; but formerly the place might have been large and flourishing. The west front of this church may rival two-thirds of similar edifices in France. _Domballe_ was the next post: the drive thither being somewhat picturesque. _Luneville_ is the immediately following post town. It is a large and considerable place; looking however more picturesque at a distance than on its near approach: owing to the red tiles of which the roofs are composed. Here are handsome public buildings; a fountain, with eight jets d'eau-- barracks, a theatre, and the castle of Prince Charles, of Lorraine. A good deal of business is carried on in the earthenware and cotton trade--of both which there is a manufactory--together with that of porcelaine. This place is known in modern history from the _Treaty of Luneville_ between the Austrians and French in 1801. From hence we went to _Bénaménil_, the next stage; and in our way thither, we saw, for the first time since leaving Paris, a _flock of geese!_ Dined at _Blamont_--the succeeding post town. While our cutlets were preparing we strolled to the old castle, now in a state of dilapidation. It is not spacious, but is a picturesque relic. Within the exterior walls is a fine kitchen garden. From the top of what might have been the donjon, we surveyed the surrounding country--at that moment rendered hazy by an atmosphere of dense, heated, vapour. Indeed it was uncommonly hot. Upon the whole, both the village and _Castle of Blamont_ merit at least the leisurely survey of an entire day. On starting for _Héming_, the next post, we were much pleased by the sight of a rich, verdant valley, fertilized by a meandering rivulet. The village of _Richeval_ had particular attractions; and the sight of alternate woods and meadows seemed to mitigate the severity of the heat of the day. At Héming we changed horses, opposite a large fountain where cattle were coming to drink. The effect was very picturesque; but there was no time for the pencil of Mr. Lewis to be exercised. In less than five minutes we were off for _Sarrebourg_. Evening came on as we approached it. Here I saw _hops_ growing, for the first time; and here, for the first time, I heard the _German language_ spoken--and observed much of the German character in the countenances of the inhabitants. The postilion was a German, and could not speak one word of French. However, he knew the art of driving--for we seemed to fly like the wind towards _Hommarting_--which we reached in half an hour. It was just two leagues from Sarrebourg. We stopped to change horses close to what seemed to be a farm house; and as the animals were being "yoked to the car," for another German Phaeton, I walked into a very large room, which appeared to be a kitchen. Two long tables were covered with supper; at each of which sat--as closely wedged as well could be--a great number of work-people of both sexes, and of all ages. Huge dogs were moving backwards and forwards, in the hope of receiving some charitable morsel;, and before the fire, on a littered hearth, lay stretched out two tremendous mastiffs. I walked with fear and trembling. The cooks were carrying the evening meal; and the whole place afforded such an _interior_--as Jan Steen would have viewed with rapture, and Wilkie have been delighted to copy. Meanwhile the postilion's whip was sounded: the fresh horses were neighing: and I was told that every thing was ready. I mounted with alacrity. It was getting dark; and I requested the good people of the house to tell the postilion that I did not wish him to _sleep_ upon the road. The hint was sufficient. This second German postilion seemed to have taken a leaf out of the book of his predecessor: for we exchanged a sharp trot for a full swing canter--terminating in a gallop; and found ourselves unexpectedly before the gates of _Phalsbourg_. Did you ever, my dear friend, approach a fortified town by the doubtful light of a clouded moon, towards eleven of the clock? A mysterious gloom envelopes every thing. The drawbridge is up. The solitary centinel gives the pass-word upon the ramparts; and every footstep, however slight, has its particular echo. Judge then of the noise made by our heavy-hoofed coursers, as we neared the drawbridge. "What want you there?" said a thundering voice, in the French language, from within. "A night's lodging," replied I. "We are English travellers, bound for Strasbourg." "You must wait till I speak with the sub-mayor." "Be it so." We waited patiently; but heard a great deal of parleying within the gates. I began to think we should be doomed to retrace our course--when, after a delay of full twenty minutes, we heard ... to our extreme satisfaction ... the creaking of the hinges (but not as "harsh thunder") of the ponderous portals--which opened slowly and stubbornly--and which was succeeded by the clanking of the huge chain, and the letting down of the drawbridge. This latter rebounded slightly as it reached its level: and I think I hear, at this moment, the hollow rumbling noise of our horses' feet, as we passed over the deep yawning fosse below. Our passports were now demanded. We surrendered them willingly, on the assurance given of receiving them the following morning. The gates were now closed behind us, and we entered the town in high glee. "You are a good fellow," said I to the gatesman: come to me at the inn, to-morrow morning, and you shall be thanked in the way you like best." The landlord of the inn was not yet a-bed. As he heard our approach, he called all his myrmidons about him--and bade us heartily welcome. He was a good-looking, sleek, jolly-faced man: civilly spoken, with a ready utterance, which seemed prepared to touch upon all kinds of topics. After I had bespoken tea and beds, and as the boiling water was getting ready, he began after the following fashion: "Hé bien Mons. Le Comte ... comment vont les affaires en Angleterre? Et votre grand capitaine, le DUC DE VELLINGTON, comment se porte il? Ma foi, à ce moment, il joue un beau rôle." I answered that "matters were going on very well in England, and that our great Captain was in perfectly good health." "Vous le connoissez parfaitement bien, sans doute?"--was his next remark. I told him I could not boast of that honour. "Neanmoins, (added he) il est connu par-tout." I readily admitted the truth of this observation. Our dialogue concluded by an assurance on his part, that we should find our beds excellent, our breakfast on the morrow delicious--and he would order such a pair of horses (although he strongly recommended _four_,) to be put to our carriage, as should set all competition at defiance. His prediction was verified in every particular. The beds were excellent; the breakfast, consisting of coffee, eggs, fruit, and bread and butter, (very superior to what is usually obtained in France) was delicious; and the horses appeared to be perfect of their kind. The reckoning was, to be sure, a little severe: but I considered this as the payment or punishment of having received the title of _Count_ ... without contradiction. It fell on my ears as mere words of course; but it shall not deceive me a second time. We started a little time after nine; and on leaving the place I felt more than usual anxiety and curiosity to catch the first glimpse of the top of _Strasbourg Cathedral_,--a building, of which I had so long cherished even the most extravagant notions. The next post town was _Saverne_; and our route thither was in every respect the most delightful and gratifying of any, and even of all the routes, collectively, which we had yet experienced. As you approach it, you cross over a part of the famous chain of mountains which divide OLD FRANCE from Germany, and which we thought we had seen from the high ground on the other side of Nancy. The country so divided, was, and is yet, called ALSACE: and the mountains, just mentioned, are called the _Vosges_. They run almost due north and south: and form a commanding feature of the landscape in every point of view. But for Saverne. It lies, with its fine old castle, at the foot of the pass of these mountains; but the descent to it--is glorious beyond all anticipation! It has been comparatively only of late years that this road, or pass, has been completed. In former times, it was almost impassable. As the descent is rapid and very considerable, the danger attending it is obviated by the high road having been cut into a cork-screw-shape;[202] which presents, at every spiral turn (if I may so speak) something new, beautiful, and interesting. You continue, descending, gazing on all sides. To the right, suspended almost in the air--over a beetling, perpendicular, rocky cliff-- feathered half way up with nut and beech--stands, or rather nods, an old castle in ruins. It seems to shake with every breeze that blows: but there it stands--and has stood--for some four centuries: once the terror of the vassal, and now ... the admiration of the traveller! The castle was, to my eye, of all castles which I had seen, the most elevated in its situation, and the most difficult of access. The clouds of heaven seemed to be resting upon its battlements. But what do I see yonder? "Is it the top of the spire of Strasbourg Cathedral?" "It _is,_ Sir," replied the postilion. I pulled off my travelling cap, by way of doing homage; and as I looked at my watch, to know the precise time, found it was just ten o'clock. It was worth making a minute of. Yet, owing to the hills before--or rather to those beyond, on the other side of the Rhine, which are very much loftier--the first impression gives no idea of the extraordinary height of the spire. We continued to descend, slowly and cautiously, with _Saverne_ before us in the bottom. To the left, close to the road side, stands an obelisk: on which is fixed, hi gilt letters, this emphatic inscription: _ALSATIA._ Every thing, on reaching the level road, bespoke a distinct national character. It was clear that we had forsaken French costume, as well as the French language, among the common people: so obvious is it, as has been remarked to me by a Strasbourgeois, that "mountains, and not rivers, are the natural boundaries of countries." The women wore large, flat, straw hats, with a small rose at the bottom of a shallow crown; while their throats were covered, sometimes up to the mouth, with black, silk cravats. Their hair was platted, hanging down in two equal divisions. The face appeared to be flat. The men wore shovel hats, of which the front part projected to a considerable distance; and the perpetually recurring response of "_yaw yaw_"--left it beyond all doubt that we had taken leave of the language of "the polite nation." At length we reached Saverne, and changed horses. This town is large and bustling, and is said to contain upwards of four thousand inhabitants. We did not stop to examine any of its wonders or its beauties; for we were becoming impatient for Strasbourg. The next two intermediate post towns were _Wasselonne_ and _Ittenheim_--and thence to Strasbourg: the three posts united being about ten leagues. From Ittenheim we darted along yet more swiftly than before. The postilion, speaking in a germanised French accent, told us, that "we were about to visit one of the most famous cities in the world--and _such_ a CATHEDRAL!" The immediate approach to Strasbourg is flat and uninteresting; nor could I, in every possible view of the tower of the cathedral, bring myself to suppose it--what it is admitted to be--the _loftiest ecclesiastical edifice in the world_! The fortifications about Strasbourg are said to afford one of the finest specimens of the skill of Vauban. They may do so; but they are very flat, tame, and unpicturesque. We now neared the barriers: delivered our passports; and darted under the first large brick arched way. A devious paved route brought us to the second gate;--and thus we entered the town; desiring the post-boy to drive to the _Hôtel de l'Esprit_. "You judge wisely, Sir, (replied he) for there is no Hotel, either in France or Germany, like it." So saying, he continued, without the least intermission, to make circular flourishes with his whip--accompanied by such ear-piercing sounds, as caused every inhabitant to gaze at us. I entreated him to desist; but in vain. "The English always enter in this manner," said he-- and having reached the hotel, he gave _one_ super-eminent flourish--which threw him off his balance, and nearly brought him to the ground. When I paid him, he pleaded hard for an _extra five sous_ for this concluding flourish! I am now therefore safely and comfortably lodged in this spacious hotel, by the side of the river _Ill_--of which it is pleasing to catch the lingering breezes as they stray into my chamber. God bless you. * * * * * P.S. One thing I cannot help adding--perhaps hardly deserving of a postscript. All the way from Paris to Strasbourg, I am persuaded that we did not meet _six_ travelling equipages. The lumbering diligence and steady Poste Royale were almost the only vehicles in action besides our own. Nor were _villas_ or _chateaux_ visible; such as, in our own country, enliven the scene and put the traveller in spirits. [200] A folio volume, printed at St. Nicolas, a neighbouring village, in 1518. It is a poem, written in Latin hexameter verse by P. Blaru [P. de Blarrovivo]--descriptive of the memorable siege of Nancy in 1476, by CHARLES THE RASH, Duke of Burgundy: who perished before the walls. His death is described in the sixth book, _sign_. t. iiij: the passage relating to it, beginning "Est in Nanceijs aratro locus utilis aruis:" A wood cut portrait of the commanding French general, Renet, is in the frontispiece. A good copy of this interesting work should always grace the shelves of an historical collector. Brunet notices a copy of it UPON VELLUM, in some monastic library in Lorraine. [Three days have not elapsed, since I saw a similar copy in the possession of Messrs. Payne and Foss, destined for the Royal Library at Paris. A pretty, rather than a magnificent, book.] [201] See page 362. [202] When this 'chaussée,' or route royale, was completed, it was so admired, that the ladies imitated its cork-screw shape, by pearls arranged spirally in their hair; and this head dress was called _Coiffure à la Saverne_. _LETTER XIII._ STRASBOURG. ESTABLISHMENT OF THE PROTESTANT RELIGION. THE CATHEDRAL. THE PUBLIC LIBRARY. _Hôtel de l'Esprit, July 26, 1818_. MY DEAR FRIEND; It is Sunday; and scarcely half an hour ago, I heard, from a Lutheran church on the other side of the water, what I call good, hearty, rational psalm-singing: without fiddles or trombones or serpents. Thus, although considerably further from home, I almost fancied myself in old England. This letter will touch chiefly upon topics of an antiquarian cast, but of which I venture to anticipate your approbation; because I have long known your attachment to the history of ALSACE--and that you have Schoepflin's admirable work[203] upon that country almost at your finger's ends. The city of Strasbourg encloses within its walls a population of about fifty thousand souls. I suspect, however, that in former times its population was more numerous. At this present moment there are about two hundred-and fifty streets, great and small; including squares and alleys. The main streets, upon the whole, are neither wide nor narrow; but to a stranger they have a very singular appearance, from the windows being occasionally covered, on the outside, with _iron bars_, arranged after divers fashions. This gives them a very prison-like effect, and is far from being ornamental. The glazing of the windows is also frequently very curious. In general, the panes of glass are small, and circular, confined in leaden casements. The number of houses in Strasbourg is estimated at three thousand five hundred. There are not fewer than forty-seven bridges in the interior of the town. These cross the branches of the rivers _Ill_ and _Bruche_--which empty themselves into the _Rhine_. The fortifications of Strasbourg are equally strong and extensive; but they assumed formerly a more picturesque, if not a more powerful aspect.[204] There are _seven parishes_; of which four are catholic, and three protestant. This brings me to lay before you a brief outline of the rise and progress of PROTESTANTISM in this place. Yet, as a preliminary remark, and as connected with our mutual antiquarian pursuits, you are to know that, besides parish churches, there were formerly _fourteen convents_, exclusively of chapelries. All these are minutely detailed in the recent work of M. Hermann,[205] from which indeed I have gleaned the chief of the foregoing particulars. A great many of these convents were suppressed in the sixteenth century, upon the establishment of the protestant religion. But for a brief outline of the rise and progress of this establishment. It must indeed be brief; but if so, it shall at least be clear and faithful. The forerunner of Luther (in my opinion) was JOHN GEYLER; a man of singular intrepidity of head and heart. He was a very extraordinary genius, unquestionably; and the works which he has bequeathed to posterity evince the variety of his attainments. Geyler preached boldly in the cathedral against the lax manners and doubtful morality of the clergy. He exhorted the magistrates to do their duty, and predicted that there must be an alteration of religious worship ere the general morals of the community could be amended. They preserve a stone chair or pulpit, of very curious workmanship, but which had nearly been destroyed during the Revolution, in which Geyler used to deliver his lectures. He died in 1510; and within a dozen years after his death the doctrines of LUTHER, were sedulously inculcated. The ground had been well prepared for such seed. The court of Rome looked on with uneasiness; and the Pope sent a legate to Strasbourg in 1522, to vent his anathemas, and to raise a strong party against the growth of this new heresy--as it was called. At this time, the reformed doctrine was even taught in the cathedral; and, a more remarkable thing to strike the common people, the RECTOR of the church of St. Thomas (the second religious establishment of importance, after that of the cathedral) VENTURED TO MARRY! He was applauded both by the common people and by many of the more respectable families. His example was followed: and the religious of both sexes were allowed to leave their establishments, to go where they would, and to enter upon the married state. In 1530 the mass was generally abolished: and the protestant religion was constantly exercised in the cathedral. The spirit both of Geyler and of Luther might have rejoiced to find, in 1550, the chapter of St. Thomas resolutely avowing its determination to perform the protestant--and nothing but the protestant--religion within its own extensive establishment. The flame of the new religion seemed now to have reached all quarters, and warmed all hearts. But a temporary check to its progress was given by the cautious policy of Charles V. That wary and heartless monarch (who had even less religion than he had of the ordinary feelings of humanity) interfered with the weight of his power, and the denunciations of his vengeance. Yet he found it necessary neither wholly to suppress, nor wholly to check, the progress of the protestant religion: while, on the other hand, the Strasbourgeois dreaded too much the effects of his power to dispute his will by any compact or alliance of opposition. In 1550, therefore, the matter stood thus. The cathedral, and the collegiate and parish churches of St. Peter the Elder and St. Peter the Younger, as well as the Oratory of all Saints, adopted the _catholic_ form of worship. The other parish churches adopted that of the _protestant_. Yet in 1559 there happened such a serious affray in the cathedral church itself--between the Catholics and Protestants--as taught the former the obvious necessity of conceding as much as possible to the latter. It followed, that, towards the end of the same century, there were, in the cathedral chapter, _seventeen protestant_, and _eight catholic_ canons. Among the _latter_, however, was the celebrated Cardinal de Lorraine:--one of the most powerful, the most furious, and the most implacable of the enemies of Protestantism. The part he took in the massacre of St. Bartholomew's day, consigns his name to everlasting ignominy and detestation. In 1610 a league was formed for the adjustment of the differences between the Catholics and Protestants: but the unfortunate thirty years war breaking out in 1618, and desolating nearly the whole of Germany, prevented the permanent consolidation of the interests of either party. All this time Strasbourg was under the power, as it even now speaks the language, and partakes of the customs and manners, of GERMANY: but its very situation rendered it the prey of both the contending powers of Germany and France. At length came the memorable, and as I suspect treacherous, surrender of Strasbourg to the arms of Louis XIV, in September 1681; when the respective rights and privileges of the Catholics and Protestants were placed upon a definite footing: although, before this event, the latter had considerably the ascendancy. These rights were endeavoured to be shaken by the revocation of the edict of Nantes in 1685--not however before the Jesuits had been striving to warp the feelings of the latter in favour of the former. The catholic religion was, by the articles of the surrender of the city, established in the cathedral, in the subordinate churches of St. Peter the Elder and St. Peter the Younger, and in the Oratory of All Saints: and it has continued to be exercised pretty much in the same proportion unto this day. The majority of the inhabitants are however decidedly Protestants. Such is a succinct, but I believe not unfaithful, account of the establishment of the PROTESTANT RELIGION at Strasbourg. This subject therefore naturally brings me to notice the principal _Temple of Worship_ in which the rites of either religion seem, for a long time, to have been alternately exercised; and this temple can be no other than _the Minster_--or, as we should say, the _Cathedral._ Ere I assume the office of the historian, let me gratify my inclinations as a spectator. Let me walk round this stupendous structure. At this moment, therefore, consider me as standing in full gaze before its west front--from which the tower springs. This tower seems to reach to heaven. Indeed the whole front quite overwhelms you with alternate emotions of wonder and delight. Luckily there is some little space before it, in which trees have been recently planted; and where (as I understand) the fruit and vegetable market is held. At the further end of this space in approaching the Cathedral, and in running the eye over the whole front, the first thing that strikes you is, the red or copperas colour of the stone--which I presume to be a species of sand stone. This gives a sort of severe metallic effect. However you are riveted to the spot wherein you command the first general survey of this unparalleled front. The delicacy, the finish, the harmonious intricacy, and faery-like lightness, of the whole--even to the summit of the spire;--which latter indeed has the appearance of filigree work, raised by enchantment, and through the interstices of which the bright blue sky appears with a lustre of which you have no conception in England--all this, I say, perfectly delights and overwhelms you. You want words to express your ideas, and the extent of your gratification. You feel convinced that the magnificent edifice before you seems to be the _ne plus ultra_ of human skill in ornamental gothic architecture. Undoubtedly one regrets here, as at Antwerp, the absence of a corresponding tower; but you are to form your judgment upon what is _actually_ before you, and, at the same time, to bear in mind that this tower and spire--for it partakes of both characters--is full _four hundred and seventy four_ English feet in height![206]--and, consequently, some twenty or thirty feet only lower than the top of St. Peter's at Rome. One is lost in astonishment, on bearing such an altitude in mind, considering the delicacy of the spire. There is no place fitting for a satisfactory view of it, within its immediate vicinity.[207] This western front, or facade, is divided into three stages or compartments. The bottom or lower one is occupied by three magnificent porches; of which the central is by far the loftiest and most ornamental. The period of their execution is from the year 1270 to 1320: a period, when gothic architecture was probably at its highest pitch of perfection. The central porch is divided into five compartments on each side--forming an angle of about forty-five degrees with the door-way. The lower parts of these divisions contain each a statue, of the size of life, upon its respective pediment. The upper parts, which blend with the arch-like construction, are filled with small statues, upon pediments, having a sort of brilliant, fretted appearance. All these figures are representations of characters in Scripture. Again, above this archway, forming the central ornaments of the sharper angles, are the figures of the Almighty, the Virgin and Child, and Solomon. In front, above the door way, upon a flat surface, are four sculptured compartments; devoted to scriptural subjects. The same may be said of the right and left porch. They are equally elaborate, and equally devoted to representations of scriptural subjects. They will have it, that, according to tradition, the daughter of Ervin de Steinbach, the chief architect of the western front, worked a great deal at this central porch, and even sculptured several of the figures. However this may be, the _tout ensemble_ is really beyond any thing which could be satisfactorily conveyed by a written description. We now cast our eye upon the second division of this stupendous facade; and here our attention is almost exclusively devoted to the enormous circular or marygold window, in the central compartment. It is filled with stained glass--and you are to know that the circumference of the outer circle is one hundred and sixty-English feet: or about fifty-three feet in diameter; and I challenge you to shew me the like--in any building of which you have any knowledge! Perhaps the most wonderful part of this structure is the open filigree work of the tower, immediately above the platform: though I admit that the _spiral_ part is exceedingly curious and elaborate. Of course there was no examining such a wonder without mounting to the platform, and ascending the tower itself. The platform is about three hundred feet from the pavement. We quitted this tenement, and walked straight forward upon the platform. What a prospect was before us. There flowed the RHINE! I felt an indescribable joy on my first view of that majestic river. There it flowed ... broad and rapid ... and apparently peaceful, within its low banks. On the other, or eastern side of it, was a range of lofty hills, of a mountainous character. On the opposite side of the town ran the great chain of hills--called the VOSGES--which we had crossed in our route hither; and of which we had now a most extensive and unobstructed view. These hills were once the abode of adventurous chieftains and powerful nobles; and there was scarcely an eminence but what had been formerly crowned by a baronial castle.[208] Below, appeared the houses of Strasbourg ... shrunk to rabbit-hutches--and the people ... to emmets! It remained to ascend the opposite tower. At each of the four corners there is a spiral stair-case, of which the exterior is open work, consisting of slender but lofty pillars; so that the ascending figure is seen at every convolution. It has a fearful appearance to the adventurer: but there is scarcely the possibility of danger. You go round and round, and observe three distinct terminations of the central work within--forming three roofs--of which, the _third_ is eminently beautiful. I could not help expressing my astonishment at some of the exterior columns, which could not be much less than threescore feet in height, and scarcely twelve inches in diameter! Having gained the top of one of these corner spiral stair-cases, I breathed and looked around me. A new feature presented itself to my view. About one hundred feet beneath, was the body of this huge cathedral. Immediately above, rose the beautifully-tapering and curiously ornamented SPIRE--to the height of probably, one hundred and twenty-five feet! It seemed indeed as if both tower and spire were direct ladders to the sky. The immortal artist who constructed them, and who lived to witness the completion of his structure, was JOAN HÜLTZ, a native of Cologne. The date of their completion is 1449. Thus, on the continent as well as in England, the period of the most florid style of gothic architecture was during the first half of the fifteenth century. I essayed to mount to the very pinnacle; or _bouton_ of the spire; but the ascent was impracticable--owing to the stair-case being under repair. On the summit of this spire, there once stood a _statue of the Virgin,_ above a cross. That statue was taken down at the end of the fifteenth century, and is now placed over the south porch. But, what do you think supplied its place during the late Revolution, or in the year of our Lord 1794, on the 4th day of May? Truly, nothing less than a large cap, made of tin, and painted red--called the _Cap of Liberty!_ Thank heaven, this latter was pulled down in due time--and an oblong diamond-shaped stone is now the finishing piece of masonry of this wonderful building. In descending, I stopped again at the platform, and was requested to see the GREAT BELL; of which I had heard the deep-mouthed roar half a dozen times a day, since my arrival. It is perhaps the finest toned bell in Europe, and appeared to me terrifically large--being nearer eight than seven feet high.[209] They begin to toll it at four or five o'clock in the summer-mornings, to announce that the gates of the town are opened. In case of fire at night, it is very loudly tolled; and during a similar accident in the day time, they suspend a pole, with a red flag at the end of it, over that part of the platform which is in a line with the direction of the fire. A grand defect in the structure of this Cathedral, as it strikes me, is, that the nave and transepts do not seem to belong to such a western front. They sink into perfect insignificance. Nor is the style of their exterior particularly deserving of description. Yet there is _one_ feature in the external architecture of this Cathedral--namely, a series or suite of DROLLERIES ... of about four or five feet high ... which cannot fail to attract the antiquary's especial notice. These figures are coarsely but spiritedly cut in stone. They are placed upon the bracket which supports the galleries, or balcony, of the eastern side of the facade of the tower, and are about sixty-five English feet from the ground. They extend to thirty-two feet in length. Through the kind offices of my friend Mr. Schweighæuser, junior, (of whom by and by) I have obtained drawings of these droll subjects,[210] and I am sure that, in common with many of our friends, you will be amused with the sight of a few of them. They are probably of the date of 1370; [Illustration] [Illustration] The common people call this series the _Sabbath of Demons,_ or _the Dance of the Witches_. You are to know, however, that on the opposite side of the cathedral there is a series of figures, of the same size, and executed nearly in the same style of art, descriptive of scriptural events, mixed with allegorical subjects. Having now pointed out what appears to me to be chiefly interesting in the _exterior_ of this marvellous building, it is right that I give you some notion of its _interior_: which will however occupy but a short portion of your attention. Indeed--I grieve to speak it--both the exterior and interior of the _nave_ are wholly unworthy of such a magnificent west-front. The nave and choir together are about three hundred and fifty-five English feet in length; of which the nave is two hundred and forty-four--evidently of too scanty dimensions. The width of the nave and side aisles is one hundred and thirty-two feet: the height of the nave is only seventy-two feet. The larger of the nine clustered columns is full seventy-two feet in circumference; the more delicate, thirty feet. There is really nothing striking in this nave; except that, on turning round, and looking up to the painted glass of the circular or marygold window, you observe the colours of it, which are very rich, and absolutely gay, compared with those of the other windows. There is a profusion of painted glass in almost all the windows; but generally of a sombre tint, and of a correspondent gloomy effect. Indeed, in consequence of this profusion, the cathedral absolutely wants light. The choir is sixty-seven feet wide, without side aisles, and is much lower than the nave. It is impossible to speak of this choir without indignation. My good friend--the whole of this interior has recently undergone rather a martyrdom than a metamorphosis. The sides are almost entirely covered with _Grecian_ pilasters and pillars; and so are the ornaments about the altar. What adds to the wretched effect of the whole, is, a coat of _white-wash_, which was liberally bestowed upon it some forty years ago; and which will require at least the lapse of another century to subdue its staring effect. There are only three chapels in this cathedral. Of _altars_ there are not fewer than twelve: the principal being in the chapels of St. Lawrence and St. Catharine. It was near the chapel of _St. Catharine_, that, on the morning of our first visit, we witnessed a group of country people, apparently from the neighbourhood of _Saverne_--from their huge, broad, flat hats--engaged in devotion before the image of some favourite saint. The rays of a bright sun darted through the windows, softened by the varied tints of the stained glass, upon their singular countenances and costumes; and the effect was irresistibly striking and interesting. In the centre of the south transept, there rises a fine, slender, clustered column, reaching to its very summit. On the exterior of this column--placed one above another, but retreating or advancing, or in full view, according to the position of the spectator--are several figures, chiefly females; probably five feet high, with labels or scrolls, upon each of which is an inscription. I never saw any thing more elegant and more striking of its kind. These figures reach a great way up the pillar--probably to the top-- but at this moment I cannot say decidedly. It is here, too, that the famous Strasbourg _Clock_, (about which one Dasypodius hath published a Latin treatise in a slim quarto volume[211]) is placed. This, and the tower, were called the _two great wonders of Germany_. This clock may be described in few words: premising, that it was preceded by a clock of very extraordinary workmanship, fabricated in the middle of the fourteenth century--of which, the _only_ existing portion is, a _cock_, upon the top of the left perpendicular ornament, which, upon the hourly chiming of the bells, used to flap his wings, stretch out his neck, and crow twice; but being struck by lightning in the year 1640, it lost its power of action and of sending forth sound. No modern skill has been able to make this cock crow, or to shake his wings again. The clock however is now wholly out of order, and should be placed elsewhere. It is very lofty; perhaps twenty feet high: is divided into three parts, of which the central part represents _Our Saviour_ and _Death_, in the middle, each in the act as if to strike a bell. When, in complete order, Death used to come forward to strike the _quarters_; and, having struck them, was instantly repelled by our Saviour. When he came forward to strike the _hour_, our Saviour in turn retreated:-- a whimsical and not very comprehensible arrangement. But old clocks used to be full of these conceits. Upon throwing an eye over what I have just written, I find that I have omitted to notice the celebrated STONE PULPIT, in the nave, enriched with small figures--of the latter end of the fifteenth century. In fact, the date of 1485, in arabic numerals, (if I remember rightly) is at the bottom of it, to the right of the steps. This pulpit, my good friend, is nothing less than the very ecclesiastical rostrum from which the famous _John Geyler_ thundered his anathemas against the monkish clergy. You may remember that some slight notice was taken of it at the beginning of this letter, in which the progress of Protestantism at Strasbourg was attempted to be traced. I will frankly own to you, that, of all pulpits, throughout Normandy, or in Paris--as yet examined by me--I have seen none which approaches to THIS; so rich, varied, and elaborate are its sculptured ornaments.[212] The Revolutionists could only contrive to knock off the figure which was upon the top of the canopy, with other contiguous ornaments; all of which might be easily restored. [Illustration: STONE PULPIT, STRASBOURG CATHEDRAL.] A word now about the great _Organ_. If Strasbourg have been famous for architects, masons, bell-founders, and clock-makers, it has been not less so for organ builders. As early as the end of the thirteenth century, there were several organs in this cathedral: very curious in their structure, and very sonorous in their notes. The present great organ, on the _left side_ of the nave, on entering at the western door, was built by Silbermann about a century-ago: and is placed about fifty feet above the pavement. It has six bellowses, each bellows being twelve feet long and six wide: but they are made to act by a very simple and sure process. The tone is tremendous-- when all the stops are pulled out--as I once heard it, during the performance of a particularly grand chorus! Yet is this tone mellow and pleasing at the same time. Notwithstanding the organ could be hardly less than three hundred feet distant from the musicians in the choir, it sent forth sounds so powerful and grand--as almost to overwhelm the human voice, with the accompaniments of trombones and serpents. Perhaps you will not be astonished at this, when I inform you that it contains not fewer than two thousand two hundred and forty-two pipes. This is not the first time you have heard me commend the organs upon the Continent. One of the most remarkable features belonging to the history of Strasbourg cathedral, is, the number of _shocks of earthquakes_ which have affected the building. It is barely possible to enumerate all these frightful accidents; and still more difficult to give credence to one third of them. They seem to have happened two or three times every century; and, latterly, yet more frequently. Take one recital as a specimen: and believe it--if you can. In the year 1728, so great was the agitation of the earth, that the tower was moved one foot out of its perpendicular direction--but recovered its former position presently. "What however is _quite certain_--(says Grandidier)--the holy water, contained in a stone reservoir or basin, at the bottom of a column, near the pavement, was thrown by this same agitation, to upwards of _half the height of a man_--and to the distance of _eighteen feet!_ The record of this marvellous transaction is preserved in a Latin inscription, on a slab of black marble, fastened to the lower part of the tower, near the platform."[213] In 1744 a severe tempest of thunder and lightning occasioned some serious injuries to portions of the cathedral; but in 1759 it suffered still more from a similar cause. Indeed the havoc among the slighter ornamental parts, including several delicately carved figures, is recorded to have been dreadful. Of the subordinate churches of Strasbourg, the principal, both for size and antiquity, is that of _St. Thomas_. I visited it several times. The exterior is one of the most tasteless jumbles of all styles and ages of art that can be imagined; and a portion of it is covered with brick. But I question if there be not parts much older than the cathedral. The interior compensates somewhat for the barbarism of the outside. It is large and commodious, but sadly altered from its original construction; and has recently been trimmed up and smartened in the true church-warden style. The great boast of this church is its MONUMENTS; which, it must be confessed, are upon the whole exceedingly interesting. As to their antiquity, I noticed two or three of the thirteenth century; but they pretend to run up as high as the tenth. Indeed I saw one inscription of the eleventh century--executed in gothic letters, such as we observe of the latter end of the sixteenth. This could not be a coeval inscription; for I doubt whether there exist, any where, a monumental tablet of the eleventh century executed in _coeval gothic_ letters. The service performed here is after the confession of Augsbourg; in other words, according to the reformed Lutheran church. A small crucifix, placed upon an altar between the nave and the choir, delicately marks this distinction; for Luther, you know, did not wage an interminable war against crucifixes. Of _modern_ monuments, the boast and glory of this church is that of the famous MARSHAL SAXE; who died at the age of 55, in the year 1755. While I was looking very intently at it, the good verger gently put a printed description of it into my hands, on a loose quarto sheet. I trust to be forgiven if I read only its first sentence:--_Cette grande composition réunit aux richesse de l'art des Phidias et des Bouchardon, les traits de la grande poésie._" "Take any shape but this"--thought I to myself--and, folding it up as gently as it had been delivered to me, I put it into my pocket. My good friend, I do beseech you to hear me out--when I preface my remarks by saying, that, of all monuments, _this_ is one of the most tasteless and uninteresting. Listen to a brief but faithful description of it. An immense pyramidal-shaped gray marble forms the background. Upon such a back-ground there might have been a group of a _dozen_ figures at least. However, there happen to be only _four_ of the human species, and three of animals. These human figures are, the Marshal; a woman weeping lustily--I had almost said blubbering; (intended to represent France) Hercules; and a little child--of some order or degree, not less affected than the female. The animals are, a lion, a leopard, (which latter has a bear-like form) and an eagle. I will now tell you what they are all doing. Before the Marshal, is an opened grave; into which this illustrious hero, clad in complete armour, is about to march with a quiet, measured step--as unconcernedly, as if he were descending a flight of steps which led to a conservatory. The woman--that is France--is, in the meantime, weeping aloud; pointing to the grave, and very persuasively intreating the Marshal to enter--as his mortal moments have expired. I should add that death--a large formidable-looking figure, veiled by a piece of drapery, is also at hand: seeming to imply that hesitation and reluctance, on the part of the hero, are equally unavailing. Next comes Hercules; who is represented as stationary, thoughtful, and sorrow-stricken, as France is agitated and in motion. The lion and leopard (one representing Holland, and the other England-- intending to convey the idea that the hero had beaten the armies of both countries) are between the Marshal and Hercules: the leopard is lying upon his back--in a very frolicksome attitude. The lion is also not less abstracted from the general grief of the figures. And this large, ugly, unmeaning composition--they have the temerity to call the union of art by Phidias and Bouchardon--with the inspiration of sublime poetry! I will make no comments.[214] It is one of those _felicitous_ efforts which have the enviable distinction of carrying its own text and commentary. Below this vast mural monument, is a vault, containing the body of the Marshal. I descended into it, and found it well ventilated and dry. The coffin is immediately obvious: it contains the body of the chieftain enclosed in two cases--of which the first is _silver_, and the second _copper_. The heart is, I believe, elsewhere. Forming a strikingly happy contrast to this huge, unmeaning production--are the modest and unassuming monuments of _Schoepflin_, _Oberlin_, and _Koch_: men, of whom Strasbourg has good reason to be proud. Nor let the monument of old _Sebastian Schmidt_ escape the notice and commendation of the pensive observer. These were all "fine fellows in their day:" and died, including the illustrious Marshal, steady in the faith they had espoused-- that is, in the belief and practice of the tenets of the reformed church. I have no time for a particular description of these monuments. Schoepflin's consists of a bronze bust of himself placed in the front of a white marble urn, between two cinnamon-colour columns, of the Corinthian order--of free stone. The head is thought to be very like. Oberlin's is in better taste. You see only his profile, by Ohmacht, in white marble--very striking. The accompaniments are figures in white marble, of which a muse, in rilievo, is larger than life. The inscriptions, both for Schoepflin and Oberlin, are short and simple, and therefore appropriate. The monument of Koch is not less simple. It consists of his bust--about to be crowned with a fillet of oaken leaves--by a figure representing the city of Strasbourg. Below the bust is another figure weeping--and holding beneath its arms, a scroll, upon which the works of the deceased are enumerated. Koch died in his seventy-sixth year, in the year 1813. Ohmacht is also the sculptor of Koch's monument. Upon the whole, I am not sure that I have visited any church, since the cathedral of Rouen, of which the interior is more interesting, on the score of monuments, than that of St. Thomas at Strasbourg. I do not know that it is necessary to say any thing about the old churches of St. Stephen and St. Martin: except that the former is supposed to be the most ancient. It was built of stone, and said to be placed upon a spot in which was a Roman fort--the materials of which served for a portion of the present building. St. Martin's was erected in 1381 upon a much finer plan than that of _St. Arbogaste_--which is said to have been built in the middle of the twelfth century. Among the churches, now no longer _wholly_ appropriated to sacred uses, is that called the _New Temple_--attached to which is the Public Library. The service in this church is according to the Protestant persuasion. I say this Church is not _wholly_ devoted to religious rites: for what was once the _choir_, contains, at bottom, the BOOKS belonging to the public University; and, at top, those which were bequeathed to the same establishment by Schoepflin. The general effect-- both from the pavement below, and the gallery above--is absolutely transporting. Shall I tell you wherefore? This same ancient choir--now devoted to _printed tomes_--contains some lancet-shaped windows of _stained glass_ of the most beautiful and exquisite pattern and colours!... such as made me wholly forget those at _Toul_, and _almost_ those at _St. Owen_. Even the stained glass of the cathedral, here, was recollected... only to suffer by the comparison! It should seem that the artist had worked with alternate dissolutions of amethyst, topaz, ruby, garnet, and emerald. Look at the first three windows, to the left on entering, about an hour before sun-set:--they seem to fill the whole place with a preternatural splendor! The pattern is somewhat of a Persian description, and I should apprehend the antiquity of the workmanship to be scarcely exceeding three hundred years. Yet I must be allowed to say, that these exquisitely sparkling, if not unrivalled, specimens of stained glass, do not belong to a place now _wholly_ occupied by _books_. Could they not be placed in the chapel of St. Lawrence, or of St. Catharine, in the cathedral? As I am now at the close of my account of ecclesiastical edifices--and as this last church happens to be closely connected with a building of a different description--namely, The PUBLIC LIBRARY--you will allow me to _colophonise_ my first Strasbourg epistle with some account of the _contents_ of this library. The amiable and excellent younger Schweighæuser, who is head librarian, and one of the Professors in this Gymnase, was so obliging as to lend me the key of the library, to which I had access at all hours of the day. The public hours are from two till four, Sundays excepted. I own that this accommodation was extremely agreeable and convenient to me. I was under no restraint, and thus left to my own conscience alone not to abuse the privilege conceded. That conscience has never given me one "prick" since the conclusion of my researches.[215] My researches were usually carried on above stairs, at the table where the visitors sat. Of the MSS. I did not deem it worth while to take any particular account; but there was _one_, so choice, so splendid, so curious, so interesting, and in such an extraordinary state of preservation, that you may as well know it is called the famous _Hortus Deliciarum_ of _Herarde, Abbess of Landsberg_. The subjects are miscellaneous; and most elaborately represented by illuminations. Battles, sieges, men tumbling from ladders which reach to the sky--conflagrations, agriculture--devotion, penitence--revenge, murder,--in short, there is hardly a passion, animating the human breast, but what is represented here. The figures in armour have _nasals_, and are in quilted mail: and I think there can be little doubt but that both the text and the decorations are of the latter end of the twelfth century. It is so perfect in all its parts, and so rich of its particular description, that it not only well merits the labour which has been bestowed upon it by its recent editor Mr. Engleheardt, but it may probably vie with any similar production in Europe.[216] However, of other MSS. you will I am sure give me credit for having examined the celebrated _Depositions in the law-suit between Fust and Gutemberg_--so intimately connected with the history of early printing, and so copiously treated upon by recent bibliographers.[217] I own that I inspected these depositions (in the German language) with no ordinary curiosity. They are doubtless most precious; yet I cannot help suspecting that the _character_ or letter is _not_ of the time; namely of 1440. It should rather seem to be of the sixteenth century. Perhaps at the commencement of it. These documents are written in a small folio volume, in one uniform hand--a kind of law-gothic--from beginning to end. The volume has the following title on the exterior; "_Dicta Testium magni consilij Anno dni m^o. cccc^o. Tricesimo nono_. The paper is strong and thick, and has a pair of scales for the water-mark. The younger Schweighæuser thinks my doubts about its age not well founded; conceiving it to be a coeval document. But this does not affect its authenticity, as it may have been an accurate and attested copy--of an original which has now perished. Certainly the whole book has very much the air of a _Copy_: and besides, would not the originals have been upon separate rolls of parchment?[218] I now come to the PRINTED BOOKS: of which, according to the MS. catalogue by Oberlin, (who was head librarian here) there are not fewer _than four thousand three hundred, printed before the year 1520_:--and of these, again, upwards of _eleven hundred without dates_. This, at first hearing, sounds, what the curious would call, promising; but I must say, that of the _dated_ and _dateless_ books, printed before the year 1500, which I took down, and carefully opened--and this number could not be less than four or five hundred--there was scarcely one in five which repaid the toil of examination: and this too, with a thermometer frequently standing at eighty-nine and ninety, in the shade in the open air! Fortunately for my health, and for the exertion of physical strength, the public library happened to be very cool--while all the windows were opened, and through the openings was frequently heard the sound of young voices, practising the famous _Martin Luther's Hymn_--as it is called. This latter was particularly grateful to me. I heard the master first sing a stave, and he was in general accurately followed by his pupils--who displayed the well-known early tact of Germans in the science of music. But to revert to the early printed books. FIRST GERMAN BIBLE; supposed to have been _printed by Mentelin_; without date: Folio. Towards the latter half of this copy, there are some interesting embellishments, in outline, in a bistre tint. The invention and execution of many of them are admirable. Where they are _coloured_, they lose their proper effect. An illumination, at the beginning of the book of _Esther_, bears the unequivocal date of 1470: but the edition was certainly four or five years earlier. This Bible is considered to be the earliest German version: but it is not so. LATIN BIBLE, BY MENTELIN: in his second character. This Bible I saw for the first time; but Panzer is decidedly wrong in saying that the types resemble the larger ones in Mentelin's _Valerius Maximus_, _Virgil_ and _Terence_: they may be nearly as tall, but are not so broad and large. From a ms. note, the 402d leaf appears to be wanting. This copy is a singularly fine one. It is white, and large, and with rough edges throughout. It is also in its first binding, of wood. LATIN BIBLE; _printed by Eggesteyn_. Here are several editions, and a duplicate of the first--which is printed in the second smallest character of Eggesteyn.[219] The two copies of this first edition are pretty much alike for size and condition: but _one_ of them, with handsome illuminations at the beginning of each volume, has the precious coeval ms. date of 1468--as represented by the fac-simile of it in _Schoepflin's Vind. Typog. Tab. V._ Probably the date of the printing might have been at least a year earlier. LATIN BIBLE: _printed by Jenson_, 1479. Folio. A fine copy, upon paper. The first page is illuminated. To this list of impressions of the SACRED TEXT, may be added a fine copy of the SCLAVONIAN BIBLE of 1584, folio, with wood cuts, and another of the HUNGARIAN Bible of 1626, folio: the latter in double columns, with a crowdedly-printed margin, and an engraved frontispiece. As to books upon miscellaneous subjects, I shall lay before you, without any particular order, my notes of the following: Of the _Speculum Morale_ of P. Bellovacensis, here said to be printed by Mentelin in 1476, in double columns, roman type, folio--there is a copy, in one volume, of tremendously large dimensions; as fine, clean, and crackling as possible. Also a copy of the _Speculum Judiciale_ of Durandus, _printed at Strasbourg by Hussner and Rekenhub_, in 1473, folio. Hussner was a citizen of Strasbourg, and his associate a priest at Mentz. Here is also a perfect copy of the Latin PTOLEMY, of the supposed date of 1462, with a fine set of the copper-plates. But I must make distinct mention of a _Latin Chronicle, printed by Gotz de Sletztat_ in 1474, in folio. It is executed in a coarse, large gothic type, with many capital roman letters. At the end of the alphabetical index of 35 leaves, we read as follows: DEO GRATIAS. _A tpe ade vsqz ad annos cristi 1474 Acta et gesta hic suffitienter nuclient Sola spes mea. In virginis gracia Nicholaus Gotz. De Sletzstat._ The preceding is on the recto; on the reverse of the same leaf is an account of Inventors of _arts_: no mention is made of that of _printing_. Then the prologue to the Chronicle, below which is the device of Gotz;[220] having his name subjoined. The text of the Chronicle concludes at page CCLXXX--printed numerals--with an account of an event which took place in the year 1470. But the present copy contains another, and the concluding leaf--which may be missing in some copies--wherein there is a particular notice of a splendid event which took place in 1473, between Charles Duke of Burgundy, and Frederick the Roman Emperor, with Maximilian his Son; together with divers dukes, earls, and counts attending. The text of this leaf ends thus; _SAVE GAIRT VIVE BVRGVND._ Below, within a circle, "Sixtus quartus." This work is called, in a ms. prefix, the _Chronicle of Foresius_. I never saw, or heard of, another copy. The present is fine and sound; and bound in wood, covered with leather. Here are two copies of St. _Jerom's Epistles, printed by Schoeffher_ in 1470; of which that below stairs is one of the most magnificent imaginable; in two folio volumes. Hardly any book can exceed, and few equal it, in size and condition--unless it be the theological works of ARCHBISHOP ANTONIUS, _printed by Koeberger_, in 1477, in one enormous folio volume. As a specimen of Koeberger's press, I am unable at the present moment to mention any thing which approaches it. I must also notice a copy of the _Speculum Humanæ Salvationis, printed at Basle, by Richel_, in 1476, folio. It is a prodigious volume, full of wood cuts, and printed in double columns in a handsome gothic type. This work seems to be rather a _History of the Bible_; having ten times the matter of that which belongs to the work with this title usually prefixed. The copy is in its original wooden binding. JUNIANUS MAIUS. _De Propriet. Priscor. Verborum, printed at Treviso by Bernard de Colonia_, 1477, folio. I do not remember to have before seen any specimen of this printer's type: but what he has done here, is sufficient to secure for him typographical immortality. This is indeed a glorious copy--perfectly large paper--of an elegantly printed book, in a neat gothic type, in double columns. The first letter of the text is charmingly illuminated. I shall conclude these miscellaneous articles by the notice of two volumes, in the list of ROMANCES, of exceedingly rare occurrence. These romances are called _Tyturell_ and _Partzifal_. The author of them was _Wolfram von Escenbach_. They are each of the date of 1477, in folio. The Tyturell is printed prose-wise, and the Partzifal in a metrical form. We now come to the Roman CLASSICS, (for of the Greek there are _few or none_)--before the year 1500. Let me begin with _Virgil_. Here is _Mentelin's_ very rare edition; but cropt, scribbled upon, and wanting several leaves. However, there is a most noble and perfect copy of Servius's Commentary upon the same poet, _printed by Valdarfer_ in 1471, folio, and bound in primitive boards. There are two perfect copies of _Mentelin's_ edition (which is the first) of VALERIUS MAXIMUS, of which one is wormed and cropt. The _other_ Mentelin copy of the Valerius Maximus, without the Commentary, is perhaps the largest I ever saw--with the ancient ms. signatures at the bottom-corners of the leaves. Unluckily, the margins are rather plentifully charged with ms. memoranda. Of CICERO, there are of course numerous early editions. I did not see the _De Officiis_ of 1465, or of 1466, of which Hermann speaks, and to which he affixes the _novel_ date of 1462:--but I did see the _De Oratore_, printed by _Vindelin de Spira_ without date; and _such_ a copy I shall probably never see again! The colour and substance of the paper are yet more surprising than the size. It is hardly possible to see a finer copy of the _Scriptores Hist. Augustæ, printed by P. de Lavagna_ in 1475, folio. It possesses all the legitimate evidences of pristine condition, and is bound in its first coat of oak. Here is a very fine copy of the _Plutarchi Vitæ Paralellæ_, printed in the letter R, in two large folio volumes, bound in wood, covered by vellum of the sixteenth century. But, if of _any_ book, it is of the first edition of _Catullus Tibullus et Propertius_, of 1472, folio--that this Library has just reason to be proud. Here are in fact _two_ copies, equally sound, pure and large: but in _one_ the _Propertius_ is wanting;[221] in lieu of which, however, there is the first edition of JUVENAL and PERSIUS by V. de Spira-- in equal purity of condition. The perfect copy has the SYLVÆ of STATIUS subjoined. It should seem, therefore, that the Juvenal and Persius had supplied the place of the Propertius and Statius, in one copy. You are well aware of the extreme rarity of this first edition of Catullus Tibullus et Propertius. I now take leave of the _Public Library of Strasbourg_; not however without mentioning rather an amusing anecdote connected with some of the books just described; nor without an observation or two upon the present state of the library. The anecdote is thoroughly bibliographical. After having examined some of the finer books before mentioned, and especially having dwelt upon the Latin Bible of Mentelin, and a few copies of the rarer Classics, I ventured to descant upon the propriety of _parting_ with those for which there was _no use_, and which, without materially strengthening their own collection, might, by an advantageous sale, enable them to enrich their collection by valuable modern books: of which they obviously stood in _need_. I then proposed so many hundred francs, for such and such volumes. Messrs. Schweighæuser, jun. Dahler, and several other professors were standing round me--when I made this proposition. On the conclusion of it, professor Dahler put his hand upon my shoulder--stooped down--(for I was sitting the whole time)--and looking half archly, replied thus: "Monsieur le Bibliographe, vous raisonnez bien: mais--nous conserverons nos anciens livres." These sturdy conservators were not to be shaken; and none but _duplicates_ were to be parted with.[222] The next observation relates to the collection. Never did a collection stand in greater need of being weeded. There are medical books sufficient to supply six copies for the library of every castellated mansion along the Vosges[223]--should any of them ever be repaired and put in order. Schoepflin's library furnishes many duplicates both in history and theology; and in _Classics_ they should at least make good their series of the more important _first Editions_. The want of a perfect _Virgil_ by _Mentelin_, and the want of a _first Terence_, by the same printer--their boasted townsman--are reproachful wants. At any rate, they should not let slip any opportunity of purchasing the first _Ovid, Horace, Ausonius_, and _Lucretius_. No man is more deeply impressed with a conviction of these wants, than the present chief librarian, the younger Schweighæuser; but, unfortunately, the pecuniary means of supplying them are slender indeed. I find this to be the case wherever I go. The deficiency of funds, for the completion of libraries, may however be the cry of _other_ countries besides _France_. As to booksellers, for the sale of modern works, and for doing, what is called "a great stroke of business," there is no one to compare with the house of TREUTTEL and WÜRTZ--of which firm, as you may remember, very honourable mention was made in one of my latter letters from Paris. Their friendly attention and hospitable kindness are equal to their high character as men of business. It was frequently in their shop that I met with some of the savants of Strasbourg; and among them, the venerable and amiable LICHTENBERGER, author of that very judicious and pains taking compilation entitled _Initia Typographica_. I was also introduced to divers of the learned, whose names I may be pardoned for having forgotten. The simplicity of character, which here marks almost every man of education, is not less pleasing than profitable to a traveller who wishes to make himself acquainted with the literature of the country through which he passes. [203] _Alsatia Illustrata_, 1751-61, folio, two volumes. [204] In the middle of the fifteenth century there were not fewer than nine principal gates of entrance: and above the walls were built, at equal distances, fifty-five towers--surmounted, in turn, by nearly thirty towers of observation on the exterior of the walls. But in the beginning of the sixteenth century, from the general adoption of gunpowder in the art of war, a different system of defence was necessarily adopted; and the number of these towers was in consequence diminished. At present there are none. They are supplied by bastions and redoubts, which answer yet better the purposes of warfare. [205] This work is entitled "_Notices Historiques, Statistiques et Littéraires, sur la Ville de Strasbourg_." 1817, 8vo. A second volume, published in 1819, completes it. A more judicious, and, as I learn, faithful compilation, respecting the very interesting city of which it treats, has not yet been published. [206] I had before said 530 English feet; but a note in M. Crapelet's version (supplied, as I suspect, by my friend M. Schweighæuser,) says, that from recent strict trigonometrical measurement, it is 437 French feet in height. [207] The _Robertsau_, about three quarters of a mile from Strasbourg, is considered to be the best place for a view of the cathedral. The Robertsau is a well peopled and well built suburb. It consists of three nearly parallel streets, composed chiefly of houses separated by gardens--the whole very much after the English fashion. In short, these are the country houses of the wealthier inhabitants of Strasbourg; and there are upwards of seventy of them, flanked by meadows, orchards, or a fruit or kitchen garden. It derives the name of _Robertsau_ from a gentleman of the name of _Robert,_ of the ancient family of _Bock_. He first took up his residence there about the year 1200, and was father of twenty children. Consult _Hermann_; vol. i. p. 209. [208] "The engineer Specklin, who, in order to complete his MAP of ALSACE, traversed the whole chain of the VOSGES, estimates the number of these castles at little short of _two hundred_: and pushes the antiquity of some of them as far back as the time of the Romans." See _Hermann_; vol. i. p. 128, note 20: whose compressed account of a few of these castellated mansions is well worth perusal, I add this note, from something like a strong persuasion, that, should it meet the eye of some enterprising and intelligent English antiquary, it may stimulate him--within the waning of two moons from reading it, provided those moons be in the months of Spring--to put his equipage in order for a leisurely journey along the VOSGES! [209] This was formerly called the bell of the HOLY GHOST. It was cast in 1427, by John Gremp of Strasbourg. It cost 1300 florins; and weighs eighty quintals;, or 8320 lb.: nearly four tons. It is twenty-two French feet in circumference, and requires six men to toll it. In regard to the height, I must not be supposed to speak from absolute data. Yet I apprehend that its altitude is not much over-rated. Grandidier has quite an amusing chapter (p. 241, &c.) upon the thirteen bells which are contained in the tower of this cathedral. [210] It was necessary, on the part of my friend, to obtain the consent of the Prefect to make these drawings. A moveable scaffold was constructed, which was suspended from the upper parts--and in this _nervous_ situation the artist made his copies--of the size of the foregoing cuts. The expense of the scaffold, and of making the designs, was very inconsiderable indeed. The worthy Prefect, or Mayor, was so obliging as to make the scaffold a mere gratuitous affair; six francs only being required for the men to drink! [Can I ever forget, or think slightly of, such kindness? Never.] Cicognara, in his _Storia della Scultura_, 1813, folio, has given but a very small portion of the above dance; which was taken from the upper part of a neighbouring house. It is consequently less faithful and less complete. [In the preceding edition of this work, there are not fewer than _eleven_ representations of these Drolleries.] [211] I think this volume is of the date of 1580. CONRAD DASYPODIUS was both the author of the work, and the chief mechanic or artisan employed in making the clock--about which he appears to have taken several journeys to employ, and to consult with, the most clever workmen in Germany. The wheels and movements were made by the two HABRECHTS, natives of Schaffhausen. [212] [The Reader may form some notion of its beauty and elaboration of ornament, from the OPPOSITE PLATE: taken from a print published about a century and a half ago.] [213] See Grandidier, p. 177: where the Latin inscription is given. The _Ephémérides de l'Académie des Curieux de la Nature_, vol. ii. p. 400, &c. are quoted by this author--as a contemporaneous authority in support of the event above mentioned. [214] My French translator will have it, that, "this composition, though not without its faults, is considered, in the estimation of all connoisseurs, as one of the finest funereal monuments which the modern chisel has produced." It may be, in the estimation of _some_--but certainly of a _very small_ portion of--Connoisseurs of first rate merit. Our Chantry would sicken or faint at the sight of such allegorical absurdity. [215] [This avowal has subjected me to the gentle remonstrance of the Librarian in question, and to the tart censure of M. Crapelet in particular. "Voilà le Reverend M. Dibdin (exclaims the latter) qui se croit obligé de déclarer qu'il n'a rien derobé!" And he then quotes, apparently with infinite delight, a passage from the _Quarterly Review_, (No. LXIII. June 1825) in which I am designated as having "extraordinary talents for ridicule!" But how my talents "for ridicule" (of which I very honestly declare my unconsciousness) can be supposed to bear upon the above "prick of conscience," is a matter which I have yet to learn. My amiable friend might have perhaps somewhat exceeded the prescribed line of his duty in letting me have the key of the Library in question--but, can a declaration of such confidence not having been MISPLACED, justify the flippant remarks of my Annotator?] [216] [It is now published in an entire state by the above competent Editor.] [217] See the authorities quoted, and the subject itself handled, in the _Bibliographical Decameron_, vol. i. p. 316, &c. [218] [Here again my sensitive Annotator breaks out into something little short of personal abuse, for my DARING to _doubt_ what all the world before had held in solemn _belief_! Still, I will continue to doubt; without wishing this doubt to be considered as "paroles d'Evangile"-- as M. Crapelet expresses it.] [219] Fully described in the _Bibl. Spenceriana_, vol. i. p. 39, with a fac-simile of the type. [220] A fac-simile of this device appears in a Latin Bible, without name of printer, particularly described in the _Ædes Althorpianæ_; vol. ii. p. 41. Hence we learn that the Bible in question, about the printer of which there appears to be some uncertainty among bibliographers, was absolutely printed by Gotz. [221] The imperfect copy, being a duplicate, was disposed of for a copy of the _Bibl. Spenceriana_; and it is now in the fine library of the Rt. Hon. T. Grenville. The very first glance at this copy will shew that the above description is not overcharged. [222] "These Duplicates related to some few articles of minor importance belonging to the library of the Public School, and which had escaped a former revision. The cession was made with due attention to forms, and with every facility." Such (as I have reason to believe) is the remark of M. Schweighæuser himself. What follows--evidently by the hand of M. Crapelet--is perfectly delicious ... of its kind. "That M. Dibdin should have preferred such an indiscreet request to the Librarians in question--impelled by his habitual vivacity and love of possessing books--is conceivable enough: but, that he should _publish_ such an anecdote--that he should delight in telling us of the rudeness which he committed in SITTING while the gentlemen about him were STANDING, is to affect a very uncommon singularity"!!! [Greek: Ô popoi!] [223] There are yet libraries, and rare books, in the district. I obtained for my friend the Rev. H. Drury, one of the finest copies in England of the first edition of _Cicero's Offices_, of 1465, 4to. UPON VELLUM--from the collection of a physician living in one of the smaller towns near the Vosges. This copy was in its ancient oaken attire, and had been formerly in a monastic library. For this acquisition my friend was indebted to the kind offices of the younger M. Schweighæuser. _LETTER XIV._ SOCIETY. ENVIRONS OF STRASBOURG. DOMESTIC ARCHITECTURE, MANNERS AND CUSTOMS. LITERATURE. LANGUAGE. My last letter, however copious, was almost wholly confined to _views of interiors_; that is to say, to an account of the Cathedral and of the Public Library. I shall now continue the narrative with views of interiors of a different description; with some slight notices of the _society_ and of the city of Strasbourg; concluding the whole, as well as closing my Strasbourg despatches, with a summary account of manners, customs, and literature. The great _Greek luminary_, not only of this place, but perhaps of Germany--the ELDER SCHWEIGHÆUSER--happens to be absent. His son tells me that he is at _Baden_ for the benefit of the waters, and advises me to take that "enchanting spot" (as he calls it) in my way to Stuttgart. "'Twill be only a trifling détour." What however will be the _chief_ temptation--as I frankly told the younger Schweighæuser--would be the society of his Father; to whom the son has promised a strong letter of introduction. I told you in my last that I had seen LICHTENBERGER at Treuttel and Würtz's. I have since called upon the old gentleman; and we immediately commenced a bibliographical parley. But it was chiefly respecting Lord Spencer's copies of the _Letters of Indulgence of Pope Nicolas V._ of the date of 1455, that he made the keenest enquiries. "Was the date legitimate?" I assured him there could be no doubt of it; and that what Hæberlin had said, followed by Lambinet, had no reference whatever to his Lordship's copies--for that, in _them_, the final units were compressed into a V and not extended by five strokes, thus--_iiiij_. As he was unacquainted with my account of these copies in the _Bibliotheca Spenceriana_, I was necessarily minute in the foregoing statement. The worthy old bibliographer was so pleased with this account, that he lifted up his eyes and hands, and exclaimed, "one grows old always to learn something." M. Haffner, who was one of the guests at a splendid, but extremely sociable dinner party at _Madame Franc's_[224] the principal banker here--is a pleasing, communicative, open-countenanced, and open-hearted gentleman. He may be about sixty years of age. I viewed his library with admiration. The order was excellent; and considering what were his _means_, I could not but highly compliment him upon his prudence and enthusiasm. This was among the happiest illustrations of the _Bibliomania_ which I had ever witnessed. The owner of this well chosen collection shewed me with triumph his copy of the first Greek Testament by _Erasmus_, and his copies of the same sacred book by _R. Stephen_ and _Wetstein_, in folio. Here too I saw a body of philological theology (if I may use this term) headed by _Walchius_ and _Wolff_, upon the possession of a similar collection of which, my late neighbour and friend, Dr. Gosset, used to expatiate with delight. Let me now take you with me out of doors. You love architecture of all descriptions: but "the olden" is always your "dear delight." In the construction of the streets of Strasbourg, they generally contrive that the corner house should _not_ terminate with a right angle. Such a termination is pretty general throughout Strasbourg. Of the differently, and sometimes curiously, constructed iron bars in front of the windows, I have also before made mention. The houses are generally lofty; and the roofs contain two or three tiers of open windows, garret-fashioned; which gives them a picturesque appearance; but which, I learn, were constructed as granaries to hold flour--for the support of the inhabitants, when the city should sustain a long and rigorous siege. As to _very ancient_ houses, I cannot charge my memory with having seen any; and the most ancient are those on the other side of the _Ill_; of which several are near the convent before mentioned. The immediate environs of Strasbourg (as I have before remarked) are very flat and poor, in a picturesque point of view. They consist chiefly of fields covered with the _tobacco plant_, which resembles that of our horse-radish; and the trade of tobacco may be considered the staple, as well as the indigenous, commodity of the place. This trade is at once extensive and lucrative; and regulated by very wholesome laws. The outskirts of the town, considered in an architectural point of view, are also very indifferent. As to the general character, or rather appearance, of the Strasbourgeois, it is such as to afford very considerable satisfaction. The manners and customs of the people are simple and sober. The women, even to the class of menial servants, go abroad with their hair brushed and platted in rather a tasteful manner, as we even sometimes observe in the best circles of our own country. The hair is dressed _à la grecque_, and the head is usually uncovered: contrary to the broad round hats, and depending queues, of the women inhabiting the neighbourhood of _Saverne_. But you should know that the farmers about Strasbourg are generally rich in pocket, and choice and dainty in the disposition of their daughters--with respect to wedlock. They will not deign to marry them to bourgeois of the ordinary class. They consider the blood running in their families' veins to be polluted by such an intermixture; and accordingly they are oftentimes saucy, and hold their heads high. Even some of the fair dames coming from the high "countre," whom we saw kneeling the other day, in the cathedral, with their rural attire, would not commute their circular head pieces for the most curiously braided head of hair in the city of Strasbourg. The utmost order and decency, both in dress and conduct, prevail in the streets and at spectacles. There seems to be that sober good sense among the Strasbourgeois--which forms a happy medium between the gaiety of their western, and the phlegm of their eastern, neighbours; and while this general good order obtains, we may forgive "officers for mounting guard in white silk stockings, or for dancing in boots at an assembly--and young gentlemen for wearing such scanty skirts to their coats:"--subjects, which appear to have ruffled the good temper of the recent historian of Strasbourg.[225] It seems clear that the morals of the community, and especially of the female part, were greatly benefited by the Reformation,[226] or establishment of the protestant religion. In alluding to manners and customs, or social establishments of this place, you ought to know that some have imagined the origin of _Free-masonry_ may be traced to Strasbourg; and that the first _lodges_ of that description were held in this city. The story is this. The cathedral, considered at the time of its erection as a second _Solomon's temple_, was viewed as the wonder of the modern world. Its masons, or architects, were the theme of universal praise. Up rose, in consequence, the cathedrals of _Vienna, Cologne, Landshut_ and others: and it was resolved that, on the completion of such stately structures, those, whose mechanical skill had been instrumental to their erection, should meet in one common bond, and chant together, periodically, at least their _own_ praises. Their object was to be considered very much above the common labourer, who wore his apron in front, and carried his trowel in his hand: on the contrary, _they_ adopted, as the only emblems worthy of their profession, the level, the square, and the compass. All the lodges, wherever established, considered that of Strasbourg as the common parent; and at a meeting held at Ratisbon in 1459, it was agreed that the ARCHITECT OF STRASBOURG CATHEDRAL should be the _Grand Master of Free-masons_; and one DOTZINGER of Worms, who had succeeded Hulz in 1449, (just after the latter, had finished the spire) was acknowledged to be the FIRST GRAND MASTER. I own my utter ignorance in the lore of free-masonry; but have thought it worth while to send you these particulars: as I know you to be very "curious and prying" in antiquarian researches connected with this subject. Strasbourg has been always eminent for its literary reputation, from the time of the two STURMII, or rather from that of GEYLER, downwards. It boasts of historians, chroniclers, poets, critics, and philologists. At this present moment the public school, or university, is allowed to be in a most flourishing condition; and the name of SCHWEIGHÆUSER alone is sufficient to rest its pretensions to celebrity on the score of _classical_ acumen and learning. While, within these last hundred years, the names of SCHOEPFLIN, OBERLIN, and KOCH, form a host in the department of _topography_ and _political economy_. In _Annals_ and _Chronicles_, perhaps no provincial city in Europe is richer; while in _old Alsatian poetry_ there is an almost inexhaustible banquet to feast upon. M. Engelhardt, the brother in law of M. Schweighæuser junr. is just now busily engaged in giving an account of some of the ancient love poets, or _Minne-Singers_; and he shewed me the other day some curious drawings relating to the same, taken from a MS. of the XIIIth century, in the public library. But Oberlin, in 1786, published an interesting work "_De Poetis Alsatiæ eroticis medii ævi_"--and more lately in 1806; M. Arnold in his "_Notice littéraire et historique sur les poëtes alsaciens_," 1806, 8vo.--enriched by the previous remarks of Schoepflin, Oberlin, and Frantz--has given a very satisfactory account of the achievements of the Muses who seem to have inhabited the mountain-tops of Alsatia--from the ninth to the sixteenth century inclusively. It is a fertile and an interesting subject. Feign would I, if space and time allowed, give you an outline of the same; from the religious metres of _Ottfried_ in the ninth--to the charming and tender touches which are to be found in the _Hortus deliciarum_[227] of _Herade_ Abbess of Landsberg, in the twelfth-century: not meaning to pass over, in my progress, the effusions of philology and poetry which distinguished the rival abbey of _Hohenbourg_ in the same century. Indeed; not fewer than three Abbesses-- _Rélinde, Herade, and _Edelinde_--cultivated literature at one and the same time: when, in Arnold's opinion, almost the whole of Europe was plunged in barbarism and ignorance. Then comes _Günther_, in the fifteenth century; with several brave geniuses in the intervening period: and, latterly, the collection of the _Old Troubadour Poetry of Alsace_, by _Roger Maness_--of which there is a MS. in the Royal Library at Paris; and another (containing matter of a somewhat later period) in the Public library here; of which latter not a specimen, as I understand, has seen the light in the form of a printed text. In later times, _Brandt, Wimphelin, Locher, Baldus, Pfeffel_, and _Nicolay_, are enough to establish the cause of good poetry, and the celebrity of this city in the production of such poets. As to the _Meister-Sængers_ (or Master-Singers) who composed the strains which they sang, perhaps the cities of Mentz and Nuremberg may vie with that of Strasbourg, in the production of this particular class. _Hans Sachs_ of Nuremberg, formerly a cobler, was considered to be the very _Coryphoeus_ of these Master-Singers. At the age of fourscore he is said to have composed four thousand three hundred and seventy verses. A word or two only respecting the language spoken at Strasbourg. From the relative situation of the town, this language would necessarily be of a mixed character: that is to say, there would be intermarriages between the Germans and French--and the offspring of such marriages would necessarily speak a _patois_. This seems to be generally admitted. The ancient language of Strasbourg is said to have been the pure dialect of _Suabia_; but, at present, the dialect of _Saxony_, which is thought to be purer as well as more fashionable, is carefully taught in the schools of both sexes, and spoken by all the ministers in the pulpit. Luther wrote in this dialect, and all protestant preachers make use of it as a matter of course. Yet Hermann labours to prove how much softer the dialect of High Germany is than that of High Saxony. There have lately appeared several small brochures in the _common language_ of the town--such, of course, as is ordinarily spoken in the shops and streets: and among others, a comedy called; _Der Pfingst-Montag_, written (says Hermann) with much spirit; but the author of this latter work has been obliged to mark the pronunciation, which renders the perusal of it somewhat puzzling. It is also accompanied with a glossary. But that you, or your friends, may judge for yourselves, I send you a specimen of the _patois_, or common language spoken in the street--in the enclosed ballad: which I purchased the other day, for about a penny of our money, from an old goody, who was standing upon a stool, and chanting it aloud to an admiring audience. I send you the first four stanzas.[228] Im Namen der allerheiligsten Dreifaltigkeit das goldene ABC, Neu verfasst für Jedermann, dass er mit Ehr' bestehen kann. Alles ist an Gottes Segen, Was wir immer thun, gelegen, Arbeit aber bleibt doch unsre Pflicht: Der Träge hat den segen Gottes nicht. Behalt' ein weises Maass in allen Stücken; Das Uebertriebne kann dich nicht beglücken. Dies Sprichwort trifft in allen Dingen ein: Das Gute selbst muss eingeschränket seyn. Christ! sey der Rache nicht ergeben, Der Zorn verbittert nur das Leben; Und wer dem Feinde gern verzeiht, Geniesst schon hier der Seligkeit. Der wird verachtet von der Welt, Der das gegebne Wort nicht hält: Drum gieb dein Wort nich leicht von dir; Hast du's gethan, so steh' dafür. _In the name of the most Holy Trinity._ THE GOLDEN A B C. _Newly set forth to enable every man to stand fast in honour._ _Howe'er employed, we ev'ry nerve should strain On all our works God's blessings to obtain. Whilst here on earth to labour we're ordain'd; The lazy never yet God's blessing gain'd._ _In all things strive a medium to procure; Redundance never can success insure: This proverb will in all things be found true, That good itself, should have its limits due. Christian! avoid revenge and strife, For anger tends to embitter life: And he who readily forgives his foe, Ev'n here on earth true happiness shall know. He who the promise he hath given denies, Will find the world most justly him despise; Be cautious then how thou a promise make, But, having made it, ne'er that promise break_. DANNBACH is the principal Greek printer of this place; his Greek type (which I cannot too much commend) is precisely that used in the _Bipont Thucydydes_ and _Plato_. The principal printers, for works in which the Greek type is not introduced, is LEVRAULT _Pere et Fils_: and I must say that, if even a fastidious author, a resident Strasbourgeois,--whose typographical taste had been formed upon the beautifully executed volumes of Bodoni, Didot, or Bulmer--chose to publish a fine book, he need not send it to _Paris_ to be printed; for M. Levrault is both a skilful, intelligent, and very able printer and publisher. I visited him more than once. He has a considerable commercial establishment. His shop and warehouses are large and commodious; and Madame Levrault is both active and knowing in aiding and abetting the concerns of her husband. I should consider their house to be a rich one. M. Levrault is also a very fair typographical antiquary. He talked of Fust and Jenson with earnestness, and with a knowledge of their productions; and told me that he had, up stairs, a room full of old books, especially of those printed by _Aldus_--and begged I would walk up and inspect them. You will give me credit for having done so readily. But it was a "poor affair,"--for the fastidious taste of an Englishman. There was literally nothing in the way of temptation; and so I abstained from tempting the possessor by the offer of napoleons or golden ducats. We had a long and a very gratifying interview; and I think he shewed me (not for the purpose of sale) a copy of the famous tract of St. Austin, called _De Arte prædicandi_, printed by _Fust_ or by _Mentelin_; in which however, as the copy was imperfect, he was not thoroughly conversant. They are all proud at Strasbourg of their countryman Mentelin, and of course yet more so of Gutenberg; although this latter was a native of Mentz. Mr. Levrault concluded his conversation by urging me, in strong terms, to visit _Colmar_ ere I crossed the Rhine; as that place abounded with "DES INCUNABLES TYPOGRAPHIQUES." I told him that it was impossible; that I had a great deal on my hands to accomplish on the other side of the Rhine; and that my first great stroke, in the way of BOOK-ACQUISITIONS, must be struck at _Stuttgart_. M. Levrault seemed surprised--"for truly," (added he) "there are no _old_ books there, save in the _Public Library_." I smiled, and wished him a good day. Upon the whole, my dear friend, I have taken rather an affection for this place. All classes of people are civil, kind, and communicative: but my obligations are due, in a more especial manner, to the younger Mr. Schweighæuser and to Madame Francs. I have passed several pleasant evenings with the former, and talked much of the literature of our country with him and his newly married spouse: a lively, lady-like, and intelligent woman. She is warm in commendation of the _Mary Stuart_ of Schiller; which, in reply to a question on my part, she considers to be the most impassioned of that Dramatist's performances. Of English she knows nothing; but her husband is well read in Thomson, Akenside, and Pope; and of course is sufficiently well acquainted with our language. A more amiable and zealous man, in the discharge of his duties as a teacher of youth, the town of Strasbourg does not possess. His little memoir of Koch has quite won my heart.[229] You have heard me mention the name of OHMACHT, a sculptor. He is much caressed by the gentry of this place. Madame Francs shewed me what I consider to be his best performance; a profile, in white marble, of her late daughter, who died in childbed, in her twenty-first year. It is a sweet and tender production: executed upon the Greek model--and said to be a strong resemblance of the deceased. Madame Francs shewed it to me, and expatiated upon it with tears in her eyes: as she well might--for the _character_ of the deceased was allowed to have been as attractive as her countenance.[230] I will candidly confess that, in other respects, I am a very _qualified_ admirer of the talents of Ohmacht. His head of Oberlin is good; but it is only a profile. I visited his _Studio_, and saw him busy upon a colossal head of Luther--in a close-grained, but coarse-tinted, stone. I liked it as little as I have always liked heads of that celebrated man. I want to see a resemblance of him in which vulgarity shall be lost in energy of expression. Never was there a countenance which bespoke greater intrepidity of heart. I am hastening to the close of this despatch, and to take leave of this place. Through the interposition of Messrs. Treuttel and Würtz, I have hired a respectable servant, or laquais, to accompany me to Vienna, and back again to Manheim. His name is _Rohfritsch_; and he has twice visited the Austrian capital in the rear of Napoleon's army,--when he was only in his sixteenth or seventeenth year--as a page or attendant upon one of the Generals. He talks the French and German languages with equal fluency. I asked him if we needed fire arms; at which he smiled--as if wondering at my simplicity or ignorance. In truth, the question was a little precipitate; for, the other evening, I saw two or three whiskered Bavarian travellers, starting hence for Munich, in an open, fourgon-shaped travelling carriage, with two benches across it: on the front bench sat the two gentlemen, wrapped round with clokes: on the hinder bench, the servant took his station--not before he had thrown into the carriage two huge bags of _florins_, as unconcernedly as if they had been bags of _pebbles_. They were to travel all night--without sabre, pistol, or carbine, for protection. I own this gave me a very favourable opinion of the country I was about to visit; and on recollecting it, had good reason to acquiesce in the propriety of the smiles of Rohfritsch. Every thing, therefore, is now settled: gold ducats and silver florins have been obtained from Madame Francs; and to morrow we start. My next will be from _Stuttgart_--where a "deed of note" will, I trust, be accomplished. Fare you well. [224] [This dinner party is somewhat largely detailed in the preceding edition of this work; but it scarcely merits repetition here; the more so, since the presiding Hostess is NO MORE!] [225] _Hermann_; vol. i. p. 154. [226] _greatly benefited by the Reformation_.]--Among the benefactors to the cause of public morality, was the late lamented and ever memorable KOCH. Before the year 1536, it should seem, from Koch's statement, that even whole streets as well as houses were occupied by women of a certain description. After this year, there were only two houses of ill fame left. The women, of the description before alluded to, used to wear black and white hats, of a sugar-loaf form, over the veil which covered their faces; and they were confined strictly to this dress by the magistrates. These women were sometimes represented in the sculptured figures about the cathedral. Hermann says that there may yet be seen, over the door of a house in the _Bickergase_ (one of the streets now called _Rue de la fontaine_, which was formerly devoted to the residence of women of ill fame) a bas-relief, representing two figures, with the following German inscription beneath: _Diss haus steht in Gottes Hand Wird zu deu freud'gen kindern gennant._ which he translates thus: _Cette maison; dans la main de Dieu, S'appelle aux enfans bien joyeux_. It should seem, therefore, (continues Hermann) that this was one of the houses in which a public officer attended, to keep order, prevent quarrels, and exact municipal rights. The book, in which the receipt of this tax was entered, existed during the time of the Revolution, and is thought to be yet in existence. Hermann, vol. i. p. 156. [227] See p. 401 ante. [228] For the English metrical version I am indebted to "an old hand at these matters." [229] Since the publication of this Tour, I have received several pleasant and thoroughly friendly letters from the above excellent Individual: and I could scarcely forgive myself if I omitted this opportunity of annexing his autograph:--as a worthy companion to those which have preceded it. [Autograph: Schweighæuser] [230] [Madame Francs, whose kind and liberal conduct towards me can never be forgotten, has now herself become the subject of a monumental effigy. She DIED (as I learn) in the year 1826.] END OF VOL. II. * * * * * London: Printed by W. Nicol, Cleveland-row, St. James's. 
16224	----	images generously made available by gallica (Bibliothèque nationale de France) at http://gallica.bnf.fr. BIBLIOGRAPHICAL Antiquarian AND PICTURESQUE TOUR. PRINTED BY WILLIAM NICOL, AT THE Shakespeare Press. [Illustration: T. F. DIBDIN, D.D. Engraved by James Thomson from the Original Painting by T. Phillips Esq. R.A. London. Published June 1829 by R. Jennings, Poultry.] A BIBLIOGRAPHICAL Antiquarian AND PICTURESQUE TOUR IN FRANCE AND GERMANY. BY THE REVEREND THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN, D.D. MEMBER OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY AT ROUEN, AND OF THE ACADEMY OF UTRECHT. SECOND EDITION. VOLUME I. LONDON: PUBLISHED BY ROBERT JENNINGS, AND JOHN MAJOR. 1829. TO THE REVEREND JOHN LODGE, M.A. FELLOW OF MAGDALEN COLLEGE, AND LIBRARIAN TO THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE. MY DEAR FRIEND, Most grateful it is to me, at all times, to bear in remembrance those pleasant discussions in which we were wont so frequently to indulge, relating to the LIBRARIES upon the Continent:--but more than ordinarily gratifying to me was _that_ moment, when you told me, that, on crossing the Rhine, you took the third volume of my Tour under your arm, and on reaching the Monasteries of Mölk and Göttwic, gave an off-hand translation to the venerable Benedictine Inmates of what I had recorded concerning their MSS. and Printed Books, and their hospitable reception of the Author. I studiously concealed from You, at the time, the whole of the gratification which that intelligence imparted; resolving however that, should this work be deemed worthy of a second edition, to dedicate that republication to YOURSELF. Accordingly, it now comes forth in its present form, much enhanced, in the estimation of its Author, by the respectability of the name prefixed to this Dedication; and wishing you many years enjoyment of the honourable public situation with which you have been recently, and so deservedly, invested, allow me to subscribe myself, Your affectionate and obliged Friend, T.F. DIBDIN. Wyndham Place, June 30, 1829. CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. CONTENTS. VOLUME I. LETTER I. _Passage to Dieppe_ LETTER II. DIEPPE. _Fisheries. Streets. Churches of St. Jacques and St. Remy. Divine Worship. Military Mass_ LETTER III. _Village and Castle of Arques. Sabbath Amusements. Manners and Customs. Boulevards_ LETTER IV. ROUEN. _Approach. Boulevards. Population. Street-Scenery_ LETTER V. _Ecclesiastical Architecture. Cathedral. Monuments. Religious Ceremonies. The Abbey of St. Ouen. The Churches of St. Maclou, St. Vincent, St. Vivien, St. Gervais, and St. Paul_ LETTER VI. _Halles de Commerce. Place de la Pucelle d'Orleans. (Jeanne d'Arc). Basso-Rilievo of the Champ de Drap d'Or. Palace and Courts of Justice_ LETTER VII. ROUEN. _The Quays. Bridge of Boats. Rue du Bac. Rue de Robec. Eaux de Robec et d'Aubette. Mont Ste. Catherine. Hospices--Générale et d'Humanité_, LETTER VIII. _Early Typography at Rouen. Modern Printers. Chap Books. Booksellers. Book Collectors_ LETTER IX. _Departure from Rouen. St. George de Boscherville. Duclair. Marivaux. The Abbey of Jumieges. Arrival at Caudebec_, LETTER X. _Caudebec. Lillebonne. Bolbec. Tankarville. Montmorenci Castle. Havre de Grace_ LETTER XI. _Havre de Grace. Honfleur. Journey to Caen_ LETTER XII. CAEN. _Soil. Society. Education. A Duel. Old houses. The Abbey of St. Stephen. Church of St. Pierre de Darnetal. Abbé de la Sainte Trinité. Other Public Edifices_ LETTER XIII. CAEN. _Literary Society. Abbé de la Rue. Messrs. Pierre-Aimé. Lair and Lamouroux. Medal of Malherbe. Booksellers. Memoir of the late M. Moysant, Public Librarian. Courts of Justice_ LETTER XIV. BAYEUX. _Cathedral. Ordination of Priests and Deacons. Crypt of the Cathedral_ LETTER XV. BAYEUX. _Visit near St. Loup. M. Pluquet, Apothecary and Book-Vendor. Visit to the Bishop. The Chapter Library. Description of the Bayeux Tapestry. Trade and Manufacture_ LETTER XVI. _Bayeux to Coutances. St. Lo. The Cathedral of Coutances. Environs. Aqueduct. Market-Day. Public Library. Establishment for the Clergy_ LETTER XVII. _Journey to Granville. Granville. Ville Dieu. St. Sever. Town and Castle of_ VIRE LETTER XVIII. VIRE. _Bibliography. Monsieur Adam. Monsieur de la Renaudiere. Olivier Basselin. M. Séguin. The Public Library_ LETTER XIX. _Departure from Vire. Condé. Pont Ouilly. Arrival at_ FALAISE. _Hotel of the Grand Turc. Castle of Falaise. Bibliomaniacal Interview_ LETTER XX. _Mons. Mouton. Church of Ste. Trinité, Comte de la Fresnaye. Guibray Church. Supposed head of William the Conqueror. M. Langevin, Historian of Falaise. Printing Offices_ LETTER XXI. _Journey to Paris. Dreux. Houdan. Versailles. Entrance into Paris_ LIST OF PLATES. VOL. I. Portrait of the Author Fille de Chambre, Caen Portrait of the Abbé de la Rue VOL. II. Anne of Brittany Medal of Louis XII Pisani Denon Comte de Brienne Stone Pulpit, Strasbourg Cathedral VOL. III. Fille de Chambre, Manheim Monastery of Saints Ulric and Afra Prater, Vienna LIST OF AUTOGRAPHS. Vol. Page. Artaria, Dom. Manheim iii. 470 Barbier, Antoine Alexandre; Paris ii. 204 Bartsch, Adam de; Vienna iii. 394 Beyschlag, Recteur; Augsbourg iii. 104 Brial, Dom; Paris ii. 254 Brunet, Libraire; Paris ii. 235 Bure, De, Freres; Paris ii. 220 Chateaugiron, Marquis de; Paris i. xxxviii Dannecker; Stuttgart iii. 54 Denon; Paris ii. 293 Gaertner, Corbinian; Salzburg iii. 201 Gail; Paris ii. 259 Hartenschneider, Udalricus; Chremsminster Monastery iii. 229 Henri II. ii. 151 Hess, C.E.; Munich iii. 165 Lamouroux; Caen i. 137 Lançon, Durand de; Paris i. xxxviii Langevin; Falaise i. 341 Langlès, L.; Paris ii. 268 Larenaudiere, De; Vire i. 309 Lebret, F.C.; Stuttgart iii. 56 May, Jean Gottlob; Augsbourg iii. 104 Millin, A.L.; Paris ii. 264 Pallas, Joachim; Mölk Monastery iii. 254 Peignot, Gabriel; Dijon i. xxvii Poitiers, Diane de ii. 151 Renouard, Ant. Aug.; Paris ii. 227 Schlichtegroll, Frederic; Munich iii. 161 Schweighæuser, Fils; Strasbourg ii. 426 Van Praet; Paris ii. 278 Veesenmeyer, G.; Ulm iii. 71 Willemin; Paris ii. 320 Young,.T.; Vienna iii. 390 PREFACE. PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. If I had chosen to introduce myself to the greatest possible advantage to the reader, in this Preface to a Second Edition of the "_Bibliographical, Antiquarian, and Picturesque Tour_," I could not have done better than have borrowed the language of those Foreigners, who, by a translation of the Work (however occasionally vituperative their criticisms) have, in fact, conferred an honour upon its Author. In the midst of censure, sometimes dictated by spite, and sometimes sharpened by acrimony of feeling, it were in my power to select passages of commendation, which would not less surprise the Reader than they have done myself: while the history of this performance may be said to exhibit the singular phenomenon, of a traveller, usually lauding the countries through which he passes, receiving in return the reluctant approbation of those whose institutions, manners, and customs, have been praised by him. It is admitted, by the most sedulous and systematic of my opponents--M. CRAPELET--that "considering the quantity and quality of the ornaments and engravings of this Tour, one is surprised that its cost is so moderate."[1] "Few books (says the Bibliographer of Dijon) have been executed with greater luxury. It is said that the expenses of printing and engraving amounted to 6000 l.--to nearly 140,000 franks of our money. It must be admitted that England is the only country in which such an undertaking could be carried into effect. Who in France would dare to risk such a sum--especially for three, volumes in octavo? He would be ruined, if he did."[2] I quote these passages simply to shew under what extraordinary obliquity of feeling those gentlemen must have set down to the task of translation and abuse--of THAT VERY WORK, which is here admitted to contain such splendid representations of the "bibliographical, antiquarian, and picturesque" beauties of their country. A brief account of this foreign _travail_ may be acceptable to the curious in literary history. MONS. LICQUET, the successor of M. Gourdin, as Chief Librarian to the Public Library at Rouen, led the way in the work of warfare. He translated the ninth Letter relating to that Public Library; of which translation especial mention is made at p. 99, post. This version was printed in 1821, for private, distribution; and only 100 copies were struck off. M. Crapelet, in whose office it was printed, felt the embers of discontent rekindled in his bosom as it passed through his press; and in the following year HE also stepped forward to discharge an arrow at the Traveller. Like his predecessor, he printed but a limited number; and as I have more particularly remarked upon the spirit of that version by way of "Introduction" to the original letter, in vol. ii. 209, &c. I shall not waste the time of the Reader by any notice of it in the present place. These two partial translators united their forces, about two years afterwards, and published the whole of the Tour, as it related to FRANCE, in four octavo volumes, in 1825. The ordinary copies were sold for 48 francs, the large paper for 112 francs per copy. The wood-cuts only were republished by them. Of this conjoint, and more enlarged production, presently. Encouraged by the examples of Messrs. Licquet and Crapelet, a Bookbinder of the name of LESNÉ (whose poem upon his "Craft," published in 1820, had been copiously quoted and _commended_ by me in the previous edition) chose to plant his foot within this arena of controversy; and to address a letter to me; to which his model, M. Crapelet, was too happy to give circulation through the medium of his press.[3] To that letter the following metrical lines are prefixed; which the Reader would scarcely forgive me if I failed to amuse him by their introduction in this place. "_Lesné, Relieur Français, à Mons. T.F. Dibdin, Ministre de la Religion, &c._" Avec un ris moqueur, je crois vous voir d'ici, Dédaigneusement dire: Eh, que veut celui-ci? Qu'ai-je donc de commun avec un vil artiste? Un ouvrier français, un _Bibliopégiste_? Ose-t-on ravaler un Ministre à ce point? Que me veut ce _Lesné_? Je ne le connais point. Je crois me souvenir qu'à mon voyage en France, Avec ses pauvres vers je nouai connaissance. Mais c'est si peu de chose un poète à Paris! Savez-vous bien, Monsieur, pourquoi je vous écris? C'est que je crois avoir le droit de vous écrire. Fussiez-vous cent fois plus qu'on ne saurait le dire, Je vois dans un Ministre un homme tel que moi; Devant Dieu je crois même être l'égal d'un roi. The Letter however is in prose, with some very few exceptions; and it is just possible that the indulgent Reader may endure a specimen or two of the prose of M. Lesné, as readily as he has that of his poetry. These specimens are equally delectable, of their kind. Immediately after the preceding poetical burst, the French Bibliopegist continues thus: D'après cet exorde, vous pensez sans doute que, bien convaincu de ma dignité d'homme, je me crois en droit de vous dire franchement ma façon de penser; je vous la dirai, Monsieur. Si vous dirigiez un journal bibliographique; que vous fissiez, en un mot, le métier de journaliste, je serai peu surpris de voir dans votre Trentième Lettre, une foule de choses hasardées, de mauvais calembourgs, de grossièretés, que nous ne rencontrons même pas chez nos journalistes du dernier ordre, en ce qu'ils savent mieux leur monde, et que s'ils lancent une epigramme, fût-elle fausse, elle est au moins finement tournée. Mais vous êtes ANGLAIS, et par cela seul dispensé sans doute de cette politesse qui distingue si heureusement notre nation de la vôtre, et que vos compatriotes n'acquièrent pour la plupart qu'après un long séjour en France." p. 6. Towards the latter part of this most formidable "Tentamen Criticum," the irritable author breaks out thus--"C'est une maladie Française de vouloir toujours imiter les Anglais; ceux-ci, à leur tour, commencent à en être atteints." p. 19. A little farther it is thus: "Enfin c'est _en imitant_ qu'on reussit presque toujours mal; vous en êtes encore, une preuve évidente. J'ai vu en beaucoup d'endroits de votre Lettre, que vous avez voulu imiter _Sterne_;[4] qu'est-il arrivé? Vous êtes resté au-dessous de lui, comme tous les Imitateurs de nôtre bon La Fontaine sont restés en deçà de l'immortel Fabuliste." p. 20. But most especially does the sensitive M. Lesné betray his surprise and apprehension, on a gratuitous supposition--thrown out by me, by way of pleasantry--that "Mr. Charles Lewis was going over to Paris, to establish there a modern School of Bookbinding." M. Lesné thus wrathfully dilates upon this supposition: "Je me garderai bien de passer sous silence la dernière partie de votre Lettre; _un bruit assez étrange est venu jusqu'à vous_; et Charles Lewis doit vous quitter pour quelque temps pour établir en France une école de reliure d'apres les principes du gôut anglais; mais vous croyez, dites-vous, que ce projet est sûrement chimérique, ou que, si on le tentait, il serait de courte durée. Pour cette fois, Monsieur, votre pronostic serait très juste; cette demarche serait une folie: il faudrait s'abuser sur l'engouement des amateurs français, et ceux qui sont atteints de cette maladie ne sont pas en assez grand nombre pour soutenir un pareil établissement. Oui, l'on aime votre genre de reliure; mais on aime les reliures, façon anglaise, faites par les Français. Pensez-vous done, ou Charles Lewis pense-t-il, qu'il n'y ait plus d'esprit national en France? Allez, le sang Française coule encore dans nos veines; Nous pourrons éprouver des malheurs et des peines, Que nous devrons peut être à vous autres Anglais; Mais nous voulons rester, nous resterons, Français! Ainsi, que Charles Lewis ne se dérange pas; qu'il cesse, s'il les a commencés, les préparatifs de sa descente; qu'il ne prive pas ses compatriotes d'un artiste soi-disant inimitable. Nous en avons ici qui le valent, et qui se feront un plaisir de perpéteur parmi nous le bon gôut, l'élégance, et la noble simplicité. p. 25.[5] So much for M. Lesne. I have briefly noticed M. Peignot, the Bibliographer of Dijon. That worthy wight has made the versions of my Ninth and Thirtieth Letters (First Edition) by M.M. Licquet and Crapelet, the substratum of his first brochure entitled _Variétés, Notices et Raretés Bibliographiques_, _Paris_, 1822: it being a supplement to his previous Work of _Curiosités Bibliographiques_."[6] It is not always agreeable for an Author to have his Works reflected through the medium of a translation; especially where the Translator suffers a portion, however small, of his _own_ atrabiliousness, to be mixed up with the work translated: nor is it always safe for a third person to judge of the merits of the original through such a medium. Much allowance must therefore be made for M. Peignot; who, to say the truth, at the conclusion of his labours, seems to think that he has waded through a great deal of _dirt_ of some kind or other, which might have been better avoided; and that, in consequence, some general declaration, by way of _wiping, off_ a portion of the adhering mud, is due to the original Author. Accordingly, at the end of his analysis of M. Licquet's version, (which forms the second Letter in the brochure) he does me the honour to devote seven pages to the notice of my humble lucubrations:--and he prefaces this "_Notice des Ouvrages de M. Dibdin"_, by the following very handsome tribute to their worth: Si, dans les deux Lettres où nous avons rendu compte des traductions partielles du voyage de M.D., nous avons partagé l'opinion des deux estimable traducteurs, sur quelques erreurs et quelques inconvenances échappées a l'auteur anglais, nous sommes bien éloigné d'envelopper dans le même blame, tout ce qui est sorté de sa plume; car il y auroit injustice a lui refuser des connaissances très étendues en histoire littéraire, et en bibliographie: nous le disons franchement, il faudroit fermer les yeux à la lumière, ou être d'une partialité revoltante, pour ne pas convenir que, juste appréciateur de tous les trésors bibliographiques qu'il a le bonheur d'avoir sous la main, M. Dibdin en a fait connoitre en détail toute la richesse dans de nombreux d'ouvrages, ou très souvent le luxe d'érudition se trouve en harmonie avec le luxe typographique qu'il y a étalé. At the risk of incurring the imputation of vanity, I annex the preceding extract; because I am persuaded that the candid Reader will appreciate it in its proper light. I might, had I chosen to do so, have lengthened the extract by a yet more complimentary passage: but enough of M. Peignot--who, so far from suffering ill will or acerbity to predominate over a kind disposition, hath been pleased, since his publication, to write to me a very courteous Letter,[7] and to solicit a "continuance of my favours." Agreeably to the intimation expressed in a preceding page, I am now, in due order, to notice the labours of my translators M.M. LICQUET and CRAPELET. Their united version appeared in 1825, in four octavo volumes, of which the small paper was but indifferently well printed.[8] The preface to the first two volumes is by M. Licquet: and it is not divested of point and merit. It begins by attacking the _Quarterly Review_, (June 1821, p. 147.) for its severity of animadversion on the supposed listlessness and want of curiosity of the French in exploring the architectural antiquities of their country; and that, in consequence of such supineness, the English, considering them as their own property, have described them accordingly. "The decision (says the French translator) is severe; happily it is without foundation." After having devoted several pages to observations by way of reply to that critical Journal, M. Licquet continues thus:--unless I have unintentionally misrepresented him. The Englishman who travels in Normandy, meets, at every step, with reminiscences of his kings, his ancestors, his institutions, and his customs. Churches yet standing, after the lapse of seven centuries; majestic ruins; tombs--even to the very sound of the clock--all unite in affecting, here, the heart of a British subject: every thing seems to tell him that, in former times, HERE was his country; here the residence of his sovereigns; and here the cradle of his manners. This was more than sufficient to enflame the lively imagination of Mr. D. and to decide him to visit, in person, a country already explored by a great number of his countrymen; but he conceived that his narrative should embody other topics than those which ordinarily appeared in the text of his predecessors. "His work then is not only a description of castles, towns, churches, public monuments of every kind:--it is not only a representation of the general aspect of the country, as to its picturesque appearances--but it is an extended, minute, though occasionally inexact, account of public and private libraries; with reflections upon certain customs of the country, and upon the character of those who inhabit it. It is in short the personal history of the author, throughout the whole length of his journey. Not the smallest incident, however indifferent, but what has a place in the letters of the Bibliographer. Thus, he mentions every Inn where he stops: recommends or scolds the landlord--according to his civility or exaction. Has the author passed a bad night? the reader is sure to know it on the following morning. On the other hand, has he had a good night's rest in a comfortable bed? [dans un lit _comfortable_?] We are as sure to know this also, as soon as he awakes:--and thus far we are relieved from anxiety about the health of the traveller. Cold and heat--fine weather and bad weather--every variation of atmosphere is scrupulously recorded. What immediately follows, is unworthy of M. Licquet; because it not only implies a charge of a heinous description--accusing me of an insidious intrusion into domestic circles, a violation of confidence, and a systematic derision of persons and things--but because the French translator, exercising that sense and shrewdness which usually distinguish him, MUST have known that such a charge _could_ not have been founded in FACT. He must have known that any gentleman, leaving England with those letters which brought me in contact with some of the first circles on the Continent, MUST have left it without leaving his character _behind_ him; and that such a character could not, in the natural order of things--seen even through the sensitive medium of a French critic--have been guilty of the grossness and improprieties imputed to me by M. Licquet. I treat therefore this "damnation in wholesale" with scorn and contempt: and hasten to impress the reader with a more favourable opinion of my Norman translator. He _will_ have it that "the English Traveller's imagination is lively and ardent--and his spirit, that of raillery and lightness. He examines as he runs along; that is to say, he does not give himself time to examine; he examines ill; he deceives himself; and he subjects his readers to be deceived with him. He traverses, at a hard trot, one of the most ancient towns in France; puts his head out of his carriage window--and boldly decides that the town is of the time of Francis I."![9] p. xviij. There is pleasantry, and perhaps some little truth, in this vein of observation; and it had been better, perhaps, for the credit of the good taste and gentleman-like feeling of Mons. Licquet, if he had uniformly maintained his character in these respects. I have however, in the subsequent pages,[10] occasionally grappled with my annotator in proving the fallacy, or the want of charity, of many of his animadversions: and the reader probably may not be displeased, if, by way of "avant propos," I indulge him here with a specimen of them--taken from his preface. M. Licquet says, that I "create scenes; arrange a drama; trace characters; imagine a dialogue, frequently in French--and in what French--gracious God!--in assigning to postilions a ridiculous language, and to men of the world the language of postilions." These be sharp words:[11] but what does the Reader imagine may be the probable "result" of the English Traveller's inadvertencies?... A result, ("gracious Heaven!") very little anticipated by the author. Let him ponder well upon the awful language which ensues. "What (says M. Licquet) will quickly be the result, with us, of such indiscretions as those of which M. Dibdin is guilty? The necessity of SHUTTING OUR PORTS, or at least of placing a GUARD UPON OUR LIPS!" There is some consolation however left for me, in balancing this tremendous denunciation by M. Licquet's eulogy of my good qualities--which a natural diffidence impels me to quote in the original words of their author. "A Dieu ne plaise, toutefois, que j'accuse ici LE COEUR de M. Dibdin. Je n'ai jamais eu l'honneur de le voir: je ne le connais que par ses ecrits; principalement par son _Splendid Tour_, et je ne balance pas à déclarer que l'auteur doit être doué d'une ame honnête, et de ces qualités fondamentales qui constituent l'homme de bien. Il préfère sa croyance; mais il respecte la croyance des autres; son érudition parait....[12] variée. Son amour pour les antiquités est immense; et par antiquités j'entends ici tout ce qui est _antique_ ou seulement _ancien_, quellesque soient d'ailleurs la nature et la forme des objets." Pref. p. xv. xvij. Once more; and to conclude with M. Licquet. After these general observations upon the _Text_ of the Tour, M. Licquet favours us with the following--upon the _Plates_. "These plates (says he) are intended to represent some of the principal monuments; the most beautiful landscapes, and the most remarkable persons, comprehending even the servants of an inn. If _talent_ be sought in these Engravings, it will doubtless be found in them; but strangers must not seek for _fidelity_ of representation from what is before their eyes. The greater number of the Designs are, in some sort, ideal compositions, which, by resembling every thing, resemble nothing in particular: and it is worthy of remark that the Artist, in imitation of the Author, seems to have thought that he had only to shew himself _clever_, without troubling himself to be _faithful_." To this, I reply in the very words of M. Licquet himself: "the decision is severe; luckily it is unjust." The only portions of the designs of their skilful author, which may be taxed with a tendency to extravagance, are the _groups_: which, when accompanied by views of landscapes, or of monuments, are probably too profusely indulged in; but the _individuals_, constituting those groups, belong precisely to the _country_ in which they are represented. In the first and second volumes they are _French_; in the third they are _Germans_--all over. Will M. Licquet pretend to say that the churches, monasteries, streets, and buildings, with which the previous Edition of this Tour is so elaborately embellished, have the slightest tendency to IMAGINED SCENERY? If he do, his optics must be peculiarly his own. I have, in a subsequent page, (p. 34, note) slightly alluded to the cost and risk attendant on the Plates; but I may confidently affirm, from experience, that two thirds of the expense incurred would have secured the same sale at the same price. However, the die is cast; and the voice of lamentation is fruitless. I now come to the consideration of M. Licquet's coadjutor, M. CRAPELET. Although the line of conduct pursued by that very singular gentleman be of an infinitely more crooked description than that of his Predecessor, yet, in this place, I shall observe less respecting it; inasmuch as, in the subsequent pages, (pp. 209, 245, 253, 400, &c.) the version and annotations of M. Crapelet have been somewhat minutely discussed. Upon the SPIRIT which could give rise to such a version, and such annotations, I will here only observe, that it very much resembles that of searchers of our street-pavements; who, with long nails, scrape out the dirt from the interstices of the stones, with the hope of making a discovery of some lost treasure which may compensate the toil of perseverance. The love of lucre may, or may not, have influenced my Parisian translator; but the love of discovery of latent error, and of exposure of venial transgression, has undoubtedly, from beginning to end, excited his zeal and perseverance. That carping spirit, which shuts its eyes upon what is liberal and kind, and withholds its assent to what is honourable and just, it is the distinguished lot--and, perhaps, as the translator may imagine, the distinguished felicity--of M. Crapelet to possess. Never was greater reluctance displayed in admitting even the palpable truths of a text, than what is displayed in the notes of M. Crapelet: and whenever a concurring sentiment comes from him, it seems to exude like his heart's life-blood. Having already answered, in detail, his separate publication confined to my 30th Letter[13]--(the 8th of the second volume, in _this_ edition) and having replied to those animadversions which appear in his translation of the whole of the second volume, in this edition--it remains here only to consign the Translator to the careful and impartial consideration of the Reader, who, it is requested, may be umpire between both parties. Not to admit that the text of this Edition is in many places improved, from the suggestions of my Translators, by corrections of "Names of Persons, Places, and Things," would be to betray a stubbornness or obtuseness of feeling which certainly does not enter into the composition of its author. I now turn, not without some little anxiety, yet not wholly divested of the hope of a favourable issue, to the character and object of the Edition HERE presented to the Public. It will be evident, at first glance, that it is greatly "shorn of its beams" in regard to graphic decorations and typographical splendour. Yet its garb, if less costly, is not made of coarse materials: for it has been the wish and aim of the Publishers, that this impression should rank among books worthy of the DISTINGUISHED PRESS from which it issues. Nor is it unadorned by the sister art of _Engraving_; for, although on a reduced scale, some of the repeated plates may even dispute the palm of superiority with their predecessors. Several of the GROUPS, executed on _copper_ in the preceding edition, have been executed on _wood_ in the present; and it is for the learned in these matters to decide upon their relative merits. To have attempted portraits upon wood, would have inevitably led to failure. There are however, a few NEW PLATES, which cannot fail to elicit the Purchaser's particular attention. Of these, the portraits of the _Abbé de la Rue_ (procured through the kind offices of my excellent friend Mr. Douce), and the _Comte de Brienne_, the _Gold Medal of Louis XII_. the _Stone Pulpit of Strasbourg Cathedral,_ and the _Prater near Vienna_--are particularly to be noticed.[14] This Edition has also another attraction, rather popular in the present day, which may add to its recommendation even with those possessed of its precursor. It contains fac-similes of the AUTOGRAPHS of several distinguished Literati and Artists upon the Continent;[15] who, looking at the text of the work through a less jaundiced medium than the Parisian translator, have continued a correspondence with the Author, upon the most friendly terms, since its publication. The accuracy of these fac-similes must be admitted, even by the parties themselves, to be indisputable. Among them, are several, executed by hands.. which now CEASE to guide the pen! I had long and fondly hoped to have been gratified by increasing testimonies of the warmth of heart which had directed several of the pens in question--hoped ... even against the admonition of a pagan poet ... "Vitae summa brevis SPEM nos vetat inchoare LONGAM." But such hopes are now irretrievably cut off; and the remembrance of the past must solace the anticipations of the future. So much respecting the _decorative_ department of this new edition of the Tour. I have now to request the Reader's attention to a few points more immediately connected with what may be considered its _intrinsic_ worth. In the first place, it may be pronounced to be an Edition both _abridged_ and _enlarged_: abridged, as regards the lengthiness of description of many of the MSS. and Printed Books--and enlarged, as respects the addition, of many notes; partly of a controversial, and partly of an obituary, description. The "Antiquarian and Picturesque" portions remain nearly as heretofore; and upon the whole I doubt whether the amputation of matter has extended beyond _an eighth_ of what appeared in the previous edition. It had long ago been suggested to me--from a quarter too high and respectable to doubt the wisdom of its decision--that the Contents of this Tour should be made known to the Public through a less costly medium:--that the objects described in it were, in a measure, new and interesting--but that the high price of the purchase rendered it, to the majority of Readers, an inaccessible publication. I hope that these objections are fully met, and successfully set aside, by the Work in its PRESENT FORM. To have produced it, _wholly divested_ of ornament, would have been as foreign to my habits as repugnant to my feelings. I have therefore, as I would willingly conclude, hit upon the happy medium--between sterility and excess of decoration. After all, the greater part of the ground here trodden, yet continues to be untrodden ground to the public. I am not acquainted with any publication which embraces all the objects here described; nor can I bring myself to think that a perusal of the first and third volumes may not be unattended with gratification of a peculiar description, to the lovers of antiquities and picturesque beauties. The second volume is rather the exclusive province of the Bibliographer. In retracing the steps here marked out, I will not be hypocrite enough to dissemble a sort of triumphant feeling which accompanies a retrospection of the time, labour, and money devoted.. in doing justice, according to my means, to the attractions and worth of the Countries which these pages describe. Every such effort is, in its way, a NATIONAL effort. Every such attempt unites, in stronger bonds, the reciprocities of a generous feeling between rival Nations; and if my reward has not been in _wealth_, it has been in the hearty commendation of the enlightened and the good: "Mea me virtute involvo."[16] I cannot boast of the commendatory strains of public Journals in my own country. No intellectual steam-engine has been put in motion to manufacture a review of unqualified approbation of the Work now submitted to the public eye--at an expense, commensurate with the ordinary means of purchase. With the exception of an indirect and laudatory notice of it, in the immortal pages of the Author of Waverley, of the Sketch book, and of Reginald Dalton, this Tour has had to fight its way under the splendour of its own banners, and in the strength of its own cause. The previous Edition is now a scarce and a costly book. Its Successor has enough to recommend it, even to the most fastidious collector, from the elegance of its type and decorations, and from the reasonableness of its price; but the highest ambition of its author is, that it may be a part of the furniture of every Circulating Library in the Kingdom. If he were not conscious that GOOD would result from its perusal, he would not venture upon such an avowal. "FELIX FAUSTUMQUE SIT!" [1] M. Crapelet is of course speaking of the PREVIOUS edition of the Tour. He continues thus: "M. Dibdin, dans son voyage en France, a visité nos départemens de l'ouest et de l'est, toutes leurs principales villes, presque tous les lieux remarquables par les antiquités, par les monumens, par les beautés du site, ou par les souvenirs historiques. Il a visité les châteaux, les églises, les chapelles; il a observé nos moeurs, nos coutumes; nos habitudes; il a examiné nos Musées et nos premiers Cabinets de curiosité; il s'est concentré dans nos Bibliothéques. Il parle de notre littérature et des hommes de lettres, des arts et de nos artistes; il critique les personnes comme les choses; il loue quelquefois, il plaisante souvent; la vivacité de son esprit l'égare presque toujours." A careful perusal of the notes in THIS edition will shew that my veracity has not "almost always led me astray." [2] GABRIEL PEIGNOT; _Variétés, Notices et Raretés Bibliographiques, 1822, 8vo. p. 4_. [3] _Lettre d'un Relieur Francais à un Bibliographe Anglais; à Paris, de l'Imprimerie de Crapelet_, 1822, 8vo. p.p. 28. [4] It is a little curious that M. Lesné has not been singular in this supposition. My amiable and excellent friend M. Schweighæuser of Strasbourg had the same notion: at least, he told me that the style of the Tour very frequently reminded him of that of Sterne. I can only say--and say very honestly--that I as much thought of Sterne as I did of ... William Caxton! [5] Copious as are the above quotations, from the thoroughly original M. Lesné, I cannot resist the risking of the readers patience and good opinion, by the subjoining of the following passage--with which the brochure concludes. "D'après la multitude de choses hasardées que contient votre Lettre, vous en aurez probablement recu quelques unes de personnes que vous aurez choquées plus que moi, qui vous devrais plutôt des remercimens pour avoir pris la peine de traduire quelques pages de mon ouvrage; mais il n'en est pas de même de bien des gens, et cela ne doit pas les engager à être autant communicatif avec vous, si vous reveniez en France. Je souhaite, dans ce dernier cas, que tous les typographes, les bibliothècaires, les bibliognostes, les bibliographes, les bibliolathes, les bibliomanes, les biblophiles, les bibliopoles, ceux qui exercent la bibliuguiancie et les bibliopégistes même, soient pour vous autant de bibliotaphes; vous ne seriez plus à même de critiquer ce que vous sauriez et ce que vous ne sauriez pas, comme vous l'aviez si souvent fait inconsidérément: Mais tous vos procédés ne nous étonnent pas, C'est le sort des Français de faire DES INGRATS; On les voit servir ceux qui leur furent nuisibles; Je crois que sur ce point ils sont incorrigibles. Je vous avouerai cependant que je suis loin d'être fâché de vous voir en agir ainsi envers mes compatriotes: je désirerais que beaucoup d'Anglais fissent de même; cela pourrait désangliciser ou désanglomaniser les Français. Vous, Monsieur, qui aimez les mots nouveaux, aidez-moi, je vous prie, à franciser, à purifier celui-ci. Quant à moi Je ne fus pas nourri de Grec et de Latin, J'appris à veiller tard, à me lever matin, La nature est le livre où je fis mes études, Et tous ces mots nouveaux me semblent long-temps rudes; Je trouve qu'on ne peut très bien les prononcer Sans affectation, au moins sans grimacer; Que tous ces mots tirés des langues étrangères, Devraient être l'objet de critiques sévères. Faites donc de l'esprit en depit du bon sens, On vous critiquera; quant à moi j'y consens. Je terminerai cette longue Lettre de deux manières: à l'anglaise, en vous souhaitant le bon jour ou le bon soir, suivant l'heure à laquelle vous la recevrez; à la française, en vous priant de me croire, Monsieur, Votre très humble serviteur, LESNÉ. [6] The above brochure consists of two Letters; each to an anonymous bibliographical "Confrere:" one is upon the subject of M. Crapelet's version--the other, upon that of M. Licquet's version--of a portion of the Tour. The notice of the Works of the Author of the Tour; a list of the prices for which the Books mentioned in it have been sold; a Notice of the "Hours of Charlemagne" (see vol. ii. 199) and some account of the late Mr. Porson "Librarian of the London Institution"--form the remaining portion of this little volume of about 160 pages. For the "Curiosités Bibliographiques," consult the _Bibliomania_, pp. 90, 91, &c. &c. [7] This letter accompanied another Work of M. Peignot, relating to editions and translations of the Roman Classics:--and as the reader will find, in the ensuing pages, that I have been sometime past labouring under the frightful, but popular, mania of AUTOGRAPHS, I subjoin with no small satisfaction a fac-simile of the Autograph of this enthusiastic and most diligent Bibliographer. [Autograph: Votre tres humble et obéissant serviteur, G. Peignot] [8] See page xviii.--ante. [9] M. Licquet goes on to afford an exemplification of this precipitancy of conjecture, in my having construed the word _Allemagne_--a village near to Caen--by that of _Germany_. I refer the reader to p. 168 post, to shew with what perfect frankness I have admitted and corrected this "_hippopotamos_" error. [10] More especially at pages 82, 100, 367. [11] "Sharp" as they may be, they are softened, in some measure, by the admission of my bitterest annotator, M. Crapelet, that "I speak and understand the French language well." vol. ii. p. 253. It is painful and unusual with me to have recourse to such apparently self-complimentary language; but when an adversary drives one into a corner, and will not allow of fair space and fair play, one must fight with feet as well as with hands ... "manibus pedibusque" ... [12] This _hiatus_ must not be filled by the Author: ... "haud equidem tali me dignor honore." [13] See vol. ii. p. 210-11. [14] See vol. i. p. 186, vol. ii. pp. 49, 296, 392. The other fresh plates are, _Portrait of the Author_, frontispiece; Bird's-eye views of the _Monasteries of St. Peter's, Salzburg, and of Molk:_ vol. iii. pp. 195, 248, 381, _Black Eagle Inn_, Munich, p. 156. But the Reader will be pleased to examine the _List of Plates prefixed_--in a preceding page. [15] Among these distinguished Literati, I here enrol with peculiar satisfaction the names of the MARQUIS DE CHATEAUGIRON and Mons. DURAND DE LANCON. No opportunity having occurred in the subsequent pages to incorporate fac-similes of the Autographs of these distinguished _Bibliophiles_, they are annexed in the present place. [Autographs: M. de Chateaugiron, D. de Lancon] [16] It is more than a negative consolation to me, to have lived to see the day, that, although comparatively impoverished, _others_ have been enriched by my labours. When I noticed a complete set of my lucubrations on LARGE PAPER, valued at 250_l_. in a bookseller's catalogue, (Mr. Pickering's) and afterwards learnt that this set had found a PURCHASER, I had reason to think that I had "deserved well" of the Literature of my country: and I resolved to live "mihi carior" in consequence. BIBLIOGRAPHICAL Antiquarian AND PICTURESQUE TOUR. The Notes peculiar to THIS EDITION are distinguished by being inserted between brackets: as thus:--[] *** The Index is placed at the end of the First Volume, for the purpose of equalising the size of the Volumes. [Illustration] LETTER I. PASSAGE TO DIEPPE. _Dieppe, April 20, 1818_. At length then, my dear Friend, the long projected "_Bibliographical, Antiquarian_,[17] and _Picturesque Tour"_ is carried into execution; and the Tourist is safely landed on the shores of Normandy. "Vous voilà donc, Monsieur à Dieppe!"--exclaimed the landlord of the Grand Hôtel d'Angleterre--as I made my way through a vociferating crowd of old and young, of both sexes, with cards of addresses in their hands; entreating me to take up my abode at their respective hotels.... But I know your love of method, and that you will be angry with me if I do not "begin at the beginning." It was surely on one of the finest of all fine days that I left my home, on the 14th of this present month, for the land of castles, churches, and ancient chivalry. The wind from the south-east was blowing pretty smartly at the time; but the sky was without a cloud, and I could not but look upon the brilliancy of every external object as a favourable omen of the progress and termination of my tour. Adverse winds, or the indolence or unwillingness of the Captain, detained us at Brighton two whole days--instead of sailing, as we were led to expect, on the day following our arrival. We were to form the first ship's company which had visited France this season. On approaching our gallant little bark, the _Nancy_,[18] commanded by Captain BLABER, the anchor was weighed, and hoisting sail, we stood out to sea. The day began to improve upon us. The gloomy appearances of the morning gradually brightened up. A host of black clouds rolled heavily away. The sun at length shone in his full meridian splendour, and the ocean sparkled as we cut through its emerald waves. As I supposed us to near the French coast, I strained my eyes to obtain an early glimpse of something in the shape of cliff or jettie. But the wind continued determinedly in the south east: the waves rose in larger masses; and our little vessel threw up a heavy shower of foam as we entered on the various tacks. It is a grand sight--that vast, and apparently interminable ocean-- .... maria undique et undique coelum! We darted from Beechy Head upon a long tack for the French coast: and as the sun declined, we found it most prudent to put the Captain's advice, of going below, into execution. Then commenced all the miseries of the voyage. The moon had begun to assert her ascendancy, when, racked with torture and pain in our respective berths, a tremendous surge washed completely over the deck, sky-light, and binnacle: and down came, in consequence, drenched with the briny wave, the hardiest of our crew, who, till then, had ventured to linger upon deck. That crew was various; and not without a few of the natives of those shores which we were about to visit. To cut short my ship-narrative, suffice it only farther to say, that, towards midnight, we heard our Captain exclaim that he saw "the lights of Dieppe"--a joyful sound to us miserable wretches below. I well remember, at this moment, looking up towards the deck with a cheerless eye, and perceiving the light of the moon still lingering upon the main-sail,--but I shall never forget how much more powerfully my sensations were excited, when, as the dawn of day made objects visible, I looked up, and saw an old wrinkle-visaged sailor, with a red night cap on begirt with large blue, puckered, short petticoats--in possession of the helm--about to steer the vessel into harbour![19] About seven we were all upon deck. The sea was yet swoln and agitated, and of a dingy colour: while .... heavily with clouds came on the day, as we slowly approached the outward harbour of DIEPPE. A grey morning with drizzling rain, is not the best accompaniment of a first visit to a foreign shore. Nevertheless every thing was new, and strange, and striking; and the huge crucifix, to the right, did not fail to make a very forcible impression. As we approached the, inner harbour, the shipping and the buildings more distinctly presented themselves. The harbour is large, and the vessels are entirely mercantile, with a plentiful sprinkling of fishing smacks: but the manner in which the latter harmonized with the tint and structure of the houses--the bustle upon shore--the casks, deal planks, ropes, and goods of every description upon the quays,--all formed a most animated and interesting scene. The population seemed countless, and chiefly females; whose high caps and enormous ear-rings, with the rest of their paraphernalia, half persuaded me that instead of being some few twenty-five leagues only from our own white cliffs, I had in fact dropt upon the Antipodes! What a scene (said I to my companion) for our CALCOTT to depict![20] It was a full hour before we landed--saluted, and even assailed on all sides, with entreaties to come to certain hotels. We were not long however in fixing our residence at the _Hotel d'Angleterre_, of which the worthy Mons. De La Rue[21] is the landlord. [17] [Mons. Licquet, my translator, thinks, that in using the word "_Antiquaire_"--as appears in the previous edition of this work, incorporated in the gallicised sentence of "_Voyage Bibliographique Antiquaire_, &c."--I have committed an error; as the word "_Archéologique_" ought, in his opinion, to have been adopted--and he supposes that he best expresses my meaning by its adoption. Such a correction may be better French; but "Archaeological" is not exactly what is usually meant--in our language--by "Antiquarian."] [18] This smart little vessel, of about 70 tons burden, considered to be the fastest sailing packet from Dieppe, survived our voyage only about eighteen months. Her end had nearly proved fatal to every soul on board of her. In a dark night, in the month of September, when bound for Dieppe, she was struck by a heavy London brig. The crew was with difficulty saved--and the vessel went down within about twenty-five minutes after the shock. [19] The English are not permitted to bring their own vessels into harbour--for obvious reasons. [20] [This "scene" has been, in fact, subsequently depicted by. the masterly pencil of J.M.W.TURNER, Esq. R. A: and the picture, in which almost all the powers of that surprising Artist are concentrated, was lately offered for sale by public auction. How it was suffered to be _bought in_ for three hundred and eighty guineas, is at once a riddle and a reproach to public taste.] [21] [I learn that he is since DECEASED. Thus the very first chapter of this second edition has to record an instance of the casualties and mutabilities which the short space of ten years has effected. Mons. De la Rue was a man of worth and of virtue.] LETTER II. DIEPPE. FISHERIES. STREETS. CHURCHES OF ST. JAQUES AND ST. REMY. DIVINE WORSHIP. MILITARY MASS. The town of Dieppe contains a population of about twenty-thousand souls.[22] Of these, by much the greater _stationary_ part are females; arising from one third at least of the males being constantly engaged in the FISHERIES. As these fisheries are the main support of the inhabitants, it is right that you should know something about them. The _herring_ fishery takes place twice a year: in August and October. The August fishery is carried on along the shores of England and the North. From sixty to eighty vessels, of from twenty-five to thirty tons burthen each, with about fifteen men in each vessel, are usually employed. They are freighted with salt and empty barrels, for seasoning and stowing the fish, and they return about the end of October. The herrings caught in August are considerably preferable to those caught in October. The October fishery is carried on with smaller vessels, along the coast of France from Boulogne to Havre. From one hundred and twenty, to one hundred and thirty vessels, are engaged in this latter navigation; and the fish, which is smaller, and of inferior flavour to that caught upon the English coasts, is sent almost entirely to the provinces and to Paris, where it is eaten fresh. So much for the herring.[23] The _Mackarel_ fishery usually commences towards the month of July, along the coast of Picardy; because, being a sort of fish of passage, it gets into the channel in the month of April. It then moves towards the straits of Dover, as summer approaches. For this fishery they make use of large decked-vessels, from twenty to fifty tons burthen, manned with from twelve to twenty men. There are however Dieppe boats employed in this fishery which go as far as the Scilly Islands and Ushant, towards the middle of April. They carry with them the salt requisite to season the fish, which are afterwards sent to Paris, and to the provinces in the interior of France. The _cod fishery_ is divided into the fresh and dried fish. The former continues from the beginning of February to the end of April--and the vessels employed, which go as far as Newfoundland, are two deckers, and from one hundred to one hundred and fifty tons burthen--although, in fact, they rarely carry more than fifteen tons for fear of spoiling the fish. The dried-cod fishery is carried on in vessels of all sizes; but it is essential that they be of a certain depth, because the fish is more cumbersome than weighty. The vessels however usually set sail about the month of March or April, in order that they may have the advantage of the summer season, to dry the fish. There are vessels which go to Newfoundland laden with brandy, flour, beans, treacle, linen and woollen cloths, which they dispose of to the inhabitants of the French colonies in exchange for dried cod. This latter species of commerce may be carried on in the summer months--as late as July. In the common markets for retail trade, they are not very nice in the quality or condition of their fish; and enormous conger eels, which would be instantly rejected by the middling, or even lower classes in England, are, at Dieppe, bought with avidity and relished with glee. A few francs will procure a dish of fish large enough for a dozen people. The quays are constantly crowded, but there seems to be more of bustle than of business. The town is certainly picturesque, notwithstanding the houses are very little more than a century old, and the streets are formal and comparatively wide. Indeed it should seem that the houses were built expressly for Noblemen and Gentlemen, although they are inhabited by tradesmen, mechanics, and artizans, in apparently very indifferent circumstances. I scarcely saw six private houses which could be called elegant, and not a gentleman's carriage has been yet noticed in the streets. But if the _Dieppois_ are not rich, they seem happy, and are in a constant state of occupation. A woman sells her wares in an open shop, or in an insulated booth, and sits without her bonnet (as indeed do all the tradesmen's wives), and works or sings as humour sways her. A man sells gingerbread in an open shed, and in the intervals of his customer's coming, reads some popular history or romance. Most of the upper windows are wholly destitute of glass; but are smothered with clothes, rags, and wall flowers. The fragrance emitted from these flowers affords no unpleasing antidote to odors of a very different description; and here we begin to have a too convincing proof of the general character of the country in regard to the want of cleanliness. A little good sense, or rather a better-regulated police, would speedily get rid of such nuisances. The want of public sewers is another great and grievous cause of smells of every description. At Dieppe there are fountains in abundance; and if some of the limpid streams, which issue from them, were directed to cleansing the streets, (which are excellently well paved) the effect would be both more salubrious and pleasant--especially to the sensitive organs of Englishmen. We had hardly concluded our breakfasts, when a loud and clattering sound was heard; and down came, in a heavy trot, with sundry ear-piercing crackings of the whip, the thundering _Diligence_: large, lofty, and of most unwieldy dimensions: of a structure, too, strong enough to carry a half score of elephants. The postilion is an animal perfectly _sui generis_: gay, alert, and living upon the best possible terms with himself. He wears the royal livery, red and blue; with a plate of the fleur de lis upon his left arm. His hair is tied behind, in a thick, short, tightly fastened queue: with powder and pomatum enough to weather a whole winter's storm and tempest.[24] As he never rises in his stirrups,[25] I leave you to judge of the merciless effects of this ever-beating club upon the texture of his jacket. He is however fond of his horses: is well known by them; and there is all flourish and noise, and no sort of cruelty, in his treatment of them. His spurs are of tremendous dimensions; such as we see sticking to the heels of knights in illuminated Mss. of the XVth century. He has nothing to do with the ponderous machine behind him. He sits upon the near of the two wheel horses, with three horses before him. His turnings are all adroitly and correctly made; and, upon the whole, he is a clever fellow in the exercise of his office. You ought to know, that, formerly, this town was greatly celebrated for its manufactures in _Ivory_; but the present aspect of the ivory-market affords only a faint notion of what it might have been in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. I purchased a few subordinate articles (chiefly of a religious character) and which I shall preserve rather as a matter of evidence than of admiration. There is yet however a considerable manufacture of _thread lace_; and between three and four thousand females are supposed to earn a comfortable livelihood by it.[26] My love of ecclesiastical architecture quickly induced me to visit the CHURCHES; and I set out with two English gentlemen to pay our respects to the principal church, St. JAQUES. As we entered it, a general gloom prevailed, and a sort of premature evening came on; while the clatter of the sabots was sufficiently audible along the aisles. In making the circuit of the side chapels, an unusual light proceeded from a sort of grated door way. We approached, and witnessed a sight which could not fail to rivet our attention. In what seemed to be an excavated interior, were several figures, cut in stone, and coloured after life, (of which they were the size) representing the _Three Maries, St. John, and Joseph of Arimathea_.. in the act of entombing Christ: the figure of our Saviour being half sunk into the tomb. The whole was partially illuminated by some two dozen of shabby and nearly consumed tallow candles; affording a striking contrast to the increasing darkness of the nave and the side aisles. We retired, more and more struck with the novelty of every object around us, to our supper and beds, which were excellent; and a good night's rest made me forget the miseries of the preceding evening. The next morning, being Sunday, we betook ourselves in good time to the service of ST. JAQUES:[27] but on our way thither, we saw a waxen figure of Christ (usually called an "Ecce Homo") enclosed within a box, of which the doors were opened. The figure and box are the property of the man who plays on a violin, close to the box; and who is selling little mass books, supposed to be rendered more sacred by having been passed across the feet and hands of the waxen Christ. Such a mongrel occupation, and such a motley group, must strike you with astonishment--as a Sunday morning's recreation. [Illustration] By half past ten the congregation had assembled within the Church; and every side-chapel (I think about twelve in number) began to be filled by the penitent flocks: each bringing, or hiring, a rush-bottomed chair--with which the churches are pretty liberally furnished, and of which the _Tarif_ (or terms of hire) is pasted upon the walls. There were, I am quite sure, full eighteen women to one man: which may in part be accounted for, by the almost uniform absence of a third of the male population occupied in the fisheries. I think there could not have been fewer than two thousand souls present. But what struck me as the most ludicrously solemn thing I had ever beheld, was a huge tall figure, dressed like a drum-major, with a large cocked hat and three white plumes, (the only covered male figure in the congregation,) a broad white sash upon a complete suit of red, including red stockings;--representing what in our country is called a _Beadle_. He was a sturdy, grim-looking fellow; bearing an halberd in his right hand, which he wielded with a sort of pompous swing, infusing terror into the young, and commanding the admiration of the old. I must not, however, omit to inform you, that half the service was scarcely performed when the preacher mounted a pulpit, with a black cap on, and read a short sermon from a printed book. I shall long have a distinct recollection of the figure and attitude of the _Verger_ who attended the preacher. He followed him to the pulpit, fastened the door, became stationary, and rested his left arm over the railings of the stairs. Anon, he took out his snuff-box with his right hand, and regaled himself with a pinch of snuff in the most joyous and comfortably-abstracted manner imaginable. There he remained till the conclusion of the discourse; not one word of which seemed to afford him half the satisfaction as did the contents of his snuff-box. _Military Mass_ was performed about an hour after, at the church of ST. REMY, whither I strolled quietly, to witness the devotion of the congregation previous to the entry of the soldiers; and I will not dissemble being much struck and gratified by what I saw. There was more simplicity: a smaller congregation: softer music: a lower-toned organ; less rush of people; and in very many of the flock the most intense and unfeigned expression of piety. At the elevation of the host, from the end of the choir, (near which was suspended a white flag with the portrait of the present King[28] upon it) a bell was rung from the tower of the church; the sound, below, was soft and silver-toned--accompanied by rather a quick movement on the organ, upon the diapason stop; which, united with the silence and prostration of the congregation, might have commanded the reverence of the most profane. There is nothing, my dear friend, more gratifying, in a foreign land, than the general appearance of earnestness of devotion on a sabbath day; especially within the HOUSE OF GOD. However, I quickly heard the clangor of the trumpet, the beat of drums, the measured tramp of human feet, and up marched two or three troops of the national guard to perform military mass. I retired precipitately to the Inn, being well pleased to have escaped this strange and distracting sight: so little in harmony with the rites and ceremonies of our own church, and in truth so little accordant with the service which I had just beheld. [22] [Mons. Licquet says that there were about 17,000 souls in 1824; so that the above number may be that of the amount of its _present_ population. "Several changes (says my French translator) have taken place at Dieppe since I saw it: among the rest, there is a magnificent establishment of BATHS, where a crowd of people, of the first distinction, every year resort. Her Royal Highness, the Duchesse de Berri, may be numbered among these Visitors.] [23] [The common people to this day call a _herring_, a _child of Dieppe._ LICQUET.] [24] ["Sterne reproaches the French for their hyperbolical language: the air of the country had probably some influence on M. Dibdin when he adopted this phrase." LICQUET.] [25] ["Signifying, that the French postilions do not ride like the English." LICQUET.] [26] ["Dieppe for a long time was the rival of Argentan and Caen in the lace-manufactory: at the present day, this branch of commerce is almost annihilated there."--LICQUET.] [27] [In a note attached to the previous edition--I have said, "Here also, as well as at Rouen; they will have it that the ENGLISH built the Churches." Upon which M. Licquet remarks thus: "M. Dibdin's expression conveys too general an idea. It is true that _popular_ opinion attributes the erection of our gothic edifices to the ENGLISH: but there exists _another_ opinion, which is not deceptive upon this subject." What is meant to be here conveyed? Either the popular opinion is true or false; and it is a matter of perfect indifference to the author whether it be one or the other. For Mons. Licquet's comfort, I will freely avow that I believe it to be _false_.] [28] [Louis XVIII.] LETTER III. VILLAGE AND CASTLE OF ARQUES. SABBATH AMUSEMENTS. MANNERS AND CUSTOMS. BOULEVARDS. As I had received especial injunctions from our friend P--- not to leave Dieppe without paying a visit to the famous _Chateau d'Arques_[29], in its neighbourhood, I resolved to seize the opportunity of a tolerably fair, or rather gray-looking day, to go and pay due homage to those venerable remains of antiquity. The road thither is completely rural: apple-trees, just beginning to burst their blossoms; hamlets, small farm-houses: a profusion of rich herbage of various kinds--delighted and regaled me as I pursued my tranquil walk. The country is of a gently-undulating character; but the flats or meadows, between the parallel ranges of hills, are subject to constant inundation from the sea; and in an agricultural point of view are consequently of little use, except for summer grazing of the cattle. It was drawing on to vespers as I approached the _Village of Arques_. The old castle had frequently peeped out upon me, in my way thither, from its elevated situation; but being resolved to see "all that could be seen," a French village, for the first time, was not to be overlooked. For a country church, I know of few finer ones than that of Arques.[30] The site of the castle is admirable. My approach was to the western extremity; which, as you look down, brings the village and church of Arques in the back ground. If the eye were to be considered as a correct judge, this venerable pile, composed of hard flint-stone, intermixed with brick, would perhaps claim precedence, on the score of antiquity, over most of the castles of the middle ages. A deep moat, now dry pasture land, with a bold acclivity before you, should seem to bid defiance, even in times of old, to the foot and the spear of the invader. There are circular towers at the extremities, and a square citadel or donjon within. To the north, a good deal of earth has been recently thrown against the bases of the wall. The day harmonised admirably with the venerable object before me. The sunshine lasted but for a minute: when afterwards a gloom prevailed, and not a single catch of radiant light gilded any portion of the building. All was quiet, and of a sombre aspect,--and what _you_, in your admiration of art, would call in perfectly "fine keeping." I descended the hill, bidding a long adieu to this venerable relic of the hardihood of other times, and quickened my pace towards Dieppe. In gaining upon the town, I began to discern groups of rustics, as well as of bourgeoises, assembling and mingling in the dance. The women never think of wearing bonnets, and you have little idea how picturesquely the red and blue[31] (the colours of Raffaelle's Madonnas) glanced backwards and forwards amidst the fruit trees, to the sound of the spirit-stirring violin. The high, stiff, starched cauchoise, with its broad flappers, gave the finishing stroke to the novelty and singularity of the scene; and to their credit be it spoken, the women were much more tidily dressed than the men. The couples are frequently female, for want of a sufficient number of swains; but, whether correctly or incorrectly paired, they dance with earnestness, if not with grace. It was a picture à la Teniers, without its occasional grossness. This then, said I to myself, is what I have so often heard of the sabbath-gambols of the French--and long may they enjoy them! They are surely better than the brutal orgies of the pot-house, or the fanatical ravings of the tabernacle.[32] A late plain dinner, with my favourite vin ordinaire, recruited my strength, and kept me in perfectly good humour with Dieppe. The deportment of the _Dieppois_[33] towards the English, is, upon the whole, rather gracious than otherwise; because the town profits by the liberality and love of expense of the latter. Yet the young ones, as soon as they can lisp, are put in training for pronouncing the _G---- d----_; and a few horribly-deformed and importunate beggars are for ever assailing the doors of the hotels. But beggary is nothing like so frightful an evil as I had anticipated. The general aspect of the town seems to indicate the poverty of the inhabitants; their houses being too large to be entirely occupied. Bonaparte appears to have been anxious about the strengthening of the harbour; the navigation into which is somewhat difficult and intricate. The sides of the walls, as you enter, are lofty, steep, and strong; and raised batteries would render any hostile approach extremely hazardous to the assailants. There is no ship-building at this moment going on: the ribs of about half a dozen, half rotted, small merchant-craft, being all that is discernible. But much is projected, and much is hoped from such projects. Dieppe has questionless many local advantages both by land and by sea; yet it will require a long course of years to infuse confidence and beget a love of enterprise. In spite of all the _naval zeal_, it is here exhibited chiefly as affording means of subsistence from the fisheries. I must not however conclude my Dieppe journal without telling you that I hunted far and near for a good bookseller and for some old books--but found nothing worth the search, except a well-printed early _Rouen Missal_, and _Terence_ by _Badius Ascensius_. The booksellers are supplied with books chiefly from Rouen; the local press being too insignificant to mention. [29] The French Antiquaries have pushed the antiquity of this castle to the 11th century, supposing it to have been built by _William d'Arques_, Count of Tallon, son of the second marriage of Richard Duke of Normandy. I make no doubt, that, whenever built, the sea almost washed its base: for it is known to have occupied the whole of what is called the _Valley of Arques_, running as far as _Bouteilles_. Its position, in reference to the art of war, must have been almost impregnable. Other hypotheses assign its origin to the ninth or tenth century. Whenever built, its history has been fertile in sieges. In 1144, it was commanded by a Flemish Monk, who preferred the spear to the crosier, but who perished by an arrow in the contest. Of its history, up to the sixteenth century, I am not able to give any details; but in the wars of Henry IV. with the League, in 1589, it was taken by surprise by soldiers in the disguise of sailors: who, killing the centinels, quickly made themselves masters of the place. Henry caused it afterwards to be dismantled. In the first half of the eighteenth century it received very severe treatment from pillage, for the purpose of erecting public and private buildings at Dieppe. At present (in the language of the author of the _Rouen Itinerary_) "it is the abode of silence--save when that silence is interrupted by owls and other nocturnal birds." The view of it in Mr. Cotman's work is very faithful. [30] The _Itinéraire de Rouen_, 1816, p. 202, says, absurdly, that this church is of the XIth century. It is perhaps with more truth of the beginning of the XIVth century. A pleasing view of it is in Mr. Dawson Turner's elegant Tour in Normandy, 1818, 8vo. 2 vol. It possessed formerly a bust of Henry IV., which is supposed to have been placed there after the famous battle of Arques gained by Henry over the Duke of Mayenne in 1589. [31] The blue gown and red petticoat; or vice versa. [32] [I am anxious that the above sentence should stand precisely as it appeared in the first edition of this work; because a circumstance has arisen from it, which could have been as little in the anticipation, as it is in the comprehension, of the author. A lady, of high connections, and of respectable character, conceived the passage in question to be somewhat indecorous; or revolting to the serious sense entertained by all Christians, and especially by CHRISTIAN MINISTERS, of the mode of devoting the Sabbath day. In consequence, being in possession of a copy of this work, she DIVIDED it into two; not being willing to sully the splendour of the plates by the supposed impurity of such a passage:--and the prints were accordingly bound APART. The passage--as applied to the FRENCH PEOPLE--requires neither comment nor qualification; and in the same unsophisticated view of religious duties, the _latter_ part may be as strictly applied to the ENGLISH.] [33] The dress of the _sailors_ is the same as it was in the XIVth century; and so probably is that of the women. The illuminations in Froissard and Monstrelet clearly give us the Norman cauchoise. LETTER IV. ROUEN. APPROACH. BOULEVARDS. POPULATION. STREET SCENERY. Here I am, my excellent good friend, in the most extraordinary city in the world. One rubs one's eyes, and fancies one is dreaming, upon being carried through the streets of this old-fashioned place: or that, by some secret talismanic touch, we are absolutely mingling with human beings, and objects of art, at the commencement of the sixteenth century: so very curious, and out of the common appearance of things, is almost every object connected with ROUEN. But before I commence my observations upon the _town_, I must give you a brief sketch of my _journey_ hither. We had bespoke our places in the cabriolet of the Diligence, which just holds three tolerably comfortable; provided there be a disposition to accommodate each other. This cabriolet, as you have been often told, is a sort of a buggy, or phaeton seat, with a covering of leather in the front of the coach. It is fortified with a stiff leathern apron, upon the top of which is a piece of iron, covered with the leather, to fasten firmly by means of a hook on the perpendicular supporter of the head. There are stiffish leathern curtains on each side, to be drawn, if necessary, as a protection against the rain, &c. You lean upon the bar, or top of this leathern apron, which is no very uncomfortable resting-place. And thus we took leave of Dieppe, on the 4th day after our arrival there. As we were seated in the cabriolet, we could hardly refrain from loud laughter at the novelty of our situation, and the grotesqueness of the conveyance. Our Postilion was a rare specimen of his species, and a perfectly _unique copy_. He fancied himself, I suppose, rather getting "into the vale of years," and had contrived to tinge his cheeks with a plentiful portion of rouge.[34] His platted and powdered hair was surmounted with a battered black hat, tricked off with faded ribband: his jacket was dark blue velvet, with the insignia of his order (the royal arms) upon his left arm. What struck me as not a little singular, was, that his countenance was no very faint resemblance of that of _Voltaire_, when he might have been verging towards his sixtieth year. Most assuredly he resembled him in his elongated chin, and the sarcastic expression of his mouth. We rolled merrily along--the horses sometimes spreading, and sometimes closing, according to the size of the streets through which we were compelled to pass. The reins and harness are of _cord_; which, however keep together pretty well. The postilion endeavours to break the rapidity of the descent by conducting the wheels over small piles of gravel or rubbish, which are laid at the sides of the road, near the ditch; so that, to those sitting in the cabriolet, and overlooking the whole process, the effect, with weak nerves, is absolutely terrific. They stop little in changing horses, and the Diligence is certainly well managed, and in general no accidents occur. The road from Dieppe to Rouen is wide, hard, and in excellent condition. There are few or no hedges, but rows of apple-trees afford a sufficient line of demarkation. The country is open, and gently undulating; with scarcely any glimpses of what is called forest-scenery, till you get towards the conclusion of the first stage. Nothing particularly strikes you till you approach _Malaunai_, within about half a dozen miles of Rouen, and of course after the last change of horses. The environs of this beautiful village repay you for every species of disappointment, if any should have been experienced. The rising banks of a brisk serpentine trout stream are studded with white houses, in which are cotton manufactories that appear to be carried on with spirit and success. Above these houses are hanging woods; and though the early spring would scarcely have coated the branches with green in our own country, yet _here_ there was a general freshness of verdure, intermingled with the ruddy blossom of the apple; altogether rejoicing the eye and delighting the heart. Occasionally there were delicious spots, which the taste and wealth of an Englishman would have embellished to every possible degree of advantage. But wealth, for the gratification of picturesque taste, is a superfluity that will not quickly fall to the lot of the French. The Revolution seems to have drained their purses, as well as daunted their love of enterprise. Along the road-side there were some few houses of entertainment; and we observed the emptied cabriolet and stationary voiture, by the side of the gardens, where Monsieur and Madame, with their families, tripped lightly along the vistas, and tittered as John Bull saluted them. Moving vehicles, and numerous riding and walking groups, increased upon us; and every thing announced that we were approaching a _great and populous city_. The approach to ROUEN is indeed magnificent. I speak of the immediate approach; after you reach the top of a considerable rise, and are stopped by the barriers. You then look down a strait, broad, and strongly paved road, lined with a double row of trees on each side. As the foliage was not thickly set, we could discern, through the delicately-clothed branches, the tapering spire of the CATHEDRAL, and the more picturesque tower of the ABBAYE ST. OUEN--with hanging gardens, and white houses, to the left--covering a richly cultivated ridge of hills, which sink as it were into the _Boulevards_, and which is called the _Faubourg Cauchoise_. To the right, through the trees, you see the river SEINE (here of no despicable depth or breadth) covered with boats and vessels in motion: the voice of commerce, and the stir of industry, cheering and animating you as you approach the town. I was told that almost every vessel which I saw (some of them of two hundred, and even of three hundred tons burthen) was filled with brandy and wine. The lamps are suspended from the centre of long ropes, across the road; and the whole scene is of a truly novel and imposing character. But how shall I convey to you an idea of what I experienced, as, turning to the left, and leaving the broader streets which flank the quay, I began to enter the _penetralia_ of this truly antiquated town? What narrow streets, what overhanging houses, what bizarre, capricious ornaments! What a mixture of modern with ancient art! What fragments, or rather ruins, of old delicately-built Gothic churches! What signs of former and of modern devastation! What fountains, gutters, groups of never-ceasing men, women, and children, all gay, all occupied, and all apparently happy! The _Rue de la Grosse Horloge_ (so called from a huge, clumsy, antiquated clock which goes across it) struck me as being not among the least singular streets of Rouen. In five minutes I was within the court-yard of the _Hôtel Vatel_, the favourite residence of the English. It was evening when I arrived, in company with three Englishmen. We were soon saluted by the _laquais de place_--the leech-like hangers-on of every hotel--who begged to know if we would walk upon the Boulevards. We consented; turned to the right; and, gradually rising, gained a considerable eminence. Again we turned to the right, walking upon a raised promenade; while the blossoms of the pear and apple trees, within a hundred walled gardens, perfumed the air with a delicious fragrance. As we continued our route along the _Boulevard Beauvoisine_, we gained one of the most interesting and commanding views imaginable of the city of Rouen--just at that moment lighted up by the golden rays of a glorious sun-set--which gave a breadth and a mellower tone to the shadows upon the Cathedral and the Abbey of St. Ouen. The situation of Rouen renders it necessarily picturesque, view it from what spot you will. The population of Rouen is supposed to be full one hundred thousand souls. In truth, there is no end to the succession of human beings. They swarm like bees, and like bees are busy in bringing home the produce of their industry. You have all the bustle and agitation of Cheapside and Cornhill; only that the ever-moving scene is carried on within limits one-half as broad. Conceive Bucklersbury, Cannon-street, and Thames-street,--and yet you cannot conceive the narrow streets of Rouen: filled with the flaunting cauchoise, and echoing to the eternal tramp of the sabot. There they are; men, women, and children--all abroad in the very centre of the streets: alternately encountering the splashing of the gutter, and the jostling of their townsmen--while the swift cabriolet, or the slow-paced cart, or the thundering _Diligence_, severs them, and scatters them abroad, only that they may seem to be yet more condensely united. For myself, it is with difficulty I believe that I am not living in the times of our Henry VIII. and of their Francis I.; and am half disposed to inquire after the residence of _Guillaume Tailleur_ the printer--the associate, or foreign agent of your favourite _Pynson_.[35] [34] [Mons. Licquet here observes, "This is the first time I have heard it said that our Postilions put on rouge." What he adds, shall be given in his own pithy expression.--"Où la coquetterie va-t-elle se nicher?" What, however is above stated, was stated from a _conviction_ of its being TRUE] [35] [The third English Printer.] See the _Bibliographical Decameron_, vol. ii. p. 137, 8. LETTER V. ECCLESIASTICAL ARCHITECTURE. CATHEDRAL. MONUMENTS. RELIGIOUS CEREMONIES. THE ABBEY OF ST. OUEN. THE CHURCHES OF ST. MACLOU, ST. VINCENT, ST. VIVIEN, ST. GERVAIS, AND ST. PAUL. I have now made myself pretty well acquainted with the geography of Rouen. How shall I convey to you a summary, and yet a satisfactory, description of it? It cannot be done. You love old churches, old books, and relics of ancient art. These be my themes, therefore: so fancy yourself either strolling leisurely with me, arm in arm, in the streets--or sitting at my elbow. First for THE CATHEDRAL:--for what traveller of taste does not doff his bonnet to the _Mother Church_ of the town through which he happens to be travelling--or in which he takes up a temporary abode? The west-front,[36] always the _forte_ of the architect's skill, strikes you as you go down, or come up, the principal street--_La Rue des Carmes_,--which seems to bisect the town into equal parts. A small open space, (which however has been miserably encroached upon by petty shops) called the _Flower-garden_, is before this western front; so that it has some little breathing room in which to expand its beauties to the wondering eyes of the beholder. In my poor judgment, this western front has very few elevations comparable with it[37]--including even those of _Lincoln_ and _York_. The ornaments, especially upon the three porches, between the two towers, are numerous, rich, and for the greater part entire:--in spite of the Calvinists,[38] the French revolution, and time. Among the lower and smaller basso-relievos upon these porches, is the subject of the daughter of Herodias dancing before Herod. She is manoeuvering on her hands, her feet being upwards. To the right, the decapitation of St. John is taking place. The southern transept makes amends for the defects of the northern. The space before it is devoted to a sort of vegetable market: curious old houses encircle this space: and the ascent to the door, but more especially the curiously sculptured porch itself, with the open spaces in the upper part--light, fanciful and striking to a degree--produce an effect as pleasing as it is extraordinary. Add to this, the ever-restless feet of devotees, going in and coming out--the worn pavement, and the frittered ornaments, in consequence--seem to convince you that the ardour and activity of devotion is almost equal to that of business.[39] As you enter the cathedral, at the centre door, by descending two steps, you are struck with the length and loftiness of the nave, and with the lightness of the gallery which runs along the upper part of it. Perhaps the nave is too narrow for its length. The lantern of the central large tower is beautifully light and striking. It is supported by four massive clustered pillars, about forty feet in circumference;[40] but on casting your eye downwards, you are shocked at the tasteless division of the choir from the nave by what is called a _Grecian screen_: and the interior of the transepts has undergone a like preposterous restoration. The rose windows of the transepts, and that at the west end of the nave, merit your attention and commendation. I could not avoid noticing, to the right, upon entrance, perhaps the oldest side chapel in the cathedral: of a date, little less ancient than that of the northern tower; and perhaps of the end of the twelfth century. It contains by much the finest specimens of stained glass--of the early part of the XVIth century. There is also some beautiful stained glass on each side of the Chapel of the Virgin,[41] behind the choir; but although very ancient, it is the less interesting, as not being composed of groups, or of historical subjects. Yet, in this, as in almost all the churches which I have seen, frightful devastations have been made among the stained-glass windows by the fury of the Revolutionists.[42] Respecting the MONUMENTS, you ought to know that the famous ROLLO lies in one of the side-chapels, farther down to the right, upon entering; although his monument cannot be older than the thirteenth century. My attachment to the bibliomanical celebrity of JOHN, DUKE OF BEDFORD, will naturally lead me to the notice of his interment and monumental inscription. The latter is thus; _Ad dextrum Altaris Latus_ _Jacet_ IOANNES DUX BETFORDI _Normanniæ pro Rex_ _Obiit Anno_ MCCCCXXXV. The Duke's tomb will be seen engraved in Sandford's Genealogical History,[43] p. 314; which plate, in fact, is the identical one used by Ducarel; who had the singularly good fortune to decorate his Anglo-Norman Antiquities without any expense to himself![44] There is a curious chapter in Pommeraye's _Histoire de l'Eglise Cathedrale de Rouen_, p. 203, respecting the Duke's taking the habit of a canon of the cathedral. He attended, with his first wife, ANNE OF BURGUNDY, and threw himself upon the liberality and kindness of the monks, to be received by them as one of their order: "il les prioit d'être receu parmy eux comme un de leurs frères, et d'avoir tous les jours distribution de pain et de vin, et pour marque de fraternité d'être vétu du surplis et de l'aumusse: comme aussi d'être associé, luy et sa très généreuse et très illustre épouse, aux suffrages de leur compagnie, et à la participation de tous les biens qu'il plaira à Dieu leur donner la grace d'opérer," p. 204. A grand procession marked the day of the Duke's admission into the monkish fraternity. The whole of this, with an account of the Duke's superb presents to the sacristy, his dining with his Duchess, and receiving their portion of "eight loaves and four gallons of wine," are distinctly narrated by the minute Pommeraye. As you approach the _Chapel of the Virgin_, you pass by an ancient monument, to the left, of a recumbent Bishop, reposing behind a thin pillar, within a pretty ornamented Gothic arch.[45] To the eye of a tasteful antiquary this cannot fail to have its due attraction. While however we are treading upon hallowed ground, rendered if possible more sacred by the ashes of the illustrious dead, let us move gently onwards towards the _Chapel of the Virgin_, behind the choir. See, what bold and brilliant monumental figures are yonder, to the right of the altar! How gracefully they kneel and how devoutly they pray! They are the figures of the CARDINALS D'AMBOISE--uncle and nephew:--the former, minister of Louis XII.[46] and (what does not necessarily follow, but what gives him as high a claim upon the gratitude of posterity) the restorer and beautifier of the glorious building in which you are contemplating his figure. This splendid monument is entirely of black and white marble, of the early part of the sixteenth century. The figures just mentioned are of white marble, kneeling upon cushions, beneath a rich canopy of Gothic fretwork. They are in their professional robes; their heads are bare, exhibiting the tonsure, with the hair in one large curl behind. A small whole-length figure of _St. George_, their tutelary saint, is below them, in gilded marble: and the whole base, or lower frieze, of the monument, is surrounded by six delicately sculptured females, about three feet high, emblematic of the virtues for which these cardinals were so eminently distinguished. These figures, representing Faith, Charity, Prudence, Force, Justice, and Temperance, are flanked by eight smaller ones, placed in carved niches; while, above them, are the twelve Apostles, not less beautifully executed.[47] On gazing at this splendid monument of ancient piety and liberality--and with one's mind deeply intent upon the characters of the deceased--let us fancy we hear the sound of the GREAT BELL from the south-west tower ... called the _Amboise Tower_ ... erected, both the bell and the tower, by the uncle and minister AMBOISE. Know, my dear friend, that there was _once_ a bell, (and the largest in Europe, save one) which used to send forth its sound, for three successive centuries, from the said tower. This bell was broken about thirty years ago, and destroyed in the ravages of the immediately succeeding years.[48] The south-west tower remains, and the upper part of the central tower, with the whole of the lofty wooden spire:--the fruits of the liberality of the excellent men of whom such honourable mention has been made. Considering that this spire is very lofty, and composed of wood, _it is surprising that it has not been destroyed by tempest, or by lightning_.[49] The taste of it is rather capricious than beautiful. I have not yet done with the monuments, or rather have only commenced the account of them.[50] Examine yonder recumbent figure, to the left of the altar, opposite the splendid monument upon which I have just been dilating. It is lying upon its back, with a ghastly expression of countenance, representing the moment when the last breath has escaped from the body. It is the figure of the Grand SENESCHAL DE BREZE,[51]--Governor of Rouen, and husband of the celebrated DIANE DE POICTIERS--that thus claims our attention. This figure is quite naked, lying upon its back, with the right hand placed on the stomach, but in an action which indicates _life_--and therefore it is in bad taste, as far as truth is concerned; for the head being fallen back, much shrunken, and with a ghastly expression of countenance--indicating that some time has elapsed since it breathed its last--the hand could not rest in this position. The cenotaph is of black marble, disfigured by the names of idle visitors who choose to leave such impertinent memorials behind. The famous GOUJON is supposed to be the sculptor of the figure, which is painfully clever, but it strikes me as being too small. At any rate, the arms and body seem to be too strong and fleshy for the shrunken and death-stricken expression of the countenance. Above the Seneschal, thus prostrate and lifeless, there is another and a very clever representation of him, on a smaller scale, on horseback. On each side of this figure (which has not escaped serious injury) are two females in white marble; one representing the VIRGIN, and the other DIANE DE POICTIERS:[52] they are little more than half the size of life. The whole is in the very best style of the sculpture of the time of Francis I. These precious specimens of art, as well as several other similar remains, were carried away during the revolution, to a place of safety. The choir is spacious, and well adapted to its purposes; but who does not grieve to see the Archbishop's stall, once the most curious and costly, of the Gothic order, and executed at the end of the XVth century, transformed into a stately common-place canopy, supported by columns of chestnut-wood carved in the Grecian style? The LIBRARY, which used to terminate the north transept, is--not gone--but transferred. A fanciful stair-case, with an appropriate inscription,[53] yet attest that it was formerly an appendage to that part of the edifice. Before I quit the subject of the cathedral, I must not fail to tell you something relating to the rites performed therein. Let us quit therefore the dead for the living. Of course we saw, here, a repetition of the ceremonies observed at Dieppe; but previously to the feast of the _Ascension_ we were also present at the confirmation of three hundred boys and three hundred girls, each very neatly and appropriately dressed, in a sort of sabbath attire, and each holding a lighted wax taper in the hand. The girls were dressed in white, with white veils; and the rich lent veils to those who had not the means of purchasing them. The cathedral, especially about the choir, was crowded to excess. I hired a chair, stood up, and gazed as earnestly as the rest. The interest excited among the parents, and especially the mothers, was very striking. "Voila la petite--qu'elle a l'air charmant!--le petit ange!"....A stir is made ... they rise... and approach, in the most measured order, the rails of the choir ... There they deposit their tapers. The priests, very numerous, extinguish them as dexterously as they can; and the whole cathedral is perfumed with the mixed scent of the wax and frankincense. The boys, on approaching the altar, and giving up their tapers, kneel down; then shut their eyes, open their mouths; and the priests deposit the consecrated wafer upon their tongues. The procession now took a different direction. They all went into the nave, where a sermon was preached to the young people, expressly upon the occasion, by a Monsieur Quillebeuf, a canon of the cathedral, and a preacher of considerable popularity. He had one of the most meagre and forbidding physiognomies I ever beheld, and his beard was black and unshaven. But he preached well; fluently, and even eloquently: making a very singular, but not ungraceful, use of his left arm--and displaying at times rather a happy familiarity of manner, wholly exempt from vulgarity, and well suited to the capacities and feelings of his youthful audience. His subject was "belief in Christ Jesus;" on which he gave very excellent proofs and evidences. His voice was thin, but clear, and distinctly heard. And now, my dear Friend, if you are not tired with this détour of the CATHEDRAL, suppose we take a promenade to the next most important ecclesiastical edifice in the city of Rouen. What say you therefore to a stroll to the ABBEY of ST. OUEN? "Willingly," methinks I hear you reply. To the abbey therefore let us go. Leaving the Cathedral, you pass a beautifully sculptured fountain (of the early time of Francis I.) which stands at the corner of a street, to the right; and which, from its central situation, is visited the live-long day for the sake of its limpid waters. Push on a little further; then, turning to the right, you get into a sort of square, and observe the ABBEY--or rather the _west-front_ of it, full in face of you. You gaze, and are first struck with its matchless window: call it rose, or marygold, as you please. I think, for delicacy and richness of ornament, this window is perfectly unrivalled. There is a play of line in the mullions, which, considering their size and strength, may be pronounced quite a master-piece of art. You approach, regretting the neglected state of the lateral towers, and enter, through the large and completely-opened centre doors, the nave of the Abbey. It was towards sun-set when we made our first entrance. The evening was beautiful; and the variegated tints of sun-beam, admitted through the stained glass of the window, just noticed, were perfectly enchanting. The window itself, as you look upwards, or rather as you fix your eye upon the centre of it, from the remote end of the Abbey, or the _Lady's Chapel_, was a perfect blaze of dazzling light: and nave, choir, and side aisles, seemed magically illumined ... Seemed all on fire--within, around; Deep sacristy and altar's pale; Shone every pillar foliage-bound.... _Lay of the Last Minstrel_. We declared instinctively that the ABBEY OF ST. OUEN could hardly have a rival;--certainly not a superior. [Illustration] As the evening came on, the gloom of almost every side chapel and recess was rendered doubly impressive by the devotion of numerous straggling supplicants; and invocations to the presiding spirit of the place, reached the ears and touched the hearts of the bystanders. The grand western entrance presents you with the most perfect view of the choir--a magical circle, or rather oval--flanked by lofty and clustered pillars, and free from the surrounding obstruction of screens, &c. Nothing more airy and more captivating of the kind can be imagined. The finish and delicacy of these pillars are quite surprising. Above, below, around--every thing is in the purest style of the XIVth and XVth centuries. The central tower is a tower of beauty as well as of strength. Yet in regard to further details, connected with the interior, it must be admitted that there is very little more which is deserving of particular description; except it be _the gallery_, which runs within the walls of the nave and choir, and which is considerably more light and elegant than that of the cathedral. A great deal has been said about the circular windows at the end of the south transept, and they are undoubtedly elegant: but compared with the one at the extremity of the nave, they are rather to be noticed from the tale attached to them, than from their positive beauty. The tale, my friend, is briefly this. These windows were finished (as well as the larger one at the west front) about the year 1439. One of them was executed by the master-mason, the other by his apprentice; and on being criticised by competent judges, the performance of the _latter_ was said to eclipse that of the former. In consequence, the master became jealous and revengeful, and actually poniarded his apprentice. He was of course tried, condemned, and executed; but an existing monument to his memory attests the humanity of the monks in giving him Christian interment.[54] On the whole, it is the absence of all obtrusive and unappropriate ornament which gives to the interior of this building that light, unencumbered, and faery-like effect which so peculiarly belongs to it, and which creates a sensation that I never remember to have felt within any other similar edifice. Let me however put in a word for the _Organ_. It is immense, and perhaps larger than that belonging to the Cathedral. The tin pipes (like those of the organ in the Cathedral) are of their natural colour. I paced the pavement beneath, and think that this organ cannot be short of forty English feet in length. Indeed, in all the churches which I have yet seen, the organs strike me as being of magnificent dimensions. You should be informed however that the extreme length of the interior, from the further end of the Chapel of the Virgin, to its opposite western extremity, is about four hundred and fifty English feet; while the height, from the pavement to the roof of the nave, or the choir, is one hundred and eight English feet. The transepts are about one hundred and forty feet in length. The central tower, upon the whole, is not only the grandest tower in Rouen, but there is nothing for its size in our own country that can compare with it. It rises upwards of one hundred feet above the roof of the church; and is supported below, or rather within, by four magnificent cluster-pillared bases, each about thirty-two feet in circumference. Its area, at bottom, can hardly be less than thirty-six feet square. The choir is flanked by flying buttresses, which have a double tier of small arches, altogether "marvellous and curious to behold." I could not resist stealing quietly round to the porch of the _south transept_, and witnessing, in that porch, one of the most chaste, light, and lovely specimens of Gothic architecture, which can be contemplated. Indeed, I hardly know any thing like it.[55] The leaves of the poplar and ash were beginning to mantle the exterior; and, seen through their green and gay lattice work, the traceries of the porch seemed to assume a more interesting aspect. They are now mending the upper part of the façade with new stone of peculiar excellence--but it does not harmonise with the old work. They merit our thanks, however, for the preservation of what remains of this precious pile. I should remark to you that the eastern and north-eastern sides of the abbey of St. Ouen are surrounded with promenades and trees: so that, occasionally, either when walking, or sitting upon the benches, within these gardens, you catch one of the finest views imaginable of the abbey. At this early season of the year, much company is assembled every evening in these walks: while, in front of the abbey, or in the square facing the western end, the national guard is exercised in the day time--and troops of fair nymphs and willing youths mingle in the dance on a sabbath evening, while a platform is erected for the instrumental performers, and for the exhibition of feats of legerdemain. You must not take leave of St. Ouen without being told that, formerly, the French Kings used occasionally to "make revel" within the Abbot's house. Henry II, Charles IX, and Henry III, each took a fancy to this spot--but especially the famous HENRI QUATRE. It is reported that that monarch sojourned here for four months--- and his reply to the address of the aldermen and sheriff of Rouen is yet preserved both in MS. and by engravings. "The King having arrived at St. Ouen (says an old MS.)[56] the keys of the tower were presented to him, in the presence of M. de Montpensier, the governor of the province, upon a velvet-cushion. The keys were gilt. The King took them, and replacing them in the hands of the governor, said--"Mon cousin, je vous les baille pour les rendre, qu'ils les gardent;"--then, addressing the aldermen, he added, "Soyez moi bons sujets et je vous serai bon Roi, et le meilleur Roi que vous ayez jamais eu." Next to the Abbey of St. Ouen, "go by all means and see the church _St. Maclou_"--say your friends and your guides. The Abbé Turquier accompanied me thither. The great beauties of St. Maclou are its tower and its porch. Of the tower, little more than the lantern remains. This is about 160 English feet in height. Above it was a belfry or steeple, another 110 feet in height, constructed of wood and lead--but which has been nearly destroyed for the sake of the lead,--for the purpose of slaughter or resistance during the late revolution.[57] The exteriors of the porches are remarkable for their elaborate ornaments; especially those in the _Rue Martainville._ They are highly praised by the inhabitants, and are supposed to be after the models of the famous Goujon. Perhaps they are rather encumbered with ornament, and want that quiet effect, and pure good taste, which we see in the porches of the Cathedral and of the Abbey St. Ouen. However, let critics determine as they will upon this point--they must at least unite in reprobating the barbarous edict which doomed these delicate pieces of sculptured art to be deluged with an over-whelming tint of staring yellow ochre! Of the remaining churches, I shall mention only four: two of them chiefly remarkable for their interior, and two for their extreme antiquity. Of the two former, that of _St. Vincent_ presents you with a noble organ, with a light choir profusely gilded, and (rarer accompaniment!) in very excellent taste. But the stained glass is the chief magnet of attraction. It is rich, varied, and vivid to a degree; and, upon the whole, is the finest specimen of this species of art in the present ecclesiastical remains of the city. _St. Vivien_ is the second of these two former. It is a fine open church, with a large organ, having a very curious wooden screen in front, elaborately carved, and, as I conceive, of the very earliest part of the sixteenth century. I ascended the organ-loft; and the door happening to be open, I examined this screen (which has luckily escaped the yellow-ochre edict) very minutely, and was much gratified by the examination. Such pieces of art, so situated, are of rare occurrence. For the first time, within a parish church, I stepped upon the pavement of the choir: walked gently forwards, to the echo of my own footsteps, (for not a creature was in the church) and, "with no unhallowed hand" I would hope, ventured to open the choral or service book, resting upon its stand. It was wide, thick, and ponderous: upon vellum: beautifully written and well executed in every respect, with the exception of the illuminations which were extremely indifferent. I ought to tell you that the doors of the churches, abroad, are open at all times of the day: the ancient or more massive door, or portal, is secured from shutting; but a temporary, small, shabby wooden door, covered with dirty green baize, opening and shutting upon circular hinges, just covers the vacuum left by the absence of the larger one. Of the two ancient churches, above alluded to, that of _St. Gervais_, is situated considerably to the north of where the _Boulevards Cauchoise_ and _Bouvreuil_ meet. It was hard by this favourite spot, say the Norman historians, that the ancient Dukes of Normandy built their country-houses: considering it as a _lieu de plaisance._ Here too it was that the Conqueror came to breathe his last--desiring to be conveyed thither, from his palace in the city, for the benefit of the pure air.[58] I walked with M. Le Prevost to this curious church: having before twice seen it. But the _Crypt_ is the only thing worth talking about, on the score of antiquity. The same accomplished guide bade me remark the extraordinary formation of the capitals of the pillars: which, admitting some perversity of taste in a rude, Norman, imitative artist, are decidedly of Roman character. "Perhaps," said M. Le Prevost, "the last efforts of Roman art previous to the relinquishment of the Romans." Among these capitals there is one of the perfect Doric order; while in another you discover the remains of two Roman eagles. The columns are all of the same height; and totally unlike every thing of the kind which I have seen or heard of. We descended the hill upon which _St. Gervais_ is built, and walked onward towards _St. Paul_, situated at the further and opposite end of the town, upon a gentle eminence, just above the Banks of the Seine.[59] M. Le Prevost was still our conductor. This small edifice is certainly of remote antiquity, but I suspect it to be completely Norman. The eastern end is full of antiquarian curiosities. We observed something like a Roman mask as the centre ornament upon the capital of one of the circular figures; and Mr. Lewis made a few slight drawings of one of the grotesque heads in the exterior, of which the hair is of an uncommon fashion. The _Saxon whiskers_ are discoverable upon several of these faces. Upon the whole, it is possible that parts of this church may have been built at the latter end of the tenth century, after the Normans had made themselves completely masters of this part of the kingdom; yet it is more probable that there is no vestige left which claims a more ancient date than that of the end of the eleventh century. I ought just to notice the church of _St. Sever_,[60] supposed by some to be yet more ancient: but I had no opportunity of taking a particular survey of it. Thus much, or rather thus little, respecting the ECCLESIASTICAL ANTIQUITIES of Rouen. They merit indeed a volume of themselves. This city could once boast of upwards of _thirty parish churches_; of which very nearly a _dozen_ have been recently (I mean during the Revolution) converted into _warehouses_. It forms a curious, and yet melancholy mélange--this strange misappropriation of what was formerly held most sacred, to the common and lowest purposes of civil life! You enter these warehouses, or offices of business, and see the broken shaft, the battered capital, and half-demolished altar-piece--the gilded or the painted frieze--in the midst of bales of goods--casks, ropes, and bags of cotton: while, without, the same spirit of demolition prevails in the fractured column, and tottering arch way. Thus time brings its changes and decays--premature as well as natural: and the noise of the car-men and injunctions of the clerk are now heard, where formerly there reigned a general silence, interrupted only by the matin or evening chaunt! I deplored this sort of sacrilegious adaptation, to a respectable-looking old gentleman, sitting out of doors upon a chair, and smoking his pipe--"c'est dommage, Monsieur, qu'on a converti l'église à"--He stopped me: raised his left hand: then took away his pipe with his right; gave a gentle whiff, and shrugging up his shoulders, half archly and half drily exclaimed--"Mais que voulez vous, Monsieur?--ce sont des événemens qu'on ne peut ni prévoir ni prévenir. Voilà ce que c'est!" Leaving you to moralize upon this comfortable morceau of philosophy, consider me ever, &c. [36] A most ample and correct view of this west front will be found in Mr. _Cotman's Norman Antiquities_. [37] It is about 180 English feet in width, by about 150 in the highest part of its elevation. The plates which I saw at Mr. Frere's, bookseller, upon the Quai de Paris, from the drawings of Langlois, were very inadequate representations of the building. [38] The ravages committed by the Calvinists throughout nearly the whole of the towns in Normandy, and especially in the cathedrals, towards the year 1560, afford a melancholy proof of the effects of RELIGIOUS ANIMOSITY. But the Calvinists were bitter and ferocious persecutors. Pommeraye, in his quarto volume, _Histoire de l'Eglise Cathedrale de Rouen_, 1686, has devoted nearly one hundred pages to an account of Calvinistic depredations. [39] [Mr. Cotman has a plate of the elevation of the front of this south transept; and a very minute and brilliant one will be found in the previous edition of this Tour--by Mr. Henry le Keux: for which that distinguished Artist received the sum of 100 guineas. The remuneration was well merited.] [40] [Mons. Licquet says each clustered pillar contains thirty-one columns.] [41] This chapel is about ninety-five English feet in length, by thirty in width, and sixty in heighth. The sprawling painting by Philippe de Champagne, at the end of it, has no other merit than that of covering so many square feet of wall. The architecture of this chapel is of the XIVth century: the stained glass windows are of the latter end of the XVth. On completing the circuit of the cathedral, one is surprised to count not fewer than _twenty-five_ chapels. [42] [Mons. Licquet is paraphrastically warm in his version, here. He renders it thus: "les atteintes effroyables du vandalisme révolutionaire," vol. i. p. 64.] [43] Sandford, after telling us that he thinks there "never was any portraiture" of the Duke, thus sums up his character. "He was justly accounted one of the best generals that ever blossomed out of the royal stem of PLANTAGENET. His valour was not more terrible to his enemies than his memory honourable; for (doubtful whether with more glory to him, or to the speaker) King Lewis the Eleventh being counselled by certain envious persons to deface his tomb (wherein with him, saith one, was buried all English men's good fortune in France) used these indeed princely words: 'What honour shall it be to us, or you, to break this monument, and to pull out of the ground the bones of HIM, whom, in his life time, neither my father nor your progenitors, with all their puissance, were once able to make flie a foot backwarde? who, by his strength, policy and wit kept them all out of the principal dominions of France, and out of this noble duchy of Normandy? Wherefore, I say first, GOD SAVE HIS SOUL; and let his body now lie in rest, which when he was alive, would have disquieted the proudest of us all. And for THIS TOMB, I assure you it is not so worthy or convenient as his honour and acts have deserved.'" p. 314-5, Ed. 1707[A] The famous MISSAL, once in the possession of this celebrated nobleman, and containing the only authenticated portrait of him (which is engraved in the _Bibliog. Decameron_, vol. i. p. cxxxvii.) is now the property of John Milner, Esq. of York Place, Portman Square, who purchased it of the Duke of Marlborough. The Duke had purchased it at the sale of the library of the late James Edwards, Esq. for 687l. 15s. [A] [Upon this, Mons. Licquet, with supposed shrewdness and success, remarks,--"All very well: but we must not forget that the innocent Joan of Arc was burnt alive--thanks to this said Duke of Bedford, as every one knows!"] [44] [A different tale may be told of ONE of his Successors in the same Anglo-Norman pursuit. The expenses attending the graphic embellishments alone of the previous edition of this work, somewhat exceeded the sum of _four thousand seven hundred pounds._ The risk was entirely my own. The result was the loss of about 200l.: exclusively of the expences incurred in travelling about 2000 miles. The _copper-plates_ (notwithstanding every temptation, and many entreaties, to _multiply_ impressions of several of the subjects engraved) were DESTROYED. There may be something more than a mere negative consolation, in finding that the work is RISING in price, although its author has long ceased to partake of any benefit resulting from it.] [45] A plate of this Monument is published in the Tour of Normandy by Dawson Turner, Esq. [46] The Cardinal died in his fiftieth year only; and his funeral was graced and honoured by the presence of his royal master. Guicciardini calls him "the oracle and right arm of Louis." Of eight brothers, whom he left behind, four attained to the episcopal rank. His nephew succeeded him as Archbishop. See also _Historia Genealogica Magnatum Franciae_; vol. vii. p. 129; quoted in the _Gallia Christiana_, vol. xi. col. 96. It was during the archiepiscopacy of the successor of the nephew of Amboise--namely, that of CHARLES of BOURBON--that the _Calvanistic persecution_ commenced. "Tunc vero coepit civitas, dioecesis, universaque provincia lamentabilem in modum conflictari, saevientibus ob religionis dissidia plusquam civilibus bellis," &c. But then the good Archbishop, however bountiful he might have been towards the poor at _Roncesvalles_, (when he escorted Philip II.'s first wife Elizabeth, daughter of Henry II. to the confines of Spain, after he had married her to that wretched monarch) should not have inflamed the irritated minds of the Calvinists, by BURNING ALIVE, in 1559, _John Cottin_, one of their most eminent preachers, by way of striking terror into the rest! Well might the Chronicler observe, as the result, "novas secta illa in dies acquirebat vires." About 1560-2, the Calvinists got the upper hand; and repaid the Catholics with a vengeance. Charles of Bourbon died in 1590: so that he had an arduous and agitated time of it. [47] How long will this monument--(matchless of its kind)--continue unrepresented by the BURIN? If Mr. Henry Le Keux were to execute it in his best style, the world might witness in it a piece of Art entirely perfect of its kind. But let the pencils of Messrs. Corbould and Blore be first exercised on the subject. In the mean while, why is GALLIC ART inert? [48] The choir was formerly separated from the surrounding chapels, or rather from the space between it and the chapels, by a superb brass grating, full of the most beautiful arabesque ornaments--another testimony of the magnificent spirit of the Cardinal and Prime Minister of Louis XII.: whose arms, as well as the figure of his patron, St. George, were seen in the centre of every compartment ... The Revolution has not left a vestige behind! [49] [In this edition, I put the above passage in _Italics_,--to mark, that, within three years of writing it, the spire was consumed by LIGHTNING. The newspapers of both France and England were full of this melancholy event; and in the year 1823, Monsieur Hyacinthe Langlois, of Rouen, published an account of it, together with some views (indifferently lithographised) of the progress of the burning. "It should seem (says Mons. Licquet) that the author had a presentiment of what was speedily to take place:--for the rest, the same species of destruction threatens all similar edifices, for the want of conductors." I possess a fragment of the lead of the roof, as it was collected after a state of _fusion_--and sent over to me by some friend at Rouen. The fusion has caused portions of the lead to assume a variety of fantastic shapes--not _altogether_ unlike a gothic building.] [50] Let me add that the whole length of the cathedral is about four hundred and forty feet; and the transept about one hundred and seventy-five; English measure. The height of the nave is about ninety, and of the lantern one hundred and sixty-eight feet, English. The length of the nave is two hundred and twenty-eight feet. [51] He died in 1531. Both the ancient and yet existing inscriptions are inserted by Gilbert, from Pommeraye and Farin; and formerly there was seen, in the middle of the monument, the figure of the Seneschal habited as a Count, with all the insignia of his dignity. But this did not outlive the Revolution. [52] It must be admitted that Diana, when she caused the verses _Indivulsa tibi quondam et fidissima conjux Vt fuit in thalamo, sic erit in tumulo_. to be engraved upon the tomb of the Seneschal, might well have "moved the bile" of the pious Benedictine Pommeraye, and have excited the taunting of Ducarel, when they thought upon her subsequent connexion, in the character of mistress, with Henry the Second of France. Henry however endeavoured to compensate for his indiscretions by the pomp and splendor of his processions. Rouen, so celebrated of old for the entries of Kings and Nobles, seems to have been in a perfect blaze of splendor upon that of the Lover of Diana--"qui fut plus magnifique que toutes celles qu'on avoit vu jusqu'alors:" see _Farin's Hist. de la Ville de Rouen_, vol. i. p. 121, where there is a singularly minute and gay account of all the orders and degrees of citizens--(with their gorgeous accoutrements of white plumes, velvet hats, rich brocades, and curiously wrought taffetas) of whom the processions were composed. It must have been a perfectly dramatic sight, upon the largest possible scale. It was from respect to the character or the memory of DIANA, that so many plaster-representations of her were erected on the exteriors of buildings: especially of those within small squares or quadrangles. In wandering about Rouen, I stumbled upon several old mansions of this kind. [53] The inscription is this: _Si quem sancta tenet meditandi in lege voluntas, Hic poterit residens, sacris intendere libris_. Pommeraye has rather an interesting gossiping chapter [Chap. xxii.] "De la Bibliothêque de la Cathédrale;" p. 163: to which FRANÇOIS DE HARLAY, about the year 1630, was one of the most munificent benefactors. [54] _Christian interment_.]--"Les Religieux de Saint Ouen touchez de compassion envers ce malheureux artisan, obtinrent son corps de la justice, et pour reconnoissance des bons services qu'il leur avoit rendus dans la construction de leur église, nonobstant sa fin tragique, ne laissèrent pas de luy fair l'honneur de l'inhumer dans la chapelle de sainte Agnes, ou sa tombe se voit encore auec cet Epitaphe: _Cy gist_ M. ALEXANDRE DE BERNEUAL, _Maistre des oeuvres de Massonnerie._ [55] Even Dr. Ducarel became warm--on contemplating this porch! "The porch at the south entrance into the church (says he) is much more worthy of the spectator's attention, being highly enriched with architectonic ornaments; particularly two beautiful cul de lamps, which from the combination of a variety of spiral dressings, as they hang down from the vaulted roof, produce a very pleasing effect." p. 28. [56] Consult the account given by M. Le Prevost in the "_Précis Analytique des Travaux de l'Academie, &c. de Rouen_," for the year 1816, p. 151, &c. [57] Farin tells us that you could go from the top of the lantern to the cross, or to the summit of the belfry, "outside, without a ladder; so admirable was the workmanship." "Strangers (adds he) took models of it for the purpose of getting them engraved, and they were sold publicly at Rome." _Hist. de la Ville de Rouen_, 1738, 4to. vol. ii. p. 154. There are thirteen chapels within this church; of which however the building cannot be traced lower than quite the beginning of the XVIth century. The extreme length and width of the interior is about 155 by 82 feet English. Even in Du Four's time the population of this parish was very great, and its cemetery (adds he) was the first and most regular in Rouen. He gives a brief, but glowing description of it--"on va tout autour par des galeries couvertes et pavées; et, deux de ces galeries sont decorées de deux autels," &c. p. 150. Alas! time--or the revolution--has annihilated all this. Let me however add that M. COTMAN has published a view of the _staircase_ in the church of which I am speaking. [58] Ordericus Vitalis says, that the dying monarch requested to be conveyed thither, to avoid the noise and bustle of a populous town. Rouen is described to be, in _his_ time, "populosa civitas." Consult Duchesne's _Historiæ Normannor. Scrip. Antiq._ p.656. [59] A view of it is published by M. Cotman. [60] _St. Sever_. This church is situated in the southern fauxbourgs, by the side of the Seine, and was once surrounded by gardens, &c. As you cross the bridge of boats, and go to the race-ground, you leave it to the right; but it is not so old as _St. Paul_--where, Farin says, the worship of ADONIS was once performed! LETTER VI. HALLES DE COMMERCE. PLACE DE LA PUCELLE D'ORLEANS (JEANNE D'ARC.) BASSO-RILIEVO OF THE CHAMP DE DRAP D'OR. PALACE AND COURTS OF JUSTICE. You must make up your mind to see a few more sights in the city of Rouen, before I conduct you to the environs, or to the summit of _Mont St. Catherine_. We must visit some relics of antiquity, and take a yet more familiar survey of the town, ere we strive ... superas evadere ad auras. Indeed the information to be gained well merits the toil endured in its acquisition. The only town in England that can give you any notion of Rouen, is CHESTER; although the similitude holds only in some few particulars. I must, in the first place then, make especial mention of the HALLES DE COMMERCE. The _markets_ here are numerous and abundant, and are of all kinds. Cloth, cotton, lace, linen, fish, fruit, vegetables, meat, corn, and wine; these for the exterior and interior of the body. Cattle, wood, iron, earthenware, seeds, and implements of agriculture; these for the supply of other necessities considered equally important. Each market has its appropriate site. For picturesque effect, you must visit the _Vieux Marché_, for vegetables and fish; which is kept in an open space, once filled by the servants and troops of the old Dukes of Normandy, having the ancient ducal palace in front. This is the fountain head whence the minor markets are supplied. Every stall has a large old tattered sort of umbrella spread above it, to ward off the rain or rays of heat; and, seen from some points of view, the effect of all this, with the ever-restless motion of the tongues and feet of the vendors, united to their strange attire, is exceedingly singular and interesting. Leaving the old market place, you pass on to the _Marché Neuf_, where fruits, eggs, and butter are chiefly sold. At this season of the year there is necessarily little or no fruit, but I could have filled one coat pocket with eggs for less than half a franc. While on the subject of buying and selling, let us go to the _Halles_ of _Rouen_; being large public buildings now exclusively appropriated to the sale of cloths, linen, and the varied _et-ceteras_ of mercery. These are at once spacious and interesting in a high degree. They form the divisions of the open spaces, or squares, where the markets just mentioned are held; and were formerly the appurtenances of the palaces and chateaux of the old Dukes of Normandy: the _latter_ of which are now wholly demolished. You must rise betimes on a Friday morning, to witness a sight of which you can have no conception in England: unless it be at a similar scene in _Leeds_. By six o'clock the busy world is in motion within these halls. Then commences the incessant and inconceivable vociferation of buying and selling. The whole scene is alive, and carried on in several large stone-arched rooms, supported by a row of pillars in the centre. Of these halls, the largest is about three hundred and twenty English feet in length, by fifty-five in width. The centre, in each division, contains tables and counters for the display of cloth, cotton, stuff, and linen of all descriptions. The display of divers colours--the commendations bestowed by the seller, and the reluctant assent of the purchaser--the animated eye of the former, and the calculating brow of the latter--the removal of one set of wares, and the bringing on of another--in short, the never-ceasing succession of sounds and sights astonishes the gravity of an Englishman; whose astonishment is yet heightened by the extraordinary good humour which every where prevails. The laugh, the joke, the équivoque, and reply, were worth being recorded in pointed metre;--and what metre but that of Crabbe could possibly render it justice? By nine of the clock all is hushed. The sale is over: the goods are cleared; and both buyers and sellers have quitted the scene. From _still_, let me conduct you to _active_ life. In other words, let us hasten to take a peep at the _Horse and Cattle Market_; which is fixed in the very opposite part of the town; that is, towards the northern Boulevards. The horses are generally entire: and indeed you have scarcely any thing in England which exceeds the _Norman horse_, properly so understood. This animal unites the hardiness of the mule with the strength of his own particular species. He is also docile, and well trained; and a Norman, from pure affection, thinks he can never put enough harness upon his back. I have seen the face and shoulders of a cart-horse almost buried beneath a profusion of ornament by way of collar; and have beheld a farmer's horse, led out to the plough, with trappings as gorgeous and striking as those of a General's charger brought forward for a review. The carts and vehicles are usually balanced in the centre upon two wheels, which diminishes much of the pressure upon the horse. Yet the caps of the wheels are frightfully long, and inconveniently projecting: while the eternally loud cracking of the whip is most repulsive to nervous ears. On market days, the horses stand pretty close to each other for sale; and are led off, for shew, amidst boys, girls, and women, who contrive very dexterously to get out of the way of their active hoofs. The French seem to have an instinctive method of doing that, which, with ourselves, seems to demand forethought and deliberation. Of the STREETS, in this extraordinary city, that of the _Great Clock--(Rue de la Grosse Horloge)_ which runs in a straight line from the western front of the Cathedral, at right angles with the _Rue des Carmes_, is probably the most important, ancient, and interesting. When we were conveyed, on our entrance, (in the cabriolet of the Diligence) beneath the arch to the upper part of which this old fashioned clock is attached, we were lost in admiration at the singularity of the scene. The inhabitants saw, and enjoyed, our astonishment. There is a fountain beneath, or rather on one side of this arch; over which is sculptured a motley group of insipid figures, of the latter time of Louis XIV. The old tower near this clock merits a leisurely survey: as do also some old houses, to the right, on looking at it. It was within this old tower that a bell was formerly tolled, at nine o'clock each evening, to warn the inhabitants abroad to return within the walls of the city.[61] Turning to the left, in this street, and going down a sharp descent, we observed a stand of hackney coaches in a small square, called _La Place de la Pucelle_: that is, the place where the famous JEANNE D'ARC[62] was imprisoned, and afterwards burnt. What sensations possess us as we gaze on each surrounding object!--although, now, each surrounding object has undergone a palpable change! Ah, my friend--what emotions were _once_ excited within this small space! What curiosity, and even agony of mind, mingled with the tumults of indignation, the shouts of revenge, and the exclamations of pity! But life now goes on just the same as if nothing of the kind had happened here. The past is forgotten. This hapless Joan of Arc is one of the many, who, having been tortured as heretics, have been afterwards reverenced as martyrs. Her statue was, not very long after her execution, almost _adored_ upon that very spot where her body had been consigned with execrations to the flames. The square, in which this statue stands, contains probably one of the very oldest houses in Rouen--and as interesting as it is ancient. It is invisible from without: but you open a wooden gate, and quickly find yourself within a small quadrangle, having three of its sides covered with basso-rilievo figures in plaster. That side which faces you is evidently older than the left: indeed I have no hesitation in assigning it to the end of the XVth century. The clustered ornaments of human figures and cattle, with which the whole of the exterior is covered, reminds us precisely of those numerous little wood-cut figures, chiefly pastoral, which we see in the borders of printed missals of the same period. The taste which prevails in them is half French and half Flemish. Not so is the character of the plaster figures which cover the _left_ side on entering. These, my friend, are no less than the representation of the procession of Henry VIII. and Francis I. to the famous CHAMP DE DRAP D'OR: of which Montfaucon[63] has published engravings. Having carefully examined this very curious relic, of the beginning of the sixteenth century, I have no hesitation in pronouncing the copy of Montfaucon (or rather of the artist employed by him) to be most egregiously faithless. I visited it again and again, considering it to be worth all the "huge clocks" in Rouen put together. I hardly know how to take you from this interesting spot--from this exhibition of beautiful old art--especially too when I consider that Francis himself once occupied the mansion, and held a Council here, with both English and French; that his bugles once sounded from beneath the gate way, and that his goblets once sparkled upon the chestnut tables of the great hall. I do hope and trust that the Royal Academy of Rouen, will not suffer this architectural relic to perish, without leaving behind a substantial and faithful representation of it.[64] While upon the subject of ancient edifices, let me return; and, crossing the _Rue de la Grosse Horloge_, contrive to place you in the centre of the square which is formed by the PALAIS DE JUSTICE. The inhabitants consider this building as the principal _lion_ in their city. It has indeed claims to notice and admiration, but will not bear the severe scrutiny of a critic in Gothic architecture. It was partly erected by Louis XII. at the entreaty of the provincial States, through the interest of the famous Cardinal d'Amboise, and partly by Francis I. This building precisely marks the restoration of Gothic taste in France, and the peculiar style of architecture which prevailed in the reign of Francis I. To say the truth, this style, however sparkling and imposing, is objectionable in many respects: for it is, in the first place, neither pure Gothic nor pure Grecian--but an injudicious mixture of both. Greek arabesque borders are running up the sides of a portal terminating in a Gothic arch; and the Gothic ornaments themselves are not in the purest, or the most pleasing, taste. Too much is given to parts, and too little to the whole. The external ornaments are frequently heavy, from their size and elaborate execution; and they seem to be _stuck on_ to the main building without rhyme or reason. The criminal offences are tried in the hall to the right, and the prisoners are confined in the lower part of the building to the left: above which you mount by a flight of stone steps, which conducts you to a singularly curious hall,[65] about one hundred and seventy-five English feet in length--roofed by wooden ribs, in the form of an arch, and displaying a most curious and exact specimen of carpenter's work. This is justly shewn and commented upon to the enquiring traveller. Parts of the building are devoted to the courts of assize, and to tribunals of audience of almost every description. The first Presidents of the Parliament lived formerly in the building which faces you upon entrance, but matters have now taken a very different turn. Upon the whole, this _Town Hall_, or call it what you will, is rather a magnificent structure; and certainly superior to most provincial buildings of the kind which we possess in England. I should tell you that the courts for commercial causes are situated near the quays, at the south part of the town: and Monsieur Riaux, who conducted me thither, (and who possesses the choicest library[66] of antiquarian books, of all descriptions, relating to Rouen, which I had the good fortune to see) carried me to the _Hall of Commerce_, which, among other apartments, contains a large chamber (contiguous to the Court of Justice) covered with _fleurs de lys_ upon a light blue ground. It is now however much in need of reparation. Fresh lilies and a new ground are absolutely necessary to harmonise with a large oil-painting at one end of it, in which is represented the reception of Louis XVI. at Rouen by the Mayor and Deputies of the town, in 1786. All the figures are of the size of life, well painted after the originals, and appear to be strong resemblances. On enquiring how many of them were now living, I was told that--ALL WERE DEAD! The fate of the _principal_ figure is but too well known. They should have this interesting subject--interesting undoubtedly to the inhabitants--executed by one of their best engravers. It represents the unfortunate Louis quite in the prime of life; and is the best whole length portrait of him which I have yet seen in painting or in engraving. It is right however that you should know, that, in the Tribunal for the determination of commercial causes, there sits a very respectable Bench of Judges: among whom I recognised one that had perfectly the figure, air, and countenance, of an Englishman. On enquiry of my guide, I found my supposition verified. He _was_ an Englishman; but had been thirty years a resident in _Rouen_. The judicial costume is appropriate in every respect; but I could not help smiling, the other morning, upon meeting my friend the judge, standing before the door of his house, in the open street--with a hairy cap on--leisurely smoking his pipe--And wherein consisted the harm of such a _delassement_? [61] [I apprehend this custom to be prevalent in fortified towns:--as Rouen _formerly_ was--and as I found such custom to obtain at the present day, at Strasbourg. Mons. Licquet says that the allusion to the curfew--or _couvre-feu_--as appears in the previous edition--and which the reader well knows was established by the Conqueror with us--was no particular badge of the slavery of the English. It had been _previously_ established by William in NORMANDY. Millot is referred to as the authority.] [62] _the famous_ JEANNE D'ARC.] Goube, in the second volume of his _Histoire du Duché de Normandie_, has devoted several spiritedly written pages to an account of the trial and execution of this heroine. Her history is pretty well known to the English--from earliest youth. Goube says that her mode of death had been completely prejudged; for that, previously to the sentence being passed, they began to erect "a scaffold of plaster, so raised, that the flames could not at first reach her--and she was in consequence consumed by a slow fire: her tortures being long and horrible." Hume has been rather too brief: but he judiciously observes that the conduct of the Duke of Bedford "was equally barbarous and dishonourable." Indeed it were difficult to pronounce which is entitled to the greatest abhorrence--the imbecility of Charles VII. the baseness of John of Luxembourg, or the treachery of the Regent Bedford? The _identical_ spot on which she suffered is not now visible, according to Millin; that place having been occupied by the late _Marché des Veaux_. It was however not half a stone's throw from the site of the present statue. In the _Antiquités Nationales_ of the last mentioned author (vol. iii. art. xxxvi.) there are three plates connected with the History of JOAN of ARC. The _first_ plate represents the _Porte Bouvreuil_ to the left, and the circular old tower to the right--in which latter Joan was confined, with some houses before it; the middle ground is a complete representation of the rubbishing state by which many of the public buildings at Rouen are yet surrounded; and French taste has enlivened the foreground with a picture of a lover and his mistress, in a bocage, regaling themselves with a flagon of wine. The old circular tower ("qui vit gémir cette infortunée," says Millin) exists no longer. The second plate represents the fountain which was built in the market-place upon the very spot where the Maid suffered, and which spot was at first designated by the erection of a cross. From the style of the embellishments it appears to have been of the time of Francis I. Goube has re-engraved this fountain. It was taken down or demolished in 1755; upon the site of which was built the present tasteless production--resembling, as the author of the _Itinéraire de Rouen_ (p. 69) well observes, "rather a Pallas than the heroine of Orleans." The name of the author was STODTS. Millin's _third_ plate--of this present existing fountain, is desirable; in as much as it shews the front of the house, in the interior of which are the basso-rilievos of the _Champ de drap d'Or_: for an account of which see afterwards. Millin allows that all PORTRAITS of her--whether in sculpture, or painting, or engraving--are purely IDEAL. Perhaps the nearest, in point of fidelity, was that which was seen in a painted glass window of the church of the _Minimes_ at Chaillot: although the building was not erected till the time of Charles VIII. Yet it might have been a copy of some coeval production. In regard to oil paintings, I take it that the portrait of JUDITH, with a sword in one hand, and the head of Holofernes in the other, has been usually copied (with the omission of the latter accompaniment) as that of JEANNE D'ARC. I hardly know a more interesting collection of books than that which may be acquired respecting the fate of this equally brave and unfortunate heroine. [63] Far be it from me to depreciate the labours of Montfaucon. But those who have not the means of getting at that learned antiquarian's _Monarchie Françoise_ may possibly have an opportunity of examining precisely the same representations, of the procession above alluded to, in _Ducarel's Anglo-Norman Antiquities_, Plate XII. Till the year 1726 this extraordinary series of ornament was supposed to represent the _Council of Trent_; but the Abbé Noel, happening to find a salamander marked upon the back of one of the figures, supposed, with greater truth, that it was a representation of the abovementioned procession; and accordingly sent Montfaucon an account of the whole. The Abbé might have found more than one, two, or three salamanders, if he had looked closely into this extraordinary exterior; and possibly, in his time, the surfaces of the more delicate parts, especially of the human features, might not have sustained the injuries which time and accident now seem to have inflicted on them. [A beautiful effort in the graphic way representing the entire interior front of this interesting mansion, is said to be published at Rouen.] [64] In the previous edition of this work, there appeared a facsimile of a small portion of this bas-relief, representing--as I imagine--the setting out of Francis to meet Henry. Nothing, as far as correctness of detail goes, can give a more faithful resemblance of the PRECISE STATE in which the original appears: the defaced and the entire parts being represented with equal fidelity. Mons. Langlois has given a plate of the entire façade or front--in outline--with great ability; but so small as to give little or no notion of the character of the original. [65] In Ducarel's time, "the ground story consisted of a great quadrangle surrounded with booksellers shops. On one side of it a stone staircase led to a large and lofty room, which, in its internal as well as external appearance, resembled, though in miniature, Westminster Hall. Here (continues Ducarel) I saw several gentlemen of the long robe, in their gowns and bands, walking up and down with briefs in their hands, and making a great show of business." _Anglo-Norman Antiquities_, p. 32. [According to Mons. Licquet, this "singularly curious hall" was begun to be built in 1493. It was afterwards, and is still called, _la Salle des Procureurs_.] [66] _the choicest library_] Monsieur Riaux, Archiviste de la Chambre de Commerce. This amiable man unites a love of literature with that of architectural antiquities. The library of M. Le Prevost is however as copious as that of Mons. R. LETTER VII. THE QUAYS. BRIDGE OF BOATS. RUE DU BAC. RUE DE ROBEC. EAUX DE ROBEC ET D'AUBETTE. MONT STE. CATHARINE. HOSPICES--GÉNÉRAL ET D'HUMANITÉ. Still tarrying within this old fashioned place? I have indeed yet much to impart before I quit it, and which I have no scruple in avowing will be well deserving of your attention. Just letting you know, in few words, that I have visited the famous chemical laboratory of M. Vitalis, (_Rue Beauvoisine_) and the yet more wonderful spectacle exhibited in M. Lemere's machine for sawing wood of all descriptions, into small or large planks, by means of water works--I must take you along THE QUAYS for a few minutes. These quays are flanked by an architectural front, which, were it finished agreeably to the original plan, would present us with one of the noblest structures in Europe. This stone front was begun in the reign of Louis XV. but many and prosperous must be the years of art, of commerce, and of peace, before money sufficient can be raised for the successful completion of the pile. The quays are long, broad, and full of bustle of every description; while in some of the contiguous squares, ponderous bales of goods, shawls, cloth, and linen, are spread open to catch the observing eye. In the midst of this varied and animated scene, walks a well-known character, in his large cocked hat, and with his tin machine upon his back, filled with lemonade or coffee, surmounted by a bell--which "ever and anon" is sounded for the sake of attracting customers. He is here copied to the life. [Illustration] As you pass along this animated scene, by the side of the rapid Seine, and its _Bridge of Boats_, you cannot help glancing now and then down the narrow old-fashioned streets, which run at right angles with the quays--with the innumerable small tile-fashioned pieces of wood, like scales, upon the roofs--which seem as if they would be demolished by every blast. The narrowness and gloom of these streets, together with the bold and overwhelming projections of the upper stories and roofs, afford a striking contrast to the animated scene upon the quays:--where the sun shines with full freedom, as it were; and where the glittering streamers, at innumerable mast-heads, denote the wealth and prosperity of the town. If the day happen to be fine, you may devote half a morning in contemplating, and mingling with, so interesting a scene. We have had frequent thunder-storms of late; and the other Sunday evening, happening to be sauntering at a considerable height above the north-west Boulevards, towards the _Faubourg Cauchoise_, I gained a summit, upon the edge of a gravel pit, whence I looked down unexpectedly and precipitously upon the town below. A magnificent and immense cloud was rolling over the whole city. The Seine was however visible on the other side of it, shining like a broad silver chord: while the barren, ascending plains, through which the road to Caen passes, were gradually becoming dusk with the overshadowing cloud, and drenched with rain which seemed to be rushing down in one immense torrent. The tops of the Cathedral and of the abbey of St. Ouen were almost veiled in darkness, by the passing storm; but the lower part of the tower, and the whole of the nave of each building, were in one stream of golden light--from the last powerful rays of the setting sun. In ten minutes this magically-varied scene settled into the sober, uniform tint of evening; but I can never forget the rich bed of purple and pink, fringed with burnished gold, in which the sun of that evening set! I descended--absorbed in the recollection of the lovely objects which I had just contemplated--and regaled by the sounds of a thousand little gurgling streamlets, created by the passing tempest, and hastening to precipitate themselves into the Seine. Of the different trades, especially retail, which are carried on in Rouen with the greatest success, those connected with the _cotton manufactories_ cannot fail to claim your attention; and I fancied I saw, in some of the shop-windows, shawls and gowns which might presume to vie with our Manchester and Norwich productions. Nevertheless, I learnt that the French were extremely partial to British manufactures: and cotton stockings, coloured muslins, and what are called ginghams, are coveted by them with the same fondness as we prize their cambric and their lace. Their best articles in watches, clocks, silver ornaments, and trinkets, are obtained from Paris. But in respect to upholstery, I must do the Rouennois the justice to say, that I never saw any thing to compare with their _escrutoires_ and other articles of furniture made of the walnut tree. These upright escrutoires, or writing desks, are in almost every bed-room of the more respectable hotels: but of course their polish is gone when they become stationary furniture in an inn--for the art of rubbing, or what is called _elbow-grease_ with us--is almost unknown on either side of the Seine. You would be charmed to have a fine specimen of a side board, or an escrutoire, (the latter five or six feet high) made by one of their best cabinet-makers from choice walnut wood. The polish and tone of colour are equally gratifying; and resemble somewhat that of rose wood, but of a gayer aspect. The _or-molu_ ornaments are tastefully put on; but the general shape, or contour, of the several pieces of furniture, struck me as being in bad taste. He who wishes to be astonished by the singularity of a scene, connected with _trade_, should walk leisurely down the RUE DE ROBEC. It is surely the oddest, and as some may think, the most repulsive scene imaginable: But who that has a rational curiosity could resist such a walk? Here live the _dyers of clothes_--and in the middle of the street rushes the precipitous stream, called _L'Eau de Robec_[67]--receiving colours of all hues. To-day it is nearly jet black: to-morrow it is bright scarlet: a third day it is blue, and a fourth day it is yellow! Meanwhile it is partially concealed by little bridges, communicating with the manufactories, or with that side of the street where the work-people live: and the whole has a dismal and disagreeable aspect--especially in dirty weather: but if you go to one end of it (I think to the east--as it runs east and west) and look down upon the descending street, with the overhanging upper stories and roofs--the foreshortened, numerous bridges--the differently-coloured dyed clothes, suspended from the windows, or from poles--the constant motion of men, women, and children, running across the bridges--with the rapid, _camelion_ stream beneath--you cannot fail to acknowledge that this is one of the most singular, grotesque, and uncommon sights in the wonder-working city of Rouen. I ought to tell you that the first famous Cardinal d'Amboise (of whom the preceding pages have made such frequent honourable mention) caused the _Eau de Robec_ to be directed through the streets of Rouen, from its original channel or source in a little valley near _St. Martin du Vivien_. Formerly there was a much more numerous clan of these "teinturiers" in the Rue de Robec--but they have of late sought more capacious premises in the fauxbourgs _de St. Hilaire_ and _de Martainville_. The neighbouring sister-stream, _l'Eau d'Aubette_, is destined to the same purposes as that of which I have been just discoursing; but I do not at this moment recollect whether it be also dignified, in its course, by turning a few corn mills, ere it empties itself into the Seine. Indeed the thundering noise of one of these mills, turned by the Robec river, near the church of St. Maclou, will not be easily forgotten. Thus you see of what various, strange, and striking objects the city of Rouen is composed. Bustle, noise, life and activity, in the midst of an atmosphere unsullied by the fumes of sea coal:--hilarity and apparent contentment:--the spruce bourgeoise and the slattern fille de chambre:--attired in vestments of deep crimson and dark blue--every thing flits before you as if touched by magic, and as if sorrow and misfortune were unknown to the inhabitants. "Paullò majora canamus." In other words, let us leave the Town for the Country. Let us hurry through a few more narrow and crowded alleys, courts, and streets--and as the morning is yet beautiful, let us hasten onwards to enjoy the famous Panorama of Rouen and its environs from the MONT STE. CATHARINE.... Indeed, my friend, I sincerely wish that you could have accompanied me to the summit of this enchanting eminence: but as you are far away, you must be content with a brief description of our little expedition thither.[68] The Mont Ste. Catharine, which is entirely chalk, is considered the highest of the hills in the immediate vicinity of Rouen; or rather, perhaps, is considered the point of elevation from which the city is to be viewed to the greatest possible advantage. It lies to the left of the Seine, in your way from the town; and the ascent begins considerably beyond the barriers. Indeed it is on the route to Paris. We took an excellent _fiacre_ to carry us to the beginning of the ascent, that our legs might be in proper order for scrambling up the acclivities immediately above; and leaving the main road to the right, we soon commenced our ambulatory operations in good earnest. But there was not much labour or much difficulty: so, halting, or standing, or sitting, on each little eminence, our admiration seemed to encrease--till, gaining the highest point, looking towards the west, we found ourselves immediately above the town and the whole of its environs.... "Heavens, what a goodly prospect spread around!" The prospect was indeed "goodly--" being varied, extensive, fertile, and luxuriant ... in spite of a comparatively backward spring. The city was the main object, not only of attraction, but of astonishment. Although the point from which we viewed it is considered to be exactly on a level with the summit of the spire of the Cathedral, yet we seemed to be hanging, as it were, in the air, immediately over the streets themselves. We saw each church, each public edifice, and almost each street; nay, we began to think we could discover almost every individual stirring in them. The soldiers, exercising on the parade in the Champ de Mars, seemed to be scarcely two stones' throw from us; while the sounds of their music reached us in the most distinct and gratifying manner. No "Diable boiteux" could ever have transported a "Don Cleophas Léandro Perez Zambullo" to a more favourable situation for a knowledge of what was passing in a city; and if the houses had been unroofed, we could have almost discerned whether the _escrutoires_ were made of mahogany or walnut-wood! This wonder-working effect proceeds from the extraordinary clearness of the atmosphere, and the absence of sea-coal fume. The sky was perfectly blue--the generality of the roofs were also composed of blue slate: this, added to the incipient verdure of the boulevards, and the darker hues of the trunks of the trees, upon the surrounding hills--the lengthening forests to the left, and the numerous white "maisons de plaisance"[69] to the right--while the Seine, with its hundred vessels, immediately below, to the left, and in face of you--with its cultivated little islands--and the sweeping meadows or race-ground[70] on the other side--all, or indeed any, of these objects could not fail to excite our warmest admiration, and to make us instinctively exclaim "that such a panorama was perfectly unrivalled!" We descended Mont Ste. Catharine on the side facing the _Hospice Général_: a building of a very handsome form, and considerable dimensions. It is a noble establishment for foundlings, and the aged and infirm of both sexes. I was told that not fewer than twenty-five hundred human beings were sheltered in this asylum; a number, which equally astonished and delighted me. The descent, on this side the hill, is exceedingly pleasing; being composed of serpentine little walks, through occasional alleys of trees and shrubs, to the very base of the hill, not many hundred yards from the hospital. The architecture of this extensive building is more mixed than that of its neighbour the _Hospice d'Humanité_, on account of the different times in which portions of it were added: but, upon the whole, you are rather struck with its approach to what may be called magnificence of style. I was indeed pleased with the good order and even good breeding of its motley inhabitants. Some were strolling quietly, with their arms behind them, between rows of trees:--others were tranquilly sitting upon benches: a third group would be in motion within the squares of the building: a fourth appeared in deep consultation whether the _potage_ of to day were not inferior to that of the preceding day?--"Que cherchez vous, Monsieur?" said a fine looking old man, touching, and half taking off, his cocked hat; "I wish to see the Abbé Turquier,"--rejoined I. "Ah, il vient de sortir--par ici, Monsieur." "Thank you." "Monsieur je vous souhaite le bon jour--au plaisir de vous revoir!" And thus I paced through the squares of this vast building. The "Portier" had a countenance which our Wilkie would have seized with avidity, and copied with inimitable spirit and fidelity. [67] Bourgueville describes this river, in the sixteenth century, as being "aucune fois iaulne, autrefois rouge, verte, bleüe, violée & autres couleurs, selon qu'vn grand nombre de teinturiers qui sont dessus, la diuersifient par interualles en faisant leurs maneures." _Antiquitez de Caen_, p. 36. [68] _expedition thither_.]--When John Evelyn visited this neighbourhood, in 1644, "the country so abounded with _wolves_, that a shepherd, whom he met, told him that one of his companions was strangled by one of them the day before--and that, in the midst of the flock! The fields (continues he) are mostly planted with pears and apples and other cider fruits. It is plentifully furnished with quarries of stone and slate, and hath iron in abundance." _Memoirs of the Life and Writings of John Evelyn_, vol. i. p. 50. Edit. 1818. My friend Mr. J. H. Markland visited Mont St. Catharine the year after the visit above described. He was of course enchanted with the view; and told me, that a friend whom he met there, and who had travelled pretty much in Italy, assured him there was nothing like it on the banks of either the _Arno_ or the _Po_. In short, it is quite peculiar to itself--and cannot be surpassed. [69] It is thus prettily observed in the little _Itineraire de Rouen_ --"Ces agréables maisons de plaisance appartiennent à des habitants de Rouen qui y viennent en famille, dans la belle saison, se délasser des embarras de la ville et des fatigues du commerce." p. 153. [70] _race-ground_]--When the English cavalry were quartered here in 1814-5, the officers were in the frequent habit of racing with each other. These races were gaily attended by the inhabitants; and I heard, from more than one mouth, the warmest commendations bestowed upon the fleetness of the coursers and the skill of the riders. LETTER VIII. EARLY TYPOGRAPHY AT ROUEN. MODERN PRINTERS. CHAP BOOKS. BOOKSELLERS. BOOK COLLECTORS. Now for a little gossip and chit-chat about _Paper, Ink, Books, Printing-Offices_, and curiosities of a GRAPHIC description. Perhaps the most regular method would be to speak of a few of the principal _Presses_, before we take the _productions_ of these presses into consideration. And first, as to the antiquity of printing in Rouen.[71] The art of printing is supposed to have been introduced here, by a citizen of the name of MAUFER, between the years 1470 and 1480. Some of the specimens of Rouen _Missals_ and _Breviaries_, especially of those by MORIN, who was the second printer in this city, are very splendid. His device, which is not common, and rather striking, is here enclosed for your gratification. [Illustration] Few provincial towns have been more fertile in typographical productions; and the reputation of TALLEUR, GUALTIER, and VALENTIN, gave great respectability to the press of Rouen at the commencement of the sixteenth century. Yet I am not able to ascertain whether these presses were very fruitful in Romances, Chronicles, and Old Poetry. I rather think, however, that they were not deficient in this popular class of literature, if I am to judge from the specimens which are yet lingering, as it were, in the hands of the curious. The gravity even of an archiepiscopal see could never repress the natural love of the French, from time immemorial, for light and fanciful reading. You know with what pertinacity I grope about old alleys, old courts, by-lanes, and unfrequented corners--in search of what is curious, or precious, or rare in the book way. But ere we touch that enchanting chord, let us proceed according to the plan laid down. First therefore for printing-offices. Of these, the names of PÉRIAUX, (_Imprimeur de l'Academie_,) BAUDRY, (_Imprimeur du Roi_) MÉGARD, (_Rue Martainville_) and LECRENE-LABBEY, (_Imprimeur-Libraire et Marchand de Papiers_) are masters of the principal presses; but such is the influence of Paris, or of metropolitan fashions, that a publisher will sometimes prefer getting his work printed at the capital.[72] Of the foregoing printers, it behoves me to make some mention; and yet I can speak personally but of two: Messieurs Périaux and Mégard. M. Periaux is printer to the _Académie des Sciences, Belles-Lettres et Arts de Rouen_, of which academy, indeed, he is himself an accomplished member. He is quick, intelligent, well-bred, and obliging to the last degree; and may be considered the _Henry Stephen_ of the Rouen Printers. He urged me to call often: but I could visit him only twice. Each time I found him in his counting house, with his cap on--shading his eyes: a pen in his right hand, and a proof sheet in his left. Though he rejoiced at seeing me, I could discover (much to his praise) that, like Aldus, he wished me to "say my saying quickly,"[73] and to leave him to his _deles_ and _stets_! He has a great run of business, and lives in one of those strange, old-fashioned houses, in the form of a square, with an outside spiral staircase, so common in this extraordinary city. He introduced me to his son, an intelligent young man--well qualified to take the labouring oar, either upon the temporary or permanent retirement of his parent.[74] Of Monsieur MÉGARD, who may be called the ancient _Jenson_, or the modern _Bulmer_, of Rouen, I can speak only in terms of praise--both as a civil gentleman and as a successful printer. He is doubtless the most elegant printer in this city; and being also a publisher, his business is very considerable. He makes his regular half yearly journeys among the neighbouring towns and villages, and as regularly brings home the fruits of his enterprise and industry. On my first visit, M. Mégard was from home; but Madame, "son épouse, l'attendoit à chaque moment!" There is a particular class of women among the French, which may be said to be singularly distinguished for their intelligence, civility, and good breeding. I mean the wives of the more respectable tradesmen. Thus I found it, in addition to a hundred similar previous instances, with Madame Mégard. "Mais Monsieur, je vous prie de vous asseoir. Que voulez vous?" "I wish to have a little conversation with your husband. I am an enthusiastic lover of the art of printing. I search every where for skilful printers, and thus it is that I come to pay my respects to Monsieur Mégard." We both sat down and conversed together; and I found in Madame Mégard a communicative, and well-instructed, representative of the said ancient Jenson, or modern Bulmer. "Enfin, voilà mon mari qui arrive"--said Madame, turning round, upon the opening of the door:--when I looked forward, and observed a stout man, rather above the middle size, with a countenance perfectly English--but accoutred in the dress of the _national guard_, with a grenadier cap on his head. Madame saw my embarrassment: laughed: and in two minutes her husband knew the purport of my visit. He began by expressing his dislike of the military garb: but admitted the absolute necessity of adopting such a measure as that of embodying a national guard. "Soyez le bien venu; Ma foi, je ne suis que trop sensible, Monsieur, de l'honneur que vous me faites--vû que vous êtes antiquaire typographique, et que vous avez publié des ouvrages relatifs à notre art. Mais ce n'est pas ici qu'il faut en chercher de belles épreuves. C'est à Paris." I parried this delicate thrust by observing that I was well acquainted with the fine productions of _Didot_, and had also seen the less aspiring ones of himself; of which indeed I had reason to think his townsmen might be proud. This I spoke with the utmost sincerity. My first visit concluded with two elegant little book-presents, on the part of M. Megard--one being _Heures de Rouen, à l'usage du Diocese_, 1814, 12mo. and the other _Etrennes nouvelles commodes et utiles_; 1815, 12mo.--the former bound in green morocco; and the latter in calf, with gilt leaves, but printed on a sort of apricot-tinted paper--producing no unpleasing effect. Both are exceedingly well executed. My visits to M. Mégard were rather frequent. He has a son at the Collége Royale, or Lycée, whither I accompanied him, one Sunday morning, and took the church of that establishment in the way. It is built entirely in the Italian style of architecture: is exceedingly spacious: has a fine organ, and is numerously attended. The pictures I saw in it, although by no means of first-rate merit, quite convince me that it is in churches of _Roman_, and not of _Gothic_ architecture, that paintings produce the most harmonious effect. This college and church form a noble establishment, situated in one of the most commanding eminences of the town. From some parts of it, the flying buttresses of the nave of the Abbey of St. Ouen, with the Seine at a short distance, surmounted by the hills and woods of Canteleu as a back ground, are seen in the most gloriously picturesque manner. But the printer who does the most business--or rather whose business lies in the lower department of the art, in bringing forth what are called _chap books_--is LECRENE-LABBEY--_imprimeur-libraire et marchand de papiers_. The very title imports a sort of _Dan Newberry's_ repository. I believe however that Lecrêne-Labbey's business is much diminished. He once lived in the _Rue de la Grosse-Horloge_, No. 12: but at present carries on trade in one of the out-skirting streets of the town. I was told that the premises he now occupies were once an old church or monastery, and that a thousand fluttering sheets are now suspended, where formerly was seen the solemn procession of silken banners, with religious emblems, emblazoned in colours of all hues. I called at the old shop, and supplied myself with a dingy copy of the _Catalogue de la Bibliothéque Bleue_--from which catalogue however I could purchase but little; as the greater part of the old books, several of the _Caxtonian stamp_, had taken their departures. It was from this Catalogue that I learnt the precise character of the works destined for common reading; and from hence inferred, what I stated to you a little time ago, that _Romances, Rondelays_, and chivalrous stories, are yet read with pleasure by the good people of France. It is, in short, from this lower, or _lowest_ species of literature--if it must be so designated--that we gather the real genius, or mental character of the ordinary classes of society. I do assure you that some of these _chap_ publications are singularly droll and curious. Even the very rudiments of learning, or the mere alphabet-book, meets the eye in a very imposing manner--as in the following facsimile. [Illustration] _Love, Marriage_, and _Confession_, are fertile themes in these little farthing chap books. Yonder sits a fille de chambre, after her work is done. She is intent upon some little manual, taken from the _Bibliothèque Bleue_. Approach her, and ask her for a sight of it. She smiles, and readily shews you _Catéchisme à l'usage des Grandes Filles pour être Mariées; ensemble la manière d'attirer les Amans_. At the first glance of it, you suppose that this is entirely, from beginning to end, a wild and probably somewhat indecorous manual of instruction. By no means; for read the _Litanies_ and _Prayer_ with which it concludes, and which I here send; admitting that they exhibit a strange mixture of the simple and the serious. LITANIES. _Pour toutes les Filles qui désirent entrer en menage_. _Kyrie,_ je voudrois, _Christe_, être mariée. _Kyrie_, je prie tous les Saints, _Christe_, que ce soin demain. _Sainte Marie_, tout le Monde se marie. _Saint Joseph_, que vous ai-je fait? _Saint Nicolas_, ne m'oubliez pas. _Saint Médérie_, que j'aie un bon mari. _Saint Matthieu_, qu'il craigne Dieu. _Saint Jean_, qu'il m'aime tendrement. _Saint Bruno_, qu'il soit juli & beau. _Saint Francois_, qu'il me soit fidele. _Saint André_, qu'il soit à mon gré. _Saint Didier_, qu'il aime à travailler. _Saint Honoré_, qu'il n'aime pas à jouer. _Saint Severin_, qu'il n'aime pas le vin. _Saint Clément_, qu'il soit diligent. _Saint Sauveur_, qu'il ait bon coeur. _Saint Nicaise_, que je sois à mon aise. _Saint Josse_, qu'il me donne un carrosse. _Saint Boniface_, que mon mariage se fasse, _Saint Augustin_, dès demain matin. ORAISON. Seigneur, qui avez formé Adam de la terre, et qui lui avez donné Eve pour sa compagne; envoyez-moi, s'il vous plait, un bon mari pour compagnon, non pour la volupté, mais pour vous honorer & avoir des enfants qui vous bénissent. Ainsi soit il. Among the books of this class, before alluded to, I purchased a singularly amusing little manual called "_La Confession de la Bonne Femme_." It is really not divested of merit. Whether however it may not have been written during the Revolution, with a view to ridicule the practice of auricular confession which yet obtains throughout France, I cannot take upon me to pronounce; but there are undoubtedly some portions of it which seem so obviously to satirise this practice, that one can hardly help drawing a conclusion in the affirmative. On the other hand it may perhaps be inferred, with greater probability, that it is intended to shew with what extreme facility a system of _self-deception_ may be maintained.[75] Referring however to the little manual in question, among the various choice morceaus which it contains, take the following extracts: exemplificatory of a woman's _evading the main points of confession_. _Confesseur_. Ne voulez vous pas me répondre; en un mot, combien y a-t-il de temps que vous ne vous êtes confessée? _La Pénitente._ Il y a un mois tout juste, car c'étoit le quatrième jour du mois passé, & nous sommes au cinquième du mois courant; or comptez, mon pere, & vous trouverez justement que ... C. C'est assez, ne parlez point tant, & dites moi en peu de mots vos péchés. _Elle raconte les péchés d'autrui._ _La Pénitente_. J'ai un enfant qui est le plus méchant garçon que vous ayez jamais vu: il jure, bat sa soeur, il fuit l'école, dérobe tout ce qu'il peut pour jouer; il suit de méchans fripons: l'autre jour en courant il perdit son chapeau. Enfin, c'est un méchant garçon, je veux vous l'amener afin que vous me l'endoctriniez un peu s'il vous plaît. C. Dites-moi vos péchés. P. Mais, mon père, j'ai une fille qui est encore pire. Je ne la peux faire lever le matin: Je l'appelle cent fois: _Marguerite: plait-il ma Mere? lève-toi promptement et descends: j'y vais_. Elle ne bouge pas. _Si tu ne viens maintenant, tu seras battue._ Elle s'en moque. Quand je l'envoie à la Ville, je lui dis _reviens promptement, ne t'amuse pas_. Cependant, elle s'arrête à toutes les portes comme l'âne d'un meûnier, elle babille avec tous ceux qu'elle rencontre; & quand elle me fait cela, je la bats: ne fais-je pas bien, mon père? C. Dites-moi _vos_ péchés et non pas ceux de _vos enfans_. P. Il se trouve, mon père, que nous avons dans notre rue une voisine qui est la plus méchante de toutes les femmes: elle jure, elle querelle tous ceux qui passent, personne ne la peut souffrir, ni son mari, ni ses enfans, & bien souvent elle s'enivre, & vous me dites, mon père, quelle est celle-la? c'est ... C. Ah gardez-vous bien de la nommer; car à la confession il ne faut jamais fair connoitre les personnes dont vous déclarez les péchés. P. C'est elle qui vient se confesser après moi: grondez-la bien, car vous ne lui en sauriez trop dire. C. Taisez-vous donc, & ne parlez que de _vos_ péchés, non pas de ceux _des autres_. _Elle s'accuse de ce qui n'est point péché._ _Pénitente_.--Ah! mon père, j'ai fait un grand péché, ah! le grand péché! Hélas je serai damnée, quoique mon confesseur m'ait defendu de le dire j'amais, néanmoins mon père je vais vous le declarer. C. Ne le dites point, puisque votre confesseur vous l'a defendu, je ne veux point l'entendre. P. Ah! n'importe; je veux vous le dire, c'est un trop grand péché: J'ai battu ma mère. C. Vous avez battu votre mère! Ah! misérable, c'est un cas réservé & un crime qui mérite la potence. Et quand l'avez-vous battue? P. Quand j'étois petite de l'âge de quatre ans. C. Ah! simple, ne savez-vous pas que tout ce que les enfans font avant l'âge de raison, qui est environ l'âge de sept ans, ne sauroit être un péché. There is however one thing, which I must frankly declare to you as entitled to distinct notice and especial commendation. It is, the method of teaching "catechisms" of a different and higher order: I mean the CHURCH CATECHISMS. Both the Cathedral and the Abbey of St. Ouen have numerous side chapels. Within these side chapels are collected, on stated days of the week, the young of both sexes. They are arranged in a circle. A priest, in his white robes, is seated, or stands, in the centre of them. He examines, questions, corrects, or commends, as the opportunity calls for it. His manner is winning and persuasive. His action is admirable. The lads shew him great respect, and are rarely rude, or seen to laugh. Those who answer well, and pay the greater attention, receive, with words of commendation, gentle pats upon the head--and I could not but consider the blush, with which this mark of favour was usually received, as so many presages of future excellence in the youth. I once witnessed a most determined catechetical lecture of girls; who might be called, in the language of their matrimonial catechism, "de grandes filles." It was on an evening, in the Chapel of Our Lady in St. Ouen's Abbey, that this examination took place. Two elderly priests attended. The responses of the females were as quick as they were correct; the eye being always invariably fixed on the pavement, accompanied with a gravity and even piety of expression. A large group of mothers, with numerous spectators, were in attendance. A question was put, to which a supposed incorrect response was given. It was repeated, and the same answer followed. The priest hesitated: something like vexation was kindling in his cheek, while the utmost calmness and confidence seemed to mark the countenance of the examinant. The attendant mothers were struck with surprise. A silence for one minute ensued. The question related to the "Holy Spirit." The priest gently approached the girl, and softly articulated--"Mais, ma chère considerez un peu,"--and repeated the question. "Mon pere, (yet more softly, rejoined the pupil) j'ai bien considerée, et je crois que c'est comme je vous l'ai déjà dit." The Priest crossed his hands upon his breast ... brought down his eyebrows in a thoughtful mood ... and turning quickly round to the girl, addressed her in the most affectionate tone of voice--"Ma petite,--tu as bien dit; et j'avois tort." The conduct of the girl was admirable: She curtsied, blushed... and with eyes, from which tears seemed ready to start, surveyed the circle of spectators ... caught the approving glance of her mother, and sunk triumphantly upon her chair--with the united admiration of teachers, companions, parents and spectators! The whole was conducted with the most perfect propriety; and the pastors did not withdraw till they were fairly exhausted. A love of truth obliges me to confess that this reciprocity of zeal, on the part of master and pupil, is equally creditable to both parties; and especially serviceable to the cause of religion and morality. Let me here make honourable mention of the kind offices of _Monsieur Longchamp_, who volunteered his friendly services in walking over half the town with me, to shew me what he justly considered as the most worthy of observation. It is impossible for a generous mind to refuse its testimony to the ever prompt kindness of a well-bred Frenchman, in rendering you all the services in his power. Enquire the way,--and you have not only a finger quickly pointing to it, but the owner of the finger must also put himself in motion to accompany you a short distance upon the route, and that too uncovered! "Mais, Monsieur, mettez votre chapeau ... je vous en prie ... mille pardons." "Monsieur ne dites pas un seul mot ... pour mon chapeau, qu'il reste à son aise." Among book-collectors, Antiquaries, and Men of Taste, let me speak with becoming praise of the amiable and accomplished M. AUGUSTE LE PREVOST--who is considered, by competent judges, to be the best antiquary in Rouen.[76] Mr. Dawson Turner, (a name, in our own country, synonymous with all that is liberal and enlightened in matters of virtù) was so obliging as to give me a letter of introduction to him; and he shewed me several rare and splendid works, which were deserving of the commendations that they received from their owner. M. Le Prevost very justly discredits any remains of Roman masonry at Rouen; but he will not be displeased to see that the only existing relics of the castle or town walls, have been copied by the pencil of a late travelling friend. What you here behold is probably of the fourteenth century. [Illustration] The next book-collector in commendation of whom I am bound to speak, is MONSIEUR DUPUTEL; a member, as well as M. Le Prevost, of the _Academy of Belles-Lettres_ at Rouen. The Abbé Turquier conducted me thither; and I found, in the owner of a choice collection of books, a well-bred gentleman, and a most hearty bibliomaniac. He has comparatively a small library; but, withal, some very curious, scarce, and interesting volumes. M. Duputel is smitten with that amiable passion,--the love of printing for _private distribution_--thus meriting to become a sort of Roxburghe Associate. He was so good as to beg my acceptance of the "nouvelle édition" of his "_Bagatelles Poétiques,"_ printed in an octavo volume of about 112 pages, at Rouen, in 1816. On taking it home, I discovered the following not infelicitous version of our Prior's beautiful little Poem of _the Garland_. _La Guirlande_. _Traduction de l'Anglais de Prior_. Pour orner de Chloé les cheveux ondoyans, Parmi les fleurs nouvellement écloses J'avais choisi les lis les plus brillans, Les oeillets les plus beaux, et les plus fraîches roses. Ma Chloé sur son front les plaça la matin: Alors on vit céder sans peine, Leur vif éclat à celui de son teint, Leur doux parfum à ceux de son haleine. De ses attraits ces fleurs paraissaient s'embellir, Et sur ses blonds cheveux les bergers, les bergères Les voyaient se faner avec plus de plaisir Qu'ils ne les voyaient naître au milieu des parterres. Mais, le soir, quand leur sein flétri Eut cessé d'exhaler son odeur séduisante, Elle fixa, d'un regard attendri, Cette guirlande, hélas! n'aguères si brillante. Des larmes aussi-tôt coulent de ses beaux yeux. Que d'éloquence dans ces larmes! Jamais pour l'exprimer, le langage des dieux, Tout sublime qu'il est, n'aurait assez de charmes. En feignant d'ignorer ce tendre sentiment; "Pourquoi," lui dis-je, "ô ma sensible amie, Pourquoi verser des pleurs? et par quel changement Abandonner ton ame à la melancholie?" "Vois-tu comme ces fleurs languissent tristement?" Me dit, en soupirant, ce moraliste aimable, "De leur fraîcheur, en un moment, S'est éclipsé le charme peu durable. Tel est, hélas! notre destin; Fleur de beauté ressemble à celles des prairies; On les voit toutes deux naître avec le matin, Et dès le soir être flétries. Estelle hier encor brillait dans nos hameaux, Et l'amour attirait les bergers sur ses traces; De la mort, aujourd'hui, I'impitoyable faulx A moissonné sa jeunesse et ses graces. Soumise aux mêmes lois, peut-être que demain, Comme elle aussi, Damon, j'aurai cessé de vivre.... Consacre dans tes vers la cause du chagrin Auquel ton amante se livre." p. 92. The last and not the least of book-collectors, which I have had an opportunity of visiting, is MONSIEUR RIAUX. With respect to what may be called a ROUENNOISE LIBRARY, that of M. Riaux is greatly preferable to any which I have seen; although I am not sure whether M. Le Prevost's collection contain not nearly as many books. M. Riaux is himself a man of first-rate book enthusiasm; and unites the avocations of his business with the gratification of his literary appetites, in a manner which does him infinite honour. A city like Rouen should have a host of such inhabitants; and the government, when it begins to breathe a little from recent embarrassments, will, I hope, cherish and support that finest of all patriotic feelings,--a desire to preserve the RELICS, MANNERS, AND CUSTOMS of PAST AGES. Normandy is fertile beyond conception in objects which may gratify the most unbounded passion in this pursuit. It is the country where formerly the harp of the minstrel poured forth some of its sweetest strains; and the lay and the fabliaux of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, which delight us in the text of Sainte Palaye, and in the versions of Way, owed their existence to the combined spirit of chivalry and literature, which never slumbered upon the shores of Normandy. Farewell now to ROUEN.[77] I have told you all the tellings which I thought worthy of communication. I have endeavoured to make you saunter with me in the streets, in the cathedral, the abbey, and the churches. We have, in imagination at least, strolled together along the quays, visited the halls and public buildings, and gazed with rapture from Mont Ste. Catharine upon the enchanting view of the city, the river, and the neighbouring hills. We have from thence breathed almost the pure air of heaven, and surveyed a country equally beautified by art, and blessed by nature. Our hearts, from that same height, have wished all manner of health, wealth, and prosperity, to a land thus abounding in corn and wine, and oil and gladness. We have silently, but sincerely prayed, that swords may for ever be "turned into plough-shares, and spears into pruning-hooks:"--that all heart-burnings, antipathies, and animosities, may be eternally extinguished; and that, from henceforth, there may be no national rivalries but such as tend to establish, upon a firmer footing, and upon a more comprehensive scale, the peace and happiness of fellow-creatures, of whatever persuasion they may be:--of such, who sedulously cultivate the arts of individual and of national improvement, and blend the duties of social order with the higher calls of morality and religion. Ah! my friend, these are neither foolish thoughts nor romantic wishes. They arise naturally in an honest heart, which, seeing that all creation is animated and upheld by ONE and the SAME POWER, cannot but ardently hope that ALL may be equally benefited by a reliance upon its goodness and bounty. From this eminence we have descended somewhat into humbler walks. We have visited hospitals, strolled in flower-gardens, and associated with publishers and collectors of works--both of the dead and of the living. So now, fare you well. Commend me to your family and to our common friends,--especially to the Gorburghers should they perchance enquire after their wandering Vice President. Many will be the days passed over, and many the leagues traversed, ere I meet them again. Within twenty-four hours my back will be more decidedly turned upon "dear old England"--for that country, in which her ancient kings once held dominion, and where every square mile (I had almost said _acre_) is equally interesting to the antiquary and the agriculturist. I salute you wholly, and am yours ever. [71] The reader may possibly not object to consult two or three pages of the _Bibliographical Decameron_, beginning at page 137, vol. ii. respecting a few of the early Rouen printers. The name of MAUFER, however, appears in a fine large folio volume, entitled _Gaietanus de Tienis Vincentini in Quatt. Aristot. Metheor. Libros_, of the date of 1476--in the possession of Earl Spencer. See _Æd. Althorp_. vol. ii. p. 134. From the colophon of which we can only infer that Maufer was a _citizen of Rouen_. [According to M. Licquet, the first book printed at Rouen--a book of the greatest rarity--was entitled _Les Croniques de Normandie, par Guillaume Le Talleur_, 1487, folio.] [72] [Since the publication of the first edition of this Tour, I have had _particular_ reason to become further acquainted with the partiality of the Rouennois for Parisian printing. When M. Licquet did me the honour to translate my IXth Letter, subjoining notes, (which cut their own throats instead of that of the author annotated upon) he employed the press of Mons. Crapelet, at Paris: a press, as eminently distinguished for its beauty and accuracy, as its Director has proved himself to be for his narrow-mindedness and acrimony of feeling. M.L. (as I learnt from a friend who conversed with him, and as indeed I naturally expected) seemed to be sorry for what he had done.] [73] _like Aldus, "say my saying" quickly_.] Consult Mr. Roscoe's _Life of Leo X._ vol. i. p. 169-70, 8vo. edit. Unger, in his Life of Aldus, _edit. Geret._ p. xxxxii. has a pleasant notice of an inscription, to the same effect, put over the door of his printing-office by Aldus. [It has been quoted to satiety, and I therefore omit it here.] [74] [Mons. Périaux has lately published a Dictionary of the Streets of Rouen, in alphabetical order; in two small, unostentatious, and useful octavo volumes.] [75] [Mons. Licquet translates the latter part of the above passage thus:--"avec quelle facilité nous parvenons à nous abuser nous-mêmes,"--adding, in a note, as follows: "J'avais d'abord vu un tout autre sens dans la phrase anglaise. Si celui que j'adopte n'était pas encore le veritable, j'en demande sincèrement pardon à l'auteur." In turn, I may not be precisely informed of the meaning and force of the verb "_abuser_"--used by my translator: but I had been better satisfied with the verb _tromper_--as more closely conveying the sense of the original.] [76] M. Le Prevost is a belles-lettres Antiquary of the highest order. His "Mémoire faisant suite à l'Essai sur les Romans historiques du moyen âge" may teach modern Normans not to despair when death shall have laid low their present oracle the ABBE DE LA RUE. [I am proud, in this second edition of my Tour, to record the uninterrupted correspondence and friendship of this distinguished Individual; and I can only regret, in common with several friends, that M. Le Prevost will not summon courage sufficient to visit a country, once in such close connexion with his own, where a HEARTY RECEPTION has long awaited him.] [77] [The omission, in this place, of the entire IXth Letter, relating to the PUBLIC LIBRARY at Rouen, must be accounted for, and it is hoped, approved, on the principle laid down at the outset of this undertaking; namely, to omit much that was purely bibliographical, and of a secondary interest to the general Reader. The bibliography, in the original IXth Letter, being of a partial and comparatively dry description--as relating almost entirely to ancient volumes of Church Rituals--was thought to be better omitted than abridged. Another reason might be successfully urged for its omission. This IXth Letter, which comprehends 22 pages in the previous impression, and about 38 pages in the version, having been translated and _separately_ published in 1821, by Mons. Licquet (who succeeded M. Gourdin as Principal Librarian of the Library in question) I had bestowed upon it particular attention, and entered into several points by way of answer to his remarks, and in justification or explanation of the original matter. In consequence, any _abridgement_ of that original matter must have led to constant notice of the minute remarks, and pigmy attacks, of my critical translator: and the stream of intelligence in the text might have been diverted, or rendered unpalatable, by the observations, in the way of controversy, in the notes. If M. Licquet considers this avowal as the proclaiming of his triumph, he is welcome to the laurels of a Conqueror; but if he can persuade any COMMON FRIENDS that, in the translation here referred to, he has defeated the original author in one essential position--or corrected him in one flagrant inaccuracy--I shall be as prompt to thank him for his labours, as I am now to express my astonishment and pity at his undertaking. When M. Licquet put forth the brochure in question--(so splendidly executed in the press of M. Crapelet--to harmonise, in all respects, with the large paper copies of the original English text) he had but recently occupied the seat of his Predecessor. I can commend the zeal of the newly-appointed Librarian in Chief; but must be permitted to question alike his judgment and his motives. One more brief remark in this place. My translator should seem to commend what is only laudatory, in the original author, respecting his countrymen. Sensitively alive to the notice of their smallest defects, he has the most unbounded powers of digestion for that of their excellences. Thus, at the foot of the ABOVE PASSAGE, in the text, Mons. Licquet is pleased to add as follows--in a note: "Si M. Dibdin ne s'était livré qu'à des digressions de cette nature, il aurait trouvé en France un chorus universel, un concert de voeux unanimes:" vol. i. p. 239. And yet few travellers have experienced a more cordial reception, and maintained a more _harmonious_ intercourse, than HE, who, from the foregoing quotation, is more than indirectly supposed to have provoked opposition and _discord!_] LETTER IX. DEPARTURE FROM ROUEN. ST. GEORGE DE BOSCHERVILLE. DUCLAIR. MARIVAUX. THE ABBEY OF JUMIEGES. ARRIVAL AT CAUDEBEC. _May_, 1818. MY DEAR FRIEND. In spite of all its grotesque beauties and antiquarian attractions, the CITY OF ROUEN must be quitted--and I am about to pursue my route more in the character of an independent traveller. No more _Diligence_, or _Conducteur_. I have hired a decent cabriolet, a decent pair of horses, and a yet more promising postilion: and have already made a delightfully rural migration. Adieu therefore to dark avenues, gloomy courts, overhanging roofs, narrow streets, cracking whips, the never-ceasing noise of carts and carriages, and never-ending movements of countless masses of population:--Adieu!--and in their stead, welcome be the winding road, the fertile meadow, the thickly-planted orchard, and the broad and sweeping Seine! Accordingly, on the 4th of this month, between the hours of ten and eleven, A.M. the rattling of horses' hoofs, and the echoes of a postilion's whip, were heard within the court-yard of the _Hôtel Vatel_. Monsieur, Madame, Jacques--and the whole fraternity of domestics, were on the alert--"pour faire les adieux à Messieurs les Anglois." This Jacques deserves somewhat of a particular notice. He is the prime minister of the Hôtel Vatel.[78] A somewhat _uncomfortable_ detention in England for five years, in the character of "prisoner of war," has made him master of a pretty quick and ready utterance of common-place phrases in our language; and he is not a little proud of his attainments therein. Seriously speaking, I consider him quite a phenomenon in his way; and it is right you should know that he affords a very fair specimen of a sharp, clever, French servant. His bodily movements are nearly as quick as those of his tongue. He rises, as well as his brethren, by five in the morning; and the testimonies of this early activity are quickly discovered in the unceasing noise of beating coats, singing French airs, and scolding the boot-boy. He rarely retires to rest before mid-night; and the whole day long he is in one eternal round of occupation. When he is bordering upon impertinence, he seems to be conscious of it--declaring that "the English make him saucy, but that naturally he is very civil." He always speaks of human beings in the _neuter_ gender; and to a question whether such a one has been at the Hotel, he replies, "I have not seen _it_ to-day." I am persuaded he is a thoroughly honest creature; and considering the pains which are taken to spoil him, it is surprising with what good sense and propriety he conducts himself. About eleven o'clock, we sprung forward, at a smart trot, towards the barriers by which we had entered Rouen. Our postilion was a thorough master of his calling, and his spurs and whip seemed to know no cessation from action. The steeds, perfectly Norman, were somewhat fiery; and we rattled along the streets, (for the _chaussé_ never causes the least abatement of pace with the French driver) in high expectation of seeing a thousand rare sights ere we reached Havre--equally the limits of our journey, and of our contract with the owner of the cabriolet. That accomplished antiquary M. Le Prevost, whose name you have often heard, had furnished me with so dainty a bill of fare, or carte de voyage; that I began to consider each hour lost which did not bring us in contact with some architectural relic of antiquity, or some elevated position--whence the wandering Seine and wooded heights of the adjacent country might be surveyed with equal advantage. You have often, I make no doubt, my dear friend, started upon something like a similar expedition:--when the morning has been fair, the sun bright, the breeze gentle, and the atmosphere clear. In such moments how the ardour of hope takes possession of one!--How the heart warms, and the conversation flows! The barriers are approached; we turn to the left, and commence our journey in good earnest. Previously to gaining the first considerable height, you pass the village of _Bapeaume_. This village is exceedingly picturesque. It is studded with water-mills, and is enlivened by a rapid rivulet, which empties itself, in a serpentine direction, into the Seine. You now begin to ascend a very commanding eminence; at the top of which are scattered some of those country houses which are seen from Mont Ste. Catharine. The road is of a noble breadth. The day warmed; and dismounting, we let our steeds breathe freely, as we continued to ascend leisurely. Our first halting-place, according to the instructions of M. Le Prevost, was _St. George de Boscherville_; an ancient abbey established in the twelfth century, This abbey is situated about three French leagues from Rouen. Our route thither, from the summit of the hill which we had just ascended, lay along a road skirted by interminable orchards now in full bloom. The air was perfumed to excess by the fragrance of these blossoms. The apple and pear were beautifully conspicuous; and as the sky became still more serene, and the temperature yet more mild by the unobstructed sun beam, it is impossible to conceive any thing more balmy and genial than was this lovely day. The minutes seemed to fly away too quickly--when we reached the village of _Boscherville_; where stands the CHURCH; the chief remaining relic of this once beautiful abbey. We surveyed the west front very leisurely, and thought it an extremely beautiful specimen of the architecture of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries; for certainly there are some portions more ancient than others. A survey of the chapter-house filled me with mingled sorrow and delight: sorrow, that the Revolution and a modern cotton manufactory had metamorphosed it from its original character; and delight, that the portions which remained were of such beautiful forms, and in such fine preservation. The stone, being of a very close-grained quality, is absolutely as white and sound as if it had been just cut from the quarry. The room, where a parcel of bare-legged girls and boys were working the respective machineries, had a roof of the most delicate construction.[79] The very sound of a _Monastery_ made me curious to examine the disposition of the building. Accordingly, I followed my guide through suites of apartments, up divers stone stair-cases, and along sundry corridors. I noticed the dormitories with due attention, and of course inquired eagerly for the LIBRARY:--but the shelves only remained--either the fear or the fury of the Revolution having long ago dispossessed it of every thing in the shape of a _book_. The whole was painted white. I counted eleven perpendicular divisions; and, from the small distances between the upper shelves, there must have been a very considerable number of _duodecimos_. The titles of the respective classes of the library were painted in white letters upon a dark-blue ground, at top. _Bibles_ occupied the first division, and the _Fathers_ the second: but it should seem that equal importance was attached to the works of _Heretics_ as to those called _Litterae Humaniores_--for each had a division of equal magnitude. On looking out of window, especially from the back part of the building, the eye rests entirely upon what had once been fruitful orchards, abundant kitchen gardens, and shady avenues. Yet in England, this spot, rich by nature, and desirable from its proximity to a great city, would, ere forty moons had waned, have grown up into beauty and fertility, and expanded into luxuriance of condition. The day was now, if possible, more lovely than before. On looking at my instructions I found that we had to stop to examine the remains of an old castle at _Delafontaine_--about two English miles from _St. George de Boscherville_. These remains, however, are but the fragments of a ruin, if I may so speak; yet they are interesting, but somewhat perilous: for a few broken portions of a wall support an upper chamber, where appears a stone chimney-piece of very curious construction and ornament. On observing a large cavity or loop-hole, about half way up the outer wall, I gained it by means of a plentiful growth of ivy, and from thence surveyed the landscape before me. Here, having for some time past lost sight of the Seine, I caught a fine bold view of the sweep of that majestic river, now becoming broader and broader--while, to the left, softly tinted by distance, appeared the beautiful old church we had just quitted: the verdure of the hedges, shrubs, and forest trees, affording a rich variety to the ruddy blossoms of the apple, and the white bloom of the pear. I admit, however, that this delicious morceau of landscape was greatly indebted, for its enchanting effect, to the blue splendour of the sky, and the soft temperature of the air; while the fragrance of every distended blossom added much to the gratification of the beholder. But it is time to descend from this elevation; and to think of reaching Duclair. DUCLAIR is situated close to the very borders of the Seine, which has now an absolute lake-like appearance. We stopped at the auberge to rest our horses; and I commenced a discourse with the master of the inn and his daughter; the latter, a very respectable-looking and well-behaved young woman of about twenty-two years of age. She was preparing a large crackling wood-fire to dress a fish called the _Alose_, for the passengers of the _diligence_--who were expected within half an hour. The French think they can never _butter_ their victuals sufficiently; and it would have produced a spasmodic affection in a thoroughly bilious spectator, could he have seen the enormous piece of butter which this active young _cuisinière_ thought necessary to put into the pot in which the '_Alose_' was to be boiled. She laughed at the surprise I expressed; and added "qu'on ne peut rien faire dans la cuisine sans le beurre." You ought to know, by the by, that the _Alose_, something like our _mackerel_ in flavour, is a large and delicious fish; and that we were always anxious to bespeak it at the table-d'hôte at Rouen. Extricated from the lake of butter in which it floats, when brought upon table, it forms not only a rich, but a very substantial dish. I took a chair and sat in the open air, by the side of the door--enjoying the breeze, and much disposed to gossip with the master of the place. Perceiving this, the landlord approached, and addressed me with a pleasant degree of familiarity. "You are from London, then, Sir?" "I am." "Ah Sir, I never think of London but with the most painful sensations." "How so?" "Sir, I am the sole heir of a rich banker who died in that city before the Revolution. He was in partnership with an English gentleman. Can you possibly advise and assist me upon the subject?" I told him that my advice and assistance were literally not worth a sous; but that, such as they were, he was perfectly welcome to both. "Your daughter Sir, is not married?"--"Non, Monsieur, elle n'est pas encore épousée: mais je lui dis qu'elle ne sera jamais _heureuse_ avant qu'elle le soit." The daughter, who had overheard the conversation, came forward, and looking archly over her shoulder, replied--"ou _malheureuse_, mon père!" A sort of truism, expressed by her with singular epigrammatic force, to which there was no making any reply. Do you remember, my dear friend; that exceedingly cold winter's night, when, for lack of other book-entertainment, we took it into our heads to have a rummage among the _Scriptores Historiae Normannorum_ of DUCHESNE?--and finding therein many pages occupied by _Gulielmus Gemeticensis_, we bethought ourselves that we would have recourse to the valuable folio volume yeleped _Neustria Pia_:--where we presently seemed to hold converse with the ancient founders and royal benefactors of certain venerable establishments! I then little imagined that it would ever fall to my lot to be either walking or musing within the precincts of the Abbey of Jumieges;--or rather, of the ruins of what was once not less distinguished, as a school of learning, than admired for its wealth and celebrity as a monastic establishment. Yes, my friend, I have seen and visited the ruins of this Abbey; and I seem to live "mihi carior" in consequence. But I know your love of method--and that you will be in wrath if I skip from _Duclair_ to JUMIEGES ere the horses have carried us a quarter of a league upon the route. To the left of _Duclair_, and also washed by the waters of the Seine, stands _Marivaux_; a most picturesque and highly cultivated spot. And across the Seine, a little lower down, is the beautiful domain of _La Mailleraye_;--where are hanging gardens, and jets d'eaux, and flower-woven arbours, and daisy-sprinkled meadows--for there lives and occasionally revels _La Marquise_.... I might have been not only a spectator of her splendor, but a participator of her hospitality; for my often-mentioned valuable friend, M. Le Prevost, volunteered me a letter of introduction to her. What was to be done? One cannot be everywhere in one day, or in one journey:--so, gravely balancing the ruins of still life against the attractions of animated society, I was unchivalrous enough to prefer the former--and working myself up into a sort of fantasy, of witnessing the spectered forms of DAGOBERT and CLOVIS, (the fabled founders of the Abbey) I resolutely turned my back upon _La Mailleraye_, and as steadily looked forwards to JUMIEGES. We ascended very sensibly--then striking into a sort of bye-road, were told that we should quickly reach the place of our destination. A fractured capital, and broken shaft, of the late Norman time, left at random beneath a hedge, seemed to bespeak the vicinity of the abbey. We then gained a height; whence, looking straight forward, we caught the first glance of the spires, or rather of the west end towers, of the Abbey of Jumieges.[80] "La voilà, Monsieur,"--exclaimed the postilion--increasing his speed and multiplying the nourishes of his whip--"voilà la belle Abbaye!" We approached and entered the village of Jumieges. Leaving some neat houses to the right and left, we drove to a snug auberge, evidently a portion of some of the outer buildings, or of the chapter-house, attached to the Abbey. A large gothic roof, and central pillar, upon entering, attest the ancient character of the place.[81] The whole struck us as having been formerly of very great dimensions. It was a glorious sun-shiny afternoon, and the villagers quickly crowded round the cabriolet. "Voilà Messieurs les Anglois, qui viennent voir l'Abbaye--mais effectivement il n'y a rien à voir." I told the landlady the object of our visit. She procured us a guide and a key: and within five minutes we entered the nave of the abbey. I can never forget that entrance. The interior, it is true, has not the magical effect, or that sort of artificial burst, which attends the first view of _Tintern_ abbey: but, as the ruin is larger, there is necessarily more to attract attention. Like Tintern also, it is unroofed--yet this unroofing has proceeded from a different cause: of which presently. The side aisles present you with a short flattened arch: the nave has none: but you observe a long pilaster-like, or alto-rilievo column, of slender dimensions, running from bottom to top, with a sort of Roman capital. The arched cieling and roof are entirely gone. We proceeded towards the eastern extremity, and saw more frightful ravages both of time and of accident. The latter however had triumphed over the former: but for _accident_ you must read _revolution_. The day had been rather oppressive for a May morning; and we were getting far into the afternoon, when clouds began to gather, and the sun became occasionally obscured. We seated ourselves upon a grassy hillock, and began to prepare for dinner. To the left of us lay a huge pile of fragments of pillars and groinings of arches--the effects of recent havoc: to the right, within three yards, was the very spot in which the celebrated AGNES SOREL, Mistress of Charles VII, lay entombed:[82]--not a relic of mausoleum now marking the place where, formerly, the sculptor had exhibited the choicest efforts of his art, and the devotee had repaired to Breathe a prayer for her soul--and pass on! What a contrast to the present aspect of things!--to the mixed rubbish and wild flowers with which every spot is now well nigh covered! The mistress of the inn having furnished us with napkins and tumblers, we partook of our dinner, surrounded by the objects just described, with no ordinary sensations. The air now became oppressive; when, looking through the few remaining unglazed mullions of the windows, I observed that the clouds grew blacker and blacker, while a faint rumbling of thunder reached our ears. The sun however yet shone gaily, although partially; and as the storm neared us, it floated as it were round the abbey, affording--by means of its purple, dark colour, contrasted with the pale tint of the walls,--one of the most beautiful painter-like effects imaginable. In an instant almost--and as if touched by the wand of a mighty necromancer--the whole scene became metamorphosed. The thunder growled, but only growled; and the threatening phalanx of sulphur-charged clouds rolled away, and melted into the quiet uniform tint which usually precedes sun-set. Dinner being dispatched, I rose to make a thorough examination of the ruins which had survived ... not only the Revolution, but the cupidity of the present owner of the soil--who is a _rich_ man, living at Rouen--and who loves to dispose of any portion of the stone, whether standing or prostrate, for the sake of the lucre, however trifling, which arises from the sale. Surely the whole corporation of the city of Rouen, with the mayor at their head, ought to stand between this ruthless, rich man, and the abbey--the victim of his brutal avarice and want of taste.[83] The situation of the abbey is delightful. It lies at the bottom of some gently undulating hills, within two or three hundred yards of the Seine. The river here runs gently, in a serpentine direction, at the foot of wood-covered hills--and all seemed, from our elevated station, indicative of fruitfulness, of gaiety, and of prosperity,--all--save the mournful and magnificent remains of the venerable abbey whereon we gazed! In fact, this abbey exists only as a shell. I descended, strolled about the village, and mingled in the conversation of the villagers. It was a lovely approach of evening--and men, women, and children were seated, or sauntering, in the open air. Perceiving that I was anxious to gain information, they flocked around me--and from one man, in particular, I obtained exact intelligence about the havoc which had been committed during the Revolution upon the abbey, The roof had been battered down for the sake of the _lead_--to make bullets; the pews, altars, and iron-work, had been converted into other destructive purposes of warfare; and the great bell had been sold to some speculators in a cannon-foundery at Rouen.[84] The revolutionary mania had even brutalized the Abbot. This man, who must be considered as ....damned to everlasting fame, had been a monk of the monastery; and as soon as he had attained the headship of it, he disposed of every movable piece of furniture, to gratify the revolutionary pack which were daily howling at the gates of the abbey for entrance! Nor could he plead _compulsion_ as an excuse. He seemed to enjoy the work of destruction, of which he had the uncontrouled direction. But enough of this wretch. The next resting-place was CAUDEBEC: a very considerable village, or rather a small town. You go down a steep descent, on entering it by the route we came. As you look about, there are singular appearances on all sides--of houses, and hanging gardens, and elaborately cut avenues--upon summits, declivities, and on the plain. But the charm of the view, at least to my old-fashioned feelings, was a fine old gothic church, and a very fine spire of what _appeared_ to belong to another. As the evening had completely set in, I resolved to reserve my admiration of the place till the morrow. [78] [I am ignorant of his present destination; but learn that he has quitted the above situation a long time.] [79] [Mr. COTMAN has published views of the West Front, the South East, the West Entrance, and the South Transept, with sculptured capitals and basso-relievos, &c. In the whole, seven plates.] [80] [Mr. Cotman has published etchings of the West Front: the Towers, somewhat fore-shortened; the Elevation of the Nave--and doorway of the Abbey: the latter an extremely interesting specimen of art. A somewhat particular and animated description of it will be found in _Lieut. Hall's Travels in France_, 8vo. p. 57, 1819. [In the first edition, I had called the west end towers of the Abbey--"small." Mons. Licquet has suggested that I must have meant "_comparatively_" small;--in contradistinction to the centre-tower, which would have been larger. We learn also from M. Licquet that the spire of this central tower was demolished in 1573, by the Abbé le Veneur, Bishop of Evreux. What earthly motive could have led to such a brutal act of demolition?] [81] ["I know perfectly well, says M. Licquet, the little Inn of which the author here speaks. I can assure him that it never formed any portion of the "chapter house." It was nevertheless une _dependance exterieure_ (I will not attempt a version of this phrase) of the abbey. Dare I venture to say it was the _cowhouse_? (étable aux vaches). Thank you, good Mons. Licquet; but what is a cow-house but "an _outer building_ attached to the Abbey?" Vide supra.] [82] [The heart and entrails only of this once celebrated woman were, according to M. Licquet, buried in the above spot. The body was carried to Loches: and BELLEFOREST _(Cosmog._ vol. i. Part ii. col. 31-32. edit. 1575, folio) gives a description of the mausoleum where it was there entombed: a description, adds M. Licquet, which may well serve for the mausoleum that was at Jumieges.] [83] [Not the smallest portion or particle of a sigh escapes us, on being told, as my translator has told us, that the "soil" in question has become the property of another Owner. "Laius EST MORT"--are the emphatic words of M. Licquet.] [84] [One of the bells of the Abbey of Jumieges is now in the Tower of that of St. Ouen, at Rouen. LICQUET.] LETTER X. CAUDEBEC. LILLEBONNE. BOLBEC. TANKARVILLE. MONTMORENCI CASTLE. HAVRE DE GRACE. My last concluded with our entrance into Caudebec. The present opens with a morning scene at the same place. For a miracle I was stirring before nine. The church was the first object of attraction. For the size of the place, it is really a noble structure: perhaps of the early part of the sixteenth, or latter part of the fifteenth century.[85] I speak of the exterior generally, and of a great portion of the interior. A little shabby green-baise covered door (as usual) was half open, and I entered with no ordinary expectations of gratification. The painted glass seemed absolutely to warm the place--so rich and varied were its colours. There is a great abundance of it, and especially of figures of family-groups kneeling--rather small, but with great appearance of portrait-like fidelity. They are chiefly of the first half of the sixteenth century: and I own that, upon gazing at these charming specimens of ancient painting upon glass, I longed to fix an artist before every window, to bear away triumphantly, in a portfolio of elephantine dimensions, a faithful copy of almost every thing I saw. In some of the countenances, I fancied I traced the pencil of LUCAS CRANACH--and even of HANS HOLBEIN. This church has numerous side chapels, and figures of patron-saints. The entombment of Christ in white marble, (at the end of the chapel of the Virgin,) is rather singular; inasmuch as the figure of Christ itself is ancient, and exceedingly fine in anatomical expression; but the usual surrounding figures are modern, and proportionably clumsy and inexpressive. I noted one mural monument, to the memory of _Guillaume Tellier_, which was dated 1484.[86] Few churches have more highly interested me than this at Caudebec.[87] From the church I strolled to the _Place_, where stood the caffé, by the banks of the Seine. The morning view of this scene perfectly delighted me. Nothing can be more picturesque. The river cannot be much less than a mile in width, and it makes a perfect bend in the form of a crescent. On one side, that on which the village stands, are walks and gardens through which peep numerous white villas--and on the other are meadows, terminating in lofty rising grounds--feathered with coppice-wood down to the very water's edge. This may be considered, in fact, only a portion of the vast _Forest de Brotonne_, which rises in wooded majesty on the opposite heights. The spirit and the wealth of our countrymen would make Caudebec one of the most enchanting summer-residences in the world. The population of the town is estimated at about five thousand. Judge of my astonishment, when, on going out of doors, I saw the river in a state of extreme agitation: the whole mass of water rising perpendicularly, as it were, and broad rippling waves rolling over each other. It was the _coming in of the tide_.... and within a quarter of an hour it appeared to have risen upwards of three feet. You may remember that, in our own country, the Severn-tides exhibit the same phenomenon; and I have seen the river at Glocester rise _at once_ to the height of eight or ten feet, throwing up a shower of foam from the gradually narrowing bed of the river, and causing all the craft, great and small, to rise up as if by magic, and to appear upon a level with the meadows. The tide at Caudebec, although similar in kind, was not so in degree; for it rose gradually yet most visibly--and within half an hour, the elevation could not have been less than _seven_ or _eight_ feet. Having walked for some time on the heights of the town, with which I was much gratified, I returned to my humble auberge, ordered the cabriolet to be got ready, and demanded the reckoning:--which, considering that I was not quite at an hôtel-royale, struck me as being far from moderate. Two old women, of similar features and age, presented themselves as I was getting into the carriage: one was the mistress, and the other the fille de chambre. "Mais, Monsieur (observed one of them) n'oubliez pas, je vous prie, la fille-de-chambre--rappellez-vous que vos souliers ont été supérieurement décrottés." I took out a franc to remunerate the supposed fille-de-chambre--but was told it was the _mistress_. "N'importe, Monsieur, c'est à ce moment que je suis fille-de-chambre--quand vous serez parti, je serai la maitresse." The postilion seemed to enjoy this repartee as much as ourselves. I was scarcely out of the town half a mile, when I began to ascend. I found myself quickly in the middle of those rising grounds which are seen from the promenade or _Place du Caffé_, and could not look without extraordinary gratification upon the beautiful character of spring in its advanced state. The larch was even yet picturesque: the hazel and nut trees were perfectly clothed with foliage, of a tender yet joyous tint: the chestnut was gorgeously in bloom; the lime and beech were beginning to give abundant promise of their future luxuriance--while the lowlier tribes of laburnum and box, with their richly clad branches, covered the ground beneath entirely from view. The apple and pear blossoms still continued to variegate the wide sweep of foliage, and to fill the air with their delicious perfume. It might be Switzerland in miniature--or it might not. Only this I know--that it seemed as though one could live embosomed and enchanted in such a wilderness of sweets--reading the _fabliaux_ of the old Norman bards till the close of human existence! I found myself on a hard, strait, chalky old road--evidently Roman: and in due time perceived and entered the town of LILLEBONNE. But the sky had become overcast: soft and small rain was descending, and an unusual gloom prevailed ... when I halted, agreeably to my instructions, immediately before the gate of the ancient _Castle_. Venerable indeed is this Norman castle, and extensive are the ruins which have survived. I have a perfect recollection how it peeped out upon me--through the light leaf of the poplar, and the pink blossom of the apple. It lies close to the road, on the left. An old round tower, apparently of the time of William the Conqueror, very soon attracts your attention. The stones are large, and the interstices are also very considerable. It was here, says a yet current report, that William assembled the Barons of Normandy, and the invasion of England was determined upon. Such a spot therefore strikes an English beholder with no ordinary emotions. I alighted; sent the cabriolet to the inn, and wished both postilion and horses to get their dinners without delay. For myself, I had resolved to reserve my appetite till I reached _Bolbec_; and there was food enough before me of a different description, to exercise my intellectual digestion for at least the next hour. Knocking at the massive portals, I readily obtained admittance. The area, entirely a grass-plat, was occupied by several cows. In front, were evidently the ruins of a large chapel or church--perhaps of the XIVth century. The outer face of the walls went deeply and perpendicularly down to the bottom of a dry fosse; and the right angle portion of the building was covered with garden ground, where the owner showed us some peas which he boasted he should have at his table within five days. I own I thought he was very likely to carry his boast into execution; for finer vegetables, or a finer bed of earth, I had scarcely ever beheld. How things, my dear friend, are changed from their original character and destination! "But the old round tower," say you!--To "the old round tower" then let us go. The stair-case is narrow, dark, and decayed. I reached the first floor, or circular room, and noticed the construction of the window seats--all of rough, solid, and massive stone. I ascended to the second floor; which, if I remember rightly, was strewn with a portion of the third floor--that had fallen in from sheer decay. Great must have been the crash--as the fragments were huge, and widely scattered. On gaining a firm footing upon the outer wall; through a loop-hole window, I gazed around with equal wonder and delight. The wall of this castle could not be less than ten feet in thickness. A young woman, the shepherdess of the spot, attended as guide. "What is that irregular rude mound, or wall of earth, in the centre of which children are playing?" "It is the _old Roman Theatre_, Sir." I immediately called to mind M. Le Prevost's instructions--and if I could have borrowed the wings of a spirit, I should have instantly alighted upon the spot--but it was situated without the precincts of the old castle and its appurtenances, and a mortal leap would have been attended with a mortal result. "Have you many English who visit this spot?" said I to my guide.--"Scarcely _any_, Sir--it is a frightful place--full of desolation and sadness.." replied she. Again I gazed around, and in the distance, through an aperture in the orchard trees, saw the little fishing village of _Quillebeuf_,[88] quite buried, as it were, in the waters of the Seine. An arm of the river meanders towards Lillebonne. Having gratified my picturesque and antiquarian propensities, from this elevated situation, I retrod, with more difficulty than toil, my steps down the stair-case. A second stroll about the area, and along the skirts of the wall, was sufficient to convince me only--how slight and imperfect had been my survey! On quitting the portal through which I entered, and bidding adieu to my Shepherdess and guide, I immediately hastened towards the Roman Theatre.[89] The town of Lillebonne has a very picturesque appearance from the old mound, or raised terrace, along the outer walls of the castle. In five minutes I mingled with the school boys who were amusing themselves within the ruins of all that is left of this probably once vast and magnificent old theatre. It is only by clearing away a great quantity of earth, with which these ruins are covered, that you can correctly ascertain their character and state of preservation. M. Le Prevost bade me remark that the walls had much swerved from their original perpendicularity,--and that there was much irregularity in the laying of the bricks among the stones. But time, design, and accident, have each in turn (in all probability) so contributed to decompose, deface, and alter the original aspect of the building, that there is no forming a correct conjecture as to its ancient form. Earth, grass, trees, flowers, and weeds, have taken almost entire possession of some low and massive outer walls; so that the imagination has full play to supply all deficiencies which appear to the eye. From the whole of this interesting spot I retreated--with mixed sensations of melancholy and surprise--to the little auberge of the _Three Moors_, in the centre of the town. It had begun to rain smartly as we took shelter in the kitchen; where, for the first time since leaving England, I saw a display of utensils which might have vied with our own, or even with a Dutch interior, for neatness and order of disposition. Some of the dishes might have been as ancient as--not the old round Tower--but as the last English Duke of Normandy who might have banquetted there. The whole was in high polish and full display. On my complimenting the good _Aubergiste_ upon so creditable a sight, she laughed, and replied briskly--"Ce n'est rien, ceci: Pentecôte est tout près, et donc vous verrez, Monsieur!"--It should seem that Whitsuntide was the season for a general household purification. Some of her furniture had once belonged to the Castle: but she had bought it, in the scramble which took place at the dispersion and destruction of the movables there, during the Revolution. I recommend all travellers to take a lunch, and enjoy a bottle of vin ordinaire, at _Les Trois-Nègres._ I was obliged to summon up all my stock of knowledge in polite phraseology, in order to decline a plate of soup. "It was delicious above every thing"--"but I had postponed taking dinner till we got to Bolbec." "Bon--vous y trouverez un hôtel superbe." The French are easily pleased; and civility is so cheap and current a coin abroad, that I wish our countrymen would make use of it a little more frequently than they appear to do. I started about two for Bolbec. The rain continued during the whole of my route thither; but it did not prevent me from witnessing a land of plenty and of picturesque beauty on all sides. Indeed it is scarcely possible to conceive a more rich and luxuriant state of culture. To the left, about half a league from Lillebonne, I passed the domain of a once wealthy, and extremely extensive abbey. They call it the _Abbey of Valasse._ A long rambling bare stone wall, and portions of a deserted ruin, kept in sight for full half an English mile. The immediate approach to BOLBEC is that of the entrance to a modern and flourishing trading town, which seems to be beginning to recover from the effects of the Revolution. After Rouen, and even Caudebec, it has a stiff modernized air. I drove to the principal inn, opposite the church, and bespoke dinner and a bed. The church is perfectly, modern, and equally heavy and large. Crowds of people were issuing from _Vespers_, when, ascending a flight of steps, (for it is built on ground considerably above the ground-floor of the inn) I resolved to wait for the final departure of the congregation, and to take a leisurely survey of the interior, while dinner was getting ready. The sexton was a perfect character in his way; old, shrewd, communicative, and civil. There were several confessionals. "What--you confess here pretty much?" "Yes, Sir; but chiefly females, and among them many widows." I had said nothing to provoke this ungallant reply. "In respect to the _sacrament_, what is the proportion between the communicants, as to sex?" "Sir, there are one hundred women to twelve men." I wish I could say that this disproportion were confined to _France_. Quitting this heavy and ugly, but large and commodious fabric, I sought the inn and dinner. The cook was in every respect a learned professor in his art, and the produce of his skill was equally excellent and acceptable. I had scarcely finished my repast, and the _Gruyere_ cheese and nuts yet lingered upon the table, when the soft sounds of an organ, accompanied by a youthful voice, saluted my ears in a very pleasing manner. "C'est LE PAUVRE PETIT SAVOYARD, Monsieur"--exclaimed the waiter--"Vous allez entendre un air touchant! Ah, le pauvre petit!"--"Comment ça?" "Monsieur, il n'a ni père ni mère; mais pour le chant--oh Dieu, il n'y a personne qui chante comme le pauvre petit Savoyard!" I was well disposed to hear the song, and to admit the truth of the waiter's observation. The little itinerant stopped opposite the door, and sung the following air:-- _Bon jour, Bon soir_. Je peindrai sans détour Tout l'emploi de ma vie: C'est de dire _bon jour_ Et _bon soir_ tour-à-tour. _Bon Jour_ à mon amie, Lorsque je vais la voir. Mais au fat qui m'ennuie, _Bon soir_. _Bon jour_ franc troubadour, Qui chantez la bombance; La paix et les beaux jours; Bacchus et les amours. Qu'un rimeur en démence Vienne avec vous s'asseoir, Pour chanter la Romance, _Bon soir_. _Bon jour_, mon cher voisin, Chez vous la soif m'entraîne: _Bonjour_--si votre vin Est de Beaune ou du Rhin; Mon gosier va sans peine Lui servir d'entonnoir; Mais s'il est de Surêne, _Bon soir_. I know not how it was, but had the "petit Savoyard" possessed the cultivated voice of a chorister, I could not have listened to his notes with half the satisfaction with which I dwelt upon his history, as stated by the waiter. He had no sooner concluded and made his bow, than I bought the slender volume from which his songs had been chanted, and had a long gossip with him. He slung his organ upon his back, and "ever and anon" touching his hat, expressed his thankfulness, as much for the interest I had taken in his welfare, as for the trifling piece of silver which I slipt into his hand at parting. Meanwhile all the benches, placed on the outsides of the houses, were occupied--chiefly by females--to witness, it should seem, so novel and interesting a sight as an Englishman holding familiar discourse with a poor wandering Savoyard! My friend the sexton was among the spectators, and from his voice and action, appeared especially interested. "Que le bon Dieu vous bénisse!" exclaimed the Savoyard, as I bade him farewell. On pursuing my route for a stroll upon the heights near the town, I had occasion to pass these benches of spectators. The women, almost without any exception, inclined their heads by way of a gracious salute; and Monsieur _le Sacristain_ pulled off his enormous cock'd hat with the consequence of a drum-major. He appeared not to have forgotten the donation which he had received in the church. Continuing my pursuit, I gained an elevated situation: whence, looking down upon the spot where I had left the Savoyard, I observed him surrounded by the females--each and every one of them apparently convulsed with laughter! Even the little musician appeared to have forgotten his "orphan state." The environs of _Bolbec_, especially in the upper part, are sufficiently picturesque. At least they are sufficiently fruitful: orchards, corn and pasture land--intermixed with meadows, upon which cotton was spread for bleaching--produced altogether a very interesting effect. The little hanging gardens, attached to labourer's huts, contributed to the beauty of the scene. A warm crimson sun-set seemed to envelope the coppice wood in a flame of gold. The road was yet reeking with moisture--and I retraced my steps, through devious and slippery paths, to the hôtel. Evening had set in: the sound of the Savoyard's voice was no longer heard: I ordered tea and candles, and added considerably to my journal before I went to bed. I rose at five; and before six the horses were harnessed to the cabriolet. Having obtained the necessary instructions for reaching _Tancarville_, (the ancient and proud seat of the MONTMORENCIS) I paid my reckoning, and left Bolbec. As I ascended a long and rather steep hill, and, looking to the right and left, saw every thing in a state of verdure and promise, I did all I could to persuade myself that the journey would be agreeable, and that the castle of Montmorenci could not fail to command admiration. I was now in the high and broad "_roúte royale_" to Havre le Grace; but had scarcely been a league upon it, when, looking at my instructions, we struck out of the high road, to the left, and followed a private one through flat and uninteresting arable land. I cannot tell how many turns were taken, or how many pretty little villages were passed--till, after a long and gradual ascent, we came upon a height, flanked the greater part by coppice wood, through one portion of which--purposely kept open for the view--was seen at a distance a marvellously fine group of perpendicular rocks (whose grey and battered sides were lighted up with a pink colour from the morning sun) in the middle, as it were, of the _Seine_--which now really assumed an ocean-like appearance. In fact, these rocks were at a considerable distance, and appeared to be in the broadest part of the embouchure of that river. I halted the cabriolet; and gazed with unfeigned delight on this truly magnificent and fascinating scene!... for the larks were now mounting all around, and their notes, added to those of the "songsters of the grove," produced an effect which I even preferred to that from the organ and voice of the "pauvre petit Savoyard." The postboy partook of my rapture. "Voilà, Monsieur, des rochers terriblement perpendiculiers--eh, quelle belle vue de la rivière, et du paysage!" Leaving this brilliant picture, we turned rather to the left, and then found our descent proportionably gradual with the ascent. The Seine was now right before us, as hasty glimpses of it, through partial vistos, had enabled us to ascertain. Still _Tancarville_ was deemed a terrible way off. First we were to go up, and then we were to go down--now to turn to the right, and afterwards to the left--a sort of [Greek: polla d'ananta katanta] route--when a prepossessing young paysanne told the postilion, that, after passing through such a wood, we should reach an avenue, from the further end of which the castle of _Montmorenci_ would be visible.. "une petite lieue de distance." Every thing is "une petite lieue!" It is the answer to every question relating to distance. Though the league be double a German one, still it is "une petite!" Here however the paysanne happened to be right. We passed through the wood, gained the avenue, and from the further end saw--even yet towering in imposing magnitude--the far-famed _Chateau de Montmorenci_. It might be a small league off. I gained spirits and even strength at the sight: told the postilion to mend his pace--of which he gave immediate and satisfactory demonstration, while the echoes of his whip resounded along the avenue. A closer road now received us. Knolls of grass interwoven with moss, on the summits of which the beech and lime threw up their sturdy stems, now enclosed the road, which began to widen and to improve in condition. At length, turning a corner, a group of country people appeared--"Est-ce ici la route de Tancarville?"--"Tancarville est tout près: c'est là, où on voit la fumée des cheminées." Joyful intelligence! The post-boy increased his speed: The wheels seemed to move with a readier play: and in one minute and a half I was upon the beach of the river Seine, and alighted at the door of the only auberge in the village. I know you to be both a lover of and connoisseur in Rembrandt's pictures: and especially of those of his _old_ characters. I wish you could have seen the old woman, of the name of _Bucan_, who came out of this same auberge to receive us. She had a sharp, quick, constantly moving black eye; keen features, projecting from a surface of flesh of a subdued mahogany tint; about her temples, and the lower part of her cheeks, were all those harmonizing wrinkles which become old age--_upon canvas_--while, below her chin, communicating with a small and shrunken neck, was that sort of concavity, or dewlap, which painters delight to express with a minuteness of touch, and mellowness of tint, that contribute largely to picturesque effect! This good old woman received us with perfect elasticity of spirits and of action. It should seem that we were the first Englishmen who had visited her solitude this year. Her husband approached, but she soon ordered him "to the right about"--to prepare fuel, coffee, and eggs. I was promised the best breakfast that could be got in Normandy, in twenty minutes. The inn being sufficiently miserable, I was anxious for a ramble. The tide was now coming up, as at Caudebec; but the sweep and breadth of the river being, upon a considerably larger scale, its increase was not yet so obvious--although I am quite sure that all the flats, which I saw on my arrival as a bed of mud, were, within a quarter of an hour, wholly covered with the tide: and, looking up to the right, I perceived the perpendicular walls of _Montmorenci Castle_ to be washed by the refluent wave. It was a sort of ocean in miniature before me. A few miserable fishing boats were moored upon the beach; while a small number of ill-clad and straggling villagers lingered about the same spot, and seemed to look upon the postboy and myself as beings dropt from the sky! On ascending a considerable elevation, I had the gratification of viewing _Quillebeuf_ a little more nearly. It was almost immediately opposite: while, to the right, contemplating the wide sweep of the river towards its embouchure, I fancied that I could see _Havre_. The group of rocks, which had so charmed us on our journey, now assumed a different character. On descending, I could discover, although at a considerable distance, the old woman standing at the door of the auberge--apparently straining her eyes to catch a glimpse of us; and she was almost disposed to scold for having put her reputation of giving good breakfasts to so hazardous a trial. The wood was blazing, and the room was almost filled by smoke--but a prolonged fast, and a stage of sixteen or eighteen miles, in a keen morning air, made Mr. Lewis and myself only think of allaying our hunger. In every public house, however mean, you see the white metal fork, and the napkin covering the plate. A dozen boiled eggs, and a coffee pot and cups of perfectly Brobdignagdian dimensions, with tolerable bread and indifferent butter, formed the _materiél_ of our breakfast. The postboy, having stabled and refreshed his horses, was regaling himself in the kitchen--but-how do you think he was regaling himself?--Truly, in stretching himself upon a bench, and reading, as old Ascham expresses it, "a merry tale in Boccace." In other words, he was reading a French version of the Decameron of that celebrated author. Indeed, I had already received sufficient proof of the general propensity of the common people to _read_--whether good or bad books ... but let us hope and believe the former. I left the bibliomaniacal postboy to his Boccaccio, and prepared to visit the CASTLE... the once proud and yet commanding residence of the family of MONTMORENCI. I ascended--with fresh energies imparted from my breakfast. The day grew soft, and bright, and exhilarating ... but alas! for the changes and chances of every thing in this transitory world. Where was the warder? He had ceased to blow his horn for many a long year. Where was the harp of the minstrel? It had perished two centuries ago, with the hand that had struck its chords. Where was the attendant guard?--or pursuivants--or men at arms? They had been swept from human existence, like the leaves of the old limes and beech trees by which the lower part of the building was surrounded. The moat was dry; the rampart was a ruin:--the rank grass grew within the area... nor can I tell you how many relics of halls, banqueting rooms, and bed-rooms, with all the magnificent appurtenances of old castellated architecture, struck the eager eye with mixed melancholy and surprise! The singular half-circular, and half square, corner towers, hanging over the ever-restless wave, interested me exceedingly. The guide shewed me where the prisoners used to be kept--in a dungeon, apparently impervious to every glimmer of day-light, and every breath of air. I cannot pretend to say at what period even the oldest part of the Castle of Montmorenci was built: but I saw nothing that seemed to be more ancient than the latter end of the fifteenth century.[90] Perhaps the greater portion may be of the beginning of the sixteenth; but, amidst the unroofed rooms, I could not help admiring the painted borders, chiefly of a red colour, which run along the upper part of the walls, or wainscoats--giving indication not only of a good, but of a splendid, taste. Did I tell you that this sort of ornament was to be seen in some parts of the eastern end of the Abbey of Jumieges? _Here_, indeed, they afforded evidence--an evidence, mingled with melancholy sensations on reflection--of the probable state of magnificence which once reigned throughout the castle. Between the corner towers, upon that part which runs immediately parallel with the Seine, there is a noble terrace, now converted into garden ground--which commands an immediate and extensive view of the embouchure of the river. It is the property of a speculator, residing at Havre. The cabriolet meeting me at the bottom of the mound upon which the castle is built, (having paid the reckoning before I left the inn), I had nothing to do but to step in, and push forward for _Havre_. Retracing the road through which we came, we darted into the _Route Royale_, and got upon one of the noblest high roads in France. Between _Tancarville_ and _Havre_ lie _Hocher_ and _Harfleur_; each almost at the water's edge. I regretted I could not see the former; but on our approach to Harfleur I observed, to the right, some delightfully situated, and not inelegantly built, country villas or modern chateaux. The immediate run down to Harfleur is exceedingly pleasing; and though we trotted sharply through the town, the exquisite little porch of the church was not lost upon me. Few places, I believe, for its dimensions, have been more celebrated in the middle ages than Harfleur. The Seine to the left becomes broader and bolder; and, before you, beneath some wooded heights, lies HAVRE. Every thing gives indication of commerce and prosperity as you gain upon the town. The houses increase in number and respectability of appearance--"Voyez-vous là, Monsieur, à droite, ces belles maisons de plaisance?--(exclaimed the charioteer)--"C'est la où demeurent Messieurs vos compatriotes: ma foi, ils ont un joli gout." The first glance upon these stone houses confirmed the sagacity of the postilion. They are gloriously situated--facing the ocean; while the surrounding country teems with fish and game of every species. Isaac Walton might have contrived to interweave a pretty ballad in his description of such trout-streams as were those before us. But we approach the town. The hulls of hundreds of vessels are seen in the commodious docks; and the flags of merchantmen, from all quarters of the globe, appear to stream from the mast-heads. It is a scene of bustle, of business, and variety; and perfectly English. What a contrast to the gloomy solitude of Montmorenci! The outer and inner gates are passed. _Diligences_ issue from every quarter. The centinels relieve guard. The sound of horns, from various packet-boats immediately about to sail, echoes on all sides.... Driving up the high street, we approached the hôtel of the _Aigle d'Or,_[91] kept by Justin, and considered to be the best. We were just in time for the table d'hôte, and to bespeak excellent beds. Travellers were continually arriving and departing. What life and animation!... We sat down upwards of forty to dinner: and a good dinner it was. Afterwards, I settled for the cabriolet, and bade the postboy adieu!--nor can I suppress my feelings in saying that, in wishing him farewell, I felt ten times more than I had ever felt upon taking leave of a postilion. [85] The nave was begun in 1416. LICQUET. [86] Corrected by Mons. Licquet: with thanks from the Author. It was, before, 1184. [87] Lieutenant Hall has well described it. I did not see his description till more than a twelvemonth after my own had been written. A part may be worth extracting.... "The principal object of attraction is the CHURCH, the gothic spire of which is encircled by fillets of roses, beautifully carved in stone, and continued to the very summit of the steeple. The principal portal too is sculptured with no less richness and delicacy than that of St. Maclou at Rouen. Its interior length is about 250 feet by 72 of width. The central aisle [nave] is flanked on either side by ten massive circular columns, the capitals of which represent vine leaves and other decorations, more fanciful, and not less rich, than the Corinthian acanthus.... In one of the chapels there is a rude monumental effigy of the original architect of this church. It consists of a small skeleton, drawn in black lines, against a tablet in the wall: a mason's level and trowel, with the plan of a building, are beside it, and an inscription in gothic characters, relating that the architect endowed the church he had built with certain lands, and died Anno 1484." _Travels in France_, p. 47, 1819, 8vo. I take this to be GUILLAUME TELLIER--mentioned above: but in regard to the lands with which Tellier endowed the church, the inscription says nothing. LICQUET. [88] Small as may be this village, and insignificant as may be its aspect, it is one of the most important places, with respect to navigation, in the whole course of the river Seine. Seven years ago there were not fewer than _four-score_ pilots settled here, by order of government, for the purpose of guarding against accidents which arise from a want of knowledge of the navigation of the river. In time of peace this number would necessarily be increased. In the year 1789 there were upwards of 250 English vessels which passed it--averaging, in the whole, 19,000 tons. It is from _Quillebeuf_ to _Havre_ that the accidents arise. The author of a pompous, but very instructive memoir, "_sur la Topographie et la Statistique de la Ville de Quillebeuf et de l'embouchure de la Seine, ayant pour objet-principal la navigation et la pêché_," (published in the Transactions of the Rouen Society for the year 1812, and from which the foregoing information has been obtained) mentions three or four _wrecks_ which have taken place in the immediate vicinity of Quillebeuf: and it should seem that a _calm_ is, of all things, the most fatal. The currents are strong, and the vessel is left to the mercy of the tides in consequence. There are also rocks and sand banks in abundance. Among the wrecks, was one, in which a young girl of eighteen years of age fell a victim to the ignorance of the pilot. The vessel made a false tack between _Hode_ and _Tancarville_, and running upon a bank, was upset in an instant. An English vessel once shared the same calamity. A thick fog suddenly came on, when the sloop ran upon a bank near the _Nez de Tancarville_, and the crew had just time to throw themselves into the boat and escape destruction. The next morning, so sudden and so decisive was the change wrought by the sand and current, that, of the sloop, there remained, at ebb-tide, only ten feet of her mast visible! It appears that the _Quillebois_, owing to their detached situation, and their peculiar occupations, speak a very barbarous French. They have a sort of sing-song method of pronunciation; and the _g_ and _j_ are strangely perverted by them. Consult the memoir here referred to; which occupies forty octavo pages: and which forms a sequel to a previous communication (in 1810) "upon the Topography and Medical properties of Quillebeuf and its adjacent parts." The author is M. Boismare. His exordium is a specimen of the very worst possible taste in composition. One would suppose it to be a prelude to an account of the discovery of another America! [89] ["The Roman Circus (says M. Licquet) is now departmental property. Many excavations have already taken place under the directions of Mons. Le Baron de Vanssay, the present Prefect of the Department. The most happy results may be anticipated. It was in a neighbouring property that an ANTIQUE BRONZE GILT STATUE, of the size of life, was lately found," vol. i. 194. Of this statue, Mr. Samuel Woodburn, (with that spirit of liberality and love of art which have uniformly characterised his purchases) became the Owner. The sum advanced for it was very considerable; but, in one sense, Mr. W. may be said to have stood as the Representative of his country; for the French Government declining to give the Proprietor the sum which he asked, Mr. Woodburn purchased it--solely with the view of depositing it, on the same terms of purchase, in a NATIONAL GALLERY OF ART, of which the bequest of Mr. Payne Knight's ancient bronzes and coins, and the purchase of Mr. Angerstein's pictures, might be supposed to lay the foundation. This statue was accordingly brought over to England, and freely exhibited to the curious admirers of ancient art. It is the figure of an APOLLO--the left arm, extended to hold the lyre, being mutilated. A portion of the limbs is also mutilated; but the torso, head and legs, are entire: and are, of their kind, of the highest class of art. Overtures were made for its purchase by government. The Trustees of the British Museum were unanimous both in their admiration and recommendation of it: it was indeed "strongly recommended" by them to the Treasury. Several months however elapsed before an answer could be obtained; and that answer, when it _did_ come, was returned in THE NEGATIVE. The disappointment of reasonably indulged hopes of success, was the least thing felt by its owner. It was the necessity of transporting it, in consequence, to enrich a _rival capital_--which, were its means equal to its wishes and good taste, it must be confessed, makes us frequently blush for the comparative want of energy and liberality, at home, in matters relating to ANCIENT ART.] [90] Mr. Cotman has a view of the gateway of Tancarville, or Montmorenci Castle. [91] I am not sure whether this inn be called the _Armes de France_, or as above. LETTER XI HAVRE DE GRACE. HONFLEUR. JOURNEY TO CAEN. _Caen, May_, 1818. Well, my friend!... I have at length visited the interior of the Abbey of St. Stephen, and have walked over the grave of WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR and of MATHILDA his wife. But as you dearly love the gossip of a travelling journal, I shall take up the thread of my narrative from the place in which I last addressed you:--particularly as our route hither was marked by some circumstances worthy of recital. First, however, for _Havre_. I staid there only long enough to express my regret that the time of my residence could not be extended. It happened to be a fine afternoon, and I took a leisurely stroll upon the docks and ramparts.[92] The town was full of animation--whether relating to business or to pleasure. For the former, you must visit the quays; for the latter, you must promenade the high street, and more especially the _Boulevards_, towards the heights. The sun shone merrily, as it were, upon the thousands of busy, bustling, and bawling human creatures.. who were in constant locomotion in this latter place. What a difference between the respective appearances of the quays of Dieppe and Havre? Although even _here_ things would assume a rubbishing and littered aspect compared with the quays at _Liverpool_ or at _Hull_, yet it must be admitted, for the credit of Gallico-Norman commerce, that the quays of Havre make a very respectable appearance. You see men fiddling, dancing, sleeping, sitting, and of course talking _à pleine gorge_, in groups without end--but no drunkenness!.. not even an English oath saluted my ear. The Southampton packets land their crews at Havre. I saw the arrival of one of these packets; and was cruel enough to contrast the animated and elastic spirits of a host of French _laqnais de place_, tradespeople, &c.--attacking the passengers with cards of their address--with the feeble movements and dejected countenances of the objects of their attack. From the quays, I sauntered along the ramparts, which are flanked by broad ditches--of course plentifully supplied with water; and passing over the drawbridge, by which all carriages enter the town--and which absolutely trembles as if about to sink beneath you, as the _diligence_ rolls over it.--I made for the boulevards and tea-gardens; to which, business being well nigh over, the inhabitants of Havre flock by hundreds and by thousands. A fine afternoon throws every thing into "good keeping"--as the artists say. The trees, and meadows, and upper lands, were not only bright with the sun-beam, but the human countenance was lighted up with gladness. The occupations partook of this joyful character. Accordingly there was dancing and singing on all sides; a little beyond, appeared to sit a group of philosophers, or politicians, upon a fantastically cut seat, beneath laburnums streaming with gold; while, still further, gradually becoming invisible from the foliage and winding path, strolled pairs in more gentle discourse! Meanwhile the whoop and halloo of school-boys, in rapid and ceaseless evolutions, resounded through the air, and heightened the gratification of the scene.... And young and old came out to play Upon a sun-shine holiday. Gaining a considerable ascent, I observed knolls of rich verdure, with fine spreading trees, and elegant mansions, to be in the foreground--in the middle-ground, stood the town of Havre:--in the distance, rolled and roared the expansive ocean! The sun was visibly going to rest; but his departing beams yet sparkled upon the more prominent points of the picture. There was no time for finishing the subject. After a stroll of nearly a couple of hours, on this interesting spot, I retraced my steps over the draw-bridge, and prepared for objects of _still_ life; in other words, for the examination of what might be curious and profitable in the shape of a _boke_. The lamps were lighted when I commenced my _Bibliomaniacal Voyage_ of discovery among the BOOKSELLERS. But what poverty of materials, for a man educated in the schools of Fust and Caxton! To every question, about rare or old books, I was told that I should have been on the Continent when the allies first got possession of Paris. In fact, I had not a single _trouvaille_. The packet was to sail by nine the next morning, precisely. For a wonder, (or rather no wonder at all, considering what had occurred during the last twenty-four hours) I had an excellent night's rest, and was prepared for breakfast by eight. Having breakfasted, I accompanied my luggage to the inner harbour, and observed the _Honfleur_ packet swarming with passengers, and crammed with every species of merchandize: especially tubs, casks, trunks, cordage, and earthenware. We went on board, and took our stations near the helm; and after experiencing a good deal of _uncomfortable_ heaving of the ocean, got clear from the mouth of the harbour, and stood out to sea. The tide was running briskly and strongly into the harbour. We were in truth closely stowed; and as these packets are built with flattish bottoms, and low sides, a rough sea would not fail to give to a crew, thus exposed, the appearance of half-drowned rats. Luckily the wind began to subside, and by degrees old ocean wore a face of undisturbed serenity. Our crew was a motley one; but among them, an Abbess, with a visage of parchment-like rigidity, and with her broad streaming bands, seemed to experience particular distress. She was surrounded by some hale, hearty market women, whose robust forms, and copper-tinted countenances, formed a striking contrast to her own. A little beyond was an old officer or two, with cocked hats of the usually capacious dimensions. But the poor Abbess was cruelly afflicted; and in a gesture and tone of voice, of the most piteous woe, implored the steward of the vessel for accommodation below. Fortunately, as I was not in the least annoyed by sickness, I had leisure to survey the heights of Honfleur before we landed; and looking towards the course of the River Seine, as it narrowed in its windings, I discovered _Harfleur_ and _Hocher_ nearly opposite; and, a good deal lower down, the little fishing town of _Quillebeuf_, apparently embedded in the water. Honfleur itself is surely among the most miserable of fishing towns[93]--or whatever be the staple commodity that supports it. But the environs make amends for the squalidness of the town. A few years of peace and plenty would work wonders even in the improvements of these environs. Perhaps no situation is more favourable for the luxury of a summer retirement.[94] I paid only eight sous for my passage; and having no passport to be _viséd_ (which indeed was the case at Havre,) we selected a stout lad or two, from the crowds of lookers on, as we landed, to carry our luggage to the inn from which the diligence sets off for CAEN. It surprised us to see with what alacrity these lads carried the baggage up a steep hill in their trucks, or barrows; but we were disgusted with the miserable forms, and miserable clothing, of both sexes, which we encountered as we proceeded. I was fortunate to be in time to secure my place in the Diligence. The horses were in the very act of being put to, as I paid my reckoning beforehand. Judge of our surprise and gratification on seeing two well-dressed, and apparently well-bred Englishmen, securing their places at the same time. It is not always that, at first sight, Englishmen associate so quickly, and apparently so cordially, as did these gentlemen with ourselves. They were the Messrs. D*** of _L_**** _Hall_ in Yorkshire: the elder brother an Oxford man of the same standing with myself. The younger, a Cantab. We were all bound for Caen; and right gladly did we coalesce upon this expedition. We proceeded at a good sharp pace; and as we ascended the very high hill on the direct road to Caen, with fine leafy trees on each side, and upon a noble breadth of road, I looked out of the diligence to enjoy the truly magnificent view of the Seine--with glimpses of _Harfleur_ and _Havre_ on the opposite coast. The cessation of the rain, and the quick movement of the vehicle, enabled me to do this in a tolerably commodious manner. The ground however seemed saturated, and the leaves glistened with the incumbent moisture. There was a sort of pungent freshness of scent abroad--and a rich pasture land on each side gave the most luxuriant appearance to the landscape. Nature indeed seemed to have fructified every thing in a manner at once spontaneous and perfect. The face of the country is pasture-land throughout; that is to say, there are comparatively few orchards and little arable. I was told to pay attention to the cattle, for that the farmers prided themselves on their property of this kind. They may pride themselves--if they please: but their pride is not of a lofty cast of character. I have been in Lincolnshire, Herefordshire, and Gloucestershire--and have seen and enjoyed, in these counties, groups of cattle which appeared calculated for the land and the table of giants, compared with the Lilliputian objects, of the bucoline species, which were straying, in thin flocks, through the luxuriant pastures of Normandy. That triumphant and immutable maxim of "small bone and large carcase" seems, alas! to be unknown in these regions. However, on we rode--and gazed on all sides. At length we reached _Pont L'Eveque_, a pretty long stage; where we dined (says my journal) upon roast fowl, asparagus, trout, and an excellent omelette, with two good bottles of vin ordinaire--which latter, for four Englishmen, was commendably moderate. During dinner the rain came down again in yet heavier torrents--the gutters foamed, and the ground smoked with the unceasing fall of the water. In the midst of this aquatic storm, we toasted Old England right merrily and cordially; and the conducteur, seeing us in good humour, told us that "we need not hurry, for that he preferred a dry journey to a wet one." We readily assented to this position; but within half an hour, the weather clearing, we remounted: and by four o'clock, we all got inside--and politics, religion, literature, and the fine arts, kept us in constant discourse and good humour as we rolled on for many a league. All the way to _Troarn_ (the last stage on this side of Caen) the country presents a truly lovely picture of pasture land. There are occasionally some wooded heights, in which English wealth and English taste would have raised villas of the prettiest forms, and with most commanding views. Yet there is nothing to be mentioned in the same breath with the country about Rodwell in Glocestershire. Nor are the trees of the same bulk and luxuriant foliage as are those in our own country. A fine oak is as rare as an uncut _Wynkyn de Worde_:[95] but creeping rivulets, rich coppice wood, avenues of elms and limes, and meadows begemmed with butter-cups--these are the characteristics of the country through which we were passing. It is in vain however you look for neat villas or consequential farm houses: and as rarely do you see groups of villagers reposing, or in action. A dearth of population gives to French landscape a melancholy and solitary cast of character. It is in cities that you must look for human beings--and _for_ cities the French seem to have been created. It was at _Troarn_, I think, or at some halting place beyond, that our passports were demanded, and the examination of our trunks solicited. We surrendered our keys most willingly. The gentlemen, with their cocked hats and blue jackets--having a belt from which a sword was suspended--consulted together for a minute only--returned our keys--and telling us that matters would be thoroughly looked into at Caen, said they would give us no trouble. We were of course not sorry at this determination--and the Messrs. D---and myself getting once more into the cabriolet, (a postboy being secured for the leaders) we began to screw up our spirits and curiosity for a view of the steeples of CAEN. Unluckily the sun had set, and the horizon had become gloomy, when we first discovered the spires of _St. Stephen's Abbey_--the principal ecclesiastical edifice at Caen. It was hard upon nine o'clock; and the evening being extremely dusky, we had necessarily a very indistinct view of the other churches--but, to my eye, as seen in a lengthened view, and through a deceitful atmosphere, Caen had the appearance of OXFORD on a diminutive scale. The town itself, like our famous University, is built in a slanting direction; though the surrounding country is yet flatter than about Oxford. As we entered it, all the population seemed collected to witness our arrival. From solitude we plunged at once into tumult, bustle, and noise. We stopped at the _Hotel d'Espagne--_a large, but black and begrimed mansion. Here our luggage was taken down; and here we were assailed by garçons de place, with cards in their hands, intreating us to put up at their respective hotels. We had somehow got a recommendation to the _Hotel Royale, Place Royale_, and such a union of _royal_ adjuncts was irresistible. Accordingly, we resolved upon moving thither. In a trice our trunks were placed upon barrows: and we marched behind, "in double quick time," in order to secure our property. The town appeared to improve as we made our different turnings, and gained upon our hotel. "Le voilà, Messieurs"--exclaimed our guides and baggage-conductors--as we got into a goodly square, and saw a fair and comely mansion in front. The rush of landlord, waiting maids, and garçons de place, encountered us as we entered. "Messieurs, je vous salue,"--said a huge, ungracious looking figure:--which said figure was nothing less than the master of the hotel--Mons. Lagouelle. We were shown into a small room on the ground floor, to the right--and ordered tea; but had scarcely begun to enjoy the crackling blaze of a plentiful wood fire, when the same ungracious figure took his seat by the side of us ... to tell us "all about THE DUEL." I had heard (from an English gentleman in the packet boat from Havre to Honfleur) something respecting this most extraordinary duel between a young Englishman and a young Frenchman: but as I mean to reserve my _Caen budget_ for a distinct dispatch, and as I have yet hardly tarried twenty hours in this place, I must bid you adieu; only adding that I dreamt, last night, about some English antiquaries trying to bend the bow of William the Conqueror!--Can this be surprising? Again farewell. [92] Evelyn, who visited Havre in 1644, when the Duke de Richlieu was governor, describes the citadel as "strong and regular, well stored with artillery, &c. The works furnished with faire brass canon, having a motto, "_Ratio ultima Regum_." The haven is very spacious." _Life and Writings of John Evelyn_, edit. 1818, vol. i. p. 51. Havre seems always to have been a place of note and distinction in more senses than one. In Zeiller's _Topographia Galliae,_ (vol. iii.) there is a view of it, about the period in which Evelyn saw it, by Jacques Gomboust, Ingénieur du Roy, from which it appears to have been a very considerable place. Forty-two principal buildings and places are referred to in the directions; and among them we observe the BOULEVARDS DE RICHELIEU. [93] It was so in Evelyn's time: in 1644, "It is a poore fisher towne (says he) remarkable for nothing so much as the odd yet usefull habites which the good women weare, of beares and other skinns, as of raggs at Dieppe, and all along these coasts." _Life and Writings of J. Evelyn_; 1818, 4to. vol. i. p. 51. [94] [It is near a chapel, on one of the heights of this town, that Mr. Washington Irving fixes one of his most exquisitely drawn characters, ANNETTE DELABRE, as absorbed in meditation and prayer respecting the fate of her lover; and I have a distinct recollection of a beautiful piece of composition, by one of our most celebrated artists, in which the _Heights of Honfleur_, with women kneeling before a crucifix in the foreground, formed a most beautiful composition. The name of the artist (was it the younger Mr. Chalon?) I have forgotten.] [95] [My translator says, "un Wynkyn de Worde non coupé:" Qu. Would not the _Debure_ Vocabulary have said "non rogné?"] LETTER XII. CAEN. SOIL. SOCIETY. EDUCATION. A DUEL. OLD HOUSES. THE ABBEY OF ST. STEPHEN. CHURCH OF ST. PIERRE DE DARNETAL. ABBÉ DE LA SAINTE TRINITÉ. OTHER PUBLIC EDIFICES. I have now resided upwards of a week at Lagouelle's, the _Hotel Royale_, and can tell you something of the place and of the inhabitants of CAEN. Caen however is still-life after Rouen: but it has been, and yet is, a town exceedingly well-deserving the attention of the lounging traveller and of the curious antiquary. Its ecclesiastical edifices are more ancient, but less vast and splendid, than those of Rouen; while the streets and the houses are much more wide and comfortable. This place is the capital of the department of CALVADOS, or of LOWER NORMANDY: and its population is estimated at forty thousand souls. It has a public library, a school of art, a college, mayoralty, and all the adjuncts of a corporate society.[96] But I must first give you something in the shape of political economy intelligence. Caen with its arrondissemens of _Bayeux, Vire, Falaise, Lisieux, Pont L'Eveque_, is the country of pasturage and of cattle. It is also fertile in the apple and pear; and although at _Argences_ there have been vineyards from time immemorial, yet the produce of the grape, in the character of _wine_,[97] is of a very secondary description. There are beautiful and most abundant market gardens about Caen; and for the last seventy years they have possessed a garden for the growth and cultivation of foreign plants and trees. It is said that more than nine hundred species of plants and trees are to be found in the department of CALVADOS, of which some (but I know not how many or how few) are considered as indigenous. Of forests and woods, the number is comparatively small; and upon that limited number great injuries were inflicted by the Revolution. In the arrondissement of Caen itself, there are only 344 _hectares_.[98] The truth is, that in the immediate neighbourhood of populous towns, the French have no idea of PLANTING. They suffer plain after plain, and hill after hill, to be denuded of trees, and make no provision for the supply of those who are to come after them. Thus, not only a great portion of the country about Rouen--(especially in the direction of the road leading to Caen--) is gradually left desolate and barren, but even here, as you approach the town, there is a dreary flatness of country, unrefreshed by the verdure of foliage: whereas the soil, kind and productive by nature, requires only the slightest attention of man to repay him a hundred fold. What they will do some fifty years hence for _fuel_, is quite inconceivable. It is true that the river Orne, by means of the tide, and of its proximity to the sea, brings up vessels of even 200 tons burthen, in which they may stow plenty of wood; but still, the expenses of carriage, and duties of a variety of description--together with the _dependence_ of the town upon such accidental supply--would render the article of fuel a most expensive concern. It is also true that they pretend that the soil, in the department of Calvados, contains _coal_; but the experiments which were made some years ago at _Littry_, in the arondissement of _Bayeux_, should forbid the Caennois to indulge any very sanguine expectations on that score. In respect to the trade of the town, the two principal branches are _lace_ and _cap_ making. The former trade is divided with Bayeux; and both places together give occupation to about thirty thousand pairs[99] of hands. People of all ages may be so employed; and the annual gross receipts have been estimated at four millions of francs. In _cap_ making only, at Caen, four thousand people have been constantly engaged, and a gross produce of two millions of francs has been the result of that branch of trade. A great part of this manufacture was consumed at home; but more than one half used to be exported to Spain, Portugal, and the colonies belonging to France. They pretend to say, however, that this article of commerce is much diminished both in profit and reputation: while that of _table linen_ is gaining proportionably in both.[100] There were formerly great _tanneries_ in Caen and its immediate vicinity, but lately that branch of trade has suffered extremely. The revolution first gave it a violent check, and the ignorance and inattention of the masters to recent improvements, introduced by means of chemistry, have helped to hasten its decay. To balance this misfortune, there has of late sprung up a very general and judiciously directed commercial spirit in the article of _porcelaine_; and if Caen be inferior to its neighbouring towns, and especially to Rouen and Lisieux, in the articles of cloth, stuffs, and lace, it takes a decided lead in that which relates to _pottery_ and _china_: no mean articles in the supply of domestic wants and luxuries. But it is in matters of higher "pith and moment" that Caen may claim a superiority over the towns just noticed. There is a better spirit of _education_ abroad; and, for its size, more science and more literature will be found in it. This place has been long famous for the education of Lawyers. There are two distinct academies--one for "Science and the Belles-Lettres"--the other for agriculture and commerce. The _Lycée_ is a noble building, close to the Abbey of St. Stephen: but I wish its façade had been Gothic, to harmonise with the Abbey. Indeed, Caen has quite the air of Oxford, from the prevalent appearance of _stone_ in its public buildings. The environs of the town afford quarries, whence the stone is taken in great blocks, in a comparatively soft state--and is thus cut into the several forms required with the greatest facility. It is then exposed, and every succeeding day appears to add to its white tint and durable quality. I saw some important improvements making in the outskirts of the town,[101] in which they were finishing shafts and capitals of columns in a manner the most correct and gratifying. Still farther from the immediate vicinity of Caen, they find stone of a closer grain; and with this they make stair-cases, and pavements for the interior of buildings. Indeed the stone stair-cases in this place, which are usually circular, and projecting from the building, struck me as being equally curious and uncommon. It is asserted that they have different kinds of _marble_ in the department of Calvados, which equal that of the south of France. At _Basly_ and _Vieux_ white marble is found which has been judged worthy of a comparison with Parian; but this is surely a little presumptuous. However, it is known that Cardinal Richelieu brought from Vieux all the marble with which he built the chapel in the college of the Sorbonne. Upon the whole, as to general appearance, and as to particular society, Caen may be preferable to Rouen. The costume and manners of the common people are pretty much, if not entirely, the same; except that, as to dress, the _cauchoise_ is here rather more simple than at Dieppe and Rouen. The upper fille-de-chambre at our hotel displays not only a good correct model of national dress, but she is well-looking in her person, and well-bred in her manners. Mr. Lewis prevailed upon this good-natured young woman to sit for her likeness, and for the sake of her costume. The girl's eyes sparkled with more than ordinary joy at the proposal, and even an expression of gratitude mingled itself in her manner of compliance. I send you the figure and dress of the fille-de-chambre at the _Hotel Royale_ of Caen.[102] [Illustration: FILLE DE CHAMBRE, CAEN.] Caen is called the dépôt of the English.[103] In truth there is an amazing number of our countrymen here, and from very different causes. One family comes to reside from motives of economy; another from those of education; a third from those of retirement; and a fourth from pure love of sitting down, in a strange place, with the chance of making some pleasant connection, or of being engaged in seeking some strange adventure: Good and cheap living, and novel society, are doubtless the main attractions. But there is desperate ill blood just now between the _Caennois_ (I will not make use of the enlarged term _Francois_) and the English; and I will tell you the cause. Do you remember the emphatic phrase in my last, "all about the duel?" Listen. About three weeks only before our arrival,[104] a duel was fought between a young French law-student, and a young Englishman; the latter the son of a naval captain. I will mention no names; and so far not wound the feelings of the friends of the parties concerned. But this duel, my friend, has been "THE DUEL OF DUELS"--on the score of desperation, and of a fixed purpose to murder. It is literally without precedent, and I trust will never be considered as one. You must know then, that Caen, in spite of all the "bouleversemens" of the Revolution, has maintained its ancient reputation of possessing a very large seminary, or college for students at law. These students amount to nearly 600 in number. Most young gentlemen under twenty years of age are at times riotous, or frolicsome, or foolish. Generally speaking, however, the students conduct themselves with propriety: but there had been a law-suit between a French and English suitor, and the Judge pronounced sentence in favour of our countryman. The hall was crowded with spectators, and among them was a plentiful number of law-students. As they were retiring, one young Frenchman either made frightful faces, or contemptible gestures, in a very fixed and insulting manner, at a young Englishman--the son of this naval captain. Our countryman had no means or power of noticing or resenting the insult, as the aggressor was surrounded by his companions. It so happened that it was fair time at Caen; and in the evening of the same day, our countryman recognised, in the crowd at the fair, the physiognomy of the young man who had insulted him in the hall of justice. He approached him, and gave him to understand that his rude behaviour should be noticed at a proper time and in a proper place: whereupon the Frenchman came up to him, shook him violently by the arm, and told him to "fix his distance on the ensuing morning." Now the habit of duelling is very common among these law-students; but they measure twenty-five paces, fire, and of course ... MISS--and then fancy themselves great heroes ... and there is an end of the affair. Not so upon the present occasion. "Fifteen paces," if you please--said the student, sarcastically, with a conviction of the backwardness of his opponent to meet him. "FIVE, rather"--exclaimed the provoked Englishman--"I will fight you at FIVE paces:"--and it was agreed that they should meet and fight on the morrow, at five paces only asunder. Each party was under twenty; but I believe the English youth had scarcely attained his nineteenth year. What I am about to relate will cause your flesh to creep. It was determined by the seconds, as _one_ must necessarily _fall_, from firing at so short a distance, that only _one_ pistol should be loaded with _ball_: the other having nothing but _powder_:--and that, as the Frenchman had challenged, he was to have the choice of the pistols. They parted. The seconds prepared the pistols according to agreement, and the fatal morning came. The combatants appeared, without one jot of abatement of spirit or of cool courage. The pistols lay upon the grass before them: one loaded only with powder, and the other with powder and ball. The Frenchman advanced: took up a pistol, weighed and balanced it most carefully in his hand, and then ... laid it down. He seized the other pistol, and cocking it, fixed himself upon the spot from whence he was to fire. The English youth was necessarily compelled to take the abandoned pistol. Five paces were then measured ... and on the signal being given, they both fired ... and the Frenchman fell ... DEAD UPON THE SPOT! The Frenchman had in fact _taken up_, but afterwards _laid down_, the very pistol which was loaded with the fatal _ball_--on the supposition that it was of too light a weight; and even seemed to compliment himself upon his supposed sagacity on the occasion. But to proceed. The ball went through his heart, as I understood. The second of the deceased on seeing his friend a reeking corpse at his feet, became mad and outrageous ... and was for fighting the survivor immediately! Upon which, the lad of mettle and courage replied, that he would not fight a man without a _second_--"But go," said he, (drawing his watch coolly from his fob). I will give you twenty minutes to come back again with your second." He waited, with his watch in his hand, and by the dead body of his antagonist, for the return of the Frenchman; but on the expiration of the time, his own second conjured him to consult his safety and depart; for that, from henceforth, his life was in jeopardy. He left the ground; obtained his passport, and quitted the town instantly ... The dead body of his antagonist was then placed on a bier: and his funeral was attended by several hundreds of his companions--who, armed with muskets and swords, threatened destruction to the civil and military authorities if they presumed to interfere. All this has necessarily increased the ill-blood which is admitted to exist between the English and French ... but the affair is now beginning to blow over.[105] A truce to such topics. It is now time to furnish you with some details relating to your favourite subjects of ARCHITECTURAL ANTIQUITIES and BIBLIOGRAPHY. The former shall take precedence. First of the _streets_; secondly of the _houses_; and thirdly of the _public buildings_; ecclesiastical and civil. To begin with the STREETS. Those of _St. Pierre, Notre Dame_, and _St. Jean_ are the principal for bustle and business. The first two form one continuous line, leading to the abbey of St. Stephen, and afford in fact a very interesting stroll to the observer of men and manners. The shops are inferior to those of Rouen, but a great shew of business is discernible in them. The street beyond the abbey, and those called _Guilbert_, and _des Chanoines_, leading towards the river, are considered among the genteelest. Ducarel pronounced the _houses_ of Caen "mean in general, though usually built of stone;" but I do not agree with him in this conclusion. The open parts about the _Lycée_ and the _Abbey of St. Stephen_, together with the _Place Royale_, where the library is situated, form very agreeable spaces for the promenade of the ladies and the exercise of the National Guard. The _Courts_ are full of architectural curiosities, but mostly of the time of Francis I. Of _domestic_ architecture, those houses, with elaborate carvings in wood, beneath a pointed roof, are doubtless of the greatest antiquity. There are a great number of these; and some very much older than others. A curious old house is to the right hand corner of the street _St. Jean_: as you go to the Post Office. But I must inform you that the residence of the famous MALHERBE yet exists in the street leading to the Abbey of St. Stephen. This house is of the middle of the sixteenth century: and what Corneille is to _Rouen_, Malherbe is to _Caen_. "ICI NAQUIT MALHERBE," &c. as you will perceive from the annexed view of this house, inscribed upon the front of the building. Malherbe has been doomed to receive greater honours. His head was first struck, in a series of medals, to perpetuate the resemblances of the most eminent literary characters (male and female) in France: and it is due to the amiable Pierre-Aimé Lair to designate him as the FATHER of this medallic project. [Illustration] In perambulating this town, one cannot but be surprised at the absence of _Fountains_--those charming pieces of architecture and of street embellishment. In this respect, Rouen has infinitely the advantage of Caen: where, instead of the trickling current of translucent water, we observe nothing but the partial and perturbed stream issuing from ugly _wells_[106] as tasteless in their structure as they are inconvenient in the procuring of water. Upon one or two of these wells, I observed the dates of 1560 and 1588. The PUBLIC EDIFICES, however, demand a particular and appropriate description: and first of those of the ecclesiastical order. Let us begin therefore with the ABBEY OF ST. STEPHEN; for it is the noblest and most interesting on many accounts. It is called by the name of that Saint, inasmuch as there stood formerly a chapel, on the same site, dedicated to him. The present building was completed and solemnly dedicated by William the Conqueror, in the presence of his wife, his two sons Robert and William, his favourite Archbishop Lanfranc, John Archbishop of Rouen, and Thomas Archbishop of York--towards the year 1080: but I strongly suspect, from the present prevailing character of the architecture, that nothing more than the west front and the towers upon which the spires rest, remain of its ancient structure. The spires (as the Abbé De La Rue conjectures, and as I should also have thought) are about two centuries later than the towers. The outsides of the side aisles appear to be of the thirteenth, rather than of the end of the eleventh, century. The first exterior view of the west front, and of the towers, is extremely interesting; from the grey and clear tint, as well as excellent quality, of the stone, which, according to Huet, was brought partly from Vaucelle and partly from Allemagne.[107] One of the corner abutments of one of the towers has fallen down; and a great portion of what remains seems to indicate rapid decay. The whole stands indeed greatly in need of reparation. Ducarel, if I remember rightly,[108] has made, of this whole front, a sort of elevation, as if it were intended for a wooden model to work by: having all the stiffness and precision of an erection of forty-eight hours standing only. The central tower is of very stunted dimensions, and overwhelmed by a roof in the form of an extinguisher. This, in fact, was the consequence of the devastations of the Calvinists; who absolutely sapped the foundation of the tower, with the hope of overwhelming the whole choir in ruin--but a part only of their malignant object was accomplished. The component parts of the eastern extremity are strangely and barbarously miscellaneous. However, no good commanding exterior view can be obtained from the _place_, or confined square, opposite the towers. But let us return to the west-front; and opening the unfastened green-baize covered door, enter softly and silently into the venerable interior--sacred even to the feelings of Englishmen! Of this interior, very much is changed from its original character. The side aisles retain their flattened arched roofs and pillars; and in the nave you observe those rounded pilasters--or alto-rilievo-like pillars--running from bottom to top, which are to be seen in the abbey of Jumieges. The capitals of these long pillars are comparatively of modern date. To the left on entrance, within a side chapel, is the burial place of MATILDA, the wife of the Conqueror. The tombstone attesting her interment is undoubtedly of the time. Generally speaking, the interior is cold, and dull of effect. The side chapels, of which not fewer than sixteen encircle the choir, have the discordant accompaniments of Grecian balustrades to separate them from the choir and nave. There is a good number of _Confessionals_ within them; and at one of these I saw, for the first time, _two_ women, kneeling, in the act of confession to the _same priest_. "C'est un peu fort," observed our guide in an under-voice, and with a humourous expression of countenance! Meanwhile Mr. Lewis, who was in an opposite direction in the cathedral, was exercising his pencil in the following delineation of a similar subject. [Illustration] To the right of the choir (in the sacristy, I think,) is hung the huge portrait, in oil, within a black and gilt frame, of which Ducarel has published an engraving, on the supposition of its being the portrait of WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR. But nothing can be more ridiculous than such a conclusion. In the first place, the picture itself, which is a palpable copy, cannot be older than a century; and, in the second place, were it an original performance, it could not be older than the time of Francis I:--when, in fact, it purports to have been executed--as a faithful copy of the figure of King William, seen by the Cardinals in 1522, who were seized with a sacred phrenzy to take a peep at the body as it might exist at that time! The costume of the oil-painting is evidently that of the period of our Henry VIII.; and to suppose that the body of William--even had it remained in so surprisingly perfect a state as Ducarel intimates, after an interment of upwards of four hundred years--could have presented such a costume, when, from Ducarel's own statement, another whole-length representation of the same person is _totally different_--and more decidedly of the character of William's time--is really quite a reproach to any antiquary who plumes himself upon the possession even of common sense. In the middle of the choir, and just before the high altar, the body of the Conqueror was entombed with great pomp; and a monument erected to his memory of the most elaborate and costly description. Nothing now remains but a flat black marble slab, with a short inscription, of quite a recent date. In the present state of the abbey,[109] and even in that of Ducarel's time, there is, and was, a great dearth of sepulchral monuments. Indeed I know not whether you need be detained another minute within the interior; except it be, to add your share of admiration to that which has been long and justly bestowed on the huge organ[110] at the west end of the nave, which is considered to be the finest in all France. But Normandy abounds in church decorations of this kind. Leaving therefore this venerable pile, endeared to the British antiquary by a thousand pleasing associations of ideas, we strike off into an adjoining court yard, and observe the ruins of a pretty extensive pile of building, which is called by Ducarel the _Palace of the Conqueror_. But in this supposed palace, in its _present_ state, most assuredly William I. _never_ resided: for it is clearly not older than the thirteenth century: if so ancient. Ducarel saw a great deal more than is now to be seen; for, in fact, as I attempted to gain entrance into what appeared to be the principal room, I was stopped by an old woman, who assured me "qu'il n'y avoit rien que du chauffage." It was true enough: the whole of the untenanted interior contained nothing but wood fuel. Returning to the principal street, and making a slight digression to the right, you descend somewhat abruptly by the side of a church in ruins, called _St. Etienne le Vieil_. In Ducarel's time this church is described as entire. On the exterior of one of the remaining buttresses is a whole length figure, about four English feet in height (as far as I could guess by the eye) of a man on horseback--mutilated--trampling upon another man at its feet. It is no doubt a curious and uncommon ornament. But, would you believe it? this figure also, in the opinion of Bourgueville,[111] was intended for William the the Conqueror--representing his triumphant entry into Caen! As an object of art, even in its present mutilated state, it is highly interesting; and I rejoice that Mr. Cotman is likely to preserve the little that remains from the hazard of destruction by the fidelity of his own copy of it.[112] It is quite clear that, close to the figure, you discover traces of style which are unequivocally of the time of Francis I. The interior of what remains of this consecrated edifice is converted "horresco referens" into a receptacle for ... carriages for hire. Not far from this spot stood formerly a magnificent CROSS--demolished during the memorable visit of the Calvinists.[113] In the way to the abbey of the Trinity, quite at the opposite or eastern extremity of the town, you necessarily pass along the _Rue St. Pierre_, and enter into the market-place, affording an opening before the most beautiful church in all Normandy. It is the church of _St. Pierre de Darnetal_ of which I now speak, and from which the name of the street is derived. The tower and spire are of the most admirable form and workmanship.[114] The extreme delicacy and picturesque effect of the stone tiles, with which the spire is covered, as well as the lightness and imposing consequence given to the tower upon which the spire rests, are of a character peculiar to itself. The whole has a charming effect. But severe criticism compels one to admit that the body of the church is defective in fine taste and unity of parts. The style is not only florid Gothic, but it is luxuriant, even to rankness, if I may so speak. The parts are capriciously put together: filled, and even crammed, with ornaments of apparently all ages: concluding with the Grecian mixture introduced in the reign of Francis I. The buttresses are, however, generally, lofty and airy. In the midst of this complicated and corrupt style of architecture, the tower and spire rise like a structure built by preternatural hands; and I am not sure that, at this moment, I can recollect any thing of equal beauty and effect in the whole range of ecclesiastical edifices in our own country. Look at this building, from any part of the town, and you must acknowledge that it has the strongest claims to unqualified admiration.[115] The body of the church is of very considerable dimensions. I entered it on a Sunday morning, about eleven o'clock, and found it quite filled with a large congregation, in which the _cauchoise_, as usual, appeared like a broad white mass--from one end to the other. The priests were in procession. One of the most magnificent organs imaginable was in full intonation, with every stop opened; the voices of the congregation were lustily exercised; and the offices of religion were carried on in a manner which would seem to indicate a warm sense of devotion among the worshippers. There is a tolerably good set of modern paintings (the best which I have yet seen in the interior of a church) of the _Life of Christ_, in the side chapels. The eastern extremity, or the further end of _Our Lady's Chapel_, is horribly bedaubed and over-loaded with the most tasteless specimens of what is called Gothic art, perhaps ever witnessed! The great bell of this church, which has an uncommonly deep and fine tone, is for ever Swinging slow with solemn roar! that is to say:--it is tolling from five in the morning till ten at night; so incessantly, in one side-chapel or another, are these offices carried on within this maternal parish church.[116] I saw, with momentary astonishment, the leaning tower of a church in the _Rue St. Jean_,[117] which is one of the principal streets in the town: and which is terminated by the _Place des Cazernes_, flanked by the river Orne. In this street I was asked, by a bookseller, two pounds two shillings, for a thumbed and cropt copy of the _Elzevir-Heinsius Horace_ of 1629; but with which demand I did not of course comply. In fact, they have the most extravagant notions of the prices of Elzevirs, both here and at Rouen. You must now attend me to the most interesting public building, perhaps all things considered, which is to be seen at Caen. I mean, the _Abbey of the Holy Trinity_, or L'ABBAYE AUX DAMES.[118] This abbey was founded by the wife of the Conqueror, about the same time that William erected that of St. Stephen. Ducarel's description of it, which I have just seen in a copy of the _Anglo-Norman Antiquities_, in a bookseller's shop, is sufficiently meagre. His plates are also sufficiently miserable: but things are strangely altered since his time. The nave of the church is occupied by a manufactory for making cordage, or twine; and upwards of a hundred lads are now busied in their _flaxen_ occupations, where formerly the nun knelt before the cross, or was occupied in auricular confession. The entrance at the western extremity is entirely stopped up: but the exterior gives manifest proof of an antiquity equal to that of the Abbey of St. Stephen. The upper part of the towers are palpably of the fifteenth, or rather of the early part of the sixteenth century. I had no opportunity of judging of the neat pavement of the floor of the nave, in white and black marble, as noticed by Ducarel, on account of the occupation of this part of the building by the manufacturing children; but I saw some very ancient tomb-stones (one I think of the twelfth century) which had been removed from the nave or side aisles, and were placed against the sides of the north transept. The nave is entirely _walled up_ from the transepts, but the choir is fortunately preserved; and a more perfect and interesting specimen of its kind, of the same antiquity, is perhaps no where to be seen in Normandy. All the monuments as well as the altars, described by Ducarel, are now taken away. Having ascended a stone staircase, we got into the upper part of the choir, above the first row of pillars--and walked along the wall. This was rather adventurous, you will say: but a more adventurous spirit of curiosity had nearly proved fatal to me: for, on quitting daylight, we pursued a winding stone staircase, in our way to the central tower--to enjoy from hence a view of the town. I almost tremble as I relate it. There had been put up a sort of temporary wooden staircase, leading absolutely to ... nothing: or, rather, to a dark void space. I happened to be foremost in ascending, yet groping in the dark--with the guide luckily close behind me. Having reached the topmost step, I was raising my foot to a supposed higher or succeeding step ... but there was _none_. A depth of eighteen feet at least was below me. The guide caught my coat, as I was about to lose my balance--and roared out "Arrêtez--tenez!" The least balance or inclination, one way or the other, is sufficient, upon these critical occasions: when luckily, from his catching my coat, and pulling me in consequence slightly backwards, my fall ... and my LIFE ... were equally saved! I have reason from henceforth to remember the ABBAYE AUX DAMES at Caen. I gained the top of the central tower, which is not of equal altitude with those of the western extremity, and from thence surveyed the town, as well as the drizzling rain would permit. I saw enough however to convince me that the site of this abbey is fine and commanding. Indeed it stands nearly upon the highest ground in the town. Ducarel had not the glorious ambition to mount to the top of the tower; nor did he even possess that most commendable of all species of architectural curiosity, a wish to visit the CRYPT. Thus, in either extremity--I evinced a more laudable spirit of enterprise than did my old-fashioned predecessor. Accordingly, from the summit, you must accompany me to the lowest depth of the building. I descended by the same (somewhat intricate) route, and I took especial care to avoid all "temporary wooden stair-cases." The crypt, beneath the choir, is perhaps of yet greater interest and beauty than the choir itself. Within an old, very old, stone coffin--at the further circular end--are the pulverized remains of one of the earliest Abbesses.[119] I gazed around with mixed sensations of veneration and awe, and threw myself back into centuries past, fancying that the shrouded figure of MATILDA herself glided by, with a look as if to approve of my antiquarian enthusiasm! Having gratified my curiosity by a careful survey of this subterraneous abode, I revisited the regions of day-light, and made towards the large building, now a manufactory, which in Ducarel's time had been a nunnery. The revolution has swept away every human being in the character of a nun; but the director of the manufactory shewed me, with great civility, some relics of old crosses, rings, veils, lachrymatories, &c. which had been taken from the crypt I had recently visited. These relics savoured of considerable antiquity. Tom Hearne would have set about proving that they _must_ have belonged to Matilda herself; but I will have neither the presumption nor the merit of attempting this proof. They seemed indeed to have undergone half a dozen decompositions. Upon the whole, if our Antiquarian Society, after having exhausted the cathedrals of their own country, should ever think of perpetuating the principal ecclesiastical edifices of Normandy, by means of the _Art of Engraving_, let them begin their labours with the ABBAYE AUX DAMES at Caen. The foregoing, my dear friend, are the principal ecclesiastical buildings in this place. There are other public edifices, but comparatively of a modern date. And yet I should be guilty of a gross omission were I to neglect giving you an account, however superficial, of the remains of an apparently CASTELLATED BUILDING, a little beyond the Abbaye aux Dames--or rather to the right, upon elevated ground, as you enter the town by the way we came. As far as I can discover, this appears to have escaped Ducarel.[120] It is doubtless a very curious relic. Running along the upper part of the walls, there is a series of basso-relievo heads, medallion-wise, cut in stone, evidently intended for portraits. They are assuredly not older than the reign of Francis I. and may be even as late as that of Henry II. Among these rude medallions, is a female head, with a ferocious-looking man on each side of it, either saluting the woman, or whispering in her ear. But the most striking objects are the stone figures of two men, upon a circular tower, of which one is in the act of shooting an arrow, and the other as if holding a drawn sword. I got admittance within the building; and ascending the tower, found that these were only the _trunks_ of figures,--and removable at pleasure. I could only stroke their beards and shake their bodies a little, which was of course done with impunity. Whether the present be the _original_ place of their destination may be very doubtful. The Abbé de la Rue, with whom I discoursed upon the subject yesterday morning, is of opinion that these figures are of the time of Louis XI.: which makes them a little more ancient than the other ornaments of the building. As to the interior, I could gather nothing with certainty of the original character of the place from the present remains. The earth is piled up, here and there, in artificial mounds covered with grass: and an orchard, and rich pasture land (where I saw several women milking cows) form the whole of the interior scenery. However the _Caennois_ are rather proud of this building. Leaving you to your own conclusions respecting the date of its erection, and "putting the colophon" to this disquisition respecting the principal public buildings at Caen, it is high time to assure you how faithfully I am always yours. [96] ["Besides her numerous public schools, Caen possesses two Schools of Art--one for design, the other for Architecture and Ornament--where the Students are _gratuitously_ instructed." LICQUET.] [97] It is called _Vin Huet_--and is the last wine which a traveller will be disposed to ask for. When Henry IV. passed through the town, he could not conceive why such excellent grapes should produce such execrable wine. I owe this intelligence to Mons. LICQUET. [98] Somewhere about 150 English acres. [99] [I had before said _twenty_--but Mons. Licquet observes, I might have said--thirty thousand pairs of hands.] [100] Caen was celebrated for its table linen three centuries ago. Consult BOURGUEVILLE: _Antiquitez de Caen_; 1588, 8vo. p. 26. [101] The fauxbourgs of Caen, in the present day, wear a melancholy contrast to what they appear to have done in the middle of the XVIth century. Consult the pleasantly penned description of these fauxbourgs by the first topographer of the place, BOURGUEVILLE: in his _Antiquitez de Caen_, pp. 5, 6, 26. It may be worth subjoining, from the same interesting authority, that long after the time even of the publication just referred to, the town of Caen was surrounded by lofty and thick stone walls--upon the tops of which three men could walk a-breast: and from thence the inhabitants could discern, across those large and beautiful gardens, "the vessels sailing in the river Orne, and unloading their cargoes by the sides of walls." It appears indeed to have been a sort of lounge, or fashionable promenade--by means of various ladders for the purposes of ascent and descent. Among the old prints and bird's-eye views of Caen, which I saw in the collection of DE BOZE at the Royal Library at Paris, there is one accompanied by three pages of printed description, which begins with the lines of Guillaume Breton "Villa potens, opulenta, situ spatiosa decora." See First Edition, vol. i. p. 274. Evelyn, in 1644, thus describes the town of Caen. "The whole town is handsomely built of that excellent stone so well knowne by that name in England. I was lead to a pretty garden, planted with hedges of Alaternus, having at the entrance, at an exceeding height, accurately cut in topiary worke, with well understood architecture, consisting of pillars, niches, freezes, and other ornaments, with greate curiosity, &c. _Life and Writings of J. Evelyn_, 1818, 4to. vol. i. p. 52. [102] See the OPPOSITE PLATE. [103] It was a similar dépôt in Ducarel's time. [104] The story was in fact told us the very first night of our arrival, by M. Lagouelle, the master of the hotel royale. He went through it with a method, emphasis, and energy, rendered the more striking from the obesity of his figure and the vulgarity of his countenance. But he frankly allowed that "Monsieur l'Anglois se conduisait bien." [105] [The affair is now scarcely remembered; and the successful champion died a natural death within about three years afterwards. Mons. Licquet slenderly doubts portions of this tragical tale: but I have good reason to believe that it is not an exaggerated one. As to what occurred _after_ the death of one of the combatants, I am unwilling to revive unpleasant sensations by its recapitulation.] [106] Bourgueville seems bitterly to lament the substitution of wells for fountains. He proposes a plan, quite feasible in his own estimation, whereby this desirable object might be effected: and then retorts upon his townsmen by reminding them of the commodious fountains at _Lisieux, Falaise and Vire_--of which the inhabitants "n'ont rien espargné pour auoir ceste decoration et commodité en leurs villes."--spiritedly adding--"si j'estois encore en auctorité, j'y ferois mon pouuoir, et ie y offre de mes biens." p. 17. [107] [I am most prompt to plead guilty to a species of _Hippopotamos_ error, in having here translated the word _Allemagne_ into GERMANY! Now, although this translation, per se, be correct, yet, as applicable to the text, it is most incorrect--as the _Allemagne_ in question happens to be a _Parish in the neighbourhood of Caen_! My translator, in turn, treats me somewhat tenderly when he designates this as "une méprise fort singulière." vol. ii. p. 25.] [108] The plate of Ducarel, here alluded to, forms the fourth plate in his work; affording, from the starch manner in which it is engraved, an idea of one of the most disproportioned, ugly buildings imaginable. Mr. Cotman has favoured us with a good bold etching of the West Front, and of the elevation of compartments of the Nave; The former is at once faithful and magnificent; but the lower part wants characteristic markings. [109] It should be noticed that, "besides the immense benefactions which William in his life time conferred upon this abbey, he, on his death, presented thereto the _crown_ which he used to wear at all high festivals, together with his _sceptre and rod_: a cup set with precious stones; his candlesticks of gold, and all his regalia: as also the ivory bugle-horn which usually hung at his back." _Anglo-Norman Antiquities_, p. 51. note. The story of the breaking open of the coffin by the Calvinists, and finding the Conqueror's remains, is told by Bourgueville--who was an _eye witness_ of these depredations, and who tried to "soften the obdurate hearts" of the pillagers, but in vain. This contemporaneous historian observes that, in his time "the abbey was filled with beautiful and curious stained-glass windows and harmonious organs, which were all broken and destroyed--and that the seats, chairs, &c. and all other wooden materials were consumed by fire," p.171. Huet observes that a "Dom Jean de Baillehache and Dom Matthieu de la Dangie," religious of St. Stephen's, took care of the monument of the Conqueror in the year 1642, and replaced it in the state in which it appeared in Huet's time." _Origines de Caen_; p.248. The revolution was still more terrible than the Calvinistic fury;--for no traces of the monument are now to be seen. [110] The west window is almost totally obscured by a most gigantic organ built close to it, and allowed to be the finest in all France. This organ is so big, as to require eleven large bellows, &c. _Ducarel_, p.57. He then goes on to observe, that "amongst the plate preserved in the treasury of this church, is a curious SILVER SALVER, about ten inches in diameter, gilt, and inlaid with antique medals. Tradition assures us, that it was on this salver, that king William the conqueror placed the foundation charter of the abbey when he presented it, at the high altar, on the dedication of the church. The edges of this salver, which stands on a foot stalk of the same metal, are a little turned up, and carved. In the centre is inlaid a Greek medal; on the obverse whereof is this legend, [Greek: Ausander Aukonos] but it being fixed in its socket, the reverse is not visible. The other medals, forty in number, are set round the rim, in holes punched quite through; so that the edges of the holes serve as frames for the medals. These medals are Roman, and in the highest preservation." [111] Yet Bourgueville's description of the group, as it appeared in his time, trips up the heels of his own conjecture. He says that there were, besides the two figures above mentioned, "vn autre homme et femme à genoux, comme s'ils demandoient raison de la mort de leur enfant, qui est vne antiquité de grand remarque dont je ne puis donner autre certitude de l'histoire." _Antiquitez de Caen_; p.39. Now, it is this additional portion of the group (at present no longer in existence) which should seem to confirm the conjecture of my friend Mr. Douce--that it is a representation of the received story, in the middle ages, of the Emperor Trajan being met by a widow who demanded justice against the murderer of her son. The Emperor, who had just mounted his horse to set out upon some hostile expedition, replied, that "he would listen to her on his return." The woman said, "What, if you never return?" "My successor will satisfy you"--he replied--"But how will that benefit you,"--resumed the widow. The Emperor then descended from his horse, and enquiring into the woman's case, caused justice to be done to her. Some of the stories say that the murderer was the Emperor's own son. [112] [Since the publication of the first edition of this work, the figure in question has appeared from the pencil and burin of Mr. Cotman; of which the only fault, as it strikes me, is, that the surface is too rough--or the effect too sketchy.] [113] Bourgueville has minutely described it in his _Antiquities_; and his description is copied in the preceding edition of this work. [114] Bourgueville is extremely particular and even eloquent in his account of the tower, &c. He says that he had "seen towers at Paris, Rouen, Toulouse, Avignon, Narbonne, Montpelier, Lyons, Amiens, Chartres, Angiers, Bayeux, Constances, (qu. Coutances?) and those of St. Stephen at Caen, and others, in divers parts of France, which are built in a pyramidal form--but THIS TOWER OT ST. PETER exceeded all the others, as well in its height, as in its curious form of construction." _Antiq. de Caen_; p.36. He regrets, however, that the _name of the architect_ has not descended to us. [It is right to correct an error, in the preceding edition, which has been committed on the authority of Ducarel. That Antiquary supposed the tower and spire to have been built by the generosity of one NICHOLAS, an ENGLISHMAN." Mons. Licquet has, I think, reclaimed the true author of such munificence, as his _own_ countryman.--NICOLAS LANGLOIS:--whose name thus occurs in his epitaph, preserved by Bourgueville. _Le Vendredi, devant tout droict_ _La Saint Cler que le temps n'est froit,_ _Trespassa_ NICOLLE L'ANGLOIS, _L'an Mil Trois Cens et Dix Sept._] &c. &c. Reverting, to old BOURGUEVILLE, I cannot take leave of him without expressing my hearty thanks for the amusement and information which his unostentatious octavo volume--entitled _Les Recherches et Antiquitez de la Ville et Université de Caen, &c_. (à Caen, 1588, 8vo.) has afforded me. The author, who tells us he was born in 1504, lived through the most critical and not unperilous period of the times in which he wrote. His plan is perfectly artless, and his style as completely simple. Nor does his fidelity appear impeachable. Such ancient volumes of topography are invaluable--as preserving the memory of things and of objects, which, but for such record, had perished without the hope or chance of recovery. [115] [Ten years have elapsed since this sentence was written, and the experience gained in those years only confirms the truth (according to the conception of the author) of the above assertion. Such a tower and spire, if found in England, must be looked for in Salisbury Cathedral; but though this latter be much loftier, it is stiff, cold, and formal, comparatively with that of which the text makes mention.] [116] [For six months in the year--that is to say, from Lady Day till Michaelmas Day--this great Bell tolls, at a quarter before ten, as a curfew.] [117] A plate of it may be found in the publication of Mr. Dawson Turner, and of Mr. Cotman. [118] Of this building Mr. Cotman has published the West front, east end, exterior and interior; great arches under the tower; crypt; east side of south transept; elevation of the North side of the choir: elevation of the window; South side exterior; view down the nave, N.W. direction. [119] Bourgueville describes the havoc which took place within this abbey at the memorable visit of the Calvinists in 1562. From plundering the church of St. Stephen (as before described p. 172,) they proceeded to commit similar ravages here:--"sans auoir respect ni reuerence à la Dame Abbesse, ni à la religion et douceur feminine des Dames Religieuses."--"plusieurs des officiers de la maison s'y trouucrent, vsans de gracieuses persuasions, pour penser flechir le coeur de ces plus que brutaux;" p. 174. [120] Unless it be what he calls "the FORT OF THE HOLY TRINITY of Caen; in which was constantly kept a garrison, commanded by a captain, whose annual pay was 100 single crowns. This was demolished by Charles, king of Navarre, in the year 1360, during the war which he carried on against Charles the Dauphin, afterwards Charles V., &c." _Anglo-Norman Antiquities_, p. 67. This castle, or the building once flanked by the walls above described, was twice taken by the English; once in 1346, when they made an immense booty, and loaded their ships with the gold and silver vessels found therein; and the second time in 1417, when they established themselves as masters of the place for 33 years. _Annuaire du Calvados_; 1803-4; p. 63. LETTER XIII. LITERARY SOCIETY. ABBÉ DE LA RUE. MESSRS. PIERRE-AIMÉ LAIR AND LAMOUROUX. MEDAL OF MALHERBE. BOOKSELLERS. MEMOIR OF THE LATE M. MOYSANT, PUBLIC LIBRARIAN. COURTS OF JUSTICE. From the dead let me conduct you to the living. In other words, prepare to receive some account of _Society_,--and of things appertaining to the formation of the intellectual character. Caen can boast of a public Literary Society, and of the publication of its memoirs.[121] But these "memoirs" consist at present of only six volumes, and are in our own country extremely rare. [Illustration: ABBÉ DE LA RUE AEtat. LXXIV.] Among the men whose moral character and literary reputation throw a sort of lustre upon Caen, there is no one perhaps that stands upon _quite_ so lofty an eminence as the ABBÉ DE LA RUE; at this time occupied in publishing a _History of Caen_.[122] As an archaeologist, he has no superior among his countrymen; while his essays upon the _Bayeux Tapestry_ and the _Anglo-Norman Poets_, published in our _Archæologia_, prove that there are few, even among ourselves, who could have treated those interesting subjects with more dexterity or better success. The Abbé is, in short, the great archaeological oracle of Normandy. He was pleased to pay me a Visit at Lagouelle's. He is fast advancing towards his seventieth year. His figure is rather stout, and above the mean height: his complexion is healthful, his eye brilliant, and a plentiful quantity of waving white hair adds much to the expression of his countenance.[123] He enquired kindly after our mutual friend Mr. Douce; of whose talents and character he spoke in a manner which did equal honour to both. But he was inexorable, as to--_not_ dining with me; observing that his Order was forbidden to dine in taverns. He gave me a list of places which I ought to visit in my further progress through Normandy, and took leave of me more abruptly than I could have wished. He rarely visits Caen, although a great portion of his library is kept there: his abode being chiefly in the country, at the residence of a nobleman to whose son he was tutor. It is delightful to see a man, of his venerable aspect and widely extended reputation, enjoying, in the evening of life, (after braving such a tempest, in the noon-day of it, as that of the Revolution) the calm, unimpaired possession of his faculties, and the respect of the virtuous and the wise. The study of _Natural History_ obtains pretty generally at Caen; indeed they have an Academy in which this branch of learning is expressly taught--and of which MONSIEUR LAMOUROUX[124] is at once the chief ornament and instructor. This gentleman (to whom our friend Mr. Dawson Turner furnished me with a letter of introduction) has the most unaffected manners, and a countenance particularly open and winning. He is "a very dragon" in his pursuit. On my second call, I found him busied in unpacking some baskets of seaweed, yet reeking with the briny moisture; and which he handled and separated and classed with equal eagerness and facility. The library of M. Lamouroux is quite a workman-like library: filled with sensible, solid, and instructive books--and if he had only accepted a repeated and strongly-pressed invitation to dine with me at Lagouelle's, to meet his learned brother PIERRE-AIMÉ LAIR, nothing would have been wanting to the completion of his character! You have just heard the name of Pierre-Aimé Lair. Prepare to receive a sketch of the character to which that name appertains. This gentleman is not only the life and soul of the society--but of the very town--in which he moves. I walked with him, arm in arm, more than once, through very many streets, passages, and courts, which were distinguished for any relic of architectural antiquity. He was recognised and saluted by nearly one person out of three, in our progress. "Je vous salue"--"vous voilà avec Monsieur l'Anglois"--"bon jour,"--"comment ca va-t-il:"--The activity of Pierre-Aimé Lair is only equalled by his goodness of heart and friendliness of disposition. He is all kindness. Call when you will, and ask for what you please, the object solicited is sure to be granted. He never seems to rise (and he is a very early riser) with spleen, ill-humour, or untoward propensities. With him, the sun seems always to shine, and the lark to tune her carol. And this cheerfulness of feeling is carried by him into every abode however gloomy, and every society however dull. But more substantial praise belongs to this amiable man. Not only is Pierre-Aimé Lair a lover and collector of tangible antiquities--such as glazed tiles, broken busts, old pictures, and fractured capitals--all seen in "long array", up the windings of his staircase--but he is a critic, and a patron of the _literary_ antiquities of his country. Caen (as I told you in my last despatch) is the birth-place of MALHERBE; and, in the character now under discussion, it has found a perpetuator of the name and merits of the father of French verse. In the year 1806 our worthy antiquary put forth a project for a general subscription "for a medal in honour of _Malherbe_,"[125] which project was in due time rewarded by the names of _fifteen hundred_ efficient subscribers, at five francs a piece. The proposal was doubtless flattering to the literary pride of the French; and luckily the execution of it surpassed the expectations of the subscribers. The head is undoubtedly of the most perfect execution. Not only, however, did this head of Malherbe succeed--but a feeling was expressed that it might be followed up by a _Series of Heads_ of the most illustrious, of both sexes, in literature and the fine arts. The very hint was enough for Lair: though I am not sure whether he be not the father of the _latter_ design also. Accordingly, there has appeared, periodically, a set of heads of this description, in bronze or other metal, as the purchaser pleases--which has reflected infinite credit not only on the name of the projector of this scheme, but on the present state of the fine arts in France. Yet another word about Pierre-Aimé Lair. He is not so inexorable as M. Lamouroux: for he _has_ dined with me, and quaffed the burgundy and champagne of Lagouelle, commander in chief of this house. Better wines cannot be quaffed; and Malherbe and the Duke of Wellington formed the alternate subjects of discourse and praise. In return, I have dined with our guest. He had prepared an abundant dinner, and a very select society: but although there was no wand, as in the case of Sancho Panza, to charm away the dishes, &c. or to interdict the tasting of them, yet it was scarcely possible to partake of one in four... so unmercifully were they steeped and buried in _butter!_ The principal topic of discourse, were the merits of the poets of the respective countries of France and England, from which I have reason to think that Pope, Thomson, and Young, are among the greatest favourites with the French. The white brandy of Pierre-Aimé Lair, introduced after dinner, is hardly to be described for its strength and pungency. "Vous n'avez rien comme ca chez vous?" "Je le crois bien, (I replied) c'est la liquéfaction même du feu." We broke up before eight; each retiring to his respective avocations--but did not dine till five. I borrowed, however, "an hour or twain" of the evening, after the departure of the company, to enjoy the more particular conversation of our host; and the more I saw and conversed with him; the greater was my gratification. At parting, he loaded me with a pile of pamphlets, of all sizes, of his own publication; and I ventured to predict to him that he would terminate his multifarious labours by settling into consolidated BIBLIOMANIACISM. "On peut faire pire!"--was his reply--on shaking hands with me, and telling me he should certainly meet me again at _Bayeux_, in my progress through Normandy.[126] My acquaintance with this amiable man seemed to be my security from insults in the streets. Education here commences early, and with incitements as alluring as at Rouen. POISSON in the _Rue Froide_ is the principal, and indeed a very excellent, printer; but BONNESERRE, in the same street, has put forth a vastly pretty manual of infantine devotion, in a brochure of eight pages, of which I send you the first, and which you may compare with the specimen transmitted in a former letter.[127] [Illustration] Chapolin, in the _Rue-Froide-Rue,_ has recently published a most curious little manual, in the cursive secretary gothic, entitled "_La Civilité honnête pour les enfans qui commence par la maniere d'apprendre et bien lire, prononcer et écrire_." I call it "curious," because the very first initial letter of the text, representing C, introduces us to the _bizarrerie_ of the early part of the XVIth century in treatises of a similar character. Take this first letter, with a specimen also of those to which it appertains. [Illustration] This work is full of the old fashioned (and not a bit the worse on that account) precepts of the same period; such as we see in the various versions of the "De Moribus Juvenum," of which the "_Contenance de la Table,"_ in the French language, is probably the most popular. It is executed throughout in the same small and smudged gothic character; and, as I conceive; can have few purchasers. The printers of Caen must not be dismissed without respectful mention of the typographical talents of LE ROY; who ranks after Poisson. Let both these be considered as the Bulmer and Bensley of the place. But among these venders of infantine literature, or of cheap popular pieces, there is no man who "drives such a trade" as PICARD-GUERIN, _Imprimeur en taille-douce et Fabricant d'Images_," who lives in the _Rue des Teinturiers,_ no.175. I paid him more than one visit; as, from, his "fabrication," issue the thousands and tens of thousands of broadsides, chap-books, &c. &c. which inundate Lower Normandy. You give from _one_ to _three_ sous, according as the subject be simple or compound, upon wood or upon copper:--Saints, martyrs, and scriptural subjects; or heroes, chieftains, and monarchs, including the Duke of Wellington and Louis XVIII. le Désiré--are among the taille-douces specified in the imprints. Madame did me the honour of shewing me some of her choicest treasures, as her husband was from home. Up stairs was a parcel of mirthful boys and girls, with painting brushes in their hands, and saucers of various colours before them. Upon enquiry, I found that they received four sous per dozen, for colouring; but I will not take upon me to say that they were over or under paid--of so _equivocal_ a character were their performances. Only I hoped to be excused if I preferred the plain to the coloured. In a foreign country, our notice is attracted towards things perhaps the most mean and minute. With this feeling, I examined carefully what was put before me, and made a selection sufficient to shew that it was the produce of French soil. Among the serious subjects were _two_ to which I paid particular attention. The one was a metrical cantique of the _Prodigal Son,_ with six wood cuts above the text, exhibiting the leading points of the Gospel-narrative. I will cut out and send you the _second_ of these six: in which you will clearly perceive the military turn which seems to prevail throughout France in things the most minute. The Prodigal is about to mount his horse and leave his father's house, in the cloke and cock'd hat of a French officer. [Illustration] The _fourth_ of these cuts is droll enough. It is entitled, "_L'Enfant Prodigue est chassé par ses maîtresses."_ The expulsion consists in the women driving him out of doors with besoms and hair-brooms. It is very probable, however, that all this character of absurdity attaches to some of our own representations of the same subject; if, instead of examining (as in Pope's time) ... the walls of Bedlam and Soho, we take a survey of the graphic broadsides which dangle from strings upon the wall at Hyde Park Corner. Another subject of a serious character, which I am about to describe to you, can rarely, in all probability, be the production of a London artist. It is called "_Notre-Dame de la bonne Délivrande_," and is necessarily confined to the religion of the country. You have here, first of all, a reduced form of the original: probably about one-third--and it is the more appropriate, as it will serve to give you a very correct notion of the dressing out of the figures of the VIRGIN and CHILD which are meant to grace the altars of the chapels of the Virgin in most of the churches in Normandy. Is it possible that one spark of devotion can be kindled by the contemplation of an object so grotesque and so absurd in the House of God? [Illustration: SAINTE MARIE, MÈRE DE DIEU, priez pour nous] To describe all the trumpery which is immediately around it, in the original, would be a waste of time; but below are two good figures to the right, and two wretched ones to the left. Beneath the whole, is the following _accredited_ consoling piece of intelligence: L'AN 830, _des Barbares descendent dans les Gaules, massacrent les Fidèles, profanent et brûlent les Eglises. Raoul, Duc de Normandie, se joint à eux; l'image de la Ste. Vierge demeure ensevelie sous les ruines de l'ancienne chapelle jusqu'au règne de Henri I. l'an 1331. Beaudouin, Baron de Douvres, averti par son berger qu'un mouton de son troupeau fouillait toujours dans le même endroit, fit ouvrir la terre, et trouva ce trésor caché depuis tant d'années. Il fit porter processionnellement cette sainte image dans l'Eglise de Douvres: mais Dieu permit qu'elle fut transportée par un Ange dans l'endroit de la chapelle où elle est maintenant révérée. C'est dans cette chapelle que, par l'intercession de Marie, les pécheurs reçoivent leur conversion, les affligés leur consolation, les infirmes la santé, les captifs leur delivrance, que ceux qui sont en mer échappent aux tempêtes et au naufrage, et que des miracles s'opèrent journellement sur les pieux Fidèles_. A word now for BIBLIOPOLISTS--including _Bouquinistes_, or venders of "old and second-hand books." The very morning following my arrival in Caen, I walked to the abbey of St. Stephen, before breakfast, and in the way thither stopped at a book stall, to the right,--and purchased some black letter folios: among which the French version of _Caesar's Commentaries,_ printed by Verard, in 1488, was the most desirable acquisition. It is reserved for Lord Spencer's library;[128] at a price which, freight and duty included, cannot reach the sum of twelve shillings of our money. Of venders of second hand and old books, the elder and younger MANOURY take a decisive lead. The former lives in the _Rue Froide_; the latter in the _Rue Notre Dame._ The father boasts of having upwards of thirty thousand volumes, but I much doubt whether his stock amount to one half of that number. He unhesitatingly asked me two _louis d'or_ for a copy of the _Vaudevires_ of OLIVIER BASSELIN, which is a modern, but privately printed, volume; and of which I hope to give you some amusing particulars by and by. He also told me that he had formerly sold a paper copy of _Fust's Bible of 1462,_ with many of the illuminated initials cut out, to the library of the Arsenal, at Paris, for 100 louis d'or. I only know that, if I had been librarian, he should not have had one half the money. Now for Manoury the younger. Old and young are comparative terms: for be it known that the son is "agé de soixante ans." Over his door you read an ancient inscription, thus: "_Battu, percé, lié, Je veux changer de main_." This implies either (like Aladdin's old lamps for new) that he wishes to give new books in exchange for old ones, or that he can smarten up old ones by binding, or otherwise, and give them a renovated appearance. But the solution is immaterial: the inscription being as above. The interior of the younger Manoury's book repository almost appalled me. His front shop, and a corridor communicating with the back part of the house, are rank with moisture; and his books are consequently rotting apace. Upon my making as pitiable a statement as I was able of this melancholy state of things--and pleading with all my energies against the inevitable destruction which threatened the dear books--the obdurate bibliopolist displayed not one scintillation of sympathy. He was absolutely indifferent to the whole concern. In the back parlour, almost impervious to day-light, his daughter, and a stout and handsome bourgeoise, with rather an unusually elevated cauchoise, were regaling themselves with soup and herbs at dinner. I hurried through, in my way to the upper regions, with apologies for the intrusion; but was told that none were necessary--that I might go where, and stay as long, as I pleased--and that any explanation would be given to my interrogatories in the way of business. I expressed my obligations for such civility; and gaining an upper room, by the help of a chair, made a survey of its contents. What piles of interminable rubbish! I selected, as the only rational or desirable volume--half rotted with moisture--_Belon's Marine Fishes_, 1551, 4to; and placing six francs (the price demanded) upon the table, hurried back, through this sable and dismal territory, with a sort of precipitancy amounting to horrour. What struck me, as productive of a very extraordinary effect--was the cheerfulness and _gaieté de coeur_ of these females, in the midst of this region of darkness and desolation. Manoury told me that the Revolution had deprived him of the opportunity of having the finest bookselling stock in France! His own carelessness and utter apathy are likely to prove yet more destructive enemies. But let us touch a more "spirit-stirring" chord in the book theme. Let us leave the _Bouquiniste_ for the PUBLIC LIBRARY: and I invite you most earnestly to accompany me thither, and to hear matters of especial import. This library occupies the upper part of a fine large stone building, devoted to the public offices of government. The plan of the library is exceedingly striking; in the shape of a cross. It measures one hundred and thirty-four, by eighty, French feet; and is supposed, apparently with justice, to contain 20,000 volumes. It is proportionably wide and lofty. M. HÉBERT is the present chief librarian, having succeeded the late M. Moysant, his uncle. Among the more eminent benefactors and Bibliomaniacs, attached to this library, the name of FRANCOIS MARTIN is singularly conspicuous. He was, from all accounts, and especially from the information of M. Hébert, one of the most raving of book-madmen: but he displayed, withal, a spirit of kindness and liberality towards his favourite establishment at Caen, which could not be easily shaken or subdued. He was also a man of letters, and evinced that most commendable of all literary propensities--a love of the LITERATURE OF HIS COUNTRY. He amassed a very large collection of books, which was cruelly pillaged during the Revolution; but the public library became possessed of a great number of them. In those volumes, formerly belonging to him, which are now seen, is the following printed inscription: "_Franciscus Martin, Doctor Theologus Parisiensis, comparavit. Oretur pro co_." He was head of the convent of Cordeliers, and Prefect of the Province: but his mode of collecting was not always that which a public magistrate would call _legitimate_. He sought books every where; and when he could not _buy_ them, or obtain them by fair means, he would _steal_ them, and carry them home in the sleeves of his gown! He flourished about a century ago; and, with very few exceptions, all the best conditioned books in the library belonged to this magisterial book-robber. Among them I noted down with singular satisfaction the Aldine edition of _Stephanus de Urbibus_, 1502, folio--in its old vellum binding: seemly to the eye, and comfortable to the touch. Nor did his copy of the _Repertorium Statutorum Ordinis Cartusiensis_, printed by _Amerbach, at Basil_, in a glorious gothic character, 1510, folio, escape my especial notice--also the same Bibliomaniac's beautiful copy of the _Mentz Herbal_, of 1484, in 4to. But the obliquities of Martin assume a less questionable aspect, when we contemplate a noble work, which he not only projected, but left behind ready for publication. It is thus entitled: _Athenæ Normannorum veteres ac recentes, seu syllabus Auctorum qui oriundi è Normannia, &c._ It consists of one volume, in MS., having the authority of government, to publish it, prefixed. There is a short Latin preface, by Martin, followed by two pages of Latin verses beginning thus: _In Auctorum Normannicorum Syllabum. Prolusio metrica. En Syllabus prodit palàm Contextus arte sedula Ex litteratæ Neustriæ Auctoribus celebribus._ &c. &c. Among the men, the memories of whom throw a lustre upon Caen,[129] was the famous SAMUEL BOCHART; at once a botanist, a scholar, and a critic of distinguished celebrity. He was a native of Rouen, and his books (many of them replete with valuable ms. notes) are among the chief treasures of the public library, here. Indeed there is a distinct catalogue of them, and the funds left by their illustrious owner form the principal support of the library establishment. Bochart's portrait, with those of many other benefactors to the library, adorns the walls; suspended above the books: affording a very agreeable coup-d'oeil. Indeed the principal division of the library, the further end of which commands a pleasant prospect, is worthy of an establishment belonging to the capital of an empire. The kindness of M. Hébert, and of his assistant, rendered my frequent sojournings therein yet more delectable. The portrait of his uncle, M. MOYSANT, is among the ornaments of the chief room. Though Moysant was large of stature, his lungs were feeble, and his constitution was delicate. At the age of nineteen, he was appointed professor of grammar and rhetoric in the college of Lisieux. He then went to Paris, and studied under Beau and Batteux; when, applying himself more particularly to the profession of physic, he returned to Caen, in his thirtieth year, and put on the cap of Doctor of medicine; but he wanted either nerves or stamina for the successful exercise of his profession. He had cured a patient, after painful and laborious attention, of a very serious illness; but his patient chose to take liberties too soon with his convalescent state. He was imprudent: had a relapse; and was hurried to his grave. Moysant took it seriously to heart, and gave up his business in precipitancy and disgust. In fact, he was of too sanguine and irritable a temperament for the display of that cool, cautious, and patient conduct, which it behoveth all young physicians to adopt, ere they can possibly hope to attain the honours or the wealth of the _Halfords_ and _Matons_ of the day! Our Moysant returned to the study of his beloved belles-lettres. At that moment, luckily, the Society of the Jesuits was suppressed; and he was called by the King, in 1763, to fill the chair of Rhetoric in one of the finest establishments of that body at Caen. He afterwards successively became perpetual Secretary of the Academy of Sciences, and Vice-President of the Society of Agriculture. He was next dubbed by the University, Dean of the faculty of arts, and was selected to pronounce the public oration upon the marriage of the unfortunate Louis XVI. with Marie Antoinette. He was now a marked and distinguished public character. The situation of PUBLIC LIBRARIAN was only wanting to render his reputation complete, and _that_ he instantly obtained upon the death of his predecessor. With these occupations, he united that of instructing the English (who were always in the habit of visiting Caen,) in the French language; and he obtained, in return, from some of his adult pupils, a pretty good notion of the laws and liberties of Old England. The Revolution now came on: when, like many of his respectable brethren, he hailed it at first as the harbinger of national reformation and prosperity. But he had soon reason to find that he had been deceived. However, in the fervour of the moment, and upon the suppression of the monastic and other public libraries, he received a very wide and unqualified commission to search all the libraries in the department of _Calvados_, and to bring home to Caen all the treasures he might discover. He set forth upon this mission with truly public spirited ideas: resolving (says his nephew) to do for Normandy what Dugdale and Dodsworth had done for England--and a _Monasticum Neustriacum_ was the commendable object of his ambition. He promised much, and perhaps did more than he promised. His curious collection (exclusively of the cart-loads of books which were sent to Caen) was shewn to his countrymen; but the guillotine was now the order of the day--when Moysant "resolved to visit England, and submit to the English nobility the plan of his work, as that nation always attached importance to the preservation of the monuments, or literary materials, of the middle ages."--He knew (continues the nephew) how proud the English were of their descent from the Norman nobles, and it was only to put them in possession of the means of preserving the unquestionable proofs of their origin. Moysant accordingly came over with his wife, and they were both quickly declared emigrants; their return was interdicted; and our bibliomaniac learnt, with heart-rending regret, that they had resolved upon the sale of the national property in France. He was therefore to live by his wits; having spiritedly declined all offer of assistance from the English government. In this dilemma he published a work entitled "_Bibliothèque des Ecrivains Français, ou choix des meilleurs morceaux en prose et en vers, extraits de leurs ouvrages_,"--a collection, which was formed with judgment, and which was attended with complete success. The first edition was in four octavo volumes, in 1800; the second, in six volumes 1803; a third edition, I think, followed, with a pocket dictionary of the English and French languages. It was during his stay amongst us that he was deservedly admitted a member of the Society of Antiquaries; but he returned to France in 1802, before the appearance of the second edition of his _Bibliothèque_; when, hawk-like, soaring or sailing in suspense between the book-atmospheres of Paris and Caen, he settled within the latter place--and again perched himself (at the united call of his townsmen) upon the chair destined for the PUBLIC LIBRARIAN! It was to give order, method, and freedom of access, to the enormous mass of books, which the dissolution of the monastic libraries had caused to be accumulated at Caen, that Moysant and his colleagues now devoted themselves with an assiduity as heroic as it was unintermitting. But the health of our generalissimo, which had been impaired during his residence in England, began to give way beneath such a pressure of fatigue and anxiety. Yet it pleased Providence to prolong his life till towards the close of the year 1813: when he had the satisfaction of viewing his folios, quartos, octavos, and duodecimos, arranged in regular succession, and fair array; when his work was honestly done; and when future visitors had only to stretch forth their hands and gather the fruit which he had placed within their reach. His death (we are told)[130] was gentle, and like unto sleep. Religion had consoled him in his latter moments; and after having reposed upon its efficacy, he waited with perfect composure for the breathing of his last sigh! Let the name of MOYSANT be mentioned with the bibliomaniacal honours which, are doubtless its due!... From Librarians, revert we to books: to the books in the PUBLIC LIBRARY of Caen. The oldest printed volume contained in it, and which had been bound with a MS, on the supposition of its being a manuscript also, is Numeister's impression of _Aretinus de Bella adversus Gothós_, 1470, folio; the first book from the press of the printer. I undeceived M. Hébert, who had supposed it to be a MS. The lettering is covered with horn, and the book is bound in boards; "all proper." The oldest _Latin Bible_ they possess, is of the date of 1485; but there is preserved one volume of Sweynheym and Pannartz's impression of _De Lyra's Commentary upon the Bible_, of the date of 1471-2, which luckily contains the list of books printed by those printers in their memorable supplicatory letter to Pope Sixtus IV. The earliest Latin Classic appears to be the _Juvenal_ of 1474, with the _Commentary of Calderinus_, printed at Rome; unless a dateless impression of _Lucan_, in the earliest type of Gering, with the verses placed at a considerable distance from each other, claim chronological precedence. There is also a _Valerius Maximus_ of 1475, by Cæsaris and Stol, but without their names. It is a large copy, soiled at the beginning. Of the same date is Gering's impression of the _Legenda Sanctorum_; and among the Fifteeners I almost coveted a very elegant specimen of _Jehan du Pré's_ printing (with a device used by him never before seen by me,) of an edition of _La Vie des Peres_, 1494, folio, in its original binding. I collected, from the written catalogue, that they had only FORTY-FIVE works printed in the FIFTEENTH CENTURY; and of these, none were of first-rate quality. Among the MSS., I was much struck with the beautiful penmanship of a work, in three folio volumes, of the middle of the sixteenth century, entitled; _Divertissemens touchant le faict de la guerre, extraits des livres de Polybe, Frontin, Vegece, Cornazzan, Machiavel, et autres bons autheurs."_ It has no illuminations, but the scription is beautiful. A _Breviary of the Church Service of Lisieux_, of the fifteenth century, has some pretty but common illuminations. It is not however free from injury. Of more intrinsic worth is a MS. entitled _Du Costentin_, (a district not far from Caen,) with the following prefix in the hand-writing of Moysant. "Ces mémoires sont de M. Toustaint de Billy, curé du Mesnil au-parc, qui avoit travaillé toute sa vie à l'histoire du Cotentin. Ils sont rares et m'ont été accordes par M. Jourdan, Notaire, auquel ils appartenoient. Le p. (Père) le Long et Mons. Teriet de fontette ne les out pas connu. Moysantz." It is a small folio, in a neat hand-writing. Another MS., or rather a compound of ms. and printed leaves, of yet considerably more importance, in 3 folio volumes, is entitled _Le Moreri des Normans, par Joseph Andrié Guiat de Rouen:_ on the reverse of the title, we read, "_Supplément au Dictionnaire de Moreri pour ce qui concerne la province de Normandie, et ses illustres_." A short preface follows; then an ode "aux Grands Hommes de Normandie." It is executed in the manner of a dictionary, running in alphabetical order. The first volume extends to the letter I, and is illustrated with scraps from newspapers, and a few portraits. It is written pretty fully in double columns. The portrait and biography of _Bouzard_ form an admirable specimen of biographical literary memoirs. The second volume goes to Z. The third volume is entitled "_Les trois Siècles palinodiques, ou Histoire Générale des Palinods de Rouen, Dieppe, &c._--by the same hand, with an equal quantity of matter. It is right that such labours should be noticed, for the sake of all future BLISS-like editors of provincial literature. There is another similar work, in 2 folio ms. volumes, relating to _Coutance_. Before we again touch upon printed books, but of a later period, it may be right to inform you that the treasures of this Library suffered materially from the commotions of the Calvinists. Those hot-headed interpreters of scripture destroyed every thing in the shape of ornament or elegance attached to book-covers; and piles of volumes, however sacred, or unexceptionable on the score of good morals, were consigned to the fury of the flames. Of the remaining volumes which I saw, take the following very rapid sketch. Of _Hours_, or _Church Services_, there is a prodigiously fine copy of an edition printed by _Vostre_, in 4to., upon paper, without date. It is in the original ornamented cover, or binding, with a forest of rough edges to the leaves--and doubtless the finest copy of the kind I ever saw. Compared with this, how inferior, in every respect is a cropt copy of _Kerver's_ impression of a similar work, printed upon vellum! This latter is indeed a very indifferent book; but the rough usage it has met with is the sole cause of such inferiority. I was well pleased with a fair, sound copy of the _Speculum Stultorum_, in 4to., bl. letter, in hexameter and pentameter verses, without date. Nor did I examine without interest a rare little volume entitled "_Les Origines de quelques Coutumes anciennes, et de plusieurs façons de parler triviales. Avec un vieux Manuscrit en vers, touchant l'Origine des Chevaliers Bannerets_; printed at Caen in 1672, 12mo.: a curious little work. They have a fine (royal) copy of _Walton's Polyglot_, with an excellent impression of the head; and a large paper copy of _Stephen's Greek Glossary_; in old vellum binding, with a great number of ms. notes by Bochart. Also a fine large paper _Photius_ of 1654, folio. But among their LARGE PAPERS, few volumes tower with greater magnificence than do the three folios of _La Sainte Bible_, printed by the Elzevirs at Amsterdam, in 1669. They are absolutely fine creatures; of the stateliest dimensions and most attractive forms. They also pretend that their large paper copy of the first edition of _Huet's Praeparatio Evangelica_, in folio, is unique. Probably it is, as the author presented it to the Library himself. The _Basil Eustathius_ of 1559, in 3 volumes folio, is as glorious a copy as is Mr. Grenville's of the Roman edition of 1542.[131] It is in its pristine membranaceous attire--the vellum lapping over the fore-edges, in the manner of Mr. Heber's copy of the first Aldine Aristotle,--most comfortable to behold! There is a fine large paper copy of _Montaigne's Essays_, 1635, folio, containing two titles and a portrait of the author. It is bound in red morocco, and considered by M. Hébert a most rare and desirable book. Indeed I was told that one Collector in particular was exceedingly anxious to obtain it. I saw a fine copy of the folio edition of _Ronsard_, printed in 1584, which is considered rare. There is also a copy of the well known _Liber Nanceidos_, from Bochart's library, with a few ms. notes by Bochart himself. Here I saw, for the first time, a French metrical version of the works of _Virgil, by Robert and Anthony Chevaliers d'Agneaux freres, de Vire, en Normandie_; published at Paris in 1582, in elegant italic type; considered rare. The same translators published a version of Horace; but it is not here. You may remember that I made mention of a certain work (in one of my late letters) called _Les Vaudevires d'Olivier Basselin_. They preserve here a very choice copy of it, in 4to., large paper; and of which size only ten copies are said to be in existence. The entire title is "_Les Vaudevires Poesies du XVme. siècle, par Olivier Basselin, avec un Discours sur sa Vie et des Notes pour l'explication de quelques anciens Mots: Vire, 1811_." 8vo. There are copies upon pink paper, of which this is one--and which was in fact presented to the Library by the Editors. Prefixed to it, is an indifferent drawing, in india ink, representing the old castle of Vire, now nearly demolished, with Basselin seated at a table along with three of his boosing companions, chaunting his verses "à pleine gorge." This Basselin appears in short to have been the French DRUNKEN BARNABY of his day. "What! (say you:) "not _one_ single specimen from the library of your favourite DIANE DE POICTIERS? Can this be possible?"--No more of interrogatory, I beseech you: but listen attentively and gratefully to the intelligence which you are about to receive--and fancy not, if you have any respect for my taste, that I have forgotten my favourite Diane de Poictiers. On looking sharply about you, within this library, there will be found a magnificent copy of the _Commentaries of Chrysostom upon the Epistles of St. Paul_, printed by _Stephanus et Fratres a Sabio, at Verona_, in 1529, in three folio volumes. It is by much and by far the finest Greek work which I ever saw from the _Sabii_ Press.[132] No wonder Colbert jumped with avidity to obtain such a copy of it: for, bating that it is "un peu rogné," the condition and colour are quite enchanting. And then for the binding!--which either Colbert, or his librarian Baluze, had the good sense and good taste to leave _untouched_. The first and second volumes are in reddish calf, with the royal arms in the centre, and the half moon (in tarnished silver) beneath: the arabesque ornaments, or surrounding border is in gilt. The edges are gilt, stamped; flush with the fore edges of the binding. In the centre of the sides of the binding, is a large H, with a fleur de lis at top: the top and bottom borders presenting the usual D and H, united, of which you may take a peep in the _Bibliographical Decameron._ The third volume is in dark blue leather, with the same side ornaments; and the title of the work, as with the preceding volumes, is lettered in Greek capitals. The H and crown, and monogram, as before; but the edges of the leaves are, in this volume, stamped at bottom and top with an H, surmounted by a crown. The sides of the binding are also fuller and richer than in the preceding volumes. This magnificent copy was given to the Library by P. Le Jeune. It is quite a treasure in its way. Another specimen, if you please, from the library of our favourite Diana. It is rather of a singular character: consisting of a French version of that once extremely popular work (originally published in the Latin language) called the _Cosmography of Sebastian Munster._ The edition is of the date of 1556, in folio. This copy must have been as splendid as it is yet curious. It contains two portraits of Henry the Second ("HENRICVS II. GALLIARVM REX INVICTISS. PP.") and four of Holofernes ("OLOFARNE.") on each side of the binding. In the centre of the sides we recognise the lunar ornaments of Diane de Poictiers; but on the back, are five portraits of her, in gilt, each within the bands--and, like all the other ornaments, much rubbed. Two of these five heads are facing a different head of Henry. There are also on the sides two pretty medallions of a winged figure blowing a trumpet, and standing upon a chariot drawn by four horses: there are also small fleur de lis scattered between the ornaments of the sides of the binding. The date of the medallion seems to be 1553. The copy is cruelly cropt, and the volume is sufficiently badly printed; which makes it the more surprising that such pains should have been taken with its bibliopegistic embellishments. Upon the whole, this copy, for the sake of its ornaments, is vehemently desirable. And now, my dear friend, you must make your bow with me to M. Hébert, and bid farewell to the PUBLIC LIBRARY at Caen. Indeed I am fully disposed to bid farewell to every thing else in the same town: not however without being conscious that very much, both of what I have, and of what I have not, seen, merits a detail well calculated to please the intellectual appetites of travellers. What I have seen, has been indeed but summarily, and even superficially, described; but I have done my best; and was fearful of exciting ennui by a more parish-register-like description. For the service performed in places of public worship, I can add nothing to my Rouen details--except that there is here an agreeable PROTESTANT CHURCH, of which M. MARTIN ROLLIN, is the Pastor. He has just published a "_Mémoire Historique sur l'Etat Eclésiastique des Protestans François depuis François Ler jusqu'à Louis XVIII_:" in a pamphlet of some fourscore pages. The task was equally delicate and difficult of execution; but having read it, I am free to confess that M. Rollin has done his work very neatly and very cleverly. I went in company with Mrs. and Miss I---- to hear the author preach; for he is a young man (about thirty) who draws his congregation as much from his talents as a preacher, as from his moral worth as an individual. It was on the occasion of several young ladies and gentlemen taking the sacrament for the first time. The church is strictly, I believe, according to the Geneva persuasion; but there was something so comfortable, and to me so cheering, in the avowed doctrine of Protestantism, that I accompanied my friends with alacrity to the spot. Many English were present; for M. Rollin is deservedly a favourite with our countrymen. The church, however, was scarcely half filled. The interior is the most awkwardly adapted imaginable to the purposes either of reading or of preaching: for it consists of two aisles at right angles with each other. The desk and pulpit are fixed in the receding angle of their junction; so that the voice flies forth to the right and left immediately as it escapes the preacher. After a very long, and a very tediously sung psalm, M. Rollin commenced his discourse. He is an extemporaneous preacher. His voice is sweet and clear, rather than sonorous and impressive; and he is perhaps, occasionally, too metaphorical in his composition. For the first time I heard the words "_Oh Dieu!_" pronounced with great effect: but the sermon was made up of better things than mere exclamations. M. Rollin was frequently ingenious; logical, and convincing; and his address to the young communicants, towards the close of his discourse, was impressive and efficient. The young people were deeply touched by his powerful appeal, and I believe each countenance was suffused with tears. He guarded them against the dangers and temptations of that world upon which they were about to enter, by setting before them the consolations of the religion which they had professed, in a manner which indicated that he had really their interests and happiness at heart. A word only about COURTS OF JUSTICE. "A smack of the whip" will tingle in my ears through life;[133] and I shall always attend "_Nisi Prius_" exhibitions with more than ordinary curiosity. I strolled one morning to the _Place de Justice_--which is well situated, in an airy and respectable neighbourhood. I saw two or three barristers, en pleine costume, pretty nearly in the English fashion; walking quickly to and fro with their clients, in the open air before the hall; and could not help contrasting the quick eye and unconcerned expression of countenance of the former, with the simple look and yet earnest action of the latter. I entered the Hall, and, to my astonishment, heard only a low muttering sound. Scarcely fifteen people were present, I approached the bench; and what, think you, were the intellectual objects upon which my eye alighted? Three Judges ... all fast asleep! Five barristers, two of whom were nodding: one was literally addressing _the bench_ ... and the remaining two were talking to their clients in the most unconcerned manner imaginable. The entire effect, on my mind, was ridiculous in the extreme. Far be it from me, however, to designate the foregoing as a generally true picture of the administration of Justice at Caen. I am induced to hope and believe that a place, so long celebrated for the study of the law, yet continues occasionally to exhibit proofs of that logic and eloquence for which it has been renowned of old. I am willing to conclude that all the judges are not alike somniferous; and that if the acuteness of our GIFFORDS, and the rhetoric of our DENMANS, sometimes instruct and enliven the audience, there will be found Judges to argue like GIBBS and to decide like SCOTT.[134] Farewell. [121] _Mémoires de l'Academie des Belles Lettres de Caen. Chez Jacques Manoury, 1757, 4 vols. crown 8vo. Rapport générale sur les travaux de l'Academie des Sciences, Arts, et Belles Lettres de la ville de Caen, jusqu'au premier Janvier, 1811. Par P.F.T. Delariviere, Secrétaire. A Caen, chez Chalopin_. An. 1811-15. 2 vols. on different paper, with different types, and provokingly of a larger form than its precursor. [122] [On consulting the Addenda of the preceding edition, it will be seen that this work appeared in the year 1820, under the title of _Essais Historiques sur la Ville de Caen et son Arondissement_, in 2 small octavo volumes. With the exception of two or three indifferent plates of relics of sculpture, and of titles with armorial bearings, this work is entirely divested of ornament. There are some useful historical details in it, taken from the examination of records and the public archives; but a HISTORY of CAEN is yet a desideratum.] [123] [By the favour of our common friend Mr. Douce, I have obtained permission to enrich these pages with the PORTRAIT of this distinguished Archaeologist, from an original Drawing in the possession of the same friend. See the OPPOSITE PLATE.] [124] He has recently (1816) published an octavo volume entitled "_Histoire des Polypiers, Coralligènes Flexibles, vulgairement nommés Zoophytes. Par J.V.F. Lamouroux_. From one of his Epistles, I subjoin a fac-simile of his autograph. [Illustration: Lamouroux] [125] The medallic project here alluded to is one which does both the projector, and the arts of France, infinite honour; and I sincerely wish that some second SIMON may rise up among ourselves to emulate, and if possible to surpass, the performances of GATTEAUX and AUDRIEU. The former is the artist to whom we are indebted for the medal of Malherbe, and the latter for the series of the Bonaparte medals. [Has my friend Mr. Hawkins, of the Museum, abandoned all thoughts of his magnificent project connected with such a NATIONAL WORK?] [126] See post--under the running title Bayeux. [127] See page 172 ante. [128] It is described in the 2d vol. of the ÆDES ALTHORPIANÆ; forming the Supplement to the BIBLIOTHECA SPENCERIANA: see page 94. [129] Goube, in his _Histoire du Duché de Normandie_, 1815, 8vo. has devoted upwards of thirty pages to an enumeration of these worthies; vol. iii. p. 295. But in _Huet's Origines de la Ville de Caen;_ p. 491-652, there will be found much more copious and satisfactory details. [130] I am furnished with the above particulars from a _Notice Historique_ of Moysant. [131] [A copy of this Roman Edition of 1542, of equal purity and amplitude, is in the library of the Rev. Mr Hawtrey of Eton College: obtained of Messrs. Payne and Foss.] [132] When I was at Paris in the year 1819, I strove hard to obtain from Messrs. Debure the copy of this work, UPON VELLUM, which they had purchased at the sale of the Macarthy Library. But it was destined for the Royal Library, and is described in the _Cat. des Livres Imp. sur Vélin_, vol. i. p. 263. [133] [Twenty-eight years have passed away since I kept my terms at Lincoln's Inn with a view of being called to THE BAR; and at this moment I have a perfect recollection of the countenances and manner of Messrs. Bearcroft, Erskine, and Mingay,--the pitted champions of the King's Bench--whom I was in the repeated habit of attending within that bustling and ever agitated arena. Their wit, their repartee--the broad humour of Mingay, and the lightning-like quickness of Erskine, with the more caustic and authoritative dicta of Bearcroft--delighted and instructed me by turns. In the year 1797 I published, in one large chart, an _Analysis of the first volume of Blackstone's Commentaries_--called THE RIGHTS OF PERSONS. It was dedicated to Mr. (afterwards Lord) Erskine; and published, as will be easily conceived, with more zeal than discretion. I got out of the scrape by selling the copper plate for 50 shillings, after having given 40 guineas for the engraving of the Analysis. Some fifty copies of the work were sold, and 250 were struck off. Where the surplus have lain, and rotted, I cannot pretend to conjecture: but I know it to be a VERY RARE production!] [134] [So in the preceding Edition. He who writes notes on his own performances after a lapse of ten years, will generally have something to add, and something to correct. Of the above names, the FIRST was afterwards attached to the _Master of the Rolls_, and to a _Peerage_: with the intervening honour of having been _Chief Justice of the Common Pleas_. My admiration of this rapid elevation in an honourable profession will not be called singular; for, after an acquaintance of twenty years with Lord Gifford, I can honestly say, that, while his reputation as a Lawyer, and his advancement in his profession, were only what his friends predicted, his character as a MAN continued the same:--kind hearted, unaffected, gentle, and generous. He died, 'ere he had attained his 48th year, in 1826.] LETTER XIV. BAYEUX. CATHEDRAL. ORDINATION OF PRIESTS AND DEACONS. CRYPT OF THE CATHEDRAL. _Bayeux, May 16_, 1818. Two of the most gratifying days of my Tour have been spent at this place. The Cathedral (one of the most ancient religious places of worship in Normandy)[135] has been paced with a reverential step, and surveyed with a careful eye. That which scarcely warmed the blood of Ducarel has made my heart beat with an increased action; and although this town be even dreary, as well as thinly peopled, there is that about it which, from associations of ideas, can never fail to afford a lively interest to a British antiquary. The Diligence brought me here from Caen in about two hours and a half. The country, during the whole route, is open, well cultivated, occasionally gently undulating, but generally denuded of trees. Many pretty little churches, with delicate spires, peeped out to the right and left during the journey; but the first view of the CATHEDRAL of BAYEUX put all the others out of my recollection. I was conveyed to the _Hôtel de Luxembourg_, the best inn in the town, and for a wonder rather pleasantly situated. Mine hostess is a smart, lively, and shrewd woman; perfectly mistress of the art and craft of innkeeping, and seems to have never known sorrow or disappointment. Knowing that Mr. Stothard, Jun. had, the preceding year, been occupied in making a fac-simile of the "famous tapestry" for our Society of Antiquaries, I enquired if mine hostess had been acquainted with that gentleman: "Monsieur," "je le connois bien; c'est un brave homme: il demeura tout près: aussi travailla-t-il comme quatre diables!" I will not disguise that this eulogy of our amiable countryman[136] pleased me "right well"--though I was pretty sure that such language was the current (and to me somewhat _coarse_) coin of compliment upon all occasions: and instead of "vin ordinaire" I ordered, rather in a gay and triumphant manner, "une bouteille du vin de Beaune"--"Ah! ça," (replied the lively landlady,) "vous le trouverez excellent, Monsieur, il n'y a pas du vin comme le vin de Beaune." Bespeaking my dinner, I strolled towards the cathedral. There is, in fact, no proper approach to this interesting edifice. The western end is suffocated with houses. Here stands the post-office; and with the most unsuspecting frankness, on the part of the owner, I had permission to examine, with my own hands, within doors, every letter--under the expectation that there were some for myself. Nor was I disappointed. But you must come with me to the cathedral: and of course we must enter together at the western front. There are five porticos: the central one being rather large, and the two, on either side, comparatively small. Formerly, these were covered with sculptured figures and ornaments; but the Calvinists in the sixteenth, and the Revolutionists in the eighteenth century, have contrived to render their present aspect mutilated and repulsive in the extreme. On entering, I was struck with the two large transverse Norman arches which bestride the area, or square, for the bases of the two towers. It is the boldest and finest piece of masonry in the whole building. The interior disappointed me. It is plain, solid, and divested of ornament. A very large wooden crucifix is placed over the screen of the choir, which has an effect--of its kind: but the monuments, and mural ornaments, scarcely deserve mention. The richly ornamented arches, on each side of the nave, springing from massive single pillars, have rather an imposing effect: above them are Gothic ornaments of a later period, but too thickly and injudiciously applied. Let me now suppose that the dinner is over, and the "vin de Beaune" approved of--and that on a second visit, immediately afterwards, there is both time and inclination for a leisurely survey. On looking up, upon entering, within the side aisle to the left, you observe, with infinite regret, a dark and filthy green tint indicative of premature decay--arising from the lead (of that part of the roof,) having been stript for the purpose of making bullets during the Revolution. The extreme length of the interior is about 320 English feet, by 76 high, and the same number of feet in width. The transepts are about 125 feet long, by 36 wide. The western towers, to the very top of the spires, are about 250 English feet in height. One of the most curious objects in the Cathedral, is the CRYPT; of which, singularly enough, all knowledge had been long lost till the year 1412. The circumstance of its discovery is told in the following inscription, cut in the Gothic letter, upon a brass plate, and placed just above the southern entrance: _En lan mil quatre cens et douze Tiers iour d'Auril que pluye arrouse Les biens de la terre, la journee Que la Pasques fut celebree Noble homme et Reverend Pere Jehan de Boissey, de'la Mere Eglise de Bayeux Pasteur Rendi l'ame a son Createur Et lors enfoissant la place Devant la grand Autel de grace Trova l'on la basse Chapelle Dont il n'avoit ete nouvelle Ou il est mis en sepulture Dieu ueuille avoir son ame en cure. Amen_. It was my good fortune to visit this crypt at a very particular juncture. The day after my arrival at Bayeux, there was a grand _Ordination_. Before I had quitted my bed, I heard the mellow and measured notes of human voices; and starting up, I saw an almost interminable procession of priests, deacons, &c., walking singly behind each other, in two lines, leaving a considerable space between them. They walked bareheaded, chanting, with a book in their hands; and bent their course towards the cathedral. I dressed quickly; and, dispatching my breakfast with equal promptitude, pursued the same route. On entering the western doors, thrown wide open, I shall never forget the effect produced by the crimson and blue draperies of the Norman women:--a great number of whom were clustered, in groups, upon the top of the screen, about the huge wooden crucifix;--witnessing the office of ordination going on below, in the choir. They seemed to be suspended in the air; and considering the piece of sculpture around which they appeared to gather themselves--with the elevation of the screen itself--it was a combination of objects upon which the pencil might have been exercised with the happiest possible result. An ordination in a foreign country, and especially one upon such an apparently extensive scale, was, to a professional man, not to be slighted; and accordingly I determined upon making the most of the spectacle before me. Looking accidentally down my favourite crypt, I observed that some religious ceremony was going on there. The northern grate, or entrance, being open, I descended a flight of steps, and quickly became an inmate of this subterraneous abode. The first object that struck me was, the warm glow of day light which darted upon the broad pink cross of the surplice of an officiating priest: a candle was burning upon the altar, on each side of him: another priest, in a black vesture, officiated as an assistant; and each, in turn, knelt, and bowed, and prayed ... to the admiration of some few half dozen casual yet attentive visitors--while the full sonorous chant, from the voices of upwards of one hundred and fifty priests and deacons, from the choir above, gave a peculiar sort of solemnity to the mysterious gloom below. I now ascended; and by the help of a chair, took a peep at the ceremony through the intercolumniations of the choir: my diffidence, or rather apprehension of refusal, having withheld me from striving to gain admittance within the body. But my situation was a singularly good one: opposite the altar. I looked, and beheld this vast clerical congregation at times kneeling, or standing, or sitting: partially, or wholly: while the swell of their voices, accompanied by the full intonations of the organ, and the yet more penetrating notes of the _serpent_, seemed to breathe more than earthly solemnity around. The ceremony had now continued full two hours; when, in the midst of the most impressive part of it, and while the young candidates for ordination were prostrate before the high altar (the diapason stop of the organ, as at Dieppe,[137] sending forth the softest notes) the venerable Bishop placed the glittering mitre (apparently covered with gold gauze) upon his head, and with a large gilt crosier in his right hand, descended, with a measured and majestic step, from the floor of the altar, and proceeded to the execution of the more mysterious part of his office. The candidates, with closed eyes, and outstretched hands, were touched with the holy oil--and thus became consecrated. On rising, each received a small piece of bread between the thumb and forefinger, and the middle and third fingers; their hands being pressed together--and, still with closed eyes, they retired behind the high altar, where an officiating priest made use of the bread to rub off the holy oil. The Bishop is an elderly man, about three score and ten; he has the usual sallow tint of his countrymen, but his eye, somewhat sunk or retired, beneath black and overhanging eyebrows, is sharp and expressive. His whole mien has the indication of a well-bred and well-educated gentleman. When he descended with his full robes, crosier, and mitre, from the high altar, me-thought I saw some of the venerable forms of our WYKEHAMS and WAYNEFLETES of old--commanding the respect, and receiving the homage, of a grateful congregation! At the very moment my mind was deeply occupied by the effects produced from this magnificent spectacle, I strolled into _Our Lady's Chapel_, behind the choir, and beheld a sight which converted seriousness into surprise--bordering upon mirth. Above the altar of this remotely situated chapel, stands the IMAGE OF THE VIRGIN with the infant Jesus in her arms. This is the usual chief ornament of Our Lady's Chapel. But what drapery for the mother of the sacred child!--stiff, starch, rectangularly-folded, white muslin, stuck about with diverse artificial flowers--like unto a shew figure in Brook Green Fair! This ridiculous and most disgusting costume began more particularly at Caudebec. Why is it persevered in? Why is it endured? The French have a quick sensibility, and a lively apprehension of what is beautiful and brilliant in the arts of sculpture and painting ... but the terms "joli," "gentil," and "propre," are made use of, like charity, to "cover a multitude of sins" ... or aberrations from true taste. I scarcely stopped a minute in this chapel, but proceeded to a side one, to the right, which yet affords proof of its pristine splendour. It is covered with gold and colours. Two or three supplicants were kneeling before the crucifix, and appeared to be so absorbed in their devotions as to be insensible of every surrounding object. To them, the particular saint (I have forgotten the name) to whom the little chapel was dedicated, seemed to be dearer and more interesting than the general voice of "praise and thanksgiving" with which the choir of the cathedral resounded. Before we quit the place you must know that fourscore candidates were ordained: that there are sixty clergy attached to the cathedral;[138] and that upwards of four hundred thousand souls are under the spiritual cognizance of the BISHOP OF BAYEUX. The treasures of the Cathedral were once excessive,[139] and the episcopal stipend proportionably large: but, of late years, things are sadly changed. The Calvinists, in the sixteenth century, began the work of havoc and destruction; and the Revolutionists in the eighteenth, as usual, put the finish to these devastations. At present, from a very respectable source of information, I learn that the revenues of the Bishop scarcely exceed 700_l_. per annum of our own money. I cannot take leave of the cathedral without commending, in strong terms of admiration, the lofty flying buttresses of the exterior of the nave. The perpendicular portions are crowned with a sculptured whole length figure, from which the semi-arch takes its spring; and are in much more elegant taste than any other part of the building. Hard by the cathedral stood formerly a magnificent EPISCOPAL PALACE. Upon this palace the old writers dearly loved to expatiate. There is now however nothing but a good large comfortable family mansion; sufficient for the purposes of such hospitality and entertainment as the episcopal revenues will afford. I have not only seen, but visited, this episcopal residence. In other words, my friend Pierre-Aimé Lair having promised to take his last adieu of me at Bayeux, as he had business with the Bishop, I met him agreeably to appointment at the palace; but his host, with a strong corps of visitors, having just sate down to dinner--it was only one o'clock--I bade him adieu, with the hope of seeing the Bishop on the morrow--to whom he had indeed mentioned my name. Our farewell was undoubtedly warm and sincere. He had volunteered a thousand acts of kindness towards me without any possible motive of self interest; and as he lifted up his right hand, exclaiming "adieu, pour toujours!" I will not dissemble that I was sensibly affected by the touching manner in which it was uttered ... and PIERRE AIMÉ LAIR shall always claim from me the warmest wishes for his prosperity and happiness.[140] I hurried back through the court-yard--at the risk of losing a limb from the ferocious spring of a tremendous (chained) mastiff--and without returning the salute of the porter, shut the gate violently, and departed. For five minutes, pacing the south side of the cathedral, I was lost in a variety of painful sensations. How was I to see the LIBRARY?--where could I obtain a glimpse of the TAPESTRY?--and now, that Pierre Aimé Lair was to be no more seen, (for he told me he should quit the place on that same evening) who was to stand my friend, and smooth my access to the more curious and coveted objects of antiquity? Thus absorbed in a variety of contending reflections, a tall figure, clad in a loose long great coat, in a very gracious manner approached and addressed me. "Your name, Sir, is D----?" "At your service, Sir, that is my name." "You were yesterday evening at Monsieur Pluquet's, purchasing books?" "I was, Sir." "It seems you are very fond of old books, and especially of those in the French and Latin languages?" "I am fond of old books generally; but I now seek more particularly those in your language--and have been delighted with an illuminated, and apparently coeval, MS. of the poetry of your famous OLIVIER BASSELIN, which..." "You saw it, Sir, at Monsieur Pluquet's. It belonged to a common friend of us both. He thinks it worth..." "He asks _ten louis d'or_ for it, and he shall have them with all my heart." "Sir, I know he will never part with it even for that large sum." I smiled, as he pronounced the word "large." "Do me the honour, Sir, of visiting my obscure dwelling, in the country--a short league from hence. My abode is humble: in the midst of an orchard, which my father planted: but I possess a few books, some of them curious, and should like to _read_ double the number I _possess_." I thanked the stranger for his polite attention and gracious offer, which I accepted readily.... "This evening, Sir, if you please." "With all my heart, this very evening. But tell me, Sir, how can I obtain a sight of the CHAPTER LIBRARY, and of the famous TAPESTRY?" "Speak softly, (resumed the unknown) for I am watched in this place. You shall see both--but must not say that Monsieur ---- was your adviser or friend. For the present, farewell. I shall expect you in the evening." We took leave; and I returned hastily to the inn, to tell my adventures to my companion. There is something so charmingly mysterious in this little anecdote, that I would not for the world add a syllable of explanation. Leaving you, therefore, in full possession of it, to turn and twist it as you please, consider me as usual, Yours. [135] [Mons. Licquet supposes the crypt and the arcades of the nave to be of the latter end of the eleventh century,--built by Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, and Brother of William the Conqueror; and that the other portions were of the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth centuries. I have very great doubts indeed of any portion being of a date even so early as 1170.] [136] [Another demonstration of the fickleness and changeableness of all mundane affairs. Mr. Stothard, after a successful execution of his great task, has ceased to be among us. His widow published his life, with an account of his labours, in a quarto volume in 1823. Mr. Stothard's _Monumental Effigies_, now on the eve of completion, is a work which will carry his name down to the latest posterity, as one of the most interesting, tasteful, and accurate of antiquarian productions. See a subsequent note.] [137] See page 12, ante. [138] ["That was true, when M. Dibdin wrote his account; now, the number must be reduced one half." LICQUET, vol. ii. p. 121.] [139] Cette église ... étoit sans contredit une des plus riches de France en vases d'or, d'argent, et de pierreries; en reliques et en ornemens. Le procès-verbal qui avoit été dressé de toutes ses richesses, en 1476, contient un détail qui va presque à l'infini." Bezières, _Hist. Sommaire_, p. 51. [140] [But ONE letter has passed between us since this separation. That letter, however, only served to cement the friendliness of our feelings towards each other. M. Pierre Aimé Lair had heard of the manner in which his name had been introduced into these pages, and wished a copy of the work to be deposited in the public library at Caen. Whether it be so deposited, I have never learnt. In 1827, this amiable man visited England; and I saw him only during the time of an ordinary morning visit. His stay was necessarily short, and his residence was remote. I returned his visit--but he was away. There are few things in life more gratifying than the conviction of living in the grateful remembrance of the wise and the good; and THAT gratification it is doubtless my happiness to enjoy--as far as relates to Mons. PIERRE AIMÉ LAIR!] LETTER XV. VISIT NEAR ST. LOUP. M. PLUQUET, APOTHECARY AND BOOK-VENDER. VISIT TO THE BISHOP. THE CHAPTER LIBRARY. DESCRIPTION OF THE BAYEUX TAPESTRY. TRADE AND MANUFACTURE. Well, my good friend! the stranger has been visited: his library inspected: his services accepted: and his character partly unfolded. To this I must add, in the joy of my heart, (as indeed I mentioned slightly in my last) that both the Chapter LIBRARY and the famous TAPESTRY have been explored and examined in a manner, I trust, worthy of British curiosity. I hardly know what sort of order to adopt in this my second and last epistle from Bayeux; which will be semi-bibliomaniacal and semi-archaeological: and sit down, almost at random, to impart such intelligence as my journal and my memory supply. The last was almost a purely _ecclesiastical_ dispatch: as I generally first take off my cap to the towers and turrets of a cathedral. Now then for THE STRANGER! ... for it would be cruel to prolong the agony of expectation. Mr. Lewis having occupied himself, almost exclusively, with his pencil during the whole morning, I persuaded him to accompany me to _St. Loup_. After dinner we set out upon our expedition. It had rained in the interim, and every tree was charged with moisture as we passed them ... their blossoms exhaling sweets of the most pungent fragrance. The road ran in a straight line from the west front of the cathedral, which, on turning round, as we saw it irradiated by partial glimpses of sunshine, between masses of dark clouds, assumed a very imposing and venerable aspect. I should tell you, however, that the obliging Monsieur ---- came himself to the Hôtel de Luxembourg, to conduct us to his humble abode: for "humble" it is in every sense of the word. About two-thirds of the way thither, we passed the little church of _St. Loup_: a perfect Gothic toy of the XIIth century--with the prettiest, best-proportioned tower that can be imagined.[141] It has a few slight clustered columns at the four angles, but its height and breadth are truly pigmy. The stone is of a whitish grey. We did not enter; and with difficulty could trace our way to examine the exterior through the high grass of the church yard, yet _laid_ with the heavy rain. What a gem would the pencil of BLORE make of this tiny, ancient, interesting edifice! At length we struck off, down a lane slippery with moisture--when, opening a large swinging gate--"here (exclaimed our guide)--lived and died my father, and here his son hopes to live and die also. Gentlemen, yonder is my hermitage." It was a retirement of the most secluded kind: absolutely surrounded by trees, shrubs, hay-stacks, and corn-stacks--for Monsieur ---- hath a fancy for farming as well as for reading. The stair-case, though constructed of good hard Norman stone, was much worn in the middle from the frequent tread of half a century. It was also fatiguingly steep, but luckily it was short. We followed our guide to the left, where, passing through one boudoir-like apartment, strewn with books and papers, and hung with a parcel of mean ornaments called _pictures_, we entered a second--of which portions of the wainscoat were taken away, to shew the books which were deposited behind. Row after row, and pile upon pile, struck my wondering eye. Anon, a closet was opened--and there again they were stowed, "thick and threefold." A few small busts, and fractured vases, were meant to grace a table in the centre of the room. Of the books, it is but justice to say that _rarity_ had been sacrificed to _utility_. There were some excellent, choice, critical works; a good deal of Latin; some Greek, and a sprinkle of Hebrew--for Monsieur ---- is both a general and a sound scholar. On pointing to _Houbigant's Hebrew Bible_, in four folio volumes, 1753, "do you think this copy dear at fourteen francs?" said he!--"How, Sir," (replied I, in an exstacy of astonishment)--you mean to say fourteen _louis_?" "Not at all, Sir. I purchased it at the price just mentioned, nor do I think it too dear at that sum"--resumed he, in the most unsuspecting manner. I then told him, as a sort of balsamic consolation, that a late friend (I alluded to poor Mr. Ormerod) rejoiced on giving £12. for a copy by no means superior. "Ah, le bon Dieu!...." was his only observation thereupon. When about to return to the boudoir, through which we had entered, I observed with mingled surprise and pleasure, the four prettily executed English prints, after the drawings of the present Lady Spencer, called "_New Shoes"--"Nice Supper_" &c. Monsieur ---- was pleased at my stopping to survey them. "Ce sont là, Monsieur (observed he), les dames qui me font toujours compagnie:"--nor can you conceive the very soft and gentlemanly manner, accompanied by a voice subdued even to sadness of tone, with which he made this, and almost every observation. I found, indeed, from the whole tenor of his discourse, that he had a mind in no ordinary a state of cultivation: and on observing that a great portion of his library was THEOLOGICAL, I asked him respecting the general subjects upon which he thought and wrote. He caught hold of my left arm, and stooping (for he is much taller than myself, ... which he easily may be, methinks I hear you add...) "Sir, said he, I am by profession a clergyman ... although now I am designated as an _ex-Curé_. I have lived through the Revolution... and may have partaken of some of its irregularities, rather, I should hope than of its atrocities. In the general hue-and-cry for reform, I thought that our church was capable of very great improvement, and I think so still. The part I took was influenced by conscientious motives, rather than by a blind and vehement love of reform;... but it has never been forgiven or forgotten. The established clergy of the place do not associate with me; but I care not a farthing for that--since I have here (pointing to his books) the very best society in the world. It was from the persuasion of the clergy having a constantly-fixed eye upon me, that I told you I was watched ... when walking near the precincts of the cathedral. I had been seeking you during the whole of the office of ordination." In reply to my question about his _archaeological_ researches, he said he was then occupied in writing a disquisition upon the _Bayeux Tapestry_, in which he should prove that the Abbé de la Rue was wrong in considering it as a performance of the XIIth century. "He is your great antiquarian oracle"--observed I. "He has an over-rated reputation"--replied he--"and besides, he is too hypothetical." Monsieur ---- promised to send me a copy of his dissertation, when printed; and then let our friend N---- be judge "in the matter of the Bayeux Tapestry." From the open windows of this hermitage, into which the branches absolutely thrust themselves, I essayed, but in vain, to survey the surrounding country; and concluded a visit of nearly two hours, in a manner the most gratifying imaginable to honest feelings. A melancholy, mysterious air, seemed yet, however, to mark this amiable stranger, which had not been quite cleared up by the account he had given of himself. "Be assured (said he, at parting) that I will see you again, and that every facility shall be afforded you in the examination of the Bayeux Tapestry. I have an uncle who is an efficient member of the corporation." On my way homeward from this ramble, I called again upon M. Pluquet, an apothecary by profession, but a book lover and a book vender[142] in his heart. The scene was rather singular. Below, was his _Pharmacopeia_; above were his bed-room and books; with a broken antique or two, in the court-yard, and in the passage leading to it. My first visit had been hasty, and only as a whetter to the second. Yet I contrived to see from a visitor, who was present, the desirable MS. of the vulgar poetry of OLIVIER BASSELIN, of which I made mention to M.----. The same stranger was again present. We all quietly left the drugs below for drugs of a different description above--books being called by the ancients, you know, the "MEDICINE OF THE SOUL." We mounted into the bed-room. M. Pluquet now opened his bibliomaniacal battery upon us. "Gentlemen you see, in this room, all the treasures in the world I possess: my wife--my child--my books--my antiquities. "Yes, gentlemen, these are my treasures. I am enthusiastic, even to madness, in the respective pursuits into which the latter branch out; but my means are slender--and my aversion to my _business_ is just about in proportion to my fondness for _books_. Examine, gentlemen, and try your fortunes." I scarcely needed such a rhetorical incitement: but alas! the treasures of M. Pluquet were not of a nature quite to make one's fortune. I contrived, with great difficulty, to pick out something of a _recherché_ kind; and expended a napoleon upon some scarce little grammatical tracts, chiefly Greek, printed by Stephen at Paris, and by Hervagius at Basil: among the latter was the _Bellum grammaticale_ of E. Hessus. M. Pluquet wondered at my rejecting the folios, and sticking so closely to the duodecimos; but had he shewn me a good _Verard Romance_ or a _Eustace Froissart_, he would have found me as alert in running away with the one as the other. I think he is really the most enthusiastic book-lover I have ever seen: certainly as a Bibliopolist. We concluded a very animated conversation on all sides: and upon the whole, this was one of the most variously and satisfactorily spent days of my "voyage bibliographique." On the morrow, the mysterious and amiable M. ---- was with me betimes. He said he had brought a _basket of books_, from his hermitage, which he had left at a friend's house, and he entreated me to come and examine them. In the mean while, I had had not only a peep at the Tapestry, but an introduction to the mayor, who is chief magistrate for life: a very Cæsar in miniature. He received me stiffly, and appeared at first rather a priggish sort of a gentleman; observing that "my countryman, Mr. STOTHARD,[143] had been already there for six months, upon the same errand, and what could I want further?" A short reply served to convince him "that it would be no abuse of an extended indulgence if he would allow another English artist to make a fac-simile of a different description, from a very small portion only."[144] I now called upon the Abbé Fétit, with a view to gain admission to the _Chapter Library_, but he was from home--dining with the Bishop. In consequence, I went to the palace, and wrote a note in pencil to the Bishop at the porter's lodge, mentioning the name of M. Lair, and the object of my visit. The porter observed that they had just sat down to dinner--but would I call at three? It seemed an age to that hour; but at length three o'clock came, and I was punctual to the minute. I was immediately admitted into the premises, and even the large mastiff seemed to know that I was not an unexpected visitor--for he neither growled, nor betrayed any symptoms of uneasiness. In my way to the audience chamber I saw the crosier and robes which the Bishop had worn the preceding day, at the ceremony of ordination, lying picturesquely upon the table. The audience chamber was rather elegant, adorned with Gobeleins tapestry, quite fresh, and tolerably expressive: and while my eyes were fastened upon two figures enacting the parts of an Arcadian shepherd and shepherdess, a servant came in and announced the approach of MONSEIGNEUR l'EVEQUE. I rose in a trice to meet him, between doubt and apprehension as to the result. The Bishop entered with a sort of body-guard; being surrounded by six or seven canons who had been dining with him, and who peeped at me over his shoulder in a very significant manner. The flush of good cheer was visible in their countenances--but for their Diocesan, I must say that he is even more interesting on a familiar view. He wore a close purple dress, buttoned down the middle from top to bottom. A cross hung upon his breast. His countenance had lost nothing of its expression by the absence of the mitre, and he was gracious even to loquacity. I am willing to hope that I was equally prudent and brief in the specification of the object I had in view. My request was as promptly as it was courteously granted. "You will excuse my attending you in person; (said the Bishop) but I will instantly send for the Abbé Fétit, who is our librarian; and who will have nothing to do but to wait upon you, and facilitate your researches." He then dispatched a messenger for the Abbé Fétit, who quickly arrived with two more trotting after him--and enlivened by the jingling music of the library keys, which were dangling from the Abbé's fingers, I quickened my steps towards the Chapter Library. We were no sooner fairly within the library, than I requested my chief conductor to give me a brief outline of its history. "Willingly" he replied. "This library, the remains of a magnificent collection, of from 30, to 40,000 volumes, was originally placed in the Chapter-house, hard by. Look through the window to your left, and you will observe the ruins of that building. We have here about 5000 volumes: but the original collection consisted of the united libraries of defunct, and even of living, clergymen--for, during the revolution, the clergy, residing both in town and country, conveyed their libraries to the Chapter-house, as a protection against private pillage. Well! in that same Chapter-house, the books, thus collected, were piled one upon another, in layers, flat upon the floor--reaching absolutely, to the cieling ... and for ten long years not a creature ventured to introduce a key into the library door. The windows also were rigidly kept shut. At length the Revolutionists wanted lead for musket balls, and they unroofed the chapter-house with their usual dexterity. Down came the rain upon the poor books, in consequence; and when M. Moysant received the orders of government to examine this library, and to take away as many books as he wanted for the public library at Caen... he was absolutely horror-struck by the obstacles which presented themselves. From the close confinement of every door and window, for ten years, the rank and fetid odour which issued, was intolerable. For a full fortnight every door and window was left open for ventilation, ere M. Moysant could begin his work of selection. He selected about 5000 volumes only; but the infuriated Revolutionists, on his departure, wantonly plundered and destroyed a prodigious number of the remainder ... "et enfin (concluded he) vous voyez, Monsieur, ce qu'ils nous out laissé." You will give me credit for having listened to every word of such a tale. The present library, which is on the first floor, is apparently about twenty-five feet square. The Abbé made me observe the XIIIth. volume of the _Gallia Christiana_,[145] in boards, remarking that "it was of excessive rarity;" but I doubt this. On shewing me the famous volume of _Sanctius_ or _Sanches de Matrimonio Sacramentario_, 1607, folio, the Abbé observed--"that the author wrote it, standing with his bare feet upon marble." I was well pleased with a pretty _illuminated ms. Missal_, in a large thick quarto volume, with borders and pictures in good condition; but did not fail to commend right heartily the proper bibliomaniacal spirit of M. Fétit in having kept concealed the second volume of _Gering's Latin Bible_--being the first impression of the sacred text in France--when M. Moysant came armed with full powers to carry off what treasures he pleased. No one knows what has become of the first volume, but this second is cruelly imperfect--it is otherwise a fair copy. Upon the whole, although it is almost a matter of _conscience_, as well as of character, with me, to examine every thing in the shape of a library, and especially of a public one, yet it must be admitted that the collection under consideration is hardly worthy of a second visit: and accordingly I took both a first and a final view of it. From the Chapter I went to the COLLEGE LIBRARY. In other words, there is a fine public school, or Lycée, or college, where a great number of lads and young men are educated "according to art." The building is extensive and well-situated: the play-ground is large and commodious; and there is a well-cultivated garden "tempting with forbidden fruit." Into this garden I strolled in search of the President of the College, who was not within doors. I found him in company with some of the masters, and with several young men either playing, or about to play, at skittles. On communicating the object of my visit, he granted me an immediate passport to the library--"mais, Monsieur, (added he) ce n'est rien: il y avoit autrefois _quelque chose_: maintenant, ce n'est qu'un amas de livres très communs." I thanked him, and accompanied the librarian to the Library; who absolutely apologized all the way for the little entertainment I should receive. There was indeed little enough. The room may be about eighteen feet square. Of the books, a great portion was in vellum bindings, in wretched condition. Here was _Jay's Polyglot_, and the matrimonial _Sanctius_ again! There was a very respectable sprinkling of _Spanish and French Dictionaries_; some few not wholly undesirable _Alduses_; and the rare Louvain edition of _Sir Thomas More's Works_, printed in 1566, folio.[146] I saw too, with horror-mingled regret, a frightfully imperfect copy of the _Service of Bayeux Cathedral_, printed in the Gothic letter, UPON VELLUM. But the great curiosity is a small brass or bronze crucifix, about nine inches high, standing upon the mantlepiece; very ancient, from the character of the crown, which savours of the latter period of Roman art--and which is the only crown, bereft of thorns, that I ever saw upon the head of our Saviour so represented. The eyes appear to be formed of a bright brown glass. Upon the whole, as this is not a book, nor a fragment of an old illumination, I will say nothing more about its age. I was scarcely three quarters of an hour in the library; but was fully sensible of the politeness of my attendant, and of the truth of his prediction, that I should receive little entertainment from an examination of the books. It is high time that you should be introduced in proper form to the famous BAYEUX TAPESTRY. Know then, in as few words as possible, that this celebrated piece of Tapestry represents chiefly the INVASION OF ENGLAND by WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR, and the subsequent death of Harold at the battle of Hastings. It measures about 214 English feet in length, by about nineteen inches in width; and is supposed to have been worked under the particular superintendance and direction of Matilda, the wife of the Conqueror. It was formerly exclusively kept and exhibited in the Cathedral; but it is now justly retained in the Town Hall, and treasured as the most precious relic among the archives of the city. There is indeed every reason to consider it as one of the most valuable historical monuments which France possesses. It has also given rise to a great deal of archaeological discussion. Montfaucon, Ducarel, and De La Rue, have come forward successively--but more especially the first and last: and Montfaucon in particular has favoured the world with copper-plate representations of the whole. Montfaucon's plates are generally much too small: and the more enlarged ones are too ornamental. It is right, first of all, that you should have an idea how this piece of tapestry is preserved, or rolled up. You see it here, therefore, precisely as it appears after the person who shews it, takes off the cloth with which it is usually covered. [Illustration] The first portion of the needle-work, representing the embassy of Harold, from Edward the Confessor to William Duke of Normandy, is comparatively much defaced--that is to say, the stitches are worn away, and little more than the ground, or fine close linen cloth, remains. It is not far from the beginning--and where the colour is fresh, and the stitches are, comparatively, preserved--that you observe the PORTRAIT OF HAROLD.[147] You are to understand that the stitches, if they may be so called, are threads laid side by side--and bound down at intervals by cross stitches, or fastenings--upon rather a fine linen cloth; and that the parts intended to represent _flesh_ are left untouched by the needle. I obtained a few straggling shreds of the _worsted_ with which it is Worked. The colours are generally a faded or bluish green, crimson, and pink. About the last five feet of this extraordinary roll are in a yet more decayed and imperfect state than the first portion. But the designer of the subject, whoever he was, had an eye throughout to Roman art--as it appeared in its later stages. The folds of the draperies, and the proportions of the figures, are executed with this feeling. I must observe that, both at top and at bottom of the principal subject, there is a running allegorical ornament;[148] of which I will not incur the presumption to suppose myself a successful interpreter. The constellations, and the symbols of agriculture and of rural occupation, form the chief subjects of this running ornament. All the inscriptions are executed in capital letters of about an inch in length; and upon the whole, whether this extraordinary and invaluable relic be of the latter end of the XIth, or of the beginning or middle of the XIIth century[149] seems to me a matter of rather a secondary consideration. That it is at once _unique_ and important, must be considered as a position to be neither doubted nor denied, I have learnt, even here, of what importance this tapestry-roll was considered in the time of Bonaparte's threatened invasion of our country: and that, after displaying it at Paris for two or three months, to awaken the curiosity and excite the love of conquest among the citizens, it was conveyed to one or two _sea-port_ towns, and exhibited upon the stage as a most important _materiel_ in dramatic effect.[150] I think you have now had a pretty good share of Bayeux intelligence; only that I ought not to close my despatches without a word or two relating to habits, manners, trade, and population. This will scarcely occupy a page. The men and women here are thoroughly Norman. Stout bodies, plump countenances, wooden shoes, and the cauchoise--even to exceedingly _tall copies_ of the latter! The population may run hard upon ten thousand. The chief articles of commerce are _butter_ and _lace_. Of the former, there are two sorts: one, delicate and well flavoured, is made during winter and spring; put up into small pots, and carried from hence in huge paniers, not only to all the immediately adjacent parts of the country, but even to Paris--and is shipped in large quantities for the colonies. They have made as much as 120,000 lb. weight each season; but _Isigny_, a neighbouring village, is rather the chief place for its production. The other sort of butter, which is eaten by the common people, and which in fact is made throughout the whole of Lower Normandy, (the very butter, in short, in which the huge _alose_ was floating in the pot of the lively cuisiniere at Duclair[151]) is also chiefly made at Isigny; but instead of a delicate tint, and a fine flavour, it is very much the contrary: and the mode of making and transporting it accords with its qualities. It is salted, and packed in large pots, and even barrels, for the sake of exportation; and not less than 50,000 lb. weight is made each week. The whole profit arising from butter has been estimated at not less than two millions of francs: add to which, the circulation of specie kept up by the payment of the workmen, and the purchase of salt. As to _lace_, there are scarcely fewer than three thousand females constantly employed in the manufacture of that article. The mechanics here, at least some of them, are equally civil and ingenious. In a shop, in the high or principal street, I saw an active carpenter, who had lost the fore finger of his right hand, hard at work--alternately whistling and singing--over a pretty piece of ornamental furniture in wood. It was the full face of a female, with closely curled hair over the forehead, surmounted by a wreath of flowers, having side curls, necklace, and platted hair. The whole was carved in beech, and the form and expression of the countenance were equally correct and pleasing. This merry fellow had a man or two under him, but he worked double tides, compared with his dependants. I interrupted him singing a French air, perfectly characteristic of the taste of his country. The title and song were thus: TOU JOURS. TOUJOURS, toujours, je te serai fidèle; Disait Adolphe à chaque instant du jour; Toujours, toujours je t'aimerai, ma belle, Je veux le dire aux échos d'alentour; Je graverai sur l'écorce d'un hètre, Ce doux serment que le dieu des amours, Vient me dieter, en me faisant connaître; Que mon bonheur est de t'aimer toujours. _Bis_. Toujours, toujours, lui répondit Adèle, Tu régneras dans le fond de mon coeur; Toujours, toujours, comme une tourterelle, Je promets bien t'aimer avec ardeur; Je pense à toi quand le soleil se lève, J'y pense encore à la tin de son cours; Dans le sommeil si quelquefois je reve, C'est au bonheur de te chérir toujours. He was a carver on wainscoat wood: and if I would give myself "la peine d'entrer," he would shew me all sorts of curiosities. I secured a favourable reception, by purchasing the little ornament upon which he was at work--for a napoleon. I followed the nimble mechanic (ci-devant a soldier in Bonaparte's campaigns, from whence he dated the loss of his finger) through a variety of intricate passages below and up stairs; and saw, above, several excellently well finished pieces of furniture, for drawers or clothes-presses, in wainscoat wood:--the outsides of which were carved sometimes with clustered roses, surrounding a pair of fond doves; or with representations of Cupids, sheep, bows and arrows, and the various _emblemata_ of the tender passion. They would have reminded you of the old pieces of furniture which you found in your grandfather's mansion, upon taking possession of your estate: and indeed are of themselves no despicable ornaments in their way. I was asked from eight to twelve napoleons for one of these pieces of massive and elaborately carved furniture, some six or seven feet in height. In all other respects, this is a town deserving of greater antiquarian research than appears to have been bestowed upon it; and I cannot help thinking that its ancient ecclesiastical history is more interesting than is generally imagined. In former days the discipline and influence of its See seem to have been felt and acknowledged throughout nearly the whole of Normandy. Adieu. In imagination, the spires of COUTANCES CATHEDRAL begin to peep in the horizon. [141] [Mr. Cotman has an excellent engraving of it.] [142] He has since established himself at Paris, near the Luxembourg palace, as a _bookseller_; and it is scarcely three months since I received a letter from him, in which he told me that he could no longer resist the more powerful impulses of his heart--and that the phials of physic were at length abandoned for the volumes of Verard and of Gourmont. My friend, Mr. Dawson Turner, who knew him at Bayeux, has purchased books of him at Paris. [The preceding in 1820.] [143] Mr. Stothard, Jun. See page 221 ante. Mr. S's own account of the tapestry may be seen in the XIXth volume of the Archæologia. It is brief, perspicuous, and satisfactory. His fac-simile is one half the size of the original; executed with great neatness and fidelity; but probably the touches are a _little_ too artist-like or masterly. [144] [The facsimile of that portion of the tapestry which is supposed to be a portrait of Harold, and which Mr. Lewis, who travelled with me, executed, is perhaps of its kind, one of the most perfect things extant. In saying this, I only deliver the opinions of very many competent judges. It must however be noticed, that the Society of Antiquaries published the whole series of this exceedingly curious and ancient Representation of the Conquest of our Country by William I. Of this publication, the figures measure about four inches in height: but there is also a complete, and exceedingly successful fac-simile of the first two figures of this series--of the size of the originals (William I. and the Messenger coming to announce to him the landing of Harold in England) also published from the same quarter. The whole of these Drawings were from the pencil of the late ingenious and justly lamented THOS. STOTHARD, Esq. Draftsman to the Society of Antiquaries.] [145] A complete copy is of rarity in our own country, but not so abroad. It is yet, however, an imperfect work. [146] There have been bibliographers, and there are yet knowing book-collectors, who covet this edition in preference to the Leipsic impression of Sir T. More's Works of 1698; in folio. But this must proceed from sheer obstinacy; or rather, perhaps, from ignorance that the latter edition contains the _Utopia_--whereas in the former it is unaccountably omitted to be reprinted--which it might have been, from various previous editions. [147] This figure is introduced with pursuivants and dogs: but great liberties, as a nice eye will readily discern, have been taken by Montfaucon, when compared with the original--of which the fac-simile, in the previous edition of this work, may be pronounced to be PERFECT. [148] Something similar may be seen round the border of the baptismal vase of St. Louis, in Millin's _Antiquités Nationales_. A part of the border in the Tapestry is a representation of subjects from Aesop's Fables. [149] Of a monument, which has been pronounced by one of our ablest antiquaries to be "THE NOBLEST IN THE WORLD RELATING TO OUR OLD ENGLISH HISTORY," (See _Stukely's Palæog. Britan._ Number XI. 1746, 4to. p. 2-3) it may be expected that some archæological discussion should be here subjoined. Yet I am free to confess that, after the essays of Messrs. Gurney, Stothard, and Amyot, (and more especially that of the latter gentleman) the matter--as to the period of its execution--may be considered as well nigh, if not wholly, at rest. These essays appear in the XVIIIth and XIXth volumes of the Archæologia. The Abbé de la Rue contended that this Tapestry was worked in the time of the second Matilda, or the Empress Maud, which would bring it to the earlier part of the XIIth century. The antiquaries above mentioned contend, with greater probability, that it is a performance of the period which it professes to commemorate; namely, of the defeat of Harold at the battle of Hastings, and consequently of the acquiring of the Crown of England, by conquest, on the part of William. This latter therefore brings it to the period of about 1066, to 1088--so that, after all, the difference of opinion is only whether this Tapestry be fifty years older or younger, than the respective advocates contend. But the most copious, particular, and in my humble judgment the most satisfactory, disquisition upon the date of this singular historical monument, is entitled, "_A Defence of the early Antiquity of the Bayeux Tapestry_," by Thomas Amyot, Esq. immediately following Mr. Stothard's communication, in the work just referred to. It is at direct issue with all the hypotheses of the Abbé de la Rue, and in my opinion the results are triumphantly established. Whether the _Normans_ or the _English_ worked it, is perfectly a secondary consideration. The chief objections, taken by the Abbé, against its being a production of the XIth century, consist in, first, its not being mentioned among the treasures possessed by the Conqueror at his decease:--secondly, that, if the Tapestry were deposited in the church, it must have suffered, if not have been annihilated, at the storming of Bayeux and the destruction of the Cathedral by fire in the reign of Henry I., A.D. 1106:--thirdly, the silence of _Wace_ upon the subject,--who wrote his metrical histories nearly a century after the Tapestry is supposed to have been executed." The latter is chiefly insisted upon by the learned Abbé; who, which ever champion come off victorious in this archæological warfare, must at any rate receive the best thanks of the antiquary for the methodical and erudite manner in which he has conducted his attacks. At the first blush it cannot fail to strike us that the Abbé de la Rue's positions are all of a _negative_ character; and that, according to the strict rules of logic, it must not be admitted, that because such and such writers have _not_ noticed a circumstance, therefore that circumstance or event cannot have taken place. The first two grounds of objection have, I think, been fairly set aside by Mr. Amyot. As to the third objection, Mr. A. remarks--"But it seems that Wace has not only _not_ quoted the tapestry, but has varied from it in a manner which proves that he had never seen it. The instances given of this variation are, however, a little unfortunate. The first of them is very unimportant, for the difference merely consists in placing a figure at the _stern_ instead of the _prow_ of a ship, and in giving him a bow instead of a trumpet. From an authority quoted by the Abbé himself, it appears that, with regard to this latter fact, the Tapestry was right, and Wace was wrong; and thus an argument is unintentionally furnished in favour of the superior antiquity of the Tapestry. The second instance of variation, namely, that relating to Taillefer's sword, may be easily dismissed; since, after all, it now appears, from Mr. Stothard's examination, that neither Taillefer nor his sword is to be found in the Tapestry," &c. But it is chiefly from the names of ÆLFGYVA and WADARD, inscribed over some of the figures, that I apprehend the conclusion in favour of the Tapestry's being nearly a contemporaneous production, may be safely drawn. It is quite clear that these names belong to persons living when the work was in progress, or within the recollection of the workers, and that they were attached to persons of some particular note or celebrity, or rather perhaps of _local_ importance. An eyewitness, or a contemporary only would have introduced them. They would not have lived in the memory of a person, whether mechanic or historian, who lived a _century_ after the event. No antiquary has yet fairly appropriated these names, and more especially the second. It follows therefore that they would not have been introduced had they not been in existence at the time; and in confirmation of that of WADARD, it seems that Mr. Henry Ellis (Secretary of the Society of Antiquaries) "confirmed Mr. Amyot's conjecture on that subject, by the references with which he furnished him to _Domesday Book_, where his name occurs in no less than six counties, as holding lands of large extent under _Odo_, Bishop of Bayeux, the tenant in capite of those properties from the crown. That he was not a _guard_ or _centinel,_ as the Abbé de la Rue supposes, but that he held an _office of rank_ in the household of either William or Odo, seems now decided beyond a doubt." Mr. Amyot thus spiritedly concludes:--alluding to the successful completion of Mr. Stothard's copy of the entire original roll.--"Yet if the BAYEUX TAPESTRY be not history of the first class, it is perhaps something better. It exhibits general traits, elsewhere sought in vain, of the costume and manners of that age, which, of all others, if we except the period of the Reformation, ought to be the most interesting to us;--that age, which gave us a new race of monarchs, bringing with them new landholders, new laws, and almost a new language." Mr. Amyot has subjoined a specimen of his own poetical powers in describing "the Minstrel TAILLEFER'S achievements," in the battle of Hastings, from the old Norman lays of GAIMAR and WACE. I can only find room for the first few verses. The poem is entitled, THE ONSET OF TAILLEFER. Foremost in the bands of France, Arm'd with hauberk and with lance, And helmet glittering in the air, As if a warrior knight he were, Rush'd forth the MINSTREL TAILLEFER Borne on his courser swift and strong, He gaily bounded o'er the plain, And raised the heart-inspiring song (Loud echoed by the warlike throng) Of _Roland_ and of _Charlemagne_, Of _Oliver_, brave peer of old, Untaught to fly, unknown to yield, And many a Knight and Vassal bold, Whose hallowed blood, in crimson flood, Dyed _Roncevalle's_ field. [150] M. Denon told me, in one of my visits to him at Paris, that by the commands of Bonaparte, he was charged with the custody of this Tapestry for three months; that it was displayed in due form and ceremony in the Museum; and that after having taken a hasty sketch of it, (which he admitted could not be considered as very faithful) he returned it to Bayeux--as it was considered to be the peculiar property of that place. [151] See p. 109 ante. LETTER XVI. BAYEUX TO COUTANCES. ST. LO. THE CATHEDRAL OF COUTANCES. ENVIRONS. AQUEDUCT. MARKET-DAY. PUBLIC LIBRARY. ESTABLISHMENT FOR THE CLERGY. I send you this despatch close to the very Cathedral, whose spires, while yet at Bayeux, were already glimmering in the horizon of my imagination. The journey hither has been in every respect the most beautiful and interesting that I have experienced on _this_ side the Seine. I have seen something like undulating pasture-lands, wooded hills, meandering streams, and well-peopled villages; and an air of gaiety and cheerfulness, as well as the charm of picturesque beauty, has accompanied me from one cathedral to the other. I left the _Hôtel de Luxembourg_, at Bayeux, in a hired cabriolet with a pair of horses, about five in the afternoon, pushing on, at a smart trot, for ST. LO: which latter place I entered by moon-light. The road, as usual, was broad and bold, and at times undulating; flanked by beech, elm, and fir. As I just observed to you, I entered St. Lo by moon-light: the double towers of the great cathedral-like looking church having a grand and even romantic effect on approaching the town. An old castle, or rather a mere round-tower relic of one, appeared to the left, upon entering it. Passing the porch, or west end of the church, sometimes descending, at others ascending--midst close streets and overhanging roofs of houses, which cast a deep and solemn shadow, so as to shut out the moon beams for several hundred yards--and pursuing a winding route, I at length stopped at the door of the principal hôtel--_au Grand Coq!_ I laughed heartily when I heard its name; for with the strictest adherence to truth the adjective ought to have been _petit!_ However, the beds seemed to be in good order, and the coffee, with which I was quickly served, proved to be excellent. I strolled out, on a _reconnoissance_, about half-past nine; but owing to the deep shadows from the moon, arising from the narrowness of the streets, I could make out nothing satisfactory of the locale. The church, however, promised a rich treat on the morrow. As soon as the morrow came, I betook myself to the church. It was Sunday morning. The square, before the west front of the church, was the rendezvous both of townsmen and countryfolks: but what was my astonishment on observing in one corner of it, a quack doctor vending powder for the effectual _polishing of metals_. He had just beaten his drum, in order to collect his audience; and having got a good assemblage, was full of the virtues of his wares--which were pronounced to be also "equally efficacious for _complaints in the stomach!_" This man had been preceded, in the situation which he occupied, by a rival charlatan, on horseback, with _powders to kill rats_. The latter stood upon the same eminence, wearing a hat, jacket, and trowsers, all white--upon which were painted _black rats_ of every size and description; and in his harangue to the populace he took care to tell them that the rats, painted upon his dress, were _exact portraits_ of those which had been destroyed by means of his powders! This, too, on a Sunday morning. But remember Dieppe.[152] Having despatched my breakfast, I proceeded to survey the church, from which the town takes its name. First, for the exterior. The _attached_ towers demand attention and admiration. They are so slightly attached as to be almost separated from the body or nave; forming something of that particular character which obtains more decidedly at the cathedral of Coutances. I am not sure whether this portion of the church at St. Lo be not preferable, on the score of regularity and delicacy, to the similar portion at this latter place. The west front is indeed its chief beauty of exterior attraction; and it was once rendered doubly interesting by a profusion of alto-rilievo statues, which _disappeared_ during the commotions of the revolution. You ascend rather a lofty flight of steps to this entrance; and into which the whole town seemed to be pouring the full tide of its population. I suffered myself to be carried away along, with the rest, and almost startled as I entered the nave.[153] To the left, is a horribly-painted statue of the Virgin, with the child in her arms. The countenance is even as ugly, old, and repulsive, as the colouring is most despicable. I never saw such a daub: and what emotions, connected with tenderness of feeling, or ardour of devotion, can the contemplation of such an object excite? Surely the parish must have lost its wits, as well as its taste, to endure such a monstrous exhibition of art. As I advanced towards the choir, I took especial notice of the very singular, and in my opinion very ugly, formation both of the pillars and arches which sustain the roof. These pillars have _no capitals_, and the arch springs from them in the most abrupt manner. The arch itself is also very short and sharp pointed; like the tops of lancet windows. This mode obtains pretty generally here; but it should be noted that, in the right side aisle, the pillars have capitals. There is something unusual also in the row of pillars which spring up, flanking the choir, half way between the walls of the choir and the outward wall of the church. Nor am I sure that, destitute of a graceful, superadded arch, such massive perpendicular lines have either meaning or effect. Whether St. Lo were the _first_ church upon which the architect, who built both _that_ and the cathedral at _Coutances_, tried his talents--or whether, indeed, both churches be the effort of the same hand--I cannot pretend to determine; but, both outwardly and inwardly, these two churches have a strong resemblance to each other. Like many other similar buildings in France, the church of St. Lo is closely blocked up by surrounding houses. I prepared to leave St. Lo about mid-day, after agreeing for a large heavy machine, with a stout pair of horses, to conduct me to this place. There are some curious old houses near the inn, with exterior ornaments like those of the XVIth century, in our own country. But on quitting the town, in the road to Coutances,--after you come to what are called the old castle walls, on passing the outer gate--your eye is struck by rather an extraordinary combination of objects. The town itself seems to be built upon a rock. Above, below, every thing appears like huge scales of iron; while, at the bottom, in a serpentine direction, runs the peaceful and fruitful river _Aure_.[154] The country immediately around abounds in verdant pasture, and luxuriantly wooded heights. Upon the whole, our sortie from St. Lo, beneath a bright blue sky and a meridian sun, was extremely cheerful and gratifying. A hard road (but bold and broad, as usual) soon convinced me of the uncomfortableness of the conveyance; which, though roomy, and of rather respectable appearance, wanted springs: but the increasing beauty of the country, kept my attention perfectly occupied, till the beautiful cathedral, of COUTANCES caught my notice, on an elevated ground, to the left. The situation is truly striking, gaze from what quarter you will. From that of St. Lo, the immediate approach to the town is rendered very interesting from the broad _route royale_, lined with birch, hazel, and beech. The delicacy, or perhaps the peculiarity of the western towers of the cathedral, struck me as singularly picturesque; while the whole landscape was warmed by the full effulgence of an unclouded sun, and animated by the increasing numbers and activity of the _paysannes_ and _bourgeoises_ mingling in their sabbath-walks. Their bright dark _blues_ and _crimsons_ were put on upon the occasion; and nought but peace, tranquillity, and fruitfulness seemed to prevail on all sides. It was a scene wherein you might have placed Arcadian shepherds--worthy of being copied-by the pencil of Claude. We entered the town at a sharp trot. The postilion, flourishing his whip, and causing its sound to re-echo through the principal street, upon an ascent, drove to the chief inn, the _Hôtel d'Angleterre_, within about one hundred yards of the cathedral. Vespers were just over; and I shall not readily forget the rush and swarm of the clergy who were pouring out, from the north door, and covering the street with one extensive black mass. There could not have been fewer than two hundred young Ecclesiastics--thus returning from vespers to their respective homes; or rather to the College, or great clerical establishment, in the neighbourhood. This College, which has suffered from violence and neglect, through the revolution and Bonaparte's dynasty, is now beginning to raise its head in a very distinguished and commanding manner. It was a singular sight--to see such a crowd of young men, wearing cocked hats, black robes, and black bands with white edging! The women were all out in the streets; sitting before their doors, or quietly lounging or walking. The afternoon was indeed unusually serene. I ordered a late dinner, and set out for the cathedral. It was impossible to visit it at a more favorable moment. The congregation had departed; and a fine warm sun darted its rays in every surrounding direction. As I looked around, I could not fail to be struck with the singular arrangement of the columns round the choir: or rather of the double aisle between the choir and the walls, as at St. Lo; but here yet more distinctly marked. For a wonder, an _unpainted_ Virgin and child in Our Lady's chapel, behind the choir! There is nothing, I think, in the interior of this church that merits particular notice and commendation, except it be some beautifully-stained glass windows; with the arms, however, of certain noble families, and the regal arms (as at Bayeux) obliterated. There is a deep well in the north transept, to supply the town with water in case of fire. The pulpit is large and handsome; but not so magnificent as that at Bayeux. The organ is comparatively small. Perhaps the thirteenth century is a period sufficiently remote to assign for the completion of the interior of this church, for I cannot subscribe to the hypothesis of the Abbé de la Rue, that this edifice was probably erected by Tancred King of Sicily at the end of the eleventh, or at the beginning of the twelfth century. The exterior of this Church is indeed its chief attraction.[155] Unquestionably the style of architecture is very peculiar, and does not, as far as I know, extend beyond St. Lo, in Normandy. My great object was to mount upon the roof of the central tower, which is octagonal, containing fine lofty lancet windows, and commanding from its summit a magnificent panorama. Another story, one half the height of the present erection from the roof of the nave, would put a glorious finish to the central tower of NOTRE DAME at COUTANCES. As I ascended this central tower, I digressed occasionally into the lateral galleries along the aisles. To look down, was somewhat terrific; but who could help bewailing the wretched, rotten, green-tinted appearance of the roof of the north aisle?--which arose here, as at Bayeux, from its being stripped of the lead (during the Revolution) to make _bullets_--and from the rain's penetrating the interior in consequence. As I continued to ascend, I looked through the apertures to notice the fine formation and almost magical erection of the lancet windows of the western towers: and the higher I mounted, the more beautiful and magical seemed to be that portion of the building. At length I reached the summit; and concentrating myself a little, gazed around. The view was lovely beyond measure. Coutances lies within four miles of the sea, so that to the west and south there appeared an immense expanse of ocean. On the opposite points was an extensive landscape, well-wooded, undulating, rich, and thickly studded with farm-houses. _Jersey_ appeared to the north-west, quite encircled by the sea; and nearly to the south, stood out the bold insulated little rock of _Granville_, defying the eternal washing of the wave. Such a view is perhaps no where else to be seen in Normandy; certainly not from any ecclesiastical edifice with which I am acquainted. The sun was now declining apace, which gave a wanner glow to the ocean, and a richer hue to the landscape. It is impossible to particularize. All was exquisitely refreshing and joyous. The heart beats with a fuller pulsation as the eye darts over such an expansive and exhilarating scene! Spring was now clad in her deepest-coloured vesture: and a prospect of a fine summer and an abundant harvest infused additional delight into the beholder. Immediately below, stood the insulated and respectable mansion or Palace of _the Bishop_; in the midst of a formal garden--begirt with yet more formally clipt hedges. As the Prelate bore a good character, I took a pleasure in gazing upon the roof which contained an inhabitant capable of administering so much good to the community. In short, I shall always remember the view from the top of the central tower of the cathedral of Coutances! I quitted such a spot with reluctance; but time was flying away, and the patience of the cuisinier at the Hôtel d'Angleterre had already been put somewhat to the test. In twenty minutes I sat down to my dinner, in a bed-room, of which the furniture was chiefly of green silk. The females, even in the humblest walks, have generally fine names; and _Victorina_ was that of the fille de chambre at the Hôtel d'Angleterre. After dinner I walked upon what may be called the heights of Coutances; and a more delightful evening's walk I never enjoyed. The women of every description--ladies, housekeepers, and servant maids--were all abroad; either sitting upon benches, or standing in gossiping groups, or straying in friendly pairs. The comeliness of the women was remarkable; a certain freshness of tint, and prevalence of the embonpoint, reminded me of those of our own country; and among the latter, I startled--as I gazed upon a countenance which afforded but too vivid a resemblance to that of a deceased relation! Certainly the Norman women are no where more comely and interesting than they are at Coutances. The immediate environs of this place are beautiful and interesting: visit them in what direction you please. But there is nothing which so immediately strikes you as the remains of an _ancient Aqueduct_; gothicised at the hither end, but with three or four circular arches at the further extremity, where it springs from the opposite banks. Fine as was yesterday, this day has not been inferior to it. I was of course glad of an opportunity of visiting the market, and of mingling with the country people. The boulevards afforded an opportunity of accomplishing both these objects. Corn is a great article of trade; and they have noble granaries for depositing it. Apparently there is a great conflux of people, and much business stirring. I quickly perceived, in the midst of this ever-moving throng, my old friend the vender of rat-destroying powders--busied in the exercise of his calling, and covered with his usual vestment of white, spotted or painted with black rats. He found plenty of hearers and plenty of purchasers. All was animation and bustle. In the midst of it, a man came forward to the edge of a bank--below which a great concourse was assembled. He beat a drum, to announce that a packet boat, would sail to Jersey in the course of the afternoon; but the people seemed too intent upon their occupations and gambols to attend to him. I sat upon a bench and read one of the little chap books--_Richard sans peur_--which I had purchased the same morning. While absorbed in reflections upon the heterogeneous scene before me--and wishing, for some of my dearest friends in England to be also spectators of it--the notes of an hand-organ more and more distinctly stole upon my ear. They were soft; and even pleasing notes. On looking round, I observed that the musician preceded a person, who carried aloft a Virgin, with the infant Jesus, in wax; and who, under such a sign, exhorted the multitude to approach and buy his book-wares. I trust I was too thorough-bred a _Roxburgher_ to remain quiet on the bench: and accordingly starting up, and extending two sous, I became the fortunate purchaser of a little _chap_ article--of which my friend BERNARDO will for ever, I fear, envy me the possession! The vender of the tome sang through his nose, as the organ warbled the following _Cantique Spirituelle_. EN L'HONNEUR DU TRÈS-SAINT SACREMENT, _Qui est exposé dans la grande Eglise cathédrale de St. Pierre et St. Paul de Rome, pour implorer la miséricorde de Dieu_. Air: du Théodore Français. APPROCHEZ-VOUS, Chrétiens fidèles, Afin d'entendre réciter: Ecoutez tous avec un grand zèle, Avec ferveur et piété, Le voeu que nous avons fait, D'aller au grand Saint Jacques; Grace à Dieu nous l'avons accompli, Pour l'amour de Jésus Christ. Dieu créa le ciel et la terre, Les astres et le firmament; Il fit la brillante lumière, Ainsi que tous les autres élémens, Il a tiré tout du néant, Ce qui respire sur la terre: Rendons hommage à la grandeur De notre divin Créateur. [156]Tous les jours la malice augmente, Il y a très-peu de religion; La jeunesse est trop petulante, Les enfans jurent le saint Nom. Et comment s'étonneroit-on Si tant de fléaux nous tourmentent? Et si l'on voit tant de malheurs, C'est Dieu qui punit les pécheurs. Souvent on assiste à l'Office, C'est comme une manière d'acquit, Sans penser au saint Sacrifice; Ou s'est immolé Jesus Christ. On parle avec ses amis, De ses affaires temporelles, Sans faire aucune attention Aux mystères de la religion. Réfléchissez bien, pères et mères, Sur ces morales et vérités: C'est la loi de Dieu notre Père; C'est lui qui nous les a dictées: Il faut les suivre et les pratiquer, Tant que nous serons sur la terre. N'oublions point qu'après la mort, Nos ames existeront encore. The day was beginning to wear away fast, and I had not yet accomplished the favourite and indispensable object of visiting the PUBLIC LIBRARY. I made two unsuccessful attempts; but the third was fortunate. I had no letter of introduction, and every body was busied in receiving the visits of their country friends. I was much indebted to the polite attention of a stranger: who accompanied me to the house of the public librarian, his friend, who, not being at home, undertook the office of shewing me the books. The room in which they are contained--wholly detached--and indeed at a considerable distance from the cathedral--is about sixty English feet long, low, and rather narrow. It is absolutely crammed with books, in the most shameful state of confusion. I saw, for the first time in Normandy, and with absolute gladness of heart, a copy of the _Complutensian Polyglot Bible_; of which the four latter volumes, in vellum binding, were tall and good: the earlier ones, in calf, not so desirable. For the first time too, since treading Norman soil, I saw a tolerably good sprinkle of _Italian_ books. But the collection stands in dreadful need of weeding. Indeed, this observation may apply to the greater number of public collections throughout Normandy. I thanked my attendant for his patient and truly friendly attention, and took my leave. In my way homewards, I stopped at M. Joubert's, the principal bookseller, and "beat about the bush" for bibliographical game. But my pursuit was not crowned with success. M.J. told me, in reply to black-letter enquiries, that a Monsieur A----, a stout burly man, whom he called "un gros papa"--was in the habit of paying yearly visits from Jersey, for the acquisition of the same black-letter treasures; and that he swept away every thing in the shape of an ancient and _equivocal_ volume, in his annual rounds. I learnt pretty nearly the same thing from Manoury at Caen. M. Joubert is a very sensible and respectable man; and is not only "_Seul Imprimeur de Monseigneur l'Evêque"_ (PIERRE DUPONT-POURSAT), but is in fact almost the only bookseller worth consulting in the place. I bought of him a copy of the _Livre d'Eglise ou Nouveau Paroissien à l'usage du Diocèse de Coutances_, or the common prayer book of the diocese. It is a very thick duodecimo, of 700 double columned pages, printed in a clear, new, and extremely legible character, upon paper of sufficiently good texture. It was bound in sheepskin, and I gave only _thirty sous_ for it new. How it can be published at such a price, is beyond my conception. M. Joubert told me that the compositor or workman received 20 francs for setting up 36 pages, and that the paper was 12 francs per ream. In our own country, such prices would be at least doubled. It is impossible not to be struck here with the great number of YOUNG ECCLESIASTICS. In short, the establishment now erecting for them, will contain, when completed, (according to report) not fewer than four hundred. It is also impossible not to be struck with the extreme simplicity of their manners and deportment. They converse with apparent familiarity with the very humblest of their flock: and seem, from the highest to the lowest, to be cordially received. They are indifferent as to personal appearance. One young man carries a bundle of linen to his laundress, along the streets: another carries a round hat in his hand, having a cocked one upon his head: a kitchen utensil is seen in the hand of a third, and a chair, or small table, in that of a fourth. As these Clergymen pass, they are repeatedly saluted. Till the principal building be finished, many of them are scattered about the town, living quite in the upper stories. In short, it is the _profession_, rather than the particular candidate, which seems to claim the respectful attention of the townsmen. [152] See page 13 ante. [153] Mr. Cotman has a view of this church, in his work on Normandy. [154] I suspect that the "peaceful" waters of this stream were frequently died with the blood of Hugonots and Roman Catholics during the fierce contests between MONTGOMERY and MATIGNON, towards the latter half of the sixteenth century. At that period St. Lo was one of the strongest towns in the Bocage; and the very pass above described, was the avenue by which the soldiers of the captains, just mentioned, alternately advanced and retreated in their respective attacks upon St. Lo: which at length surrendered to the victorious army of the _latter_; the leader of the Catholics. SEGUIN: _Histoire Militaire des Bocains_; _p. 340-384_; 1816, _12 mo_. [155] The reader will be doubtless gratified by the artist-like view of this cathedral, by Mr. Cotman, in his _Architectural Antiquities of Normandy_. [156] It cannot fail to be noticed that the following sentences are in fact _rhyming verse_, though printed prose-wise. LETTER XVII. JOURNEY TO GRANVILLE. GRANVILLE. VILLE DIEU. ST. SEVER. TOWN AND CASTLE OF VIRE. _Vire_. Since my last, I have been as much gratified by the charms of nature and of art, as during any one period of my tour. Prepare, therefore, for miscellaneous intelligence; but such as, I will make bold to predict, cannot fail to afford you considerable gratification. Normandy is doubtless a glorious country. It is fruitful in its soil, picturesque in the disposition of its land and water, and rich in the architectural relics of "the olden time." It is also more than ordinarily interesting to an Englishman. Here, in the very town whence I transmit this despatch--within two hundred and fifty yards of the hotel of the _Cheval Blanc_, which just now encloses me within its granite walls--here, I say, lived and revelled the illustrious family of the DE VERES.[157] Hence William the Conqueror took the famous AUBREY DE VERE to be a spectator of his prowess, and a sharer of his spoils, in his decisive subjugation of our own country. It is from this place that the De Veres derive their name. Their once-proud castle yet towers above the rushing rivulet below, which turns a hundred mills in its course: but the warder's horn has long ceased to be heard, and the ramparts are levelled with the solid rock with which they were once, as it were, identified. I left Coutances with something approaching to reluctance; so completely _anglicised_ seemed to be the scenery and inhabitants. The evening was beautiful in the extreme: and upon gaining the height of one of the opposite hills, within about half a league of the town, on the high Granville route, I alighted--walked, stopped, and gazed, alternately, upon the lovely landscape around--the cathedral, in the mean time, becoming of one entire golden tint from the radiance of the setting sun. It was hardly possible to view a more perfect picture of its kind; and it served as a just counterpart to the more expansive scene which I had contemplated, but the preceding evening, from the heights of that same cathedral. The conducteur of the Diligence rousing me from my rapturous abstraction, I remounted, and descended into a valley; and ere the succeeding height was gained, a fainter light floated over the distant landscape ... and every object reminded me of the accuracy of those exquisite lines of Collins--descriptive of the approach of evening's ... gradual, dusky veil. For the first time, I had to do with a drunken conducteur. Luckily the road was broad, and in the finest possible condition, and perfectly well known to the horses. Every turning was successfully made; and the fear of upsetting began to give way to the annoyance experienced from the roaring and shouting of the conducteur. It was almost dark when I reached GRANVILLE--about twelve miles from Coutances; when I learnt that the horses had run six miles before they started with us. On entering the town, the road was absolutely solid rock: and considering what a _house_ we carried behind us (for so the body of the _diligence_ seemed) and the uncertain footing of the horses, in consequence of the rocky surface of the road, I apprehended the most sinister result. Luckily it was moon-light; when, approaching one of the sorriest looking inns imaginable, whither our conducteur (in spite of the better instructions of the landlord of the Hôtel d'Angleterre at Coutances) had persuaded us to go, the passengers alighted with thankful hearts, and bespoke supper and beds. Granville is fortified on the land side by a deep ravine, which renders an approach from thence almost impracticable. On every other side it is defended by the ocean, into which the town seems to have dropt perpendicularly from the clouds. At high water, Granville cannot be approached, even by transports, nearer than within two-thirds of a league; and of course at low water it is surrounded by an extent of sharply pointed rock and chalk: impenetrable--terrific--and presenting both certain failure and destruction to the assailants. It is a GIBRALTAR IN MINIATURE. The English sharply cannonaded it a few years since, but it was only a political diversion. No landing was attempted. In the time of the civil wars, and more particularly in those of the League, Granville, however, had its share of misery. It is now a quiet, dull, dreary, place; to be visited only for the sake of the view from thence, looking towards _St. Malo_, and _Mont St. Michel_; the latter of which I give up--as an hopeless object of attainment. Granville is in fact built upon rock;[158] and the houses and the only two churches are entirely constructed of granite. The principal church (I think it was the principal) is rather pretty within, as to its construction; but the decidedly gloomy effect given to it by the tint of the _granite_--the pillars being composed of that substance--renders it disagreeable to the eye. I saw several confessionals; and in one of them, the office of confession was being performed by a priest, who attended to two penitents at the same time; but whose physiognomy was so repulsively frightful, that I could not help concluding he was listening to a tale which he was by no means prepared to receive. An hour's examination of the town thoroughly satisfied me. There was no public conveyance to _Vire_, whither I intended immediately departing, and so I hired a voiture to be drawn by one sturdy Norman horse. To a question about springs, the conducteur replied that I should find every thing "très propre." Having paid the reckoning, I set my face towards VIRE. The day, for the season of the year, turned out to be gloomy and cold beyond measure: and the wind (to the east) was directly in my face. Nevertheless the road was one of the finest that I had seen in France, for breadth and general soundness of condition. It had all the characteristics, in breadth and straitness, of a Roman route; and as it was greatly undulating, I had frequently some gratifying glimpses of its bold direction. The surrounding country was of a quietly picturesque but fruitful aspect; and had my seat been comfortable, or after the fashion of those in my own country, my sensations had been more agreeable. But in truth, instead of _springs_, or any thing approximating to "très propre," I had to encounter a _hard plank_, suspended at the extremities, by a piece of leather, to the sides; and as the road was but too well bottomed, and the conveyance was open in front to the bitter blast of the east, I can hardly describe (as I shall never forget) the misery of this conveyance. Fortunately the first stage was _Ville Dieu_. Here I ordered a voiture and post horses: but the master of the Poste Royale, or rather of the inn, shook his head--"Pour les chevaux, vous en aurez des meilleurs: mais, pour la voiture il n'y en a pas. Tenez, Monsieur; venez voir." I followed, with miserable forebodings--and entering a shed, where stood an old tumble-down-looking phaeton--"la voilà, c'est la seule que je possède en ce moment"--exclaimed the landlord. It had never stirred from its position since the fall of last years' leaf. It had been--within and without--the roosting place for fowls and other of the feathered tribe in the farm yard; and although literally covered with the _evidences_ of such long and undisturbed possession, yet, as there was no appearance of rain, and as I discovered the wished for "_ressorts_" (or _springs_) I compromised for the repulsiveness of the exterior, and declared my intention of taking it onward. Water, brooms, brushes, and cloths, were quickly put in requisition; and two stately and well fed horses, which threatened to fly away with this slender machine, being fastened on, I absolutely darted forward at a round rattling gallop for _St. Sever_. Blessings ever wait upon the memory of that artisan who invented ... _springs_! The postilion had the perfect command of his horses, and he galloped, or trotted, or ambled, as his fancy--or rather our wishes--directed. The approach to our halting place was rather imposing. What seemed to be a monastery, or church, at St. Sever, had quite the appearance of Moorish architecture; and indeed as I had occasional glimpses of it through the trees, the effect was exceedingly picturesque. This posting town is in truth very delightfully situated. While the horses were being changed, I made our way for the monastery; which I found to be in a state rather of dilapidation than of ruin. It had, indeed, a wretched aspect. I entered the chapel, and saw lying, transversely upon a desk, to the left--a very clean, large paper, and uncut copy of the folio _Rouen Missal_ of 1759. Every thing about this deserted and decaying spot had a melancholy appearance: but the surrounding country was rich, wooded, and picturesque. In former days of prosperity--such as St. Sever had seen before the Revolution--there had been gaiety, abundance, and happiness. It was now a perfect contrast to such a state. On returning to the "_Poste Royale_" I found two fresh lusty horses to our voiture--but the postilion had sent a boy into the field to catch a _third_. Wherefore was this? The tarif exacted it. A third horse "réciproquement pour l'année"--parce qu'il faut traverser une grande montagne avant d'arriver à Vire"--was the explanatory reply. It seemed perfectly ridiculous, as the vehicle was of such slender dimensions and weight. However, I was forced to yield. To scold the postboy was equally absurd and unavailing: "parce que la tarif l'exigea." But the "montagne" was doubtless a reason for this additional horse: and I began to imagine that something magnificently picturesque might be in store. The three horses were put a-breast, and off we started with a phaeton-like velocity! Certainly nothing could have a more ridiculous appearance than my pigmy voiture thus conveyed by three animals--strong enough to have drawn the diligence. I was not long in reaching this "huge mountain," which provoked my unqualified laughter--from its insignificant size--and upon the top of which stands the town of VIRE. It had been a _fair_-day; and groups of men and women, returning from the town, in their blue and crimson dresses, cheered somewhat the general gloom of the day, and lighted up the features of the landscape. The nearer I approached, the more numerous and incessant were these groups. Vire is a sort of _Rouen_ in miniature--if bustle and population be only considered. In architectural comparison, it is miserably feeble and inferior. The houses are generally built of granite, and look extremely sombre in consequence. The old castle is yet interesting and commanding. But of this presently. I drove to the "_Cheval Blanc_," and bespoke, as usual, a late dinner and beds. The first visit was to the _castle,_ but it is right that you should know, before hand, that the town of Vire, which contains a population of about ten thousand souls, stands upon a commanding eminence, in the midst of a very beautiful and picturesque country called the BOCAGE. This country was, in former times, as fruitful in civil wars, horrors, and devastations, as the more celebrated Bocage of the more western part of France during the late Revolution. In short, the Bocage of Normandy was the scene of bloodshed during the Calvinistic or Hugonot persecution. It was in the vicinity of this town, in the parts through which I have travelled--from Caen hitherwards--that the hills and the dales rang with the feats of arms displayed in the alternate discomfiture and success of COLIGNY, CONDÉ, MONTMOGERY, and MATIGNON.[159] But for the Castle. It is situated at the extremity of an open space, terminated by a portion of the boulevards; having, in the foreground, the public library to the left, and a sort of municipal hall to the right: neither of them objects of much architectural consequence. Still nearer in the foreground, is a fountain; whither men, women, and children--but chiefly the second class, in the character of _blanchisseuses_--regularly resort for water; as its bason is usually overflowing. It was in a lucky moment that Mr. Lewis paid a visit to this spot; which his ready pencil transmitted to his sketch-book in a manner too beautiful and faithful not to be followed up by a finished design. I send you a portion of this prettily grouped picture; premising, that the woman to the right, in the foreground, begged leave purposely to sit--or rather stand--for her portrait. The artist, in a short time, was completely surrounded by spectators of his graphic skill. [Illustration] The "_Cheval Blanc_"--the name of the hotel at which I reside--should be rather called the "_Cheval Noir_;" for a more dark, dingy, and even dirty residence, for a traveller of any _nasal_ or _ocular_ sensibility, can be rarely visited. My bed room is hung with tapestry; which, for aught I know to the contrary, may represent the daring exploits of MONTGOMERY and MATIGNON: but which is so begrimed with filth that there is no decyphering the subjects worked upon it. On leaving the inn--and making your way to the top of the street--you turn to the left; but on looking down, again to the left, you observe, below you, the great high road leading to _Caen_, which has a noble appearance. Indeed, the manner in which this part of Normandy is intersected with the "_routes royales_" cannot fail to strike a stranger; especially as these roads run over hill and dale, amidst meadows, and orchards, equally abundant in their respective harvests. The immediate vicinity of the town is as remarkable for its picturesque objects of scenery as for its high state of cultivation; and a stroll upon the heights, in whatever part visited, will not fail to repay you for the certain disappointment to be experienced within the streets of the town. Portions of the scenery, from these heights, are not unlike those in Derbyshire, about Matlock. There is plenty of rock, of shrubs, and of fern; while another _Derwent_, less turbid and muddy, meanders below. Thus much for a general, but hasty sketch of the town of Vire. My next shall give you some detail of the _interior_ of a few of the houses, of which I may be said to have hitherto only contemplated the _roofs_. And yet I must not close my despatch without performing my promise about the CASTLE; of which indeed (as you will see by the subjoined miniature view) only a sort of ruinous shell remains. Its age may be a little towards the end of the thirteenth century. The stone is of a deep reddish tint: and although what remains is only a portion of the _keep_, yet I can never suppose it, even in its state of original integrity, to have been of very capacious dimensions. Its site is most commanding. [Illustration] [157] The reader will find the fullest particulars relating to this once-distinguished family, in _Halstead's Genealogical Memoirs of Noble Families, &c_.: a book it is true, of extreme scarcity. In lieu of it let him consult _Collin's Noble Families_. [158] [Mons. Licquet tells us, that in 1439, a Seigneur of Gratot, ceded the rock of Granville to an English Nobleman, on the day of St. John the Baptist, on receiving the homage of a hat of red roses. The Nobleman intended to build a town there; but Henry VI. dispossessed him of it, and built fortifications in 1440. Charles VII. in turn, dispossessed Henry; but the additional fortifications which he built were demolished by order of Louis XIV. &c.] [159] An epitomised account of these civil commotions will be found in the _Histoire Militaire des Bocains, par_ M. RICHARD SEGUIN; _a Vire_, 1816; 12mo. of which work, and of its author, some notice will be taken in the following pages. LETTER XVIII. BIBLIOGRAPHY. MONSIEUR ADAM. MONSIEUR DE LARENAUDIERE. OLIVIER BASSELIN. M. SÉGUIN. THE PUBLIC LIBRARY. It is a sad rainy day; and having no temptation to stir abroad, I have shut myself up by the side of a huge wood fire--(surrounded by the dingy tapestry, of which my last letter did not make very honourable mention) in a thoroughly communicative mood--to make you acquainted with all that has passed since my previous despatch. Books and the Bibliomania be the chief "burden of my present song!" You may remember, in my account of the public library at Caen, that some mention was made of a certain OLIVIER BASSELIN--whom I designated as the DRUNKEN BARNABY _of Normandy_. Well, my friend--I have been at length made happy, and comforted in the extreme, by the possession of a copy of the _Vaudevires_ of that said Olivier Basselin--and from the hands, too, of one of his principal editors ... Monsieur Lanon de Larenaudiere, Avocat, et Maire, de Tallevende-le-Petit. This copy I intend (as indeed I told the donor) for the beloved library at Althorp. But let me tell my tale my own way. Hard by the hotel of the _Cheval Blanc_, (the best, bad as it is--and indeed the only one in the town) lives a printer of the name of ADAM. He is the principal, and the most respectable of his brethren in the same craft. After discoursing upon sundry desultory topics--and particularly examining the _books of Education_, among which I was both surprised and pleased to find the _Distichs of Muretus_[160]--I expressed my regret at having travelled through so many towns of Normandy without meeting with one single copy of the _Vaudevires of Olivier Basselin_ for sale. "It is not very surprising, Sir, since it is a privately printed book, and was never intended for sale. The impression too is very limited. You know, Sir, that the book was published here--and--" "Then I begin to be confident about obtaining it"--replied I. "Gently, Sir;--" resumed Monsieur Adam--"it is not to be bought, even here. But do you know no one...?" "Not a creature." "Well, Sir, take courage. You are an Englishman. One of its principal editors--a very gallant _Bibliomaniac_--who is a great collector and lover of the literature of your country--(here I picked up courage and gaiety of heart) lives in this town. He is President of the Tribunal. Go to him." Seeing me hesitate, in consequence of not having a letter of introduction--"Ce n'est rien (said he) allez tout-droit. Il aime vos compatriotes; et soyez persuadé de l'accueil le plus favorable." Methought Monsieur Adam spake more eloquently than I had yet heard a Norman speak.[161] In two seconds I quitted his shop, (promising to return with an account of my reception) and five minutes brought me into the presence of Monsieur Lanon de Larenaudiere, Président du Tribunal, &c. It is not possible for me to convey to you a notion of the warmth, cordiality, and joyousness of heart, that marked the reception which this gentleman instantly gave me: and I will frankly own that I was as much "abashed" as ever our ancient friend Caxton had been--in the presence of his patroness the Duchess of Burgundy. I followed my new bibliomaniacal acquaintance rapidly up stairs; and witnessed, with extreme pleasure, a few bundles of books (some of them English) lying upon the window seats of the first landing-place; much after the fashion followed in a certain long, rambling, and antique residence, not quite three quarters of a mile from the towers of Westminster Abbey. On gaining the first floor, mine host turned the keys of the doors of two contiguous rooms, and exclaimed, "VOILA MA BIBLIOTHEQUE!" The air of conscious triumph with which these words were uttered, delighted me infinitely; but my delight was much increased on a leisurely survey of one of the prettiest, most useful, and commendable collections of books, chiefly in the department of the Belles-Lettres, which I had ever witnessed. Monsieur de Larenaudiere has a library of about 9000 volumes, of which _eight hundred are English_. But the owner is especially fond of poetical archaeology; in other words, of collecting every work which displays the progress of French and English poetry in the middle and immediately following ages; and talks of _Trouveurs_ and _Troubadours_ with an enthusiasm approaching to extacy. Meanwhile he points his finger to our Warton, Ellis, Ritson, and Southey; tells you how dearly he loves them; but yet leads you to conclude that he _rather_ prefers _Le Grand, Ginguené, Sismondi_, and _Raynouard_. Of the venerable living oracle in these matters, the Abbé de la Rue, he said he considered him as "un peu trop systématique." In short, M. de Larenaudiere has almost a complete critical collection, in our tongue, upon the subject of old poetry; and was most anxious and inquisitive about the present state of cultivation of that branch of literature in England: adding, that he himself meditated a work upon the French poetry of the XIIth and XIIIth centuries. He said he thought his library might be worth about 25,000 francs: nor did I consider such a valuation overcharged. He talks rapidly, earnestly, and incessantly; but he talks well: and spoke of the renown of a certain library in _St. James's Place_, in a manner which could not fail to quicken the pulse and warm the blood of its Librarian. I concluded an interview of nearly two hours, by his compliance with my wish to dine with me on the following day: although he was quite urgent in bargaining for the previous measure of my tasting his _pôtage_ and _vol au vent_. But the shortness and constant occupation of my time would not allow me to accede to it. M. de Larenaudiere then went to a cabinet-like cupboard, drew forth an uncut copy, stitched in blue spotted paper, of his beloved _Vaudevires_ of OLIVIER BASSELIN:[162] and presenting it to me, added "Conservez le, pour l'amour de moi." You may be assured that I received such a present in the most gracious manner I was capable of--but instantly and honestly added--"permettez qu'il soit déposé dans la bibliothèque de Milord S...? "C'est la même chose"--rejoined he; and giving me the address of the public librarian, we separated in the most cordial manner till the morrow. I posted back to Monsieur Adam, the printer and bookseller, and held aloft my blue-covered copy of the _Vaudevires_ as an unquestionable proof of the successful result of my visit to Monsieur La Renaudiere. Leaving the precious cargo with him, and telling him that I purposed immediately visiting the public library, he seemed astonished at my eagerness about books--and asked me if I had ever _published_ any thing _bibliographical_? "Car enfin, Monsieur, la pluspart des _Virois_ ne savent rien de la litérature angloise"--concluded he ... But I had just witnessed a splendid exception to this sweeping clause of censure. I then sought the residence of the Abbé Du MORTUEUX, the public librarian. That gentleman was from home, at a dinner party. I obtained information of the place where he might be found; and considering _two_ o'clock to be rather too early an hour (even in France) to disturb a gentleman during the exercise of so important a function, I strolled in the neighbourhood of the street, where he was regaling, for a full hour and half: when, at the expiration of that time, I ventured to knock at the door of a very respectable mansion, and to enquire for the bibliographical Abbé. "He is here, Sir, and has just done dinner. May I give him your name?" "I am a stranger: an Englishman; who, on the recommendation of Monsieur Larenaudiere, wishes to see the public library. But I will call again in about an hour." "By no means: by no means: the Abbé will see you immediately." And forthwith appeared a very comely, tall, and respectable-looking gentleman, with his hair en plein costume, both as to form and powder. Indeed I had rarely before witnessed so prepossessing a figure. His salutation and address were most gracious and winning; and he told me that I had nothing to do but to accompany him to the place which I wished to visit. Without even returning to his friends, he took his hat--and in one minute, to my surprise, I found myself in the street with the Abbé de Mortueux, in the high way to the PUBLIC LIBRARY. In our way thither our discourse was constant and unrestrained. "You appear here; Monsieur l'Abbé, to be partial to literature;... but allow me first to congratulate you on the beautiful environs of your town." "For literature in general, we are pretty well disposed. In regard to the beauties of the immediate neighbourhood of Vire, we should be unworthy inhabitants indeed, if we were not sensible of them." In five minutes we reached the Library. The shutters of the room were fastened, but the worthy Abbé opened them in a trice; when I saw, for the first time in Normandy, what appeared to be a genuine, old, unmutilated, unpillaged library. The room could be scarcely more than twenty-two feet square. I went instantly to work, with eyes and hands, in the ardent hope, and almost full persuasion, of finding something in the shape of a good old Greek or Roman Classic, or French Chronicle, or Romance. But, alas, I looked, and handled the tomes in vain! The history of the library is this:--The founder was a Monsieur PICHON; who, on being taken prisoner by the English, at the capture of Louisburg in 1758, resided a long time in England under the name of TYRREL, and lived in circumstances of respectability and even of opulence. There--whether on the dispersion of the libraries of our Meads, Foulkes', and Rawlinsons, I know not--he made his collection; took his books over with him to Jersey, where he died in 1780: and bequeathed them, about 3000 in number, to his native town of Vire. M. du Mortueux, who gave me these particulars, has drawn up a little memorial about Pichon. His portrait, executed by an English artist, (whilst he lived among us) adorns the library; with which I hope it will go down to a distant and grateful posterity. The colouring of this portrait is faded: but it is evident that Monsieur Pichon had an expressive and sensible physiognomy. Wonderful to relate, this collection of books was untouched during the Revolution; while the neighbouring library of the _Cordeliers_ was ransacked without mercy. But I regret to say that the books in the cupboards are getting sadly damp. Do not expect any thing very marvellous in the details of this collection; The old-fashioned library doors, of wood, are quite in character with what they protect. Among the earlier printed books, I saw a very bad copy of _Sweynheym and Pannartz's_ edition of the _De Civitate Dei_ of St. Austin, of the date of 1470; and a large folio of _Gering's_ impression of the _Sermons of Leonard de Utino_ printed about the year 1478. This latter was rather a fine book. A little black-letter Latin Bible by Froben, of the date of 1495, somewhat tempted me; but I could not resist asking, in a manner half serious and half jocose, whether a napoleon would not secure me the possession of a piquant little volume of black-letter tracts, printed by my old friend Guido Mercator?[163] The Abbé smiled: observing--"mon ami, on fait voir les livres ici; on les lit même: mais on ne les vend pas." I felt the force of this pointed reply: and was resolved never again to ask an Ecclesiastic to part with a black-letter volume, even though it should be printed by "my old friend Guido Mercator." Seeing there was very little more deserving of investigation, I enquired of my amiable guide about the "LIBRARY OF THE CORDELIERS," of which he had just made mention. He told me that it consisted chiefly of canon and civil law, and had been literally almost destroyed: that he had contrived however to secure a great number of "rubbishing theological books," (so he called them!) which he sold for _three sous_ a piece--and with the produce of which he bought many excellent works for the library. I should like to have had the sifting of this "theological rubbish!" It remained only to thank the Abbé most heartily for his patient endurance of my questions and searches, and particularly to apologise for bringing him from his surrounding friends. He told me, beginning with a "soyez tranquille," that the matter was not worth either a thought or a syllable; and ere we quitted the library, he bade me observe the written entries of the numbers of students who came daily thither to read. There were generally (he told me) from fifteen to twenty "hard at it"--and I saw the names of not fewer than _ninety-two_ who aspired to the honour and privilege of having access to the BIBLIOTHECA PICHONIANA. For the third time, in the same day, I visited Monsieur Adam; to carry away, like a bibliomaniacal Jason, the fleece I had secured. I saw there a grave, stout gentleman--who saluted me on my entrance, and who was introduced to me by Monsieur A. by the name of SÉGUIN. He had been waiting (he said) full three quarters of an hour to see me, and concluded by observing, that, although a man in business, he had aspired to the honour of authorship. He had written, in fact, two rather interesting--but wretchedly, and incorrectly printed--duodecimo volumes, relating to the BOCAGE,[164] in the immediate vicinity of Vire; and was himself the sole vender and distributer of his publications. On my expressing a wish to possess these books, he quitted the premises, and begged I would wait his return with a copy or two of them. While he was gone, M. Adam took the opportunity of telling me that he was a rich, respectable tradesman; but that, having said some severe things of the manufactures of Vire in his _first_ publication,[165] relating to the _civil_ history of the Bocains, his townsmen sharply resented what they considered as reflections thrown out against them; and M. Séguin was told that perhaps his personal safety was endangered ... He wanted not a second hint--but fled from home with precipitancy: and in his absence the populace suspended his effigy, and burnt it before the door of his house. This, however, did not _cool_ the ardour of authorship in M. Séguin. He set about publishing his _military_ history of the Bocains; and in the introductory part took occasion to retort upon the violence of his persecutors. To return to M. Séguin. In about ten minutes he appeared, with two copies in his hand--which I purchased, I thought dearly, at five francs each volume; or a napoleon for the four books. After the adventures of this day, I need hardly tell you that I relished a substantial dinner at a late hour, and that I was well satisfied with Vire. Yesterday M. de Larenaudiere made good his engagement, and dined with me at five, in the salle à manger. This is a large inn; and if good fare depended upon the number and even elegance of female cooks, the traveller ought to expect the very best at the _Cheval Blanc_. The afternoon was so inviting--and my guest having volunteered his services to conduct me to the most beautiful points of view in the immediate neighbourhood--that we each seemed to vie with the other in quickly dispatching what was placed before us; and within thirty-five minutes, from the moment of sitting down, we were in the outskirts of Vire. Never shall I forget that afternoon's ramble. The sun seemed to become more of a golden hue, and the atmosphere to increase in clearness and serenity. A thousand little songsters were warbling in the full-leaved branches of the trees; while the mingled notes of the _blanchisseuses_ and the milk-maids, near the banks of the rippling stream below, reached us in a sort of wild and joyous harmony--as we gazed down from the overhanging heights. The meadows were spotted with sheep, and the orchards teemed with the coming fruit. You may form some notion of the value of this rich and picturesque scenery, when I tell you that M. de Larenaudiere possesses land, in the immediate vicinity of Vire, which lets per acre at the rate of _6l._ _6s._ English. My guide was all gaiety of heart, and activity of step. I followed him through winding paths and devious tracks, amidst coppice-wood and fern--not however till I had viewed, from one particular spot upon the heights, a most commanding and interesting panorama of the town of Vire. In our perambulation, we discoursed of English poetry; and I found that THOMSON was as great a favourite with my guide as with the rest of his countrymen. Indeed he frankly told me that he had translated him into French verse, and intended to publish his translation. I urged him to quote specimens; which he did with a readiness and force, and felicity of version, that quite delighted me. He thoroughly understands the original; and in the description of a cataract, or mountain torrent, from the Summer, he appeared to me almost to surpass it. My guide then proceeded to quote Young and Pope, and delivered his opinion of our two great Whig and Tory Reviews. He said he preferred the politics and vivacity of the _Edinburgh_, but thought the _Quarterly_ more instructive and more carefully written. "Enfin (he concluded) j'aime infiniment votre gouvernement, et vos écrivains; mais j'aime moins le peuple Anglois." I replied that he had at least very recently shewn an exception to this opinion, in his treatment of _one_ among this _very_ people. "C'est une autre chose"--replied he briskly, and laughingly--"vous allez voir deux de vos compatriotes, qui sont mes intimes, et vous en serez bien content!" So saying, we continued our route through a delightful avenue of beech-trees, upon the most elevated part within the vicinity of the town; and my companion bade me view from thence the surrounding country. It was rich and beautiful in the extreme; and with perfect truth, I must say, resembled much more strongly the generality of our own scenery than what I had hitherto witnessed in Normandy. But the sun was beginning to cast his shadows broader and broader, and where was the residence of Monsieur and Madame S----? It was almost close at hand. We reached it in a quarter of an hour--but the inmates were unluckily from home. The house is low and long, but respectable in appearance both within and without. The approach to it is through a pretty copse, terminated by a garden; and the surrounding grounds are rather tastefully laid out. A portion of it indeed had been trained into something in the shape of a labyrinth; in the centre of which was a rocky seat, embedded as it were in moss--and from which some fine glimpses were caught of the surrounding country. The fragrance from the orchard trees, which had not yet quite shed their blossoms, was perfectly delicious; while the stillness of evening added to the peculiar harmony of the whole. We had scarcely sauntered ten minutes before Madame arrived. She had been twelve years in France, and spoke her own language so imperfectly, or rather so unintelligibly, that I begged of her to resume the French. Her reception of us was most hospitable: but we declined cakes and wine, on account of the lateness of the hour. She told us that her husband was in possession of from fourscore to a hundred acres of the most productive land; and regretted that he was from home, on a visit to a neighbouring gentleman; assuring us, if we could stay, that he would be heartily glad to see us--"especially any of his _countrymen_, when introduced by Monsieur de Larenaudiere." It was difficult to say who smiled and bowed with the greater complacency, at this double-shotted compliment. I now pressed our retreat homewards. We bade this agreeable lady farewell, and returned down the heights, and through the devious paths by which we had ascended, While talk of various kind deceived the road. A more active and profitable day has not yet been devoted to Norman objects, whether of art or of nature. Tomorrow I breakfast with my friend and guide, and immediately afterwards push on for FALAISE. A cabriolet is hired, but doubts are entertained respecting the practicability of the route. My next epistle will be therefore from Falaise--where the renowned William the Conqueror was born, whose body we left entombed at Caen. The day is clearing up; and I yet hope for a stroll upon the site of the castle. [160] "_Les Distiques de Muret, traduits en vers Français, par Aug. A_. Se vend à Vire, chez Adam imprimeur-lib. An. 1809. The reader may not be displeased to have a specimen of the manner of rendering these distichs into French verse: 1. Dum tener es, MURETE, avidis hæc auribus hauri: Nec memori modò conde animo, sed et exprime factis. 2. Imprimis venerare Deum; venerare parentes: Et quos ipsa loco tibi dat natura parentum. &c. 1. _Jeune encore, ô mon fils! pour être homme de bien, Ecoute, et dans ton coeur grave cet entretien_. 2. _Sers, honors le Dieu qui créa tous les êtres; Sois fils respectueux, sois docile à tes maîtres. &c_. [161] [Smartly and felicitously rendered by my translator Mons. Licquet; "Jamais bouche Normande ne m'avait paru plus éloquente que celle de M. Adam." vol. ii. p. 220.] [162] The present seems to be the proper place to give the reader some account of this once famous Bacchanalian poet. It is not often that France rests her pretensions to poetical celebrity upon such claims. Love, romantic adventures, gaiety of heart and of disposition, form the chief materials of her minor poems; but we have here before us, in the person and productions of OLIVIER BASSELIN, a rival to ANACREON of old; to our own RICHARD BRAITHWAIT, VINCENT BOURNE, and THOMAS MOORE. As this volume may not be of general notoriety, the reader may be prepared to receive an account of its contents with the greater readiness and satisfaction. First, then, of the life and occupations of Olivier Basselin; which, as Goujet has entirely passed over all notice of him, we can gather only from the editors of the present edition of his works. Basselin appears to have been a _Virois_; in other words, an inhabitant of the town of Vire. But he had a strange propensity to rusticating, and preferred the immediate vicinity of Vire--its quiet little valleys, running streams, and rocky recesses--to a more open and more distant residence. In such places, therefore, he carried with him his flasks of cider and his flagons of wine. Thither he resorted with his "boon and merry companions," and there he poured forth his ardent and unpremeditated strains. These "strains" all savoured of the jovial propensities of their author; it being very rarely that tenderness of sentiment, whether connected with friendship or love, is admitted into his compositions. He was the thorough-bred Anacreon of France at the close of the fifteenth century. The town of Vire, as the reader may have already had intimation, is the chief town of that department of Normandy called the BOCAGE; and in this department few places have been, of old, more celebrated than the _Vaux de Vire_; on account of the number of manufactories which have existed there from time immemorial. It derives its name from two principal valleys, in the form of a T, of which the base (if it may be so called--"jambage") rests upon the _Place du Chateau de Vire_. It is sufficiently contiguous to the town to be considered among the fauxbourgs. The rivers _Vire_ and _Viréne_, which unite at the bridge of Vaux, run somewhat rapidly through the valleys. These rivers are flanked by manufactories of paper and cloth, which, from the XVth century, have been distinguished for their prosperous condition. Indeed, BASSELIN himself was a sort of cloth manufacturer. In this valley he passed his life in fulling his cloths, and "in composing those gay and delightful songs which are contained in the volume under consideration." _Discours Préliminaire_, p. 17, &c. Olivier Basselin is the parent of the title _Vaudevire--_which has since been corrupted into _Vaudeville_. From the observation of his critics, Basselin appears to have been the FATHER of BACCHANALIAN POETRY in France. He frequented public festivals, and was a welcome guest at the tables of the rich; where the Vaudevire was in such request, that it is supposed to have superseded the "Conte, or Fabliau, or the Chanson d'Amour."[B] p. xviij: Sur ce point-là, soyez tranquille: Nos neveux, j'én suis bien certain, Se souviendront de BASSELIN, _Pere joyeux du Vaudeville:_ p. xxiij. I proceed to submit a few specimens of the muse of this ancient ANACREON of France; and must necessarily begin with a few of those that are chiefly of a bacchanalian quality. _VAUDEVIRE II_. AYANT le doz au feu et le ventre à la table, Estant parmi les pots pleins de vin délectable, Ainsi comme ung poulet Je ne me laisseray morir de la pepie, Quant en debvroye avoir la face cramoisie Et le nez violet; QUANT mon nez devendra de couleur rouge ou perse, Porteray les couleurs que chérit ma maitresse. Le vin rent le teint beau. Vault-il pas mieulx avoir la couleur rouge et vive, Riche de beaulx rubis, que si pasle et chétive Ainsi qu'ung beuveur d'eau. _VAUDEVIRE XI_. CERTES _hoc vinum est bonus_: Du maulvais latin ne nous chaille, Se bien congru n'estoit ce jus, Le tout ne vauldroit rien que vaille. Escolier j'appris que bon vin Aide bien au maulvais latin. CESTE sentence praticquant, De latin je n'en appris guère; Y pensant estre assez sçavant, Puisque bon vin aimoye à boire. Lorsque maulvais vin on a beu, Latin n'est bon, fust-il congru. Fy du latin, parlons françois, Je m'y recongnois davantaige. Je vueil boire une bonne fois, Car voicy ung maistre breuvaige; Certes se j'en beuvoye soubvent, Je deviendroye fort éloquent. _VAUDEVIRE XXII_. HE! qu'avons-nous affaire Du Turc ny du Sophy, Don don. Pourveu que j'aye à boire, Des grandeurs je dis fy. Don don. Trincque, Seigneur, le vin est bon: _Hoc acuit ingenium._ QUI songe en vin ou vigne, Est ung présaige heureux, Don don. Le vin à qui réchigne Rent le coeur tout joyeux, Don don. Trincque, Seigneur, le vin est bon: _Hoc acuit ingenium_. &c. The poetry of Basselin is almost wholly devoted to the celebration of the physical effects of wine upon the body and animal spirits; and the gentler emotions of the TENDER PASSION are rarely described in his numbers. In consequence, he has not invoked the Goddess of Beauty to associate with the God of Wine: to "Drop from her myrtle one leaf in his bowl;" or, when he does venture to introduce the society of a female, it is done after the following fashion--which discovers however an extreme facility and melody of rhythm. The burden of the song seems wonderfully accordant with a Bacchanalian note. _VAUDEVIRE XIX_. En ung jardin d'ombraige tout couvert, Au chaud du jour, ay treuvé Madalaine, Qui près le pié d'ung sicomorre vert Dormoit au bort d'une claire fontaine; Son lit estoit de thin et marjolaine. Son tetin frais n'estoit pas bien caché: D'amour touché, Pour contempler sa beauté souveraine Incontinent je m'en suys approché. Sus, sus, qu'on se resveille, Voicy vin excellent Qui faict lever l'oreille; Il faict mol qui n'en prent. Je n'eus pouvoir, si belle la voyant, De m'abstenir de baizotter sa bouche; Si bien qu'enfin la belle s'esveillant, Me regardant avec ung oeil farouche, Me dit ces mots: Biberon, ne me touche. Belle fillette à son aize ne couche Avecq celuy qui ne faict qu'yvrongner, &c. &c. The preceding extracts will suffice. This is a volume in every respect interesting--both to the literary antiquary and to the Book-Collector. A NEW EDITION of this work has appeared under the editorial care of M. Louis Dubois, published at Caen in 1821, 8vo. obtainable at a very moderate price. [B] The host, at these public and private festivals, usually called upon some one to recite or sing a song, chiefly of an amatory or chivalrous character; and this custom prevailed more particularly in Normandy than in other parts of France: Usaige est en Normandie, Que qui hebergiez est qu'il die Fable ou Chanson à son oste. See the authorities cited at page XV, of this Discours préliminaire. [163] Some account of this printer, together with a fac-simile of his device, may be seen in the _Bibliographical Decameron_, vol. ii. p. 33-6. [164] The first publication is entitled "_Essai sur l'Histoire de l'Industrie du Bocage en Général et de la Ville de Vire sa capitale en particulier, &c._" Par M. RICHARD SEGUIN. _A Vire, chez Adam, Imprimeur, an_ 1810, 12mo. It is not improbable that I may have been the only importer of this useful and crowdedly-paged duodecimo volume; which presents us with so varied and animated a picture of the manners, customs, trades, and occupations of the Bocains and the Virois. [165] I subjoin an extract which relates to the DRESS AND CHARACTER OF THE WOMEN. "Quant au COSTUME DES FEMMES d'aujourd'hui, comme il faudrait un volume entier pour le décrire, je n'ai pas le courage de m'engager dans ce labyrinte de ridicules et de frivolités. Ce que j'en dirai seulement en général, c'est qu'autant les femmes du temps passé, etaient décentes et chastes, et se faisaient gloire d'être graves et modestes, autant celles de notre siècle mettent tout en oeuvre pour paraître cyniques et voluptueuses. Nous ne sommes plus au temps où les plus grandes dames se faisaient honneur de porter la cordélière.[C] Leurs habillemens étaient aussi larges et fermés, que celui des femmes de nos jours sont ouverts et légers, et d'une finesse que les formes du corps, au moindre mouvement, se dessinent, de manière à ne laisser rien ignorer. A peine se couvrent-elles le sein d'un voile transparent très-léger ou de je ne sais quelle palatine qu'elles nomment point-à-jour, qui, en couvrant tout, ne cache rien; en sorte que si elles n'étalent pas tous leurs charmes à découvert, c'est que les hommes les moins scrupuleux, qui se contentent de les persifler, en seraient révoltés tout-à-fait. D'ailleurs, c'est que ce n'est pas encore la mode; plusieurs poussent même l'impudence jusqu'à venir dans nos temples sans coiffure, les cheveux hérissés comme des furies; d'autres, par une bizarrerie qu'on ne peut expliquer se dépouillent, autant qu'il est en leur pouvoir, des marques de leur propre sexe, sembleut rougir d'être femmes, et deviennent ridicules en voulant paraitre demi-hommes. "Après avoir deshonoré l'habit des femmes, elles ont encore voulu prostituer CELUI DES HOMMES. On les a vues adopter successivement les chapeaux, les redingotes, les vestes, les gilets, les bottes et jusqu'aux boutons. Enfin si, au lieu de jupons, elles avaient pu s'accommoder de l'usage de la culotte, la métamorphose était complette; mais elles ont préféré les robes traînantes; c'est dommage que la nature ne leur ait donné une troisième main, qui leur serait nécessaire pour tenir cette longue queue, qui souvent patrouille la boue ou balaye la poussière. Plût à Dieu que les anciennes lois fussent encore en vigueur, ou ceux et celles qui portaient des habits indécent étaient obligés d'aller à Rome pour en obtenir l'absolution, qui ne pouvait leur être accordée que par le souverain pontife, &c. "Les femmes du Bocage, et sur-tout les Viroises, joignent à un esprit vif et enjoué les qualités du corps les plus estimables. Blondes et brunes pour le plus grand nombre, elles sont de la moyenne taille, mais bien formées: elles ont le teint frais et fleuri, l'oeil vif, le visage vermeil, la démarche leste, un air étoffé et très élégantes dans tout leur maintien. Si on dit avec raison que les Bayeusines sont belles, les filles du Bocage, qui sont leurs voisines, ne leur cèdent en aucune manière, car en général le sang est très-beau en ce pays. Quant aux talens spirituels, elles les possèdent à un dégré éminent. Elles parlent avec aisance, ont le repartie prompte, et outre les soins du ménage, ou elles excellent de telle sorte qu'il n'y a point de contrées ou il y ait plus de linge, elles entendent à merveille, et font avec succès tout le détail du commerce." p. 238. These passages, notwithstanding the amende honorable of the concluding paragraph, raised a storm of indignation against the unsuspecting author! Nor can we be surprised at it. This publication is really filled with a great variety of curious historical detail--throughout which is interspersed much that relates to "romaunt lore" and romantic adventures. The civil wars between MONTGOMERY and MATIGNON form alone a very important and interesting portion of the volume; and it is evident that the author has exerted himself with equal energy and anxiety to do justice to both parties--except that occasionally he betrays his antipathies against the Hugonots.[D] I will quote the concluding passage of this work. There may be at least half a score readers who may think it something more than merely historically curious: "Je finirai donc ici mon Histoire. Je n'ai point parlé d'un grand nombre des faits d'armes et d'actions glorieuses, qui se sont passés dans la guerre de l'indépendance des Etats-Unis d'Amérique où beaucoup de Bocains ont eu part; mais mon principal dessein a été de traiter des guerres qui ont eu lieu dans le Bocage; ainsi je crois avoir atteint mon but, qui était d'écrire l'Histoire Militaire des Bocains par des faits et non par des phrases, je ne peux cependant omettre une circonstance glorieuse pour le Bocage; c'est la visite que le bon et infortuné Louis XVI. fit aux Bocains en 1786. Ce grand Monarque dont les vues étaient aussi sages que profondes, avait résolu de faire construire le beau Port de Cherbourg, ouvrage vraiment Royal, qui est une des plus nobles entreprises qui aient été faites depuis l'origine de la Monarchie. Les Bocains sentirent l'avantage d'un si grand bienfait. Le Roi venant visiter les travaux, fut accueilli avec un enthousiasme presqu'impossible à décrire, ainsi que les Princes qui l'accompagnaient. Sa marche rassemblait à un triomphe. Les peuples accouraient en foule du fond des campagnes, et bordaient la route, faisant retentir les airs de chants d'alégresse et des cris millions de fois répétés de Vive le Roi! Musique, Processions, Arcs de triomphe, Chemins jonchés de fleurs; tout fut prodigué. Les villes de Caen, de Bayeux, de Saint-Lo, de Carentan, de Valognes, se surpassérent dans cette occasion, pour prouver à S.M. leur amour et leur reconnaissance; mais rien ne fut plus brillant que l'entrée de ce grand Roi à Cherbourg. Un peuple immense, le clergé, toute la noblesse du pays, le son des cloches, le bruit du canon, les acclamations universelles prouvérent au Monarque mieux encore que la pompe toute Royale et les fêtes magnifiques que la ville ne cessa de lui donner tous les jours, que les coeurs de tous les Bocains étaient à lui." p. 428. [C] "Ceinture alors regardée comme le symbole de la continence. La reine de France en décorait les femmes titrées dont la conduite était irréprochable." _Hist. de la réun. de Bretagne a la France par l'abbé Irail_. [D] "Les soldats Huguenots commirent dans cette occasion, toutes sortes de cruautés, d'infamies et de sacrilèges, jusqu'à mêler les Saintes Hosties avec l'avoine qu'ils donnaient à leurs chevaux: mais Dieu permit qu'ils n'en voulurent pas manger." p. 369. LETTER XIX. DEPARTURE FROM VIRE. CONDÉ. PONT OUILLY. ARRIVAL AT FALAISE. HOTEL OF THE GRAND TURC. THE CASTLE OF FALAISE. BIBLIOMANIACAL INTERVIEW. _Falaise_. Here I am--or rather, here I have been--my most excellent friend, for the last four days--and from hence you will receive probably the last despatch from NORMANDY--- from the "land (as I told you in my first epistle) of "castles, churches, and ancient chivalry." An old, well-situated, respectably-inhabited, and even flourishing, town--the birth-place too of our renowned FIRST WILLIAM:--weather, the most serene and inviting--and hospitality, thoroughly hearty, and after the English fashion:--these have all conspired to put me in tolerably good spirits. My health, too, thank God, has been of late a little improved. You wish me to continue the thread of my narrative unbroken; and I take it up therefore from the preparation for my departure from Vire. I breakfasted, as I told you I was about to do, with my friend and guide Mons. de Larenaudiere; who had prepared quite a sumptuous repast for our participation. Coffee, eggs, sweetmeats, cakes, and all the comfortable paraphernalia of an inviting breakfast-table, convinced us that we were in well-furnished and respectable quarters. Madame did the honours of the meal in perfectly good taste; and one of the loveliest children I ever saw--a lad, of about five or six years of age--with a profusion of hair of the most delicate quality and colour, gave a sort of joyous character to our last meal at Vire. The worthy host told me to forget him, when I reached my own country;[166] and that, if ever business or pleasure brought me again into Normandy, to remember that the Maire de Tallevende-le-Petit would-be always happy to renew his assurances of hospitality. At the same time, he entreated me to pay attention to a list of English books which he put into my hands; and of which he stood considerably in need. We bade farewell in the true English fashion, by a hearty shake of the hands; and, mounting our voiture, gave the signal for departure. "Au plaisir de vous revoir!"--'till a turning of the carriage deprived us of the sight of each other. It is not easy--and I trust it is not natural--for me to forget the last forty-eight hours spent in the interesting town of VIRE! Our route to this place was equally grand and experimental; grand, as to the width of the road, and beauty of the surrounding country--but experimental, inasmuch as a part of the _route royale_ had been broken up, and rendered wholly impassable for carriages of any weight. Our own, of its kind, was sufficiently light; with a covering of close wicker-work, painted after the fashion of some of our bettermost tilted carts. One Norman horse, in full condition of flesh, with an equal portion of bone and muscle, was to convey us to this place, which cannot be less than twenty-two good long English miles from Vire. The carriage had no springs; and our seat was merely suspended by pieces of leather fastened at each end. At _Condé_, about one-third of the distance, we baited, to let both man and horse breathe over their dinners; while, strolling about that prettily situated little town, we mingled with the inhabitants, and contemplated the various faces (it being market-day) with no ordinary degree of gratification. Amidst the bustle and variety of the scene, our ears were greeted by the air of an itinerant ballad-singer: nor will you be displeased if I send you a copy of it:--since it is gratifying to find any thing like a return to the good old times of the sixteenth century. VIVE LE ROI, VIVE L'AMOUR. François Premier, nous dit l'histoire, Etoit la fleur des Chevaliers, Près d'Etampes aux champs de gloire Il recueillit myrtes et lauriers; Sa maîtresse toujours fidèle, Le payant d'un tendre retour, Lui chantant cette ritournelle; _Vive le Roi, vive l'Amour_. Henri, des princes le modèle, Ton souvenir est dans nos coeurs, Par la charmante Gabrielle Ton front fut couronné de fleurs; De la Ligue domptant la rage, Tu sus triompher tour-à-tour, Par la clémence et ton courage: _Vive le Roi, vive l'Amour_. Amant chéri de la Vallière, Des ennemis noble vainqueur, LOUIS savoit combattre et plaire, Guidé par l'Amour et l'honneur; A son retour de la Victoire, Entouré d'une aimable cour, Il entendoit ce cri de gloire: _Vive le Roi, vive l'Amour_. &c. There was a freshness of tint, and a comeliness of appearance, among the bourgeoises and common people, which were not to be eclipsed even by the belles of Coutances. Our garçon de poste and his able-bodied quadruped having each properly recruited themselves, we set forward--by preference--to walk up the very long and somewhat steep hill which rises on the other side of Conde towards _Pont Ouilly_--in the route hither. Perhaps this was the most considerable ascent we had mounted on foot, since we had left Rouen. The view from the summit richly repaid the toil of using our legs. It was extensive, fruitful, and variegated; but neither rock nor mountain scenery; nor castles, nor country seats; nor cattle, nor the passing traveller--served to mark or to animate it. It was still, pure nature, upon a vast and rich scale: and as the day was fine, and my spirits good, I was resolved to view and to admire. _Pont Ouilly_ lies in a hollow; with a pretty winding river, which seems to run through its centre. The surrounding hills are gently undulating; and as we descended to the Inn, we observed, over the opposite side of the town, upon the summit of one of the hills, a long procession of men and women--headed by an ecclesiastic, elevating a cross--who were about to celebrate, at some little distance, one of their annual festivals. The effect--as the procession came in contact with a bright blue sky, softened by distance--was uncommonly picturesque ... but the day was getting on fast, and there was yet a considerable distance to perform,--while, in addition, we had to encounter the most impassable part of the road. Besides, I had not yet eaten a morsel since I had left Vire. Upon holding a consultation, therefore, it was resolved to make for the inn, and to dine there. A more sheltered, rural, spot cannot be conceived. It resembled very many of the snug scenes in South Wales. Indeed the whole country was of a character similar to many parts of Monmouthshire; although with a miserable draw-back in respect to the important feature of _wood_. Through the whole of Normandy, you miss those grand and overshadowing masses of oak, which give to Monmouthshire, and its neighbouring county of Glocester, that rich and majestic appearance which so decidedly marks the character of those counties. However, we are now at the inn at Pont Ouilly. A dish of river fish, gudgeons, dace, and perch, was speedily put in requisition. Good wine, "than which France could boast no better!" and a roast fowl, which the daughter of the hostess "knew how to dress to admiration" ... was all that this humble abode could afford us." "But we were welcome:"--that is, upon condition that we paid our reckoning.... The dinner would be ready in a "short half hour." Mr. Lewis, went to the bridge, to look around, for the purpose of exercising his pencil: while I sauntered more immediately about the house. Within five minutes a well-looking, and even handsome, young woman--of an extremely fair complexion--her hair cut close behind--her face almost smothered in a white cap which seemed of crape--and habited in a deep black--passed quickly by me, and ascended a flight of steps, leading to the door of a very humble mansion. She smiled graciously at the _aubergiste_ as she passed her, and quickly disappeared. On enquiry, I was told that she was a nun, who, since the suppression of the convent to which she had belonged, earned her livelihood by teaching some of the more respectable children in the village. She had just completed her twentieth year. I was now addressed by a tall, bluff, shabby-looking man--who soon led me to understand that he was master of the inn where my "suite" was putting up;--that I had been egregiously deceived about the nature of the road--for that it was totally impossible for _one_ horse:--even the very best in Normandy--(and where will you find better? added he, parenthetically--as I here give it to you) to perform the journey with such a voiture and such a weight of luggage behind." I was struck equally with amazement and woe at this intelligence. The unpitying landlord saw my consternation. "Hark you, sir... (rejoined he) if you _must_ reach Falaise this evening, there is only one method of doing it. You must have _another horse_." "Willingly," I replied. "Yes, sir--but you can have it only upon _one_ condition." "What is that?" "I have some little business at Falaise myself. Allow me to strap about one hundred weight of loaf-sugar at the back of your conveyance, and I myself will be your garçon de poste thither." I own I thought him about the most impudent fellow I had yet seen in Normandy: but there was no time for resistance. Necessity compelled acquiescence. Accordingly, the dinner being dispatched--which, though good, was charged at six francs a-head--we prepared for our departure. But judge of my surprise and increased consternation, when the fellow ordered forth a little runt of a quadruped--in the shape of a horse--which was hardly higher than the lower part of the chest of the animal which brought us from Vire! I remonstrated. The landlord expostulated. I resisted--but the fellow said it was a bargain; and proceeded quietly to deposit at least _two_ hundred weight of his refined sugar at the back of the carriage. This Lilliputian horse was made the leader. The landlord mounted on the front seat, with our Vire post-boy by the side of him; and sounding his whip, with a most ear-piercing whoop and hollow, we sprung forward for Falaise--which we were told we should reach before sunset. You can hardly conceive the miseries of this cross-road journey. The route royale was, in fact, completely impassable; because they were repairing it. Alarmed at the ruggedness of the cross-road, where one wheel was in a rut of upwards of a foot deep, and the other elevated in proportion--we got out, and resolved to push on a-foot. We walked for nearly two leagues, before our conveyance overtook us--so harassing and so apparently insurmountable seemed to be the road. But the cunning aubergiste had now got rid of his leader. He said that it was only necessary to use it for the first two or three leagues--which was the most difficult part of the route--and that, for the remainder, about five English miles, our "fine Norman horse" was perfectly sufficient. This fine Norman horse was treated most unmercifully by him. He flogged, he hallooed, he swore ... the animal tript, stumbled, and fell upon his knees--more than once--from sheer fatigue. The charioteer hallooed and flogged again: and I thought we must have taken up our night quarters in the high-way;--when suddenly, to the left, I saw the fine warm glow of the sun, which had set about twenty minutes, lighting up one of the most perfect round towers, of an old castle, that I had yet seen in Normandy. Voilà FALAISE!--exclaimed the ruthless charioteer; ... and in a quarter of an hour we trotted hard down a hill (after the horse had been twice again upon his knees) which terminated in this most interesting place. It will be difficult for me to forget--after such a long, wearisome, and in part desperate journey--our approach to Falaise:--and more especially the appearance of the castle just mentioned. The stone seemed as fresh, and as perfectly cemented, as if it had been the work of the preceding year. Moreover, the contiguous parts were so fine and so thoroughly picturesque--and the superadded tradition of its being, according to some, the birth place--and according to others, the usual residence--of WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR ... altogether threw a charm about the first glimpse of this venerable pile, which cannot be easily described. I had received instructions to put up at the "_Grand Turc_"--as the only hotel worthy an Englishman's notice. At the door of the Grand Turk, therefore, we were safely deposited: after having got rid of our incumbrances of two postilions, and two hundred weight of refined sugar. Our reception was gracious in the extreme. The inn appeared "tout-à-fait à la mode Anglaise"--and no marvel ... for Madame the hostess was an Englishwoman. Her husband's name was _David_. Bespeaking a late cup of tea, I strolled through the principal streets,--delighted with the remarkably clear current of the water, which ran on each side from the numerous overcharged fountains. Day-light had wholly declined; when, sitting down to my souchong, I saw, with astonishment--a _pair of sugar-tongs_ and a _salt-spoon_--the first of the kind I had beheld since I left England! Madame David enjoyed my surprise; adding, in a very droll phraseology, that she had "not forgotten good English customs." Our beds and bed rooms were perfectly comfortable, and even elegant. The moat which encircles, not only the castle, but the town--and which must have been once formidable from its depth and breadth, when filled with water--is now most pleasingly metamorphosed. Pasture lands, kitchen gardens, and orchards, occupy it entirely. Here the cattle quietly stray, and luxuriously feed. But the metamorphosis of the _castle_ has been, in an equal degree, unfortunate. The cannon balls, during the wars of the League--and the fury of the populace, with the cupidity or caprice of some individuals, during the late revolution--helped to produce this change. After breakfast, I felt a strong desire to survey carefully the scite and structure of the castle. It was a lovely day; and in five minutes I obtained admission at a temporary outer gate. The first near view within the ramparts perfectly enchanted me. The situation is at once bold, commanding, and picturesque. But as the opposite, and immediately contiguous ground, is perhaps yet a little higher, it should follow that a force, placed upon such eminence--as indeed was that of Henry the Fourth, during the wars of the League--would in the end subdue the garrison, or demolish the castle. I walked here and there amidst briars and brushwood, diversified with lilacs and laburnums; and by the aid of the guide soon got within an old room--of which the outer walls only remained--and which is distinguished by being called the _birth-place_ of WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR. Between ourselves, the castle appears to be at least a century later than the time of William the Conqueror; and certainly the fine round tower, of which such frequent mention has been made, is rather of the fourteenth, if not of the beginning of the fifteenth century;[167] but it is a noble piece of masonry. The stone is of a close grain and beautiful colour, and the component parts are put together with a hard cement, and with the smallest possible interstices. At the top of it, on the left side, facing the high road from Vire,--and constructed within the very walls themselves, is a _well_--which goes from the top apparently to the very bottom of the foundation, quite to the bed of the moat. It is about three feet in diameter, measuring with the eye; perhaps four: but it is doubtless a very curious piece of workmanship. We viewed with an inquisitive eye what remained of the _Donjon_: sighed, as we surveyed the ruins of the _chapel_--a very interesting little piece of ecclesiastical antiquity: and shuddered as we contemplated the enormous and ponderous portcullis--which had a _drop of_ full twenty feet ... to keep out the invading foe. I was in truth delighted with this first reconnoissance of FALAISE--beneath one of the brightest and bluest skies of Normandy! and--within walls, which were justly considered to be among the most perfect as well as the most ancient of those in Normandy. Leaving my companion to take a view of the upper part of this venerable building, I retreated towards the town--resolved to leave no church and no street unexplored. On descending, and quitting the gate by which I had entered, a fine, robust, and respectable figure, habited as an Ecclesiastic, met and accosted me. I was most prompt to return the salutation. "We are proud, Sir, of our castle, and I observe you have been visiting it. The English ought to take an interest in it, since it was the birth-place of William the Conqueror." I readily admitted it was well worth a minute examination: but as readily turned the conversation to the subject of LIBRARIES. The amiable stranger (for he was gaining upon me fast, by his unaffected manners and sensible remarks) answered, that "their _own_ public library existed no longer--having been made subservient to the inquisitorial visit of M. Moysant of Caen[168]: that he had himself procured for the Bishop of Bayeux the _Mentz Bible_ of 1462--and that the Chapter-Library of Bayeux, before the Revolution, could not have contained fewer than 40,000 volumes. "But you are doubtless acquainted, Sir, with the COMTE DE LA FRESNAYE, who resides in yonder large mansion?"--pointing to a house upon an elevated spot on the other side of the town. I replied that I had not that honour; and was indeed an utter stranger to every inhabitant of Falaise. I then stated, in as few and precise words as possible, the particular object of my visit to the Continent. "Cela suffit"--resumed the unknown--"nous irons faire visite à Monsieur le Comte après le diné; à ce moment il s'occupe avec le pôtage--car c'est un jour maigre. Il sera charmé de vous recevoir. Il aime infiniment les Anglois, et il a resté long-temps chez vous. C'est un brave homme--et même un grand antiquaire." My pulse and colour increased sensibly as the stranger uttered these latter words: and he concluded by telling me that he was himself the Curé of _Ste. Trinité_ one of the two principal churches of the town--and that his name was MOUTON. Be assured that I shall not lose sight of the Comte de la Fresnaye, and Monsieur Mouton. [166] [Only ONE letter has passed between us since my departure; and that enables me to subjoin a fac-simile of its author's autograph. [Autograph: de Larenaudiere] [167] [It was in fact built by the famous Lord Talbot, about the year 1420. A similar castle, but less strong and lofty, may be seen at Castor, near Yarmouth in Norfolk--once the seat of the famous Sir JOHN FASTOLF, (a contemporary with Talbot) of whom Anstis treats so fully in his _Order of the Garter_, vol.i. p.142.] [168] See p. 205 ante. LETTER XX. MONS. MOUTON. CHURCH OF STE. TRINITÉ. COMTE DE LA FRESNAYE. GUIBRAY CHURCH. SUPPOSED HEAD OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR. M. LANGEVIN, HISTORIAN OF FALAISE. PRINTING OFFICES. I lose no time in the fulfilment of my promise. The church of SAINTE TRINITÉ, of which Monsieur Mouton is the Curé, is the second place of worship in rank in the town. During the Revolution, Mons. Mouton was compelled, with too many of his professional brethren, to fly from the general persecution of his order. One solitary and most amiable creature only remained; of the name of LANGEVIN--of whom, by and by, Monsieur Mouton did me the honour of shewing me the interior of his church. His stipend (as he told me) did not exceed 1500 francs per annum; and it is really surprising to observe to what apparent acts of generosity towards his flock, this income is made subservient. You shall hear. The altar consists of two angels of the size of life, kneeling very gracefully, in white glazed plaister: in the centre, somewhat raised above, is a figure of the Virgin, of the same materials; above which again, is a representation of the TRINITY--in a blaze of gilt. The massive circular columns surrounding the choir--probably of the fourteenth century--were just fresh painted, at the expense of the worthy Curé, in alternate colours of blue and yellow--imitative of marble;--that is to say, each column, alternately, was blue and yellow. It was impossible to behold any thing more glaring and more tasteless. I paid my little tribute of admiration at the simplicity and grace of the kneeling figure of the Virgin--but was stubbornly silent about every thing else. Monsieur Mouton replied that "he intended to grace the brows of the angels by putting a _garland_ round each." I felt a sort of twinge upon receiving this intelligence; but there is no persuading the French to reject, or to qualify, their excessive fondness for flower ornaments. Projecting from the wall, behind the circular part of the choir, I observed a figure of _St. Sebastian_--precisely of that character which we remark in the printed missals of the fifteenth century,--and from which the engravers of that period copied them: namely, with the head large, the body meagre, and the limbs loose and muscular. It was plentifully covered, as was the whole surface of the wall, with recent white wash. On observing this, my guide added: "oui, et je veux le faire couvrir d'une teinte encore plus blanche!" Here I felt a second twinge yet more powerful than the first. I noticed, towards the south-side door, a very fine crucifix, cut in wood, about three feet high; and apparently of the time of Goujon. It was by much the finest piece of sculpture, of its kind, which I had seen in Normandy; but it was rather in a decaying state. I wished to know whether such an object of art--apparently of no earthly importance, where it was situated--might be obtained for some honourable and adequate compensation. Monsieur Mouton replied that he desired to part with it--but that it must be replaced by another "full six feet high!" There was no meeting this proposition, and I ceased to say another word upon the subject. Upon the whole, the church of the Holy Trinity is rather a fine and capacious, than a venerable edifice; and although I cannot conscientiously approve of the beautifying and repairing which are going on therein, yet I will do the _planner_ the justice to say, that a more gentlemanly, liberally-minded, and truly amiable clergyman is perhaps no where to be found,--within or without the diocese to which he belongs. Attached to the north transept or side door, parallel with the street, is a long pole. "What might this mean?" "Sir, this pole was crowned at the top by a garland, and by the white flag of _St. Louis_,[169]--which were hoisted to receive me on my return from my long expatriation"--and the eyes of the narrator were suffused with tears, as he made the answer! It is of no consequence how small the income of an unmarried minister, may be, when he thus lives so entirely in the HEARTS OF HIS FLOCK. This church bears abundant evidence, within and without, of what is called the restoration of the Gothic order during the reign of Francis I.: although the most essential and the greater portion is evidently of the latter part of the fourteenth century.[170] Having expressed my admiration of the manufacture of wax candles (for religious purposes) which I had frequently observed in the town, Monsieur Mouton, upon taking me into the sacristy (similar to our vestry-room) begged I would do him the honour to accept of any which might be lying upon the table. These candles are made of the purest white wax: of a spiral, or twisted, or square, or circular form; of considerable length and width. They are also decorated with fillagree work, and tinsel of various colours. Upon that which I chose, there were little rosettes made of wax. The moderate sum for which they are obtained, startles an Englishman who thinks of the high price of this article of trade in his own country. You see frequently, against the walls and pillars of the choir, fragments of these larger wax candles, guttering down and begrimed from the uses made of them in time of worship. In this sacristy there were two little boys swinging _wooden_ censers, by way of practice for the more perfect use of them, when charged with frankincense, at the altar. To manage these adroitly--as the traveller is in the constant habit of observing during divine worship--is a matter of no very quick or easy attainment. From the Curé we proceed to the Comte DE LA FRESNAYE; whose pleasantly situated mansion had been pointed out to me, as you may remember, by the former. Passing over one of the bridges, leading towards _Guibray_, and ascending a gentle eminence to the left, I approached the outer lodge of this large and respectable-looking mansion. The Count and family were at dinner: but at _three_ they would rise from table. "Meanwhile," said the porter, it might give me pleasure to walk in the garden." It was one of the loveliest days imaginable. Such a sky--blue, bright, and cloudless--I had scarcely before seen. The garden was almost suffocated with lilacs and laburnums, glittering in their respective liveries of white, purple, and yellow. I stepped into a berceau--and sitting upon a bench, bethought me of the strange visit I was about to make--as well as of all the pleasing pastoral poetry and painting which I had read in the pages of De Lille, or viewed upon the canvas of Watteau. The clock of the church of _St. Gervais_ struck three; when, starting from my reverie, I knocked at the hall-door, and was announced to the family, (who had just risen from dinner) above stairs. A circle of five gentlemen would have alarmed a very nervous visitor; but the Count, addressing me in a semi-British and semi-Gallic phraseology, immediately dissipated my fears. In five minutes he was made acquainted with the cause of this apparent intrusion. Nothing could exceed his amiable frankness. The very choicest wine was circulated at his table; of which I partook in a more decided manner on the following day--when he was so good as to invite me to dine. When I touched upon his favourite theme of Norman Antiquities, he almost shouted aloud the name of INGULPH,--that "cher ami de Guillaume le Conquérant!" I was unwilling to trespass long; but I soon found the advantage of making use of the name of "Monsieur Mouton--l'estimable Curé de la Sainte Trinité." [Illustration] In a stroll to Guibray, towards sunset the next day, I passed through a considerable portion of the Count's property, about 300 acres, chiefly of pasture land. The evening was really enchanting; and through the branches of the coppice wood the sun seemed to be setting in a bed of molten gold. Our conversation was animated and incessant. In the old and curious church of Guibray, the Count shewed us his family pew with the care and particularity of an old country squire. Meanwhile Mr. Lewis was making a hasty copy of one of the very singular ornaments--representing _Christ bearing his cross_--which was suspended against the walls of the altar of a side chapel. You have it here. It is frightfully barbarous, and characteristic of the capricious style of art which frequently prevailed about the year 1520: but the wonder is, how such a wretched performance could obtain admission into the sanctuary where it was deposited. It was however the pious gift of the vestry woman--who shewed us the interior--and who had religiously rescued it, during the Revolution, from the demolition of a neighbouring abbey. The eastern end of this church is perhaps as old as any ecclesiastical edifice in Normandy;[171] and its exterior (to which we could only approach by wading through rank grass as high as our knees) is one of the most interesting of its kind. During our admiration of all that was curious in this venerable edifice, we were struck by our old friends, the _penitents_,--busy in making confession. In more than one confessional there were two penitents; and towards one of these, thus doubly attended, I saw a very large, athletic, hard-visaged priest hastening, just having slipt on his surplice in the vestry. Indeed I had been cursorily introduced to him by the Count. It was Saturday evening, and the ensuing Sunday was to be marked by some grand procession. The village-like town of Guibray presents a most singular sight to the eye of a stranger. There are numerous little narrow streets, with every window closed by wooden shutters, and every door fastened. It appears as if the plague had recently raged there, and that the inhabitants had quitted it for ever. Not a creature is visible: not a sound is heard: not a mouse seems to be stirring. And yet Guibray boasts of the LARGEST FAIR in France, save one![172] This, my friend, precisely accounts for the aspect of desolation just described. During the intervals of these _triennial_ fairs, the greater part of the village is uninhabited: venders and purchasers flocking and crowding by hundreds when they take place. In a short, narrow street--where nothing animated was to be seen--the Count assured me that sometimes, in the course of one morning, several millions of francs were spent in the purchase of different wares. We left this very strange place with our minds occupied by a variety of reflections: but at any rate highly pleased and gratified by the agreeable family which had performed the part of guides on the occasion. In the evening, a professor of music treated us with some pleasing tunes upon the guitar--which utterly astonished the Count--and it was quite night-fall when we returned homewards, towards our quarters at the hotel of the _Grand Turc_. A memorable incident occurred in our way homewards; which, when made known, will probably agitate the minds and shake the faith of two-thirds of the members of our Society of Antiquaries. You may remember that I told you, when at Caen, that the Abbe De la Rue had notified to me what were the objects more particularly deserving of attention in my further progress through Normandy. Among these, he particularly mentioned a figure or head of William the Conqueror at Falaise. In the _Place St. Gervais_, this wonderful head was said to exist--and to exist there only. It was at the house of an Innkeeper--certainly not moving in the highest circle of his calling. I lost little time in visiting it; and found it situated at the top of a dark narrow staircase, projecting from the wall, to the right, just before you reach the first floor. Some sensation had been excited by the enquiries, which I had previously set on foot; and on a second visit, several people were collected to receive us. Lights, warm water, towels, soap and brushes, were quickly put in requisition. I commenced operations with a kitchen knife, by carefully scraping away all the layers of hardened white and ochre washes, with which each generation had embedded and almost obliterated every feature. By degrees, the hair became manifest: then followed the operation of soap and water--which brought out the features of the face; and when the eyes fully and distinctly appeared, the exclamation of "_Mon Dieu_!" by the spectators, was loud and unremitting. The nose had received a serious injury by having its end broken off. Anon, stood forth the mouth; and when the "whiskered majesty" of the beard became evident, it was quite impossible to repress the simultaneous ejaculation of joy and astonishment ... "_Voilà le vrai portrait de Guillaume le Conquérant_! The whiskers apparently denote it to be rather _Saxon_ than _Norman_. The head is nearly eleven inches in length, by seven and a half in width: is cut upon a very coarse, yet hard-grained stone--and rests upon a square, unconnected stone:--embedded within the wall. If it ever had shoulders and body, those shoulders and body were no part of the present appendages of the head. What then, is the Abbé de la Rue in error? The more liberal inference will be, that the Abbé de la Rue had never seen it. As to its antiquity, I am prepared to admit it to be very considerable; and, if you please, even before the period of the loves of the father and mother of the character whom it is supposed to represent. In the morning, Madame Rolle seemed disposed to take ten louis (which I freely offered her) for her precious fragment: but the distinct, collected view of whiskers, mouth, nose, eyes, and hair, instantaneously raised the quicksilver of her expectations to "_quinze_ louis pour le moins!" That was infinitely "trop fort"--and we parted without coming to any terms. Perhaps you will laugh at me for the previous offer. The church of St. Gervais is called the mother church of the town: and it is right that you should have some notion of it. It stands upon a finely elevated situation. Its interior is rather capacious: but it has no very grand effect-arising from simplicity or breadth of architecture. The pillars to the right of the nave, on entering from the western extremity, are doubtless old; perhaps of the beginning of the thirteenth century. The arches are a flattened semicircle; while those on the opposite side are comparatively sharp, and of a considerably later period. The ornaments of the capitals of these older pillars are, some of them, sufficiently capricious and elaborate; while others are of a more exceptionable character on the score of indelicacy. But this does not surprise a man who has been accustomed to examine ART, of the middle centuries, whether in sculpture or in painting. The side aisles are comparatively modern. The pillars of the choir have scarcely any capitals beyond a simple rim or fillet; and are surmounted by sharp low arches, like what are to be seen at St. Lo and Coutances. The roof of the left side aisle is perfectly green from damp: the result, as at Coutances, of thereof having been stripped for the sake of the lead to make bullets, &c. during the Revolution. I saw this large church completely filled on Sunday, at morning service--about eleven: and, in the congregation, I observed several faces and figures, of both sexes, which indicated great intelligence and respectability. Indeed there was much of the air of a London congregation about the whole. From the Church, we may fairly make any thing but a digression--in discoursing of one of its brightest ornaments, in the person of Monsieur LANGEVIN:--a simple priest--as he styles himself in an octavo volume, which entitles him to the character of the best living HISTORIAN OF FALAISE. He is a mere officiating minister in the church of Mons. Mouton; and his salary, as he led me to infer, could be scarcely twenty louis per annum. Surely this man is among the most amiable and excellent of God's creatures! But it is right that you should know the origin and progress of our acquaintance. It was after dinner, on one of the most industriously spent of my days here--and the very second of my arrival,--that the waiter announced the arrival of the Abbé Langevin, in the passage, with a copy of his History beneath his arm. The door opened, and in walked the stranger--habited in his clerical garb--with a physiognomy so benign and expressive, and with manners so gentle and well-bred,--that I rose instinctively from my seat to give him the most cordial reception. He returned my civility in a way which shewed at once that he was a man of the most interesting simplicity of character. "He was aware (he said) that he had intruded; but as he understood "Monsieur was in pursuit of the antiquities of the place, he had presumed to offer for his acceptance a copy of a work upon that subject--of which he was the humble author." This work was a good sized thick crown octavo, filling five hundred closely and well-printed pages; and of which the price was _fifty sous_! The worthy priest, seeing my surprise on his mentioning the price, supposed that I had considered it as rather extravagant. But this error was rectified in an instant. I ordered _three copies_ of his historical labours, and told him my conscience would not allow me to pay him less than _three francs_ per copy. He seemed to be electrified: rose from his seat:--and lifting up one of the most expressive of countenances, with eyes apparently suffused with tears--raised both his hands, and exclaimed.... "Que le bon Dieu vous bénisse--les Anglois sont vraiement généreux!" For several seconds I sat riveted to my seat. Such an unfeigned and warm acknowledgment of what I had considered as a mere matter-of-course proposition, perfectly astounded me: the more so, as it was accompanied by a gesture and articulation which could not fail to move any bosom--not absolutely composed of marble. We each rallied, and resumed the conversation. In few but simple words he told me his history. He had contrived to weather out the Revolution, at Falaise. His former preferment had been wholly taken from him; and he was now a simple assistant in the church of Mons. Mouton. He had yielded without resistance; as even _remonstrance_ would have been probably followed up by the guillotine. To solace himself in his afflictions, he had recourse to his old favourite studies of _medicine_ and _music_;--and had in fact practised the former. "But come, Sir, (says he) come and do me the honour of a call--when it shall suit you." I settled it for the ensuing day. On breaking up and taking leave, the amiable stranger modestly spoke of his History. It had cost him three years' toil; and he seemed to mention, with an air of triumph, the frequent references in it to the _Gallia Christiana_, and to _Chartularies_ and _Family Records_ never before examined. On the next day I carried my projected visit into execution--towards seven in the evening. The lodgings of M. Langevin are on the second floor of a house belonging to a carpenter. The worthy priest received me on the landing-place, in the most cheerful and chatty manner. He has three small rooms on the same floor. In the first, his library is deposited. On my asking him to let me see what _old books_ he possessed, he turned gaily round, and replied--"Comment donc, Monsieur, vous aimez les vieux livres? A ça, voyons!" Whereupon he pulled away certain strips or pieces of wainscot, and shewed me his book-treasures within the recesses. On my recognising a _Colinæus_ and _Henry Stephen_, ere he had read the title of the volumes, he seemed to marvel exceedingly, and to gaze at me as a conjuror. He betrayed more than ordinary satisfaction on shewing his _Latin Galen_ and _Hippocrates_; and the former, to the best of my recollection, contained Latin notes in the margin, written by himself. These tomes were followed up by a few upon _alchymy_ and _astrology_; from which, and the consequent conversation, I was led to infer that the amiable possessor entertained due respect for those studies which had ravished our DEES and ASHMOLES of old. In the second room stood an upright piano forte--the _manufacture_, as well as the property, of Monsieur Langevin. It bore the date of 1806; and was considered as the first of the kind introduced into Normandy. It was impossible not to be struck with the various rational sources of amusement, by means of which this estimable character had contrived to beguile the hours of his misfortunes. There was a calm, collected, serenity of manner about him--a most unfeigned and unqualified resignation to the divine will--which marked him as an object at once of admiration and esteem. There was no boast--no cant--no formal sermonising. You _saw_ what religion had done for him. Her effects _spake_ in his discourse and in his life.... Over his piano hung a portrait of himself; very indifferently executed--and not strongly resembling the original. "We can do something more faithful than this, sir, if you will allow it"--said I, pointing to Mr. Lewis: and it was agreed that he should give the latter a sitting on the morrow. The next day M. Langevin came punctually to his appointment, for the purpose of having his portrait taken. On telling this original that the pencil drawing of Mr. Lewis (which by the bye was executed in about an hour and a half) should be _engraved_--inasmuch as he was the modern _Historian of Falaise_--he seemed absolutely astonished. He moved a few paces gently forwards, and turning round, with hands and eyes elevated, exclaimed, in a tremulous and heart-stricken tone of voice, "Ah, mon Dieu!" I will not dissemble that I took leave of him with tears, which were with difficulty concealed. "Adieu, pour toujours!"--were words which he uttered with all the sincerity, and with yet more pathos, than was even shewn by Pierre Aimé Lair at Caen. The landlord and landlady of this hotel are warm in their commendations of him: assuring me that his name is hardly ever pronounced without the mention of his virtues. He has just entered his sixty-second year.[173] It remains only to give an account of the progress of Printing and of Literature in this place: although the latter ought to precede the former. As a literary man, our worthy acquaintance the Comte de la Fresnaye takes the lead: yet he is rather an amateur than a professed critic. He has written upon the antiquities of the town; but his work is justly considered inferior to that of Monsieur Langevin. He quotes _Wace_ frequently, and with apparent satisfaction; and he promises a French version of his beloved _Ingulph_. Falaise is a quiet, dull place of resort, for those who form their notions of retirement as connected with the occasional bustle and animation of Caen and Rouen. But the situation is pleasing. The skies are serene: the temperature is mild, and the fruits of the earth are abundant and nutritious. Many of the more respectable inhabitants expressed their surprise to me that there were so few English resident in its neighbourhood--so much preferable, on many accounts to that of Caen. But our countrymen, you know, are sometimes a little capricious in the objects of their choice. Just now, it is the _fashion_ for the English to reside at Caen; yet when you consider that the major part of our countrymen reside there for the purpose of educating their children--and that Caen, from its numerous seminaries of education, contains masters of every description, whose lessons are sometimes as low as a frank for each--it is not surprising that Falaise is deserted for the former place. For myself--and for all those who love a select society, a sweet country, and rather a plentiful sprinkle of antiquarian art,--for such, in short, who would read the fabliaux of the old Norman bards in peace, comfort, and silence--there can be no question about the preference to be given to the spot from which I send this my last Norman despatch. I have before made mention of the fountains in this place. They are equally numerous and clear. The inn in which we reside has not fewer than three fountains--or rather of _jets d'eau_--constantly playing. Those in the _Place St. Trinité Grand Rue_, and _Place St. Gervais_, are the largest; but every gutter trickles with water as if dissolved from the purest crystal. It has been hot weather during the greater part of our stay; and the very sight of these translucent streams seems to refresh one's languid frame. But I proceed chiefly to the productions of the PRESS. They do a good deal of business here in the way of ephemeral publications. Letellier, situated in the Grande Rue, is the chief printer of _chap books_: and if we judge from the general character of these, the _Falaisois_ seem to be marvellously addicted to the effusions of the muse. Indeed, their ballads, of all kinds, are innumerable. Read a few--which are to be found in the very commonest publications. There is something rather original, and of a very pleasingly tender cast, in the first two: LE BAISER D'ADIEUX. Pres de toi l'heuré du mystère Ne m'appellera plus demain, Vers ta demeure solitaire Mes pas me guideront en vain; J'ai respiré ta douce haleine, Et des pleurs ont mouillé mes yeux, J'ai tout senti, plaisir et peine, ) J'ai reçu ton baiser d'adieux. ) _bis._ Tu pars, et malgré ta promesse Rien ne m'assure de ta foi, Nul souvenir de ta tendresse Ne vient me dire: Pense à moi. Ton amour qu'envain je réclame Ne me laisse, en quittant ces lieux, Que Phumide et brulante flamme De ton dernier baiser d'adieux. Puisse au moins ton indifférence Te garder d'un nouvel amour. Et le veuvage de l'absence Hâter ton fortuné retour! Puisse alors l'amant qui t'adore, Te revoyant aux mêmes lieux, Sur tes lèvres vierges encore Retrouver son baiser d'adieux! * * * * * L'IMAGE DE LA VIE. Nous naissons et dans notre coeur, A peine aux portes de la vie, Tout au plaisir, tout au bonheur, Et nous invite et nous convie; D'abord, simples amusements Savent contenter notre enfance; Mais bientòt aux jeux innocens, L'amour nous prend ... sans qu'on y pense. Fillette à l'âge de quinze ans, Offre l'image de la rose, Qui dès l'approche du printemps, Entr'ouvre sa feuille mi-close; Bientôt l'aiguillon du désir Vient ouvrir fleur d'innocence, Et sous la bouche du plaisir, Elle s'éclôt ... sans qu'elle y pense. Vous, qui pendant vos jeunes ans, Ne courtisez pas la folie, Songez donc que cet heureux temps Ne dure pas toute la vie, Assez vite il nous faut quitter Tendres ardeurs, vives jouissances; Et dans uu coeur qui sait aimer, La raison vient ... sans qu'on y pense. Mais enfin, sur l'âile du temps, On arrive au but du voyage, Et l'on voit la glace des ans, Couronner nos fronts à cet âge; S'il fut sensible à la pitié, S'il cultiva la bienfaisance, Entre les bras de l'amitié L'homme finit ... sans qu'il y pense You must know that they are here great lovers of royalty, and of course great supporters of the Bourbon Family. The King's printer is a Mons. BRÉE l'Ainé. He is a very pleasant, well-bred man, and lives in the _Place Trinité_. I have paid him more than one visit, and always felt additional pleasure at every repetition of it. My first visit was marked with a somewhat ludicrous circumstance. On entering the compositors' room, I observed, pasted upon the walls, in large capital letters, the following well known words: GOD SAVE THE KING. Both Monsieur Brée l'Ainé--and his workmen were equally gratified by my notice and commendation of this sentiment. "It is the favourite sentiment, Sir, of your country,"--remarked the master. To this I readily assented. "It is also, Sir, the favourite one of our own," replied M. Brée l'Ainé--and his men readily attested their concurrence in the same reply. "Ah, Sir, if you would only favour us by _singing the air_, to which these words belong, you would infinitely oblige us all" ... said a shrewd and intelligent-looking compositor. "With all my heart"--rejoined I--"but I must frankly tell you, that I shall sing it rather with heart than with voice--being neither a vocal nor an instrumental performer." "No matter: give us only a notion of it." They all stood round in a circle, and I got through two stanzas as gravely and as efficiently as I was able. The usual "charmant!" followed my exertions. It was now my turn to ask a favour. "Sing to me your favourite national air of ROBERT and ARLETTE." "Most willingly, Sir," replied the forementioned "shrewd and intelligent-looking compositor." "Tenez: un petit moment: je vais chercher mon violon. Ca ira mieux." He left the house in search of his violin. The tune of the National air which he sung was both agreeable and lively: and upon the whole it was difficult to say which seemed to be the better pleased with the respective national airs. M. Brée shewed me his premises in detail. They had been formerly a portion of an old church; and are situated on the edge of the great fosse which encircles the town. A garden, full of sweet blooming flowers, is behind them; and the view backwards is cheerful and picturesque. There are generally five presses at work; which, for a provincial printing office, shews business to be far from slack. Mons. B. sells a great number of almanacks, and prints all the leading publications connected with the town. In fact, his title, as _Imprimeur du Roi_, supposes him to take the principal lead as a printer. This agreeable man has a brother who is professor of rhetoric in the Collège Royale at Paris. Of _Bouquinistes_, or dealers in old books, there are scarcely any. I spent three or four fruitless hours in a search after old chronicles and old poetry: and was compelled, almost from pure civility, to purchase of DUFOURS a _Petit's Virgil_ of 1529, folio--which will be hardly worth the carriage. I tried hard for a fine copy of _Fauchet's Origines de la Poésie Françoise_, 1581, 4to. with the head of the author, but in vain; yet endeavoured to console myself by an old blue morocco copy of _Les regrets et tristes lamentations du Comte de Montgomery_, by _Demorenne_, Rouen, 1574, 8vo. as well as a clean, fresh, and almost crackling copy of _Amoureuses occupations de la Taysonniere_, Lyon, 1555, 8vo.--for two francs each--and both destined for the rich and choice library of our friend.... Thus much for FALAISE: for a spot, which, from the uniform serenity of the weather since I have been here--from the comfort of the inn--from the extreme civility and attention of the townspeople--and from the yet more interesting society of the Comte de la Fresnaye, the _Curés_ Mouton and Langevin--together with the amenity of the surrounding country, and the interesting and in part magnificent remains of antiquity--can never be erased from my recollection. It is here that the tourist and antiquary may find objects for admiration and materials for recording. I have done both: admired and recorded--happy, if the result of such occupations shall have contributed to the substantial gratification of yourself and of our common friends. And now, farewell; not only to Falaise, but to NORMANDY. I shall leave it, from this delightful spot, in the most thorough good humour, and with more than ordinary regret that my stay has necessarily been short. I have taken my place in the Diligence, direct for PARIS. "Il n'y a qu'un Paris"--said the Comte de la Fresnaye to me the other day, when I told him I had never been there--to which I replied, "Are there then TWO Londons?" Thirty-six hours will settle all this. In the mean time, adieu. [169] On the return of Louis the XVIII. the town of Falaise manifested its loyalty in the most unequivocal manner. COUPLETS _Chantés par les Elèves du Collége de Falaise, en arborant le Drapeau Blanc_. Air: _Un Soldat par un coup funeste_. Loin de nous la sombre tristesse, Mars a déposé sa fureur; Enfin la foudre vengeresse Vient de terrasser _l'opresseur,_ L'aigle sanguinaire Succombe à l'aspect de ces LYS. Peuple français, tu vas revoir ton Père! Vive le Roi! Vive LOUIS! Drapeau, que d'horribles tempêtes Avoient éloigné de ces lieux, Tu reviens embellir nos Fêtes, Plus brillant et plus radieux! Ta douce présence Ramène les jeux et les ris; Sois à jamais l'Etendard de la France, Vive le Roi! vive LOUIS! O Dieu! vengeur de l'innocence, Protège ces LYS glorieux! Conserve long-temps à la France LE ROI que tu rends à nos voeux! Si la perfidie De nouveau troubloit ton bonheur Viens nous guider, ô Bannière chérie! Nous volerons au champ d'honneur. [170] The worthy historian of Falaise, quoted in a preceding page, is exceedingly anxious to make us believe that there are portions of this church--namely, four stones--in the eastern and western gable ends--which were used in the consecration of it, by MATHILDA, the wife of our first William. Also, that, at the gable end of the south transept, outside, an ancient grotto,--in which the Gallic priests of old purified themselves for the mysteries of their religion--is now converted into the sacristy, or vestry, or robing room. But these are surely mere antiquarian dreams. The same author more sagaciously informs us that the exact period of the commencement of the building of the nave, namely in 1438, is yet attested by an existing inscription, in gothic letters, towards the chief door of entrance. The inscription also testifies that in the same year, "there reigned DEATH, WAR, and FAMINE." The _chancel of the choir_, with the principal doors of entrance, &c. were constructed between the years 1520, and 1540. It may be worth remarking that the stalls of the choir were brought from the Abbey of St. John--on the destruction of that monastic establishment in 1729; and that, according to the _Gallia Christiana_, vol. xi. p. 756, these stalls were carved at the desire of Thomas II. de Mallebiche, abbot of that establishment in 1506-1516. In a double niche of the south buttress are the statues of HERPIN and his WIFE; rich citizens of Falaise, who, by their wealth, greatly contributed to the building of the choir. (Their grandson, HERPIN LACHENAYE, together with his mistress were killed, side by side, in fighting at one of the gates of Falaise to repel the successful troops of Henry IV.) The _Chapel of the Virgin_, behind the choir, was completed about the year 1631. LANGEVIN, p. 81-128-131. [171] We have of course nothing to do with the first erection of a place of worship at Guibray in the VIIIth century. The story connected with the earliest erection is this. The faubourg of Guibray, distant about 900 paces from Falaise, was formerly covered with chestnut and oak trees. A sheep, scratching the earth, as if by natural instinct (I quote the words of M. Langevin the historian of Falaise) indicated, by its bleatings, that something was beneath. The shepherd approached, and hollowing out the earth with his crook, discovered a statue of the Virgin, with a child in its arms. The first church, dedicated to the Virgin, under the reign of Charles Martel, called the Victorious, was in consequence erected--on this very spot--in the centre of this widely spreading wood of chestnut and oak. I hasten to the construction of a second church, on the same site, under the auspices of Mathilda, the wife of the Conqueror: with the statue of a woman with a diadem upon her head--near one of the pillars: upon which statue Langevin discourses learnedly in a note. But neither this church nor the statue in question are now in existence. On the contrary, the oldest portions of the church of Guibray, now existing--according to the authors of the _Gallia Christiana_, vol. xi. p. 878, and an ancient MS. consulted by M. Langevin--are of about the date of 1222; when the church was consecrated by the Bishop of Coutances. The open space towards the south, now called _La Place aux Chevaux_, was the old burying ground of the church. There was also a chapel, dedicated to St. Gervais, which was pillaged and destroyed by the Hugonots in 1562. I should add, that the South-East exterior (behind the chancel) of this very curious old church at Guibray, resembles, upon a small scale, what M. Cotman has published of the same portion of St. Georges de Bocherville. _Recherches sur Falaise_, p. 49-53. Monsieur le Comte de la Fresnaye, in his _Notice Historique sur Falaise_, 1816, 8vo. will have it, that "the porch of this church, the only unmutilated portion remaining of its ancient structure, demonstrates the epoch of the origin of Christianity among the Gauls." "At least, such is the decision of M. Deveze, draftsman for Laborde; the latter of whom now Secretary to the Count d'Artois, instituted a close examination of the whole fabric." p. 5-6. I hope there are not many such conclusions to be found in the magnificent and meritorious productions of LABORDE. [172] This fair lasts full fifteen days. The first eight days are devoted to business of a more important nature--which they call the GREAT WEEK: that is to say, the greatest number of merchants attend during the earlier part of it; and contracts of greater extent necessarily take place. The remaining seven days are called the LITTLE WEEK--in which they make arrangements to carry their previous bargains into effect, and to return home. Men and merchandise, from all quarters, and of all descriptions, are to be seen at this fair. Even Holland and Germany are not wanting in sending their commercial representatives. Jewellery and grocery seem to be the chief articles of commerce; but there is a prodigious display of silk, linen, and cotton, &c.: as well as of hides, raw and tanned; porcelaine and earthen ware. The live cattle market must not be forgotten. Langevin says that, of horses alone, they sometimes sell full four thousand. Thus much for the buyer and seller. But this fair is regularly enlivened by an immense confluence of nobility and gentry from the adjacent country--to partake of the amusements, which, (as with the English,) form the invariable appendages of the scene. Langevin mentions the minor fairs of _Ste. Croix, St. Michel_, and _St. Gervais_, which help to bring wealth into the pockets of the inhabitants. _Recherches Historiques sur Falaise_; p. 199, &c. [173] [Since the publication of this Tour, the amiable Mons. Langevin has published "additions" to his historical account of Falaise; and in those additions, he has been pleased to notice the account which is HERE given of his labours and character. It would be bad--at least hardly justifiable--taste, to quote that notice: yet I cannot dissemble the satisfaction to find that there is _more_ than ONE sympathising heart in Normandy, which appreciates this record of its excellence. I subjoin, therefore, with the greatest satisfaction, a fac-simile of the autograph of this amiable and learned man, as it appears written (at my request) in the title-page of a copy of his "Researches." [Illustration: Langevin ptre.] LETTER XXI. JOURNEY TO PARIS. DREUX. HOUDAN. VERSAILLES. ENTRANCE INTO PARIS. _Paris, Rue Faubourg Poissonière, May_ 30, 1819. "Time and the hour runs through the roughest day." They must be protacted miseries indeed which do not, at some period or other, have something like a termination. I am here, then my good friend--safe and sound at last; comfortably situated in a boarding house, of which the mistress is an agreeable Englishwoman and the master an intelligent Swiss. I have sauntered, gazed, and wondered--and exchanged a thousand gracious civilities! I have delivered my epistolary credentials: have shaken hands with Monsieur Van Praet; have paced the suite of rooms in which the renowned BIBLIOTHEQUE DU ROI is deposited: have traversed the _Thuileries_ and the _Louvre_; repeatedly reconnoitred the _Boulevards_; viewed the gilt dome of the _Hôtel des Invalides_, and the white flag upon the bronze-pillar in the _Place Vendome_; seen crowds of our countrymen at _Meurice's_ and in the hotels about the _Rue de la Paix;_ partaken of the rival ices of _Tortoni_ and the _Caffé des Mille Colonnes_; bought old French poetry at a Bouquiniste's: and drank Chambertin and Champagne at the richly garnished table of our ----. These are what may be called good _foreground objects_ in the composition of a Parisian picture. Now for the filling up of the canvas with appropriate and harmonizing detail. A second reflection corrects however the precipitancy of such a proposal; for it cannot be, in this my _first_ despatch, that you are to receive any thing like an adequate notion of the topics thus hastily thrown together on the first impulse of Parisian inspiration. Wait patiently, therefore: and at least admire the methodical precision of my narrative. My last letter left me on the eve of departure from Falaise; and it is precisely from that place that I take up the thread of my journal. We were to leave it, as I told you, in the Diligence--on the evening of the Sunday, immediately following the date of the despatch transmitted. I shall have reason to remember that journey for many a day to come; but, "post varios casus, &c." I am thankful to find myself safely settled in my present comfortable abode. The Sabbath, on the evening of which the Diligence usually starts for Paris, happened to be a festival. Before dawn of day I heard incessant juvenile voices beneath the window of my bedroom at the Grand Turc; What might this mean? Between three and four, as the day began to break, I rose, and approaching the window, saw, from thence, a number of little boys and girls busied in making artificial flower-beds and sand-borders, &c. Their tongues and their bodily movements were equally unintermitting. It was impossible for a stranger to guess at the meaning of such a proceeding; but, opening the window, I thought there could be no harm in asking a very simple question--which I will confess to you was put in rather an irritable manner on my part ... for I had been annoyed by their labours for more than the last hour. "What are you about, there?" I exclaimed--"Ha, is it you Sir?" replied a little arch boy--mistaking me for some one else. "Yes, (resumed I) tell me what you are about there?" "in truth, we are making _Réposoirs_ for the FETE-DIEU: the Host will pass this way by and bye. Is it not a pretty thing, Sir?" exclaimed a sweetly modulated female voice. All my irritability was softened in a moment; and I was instantly convinced that Solomon never delivered a wiser sentiment than when he said--"A soft answer turneth away wrath!" I admitted the prettiness of the thing without comprehending a particle of it: and telling them to speak in a lower key, shut the window, and sought my bed. But sleep had ceased to seek me: and the little urchins, instead of lowering their voices, seemed to break forth in a more general and incessant vociferation. In consequence, I was almost feverish from restlessness--when the fille de chambre announced that "it was eight o'clock, and the morning most beautiful." These _réposoirs_ are of more importance than you are aware of. They consist of little spots, or spaces in the streets, garnished with flowers, and intersected by walks, marked with fine gravel, in the centre of which the Host rests, on its passing to and fro from the several parishes. When I rose to dress, I observed the work of art--which had been in progress during the night--perfectly complete. Passengers were forbidden to trespass by pieces of string fastened to different parts by way of a fence--or, whoever chose to walk within, considered themselves bound to deposit a sous as the condition of gratifying their curiosity. Upon the whole, this réposoir might be about sixteen feet square. Towards eleven o'clock the different religious ceremonies began. On one side the noise of the drum, and the march of the national guard, indicated that military mass was about to be performed; on the other, the procession of priests, robed and officiating--the elevation of banners--and the sonorous responses of both laity and clergy--put the whole town into agitation, and made every inmate of every mansion thrust his head out of window, to gaze at the passing spectacle. We were among the latter denomination of lookers on, and recognised, with no small gratification, our clerical friends Messieurs Mouton, Langevin, and the huge father confessor at Guibra, followed by a great number of respectable citizens, among whom the Comte de la Fresnaye and his amiable and intelligent son (recently married) made most respectable figures; They approached the réposoir in question. The priests, with the Host, took their station within it; silence followed; one officiating clergyman then knelt down; shut, what seemed to be, the wooden covers of a book,--with, considerable violence--rose--turned round, and the procession being again put in motion--the whole marched away to the church of the Holy Trinity;--whither I followed it; and where I witnessed what I was unable to comprehend, and what I should not feel much disposed to imitate. But let every country be allowed to reverence and respect its own particular religious ceremonies. We may endure what we cannot commend ... and insult and disrespect are among the last actions which a well regulated mind will shew in its treatment of such matters. I should add, that these réposoirs, a few hours after the performance of the ceremony just described, are indiscriminately broken up: the flowers and the little sand banks falling equally a prey to the winds and the feet of the passenger. Opposite to the inn was an hospital for the female sick. It had been formerly an establishment of very considerable extent and celebrity; but whether it was originally connected with the hospital of the _Léproserie de Saint Lasare_, (about which the Abbé Langevin's History of Falaise is rather curious) the _Hôtel-Dieu_, or the _Hôpital Général_, I cannot take upon me to pronounce. Certain it is, however, that this establishment does great credit to those who have the conduct of it. As foreigners, and particularly as Englishmen, we were permitted to see the whole, without reserve. On my return from witnessing the ceremony at the church of the Trinity, I visited this hospital: my companion having resumed his graphic operations before the Castle. I shall not easily forget the face and figure of the matron. To a countenance of masculine feature, and masculine complexion--including no ordinary growth of beard, of a raven tint--she added a sturdy, squat, muscular figure--which, when put into action, moved in a most decided manner. A large bunch of massive keys was suspended from a girdle at her side; and her dress, which was black, was rendered more characteristic and striking, by the appearance of, what are yet called, _bustles_ above her hips. As she moved, the keys and the floor seemed equally to shake beneath her steps. The elder Smirke would have painted this severe Duenna-like looking matron with inimitable force and truth. But ... she no sooner opened her mouth, than all traits of severity vanished. Her voice was even musical, and her "façon de parler" most gracious. She shewed me the whole establishment with equal good humour and alertness; and I don't know when I ever made such a number of bows (to the several female patients in the wards) within such limited time and space. The whole building has the air of a convent; and there were several architectural relics, perhaps of the end of the fifteenth century, which I only regretted were not of portable dimensions; as, upon making enquiry, little objection seemed to be made to the gratuitous disposal of them. The hour for departure, after sun-set, having arrived, we were summoned to the Diligence when, bidding adieu to the very worthy host and hostess of the _Grand Turc_, (whom I strongly recommend all Englishmen to visit) I made up my mind for a thirty-six hour's journey--as I was to reach Paris on Tuesday morning. The day had been excessively hot for the season of the year; and the night air was refreshing. But after a few snatches of sleep--greatly needed--there appeared manifest symptoms of decay and downfall in the gloomy and comfortless machine in which we took our departure. In other words, towards daylight, and just as we approached _L'Aigle_, the left braces (which proved to be thoroughly rotted leather) broke in two: and down slid, rather than tumbled, the Falaise Diligence! There were two French gentlemen, and an elderly lady, besides ourselves in the coach. While we halted, in order to repair the machine, the Frenchmen found consolation in their misfortune by running to a caffé, (it was between four and five in the morning), rousing the master and mistress, and as I thought, peremptorily and impertinently asking for coffee: while they amused themselves with billiards during its preparation. I was in no humour for eating, drinking, or playing: for here was a second sleepless night! Having repaired this crazy vehicle, we rumbled on for _Verneuil_; where it was exchanged for a diligence of more capacious dimensions. Here, about eleven o'clock, we had breakfast; and from henceforth let it not be said that the art of eating and drinking belongs exclusively to our country:--for such manifestations of appetite, and of attack upon substantials as well as fluids, I had scarcely ever before witnessed. I was well contented with coffee, tea, eggs, and bread--as who might not well be?... but my companions, after taking these in flank, cut through the centre of a roast fowl and a dish of stewed veal: making diversions, in the mean while, upon sundry bottles of red and white wine; the fingers, during the meal, being as instrumental as the white metal forks. We set off at a good round trot for _Dreux_: and, in the route thither, we ascended a long and steep hill, having _Nonancourt_ to the left. Here we saw some very pretty country houses, and the whole landscape had an air of English comfort and picturesque beauty about it. Here, too, for the first time, I saw a VINEYARD. At this early season of the year it has a most stiff and unseemly look; presenting to the eye scarcely any thing but the brown sticks, obliquely put into the ground, against which the vine is trained. But the sloping banks, on each side of the ascending road, were covered with plantations of this precious tree; and I was told that, if the _autumn_ should prove as auspicious as appeared the _spring_, there would be a season of equal gaiety and abundance. I wished it with all my heart. Indeed I felt particularly interested in the whole aspect of the country about _Nonancourt_. The sun was fast descending as we entered the town of _Dreux_--where I had resolved upon taking leave both of the diligence and of my companions; and of reaching Paris by post. At seven we dined, or rather perhaps made an early supper; when my fellow travellers _sustained_ their reputation for their powers of attack upon fish, flesh, and fowl. Indeed the dinner was equally plentiful and well cooked; and the charge moderate in proportion. But there is nothing, either on the score of provision of reasonableness of cost, like the _table d'hôte_ throughout France; and he who cannot accommodate himself to the hour of dining (usually about one) must make up his mind to worse fare and treble charges. After dinner we strolled in the town, and upon the heights near the castle. We visited the principal church, _St. Jean_, which is very spacious, and upon the whole is a fine piece of architecture. I speak more particularly of the interior--where I witnessed, however, some of the most horrible devastations, arising from the Revolution, which I had yet seen. In one of the side chapels, there _had been_ a magnificent monument; perhaps from sixteen to twenty feet in height--crowded with figures as large as life, from the base to the summit. It appeared as if some trenchant instrument of an irresistible force, had shaved away many of the figures; but more especially the heads and the arms. This was only one, but the most striking, specimen of revolutionary Vandalism. There were plenty of similar proofs, on a reduced scale. In the midst of these traces of recent havoc, there was a pleasure mingled with melancholy, in looking up and viewing some exceedingly pretty specimens of old stained glass:--which had escaped the destruction committed in the lower regions, and had preserved all their original freshness. Here and there, in the side chapels, the priests were robing themselves to attend confession; while the suppliants, in kneeling attitudes, were expecting them by the side of the confessionals. From the church I bent my steps to the principal bookseller of the place, whom I found to be an intelligent, civil, and extremely good-natured tradesman. But his stock was too modern. "Donnez vous la peine de monter"--exclaimed he precipitately; begging me to follow him. His up-stairs collection was scarcely of a more ancient character than that below. There were more copies of _Voltaire_ and _Rousseau_ than I should have supposed he could sell in six years--but "on the contrary" (said he) "in six months' time, not a single copy will remain unsold!" I marvelled and grieved at such intelligence; because the poison was not extracted from the nourishment contained in these works. To an enquiry about my old typographical friends, _Verard, Pigouchet_, and _Eustace_, the worthy bibliopole replied "qu'il n'avoit jamais entendu parler de ces gens-la!" Again I marvelled; and having no temptation to purchase, civilly wished him good evening. Meanwhile Mr. L. had attained the castle heights, and was lost in a sort of extacy at the surrounding scene. On entering the outer walls, and directing your steps towards the summit, you are enchanted with a beautiful architectural specimen--in the character of a zigzag early Norman arch--which had originally belonged to a small church, recently taken down: The arch alone stands insulated ... beyond which, a new, and apparently a very handsome, church is erecting, chiefly under the care and at the expence of the present Duke of Orleans;--as a mausoleum for his family--and in which, not many days before our arrival, the remains of one of his children had been deposited. I wished greatly for a perfect drawing of this arch ... but there was no time ... and my companion was exercising his pencil, on the summit, by a minute, bird's eye of the sweep of country to be seen from this elevated situation--through the greater part of which, indeed, the diligence from _Verneuil_ had recently conducted us. I should add, that not a relic of that CASTLE, which had once kept the town and the adjacent country in awe, is now to be seen: but its outer walls enclose a space hardly less than twenty acres:--the most considerable area which I had yet witnessed. To give a more interesting character to the scenery, the sun, broad and red, was just hiding the lower limb of his disk behind the edge of a purple hill. A quiet, mellow effect reigned throughout the landscape. I gazed on all sides; and (wherefore, I cannot now say) as I sunk upon the grass, overwhelmed with fatigue and the lassitude of two sleepless nights, wished, in my heart, I could have seen the effect of that glorious sun-set from, the heights of Dover. Now and then, as when at school, one feels a little home-sick; but the melancholy mood which then possessed me was purely a physical effect from a physical cause. The shadows of evening began to succeed to the glow of sun-set--when, starting from my recumbent position, (in which sleep was beginning to surprise me) I hastened down the heights, and by a nearer direction sought the town and our hotel. We retired betimes to rest--but not until, from an opposite coach maker, we had secured a phaeton-like carriage to convey us with post horses, the next day, to Paris. Excellent beds and undisturbed slumber put me in spirits for the grand entrée into the metropolis of France. Breakfasting a little after nine--before ten, a pair of powerful black horses, one of which was surmounted by a sprucely-attired postilion--with the phaeton in the rear--were at the door of the hotel. Seeing all our baggage properly secured, we sprung into the conveyance and darted forward at a smart gallop. The animals seemed as if they could fly away with us--and the whip of the postilion made innumerable circular flourishes above their heads. The sky was beautifully clear: and a briskly-stirring, but not unpleasantly penetrating, south-east wind, played in our faces as we seemed scarcely to be sensible of the road. What a contrast to the heat, vexation, and general uncomfortableness of the two preceding days of our journey! We felt it sensibly, and enjoyed it in proportion. Our first place of halting, to change horses, was at HOUDAN; which may be about four leagues from Dreux; and I verily believe we reached it in an hour. The route thither is through a flat and uninteresting country; except that every feature of landscape (and more especially in our previous journeys through Normandy) seems to be thrown to a greater distance, than in England. This may account for the flatness of views, and the diminutiveness of objects. Houdan is a village-like town, containing a population of about 2000 inhabitants; but much business is done on market days; and of _corn_, in particular, I was told that they often sold several thousand sacks in a day. Its contiguity to Paris may account for the quantity of business done. In the outskirts of the town,--and flanked, rather than surrounded, by two or three rows of trees, of scarcely three years growth--stands the "stiff and stower" remains of the _Castle of Houdan_. It is a very interesting relic, and to our eyes appeared of an unusual construction. The corner towers are small and circular; and the intermediate portion of the outer wall is constructed with a swell, or a small curvature outwards. I paced the outside, but have forgotten the measurement. Certainly, it is not more than forty feet square. I tried to gain admittance into the interior, but without success, as the person possessing the key was not to be found. I saw enough, however, to convince me that the walls could not be less than twelve feet in thickness. The horses had been some time in readiness, and the fresh postilion seemed to be lost in amazement at the cause of our loitering so long at so insignificant a place. The day warmed as we pushed on for the far-famed "proud Versailles." The approach, from Houdan, is perhaps not the most favourable; although we got peeps of the palace, which gave us rather elevated notions of its enormous extent. We drove to the _Hôtel de Bourbon_, an excellent, clean mansion, close to the very façade of the palace, after passing the Hôtel de Ville; and from whence you have an undisturbed view of the broad, wide, direct road to Paris. I bespoke dinner, and prepared to lounge. The palace--of which I purposely declined visiting the interior--reserving Versailles for a future and entire day's gratification--is doubtless an immense fabric--of which the façade just mentioned is composed of brick, and assumes any thing but a grand and imposing air: merely because it wants simplicity and uniformity of design. I observed some charming white stone houses, scattered on each side of this widely extended chaussée--or route royale--and, upon the whole, Versailles appeared to us to be a magnificent and rather interesting spot. Two or three rows of trees, some forty or fifty generations more ancient than those constituting the boulevards at Houdan, formed avenues on each side of this noble road; and all appeared life and animation--savouring of the proximity of the metropolis. Carriages without number--chiefly upon hire, were going and returning; and the gaits and dresses of individuals were of a more studied and of a gayer aspect. At length, we became a little impatient for our dinner, and for the moment of our departure. We hired one of these carriages; which for nine francs, would convey us to the place of our destination. This appeared to me very reasonable; and after being extravagant enough to drink Champagne at dinner, to commemorate our near approach to the metropolis, we set forward between five and six o'clock, resolving to strain our eyes to the utmost, and to be astonished at every thing we saw!--especially as _this_ is considered the most favourable approach to the capital. The _Ecole Militaire_, to the left, of which Marshal Ney had once the chief command, struck me as a noble establishment. But it was on approaching _Sèvre_ that all the bustle and population, attendant upon the immediate vicinity of a great metropolis, became evident. Single-horsed vehicles--in many of which not fewer than nine persons were pretty closely stowed--three upon a bench, and three benches under the roof--fiacres, barouches, and carriages of every description, among which we discovered a great number from our own country--did not fail to occupy our unremitting attention. _Sèvre_ is a long, rambling, and chiefly single-street town; but picturesquely situated, on a slope, and ornamented to the left by the windings of the Seine. We were downright glad to renew our acquaintance with our old, and long-lost friend, the river Seine; although it appeared to be sadly shorn of its majestic breadth since we had parted with it before the walls of Montmorenci castle, in our route to Havre. The new nine-arch bridge at Sèvre is a sort of Waterloo bridge in miniature. Upon the heights, above it, I learnt that there was a beautiful view of the river in the foreground with Paris in the distance. We passed over the old bridge, and saw _St. Cloud_ to the left: which of course interested us as the late residence of Bonaparte, but which, in truth, has nothing beyond the air of a large respectable country-gentleman's mansion in England. We pushed on, and began to have distinct perceptions of the great city. Of all the desirable places of retreat, whether for its elevated situation, or respectable appearance, or commodious neighbourhood, nothing struck me more forcibly than the village of PASSY, upon a commanding terrace, to the left; some three or four English miles from Paris--and having a noble view both of the river and of the city. It is also considered to be remarkably healthy; and carriages of every description, are constantly passing thither to and from Paris. The dome of the _Pantheon_, and the gilded one of the _Hôtel des Invalides_, together with the stunted towers of _Notre Dame_, were among the chief objects to the right: while the accompaniment of the Seine, afforded a pleasing foreground to this architectural picture in the distance. But, my friend, I will frankly own to you, that I was disappointed ... upon this first glimpse of the GREAT city. In the first place, the surrounding country is flat; with the exception of _Mount Calvary,_ to the left, which has nothing to do with the metropolitan view from this situation. In the second place, what are the _Pantheon_ and _Notre Dame_ compared with _St. Paul's_ and _Westminster Abbey_?--to say nothing of the vicinity of London, as is connected with the beautifully undulating ground about Camberwell, Sydenham, Norwood, and. Shooter's Hill--and, on the other side of the water, Hampstead, Highgate and Harrow: again, Wimbledon and Richmond!... What lovely vicinities are these compared with that of _Mont Martre_? And if you take river scenery into the account, what is the _Seine_, in the neighbourhood of Paris, compared with the _Thames_ in that of London? If the almost impenetrable smoke and filth from coal-fires were charmed away--shew me, I beseech you, any view of Paris, from this, or from any point of approach, which shall presume to bear the semblance of comparison with that of London, from the descent from _Shooter's Hill_! The most bewitched Frenchified-Englishman, in the perfect possession of his eye sight, will not have the temerity to institute such a comparison. But as you near the barriers, your admiration increases. Having got rid of all background of country--as you approach the capital--the foregoing objections vanish. Here the officers of police affected to search our luggage. They were heartily welcome, and so I told them. This disarmed all suspicion. Accordingly we entered Paris by one of the noblest and one of the most celebrated of its Boulevards--the _Champs Elysées_. As we gained the _Place Louis Quinze_, with the _Thuileries_ in front, with the _Hôtel des Invalides_ (the gilded dome of which latter reflected the strong rays of a setting sun) to the right--we were much struck with this combination of architectural splendour: indisputably much superior to any similar display on the entrance into our own capital.[174] Turning to the left, the _Place Vendome_ and the _Rue de la Paix_, with the extreme height of the houses, and the stone materials of their construction, completed our admiration. But the _Boulevards Italiens_--after passing the pillars of the proposed church of _Ste. Madelaine_, and turning to the right--helped to prolong our extreme gratification, till we reached the spot whence I am addressing you. Doubtless, at first glance, this is a most splendid and enchanting city. A particular detail must be necessarily reserved, for the next despatch. I shall take all possible pains to make you acquainted with the treasures of PAST TIMES--in the shape of Manuscripts and printed Books. THE ROYAL LIBRARY has as much astonished me, as the CURATORS of it have charmed me by their extreme kindness and civility.[175] [174] [The above was written in 1818-19. Now, what would be said by a foreigner, of his first drive from Westminster Bridge, through Regent Street to the stupendous Pantheon facing the termination of Portland Place?] [175] At this point, the labours of Mons. LICQUET, as my translator, cease; and I will let him take leave of his task of translation in his own words. "Ici se termine la tache qui m'a été confiée. Après avoir réfuté franchement tout ce qui m'a semblé digne de lêtre, je crois devoir déclarer, en finissant, que mes observations n'ont jamais eu _la personne_ pour objet. Je reste persuadé, d'ailleurs, que le coeur de M.D. est tout-à-fait innocent des écarts de son esprit. Si l'on peut le condamner pour le fait, il faudra toujours l'absoudre pour l'intention...." The _concluding_-sentence need not be copied: it is bad taste to re-echo the notices of one's own good qualities. My Norman translator at least takes leave of me with the grace of a gentleman: although his thrusts have been occasionally direct and severely intended. The foil which he has used has not always had the button covered. The candid reader will, however, judge how these thrusts have been parried; and if the "hits" on the part of my adversary, have been sometimes "palpable," those of the original author will not (it is presumed) be deemed feeble or unimpressive. After all, the sum total of "Errata" scarcely includes THREE of _substantial moment_: and wishing Mons Licquet "a very good day," I desire nothing better than to renew our critical coqueting on the floor of that Library of which he is the "Bibliothècaire en Chef." END OF VOL. I. London: Printed by W. Nicol, Cleveland-row, St. James's. SUPPLEMENT TO VOL. I. OLD POEM ON THE SIEGE OF ROUEN. The city of Rouen makes too considerable a figure in the foregoing pages, and its history, as connected with our own country in the earlier part of the fifteenth century, is too interesting, to require any thing in the shape of apology for the matter which the Reader is about to peruse. This "matter" is necessarily incidental to the _present_ edition of the "Tour;" as it is only recently made public. An "_Old English Poem_" on our Henry the Fifth's "_Siege of Rouen_" is a theme likely to excite the attention of the literary Antiquary on _either_ side of the Channel. The late erudite, and ever to be lamented Rev. J.J. Conybeare, successively Professor of the Saxon language, and of English Poetry in the University of Oxford, discovered, in the exhaustless treasures of the Bodleian Library, a portion of the Old English Poem in question: but it was a portion only. In the 21st. vol. of the Archæologia, Mr. Conybeare gave an account of this fortunate discovery, and subjoined the poetical fragment. Mr. Frederick Madden, one of the Librarians attached to the MS. department in the British Museum, was perhaps yet more fortunate in the discovery of the portion which was lost: and in the 22d. vol. of the _Archæologia_, just published, (pp. 350-398), he has annexed an abstract of the remaining fragment, with copious and learned notes. This fragment had found its way, in a prose attire, into the well-known English MS. Chronicle, called the BRUTE:--usually (but most absurdly) attributed to Caxton. It is not however to be found in _all_ the copies of this Chronicle. On the contrary, Mr. Madden, after an examination of several copies of this MS. has found the poem only in four of them: namely, in two among the Harleian MSS. (Nos. 753; 2256--from which _his_ transcript and collation have been made) in one belonging to Mr. Coke of Holkham, and in a fourth belonging to the _Cotton_ Collection:--Galba E. viii. This latter MS. has a very close correspondence with the _second_ Harl. MS. but is often faulty from errors of the Scribe, See _Gentleman's Magazine, May_, 1829. So much for the history of the discovery of this precious old English Poem--which is allowed to be a contemporaneous production of the time of the Siege--namely, A.D. 1418. A word as to its intrinsic worth--from the testimony of the Critic most competent to appreciate it. "It will be admitted, I believe, (says Mr. Madden) by all who will take the trouble to compare the various contemporary narratives of the Siege of Rouen, that in point of simplicity, clearness, and minuteness of detail, there is NO existing document which can COMPARE with the Poem before us. Its authenticity is sufficiently established, from the fact of the Author's having been an EYEWITNESS of the whole. If we review the names of those Historians who lived at the same period, we shall have abundant reason to rejoice at so valuable an accession to our present stock of information on the subject." _Archæologia_, vol. xxii. p. 353. The reader shall be no longer detained from a specimen or two of the poem itself, which should seem fully to justify the eulogy of the Critic. "On the day after the return of the twelve delegates sent by the City of Rouen to treat with Henry, the Poet proceeds to inform us, that the King caused two tents to be pitched, one for the English Commissioners, and the other for the French. On the English side were appointed the Earl of Warwick, the Earl of Salisbury, the Lord Fitzhugh, and Sir Walter Hungerford, and on the French side, twelve discreet persons were chosen to meet them. Then says the writer, 'It was a sight of solempnity, For to behold both party; To see the rich in their array, And on the walls the people that lay, And on our people that were without, How thick that they walked about; And the heraudis seemly to seene, How that they went ay between; The king's heraudis and pursuivants, In coats of arms _amyantis_. The English a beast, the French a flower, Of Portyngale both castle and tower, And other coats of diversity, As lords bearen in their degree.' "As a striking contrast to this display of pomp and splendour is described the deplorable condition of those unfortunate inhabitants who lay starving in the ditches without the walls of the City, deprived both of food and clothing. The affecting and simple relation of our Poet, who was an eye-witness, is written with that display of feeling such a scene must naturally have excited, and affords perhaps one of the most favourable passages in the Poem to compare with the studied narratives of Elmham or Livius. In the first instance we behold misery literally in rags, and hiding herself in silence and obscurity, whilst in the other she is ostentatiously paraded before our eyes: 'There men might see a great pity, A child of two year or three Go about, and bid his bread, For Father and mother both lay dead, And under them the water stood, And yet they lay crying after food. Some _storven_ to the death, And some stopped both eyen and breath, And some crooked in the knees, And as lean as any trees, And women holding in their arm A dead child, and nothing warm, And children sucking on the pap Within a dead woman's lap.' On Friday the 20th of January, King Henry V. made his public entry into Rouen. His personal appearance is thus described: 'He rode upon a brown steed, Of black damask was his weed, A _Peytrelle_ of gold full bright About his neck hung down right, And a pendant behind him did honge Unto the earth, it was so long. And they that never before him did see, They knew by the cheer which was he.' "With the accustomed, but mistaken, piety for which Henry was ever distinguished, he first proceeded to the monastery, where he alighted from his charger, and was met by the chaplains of his household, who walked before him, chanting _Quis est magnus Dominus?_ After the celebration of mass, the king repaired to the Castle, where he took up his abode. By this termination of a siege, which, for its duration and the horrors it produced, is perhaps without a parallel in ancient or modern times, the city was again plentifully supplied with provisions, and recovered the shock so tedious and afflicting a contest had occasioned: 'And thus our gracious liege Made an end of his siege; And all that have heard this reading, To his bliss Christ you bring, That for us died upon a tree, Amen say we all, _pur charite!_' The Duke of Exeter is appointed Governor of the City, and ordered by Henry to take possession of it the same night. The Duke mounts his horse, and rides strait to the Port de Bevesyne or Beauvais, attended by a retinue, to carry the commands of his sovereign into execution. His Entré, and the truly miserable condition of the besieged, together with the imposing appearance of Henry, shall now be described in the language of the poet. Thanne the duke of Excestre withoute bode Toke his hors and forth he rode, To bevesyne[E] that porte so stronge, That he hadde ley bifore so longe, To that gate sone he kam,[F] And with hym many a worthy[G] manne. There was neying of many a stede, And schynyng of many a gay wede, There was many a getoun[H] gay, With mychille[I] and grete aray. And whanne the gate was openyd there, And thay weren[J] redy into fare, Trumpis[K] blewgh her bemys[L] of bras, Pipis and clarionys forsothe ther was, And as thay entrid thay gaf a schowte With her[M] voyce that was fulle stowte, 'Seint George! seint George!' thay criden[N] on height, And seide, 'welcome oure kynges righte.' The Frensshe pepulle of that Cite Were gederid by thousandes, hem to see. Thay criden[N] alle welcome in fere, 'In siche tyme mote ye entre here, Plesyng to God that it may be, And to vs pees and vnyte.' And of that pepulle, to telle the trewthe, It was a sighte of fulle grete ruthe. Mykelle of that folke therynne Thay weren[O] but verrey bonys and skynne. With eyen holowgh and[P] nose scharpe, Vnnethe thay myght brethe or carpe, For her colowris was[Q] wan as lede, Not like to lyue but sone ben dede. Disfigurid pateronys[R] and quaynte, And as[S] a dede kyng thay weren paynte. There men myght see an[T] exampleyre, How fode makith the pepulle faire.[U] In euery strete summe lay dede, And hundriddis krying aftir brede. And aftir long many a day, Thay deyde as[V] faste as[W] they myght be lad away. Into[X] that way God hem wisse, That thay may come to his blisse! amen. Now[Y] wille y more spelle, And of the duke of exestre to[Z] telle. To that Castelle firste he rode, And sythen[AA] the Cite alle abrode; Lengthe and brede he it mette, And rich baneris he[AB] vp sette. Vpon the porte seint Hillare A Baner of the Trynyte. And at[AC] the port Kaux he sette evene A baner of the quene of heven. And at[AD] port martvile he vppyght Of seint George a baner bryght. He sette vpon the Castelle to[AE] stonde The armys of Fr[a]unce and Englond. And on the Friday in the mornynge Into that Cite come oure kynge. And alle the Bisshoppis in her aray, And vij. abbottis with Crucchis[AF] gay; xlij.[AG] crossis ther were of Religioune[AH], And seculere, and alle thay went a precessioun, Agens that prince withoute the toune, And euery Cros as thay stode He blessid hem with milde mode, And holy water with her hande Thay gaf the prince of oure lande. And at[AI] the porte Kaux so wide He in passid withoute[AJ] pride; Withoute pipe or bemys blaste, Our kyng worthyly he in paste. And as a conquerour in his righte Thankyng[AK] euer god almyghte; And alle the pepulle in that Citie 'Wilcome our[AL] lorde,' thay seide, 'so fre! Wilcome into[AM] thyne owne righte, As it is the[AN] wille of[AO] god almyght.' With that thay kryde alle _'nowelle!_' Os[AP] heighe as thay myght yelle. He rode vpon a browne stede, Of blak damaske was his wede. A peytrelle[AQ] of golde fulle bryght Aboute his necke hynge[AR] doun right, And a pendaunte behynd him dide[AS] honge Vnto the erthe, it was so longe, And thay that neuer before hym dide[AT] see, Thay knew by chere[u] wiche was he. To the mynster dide he fare, And of his horse he lighte there. His chapelle[AU] mette hym at[AV] the dore there, And wente bifore[AW] hym alle in fere, And songe a response[AX] fulle glorivs, _Quis est magnus dominus_. Messe he hirde and offrid thoo, And thanne to the Castelle dide he goo. That is a place of rialte, And a paleis of grete beaute. There he hym[AY] loggid in the Toune, With rialle and grete renoune. And the[AZ] cite dide faste encrece Of brede and wyne, fisshe, and fflesshe.[BA] And thus oure gracious liege Made an ende of his seege. And alle that[BB] haue hirde this redynge[BC] To his[BD] blisse criste you brynge, That for vs deide vpon[BE] a tre, Amen sey[BF] we alle, pur cherite! _There was many a getoun gay_.] The following particulars relative to the _getoun_ appear in MS. Harl. 838. "Euery baronet euery estat aboue hym shal have hys baner displeyd in y'e field yf he be chyef capteyn, euery knyght his penoun, euery squier or gentleman hys _getoun_ or standard." "Item, y'e meyst lawfully fle fro y'e standard and _getoun_, but not fro y'e baner ne penon.". "Nota, a stremer shal stand in a top of a schyp or in y'e fore-castel: a stremer shal be slyt and so shal a standard as welle as a _getoun_: a _getoun_ shal berr y'e length of ij yardes, a standard of iii or 4 yardes, and a stremer of xii. xx. xl. or lx. yardes longe." This account is confirmed by MS. Harl. 2258, and Lansd. 225. f. 431. as quoted by Mr. Nicholas, in the Retrosp. Rev. vol. i. N.S. The former of these MSS. states: Euery standard and _Guydhome_ [whence the etymology of the word is obvious] to have in the chief the crosse of St. George, to be slitte at the ende, and to conteyne the creste or supporter, with the posey, worde, and devise of the owner." It adds, that "a guydhome must be two yardes and a halfe, or three yardes longe." This rule may sometimes have been neglected, at least by artists, for in a bill of expences for the Earl of Warwick, dated July 1437, and printed by Dugdale, (Warw. p. 327.) we find the following entry; "Item, a _gyton_ for the shippe of viij. yerdis long, poudrid full of raggid staves, for the lymnyng and workmanship, ijs." The Grant of a _guydon_ made in 1491 to Hugh Vaughan, is preserved in the College of Arms. It contains his crest placed longitudinally. _Retrospective Review, New Series_, vol. i. p. 511. [E] _bewesyns_. [F] _came_. [G] _worthy_ deest. [H] A species of banner or streamer. See Note. [I] _noble_. [J] _were_. [K] Trumpeters. [L] Trumpets. [M] _that_. [N] cryed. [O] _were_. [P] _with nose_. [Q] _were_. [R] _patrons_.--Workmens' models or figures. _Patrone_, forme to werke by. _Prompt. Parvul_. MS. Harl. 221. There is probably here an allusion to the waxen or wooden effigies placed on the hearse of distinguished personages. [S] _as dede thyng they were peynte_. [T] _in_. [U] _to fare_. [V] as _deest_. [W] _as cartes led awey_. [X] _Vnto_. [Y] In MS. Harl. 753, a break is here made, and a large capital letter introduced. [Z] _to_ deest. [AA] _sithe_. [AB] _vp he_. [AC] _atte porte kauxoz_. [AD] _atte_ porte. [AE] _that stounde_. [AF] Crosses. [AG] xliiij. [AH] _religiouns_. [AI] _atte porte hauxoz_. [AJ] The remainder, of this, and the two following lines are omitted. [AK] _Thanked_. [AL] _they seyde our lord so free_. [AM] _vnto_. [AN] _the_ deest. [AO] _to_. [AP] _As_. [AQ] Poitrell, breast plate. [AR] _hangyng_. [AS] _dide_ deest. [AT] _the_ chere. [AU] The chaplains of his household. Lat. _capella_. [AV] _atte_ dore, _there_ deest. [AW] _afore_. [AX] _respon._ [AY] _logged hym._ [AZ] _his cite fast encrest_. [BA] _beste_. [BB] _that_ deest. [BC] _tydyng_. [BD] _his_ deest. [BE] on. [BF] _seyde all for charitee_. BRONZE GILT ANTIQUE STATUE AT LILLEBONNE, p. 127-8. This Statue, as the above reference will testify, is now in the possession of Mr. Samuel Woodburn, of St. Martin's Lane. When the note relating to it was written, I could, not place my hand upon a Brochure (in my possession) published at Rouen in 1823,[176] containing an archaeological description of this Statue by M. Revet, and a scientific account of its component parts, by M. Houton La Billardière, Professor of Chemistry at Rouen. The former embodied his remarks in two letters addressed to the Prefect of the Lower Seine. A print of the figure in its then extremely mutilated state, is prefixed; but its omission would have been no great drawback to the publication--which, in its details, appears to be ingenious, learned, and satisfactory. The highest praise is given to the Statue, as a work of art of the second century.[177] Its _identity_ seems to be yet a subject of disputation:--but M. Revet considers it as "the representation of some idolatrous divinity." The opinion of its being a representation of Bacchus, or of Apollo, or of a Constellation, he thinks might be regulated by a discovery of some emblem, or attribute, found in the vicinity of the Statue. Two other plates--lithographised--relating to explanations of the pieces of the Statue, close this interesting performance. [176] "_Description de la, Statue Fruste, en Bronze Doré, trouvée a Lillebonne &c. Suivie de l'Analyse du Métal, avec le dessein de la Statue, et les Tracés de quelques particularités relatives à la Confection de cette Antique." Rouen,_ 1823. pp. 56. [177] Other details induce me to fix the period of its completion towards the end of the second century: and after the unheard of difficulties which the artist had to overcome, one would scarcely be believed if one said that every thing is executed in a high state of perfection." p. 34. BIBLIOGRAPHICAL INDEX. INDEX OF MANUSCRIPTS, AND OF PRINTED BOOKS, DESCRIBED, QUOTED, OR REFERRED TO. Vol Page _Æneas Sylvius de Duobus Amantibus_, no date, 4to.--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 315 _Æsopus, Gr_. 4to. Edit. prin.--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 308 ---- _Lat_. 1481, folio--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 141 ---- _Ital_. 1485, _Tuppi_, in the same library at Paris, ii 142 ---- _Ital_. 1491 and 1492, 4to.--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 308 ---- _Hispan_. 1496, folio--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 142 ---- _Germ. Without Date, &c_., in the same library ii 142 ---- ---- in the same library, ii 142 _Alain Chartier, paraboles de, Verard_, 1492, folio--UPON VELLUM--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 134 _Albert Durer_; original drawings of, in a Book of Prayers, in the Public Library at Munich, iii 132 _Alcuinus de Trinitate, Monast. Utimpurrha_, 1500, folio--in the Public Library at Augsbourg, iii 101 _Aldine Classics_, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 145 ---- ----, in the Library of St. Geneviève, ii 177 ---- ----, in the King's Private Library at Stuttgart, iii 41 ---- ----, in the Public Library at Munich, iii 146 _Alexandrus Gallus_, vulgo _de Villa Dei Doctrinale V de Spira_, folio--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 315 _Almanac historique--le Messager Boiteux_--a chap book, extracts from, iii 73 _Anti-Christ--block book_--in the Public Library at Landshut, iii 181 _Ambrosii Hexameron_, 1472, folio--in the Public Library at Augsbourg, iii 99 ---- ---- in the Public Library at Nuremberg, _Supplement_, iii 430 _Amours, chasse et départ, Verard_, 1509, folio--UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 132 _Anthologia Græca_, 1498, 4to.--UPON VELLUM, in the Library of Ste. Geneviève, at Paris, ii 176 ---- ---- 1503, _Aldus_, UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 145 _Antonii Archpi Opera Theologica_, 1477, _Koberger_, folio--in the Public Library at Strasbourg, ii 407 _Apocalypse, block book_, in the Royal Library at Stuttgart, iii 26 ---- ---- in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 331 _Apostles Creed_, in German, _block book_, with fac simile--in the Public Library at Munich, iii 137 _Appianus, Lat. Ratdolt_, 1478, folio--in the library of the Monastery of St. Florian, iii 236 _Apuleius_, 1469, folio--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 128 ---- ----, in the Library of the Monastery of Closterneuburg, iii 397 ---- ----, imperfect, in the Public Library at Munich, iii 142 ---- ----, UPON VELLUM, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 308 ---- ----, 1472, _Jenson_, folio--in the last mentioned library, iii 308 _Aquinas, T., Sec. Secundæ, Schoeffher_, 1467, folio--UPON VELLUM, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 316 ----, _Opus Quartiscript. Schoeffher_. 1469, folio--UPON VELLUM, in the same Library, iii 316 ----, _In Evang. Matt, et Marc_. 1470, _S. and Pannartz_, folio--in the same library, iii 316 ---- _de virtut. et vitiis. Mentelin_--in the Public Library at Munich, iii 141 _Arbre des Batailles, Verard_, 1493, folio--UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 132 _Aretinus de Bella Gothico_, 1470, folio--in the Public Library at Caen, i 208 _Aristotelis Opera, Gr. Aldus_, 1495, 6 vols. Two copies UPON VELLUM (the first volume in each copy wanting) in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 136 ---- _Ethica Nichomachea. Gr. (Aldus)--_ remarkably splendid copy of, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 138 _Ars Memorandi_, &c.--_block book_: five copies of, in the Public Library at Munich, iii 135 ---- ---- in the Public Library at Landshut, iii 181 ---- ---- in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 332 ---- -----in the Library of Göttwic Monastery, iii 428 _Ars Moriendi, Germanicé--4to_.-- in the Royal Library at Stuttgart, iii 26 ---- _Lat. block book_--two editions, in the Public Library at Munich, iii 136 _Art de bien Mourir, Verard_, no date, folio--UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 133 _Art and Crafte to know well to dye, Caxton_, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 124 ARTUS LE ROY; MS. xiith century,--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 94 Another MS. of the same Romance, in the same Library, ii 94 _Artaxani Summa_, (1469) folio--in the Public Library at Augsbourg, iii 232 _Augustinus Sts. De Civitate Dei_, 1467, folio--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 113 ---- ---- in the Library of Ste. Geneviève at Paris, ii 173 ---- ---- in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 301 ---- ---- in the Library of Closterneuburg Monastery, iii 397 ---- ---- _Sweynheym and Pannartz_, 1470, folio, in the Public Library at Vire, i 297 _Augustinus Sts. De Civitate Dei_, 1467, folio, UPON VELLUM, late in the Library of Chremsminster Monastery, iii 221 ---- ---- in the Public Library at Landshut, iii 181 ---- ---- _Schoeffher_, 1473; folio--in the Library of the Monastery of Chremsminster, iii 221 ---- ---- _Jenson_, 1475, folio--UPON VELLUM, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 301 ---- _Confessionum Libri XIII_. 1475. 4to.--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 301 ---- ---- _de singularitate Clericorum_, 1467, 4to. in the King's Private Library at Stuttgart, iii 40 AUGUSTINI STI. IN PSALMOS, MS. xvth century--formerly in the library of Corvinus, King of Hungary, and now in the Royal Library at Stuttgart, iii 36 ---- ---- _Yppon. de Cons. Evang_. 1473, folio--in the Public Library at Augsbourg, iii 101 _Aulus Gellius_, 1469, folio--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 127 ---- ---- UPON VELLUM, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 308 Aurbach's Meditations upon the Life of Christ, 1468, Printed by Gunther Zeiner. _Pub. Lib. Augsbourg_, iii 100 _Ausonius_, 1472, folio--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 128 ---- ---- in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 309 ---- ---- _Aldus_, 1517, 8vo. Grolier's copy, on large paper, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 148 _Aymon, les quatre filz_, 1583, 4to.--in the Library of the Arsenal, at Paris, ii 163 B. BALLADS; _Bon Jour, Bon Soir_: i 132 --_Toujours_, 389 various, from the _Vaudevires of Olivier Basselin_, 292 -293 -294 _Vive Le Roi, Vive L'Amour_, i 310 _en arborant le drapeau blanc, at Falaise_, i 324 _le Baiser d'Adieu_, i 343 _L'Image de la Vie_, i 344 _Bartholi Lectura de Spira_, 1471. Folio. In the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 316 _Bartsch, I. Adam de--Catalogue des Estampes, par, &c_. 1818. 8vo. iii 393 _Bella (La) Mano_, 1474, 4to.--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 321 _Bellovacensis Vinc. Spec. Hist_. 1473, folio--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 317 _Berlinghieri, Geografia_, folio--in the Imperial Library (Prince Eugene's copy) at Vienna, iii 321 _Berinus et Aygres de Lamant, Bonfons_, no date, in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 165 _Bessarionis Epistolæ_, (1469) folio--in the Royal Library at Stuttgart, iii 24 BIBLIA LATINA, MS. ixth century, of Charles the Bald--in the Royal Library at Paris, with a copper-plate engraving of that Monarch's portrait, ii 65 ------ ------ XIIth century, in the same library, ii 67 ------ ------ XVth century, of the _Emperor Wenceslaus_--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 290 BIBLIA HIST. PARAPHRASTICA, MS. XVth century, ii 69 _Biblia Polyglotta Complut_. 1516, &c. in the Public Library at Coutances, i 270 ------ ------ copy belonging to Diane de Poictiers, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 149 ------ ------ 1521, in the Public Library at Landshut, iii 181 ------ ------ copy of Demetrius Chalcondylas, afterwards that of Eckius, in the Public Library at Landshut, iii 181 ------ ------ _Walton_; royal copy, in the Public Library at Caen, i 211 ------ ------ with the original dedication, in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 22 ------ ------ in the Library of the Monastery of St. Florian, in Austria, iii 237 _Biblia Polyglotta, Le Jay_: in the Library of the Lycée at Bayeux i 245 ------ _Hebraica, edit. Soncini_, 1488, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 303 _Biblia Hebraica edit. Houbigant_, 1753, in a Private Collection near Bayeux, i 235 ---- ---- _Hahn_, 1806, in the Library of the Monastery of Closterneuburg, iii 396 ---- _Græca, Aldus_, 1518, folio--Francis Ist's copy, upon thick paper, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 148 ---- ---- _Aldus_, upon thick paper, in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 157 ---- ---- the usual copy, in the King's Private Library at Stuttgart, iii 39 _Biblia Latina_, (_edit. Maz. 1455_) folio, 2 vols., two copies of, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 106 ---- ---- a copy in the Mazarine Library at Paris, ii 190 ---- ---- a copy in the Public Library at Munich, iii 139 ---- ---- a copy in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 302 ---- ---- _Pfister_, (1461) folio, 3 vols. in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 108 ---- two copies, 1592, 1603, in the Royal Library at Stuttgart, iii 39 ---- ---- in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 302 ---- _Fust und Schoeffher_, 1462: folio--three copies, (two UPON VELLUM, and a third on paper) in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 154 ---- ---- VELLUM COPY, in the Library of Ste. Geneviève, ii 173 ---- VELLUM COPY, in the Mazarine Library at Paris, ii 190 ---- ---- in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 22 ---- ---- (imperfect) in the Public Library at Landshut, iii 181 ---- ---- in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 302 _Biblia Latina Mentelin_--in the Public Library at Strasbourg, ii 404 _Biblia Latino Mentelin_, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 302 ---- _Eggesteyn_, (ms. date, 1468) in the Public Library at Strasbourg, ii 404 ---- ---- (ms. date, 1466) in the Public Library at Munich, iii 141 ---- _Sweynheym and Pannartz_, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 302 ---- supposed edition of Eggesteyn, in the Public Library at Strasbourg, iii 55 ---- 1475, folio, _Frisner_, &c.--in the Public Library at Augsbourg, iii 96 ---- (1475 _edit. Gering_) imperfect copy in the Chapter Library at Bayeux, i 244 ---- _Hailbrun_, 1476, folio: two copies, of which one is UPON VELLUM, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 303 ---- ---- _Jenson_, 1479, folio, in the Public Library at Strasbourg, ii 405 ---- ---- UPON VELLUM, in the Imperial Library at Vienna--and a second copy upon paper, iii 303 ---- ---- 1485, folio, in the Public Library at Caen, i 208 ---- ---- _Froben_, 1495, 8vo. in the Public Library at Vire, i 298 BIBLIA GERMANICA, MS. of the Emperor Wenceslaus, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 290 _Biblia Germanica, Mentelin_, folio--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 108 ---- ---- in the Public Library at Strasbourg, ii 403 ---- ---- two copies, in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 21 ---- ---- two copies in the Public Library at Munich, iii 140 ---- ---- in the Public Library at Landshut, iii 180 _Biblia Germanica, Mentelin_, folio, in the Library at Closterneuburg Monastery, iii 397 ---- ---- in the Public Library at Ratisbon, _Supplement_, iii 418 ---- ---- in the Public Library at Nuremberg, _Supplement_, iii 431 ---- ---- _supposed first edition_, in the Public Library at Landshut, iii 180 ---- ---- _supposed first edition_, folio, in the Library of Closterneuburg Monastery, iii 397 _Biblia Germanica, Sorg. Augsbourg_, 1477, folio, in the Library of the Monastery of St. Florian, iii 236 ---- ---- _Peypus_, 1524, folio--UPON VELLUM, in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 22 _Biblia Italica; Kalend. Augusti_, 1471--folio--in the Mazarine Library, at Paris, ii 191 ---- ---- imperfect copy, in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 22 ---- ---- _Kalend. Octobris_, 1471, folio--in the Library of Ste. Geneviève, at Paris, ii 173 ---- ---- in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 22 ---- ---- in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 303 _Bibl. Hist, Venet_. 1492, folio--copy purchased of M. Fischeim at Munich, iii 154 _Biblia Bohemica_, 1488, folio--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 109 ---- _Polonica_, 1563, folio--in the same Library, ii 109 ---- ---- in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 22 ---- ---- copy purchased by the Author at Augsbourg, iii 96 ---- ---- in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 304 ---- ---- 1599; folio--in the Library of Ste. Geneviève, ii 174 _Biblia Hungarica_, 1565, folio--incomplete, in the King's Private Library at Stuttgart, iii 39 ---- _Sclavonica_, 1581, folio, in the Royal Library at Stuttgart, iii 22 ---- ---- 1587, folio--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 109 _Bible, La Sainte_, 1669, folio; large paper copy in the Public Library of Caen, i 211 BIBLIA-HISTORICA, _MS. versibus germanicis_, Sec. XIV.--in the Royal Library at Stuttgart, iii 29 ---- _Aurea. Lat. I. Zeiner_, 1474, folio--in the Library of Chremsminster Monastery, iii 222 ---- _Pauperum, block book_: in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 108 ---- ---- _block book_, German,--in the Public Library at Stuttgart iii 26 ---- ---- _Latine_, first edition, in the same Library, iii 27 ---- ---- _block book_--one German, and two Latin editions, in the Public Library at Munich, iii 136 ---- ---- in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 331 BIOGRAPHY, ROYAL, OF FRANCE;--XVIth century--magnificent MS. in the Royal Library at Paris. ii 87 BLAZONRY OF ARMS, BOOK OF--XIVth century, with fac-simile portrait of _Leopold de Sempach_ in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 299 _Block books_; at Paris, ii 208, at Stuttgart, iii 26, at Munich, iii 134; at Landshut, iii 181; at Vienna, iii 331. BOCACE, DES CAS DES NOBLES HOMMES ET FEMMES, MS. XVth century, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 84 ---- ---- two more MSS. of the same work, in the same Library, ii 85 _Boccace Ruines des-Nobles Hommes_, &c. 1476, _Colard Mansion_, folio, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 126 _Boccaccio Il Decamerone_, 1471, _Valdarfer_, folio--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 125 ---- ---- 1472, _A. de Michaelibus_, folio, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 126 _Boccaccio II Decamerone_, in the Public Library at Nuremberg, _Supplement_, iii 431 ---- ---- 1476, _Zarotus_, folio, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 321 ---- ---- _Deo Gracias, Sine Anno: forsan edit. prin_. in the Public Library at Munich, iii 143 ---- _Nimphale_, 1477, 4to., in the Royal Library at Stuttgart, iii 26 _Boetius, F. Johannes_, 1474, 4to. in the Library of Ste. Genevieve. at Paris, ii 176 _Bonifacii Papæ Libr. Decret_, 1465, folio, UPON VELLUM, in the Library of Mölk Monastery, iii 252 ---- UPON VELLUM, in the Public Library at Nuremberg, _Supplement_, iii 430 _Bonnie vie, ou Madenie, Chambery_, 1485, folio, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 326 Book of the Gospels of the Emperor Lotharius, Royal Library at Paris, ii 67 BREVIAIRE DE BELLEVILLE, MS. xivth century, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 72 BREVIARY OF JOHN DUKE OF BEDFORD, MS. xvth century--in the Royal Library at Paris--with copper plate fac-simile of a portion of the Adoration of the Magi, from the same, ii 73 BREVIARE DE M. DE MONMORENCY, MS. xvith century--in the Emperor of Austria's private collection at Vienna, iii 386 BREVIARIUM ECCL. Liss. MS.; in the Public Library at Caen i 209 BRUT D'ANGLETERE, MS. xivth century--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 300 _Budæi Comment, in Ling. Gr_. 1529, folio--Francis 1st. copy, UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 140 _Burtrio, Anthon. de, Adam Rot_, 1472, folio, in the Library of Closterneuburg Monastery, iii 399 C. _Cæsar_, 1469, folio--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 128 _Cæsar_, 1460, folio, in the Mazarine Library, ii 192 ---- ---- in the Public Library at Munich, iii 142 ---- ---- UPON VELLUM, in the Imperial Library, iii 309 ---- 1471. _Jenson_, in the library of Göttwic Monastery, iii 430 ---- 1472. _S. and Pannartz_, folio, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 309 _Calderi Opus Concilior. Adam Rot_.--1472. Folio, in the library of Closterneuburg Monastery, iii 399 CALENDARIUM, MS., xvith century in the Public Library at Munich iii 128 ---- ---- _Regiomontani, block book_ in the Public Library at Munich iii 138 _Cantica Canticorum, Edit. Prin_. three copies in the Public Library at Augsbourg, iii 138 _Castille et Artus d'Algarbe_, 1587. 4to., in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris ii 160 _Catéchisme à l'usage des grandes filles pour êtres mariés_ i 89 _Caterina da Bologna_, no Date. 4to. in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 332 ---- _da Sienna_, 1477, 4to., in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 322 ---- _de Senis_, 1500, folio, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 149 _Catholicon_, 1460, folio, UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library Paris, ii 114 ---- ---- 1460, folio, in the Imp. Lib. at Vienna, iii 317 ---- ---- UPON VELLUM, in the Public Library at Munich, iii 143 ---- _G, Zeiner_, 1469, UPON VELLUM, in the Public Library at Munich, iii 143 ---- ---- in the Monastic Library of Chremsminster, iii 221 ---- ---- UPON VELLUM, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 317 _Catullus, Tibullus, et Propertius_, 1472, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 128 _Catullus, Tibullus, et Propertius_, in the Mazarine Library, ii 193 ---- ---- in the Public Library at Strasbourg, ii 409 _Caxton, books printed by_, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 102 ---- ---- in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 331 _Celestina Commedia de, Anvers_, 18mo., in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 162 _Chaucer's Book of Fame, Caxton_, folio, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 332 CHESS, GAME OF, _metrical German version of_, MS., sec. xv., in the Royal Library at Stuttgart, iii 154 _Chevalier Delibre_, 1488, 4to., in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 326 CHEVALIER AU LION, MS., 1470, in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 33 _Chivalry_; see _Tournaments_. _Chrétien de Mechel_, Cat. des Tableaux de la Galerie imp. et roy. de Vienne, 1781, 8vo., iii 371 ---- _Foresii, Lat_. 1474, folio, _printed by Gotz_, in the Public Library at Strasbourg, ii 405 ---- _Hungariæ_, 1485, 4to., in the Public Library at Augsbourg, iii 99 _Chronicon Gottwicense_, 1732, folio, 2 vols., some account of this rare and valuable work, iii 436 ---- ---- referred to, iii 271 _Chrysostomi Comment., Gr_. 1529, folio, copy of Diane de Poictiers, in the Public Library at Caen, i 213 _Cicero, de Officiis_ 1465, 4to., two copies UPON VELLUM, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 309 ---- ---- 1466, 4to., upon paper, in the Mazarine Library at Paris, iii 192 ---- ---- 1466, 4to., UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Stuttgart, iii 24 ---- ---- 1466, 4to., UPON VELLUM, in the Imp. Lib. at Vienna, iii 309 ---- ---- (_Aldus_), 8vo., UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 146 _Cicero, Epistolæ ad Familiares_, 1467, Cardinal Bessarion's copy in the Imperial Library, at Vienna, iii 310 ---- ---- 1469, _S. and Pannartz_, folio, in the same Library, iii 310 ---- ---- 1469, _S: and Pannartz_, folio, in the Public Library at Augsbourg, iii 98 ---- ---- 1469, _I. de Spira_, in the Royal Library at Stuttgart, iii 24 ---- ---- 1502, Aldus, 8vo., UPON VELLUM, in the possession of M. Renouard, bookseller, ii 222 _Cicero, de Oratore, Monast. Soubiac_., folio, in the Library of Ste. Geneviève, at Paris, ii 173 ---- ---- _V. de Spira_, folio, in the Public Library at Strasbourg, ii 408 ---- _Opera Philosophica, Ulric Han_, folio, in the Public Library at Munich, iii 142 ---- _De Natura Deorum, V. de Spira_. 1471, folio, in the Mazarine Library, at Paris, ii 192 ---- _Rhetorica Vetus, Jenson_, 1470, folio, UPON VELLUM, in the Library of Ste. Genevieve, at Paris, ii 175 ---- ---- UPON VELLUM, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 310 ---- _Orationes, S. and Pannartz_, 1471, folio, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 310 ---- ---- _Valdarfer_, 1471, folio, UPON VELLUM, (wanting one leaf) in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 141 ---- ---- 1519, _Aldus_, 8vo, UPON VELLUM, first volume only, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 146 ---- ---- perfect copy, UPON VELLUM, in the Library of St. Geneviève, ii 177 ---- _Opera Omnia_, 1498, folio, 4 vols., in the Library of Ste. Geneviève, at Paris, ii 176 ---- ---- in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 310 ---- ---- 1534, _Giunta_, folio, singular copy in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 152 _Cid el Cavalero_, 1627, 4to., in the Library of the Arsenal, at Paris: bound with _Seys Romances del Cid Ruy Diaz de Bevar_, 1627, 4to. ii 161 CITÉ DE DIEU, MS., in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 82 _Cité des Dames, (Verard)_ folio, UPON VELLUM, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 327 _Codex Ebnerianus_, referred to iii 447 _Compendium Morale_, folio, UPON VELLUM, unique copy, late in the possession of the Baron Derschau, at Nuremberg, _Supplement_, iii 443 COSTENTIN DU, MS., in the Public Library at Caen, i 209 COUTANCES, MS., biographical details connected with, in the Public Library at Caen, i 210 _Coutumes Anciennes_, 1672, 12mo. at Caen, i 211 _Cronica del Cid. Seville_. 4to., in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 327 Cronique de France, 1493, _Verard_, UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 130 ---- _de Florimont_, 1529, 4to.--in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 164 ---- _de Cleriadus_, 1529, 4to.,--in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 166 D. _Daigremont et Vivian_, 1538, 4to., in the Library of the Arsenal, at Paris, ii 166 _Dante Numeister_, 1472, folio, in the Mazarine Library at Paris, ii 193 ---- ---- in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 322 ---- _Petrus Adam_, 1472, folio, in the Library of Ste. Geneviève, at Paris, ii 176 ---- ---- _Neapoli, Tuppi,_ folio, in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 25 ---- ---- _Milan_, 1478, with, the comments of G. Tuzago, folio, in the same collection, iii 25 ---- 1481, folio, perfect copy, with twenty copper plates, in the Public Library at Munich, iii 144 ---- 1481, folio, with xx copper-plates, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 323 _Decor Puellarum, Jenson_, 1461, 4to., in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 323 _Defensio Immac. Concept. B.V.M_. 1470, _block book_, in the Public Library at Munich, iii 139 _Delphin Classics_, fine set of, in the library of Chremsminster Monastery, iii 222 _Der Veis Ritter_, 1514, folio, unique copy, in the Public Library at Landshut, iii 183 _Dion Cassius_, 1548, Gr. folio, edit. prin., Diane de Poictiers' copy, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 152 _Dio Chrysostom. de Regno, Valdarfer_, 4to. UPON VELLUM, in the Emperor's private collection at Vienna, iii 388 DIOSCORIDES, GRÆCE, MS., VIth century, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 296 DIVERTISSMENTS TOUCHANT LA GUERRE, MS., in the Public Library at Caen, i 209 _Doolin de Mayence, Paris, Bonfons_, 4to. in the Library of the Arsenal, ii 167 _Durandi Rationale_, 1459, folio, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 108 ---- ---- in the Imperial Library, Vienna, iii 317 _Durandi Rationale_, 1459, folio, in the Public Library at Nuremberg, _Supplement_, iii 430 ---- ---- 1474, _I. Zeiner_, folio, in the Library of Chremsminster Monastery, iii 222 E. ECHECS AMOREUX. MS. folio--with copper-plate fac-simile in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 83 _Echec Jeu de, (Verard)_ no date--UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 132 _Ein nuizlich büchlin, Augs_., 1498, 4to.--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 327 _Erasmus expurgatus iuxta cens. Acad. Lovan_. 1579, folio, in the Public Library at Augsbourg. See _Testament. Novum,_ 1516. iii 102 EVANGELIA QUATUOR, Lat. MS. VIth century, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 64 ---- ---- VIIIth century, in the Library at Chremsminster Monastery, iii 224 ---- ---- IXth century--in the Public Library at Munich, iii 123 ---- ---- XIth century, in the same Library, iii 124 ---- ---- Xth century, in the Public Library at Landshut, iii 179 ---- ---- XIth century--in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 27 ---- ---- XIVth century, in the Imperial Library at Vienna iii 291 EVANGELIUM STI. IOHANNIS, MS. Lat. XIth century, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 71 _Evangelia cum Epistolis: Ital_. folio--in the Library of Göttwic Monastery, iii 428 Evangelistarium, of Charlemagne, MS. folio, in the Private Library of the King, at Paris, ii 199 _Euclides_, 1482, folio, UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 139 ---- ---- four varying copies of, in the Public Library at Munich, iii 143 ---- Ratdolt. 1485, in the Library of the Monastery of St. Florian, iii 236 _Euripides, Gr_., 1503, _Aldus_--UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 145 _Eustathius in Homerum_, 1542--folio, UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 138 ---- ---- upon paper, in the same collection, ii 151 ---- ---- 1559, folio, fine copy, upon paper, in the Public Library at Caen, i 211 _Eutropius_, 1471, _Laver_, folio--in the King's Private Library at Stuttgart, iii 39 _Exhortation against the Turks_ (1472) in the Public Library at Munich, iii 135 F. _Fait de la Guerre C. Mansion_, folio--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 127 _Fazio Dita Mundi_, 1474, folio--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 323 _Ficheti Rhetorica--Gering_--4to.--UPON VELLUM, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 317 _Fiorio e Biancifiore, Bologna_, 1480, folio--in the Library of the Arsenal, at Paris, ii 161 _Fierbras_, 1486, folio--Prince Eugene's copy, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 327 _Fortalitium Fidei_--folio--no date--in the Public Library, at Munich: curious printed advertisement in this copy, iii 145 _Frezzi Il Quadriregio_, 1481, folio--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 323 _Fulgosii Anteros_--1496--folio--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 323 FUNERAILES DES REINES DE FRANCE, MS. folio--in the Emperor's Private Collection at Vienna, iii 387 G. _Galenus, Gr_. 1525, folio. _Aldus_--large paper, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 148 _Galien et Jaqueline_, 1525, folio--in the Library of the Arsenal, at Paris, ii 163 _Gallia Christiana_, 1732, folio, in the Chapter Library at Bayeux, ii 244 _Games of Chess, Caxton_, folio, 2d. edit.--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 332 GENESIS--MS. of the _ivth century--fragments of Chapters of_, account of--with fac-simile Illuminations, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 289 _Gerard Comte de Nevers_, 1526, 4to.--in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 164 _Geyler, Navic. Fat_. 1511, 4to.--in the Public Library at Augsbourg, iii 102 _Gloria Mulierum Jenson_, 4to.--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 324 _Godfrey of Boulogne, Caxton_, folio--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 333 _Gospels_, folio--MS. xiiith century--in the Emperor's Private Library at Vienna, iii 386 _Grammatica Rythmica_, 1466, folio--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 114 _Gratian Opus. Decret. Schoeffher_, 1472, folio, UPON VELLUM, in the Library of Closterneuburg Monastery, iii 398 _Guillaume de Palerne_, 1552, 4to, in the Library of the Arsenal: another edition, 1634, 4to., ii 166 _Guy de Warwick_, no date, 4to., in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 159 _Gyron Le Courtoys_, no date, _Verard_, UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 130 H. _Hartlieb's Chiromancy, block book_, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 115 ---- ---- in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 332 _Helayne La Belle_, 1528, 4to., in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 166 _Hecuba et Iphigenia in Aulide_, Gr. et Lat. 1507, UPON VELLUM, 8vo. ii 145 _Hector de Troye, Arnoullet_, 4to., in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 167 _Heures, printed by Vostre_, fine copy of, in the Public Library at Caen, i 210 _Herodotus, Gr_. 1502, _Aldus_, folio, large paper copy in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 150 HISTORIA B.M. VIRGINIS, MS., folio, xvth century, in the Public Library at Paris, ii 76 ---- ---- _block book_, folio, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 116 ---- ---- in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 26 ---- ---- in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 331 _Historiæ Augusta Scriptores_, 1475, folio, _P. de Lavagna_, in the Public Library at Strasbourg, ii 408 ---- ---- _Aldus_, 1521, 8vo., UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 147 _History of Bohemia_, _by Pope Pius II_, 1475, in the Public Library at Augsbourg, iii 99 HISTOIRE ROMAINE, MS, xvth century; folio, 3 vols. in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 87 _Homeri Opera, Gr_., 1488, folio, UNCUT, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 129 ---- ---- in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 311 ---- ---- in the Public Library at Nuremberg, _Supplement_, iii 432 ---- ---- _No date_, _Aldus_, 8vo., UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 145 ---- ---- in the Library of Ste. Genevieve, ii 177 ---- ---- 1808, _Bodoni_, folio, UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 129 ---- ---- _Batrachomyomachia_, _Gr._ 4to., edit. prin. in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 311 HORÆ B.M. VIRGINIS, MS., 8vo., in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 74 ---- ---- folio, belonging to ANN OF BRITANNY, with copper plate engraving of her portrait therefrom, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 78 ---- ---- belonging to Pope Paul III. in the same Library, ii 80 ---- ---- MS., XVth century, in the Royal Private Library at Stuttgart, iii 37 ---- ---- 8vo., in the Emperor's private collection at Vienna, iii 386 ---- STI. LUDOVICI, MS., XIIIth century, in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 157 ---- ---- _Gr._ 1497, 12mo. _printed by Aldus_, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 103 -147 ---- ---- purchase of a copy from Mr. Stöger, at Munich, iii 151 HORATIUS, M. S., XIIth century in the Mölk Monastery, iii 258 ---- Edit. Prin. 4to., in the Public Library at Augsbourg, iii 96 ---- _Venet_. 1494, 4to., purchased of Mr. Fischeim, at Munich, iii 154 ---- 1501, _Aldus_, 8vo., UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 146 ---- ---- UPON VELLUM, in the Public Library at Munich, iii 143 _Horloge de Sapience, Verard_, 1493, folio, UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 131 HORTUS DELICIARUM, MS., XIIth century, in the Public Library at Strasbourg, ii 401 HORTULUS ANIMÆ, MS., XVth century, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 294 ---- ---- 1498, 12mo., in the King's Private Library at Stuttgart, iii 38 ---- _Rosarum, &c_., 1499, 8vo., in the Public Library at Augsbourg, iii 101 _Huet, Demonstrat. Evang_. 1690, (1679?) folio, unique copy in the Public Library at Caen, i 211 _Huon de Bourdeaux_, four editions of, in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 163 I. _Isocrates, Gr., Aldus_, 1534, folio, large paper copy in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 148 ---- ---- Printed at Milan, 1493, folio, ii 149 _Jason, Roman de, printed by Caxton_, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 103 ---- ---- _same edition_, in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 155 _Jason, printed by Caxton_, in the Imp. Lib. at Vienna, iii 332 _Iehan de Saintré, Bonfons_, no date, 4to., in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 165 ---- _Paris, Bonfons_, no date, 4to., in the same collection, ii 165 JEROME, ST., VIE, MORT, ET MIRACLES DE, MS., XVth century, in the Public Library of Stuttgart, iii 31 _Ieronimi Epistolæ_, 1468, UPON VELLUM, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 304 ---- ---- 1470, _S. and Pannartz_, folio, in the Library of Closterneuburg Monastery, iii 398 ---- ---- in the Public Library at Nuremberg, _Supplement_, iii 431 ---- ---- 1470, _Schoeffher_, in the Public Library at Strasbourg, ii 406 ---- ---- in the Public Library at Nuremberg, _Supplement_, iii 431 ---- ---- _Parmæ_, 1480, folio, in the Public Library at Augsbourg, iii 98 _Josephus, Lat_. 1480, folio, in the Library of the Monastery of St. Florian, iii 236 ---- _Gallicè_, 1492, folio, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 328 _Jourdain de Blave, Paris, Chretien, no date_, 4to., in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 166 _Jouvencel le_, 1497, _Verard_, folio, UPON VELLUM, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 328 _Juvenalis_, folio, _V. de Spira_, edit. prin. in the Public Library at Strasbourg, ii 409 ---- _Ulric. Han. typ. grand_, folio, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 311 ---- 1474, folio, in the Public Library at Caen, i 208 --- _I. de Fivizano_, folio, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 311 L. _Lactantii Institutiones_, 1465, folio, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 112 ---- ---- in the Library of Ste. Geneviève, ii 172 ---- ---- in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 305 ---- ---- 1470, _S. and Pannartz_, folio, in the Mazarine Library at Paris, ii 192 ---- ---- _Rostoch_, 1476, UPON VELLUM, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 305 LANCELOT DU LAC, MS., XIVth century, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 88 ---- ---- another MS. of about the same period, in the same Library, ii 89 ---- ---- another manuscript in the same library, ii 89 ---- ---- 1488, _Verard_, folio, in the Imperial Library (Prince Eugene's copy) at Vienna, iii 328 ---- ---- 1494, _Verard_, folio, UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, iii 130 ---- ---- 1496, _Verard,_ folio, UPON VELLUM, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 328 _Lascaris Gram. Græc_. 1476, 4to., in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 127 LEGES BAVARICÆ, MS., XIIIth century, in the Public Library at Landshut, iii 179 _Legenda Aurea, (seu Sanctorum) Ital. Jenson_, 1476, folio, in the Mazarine Library at Paris, ii 191 ---- ---- UPON VELLUM, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 324 ---- ---- 1475, _Gering_, folio, in the Public Library at Caen, i 208 _Les Deux Amans, Verard_, 1493, 4to., in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 328 LIBER GENERATIONIS IES. XTI. MS. VIIth century: in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 70 _Liber Modorum significandi_, 1480, _St. Albans_,--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 125 _Liber Moralisat. Bibl_. 1474, Ulm, folio--copy purchased of M. Fischeim, at Munich, iii 154 LIBER PRECUM, _cum not. et cant_. MS. _pervet_. in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 71 ---- ---- MS. xvth century, in the Public Library at Munich, iii 131 _Liber Regum, seu Vita Davidis--block books_--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 331 _Life of Christ, block book_--in the Public Library at Munich, iii 134 _Littleton's Tenures, Lettou_, &c. folio--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 333 LIVIUS, MS. XVth century--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 298 ---- 1469, folio,--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 122 ---- ---- in the Public Library at Munich, iii 142 ---- 1470, _V. de Spira_, folio, UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 122 ---- ---- upon paper, in the same Library, ii 122 ---- ---- in the Library of Closterneuburg Monastery, iii 397 ---- 1472, _S. and Pann_., folio, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 123 _Lombardi Petri Sentent. (Eggesteyn)_, folio, in the Library of Closterneuburg Monastery, iii 399 _Lucanus_, 1469, folio--in the Public Library at Munich, iii 142 ---- 1475, folio, cum comment. Omniboni--in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 24 _Luciani Opera_, Gr. 1496, folio--fine copy, in the possession of M. Renouard, at Paris, ii 230 ---- ---- 1503, _Aldus_, folio--large paper copy, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 151 ---- ---- _Opusc. Quæd. Lat_. 1494--4to.--UPON VELLUM, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 311 _Lucretius_, 1486, folio--in the King's Private Collection at Stuttgart, iii 39 ---- _Aldus_, 1515, 8vo.--UPON VELLUM, (supposed to be unique) in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 146 _Luctus Christianorum, Jenson_, 4to.--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 324 _Ludolphus Vita Christi (Eggesteyn)_, 1474, folio, in the Public Library at Nancy, ii 363 ---- ---- _De Terra Sancta_, &c. 4to.--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 317 M. _Mabrian_, 1625, 4to.--in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 163 _Maguelone, La Belle_, 1492, _Trepperel_, 4to.--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 328 _Maius, de propriet. prisc. verb_. 1477. folio--_B. de Colonia_--in the Public Library at Strasbourg, ii 407 _Mammotrectus, Schoeffher_, 1470--folio--UPON VELLUM, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 317 ---- ---- in the Library of Closterneuburg, iii 398 ---- ---- _H. de Helie_, 1470, folio--in the Public Library at Landshut, iii 181 MANDEVILLE, MS. _German_--in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 32 _Manilius_, 1474, folio,--in the King's Private Library at Stuttgart, iii 39 _Marco Polo, Germ_. 1477, folio--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 329 _Marsilius Ficinus: In Dionysium Areopagitam_, no Date, folio, in the Library of Ste. Geneviève at Paris, ii 176 _Martialis_, 1475, folio--in the Library of a Capuchin Monastery, near Vienna, iii 403 ---- ---- _Aldus_, 1502, 8vo. two copies UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 146 MAYNI IASONIS EPITALAMION, MS. 4to.--in the Emperor's Private Library at Vienna, iii 387 _Mayster of Sentence, Caxton_, folio--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 332 _Meinart, St. Life of, block book_: in the Public Library at Munich, iii 137 _Melusina, Historie von der, Germ_. no date, folio, in the King's Private Library at Stuttgart, iii 41 _Melusine, P. Le Noir_, 4to.--in the Library of the Arsenal ii 167 _Memoirs of the Transactions of the Society of Belles Lettres &c. at Rouen_, vol. i. page 49, of a _similar_ Society at Caen, i 185 _Messer Nobile Socio, Miserie de li Amante di_, 1533, 4to. in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 159 _Meurin Fils d'Oger, Paris, Bonfons_, 4to.--in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 167 _Milles et Amys, Verard_, no date, folio--UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 131 ---- ---- _Rouen_, 4to.--in the Library of the Arsenal at ditto, ii 162 _Mirabilia Urbis Romæ, block book_,--in the Public Library at Munich, iii 137 MISSALE, MS. XIVth century, in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 30 ---- ---- XVth century, two in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 31 ---- ---- of Charles the Bold, XVth century--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, with fac-simile, iii 292 ---- ---- XVth century,--in the Public Library at Munich, iii 129 ---- ---- 8vo.--belonging to Sigismund, King of Poland, in the Public Library at Landshut, iii 180 ---- _Herbipolense_ (1479), folio, UPON VELLUM, in the imperial Library at Vienna, iii 306 ---- ---- _Venet_. 1488, folio,--UPON VELLUM, in the Emperor's Private Collection at Vienna, iii 388 ---- _Pro. Patav. Eccl. Ritu_, 1494, folio, in the Library of a Capuchin Monastery, near Vienna, iii 403 ---- _Mozarabicum_, 1500, folio--with the Breviary 1502, in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 156 ---- ---- in the Library of Ste. Geneviève, ii 178 ---- ---- in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 305 ---- _Parisiense_, 1522, folio--UPON VELLUM, in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 156 _Missal of Henry IV_. XVIth century, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 81 _Missa Defunctorum, Viennæ_, 1499, folio, in the Library of a Capuchin Monastery, near Vienna, iii 403 _Montaigne's Essays_, 1635, folio, large paper, in the Library at Caen, i 212 _Monte Sancto di Dio_, 1477, folio,--in the Royal Library, at Paris, ii 134 _Monte Sancto di Dio_, 1477, folio, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 324 _Moreri des Normans; par I.A. Guiat_, MS. in the Public Library at Caen, i 209 _Morgant le Géant_, 1650, 4to.--in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 164 _Mori Thomæ Opera, edit. Lovan_. 1566, folio, in the Library of the Lycée at Bayeux, i 245 _Munsteri Cosmographia_, 1556, folio, copy of, belonging to D. de Poictiers, in the Public Library at Caen, ii 214 _Mureti Disticha_, Lat. and Fr. _chap book_, at Vire, i 286 N. _Nanceidos Liber_, 1518, folio; copy of, with ms. notes of Bochart, in the Public Library at Caen, i 212 ---- ---- two copies of, one upon large paper, in the Public Library at Nancy, ii 362 ---- ---- one, UPON VELLUM, in the possession of Messrs. Payne and Foss, ii 362 _Nef des Folz du Monde_, Verard, no date, folio--UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 133 ---- ---- Printed by the same, UPON VELLUM, in the same library, ii 133 _Nef des Dames, Arnollet, à Lyon_, 4to.--in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 160 _Niger P., contra perfidos Judæos_, 1475, folio--in the King's Private Library at Stuttgart, iii 41 _Nonius Marcellus_, 1471, folio,--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 318 _Nova Statuta, Machlinia_, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 125 _Novelas, por de Maria Zayas_, 1637, 4to.--in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 160 ---- _Amorosas_, 1624, 4to. in the same Library, ii 160 O. OFFICIUM B.M. VIRGINIS, MS., XVth century, in the Emperor's private collection at Vienna, iii 386 ---- ---- MS., XVIth century, in the Public Library at Munich, iii 129 OFFICIUM B.M. VIRGINIS, MS., in the same library, iii 130 _Ogier le Danois_, 1525, folio, in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 162 _Ovidii Opera Omnia, Azoguidi_, 1471, wanting two leaves, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 141 ---- _Fasti, Azoguidi_, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 312 ---- _Opera Omnia, S. and Pannartz_, 1471, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 312 ---- _Epistolæ et Fasti_, folio, in the same collection, iii 312 P. _Paris et Vienne, Paris_, no date, 4to., in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 164 _Pentateuch, Hebr._ 1491, folio, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 111 _Petrarcha Sonetti_, 1470, Prince Eugene's copy in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 325 ---- ---- 1473, _Zarotus_, folio, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 325 ---- ---- _Jenson_, 1473, folio, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 325 ---- ---- _Comment. Borstii, Bologn_., 1475, folio, two copies in the Imperial Library at Vienna, of which one belonged to Prince Eugene, iii 325 ---- ---- _Bolog._, 1476, folio, (_Azoguidi_[178]) with the comment of Philelphus, in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 25 ---- _Aldus_, 1501, 8vo., UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 147 ---- ---- 1514, 8vo., UPON VELLUM, in the possession of M. Renouard, bookseller, ii 229 ---- ---- 1521, 12mo., in the King's Private Library at Stuttgart, iii 41 ---- _Sonetti cum Comment. Velutelli_, 1546, 8vo., iii 41 ---- _Hist. Griseldis, Lat_., 1473, folio,--Prince Eugene's copy in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 318 _Phalaris Epist_., 1471, 4to., in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 318 ---- ---- _Ulric Han_, folio, in the same collection, iii 319 PHILOSTRATUS, _Lat_., MS., XVth century in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 297 _Pierre de Provence et la belle Maguelonne_, 1490, 4to. in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 165 _Pindarus, Gr_. 1502, _Aldi_, 12mo., in the Library of the Monastery of St. Florian, iii 237 _Plautus_, 1472, folio, edit. prin. in the Mazarine Library at Paris, ii 192 ---- 1522, _Aldus_, 4to., Grolier's copy, apparently _large paper_, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 148 _Plinius Senior_, 1469, folio, one copy, UPON VELLUM, and another upon paper, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 120 ---- ---- in the Library of Ste. Geneviève, ii 174 ---- ---- UPON VELLUM, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 312 ---- ---- _Jenson_, 1472, folio, UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 120 ---- ---- _Jenson_, 1472, folio, UPON VELLUM, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 313 ---- ---- upon paper, in the Library of Closterneuburg Monastery, iii 398 ---- ---- _Ital_. 1476, _Jenson_, folio, UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 121 ---- ---- upon paper, in the same collection, ii 121 ---- ---- upon paper, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 313 _Plutarchi Vitæ; Parallellæ, Ital_., folio, Litt. R., in the Public Library at Strasbourg, ii 409 ---- ---- the same edition in the Monastic Library at Closterneuburg, iii 398 _Plutarchi Opuscula Moralia, Gr_, 1509, _Aldus_, UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 137 _Poetæ Græci Principes, Gr_., 1556, folio, large paper, De Thou's copy in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 152 _Pogii Facetiæ, Monast. Euseb_., folio, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 319 ---- _Hist. Fiorent._, 1476, folio, UPON VELLUM and paper, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 325 POLYBIUS, _Gr_. MS., sec. XVI., Diane de Poictiers's copy, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 99 _Polybius, Lat., S. and Pannartz_, 1473, folio, in the Library of Closterneuburg Monastery, iii 398 PRAYER BOOK OF CHARLES THE BALD, Ill. MS. 4to, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 67 _Priscianus_, 1470, _V. de Spira_, folio, UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 139 ---- ---- in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 319 ---- ---- _Ulric Han_, folio--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 319 ----, _Aldus_, 1527, 8vo., Grolier's copy, upon large paper, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 148 ----, _Printed by V. de Spira_, UPON VELLUM, in the Library of Ste. Geneviève, ii 175 PSALTERIUM, MS., IXth century, of Charles the Bald; in the Public Library at Paris; ii 66 ---- ----, Sti. Ludovici, XIIIth century, in the same library, ii 68 ---- ----, XIth century, in the Public Library at Stuttgart iii 27 ---- ----, XIIth century, in the same Collection, iii 28 ---- ----, XIIth century, in the Royal Private Library at Stuttgart, iii 36 ---- ----, XIIth century, in the Public Library at Munich, iii 125 ---- ----, with most splendid illuminations, of the XVIth century, in the same library, iii 133 ---- ----, St. Austin, XVth century, in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 33 ---- ---- _Latine_, 1457, _Fust and Schoeffher_, folio, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 104 ---- ----, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 306 _Psalterium Latine_, 1459, folio--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 105 ---- ----, 1490, folio, _Schoeffher_, UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 105 ---- ----, 1502, folio, _Schoeffher_, in the same library, -- 106 ---- ----, UPON VELLUM, _Printed by Schoeffher's Son_, 1516, folio, ii 106 ---- ----, without date--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 307 ---- ----, _Lips_. 1486, 4to.--in the Public Library at Landshut, iii 181 PTOLEMÆUS, _Lat_. MS. folio--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 85 ---- ---- MS. folio, in the Public Library at Strasbourg, ii 59 ---- ----, 1462, folio, in the Public Library at Munich, iii 142 ---- ----, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 319 ---- ----, _Printed by Buckinck_, 1478, folio, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 320 Q. _Quintilianus, I. de Lignam_, 1470, folio, in the Library of Ste. Geneviève, at Paris, ii 175 ---- ----, 1471, _Jenson_, folio, in the Public Library at Nuremberg, _Supplement_, iii 431 R. _Ratdolt_, specimens of the types from his press, in the Public Library at Munich, iii 144 _Recueil des Histoires de Troye, printed by Caxton_, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 102 ---- ---- _printed by Verard_, UPON VELLUM, in the same Library, ii 102 _Regnars, les, &c. Verard_, 4to. Prince Eugene's copy in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 329 _Regulæ, Confitend. peccata sua. Ital_., 1473, 4to., in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 326 _Repertorium Statut. Ord. Carth_. 1510, folio, in the Public Library at Caen, i 202 _Richard sans Peur, Janot, no date_, 4to., in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 158 ---- _Bonfons, no date_, 4to., in the same library, ii 158 _Robert le Diable, Janot, no date_, 4to., in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 158 _Romances, MS_., in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 88 ---- ----, _printed_, in the same Library, ii 131 ---- ----, in the Public Library at Strasbourg, ii 407 ---- ----, in the Public Library at Munich, iii 126 _Ronsard_, 1584, folio, in the Public Library at Caen, i 212 ROSE, ROMAN DE LA, MS. XIVth century, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 95 ---- ---- MS. XIVth century, in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 31 ---- ---- _Verard_, no date, UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 131 _Rossei opus elegans, &c., Pynson_, 1523, 4to., the author's copy, afterwards that of Sir Thomas More, in the Public Library at Landshut, iii 183 S. SACRAMENTARIUM, SEU MISSA _Pap. Greg_., MS., VIth century, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 290 _Sanchez de Matrim. Sacram_., copy in the chapter Library at Bayeux, i. 244, in the Library of the Lycée at Bayeux, i 245 _Sannazarii Arcadia_, 1514, _Aldus_, 8vo., Grolier's copy, on large paper, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 148 _Sannazarius de partu Virginis, Aldi_, 1527, 12mo. in the King's Private Library at Stuttgart, iii 41 SCHAKZABEL, DER, MS. 1400 or 1450, in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 32 _Séguin, Histore Militaire des Bocains_, quoted, i 300, 301, 302, _sur l'histoire de l'industrie du Bocage, en général, et de la ville de Vire sa capitale en particulière_, 1810, 8vo., i 303 _Servius in Virgilium_, see _Virgilius_. _Sforziada La_, 1480, folio, UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 134 _Shyppe of Fools_, 1509, 8vo. _printed by W. Worde_, UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 103 _SIBILÆ, &c_., MS., xvth century, in the Public Library at Munich, iii 127 _Silius Italicus, Laver_, 1471, folio, in the Mazarine Library at Paris, ii 193 ---- ---- in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 313 ---- ---- _S. and Pannartz_, 1471, folio, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 313 ---- ---- in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 26 ---- ---- in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 332 _Spec. Hum, Salv_, 1476, folio, _printed by Richel_, in the Public Library at Strasbourg, ii 407 _Spec. Morale P. Bellovacensis_, 1476, folio, ii 405 ---- _Judiciale Durandus_, Printed by Hussner and Rekenhub, 1473, folio, ii 405 _Speculum Stultorum_, _no date_, 4to., in the Public Library at Caen, i 211 _Statius in usum Delphini_, 4to., two copies, in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 156 ---- ---- beautiful copy in the Library of Chremsminster monastery, iii 222 _Statutes of Richard III. Machlinia_, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 124 ---- ---- in the King's Private Library at Stuttgart, iii 41 _Stephani, H. Gloss. Græc_. 1573, &c., folio--_cum notis mss: Bocharti_, copy of, in the Public Library at Caen, i 211 _Successos y Prodigos de Amor_, 1626, 4to., in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 161 _Suetonius I. de Lignamine_, 1470, folio--in the Library of Ste. Geneviève, at Paris, ii 175 _Suetonius S. and Pannartz_, 1470, folio--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 313 ---- _Jenson_, 1471, 4to.,--in the same collection, iii 313 ---- _Reisinger_, 4to.,--_without date_, in the private royal collection at Stuttgart, iii 39 _Suidas, Gr_., 1499, folio--Lambecius's copy, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 314 ---- 1503, folio, _Aldus_--large paper copy, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 151 _Sypperts de Vinevaulx, Paris, no date_, 4to.--in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 159 T. _Tacitus, I. de Spira_, folio, edit. prin. in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 24 ----, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 314 _Tasso, Gerusalemme Conquistata_, the author's autograph--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 300 _Terentius, Mentelin_, folio--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 314 ----, _Ulric Han_, folio--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 136 ----, _Reisinger_, folio--in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 23 _Testamentum Novum, Hollandicè et Russ_., 1717, folio, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 110 ---- ----, _Bohemice, Sec_. xv--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 307 ---- ----, _Græcè Erasmi_, in the King's Private Library at Stuttgart, iii 39 ---- ----, _R. Stephani_, 1550, folio--Diane de Poictiers's copy--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 150 _Tewrdanckhs_, 1517, folio--UPON VELLUM, in the Library of Ste. Geneviève, at Paris, ii 179 ---- ----, two copies of, in the Public Library at Munich, iii 147 _Tewrdanckhs_, 1517, folio, UPON VELLUM, two copies of, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 329 ---- ----, in the Library of the Monastery of St. Florian, iii 238 _Theophrastus_, 1497, Gr. _Aldus_,--Diane de Poictiers's copy, in the possession of M. Renouard at Paris, ii 231 _Thucydide, Gourmont_, folio, _Verard_--UPON VELLUM, in the Imperial Library at Vienna--Prince Eugene's copy, iii 330 TITE LIVE, MS. folio--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 86 _Tityrell and Pfartzival_, 1477, folio--in the Public Library at Landshut, iii 181 ---- ---- in the Library of the Monastery of St. Florian, iii 236 TOURNAMENTS, BOOK OF, MS. xvth century--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 95 ---- ---- duplicate and more recent copy of ii 99 _Tracts_, Printed by Pfister, at Bamberg, folio, ii 111 _Trebisond, Paris_, 4to.--in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, ii 167 TRISTAN, MS. xivth century, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 91 ---- ----, another MS. in the same library, ii 91 ---- ----, a third MS. in the same library, ii 92 ---- _Gall_. Sec. XIII., in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 299 ---- ----, another MS. in the same Collection, iii 300 _Tristran, Verard_, folio--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 330 _Trithemii Annales Hirsaugienses_, 1690, folio--in the Library of the Monastery of Chremsminster, iii 227 ---- ----, in the Library of a Capuchin Monastery, near Vienna, iii 403 _Troys filz de Roys_, Paris, no date, 4to.--in the Library of the Arsenal, ii 164 _Tully of Old Age, Caxton_--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 124 _Turrecremata I. de Meditationes, Ulric Han_, 1467, folio--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 320 ---- ---- in the Public Library at Nuremberg, _Supplement_, iii 430 ---- ----, 1473, in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 307 V. VALERIUS MAXIMUS, MS. xvth century--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 298 ---- ---- _Mentelin_, folio--two copies in the Public Library at Strasbourg, ii 408 ---- ---- in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 314 ---- ---- in the Royal Library at Stuttgart, iii 24 ---- ---- 1475, _Coes & Stol_, folio--in the Public Library at Caen, i 208 ---- ---- _Aldus_, 1534, 8vo. Grolier's copy, on large paper, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 148 _Valturius De Re Militari_, 1472, folio--in the Imperial Library (Prince Eugene's copy) at Vienna, iii 321 _Vaudevires, Basselin_, 1811, i 212 -289 _Vie des Peres_, 1494, folio, at Caen, i 208 _Virgilius, S. & Pannartz_, (1469) folio--in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 116 ---- ---- in the Public Library at Strasbourg--incomplete, ii 408 ---- ---- in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 314 ---- 1470, _V. de Spira_, UPON VELLUM, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 117 ---- ---- upon paper, in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 117 ---- ---- in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 314 ---- 1471, _S. and Pannartz_, folio--in the Royal Library at Paris, iii 118 _Virgilius_, 1471, _S. and Pannartz_, late in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 23 ---- ---- 1471, _V. de Spira_, folio--in the Imperial Library at Vienna, iii 315 ---- ---- 1471, _Adam_, folio--late in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 23 ---- _Servius in Virgilium_. _Ulric Han_, folio--Diane de Poictiers's copy, in the Mazarine Library at Paris, ii 191 ---- ---- _Valdarfer_, 1471, folio--in the Public Library at Strasbourg, ii 408 ---- ---- 1478, _Gering_, 4to., in the Royal Library at Paris, ii 119 ---- _Aldus_, 1501, 8vo.--UPON VELLUM, in the Public Library at Munich, iii 146 ---- ---- 1505, 8vo.--in the possession of M. Renouard, bookseller, ii 230 ---- _S. and Pannartz_, (1469) folio--in the Library of Ste. Geneviève, ii 174 ---- _Gallicè_, 1582, folio--in the Public Library at Caen, i 212 VITÆ SANCTORUM, MS. Sec. XII.--in the Public Library at Stuttgart, iii 29 _Vitruvius Giuntæ_, 1513, 8vo.--UPON VELLUM, in the Library of Ste. Geneviève at Paris, ii 178 Vocabularius, Bechtermuntze, 1467, 4to. ii 115 U. _Utino, T. de, Sermones_, _printed by Gering_--in the Public Library at Vire, i 297 W. WILLIBROODI STI. VITA. AUCT. ALCUINO. MS. xith century, in the Private Royal Library at Stuttgart, iii 38 [178] In the page referred to, I have conjectured it to be printed by Ulric Han-or Reisinger. To these names I add the above. PRINTED BY WILLIAM NICOL, AT THE Shakspeare Press. 
42539	----	Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. Listed Errata were corrected. Mis-spellings of non-English words were retained as printed. Readers noted the following: Grenzbäuden should be Grenbauden Kellnerinn should be Kellnerin. On page 144, the phrase starting "and perhaps for such a" seems to be missing words. A JULY HOLIDAY IN SAXONY, BOHEMIA, AND SILESIA. [Illustration: Castle] A JULY HOLIDAY IN SAXONY, BOHEMIA, AND SILESIA. BY WALTER WHITE, AUTHOR OF "A LONDONER'S WALK TO THE LAND'S END;" "ON FOOT THROUGH TYROL." "Ne wolde he call upon the Nine; 'I wote,' he sayde, 'they be but jyltes:' Ne covet when he wander'd forth Icarus' wings--ne traytor stiltes." _Old Author._ LONDON: CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY. MDCCCLVII. [_The right of Translation is reserved._] CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. PAGE What the Bookseller said -- A Walk in Frankfort -- What the Portress said -- Glimpses of Landscapes -- Forest and River -- Würzburg -- Stein Wine -- View from the Citadel-hill -- A Change of Bedrooms -- Coming to an Understanding with the Reader -- Good Night! 1 CHAPTER II. Würzburg -- The University -- Red, Green, and Orange Caps -- The Marienkapelle -- The Market -- The Cathedral -- The Palace -- Spacious Cellars -- A Professor's Hospitality -- To Bamberg -- Frost -- Hof -- A Shabby Peace -- The Arch-Poisoner -- Dear Bread -- A Prime Minister Hanged -- Altenburg -- The Park -- The Castle -- Reminiscences and Antiquities -- The Chapel -- The Princes' Vault -- Wends -- Costumes in the Market-place -- Female Cuirassiers -- More about the Wends -- Grossen Teich -- The Plateau -- The Cemetery -- Werdau 11 CHAPTER III. Origin of Altenburg -- Prosperous Burghers -- A Princely Crime -- Hussite Plunderers -- Luther's Visits -- French Bonfire -- Electress Margaret's Dream -- Kunz von Kauffungen -- "Don't burn the Fish" -- A Conspiracy -- Midnight Robbers -- Two Young Princes Stolen -- The Flight -- The Alarm -- The Köhler -- The Rescue -- Kunz Beheaded -- The _Triller's_ Reward, and what a famous Author said concerning it 25 CHAPTER IV. Zwickau -- Beer Bridge -- Beer Mount -- The Triller Estate -- Triller Bierbrauerei -- The Braumeister -- The Beer -- Four Hundredth Anniversary of the Prinzenraub -- A Friendly Clerk -- "You will have a Tsigger?" -- Historical Portraits -- A Good Name for a Brewery -- A Case of Disinterestedness -- Up the Church Tower -- The Prospect -- Princess Schwanhildis -- The Fire-god Zwicz -- Luther's Table -- The Church -- Geysers -- Petrified Beds -- Historical Houses -- Walk to Oberhaselau -- The Card-players -- The Wagoners 33 CHAPTER V. Across the Mulde -- Scenery -- Feet _versus_ Wheels -- Villages -- English Characteristics -- Timbered Houses -- Schneeberg -- Stones for Lamps -- The Way Sunday was Kept -- The Church -- A Wagon-load of Music -- A Surly Host -- Where the Pepper Grows -- Eybenstock -- Neustädl -- Fir Forests -- Wildenthal -- Four Sorts of Beer -- Potato Dumplings -- Up the Auersberg -- Advertisements -- The School -- The Instrument of Order -- "Look at the Englishman" -- The Erzgebirge -- The Guard-house -- Into Bohemia -- Romish Symbols -- Hirschenstand -- Another Guard-house -- Differences of Race -- Czechs and Germans -- Shabby Carpentry -- Change of Scenery -- Neudeck -- Arrive at Carlsbad -- A Glass Boot -- Gossip 43 CHAPTER VI. Dr. Fowler's Prescription -- Carlsbad -- "A Matlocky sort of a Place" -- Springs and Swallows -- Tasting the Water -- The Cliffs and Terraces -- Comical Signs -- The Wiese and its Frequenters -- Disease and Health -- The Sprudel: its Discharge; its Deposit -- The Stoppage -- Volcanic Phenomena -- Dr. Granville's Observations -- Care's Rest -- Dreikreuzberg -- View from the Summit -- König Otto's Höhe -- "Are you here for the Cure?" -- Lenten Diet -- Hirschsprung -- The Trumpeters -- Two Florins for a Bed 61 CHAPTER VII. Departure from Carlsbad -- Dreifaltigkeits-Kirche -- Engelhaus -- The Castle -- A Melancholy Village -- Up to the Ruins -- An Imperial Visit -- Bohemian Scenery -- On to Buchau -- The Inn -- A Crowd of Guests -- Roast Goose -- Inspiriting Music -- Prompt Waiters -- The Mysterious Passport -- The Military Adviser -- How he Solved the Mystery -- A Baron in Spite of Himself -- The Baron's Footbath -- Lighting the Baron to Bed 77 CHAPTER VIII. Dawn -- The Noisy Gooseherd -- Geese, for Home Consumption and Export -- Still the Baron -- The Ruins of Hartenstein -- Glimpses of Scenery and Rural Life -- Liebkowitz -- Lubenz -- Schloss Petersburg -- Big Rooms -- Tipplers and Drunkards -- Wagoners and Peasants -- A Thrifty Landlord -- Inquisitorial Book -- Awful Gendarme -- Paternal Government -- Fidgets -- How it is in Hungary -- Wet Blankets for Philosophers -- An Unhappy Peasant 86 CHAPTER IX. The Village -- The Peasant again -- The Road-mender -- Among the Czechs -- Czechish Speech and Characteristics -- Crosses -- Horosedl -- The Old Cook -- More Praise of England -- The Dinner -- A Journey-Companion -- Famous Files -- A Mechaniker's Earnings -- Kruschowitz -- Rentsch -- More Czechish Characteristics -- Neu Straschitz -- A Word in Season from Old Fuller -- The Mechaniker departs 96 CHAPTER X. A Talk with the Landlord -- A Jew's Offer -- A Ride in a Wagen -- Talk with the Jew -- The Stars -- A Mysterious Gun-barrel -- An Alarm -- Stony Ammunition -- The Man with the Gun -- The Jew's opinion of him -- Sunrise -- A Walk -- The White Hill -- A Fatal Field -- Waking up in the Suburbs -- Early Breakfasts -- Imperial and Royal Tobacco -- Milk-folk -- The Gate of Prague -- A Snappish Sentry -- The Soldiers -- Into the City -- Picturesque Features and crowding Associations -- The Kleinseite -- The Bridge -- Palaces -- The Altstadt -- Remarkable Streets -- The Teinkirche -- The Neustadt -- The Three Hotels 105 CHAPTER XI. The Hausknecht -- A Place to Lose Yourself -- Street-Phenomena -- Book-shops -- Glass-wares -- Cavernous Beer-houses -- Signs -- Czechish Names -- Ugly Women -- Swarms of Soldiers -- A Scene on the Bridge -- A Drateñik -- The Ugly Passport Clerk -- The Suspension-bridge -- The Islands -- The Slopes of the Laurenzberg -- View over Prague -- Schools, Palaces, and Poverty -- The Rookery -- The Hradschin -- The Courts -- The Cathedral -- The Great Tomb -- The Silver Shrine -- Relics -- A Kissed Portrait -- St. Wenzel's Chapel -- Big Sigmund -- The Loretto Platz -- The Old Towers -- The Hill-top and Hill-foot 118 CHAPTER XII. The Tandelmarkt -- Old Men and Boys at Rag Fair -- Jews in Prague -- The Judenstadt -- Schools and Synagogues -- Remote Antiquity -- Ducal Victims -- Jewish Bravery -- Removal of Boundary Wires 131 CHAPTER XIII. The Jewish Sabbath -- The Old Synagogue -- Traditions concerning it -- The Gloomy Interior -- The Priests -- The Worshippers and the Worship -- The Talkers -- The Book of the Law -- The Rabbi -- The Startling Gun -- A Birth at Vienna -- Departed Glory 136 CHAPTER XIV. The Alte Friedhof -- A Stride into the Past -- The Old Tombs -- Vegetation and Death -- Haunted Graves -- Ancient Epitaph -- Rabbi Löw -- His Scholars -- Symbols of the Tribes -- The Infant's Coffin -- The Playground -- From Death to Life 141 CHAPTER XV. The Kolowratstrasse -- Picolomini's Palace -- The Museum -- Geological Affluence -- Early Czechish Bibles -- Rare Old Manuscripts -- Letters of Huss and Ziska -- Tabor Hill -- Portraits -- Hussite Weapons -- Antiques -- Doubtful Hussites in the Market-place -- The Glückliche Entbindung -- A Te Deum -- Two Evening Visits -- Bohemian Hospitality -- The Gaslit Beer-house 146 CHAPTER XVI. Sunday Morning in Prague -- Gay Dresses -- Pleasure-seeking Citizens -- Service in the Hradschin Cathedral -- Prayers and Pranks -- Fun in the Organ-loft -- Glorious Music -- A Spell broken -- Priests and their Robes -- Osculations -- A Flaunting Procession -- An Old Topographer's Raptures -- The Schwarzes Ross -- Flight from Prague -- Lobositz -- Lost in a Swamp -- A Storm -- Up the Milleschauer -- After Dark -- The Summit -- Mossy Quarters -- The Host's Story 153 CHAPTER XVII. Morning on the Milleschauer -- The Brightening Landscape -- The Mossy Quarters by Daylight -- Delightful Down-hill Walk -- Lobositz again -- The Steam-boat -- Queer Passengers -- Sprightly Music -- Romantic Scenery -- Hills and Cliffs -- Schreckenstein -- How the Musicians paid their Fare -- Aussig -- The Spürlingstein -- Fairer Landscapes -- Elbe _versus_ Rhine -- Tetschen -- German Faces -- Women-Waders -- The Schoolmaster -- Passport again -- Pretty Country -- Signs of Industry -- Peasants' Diet -- Markersdorf -- Rustic Cottages -- Gersdorf -- Meistersdorf -- School -- Trying the Scholars -- Good Results -- A Byeway -- Ulrichsthal 162 CHAPTER XVIII. A Hospitable Reception -- A Rustic Household -- The Mother's Talk -- Pressing Invitations -- A Docile Visitor -- The Family Room -- Trophies of Industry -- Overheating -- A Walk in Ulrichsthal -- A Glass Polisher and his Family -- His Notions -- A Glass Engraver -- His Skill and Ingenuity -- His Earnings -- A Bohemian's Opinion on English Singing -- Military Service -- Beetle Pictures -- Glass-making in Bohemia -- An Englishman's Forget-me-Not -- The Dinner -- Dessert on the Hill -- An Hour with the Haymakers -- Magical Kreutzers -- An Evening at the Wirthshaus -- Singing and Poetry -- A Moonlight Walk -- The Lovers' Test 174 CHAPTER XIX. More Hospitality -- Farewells -- Cross Country Walk -- Steinschönau -- The Playbill -- Hayda -- All Glass-workers -- Away for the Mountains -- Zwickau -- Gabel -- Weisskirchen -- A Peasant's Prayer -- Reichenberg -- Passport again -- Jeschkenpeak -- Reinowitz -- Schlag -- Neudorf -- A Talk at Grünheid -- Bad Sample of Lancashire -- Tannwald -- Curious Rocks -- Spinneries -- Populousness -- Przichowitz -- An Altercation -- Heavy Odds -- The Englishman Wins -- A Word to the Company 190 CHAPTER XX. Stephanshöh -- A Presumptuous Landlord -- Czechs again -- Stewed Weavers -- Prompt Civilities -- The Iser -- A Quiet Vale -- Barrande's Opinion of the Czechs -- Rochlitz -- An offshoot from Tyre -- A Happy Landlord -- A Rustic Guide -- Hill Paths -- The Grünstein -- Rübezahl's Rose Garden -- Dreary Fells -- Source of the Elbe -- Solitude and Visitors -- The Elbfall -- Stony Slopes -- Strange Rocks -- Rübezahl's Glove -- Knieholz -- Schneegruben -- View into Silesia -- Tremendous Cliffs -- Basalt in Granite -- The Landlord's Bazaar -- The Wandering Stone -- A Tragsessel -- A Desolate Scene -- Rougher Walking -- Musical Surprises -- Spindlerbaude -- The Mädelstein -- Great Pond and Little Pond -- The Mittagstein -- The Riesengrund -- The Last Zigzags -- An Inn in the Clouds 201 CHAPTER XXI. Comforts on the Koppe -- Samples of Germany -- Provincial Peculiarities -- Hilarity -- A Couplet worth remembering -- Four-bedded Rooms -- View from the Summit -- Contrast of Scenery -- The Summit itself -- Guides in Costume -- Moderate Charges -- Unlucky Farmer -- The Descent -- Schwarzkoppe -- Grenzbäuden -- Hungarian Wine -- The Way to Adersbach -- Forty Years' Experience 218 CHAPTER XXII. The Frontier Guard-house -- A Volunteer Guide -- A Knave -- Schatzlar -- Bernsdorf -- A Barefoot Philosopher -- A Weaver's Happiness -- Altendorf -- Queer Beer -- A Short Cut -- Blunt Manners -- Adersbach -- Singular Rocks -- Gasthaus zur Felsenstadt -- The Rock City -- The Grand Entrance -- The Sugarloaf -- The Pulpit -- The Giant's Glove -- The Gallows -- The Burgomaster -- Lord Brougham's Profile -- The Breslau Wool-market -- The Shameless Maiden -- The Silver Spring -- The Waterfall -- A Waterspout -- The Lightning Stroke 225 CHAPTER XXIII. The Echo -- Wonderful Orchestra -- Magical Music -- A _Feu de joie_ -- The Oration -- The Voices -- Echo and the Humourist -- Satisfying the Guide -- Exploring the Labyrinth -- Curious Discoveries -- Speculations of Geologists -- Bohemia an Inland Sea -- Marble Labyrinth in Spain -- A Twilight View -- After a' 235 CHAPTER XXIV. Baked Chickens -- A Discussion -- Weckelsdorf -- More Rocks -- The Stone of Tears -- Death's Alley -- Diana's Bath -- The Minster -- Gang of Coiners -- The Bohdanetskis -- Going to Church -- Another Silesian View -- Good-bye to Bohemia -- Schömberg -- Silesian Faces and Costume -- Picturesque Market-place -- Ueberschar Hills -- Ullersdorf -- An amazed Weaver -- Liebau -- Cheap Cherries -- The Prussian Simplon -- Ornamented Houses -- Buchwald -- The Bober -- Dittersbach -- Schmiedeberg -- Rübezahl's Trick upon Travellers -- Tourists' Rendezvous -- The Duellists' Successors -- Erdmannsdorf -- Tyrolese Colony 240 CHAPTER XXV. Schnaps and Sausage -- Dresdener upon Berliners -- The Prince's Castle at Fischbach -- A Home for the Princess Royal -- Is the Marriage Popular? -- View from the Tower -- Tradition of the Golden Donkey -- Royal Palace at Erdmannsdorf -- A Miniature Chatsworth -- The Zillerthal -- Käse and Brod -- Stohnsdorf -- Famous Beer -- Rischmann's Cave -- Prophecies -- Warmbrunn 250 CHAPTER XXVI. The Three Berliners -- Strong Beer -- Origin of Warmbrunn -- St. John the Baptist's Day -- Count Schaffgotsch -- A Benefactor -- A Library -- Something about Warmbrunn -- The Baths -- Healing Waters -- The Allée -- Visitors -- Russian Popes -- The Museum -- Trophies -- View of the Mountains -- The Kynast -- Cunigunda and her Lovers -- Served her right -- The Two Breslauers -- Oblatt -- The Baths in the Mountains 256 CHAPTER XXVII. Hirschberg -- The Officers' Tomb -- A Night Journey -- Spiller -- Greifenberg -- Changing Horses -- A Royal Reply -- A Griffin's Nest -- Lauban -- The Potato Jubilee -- Görlitz -- Peter and Paul Church -- View from the Tower -- The Landskrone -- Jacob Böhme -- The Hidden Gold -- A Theosophist's Writings -- The Tombs -- The Underground Chapel -- A Church copied from Jerusalem -- The Public Library -- Loebau -- Herrnhut 262 CHAPTER XXVIII. Head-Quarters of the Moravians -- Good Buildings -- Quiet, Cleanliness, and Order -- A Gottesdienst -- The Church -- Simplicity -- The Ribbons -- A Requiem -- The Service -- God's-Field -- The Tombs -- Suggestive Inscriptions -- Tombs of the Zinzendorfs -- The Pavilion -- The Panorama -- The Herrnhuters' Work -- An Informing Guide -- No Merry Voices -- The Heinrichsberg -- Pretty Grounds -- The First Tree -- An Old Wife's Gossip -- Evening Service -- A Contrast -- The Sisters' House -- A Stroll at Sunset -- The Night Watch 269 CHAPTER XXIX. About Herrnhut -- Persecutions in Moravia -- A Wandering Carpenter -- Good Tidings -- Fugitives -- Squatters on the Hutberg -- Count Zinzendorf's Steward -- The First Tree -- The First House -- Scoffers -- Origin of the Name -- More Fugitives -- Foundation of the Union -- Struggles and Encouragements -- Buildings -- Social Regulations -- Growth of Trade -- War and Visitors -- Dürninger's Enterprise -- Population -- Schools -- Settlements -- Missions -- Life at Herrnhut -- Recreations -- Festivals -- Incidents of War -- March of Troops -- Praise and Thank-Feasts 279 CHAPTER XXX. A Word with the Reader -- From Herrnhut to Dresden -- A Gloomy City -- The Summer Theatre -- Trip to the Saxon Switzerland -- Wehlen -- Uttewalde Grund -- The Bastei -- Hochstein -- The Devil's Kettle -- The Wolfschlucht -- The Polenzthal -- Schandau -- The Kuhstall -- Great Winterberg -- The Prebischthor -- Herniskretschen -- Return to Dresden -- To Berlin -- English and German Railways -- The Royal Marriage Question -- Speaking English -- A Dreary City -- Sunday in Berlin -- Kroll's Garden -- Magdeburg -- Wittenberg -- Hamburg -- A-top of St. Michael's -- A Walk to Altona -- A Ride to Horn -- A North Sea Voyage -- Narrow Escape -- Harness and Holidays 291 INDEX 303 ERRATA. Page 87, last line, for visitors, read villagers. " 153, 11 lines from bottom, for H_raba's_, read _Hraba's_. " 153, 11 lines from bottom, for P_strossischer_, read _Pstrossischer_. " 172, last line of text, for Heilen, read Heiles. A JULY HOLIDAY IN SAXONY, BOHEMIA, AND SILESIA. CHAPTER I. What the Bookseller said -- A Walk in Frankfort -- What the Portress said -- Glimpses of Landscapes -- Forest and River -- Würzburg -- Stein Wine -- View from the Citadel-hill -- A Change of Bedrooms -- Coming to an Understanding with the Reader -- Good Night! "How happens it," I said to a bookseller in the _Zeil_, "that a map of Bohemia is not to be had in all Frankfort?" "How it happens?" he answered, with a knowing smile: "because no one ever goes to Bohemia." He searched and searched, as did a dozen of his fraternity whom I had previously visited, and found maps in number of Switzerland, Tyrol, Thuringia, Franconia, Turkey even, and Montenegro; but not the one I wanted. "Such a thing is never asked for," he said, deprecatingly. "Suppose you go to Franconia instead." All at once he bethought himself of an inner closet, and there he discovered a map of Bohemia; but not a travelling map: an overcrowded sheet that confused the eye, and promised but little assistance for the byeways. However, under the circumstances, I took it as better than none. "You will not get the map you want till you arrive at Prague," was the sort of encouragement I got some twenty-four hours afterwards from a Bohemian Professor in the Medical School at Würzburg. I saw Frankfort under all the charm of a first visit. I perambulated the narrow streets, and the _Judengasse_, where dwell not a few of the nine thousand Jewish residents; and stood long enough on the bridge that bestrides the muddy Main to note the ancient towers, and the bits of antiquity peeping up here and there in the city and the Sachsenshausen suburb--contrasted by the modern look of the spacious quays. And of course I saw the house in which Goethe was born, and Dannecker's Ariadne, and the Römer, that relic of the olden time, crowded with reminiscences of the Empire. You may see the whole line of Emperors in panels round the wainscot of the stately hall on the first floor; some grim warriors in plate and mail; some in scholar's gown; some in slashed sleeves and tight hosen, and some in velvet robes. Here, after the crown had been placed on their heads in the adjacent cathedral, they went through certain formal ceremonies with cumbrous pomp and held their festival, as may be read in the vivid descriptions of Goethe's _Autobiography_. Having glanced at the imperial effigies from Conrad down to Francis, and at the scene from the balcony outside, I dropped half a franc into the hand of the lady portress, and had crossed the landing, when she came tripping after me, and, with an air of lofty pity, returned the coin, requesting me to "give it to a beggar." The gentleman in charge of the Ariadne had made me a polite bow for a similar fee; so I complied with the lady's request, and gave the piece of silver among five beggars, each of whom favoured me with a blessing in return. At noon, on the 3rd of July, I left Frankfort for Würzburg. The landscape at first is tame, and you will have to watch closely, in more senses than one, as the train speeds across, for the scenes and objects that relieve it. There are glimpses of the Taunus mountains; of Wilhelmsbad, embowered in a pleasant wood; of Hanau, a dark-red town, where the dark-red sandstone station is enlivened by Virginian creeper running gracefully up the columns; and of memorable battlefields. And of a dark-red mill, in a green grassy hollow, with its dripping wheel; and in the middle of the garden a globe of fire that dazzles your eye, and is nothing other than a carboy inverted on a stake, after the Dutch manner, to serve as a mirror, in which may be seen a panorama of the neighbourhood. And everywhere women cutting down the rye, wearing bright red kerchiefs on their heads that rival the poppies in splendour. Beyond Aschaffenburg the country improves. Wooded hills alternate with lengthy slopes of vines, deep shady coombs, and leafy valleys, where brooks frolic along in frequent windings, and villages nestle, and gray church spires shoot above the tree-tops. Then parties of woodcutters, well armed with axes and wedges, enter the train, and each man lights his pipe, and they talk of their craft among themselves in a rustic dialect. And the train dashes into the forest of Spessart, and under the hills, winding hither and thither between miles of trees, the remains, as is said, of that great Hercynian forest which schoolboys read about in their Latin studies. The nursery of them that overthrew Rome; and one of the haunts of Freedom before she took refuge in the mountains, and in a certain island of the sea. At Lohr, a town prettily situate on the Main, the railway road and river come near together, and the frequent windings of the stream brighten the landscape. We saw the steamer labouring upwards on her two days' trip from Frankfort to Würzburg. Then a village where the Saal falls in, and more and more vines, and old walls gay with yellow stonecrop, and on the right the ruin of Karlstadt, and by-and-by Würzburg comes in sight, and our five hours' journey is over. Bavarian art attracts and gratifies your eye as you alight. The station is an elegant structure in the Pompeiian style, ingeniously contrived for the purposes of the railway and post-office, and yet to preserve the architectural character. An impatient traveller might well beguile the time by admiring the proportions, the colouring, and the tasteful decorations along the colonnades. The building forms one side of a square in the newest quarter of the town. A curious sign, the _Kleebaum_, caught my eye in the first street, and I trusted myself beneath it. The _Kellner_ took my knapsack; asked if "that was all," and led me high up to a small homely-furnished room on the third floor, in which, however, the quality of cleanliness was not wanting, and that is what an Englishman cares most about. At dinner I treated myself to a pint of the Stein wine, for which the neighbourhood is famous, and am prepared to add my testimony as to its merits. The bottles have a jolly bacchanalian look about them, being globes somewhat flattened at the sides, and contain, when honest, a quart. The cost is from two to three florins a bottle; but a temperate guest is allowed to drink and pay for the half only, at his pleasure. With vineyards producing such wine around them, it is little wonder that the Prince-Bishops were always ready to fight for their good city of Würzburg. The _Strangers' Book_ followed the dinner as a matter of course, and when the landlord saw that I signed my name as "from London," and heard me inquire for the residence of one of the Professors, he put off his natural manner and became obsequious: a change that gave me no pleasure. There is more of life, more to interest the attention in Würzburg, than in some places which are much more frequented and talked of. The streets generally are narrow, and built in picturesque disregard of straight lines; now widening suddenly for a brief space, now diminishing and bending away in a new direction. And you saunter onwards, wondering at the panelled house-fronts with their profuse ornament: grotesque carvings of animals' heads, of clustering fruits in bold relief at the intersections; windows with quaint canopies and curiously-wrought gratings; fanciful door-heads and gables; in short, a variety of architectural conceits on which your eye will fondly linger. Now, at a corner, you come upon an ancient turret with conical roof, now a sculptured fountain, now images of the Virgin or some of the saints over the doors; and anon huge statues of the Bishops remind you of the men who built and prayed for Würzburg. So numerous are the churches erected to perpetuate their memory or adorn their inheritance, that you need not go many yards whenever you feel inclined to meditate in a "dim religious light." You meet numbers of soldiers, for there is a citadel beyond the river, and water-bearers with their tall tubs slung on their backs going to or from the fountains, and now and then a peasant woman with conical hat and skirts the very opposite of the fashion; and except that nearly all the women you see are bareheaded, there is nothing else remarkable in costume. Stroll to the river-side; what prodigious piles of firewood at one side of the quay, and what a busy fleet of barges moored on the other. The Main here is about as wide as the Thames at Richmond, and is spanned by a bridge quite in keeping with the city. At either end stands an arched gateway, with statues niched in the massive masonry, and saints above the rounded piers. Cross the bridge, and mount the citadel-hill on the left bank, and you will have a surprise. The hill terminates in a craggy precipice, crowned by the stronghold and its defences, and you look down on shelfy gardens planted here and there among the rocks; and over the whole city. The river flows by in a bold curve, cutting off a small suburb from the main portion of the city, which spreads, crescent-formed, on the opposite shore. An imposing scene. Thirty-one towers, spires, domes, and steeples spring from the great masses and ridges of dark-red lofty roofs, and these are everywhere dotted with rows of little windows which resemble a half-opened eye. Indeed, the curved line of the tiles makes the resemblance so complete, that you can easily fancy the eyes are taking a sly peep at what is going on below, or winking at the sunbeams, as a prelude to falling asleep for the night. The sun was dropping behind me in the west, and before me lay the city, looking glorious in the golden light. Row after row of the sleepy eyes caught the ray with a momentary twinkle; the gilded weathercocks flashed and glistened, and the reflection falling on the river made pathways of quivering light across the ripples. Presently eight struck from the cathedral, and the clocks of all the churches followed, each with its own peculiar note. One or two solemn and sonorous, in imitation of the big bell; others shrill and saucy, as if they alone had the right to record the march of the silent footsteps; a few sedate, and one irresolute. Now here, now there, now yonder, as if the striking never would cease, and suggesting strange analogies between clocks and the race who wind them up. Trees rise here and there among the houses, and form a green belt round the city, thickest in the gardens of the royal palace, a stately edifice comprising among its two hundred and eighty-four rooms the suite in which the Emperors used to lodge when on their way to be crowned at Frankfort. And beyond the trees begin the vines, acre after acre to the tops of the whole encircling rim of hills. Broad slopes teeming with wine and gladness of heart, but looking bald in the distance from want of trees. One of these hills--the _Köppele_, so named from a chapel on the summit--is a favourite resort of the inhabitants, who perhaps find in the view therefrom a sufficient reward for a long ascent, unrefreshed by shade or rustling leaves. Seen from the hill, Würzburg is said to resemble Prague; not without reason, as I afterwards found. It would be, in my opinion, the more pleasing picture of the two, were its frame set off and beautified by patches of forest. I kept my seat on the outward angle of a thick wall till the golden light, sliding slowly up the hills, at last vanished from their brow, and left the whole valley in shadow. Then I went down and sauntered about the streets, while the gloom within the porticos and gateways, behind buttresses and up the narrow alleys, deepened and deepened; and ended by discovering a stranger willing to talk in a well-lighted coffee-house. On my return to the _Kleebaum_ the _Kellner_ lit two candles, and conducted me, not to the little room "up three pair," but to the best bedroom on the first floor. What magic in that little item--"from London!" Now, gracious reader, suppose we come to an understanding before I get into bed. You are already aware that I am going to Bohemia, not to scale snow-crowned mountains, or plunge into awful gorges, for there are none. The highest summit we shall have to climb together is under five thousand feet; and there is none of that tremendous and magnificent scenery which is to be seen in Switzerland and Tyrol. If, however, you are willing to accompany me to a peculiar country--one which, like Ireland, is most picturesque around its borders--rich in memorials of the past and in historical associations, fertile and industrious, we will journey lovingly together. Now on foot, though perhaps not so much as usual; now a flight by rail, or a steam-boat trip, or by diligence or wagon, according as the circumstances befall. We shall find on the way occasion for discourse, somewhat to observe, for the people are remarkable, and subjects to read about; improving the hours as best we may. Our next halt shall be at the old Saxon town of Altenburg, where there is something to be seen and heard of worth remembering; then over the _Erzgebirge_ to Carlsbad, the bathing-place of kings, and through the rustic villages to Prague. Then to the _Mittelgebirge_; down the Elbe, to a scene of rural life and industry; away to the _Riesengebirge_--the mountains haunted by Rübezahl--and the wonderful rocks of Adersbach. Then over the frontier into Silesia, to Herrnhut, the head-quarters of the Moravians, to Dresden and the Saxon Switzerland, Berlin, Magdeburg, and Hamburg, from whence a voyage across the North Sea will bring us home again. It may be that this scheme is not to your liking. If so, we can part company here, and you will perhaps never read the completion of that "Story of the King of Bohemia and his Seven Castles," which Corporal Trim began for Uncle Toby and never finished. And so, good night! CHAPTER II. Würzburg -- The University -- Red, Green, and Orange Caps -- The Marienkapelle -- The Market -- The Cathedral -- The Palace -- Spacious Cellars -- A Professor's Hospitality -- To Bamberg -- Frost -- Hof -- A Shabby Peace -- The Arch-Poisoner -- Dear Bread -- A Prime Minister Hanged -- Altenburg -- The Park -- The Castle -- Reminiscences and Antiquities -- The Chapel -- The Princes' Vault -- Wends -- Costumes in the Market-place -- Female Cuirassiers -- More about the Wends -- Grossen Teich -- The Plateau -- The Cemetery -- Werdau. Würzburg is now the chief town of the Circle of the Lower Main; it was once the capital of a principality governed by a line of eighty bishops, and figures prominently in German history. The University, founded in 1403, is deservedly famous, having numbered among its professors many of first-rate abilities: a distinction it still retains. What with schools, with resources in art and science, cultivated society, and ample means of recreation, the old city is an agreeable residence. Under the guidance of Professor Kölliker, I visited the botanic garden, the anatomical museum, and the medical school, which is one of the best in Europe. The Julius Hospital, a noble institution, founded by one of the Prince-Bishops, whose statue is erected not far from the building, affords opportunities for study seldom found in provincial towns. The students, after the manner of their kind, form themselves into societies distinguished by the colour of their caps, as you will soon discover by meeting continually in the streets little groups of red, green, or orange caps, marking the three divisions. Then, while the Professor lectured to his class, I strolled away to the market-place, and saw how the women, leaving their shoulder-baskets at the door of the _Marienkapelle_--Mary Chapel--went in and recited a few prayers, kneeling on the floor. A commendable preparation, I thought, for the work of buying and selling. The mounds of vegetables in frequent rows, and numerous baskets of cherries and strawberries, with heaps of fresh dewy flowers between, the many red kerchiefs and moving throng, and the wares displayed at the wooden booths, made up an animated spectacle. Live geese roosting contentedly in shallow baskets awaiting their sale without an effort to escape, were remarkable among the enticements of the poultry-market. A few yards farther were little stalls with rolls of butter, resembling in shape a ship's topsail-yard, alternating with piles of lumps or rather dabs of butter, each wrapped in a piece of old newspaper. These were bought by poor folk. The _Marienkapelle_ is a fine specimen of pointed Gothic, with a graceful spire, which having become dilapidated and unsafe, was undergoing repair at the time of my visit. The inside is spoiled by overmuch whitewash, and the outside by an irregular row of petty shops--an uncouth plinthe--around the base; and this is not the only church in the city which has its character and fair proportions marred by such clustering barnacles. On the spot where the cathedral now stands rearing its four towers aloft, St. Killian, an Irish missionary, was martyred more than a thousand years ago. The lofty arched nave is supported by square columns, of which the lower portions are hidden by pictures. Marble statues of the Bishops, with sword and crosier in hand, betokening their twofold character of priest and warrior, are ranged along the walls; and the whole interior has a bright and cheerful aspect. Of the other churches, I need not say more than that the New Minster enjoys the honour of possessing St. Killian's bones; that St. Peter's at Rome is reproduced in the church of St. John; and that St. Burkhardt's, at the foot of the citadel-hill, is built in the round style. The spacious grounds and gardens of the palace are well laid out. There are umbrageous avenues, terraces, fountains, paths winding among flower-beds and away under the trees and through the shrubberies to nooks of complete solitude. In some parts the plantations are left untrimmed, and give an air of wildness to the scene. In the rear, steps lead to the top of the wall, from whence you may look over greater part of the grounds, and fancy yourself in a region of forest. The townsfolk have free access; and you meet now and then a solitary student poring over his book, or groups of strollers, or nursemaids with troops of children. The palace, which dates from the year 1720, shows the consequences of neglect. Hohenschwangau has greater attractions for the royal family than Würzburg; and now, after a view of the staircase and chapel, there is nothing in the rusty and faded apartments that once exhibited the magnificence of the Bishops to detain you. The cellars are large enough to contain 2200 tuns of wine. What rollicking nights the retainers must have had! The Professor proved himself not less hospitable than learned. We dined together, and he introduced me to one of his colleagues, the Bohemian mentioned in the second page, who gave me a letter to his father at Prague. And then, after a sojourn of twenty-four hours, I departed. To see Nuremberg, and journey from thence into Bohemia, across the _Böhmerwaldgebirge_, had been in my thoughts; but finding on inquiry that more time would be required for that route than I could spare, I decided for Saxony. So, away to Bamberg, sixty miles distant, the starting-place of the Leipzig and Nuremberg trains. There was an hour to wait, and then in deep twilight on we went for Altenburg. Although the night was in July, I shivered with cold. The temperature, indeed, was remarkable. Three days previously I had seen white frost between Aix-la-Chapelle and Cologne, and for the first ten nights of the month frosts occurred all over Germany. At two o'clock we came to Hof, where there was a change of train, and time to drink a cup of coffee, doubly acceptable under the circumstances. The country around is bleak, a region of bare low hills, of unfavourable repute owing to its cold. A farmer who came into the train told us there was thin ice on the ponds. Here and there the hollows were filled with a dense mist, and resembled vast lakes, and the outlook was so cheerless that I was glad to sleep, till sunrise, with its splendours, woke up our drowsy party to welcome light and warmth. What a change since the former year! Then the war was all the topic among those who were thrown together while travelling. Now, Sebastopol and the Crimea seemed clean forgotten, and no one had a word to say even about the Sick Man at Constantinople. No, all was changed, and talkers busied their tongues concerning the "shabby peace," as they called it, the dearness of food, and--William Palmer. The simple-minded Bavarians could not understand why England should have been so magnanimous towards her Muscovitish antagonist, until it was suggested to them that France, having come to the bottom of her purse notwithstanding all the flourishes to the contrary, the war had to be ended. "And could England have kept on?" "Yes, for forty years, if necessary." "What a country!" they exclaimed--"what gigantic wealth!" And then they wondered that peace had not brought lower prices, and talked with grave faces and timorous forebodings about the dearness of bread. Scarcely a place did I visit where bread was not dearer than in London. But the arch-poisoner was the prevailing theme; and eager discussions on the incidents of his trial and execution showed how widespread was the excitement he had occasioned. Even in little towns I saw _Prozess gegen William Palmer_ for sale in the booksellers' windows. The Germans, however, thought theirs the best law, as it inflicts perpetual imprisonment only, and not death, in cases where the poison is not discovered in the body of the victim; and they would by no means agree that to hang a villain out of the way whether or no, was the preferable alternative. While the talk was going on, some one was sure to tell of what took place when the news of the execution was flashed from England. _Palmer is hanged_, was the brief yet fearful despatch. The clerk who received it, by some strange fatality, read _Palmer_ as an abbreviation of _Palmerston_; and within an hour all Germany was startled by the news, and bewildered with speculations as to the causes which had induced the exemplary English nation to get rid of their Prime Minister by so summary a process. "_Palmerston gehänget!_" ejaculated one after another, with a chuckle. At seven o'clock we arrived at Altenburg. A night in a railway train is not the best preparation for a day of sight-seeing. However, after the restorative of a wash and breakfast at the _Bayerische Hof_, the first hotel that presented itself, I crossed the road to the grounds belonging to the castle. By a bold undulating slope, laid out as an English park, you mount to a plateau, where a well-kept garden contrasts agreeably with the tall avenues and grouped masses of foliage. Small pleasure-houses stand here and there among the trees, and you see a pavilion built in the style of a Greek temple. A little farther, and there are the ducal opera-house, the orangery, and the stables--a handsome range of buildings. And beyond is the Little Forest--_Wäldchen_--enclosed by a wall, where, among the stately trees, you may see two, the Princes' Oaks--_Prinzeneichen_--so named from an interesting event in Saxon history, of which we shall perhaps have some particulars by-and-by. The plateau, moreover, commands views of a fertile and well-wooded country all broken up by low hills, the lowest slopes of the Ore mountains--_Erzgebirge_--which show their dark swelling outlines far away in the south. You descend suddenly into a gap, which isolates an eminence--the hill of Stirling in miniature--terminating in a porphyry cliff, crowned by the castle. A convenient ascent brings you into an irregular court-yard, shut in on opposite sides by the oldest and newest parts of the building. Architecture of the thirteenth century mated curiously with that of the eighteenth; and both occupying the site of what was already a fortress in the tenth. The castle owes its present form to the Dukes Friedrich the Second and Third, who, in 1744, completed their thirty-eight years of alterations. The place is a strange medley. Gray, weatherbeaten walls, with square towers and jutting turrets, intruded on by modern masonry--Neptune in his cockle-shell car in the midst of a fountain, and sentries pacing up and down, and soldiers lounging about their shabby-looking quarters--grim passages, and uncomfortable chambers. The Austrian arms, which you may yet see cut in the stone over a doorway, mark the granary built by the Electress Margaret for stores of corn, in order that, when grain became dear, she might save the townsfolk from hunger. A little farther and you come to the _Mantelthurm_, a round tower, with walls seven yards thick, commonly called the _Bottle_, from the form of its slated roof. It has two ugly chambers, which were used as dungeons up to 1641, after which it did duty as a magazine; and now the lower part is a cinder-hole. Adjoining is the _Jünkerei_--once the pages' quarters--in which are certain official apartments and the armoury. The Imperialists plundered the castle, during the Thirty Years' War, of most of its treasures and curiosities; and later, many specimens of mediæval armour were carried off to Coburg, leaving little besides objects which have an intimate relation with Saxon history. Weapons old and new, banners, garments, paraphernalia used in ducal funerals, and many things which belonged to persons connected with the Robbery of the Princes (_Prinzenraub_). In recent times a museum of antiquities has been added: articles of furniture, books, and other rarities which perpetuate the memory of eminent individuals--urns and other funereal remains dug up in the neighbourhood--ethnographical specimens chiefly from Australia and the Sunda Islands--and a collection of china, presented by the Minister Baron von Lindenau. The palace, or modern portion of the castle, dates from 1706. The castellan will conduct you through the throne-room, the great hall, where hang life-size pictures of the dukes on horseback by whom the place was built, and paintings of historical scenes, and other apartments bright with gilding and hung with elegant draperies. The church, built in the old German style, on the spot once occupied by the castle chapel, contains banners, and paintings, and numerous monuments and tablets to the memory of the princely personages buried beneath, and some admirable specimens of oak carving. To read their names as you pass along is a lesson in Saxon genealogy. Among them is that of the Electress Margaret, whose remains, after a rest of more than three centuries, were removed to the Princes' Vault, the door to which, studded with iron stars, you may see in the nave. But, in 1846, Duke Joseph caused the old tomb to be cleared out and repaired, and honouring the memory of her whose name is yet revered in Saxony, had her coffin restored to its former place with solemn ceremony. From the balconies or the tower you have a good view of the town lying beneath on a steep hill-slope, with its large ponds, and many ups and downs. And all around lie fields, and gardens, and rich pastures, bearing fruitful testimony to the good husbandry of the Wends. The main approach to the castle is by a road winding with an easy slope up the steep side of the hill. Its upper extremity is crowned by a gateway in the Romanesque style, and where its lower end sinks to the level of the road stand two obelisks--pyramids as they are called--bearing on their pedestals a statue of Hercules and Minerva. The streets were full of life and bustle, for it was market day, and the Wends coming into the town from all quarters increased the novelty of the sight by their singular costume. The men wear a flat cloth cap, a short tight jacket drawn into plaits behind, and decorated in front with as many buttons as may be seen on the breast of a Paddingtonian page, loose baggy breeches, and tight boots up to the knee. You will, perhaps, think it a misfortune that the breeches are not longer, for all below is spindle-shanky, in somewhat ludicrous contrast with the amplitude above, and the broad, big foot. How such a foot finds its way through so narrow a boot-leg is not easy to guess. The men are generally tall, with oval faces of a quiet, honest expression. But the women!--they are something to wonder at. Most of them are bareheaded: some wear a close plain cap, which throws out their round chubby faces in full relief; some display a curiously padded blue horseshoe, kept in place by a belt that hides the ears, from which two red streamers hang down their back; and others content themselves with a ribbon, tying their hair behind in a flat wide bow. Their gown is long in the sleeves and short in the skirt--short as a Highlander's kilt, which it very much resembles, and is in most instances of a carpet-like texture. Plum-colour, blue, pink, and green, dotted with bright flowers or crossed by stripes, are the prevailing patterns; their gay tints relieving the sombre blue and black of the men. The skirt is made to fit pretty closely, much more so, indeed, than the men's breeches, and as it descends no lower than the knee, you can see that if Nature is niggard to the men she is generous to the women. Such an exhibition of well-developed legs in blue worsted stockings I never before witnessed. Some of the younger ones had put on their summer stockings of white cotton, and, with bodice and skirt of different patterns, went strutting about apparently well pleased with themselves. But they have another peculiarity besides the kilt: they all, young and old, wear a species of cuirass, secured at the waist and rising to their chin. I judged it to be made of light wood, covered with black stuff. It gives them a grotesque appearance when looked at from the front or sideways; suggesting an idea of human turtles, or descendants of a race of Amazons. Some sat at their stalls with their chin resting on it, or face half hidden behind; and many times did I notice the breastplate pushed down to make room for the mouth to open when the wearer wished to speak--the pushings down being not less frequent than the shrugs of ladies in other places to keep their silly bonnets on. Even little girls wear the cuirass, and very remarkable objects they are. The spacious area of the market-place, enclosed by antique houses, was thronged. Wendish women sitting in long rows behind their baskets of cherries and heaps of vegetables; others arriving with fresh supplies on low wheelbarrows, their white legs twinkling everywhere in the sunshine. And many more who had come to buy roving busily from one wooden booth to another among all sorts of wares--books, ironmongery, jewelry, cakes and confectionery, coarse gray crockery, tubs and buckets, deep trays and kneading troughs chopped from one block; but the drapers and haberdashers, with their stores of gaudy kerchiefs and gay tartans and piles of stockings, attracted the most numerous customers. There was a brisk sale of sausages and bread--large, flat, round loaves (weighing 12lb. English) of black rye bread, at one groschen the pound, which was considered dear. The men wandered about among the scythes, rakes, and wooden shovels, or the stalls of pipes and cutlery, or gathered round the ricketty wagons laden with small sacks of grain and meal which were continually arriving, led by one of the tribe in dusty boots. And all the while the townsfolk came crowding in to make their weekly purchases till there was scarcely room to move. Such a scene is to me far more interesting than a picture-gallery. I went to and fro in the throng hearkening with pleasure to the various voices, watching the buying and selling, and noting the honest, cheerful faces of many of the women. Then escaping, I could survey the whole market-place from the rising ground at its upper end, and contemplate at leisure the living picture, framed by houses and shops in the olden style, among which, on one side, rises the ancient _Rathhaus_. It was built in 1562 with the stones of a church given to the corporation by Duke Johann, whose portrait you may see hanging in the hall inside among electors and dukes, and their wives; and, ever since, it has been used for weddings, dances, and religious meetings, as well as for the grave business of the council and police. Opposite the entrance, the date 1770, inserted with black pebbles into the paving, marks the spot where the last beheading took place under authority of the council. The Wends are the descendants of a Sclavonic tribe, which, according to ethnologists, migrated from the shores of the Adriatic more than a thousand years ago, carrying in their name (_Wend_ or _Wand_) a proof of having once lived by the sea. They are remarkable for the tenacity of their adherence to ancient habits and customs, which may, perhaps, account for their still being a distinct people among the Germans by whom they are surrounded. And they are not less remarkable for honesty, health, and an amount of agricultural skill, which distinguishes them from their neighbours. They are clever and successful in rearing cattle; they get on, and save money; and the women have the reputation of being most excellent nurses. The Bohemian peasant on the farther side of the mountains used, if he does not now, when his children were born, to stretch them out, sometimes at the end of a pole, towards the country of the Wends, that the infant might grow up as able and lucky as they. One of their immemorial practices, still kept up, is to talk to their bees, and tell them of all household incidents, and especially of a death in the family. Their number is two hundred thousand, all within the limits of Lusatia. A much-frequented promenade is the dam of the Great Pond--_Grossen Teich_--on the southern side of the town, which, planted with chestnuts and limes, forms a series of green and shady alleys, with a pleasant prospect across gardens and meadows to the village of Altendorf. Swans glide about on the surface of the water, which covers sixteen acres, and a gondola plies to a small wooded island in the centre, resorted to by lovers and picnic parties. A short distance northwards lies the Little Pond, bordered by rows of poplars, and three other ponds in different parts of the town are also made to contribute to its attractions. Another pleasure-ground is the "Plateau," on an eminence between the railway station and the road to Leipzig, from which you may wander through shady alleys to the old ruin of Alexisburg. The cemetery, on a hill to the west of the town, is worth a visit for a sight of some of the tombs, among which appears the entrance to the new Princes' Vault, constructed in 1837, in the form of a small chapel, lighted by richly-stained glass windows, through the floor of which the coffins are lowered to the vault beneath. On St. John's Day the cemetery is thronged by the townsfolk, decorating the graves of their departed friends with flowers. After a visit to all these places, and a peep into the two churches in which Luther once preached--the Bartholomäikirche and the Brüderkirche--I travelled on to Zwickau, and as there is little to be seen on the way besides fields, low hills, and the tall-chimneyed, smoking, stocking-weaving town of Werdau, we will glance at an interesting event in Saxon history incidentally alluded to in the foregoing pages. CHAPTER III. Origin of Altenburg -- Prosperous Burghers -- A Princely Crime -- Hussite Plunderers -- Luther's Visits -- French Bonfire -- Electress Margaret's Dream -- Kunz von Kauffungen -- "Don't burn the Fish" -- A Conspiracy -- Midnight Robbers -- Two Young Princes Stolen -- The Flight -- The Alarm -- The Köhler -- The Rescue -- Kunz Beheaded -- The _Triller's_ Reward, and what a famous Author said concerning it. Wends had long peopled the Pleissengau when King Henry I.--the Fowler, as his contemporaries named him--conquered it during one of his many inroads among his neighbours, and made it part of the _Osterland_ early in the tenth century. The newly-won territory was soon settled by German colonists, who, finding an ancient fortification on the summit of a bluff, rocky hill, called it _alte Burg_, whence the present name of the town and principality of Altenburg. Henry, or his successor, Otho, built a castle on the hill, no portion of which, or of the one which replaced it, now remains. The town is first mentioned in a document of the year 986. Its story is the old one: family feud, rapine and revenge, chivalry and heroism, intermingled with quaint and quiet glimpses of social life, characteristic of the "dark ages." Earliest among its possessors were the Hohenstaufens; latest are the Hildburghausens. At one time it was imperial; at another independent; now pledged or given away by an emperor; now held by a duke. In 1286 its prosperity was such that the burghers went carried in sedan-chairs to the council-house, and their wives walked to church festivals on carpets spread before them in the street. Six years later Friedrich the Bitted quarrelled with Adolf von Nassau for having pledged Altenburg to King Wenzel of Bohemia; whereupon Adolf invited Friedrich to a Christmas feast, and while he sat at table employed a ruffian to murder him, as the speediest way of settling the dispute. The blow, however, fell on the wrist of a burgher of Freiberg who rushed between, and lost his hand in preventing the crime. Friedrich escaped, changed his dress, and, under cover of night, fled the city; but, having gained a battle in the interval, he returned as ruler in 1307. The scene of this malignant assault is supposed to have been a house in the market-place. Then came a succession of Friedrichs: the Earnest, the Strong, the Warlike, the Quarrelsome, the Mild, and such like. It was in 1430, during the lifetime of the last mentioned, that those fierce Reformers, the Hussites, came across the mountains and made an inroad into the principality. They chose Three-Kings' Day for their attack on the town, which was abandoned to them by the inhabitants, who fled to neighbouring villages, or took refuge in the castle; and, having burnt and plundered to the satisfaction of their cupidity or their conscience during four days, they left the place to recover as best it might. The same Elector, Friedrich the Mild, married the Austrian Princess Margaret--fit wife for such a prince, if we may judge from her endeavours to prevent bread becoming too dear for the townsfolk. Luther was in Altenburg from the 3rd to the 9th of January, 1519, to hold a conference with Karl von Miltitz, the papal legate. The two met in the house of George Spalatin, who became a firm friend of the great Reformer. Luther visited the town also when on his famous journey to Worms, and on several occasions afterwards. The council-house was the scene of a religious conference from October, 1568, to March of the following year. The parties in presence were--the theologians of Electoral Saxony on the one hand, of Ducal Saxony on the other; and among the subjects mooted they discussed the questions, "Whether good works were needful for salvation?" and, "Whether man can co-operate in the attainment of his own salvation?" and with the usual result; for the disputants separated without coming to a decision. The old town suffered from the disasters and commotions of the Peasants' War. The Imperialists quartered themselves upon it after the fatal battle of Lützen. The troubles of the Seven Years' War fell upon it, and of the campaigns that ended in the downfall of Napoleon. In 1810, the French commissioners seized a quantity of English manufactures in possession of resident merchants, and made a great bonfire therewith in the market-place. In 1813, the Emperors of Austria and Russia and the King of Prussia visited the town, and in the same year it afforded quarters to 671 generals, 46,617 officers, and 472,399 ordinary troops. Now we must go back for awhile to the year 1455, the times of Friedrich the Mild. On the night of the 6th of July in that year the Electress Margaret, his wife, dreamt that two young oaks, growing in a forest near the castle, were torn up by a wild boar. Herein her maternal heart foreboded danger to the two princes Ernest and Albert, both still in their boyhood. The times were indeed disquieting, what with Hussite wars, territorial quarrels, and the ominous foretokens of the coming Reformation. Mild as Friedrich was, he, too, had had some fighting with his brother, Duke Wilhelm, about their lands. Among his officers was a certain Conrad, or, as he was commonly called, Kunz von Kauffungen, formerly captain of the castle, who, through disappointment, had come to entertain two causes of quarrel against his master. One was that, having been sent to surprise and capture Gera, he was taken himself, and only recovered his liberty by payment of four thousand florins ransom. Of this sum Kunz claimed reimbursement from the Elector, and met with denial. The second was, a demand for the restoration of estates of which he had been granted temporary possession, but which, defying legal authorities, he refused to give up until the coveted four thousand florins should be once more in his pocket. Chafing under his twofold grievance, he broke out into threats of reprisal, to which Friedrich answered jocularly, "Don't burn the fish in the ponds." Baffled and exasperated, Kunz devised a scheme for bringing the question to a speedy issue: persuaded Hans Schwalbe, one of the scullions at the castle, into his interest; concerted measures with his brother Dietrich von Kauffungen, Wilhelm von Mosen, and others, thirty-seven altogether, and watched his opportunity. Treacherous Schwalbe failed not in the service required of him, and gave information of the Elector's absence: called away by affairs to Leipzig. Whereupon Kunz and his confederates, mounting to horse, rode to Altenburg, and halted under cover of a wood--where now the pleasure-ground is laid out at the foot of the castle--between eleven and twelve in the night of the 7th of July. Finding all quiet, he sent his body-servant, Hans Schweinitz, forward to fix a rope ladder, with Schwalbe's help, at a window above the steepest side of the rock, and, following with Mosen, the two climbed up and got into the castle. Once in, they hastened to the chamber of the young princes, and each seizing one, made their way to the gate. But, instead of Albert, the little Count Barby had been picked up. Kunz was no sooner aware of the mistake, than, giving Ernest, whom he carried, into Mosen's arms, he hurried back with the terrified count, and brought out Albert. Quicker, however, than the robbery was the spread of an alarm. The Electress, apprehensive, perhaps, because of her dream on the previous night, appeared at a window, imploring Kunz to restore her children, and promising to intercede with the Elector in favour of his demands. Her entreaties and lamentations fell on deaf ears; Mosen had already made good his retreat, and Kunz speedily followed him through the gate, which was easily opened, there being but a single invalid on guard. The time was singularly favourable for the success of the plot, as nearly all the residents and functionaries were enjoying themselves at a feast given by the Chancellor in the town. The alarm-bell began to ring. Mosen and the others galloped off with their prize, and Kunz, mounting his horse with young Albert before him, and attended by Schweinitz, lost no time in making for the frontier. If Isenburg could be reached before the pursuers came up, the game would be in his own hands. On they went in the dim night through the Rabensteiner Forest, along rugged and darksome ways, where they wandered from the track, their horses stumbled or floundered in miry holes, forced to choose the wildest and least-frequented routes, for dogs were barking and alarm-bells ringing in all the villages, warning honest folk that knaves were abroad. The dewy morning dawned, birds twittered among the branches, the sun arose, daylight streamed into the forests, and still the fugitives urged their panting horses onwards. A few hours later the young prince, worn out by want of rest and the increasing heat, complained of thirst; whereupon Kunz, though still a half-score miles from the Bohemian frontier, halted not far from the village of Elterlein, and crept about in the wood to pluck berries for the boy's refreshment. While the captain was thus occupied, a certain charcoal-burner--George Schmidt by name--at work near the spot, attracted by the glint of armour between the trees, approached the halting-place, made suspicious, perhaps, by the alarm-bells. To his surprise, he saw horses showing marks of hasty travel, and a fair-haired boy well attired, who said at once, "I am the young prince. They have stolen me." No sooner spoken than the _Köhler_, running up to Kunz, who was still stooping over the berries, felled him with a blow of the stout pole which he used in tending his fires. A shout brought up a gang of his comrades, sturdy fellows with long hair and grimy faces, who promptly laid hold of Kunz and Schweinitz, bound their hands, and carried them off for safe keeping to the neighbouring monastery of Grünhain. Thither also was the young Albert borne in friendly arms, and from thence, on the following day, an escort, among whom went the _Köhler_, conducted him back to his weeping mother--a real triumphal procession by the time they arrived at Altenburg. Mosen and his troop, meanwhile, had betaken themselves to a hiding-place not far from the castle of Stein, on the right bank of the Mulde, about half way towards the frontier. While some made good their retreat to secret quarters, the principals concealed themselves with Prince Ernest in a rocky cave screened by trees, waiting for a favourable opportunity to renew their flight. But hearing, while on their look-out, sundry passers-by talk of the capture of unlucky Kunz, they sent a messenger to Friedrich von Schonburg at Hartenstein, offering to deliver up the prince on condition that they should be left free to depart unmolested. The condition was granted: they gave up their captive, and were seen no more in all the province; and Schonburg conveyed Ernest to Chemnitz, where he was received by his father the Elector. Unlucky Kunz having been carefully escorted to Freiberg, was there beheaded on the 14th of July--an example to knightly kidnappers. On the next day the _Köhler's_ homely gaberdine and the garments of the princes were hung up in the church at Ebersdorf, not far from the scene of the rescue. As for the _Köhler_ himself, he had but to speak his wishes, for the Electress, in the joy of her heart at the restoration of her sons, could not sufficiently reward the man who had saved the younger. "I worried them right well"--(_wohl getrillt_)--he said, when recounting how he had laid about him with his pole at the time of the rescue; and ever afterwards was he known as the _Triller_. His wishes were modest enough;--a little bit of land, and liberty to hunt and cut wood in the forest--and amply were they gratified. Such is in brief the story of the _Prinzenraub_, as it happened four hundred years ago--a memorable event in Saxon history. A walled-up window in the castle at Altenburg, on the side towards the Pauritzer Pond, is said to indicate the place where in the former building the robbers entered. The Princes' Oaks still flourish; and the cave in which Ernest was hidden is still known as the _Prinzenhöhle_. And our own history is involved in the event, for from that same Ernest descends the Consort of our Queen. To most English readers the _Prinzenraub_ was an unknown story until a few years ago, when Thomas Carlyle published it from his vigorous pen in the _Westminster Review_, where all the circumstances are brought before us in the very vividness of life. "Were I touring in those parts, I would go and see," says the author, referring to the rumour that the estate bestowed on the _Triller_ remained still in possession of his posterity. By inquiry at Altenburg, I learned that this estate lay in the neighbourhood of Zwickau, so, as I also was bound for the Bohemian frontier, I did go and see on the way. CHAPTER IV. Zwickau -- Beer Bridge -- Beer Mount -- The Triller Estate -- Triller Bierbrauerei -- The Braumeister -- The Beer -- Four Hundredth Anniversary of the Prinzenraub -- A Friendly Clerk -- "You will have a Tsigger?" -- Historical Portraits -- A Good Name for a Brewery -- A Case of Disinterestedness -- Up the Church Tower -- The Prospect -- Princess Schwanhildis -- The Fire-god Zwicz -- Luther's Table -- The Church -- Geysers -- Petrified Beds -- Historical Houses -- Walk to Oberhaselau -- The Card-players -- The Wagoners. The dark roofs of a few dull streets, a lofty old church tower, the tall chimneys, and clouds of steam and smoke of a busy suburb, rising amid orchards, gardens, and hop-grounds in the pleasant and thickly-wooded valley of the Mulde, are the features presented by Zwickau as you approach it from the terminus. There needs no long research to discover that the _Prinzenraub_ is a household word among the people: hanging on the wall in the hotel you may see engravings of the _Prinzenhöhle_, the castle of Stein, the monastery at Grünhain, and other places incidental to the robbery; and the waiters are ready to tell you that the Triller estate lies near Eckersbach, about half an hour's walk to the east of the town. On my way thither I crossed the Mulde, a lively stream, flowing between steep slopes of trees, broken here and there by a red fern-fringed cliff. A Saxon liking--one which the Anglo-Saxon has not forgotten--is betrayed in the name of the bridge--Beer Bridge; it leads to Beer Mount, which conceals within its cool and dark interior countless barrels of the national beverage. While walking up the hollow road that winds round the hill, you see on one side the entrances to the deeply excavated cellars, on the other a tavern, overshadowed by linden-trees, offering refreshing temptations to the thirsty visitor. The road presently rising across open fields brings you in sight of a pile of huge bright-red brick buildings, erected on the farther side of a deep, narrow dell, contrasting well with the green of a cherry orchard and woods in the rear. There lies the _Triller_ estate. Times are changed; and where the sinewy _Köhler_ tilled his field and reared his family, now stands a brewery--_Triller Bierbrauerei_. The wakeful genius of trade has taken possession, and finds in the patriotic sentiment inspired by the history of the place a handsome source of profit. I addressed myself to the _Braumeister_--_Brewmaster_--who on hearing that one of England's foremost authors had published the story of the _Prinzenraub_, manifested a praiseworthy readiness to satisfy my curiosity. The estate had long been out of the hands of the _Triller_ family, so long that he could not remember the time--perhaps fifty years. But the _Trillers_ were not extinct: one was living at Freiberg, and two others elsewhere in Saxony. The place now belongs to a company, under whose management _Triller_ beer has become famous in all the country round; and not undeservedly, as I from experience am prepared to affirm. There is a large garden, with paths winding among the trees, and open places bestrewn with tables and chairs enough for the innumerable guests who quench their thirst at the brewery. As we strolled about the premises, the _Braumeister_ called my attention to a writing over the main entrance-- _Dulcius ex ipso fonte bibuntur aquæ_, remarking that he had never known a visitor disposed to quarrel with it. Then, abandoning his laconic phrases, he told me how the four hundredth anniversary of the _Prinzenraub_ had been celebrated on the 8th of July, 1855. It was a day to be remembered in all the places made historic by the event. From Schedewitz, on the farther side of Zwickau, a long procession had walked to the Brewery, under triumphal arches erected on the way. First came a troop of Coalers, in forest garb, then friends of the company on foot and in wagons, and bands of music; altogether eight hundred persons, and among them the three _Trillers_. Airs were played and songs sung that made all the fire of patriotism glow again; and so earnestly did the multitude enter into the spirit of the celebration, that--a merry twinkle gleamed in the _Braumeister's_ eye as he told it--"They drank a hundred eimers of beer. There they are: look at them," he added, pointing to an engraving of the whole procession--the _Trillerzug_, as he called it. A similar festival was held at Altenburg, Hartenstein, and Grünhain on the same day, to the entire satisfaction of all concerned, and the reinvigoration of Saxon loyalty. I was seated at one of the tables with a tankard of beer before me, when a young man came up, looked at me inquisitively, and said, "E shmall Eng-lish speak"--meaning, "I speak a little English." I felicitated him on his acquirements, when he proceeded to tell me that he was one of the clerks employed in the counting-house, and having heard of my arrival from the _Braumeister_, could not resist the desire of speaking with an Englishman. Moreover, he would like to show me certain things which I had not yet seen, and he said, "If you pleasure in _Prinzenraub_ find, so is glad to me." We were friends in a moment. He led me first to the counting-house, and showed me the bust of Herr Ebert, who, as chief proprietor, had headed the procession in the former year, but was since deceased, saying, "We very, very sorry; every man love him. Ah! he was so good." Then running up-stairs to a large whitewashed apartment--one of the drinking-rooms used when guests are driven in-doors by bad weather--where a few portraits hung on the walls, he cried, "Here is something to see. But wait--you will have a tsigger?" "With pleasure," I answered, "if it's good to drink." "No, not drink," he replied. "What you call him?--to shmoke." The room echoed with my laugh, and he prolonged it, as I rejoined, "Oh! you mean a cigar! No, thank you. Tobacco is one of the things I abhor." "What you call him?" he exclaimed, in amazement--"cigar! Then what for a teacher is mine. But he is a German." Our friendly relations were in no way deranged by my dislike of a "tsigger;" and we turned to the portraits, which comprised some of the personages involved in the _Prinzenraub_. The brave old _Triller_ is represented in the costume of the period--a stalwart fellow, with ample black beard, bare legs, broad-brimmed hat, and loose frock tied by a belt round the waist. In one hand he grasps his pole, with the other supports the prince, who wearing red hosen and peaked red boots, looks up to him with tearful eye. Kunz appears lying down in the background, looking half-stunned and miserable. There are two miniatures--of the _Triller_ and his wife--apparently very old, believed to be likenesses. In the excitement occasioned by the four hundredth anniversary, a poor shoemaker, hearing it talked of, came to the brewery with the paintings in his hand, and sold the two for a shilling. Besides these there are seven or eight other portraits, among which the features of Kunz impress you favourably. He has dark curly hair, a high forehead, a clear bright eye, moustache and pointed beard; the whole appearance and expression reminding you of Sir Philip Sidney. What with fluent German and broken English the young clerk worked himself into enthusiasm, and showed me everything that had the remotest connexion with the subject, ending with a book containing the latest history of the _Prinzenraub_, and engravings of its incidents. Nor could he think of letting me depart till I had seen the whole premises, and the enormous cellars. "The _Triller_ is a good name for the brewery," he said, as we paced between the furlongs of barrels. On my return to the town I found out the ancient dame who keeps the key of the church tower, and as she unlocked the door offered her a small silver coin. "No! no! no!" she exclaimed, "that is too much. A _Dreier_ (halfpenny) is enough for me." A rare instance of disinterestedness. Once admitted, you find your way alone up to the topmost chamber, where dwells a woman with two or three children. She was winding up from the street below her daily supply of water when I entered out of breath with the ascent of so many steps, and paused in her task to conduct me to the platform, a height of about two hundred feet, from which the steeple springs one hundred and fifty feet higher. Wide and remarkable is the prospect: the rows of poplars which border the roads leading on all sides from the town divide the landscape into segments with stiff lines that produce a singular effect as they diminish gradually in thickness and vanish in the distance. Plenty of wood all around, merging towards the south into the vast fir forest which there darkens the long swells and rounded summits of the _Erzgebirge_: a region of contrasts, with its abounding fertility and unpicturesque foundries and mining-works. The town appears to better advantage from above than below, for the many green spots in the rear of the houses come into the view, and you see gleaming curves of the Mulde, and a great pond as at Altenburg, and the remains of the old walls, and the ditches, now in part changed into a garden promenade. The mind becomes interested as well as the eye. You may grow dreamy over the fabulous adventures of the fair Princess Schwanhildis, in whose adventures, as implied in hoary tradition, the place originated; and if you desire proof, is it not found in the three swans, still borne in the town arms? Or you may revert to the sixth century only, when the Wends had a colony here, and worshipped Zwicz, one of their Sclavish fire-gods in the _Aue_, or meadow--whence the present name, Zwickau. Or you may remember that Luther often mounted the tower to gaze on the widespread view; and imagine him contemplating the scenes on which your eye now rests--a brief pause in his mighty work of rescuing Europe from the toils of priestcraft. A clumsy table yet remaining on the platform, though tottering and fallen on one side with age and weakness, is called "Luther's table;" the great Reformer having, as is said, once sat by it to eat. But the sentiment which such a relic should inspire is weakened by the inference that as the Zwickauers take no pains to preserve it from the weather, they at least are sceptical concerning its merits. And the church itself. It is the largest, the finest specimen of Gothic, and has the biggest bell, in all Saxony, and excepting two towers in Dresden, is the highest. It dates from the eleventh century, and has been more than once restored. The interior well repays a visit. The slender, eight-sided pillars of the nave, the rare carvings of the bench-ends, and others about the choir and confessional, and in the sacristy, the high altar, by Wohlgemuth, of Nuremberg, the only one remaining of twenty-five which formerly stood around the walls, raise your admiration of art. If curious in such matters, you may see a splinter of the true cross--a relic from Popish times--still preserved. There are some good paintings, of which one by Lucas Cranach the Younger represents Jesus as "Children's Friend." It was painted at the cost of a burgomaster in honour of his wife's memory. For one with time at discretion, Zwickau and the neighbourhood would yield a few days of enjoyable exploration. A remarkable instance of volcanic action is to be seen between Planitz and Niederkainsdorf, which has existed from time immemorial. Steam is continually bursting up from the coal strata beneath, of so high a temperature that the ground is always green even in the hardest winters. An attempt was made, a few years ago, to utilize the heat by establishing a forcing-garden on the spot; and in the adjacent forests there are land-slips, produced by disturbances of the strata, which are described as romantic in their effects. The valley of the Mulde offers much pleasing scenery; the castle of Stein and the _Prinzenhöhle_ are within half a day's walk; and somewhat farther are the singular rocks at Greifenstein, a pile as of huge beds petrified. The legend runs that a princess, having married while her betrothed, whom she had promised never to forget, was absent, the fairies, exercising their right of punishment, turned her and all her household gear into stone, and the beds remain to commemorate the perfidy. There are, besides, baths and mineral springs at the village of Oberkainsdorf, and at Hohensteiner Bad; and curious old carvings in the castle of Schönfels; and, if you incline to geology, the coal measures abound in fossil plants and shells, while of minerals there is no stint. The town has attractions of another sort: early-printed books, rare manuscripts, original letters by Luther and other Reformers, in the Library; the _Rathhaus_, on the front of which, over the door, you may see the three swans; and, among the archives, more letters by Luther and Melancthon. There are portraits of the two, by Cranach, in the neighbouring castle of Planitz. The house, No. 22, in the market-place, is that in which Luther lodged in 1522; Melancthon sojourned in No. 444, in the _Burggasse_; and No. 576, in the _Schergasse_, is where Napoleon had his quarters in 1812. It was evening when I slung on my knapsack and began my walk in earnest. A short stage at the outset is no bad preparation for the work to follow. The road runs between the noisy factories, past vitriol works, smelting furnaces, and, thick with dust, is, for the first three or four miles, far from pleasant. At length the busy district is left behind, the trees bordering the highway look greener, and the river, separated but by a narrow strip of meadow, is near enough for its rippling to be heard. Excepting a miner now and then, wearing his short leathern hinder-apron, and a general shabbiness of dress, the people I met might have been mistaken for English, so marked is the similarity of form and feature. Transported suddenly to any of the roads leading out of Birmingham, no one would have imagined them to be foreigners. About three hours, at an easy pace, brought me to a wayside public-house near Oberhaselau, where I halted for the night. There were sundry rustic folk among the guests, one of whom told me, while I ate my supper, that he had taken part in the _Prinzenraub_ celebration, along with hundreds of foresters and villagers, at a _Wirthshaus_ built on the spot where the _Triller's_ cabin stood--a day to be remembered as long as he lived. He had, moreover, seen the _Triller's_ gaberdine hanging in the monastery at Ebersdorf. Later in the evening came in three men of dignified appearance, who sat down at a card-table in one corner, to a game of what might be described as three-handed whist. Gustel, the maid, showed them much deference, and placed before each a quart-glass of beer. They were, she whispered to me, the _Actuarius_ of the village, and the Inspector and Doctor. From time to time, during the game, they broke out into a rattling peal of laughter, as one of them threw a set of dice on the table and handed round a few extra cards. I requested permission to look at the cause of merriment, and, to my amazement, discovered that both cards and dice were disgustingly obscene, out of all character with the respectable appearance of their possessors. Before the game was over, some six or eight wagoners, who had arrived with their teams, spread bundles of straw on the floor, pulled off their boots with a ponderous boot-jack chained to the door-post, and, stretching themselves on their lair, soon united in a discord of snores. CHAPTER V. Across the Mulde -- Scenery -- Feet _versus_ Wheels -- Villages -- English Characteristics -- Timbered Houses -- Schneeberg -- Stones for Lamps -- The Way Sunday was Kept -- The Church -- A Wagon-load of Music -- A Surly Host -- Where the Pepper Grows -- Eybenstock -- Neustädl -- Fir Forests -- Wildenthal -- Four Sorts of Beer -- Potato Dumplings -- Up the Auersberg -- Advertisements -- The School -- The Instrument of Order -- "Look at the Englishman" -- The Erzgebirge -- The Guard-house -- Into Bohemia -- Romish Symbols -- Hirschenstand -- Another Guard-house -- Differences of Race -- Czechs and Germans -- Shabby Carpentry -- Change of Scenery -- Neudeck -- Arrive at Carlsbad -- A Glass Boot -- Gossip. The road crosses the Mulde near Oberhaselau, and, winding onwards between broad, undulating fields, and through patches of forest, rises gradually, though with frequent ups and downs, into a region more and more hilly. A bareness of aspect increases on the landscape as you advance, in contrast with which the stripes and squares of cultivation on the slopes appear of shining greenness. The views grow wider. They are peculiar and striking, though deficient in beauty, for the range of the _Erzgebirge_, as the name indicates, hides its wealth underground, and makes up by store of mineral treasure for poverty of surface. Yet, is there not a charm in the tamest of mountain scenery? It animated me as I walked along on that bright sunshiny morning. Though the river was far out of sight, were there not a few ponds gleaming in the hollows? while little brooks ran tinkling down their unseen channels, and fountains began to appear at the wayside with a ceaseless sound of bubbling and splashing that fell gratefully on the ear; and the breeze made a gladsome rustling among the birches that flung their graceful shadows across the dusty road. Nature is kind to him who goes on foot, and makes him aware of beauties and delights never discovered to the traveller on wheels. There are signs of a numerous population: church spires and villages in the distance--among them Reichenbach and its ruined castle--and in little valleys which branch off here and there, teeming with foliage, snug cottages thickly nestled; and as your eye wanders along the broken line of tree-tops, it sees many wavy columns of smoke betraying the site of rural homes scattered beneath. And you begin to notice something unfamiliar in the dress of the people who inhabit them: blue and red petticoats are frequent, and scarcely a man but wears the straight tight-legged boots up to the knee, all black and brightly polished; for the groups I met were on their way to church. The honest English style of countenance still prevails; and another English characteristic may be seen, if you look for it, in the decayed and illegible condition of the finger-posts. If the landscape be not picturesque, many of the houses are, with their timbers, forming zigzags, angles, squares, diamonds, and other fanciful conceits. Some old and gray, assimilating in colour to the weather-stained masonry; some painted black in strong relief upon a pale-red wall. While pausing to examine the details, you will not fail to admire the taste and skill of the builders of three centuries ago, who knew how to impart beauty even to the humblest habitations. Now and then you come upon a house of which the upper storey, faced with slates, appears as if supported by arches and pilasters fashioned in the wall beneath; and specimens of these several kinds of architecture gratify the eye in all the hill-country of Saxony. Schneeberg, lying in a valley backed by a dark slope of firs, has a singularly gloomy aspect, which disappears as you descend the hill. It was eleven on Sunday morning when I entered the town. Because summer had come, the street lamps were all taken down; but that the chains and ropes might not hang idle, the lamplighter had tied a big stone or large brick, by no means ornamental, to the end of every one. A military band was playing in the market-place; a few shops were open; and a man hurrying from corner to corner was posting up bills of plays to be acted in the evening--a little comedy, followed by a piece in five acts. The prices were, for the first places, 6d., the second, 3d., the third, 2d., which would hardly exclude even the poorest. So, in Saxony, as elsewhere on the Continent, not only Papists but Protestants are willing to recreate themselves with music and the theatre on a Sunday. A half-dozen postilions, who were strutting about in the full blaze of bright-yellow coats, yellow-banded hats, jack-boots, and with a bugle slung from the shoulder, seemed as proud of their dress as the peacocky drum-major did of his. I ordered a steak at the _Fürstenhaus_. "Will you have it through-broiled or English-broiled?" asked the waiter, and looked a little surprised at my preference of the former. When the band stopped playing, numbers of the listeners came into the dining-room for a _Halbe_ of beer, and sat down to play at cards. The church, a spacious edifice, crowns the height above the market-place. After walking twice round it, I discovered a small door in an angle, which being unfastened gave me admittance. The interior, with its worn and uneven brick floor, has somewhat of a neglected look, not unusual in Protestant churches; but there are a few good paintings, and the altar-piece, representing the Crucifixion, shows the hand of a master. I was quite alone, and could explore as I pleased. The altar rises to a great height, adorned with statues, and crowned by figures of angels. Near it two or three tall crucifixes lean against the wall; the font, and a lectern upborne by an angel stand in the centre of the nave, and everywhere are signs of the Lutheran form of worship. Here and there, constructed with an apparent disregard of order, are glazed galleries, pews, and closets, and others that resemble large cages--ugly excrescences, which mar the fair proportions of the lofty nave. The gallery is fronted by a thick breastwork of masonry, bearing a heavy coping, and the brick floor is in many places worn completely through, and the loose lumps are strewn about. The view from the tower, commanding miles of the mountain range, more than repays the trouble of the ascent. There are three services on the Sunday. From six to seven, and from eight to half-past nine in the morning, and from one to two in the afternoon. The rest of the day is free; but not for work, as in other countries. Haymaking, as I was informed, is the only Sunday work permitted by the law of Saxony. The Sunday school is well attended, and is not confined to religious subjects, for writing, arithmetic, and drawing are taught. While trudging up the hill beyond the town, I passed one of the springless country wagons, crammed with a military band, the fiddles and big bass viol hanging behind, on the way to amuse the folk at Stein with music. They undertake a similar expedition every Sunday in fine weather to one or other of the surrounding villages. I met with two novel experiences during the afternoon. One was, that to sit down in the church at Neustädl is a penance, for the pews are so narrow that you have to lift up the hinged seat before you can enter. The other, a few miles farther on the way, was of a surly _Wirth_, dwelling under the sign of the _Weisses Lamm_ (White Lamb), whom I begged to draw me a glass of beer cool from the cellar. Instead of complying, he filled the measure from a can which had been standing two or three hours on the dresser in all the suffocating heat of the stove, and placed it before me with a grunt. I ventured to remind him, with good-humoured words, that lukewarm beer was not acceptable to a thirsty wayfarer on a hot day; whereupon he retorted, snarling more like a wolf than a lamb, "Either drink that, or go and get other where the pepper grows"--_wo der Pfeffer wächst_. The old sinner availed himself of a form of speech much used among the Germans to denote a place of intensely high temperature, and sulphureous withal, in which pepper, being so very pungent a product, may be supposed to grow. "Suppose you go first," I answered, "and see if there be any left." And turning away, I shut the door upon the snarl which he snarled after me, and went on to Eybenstock, where cool beer in plenty was forthcoming as soon as asked for. I told the hostess of my adventure with old Surly. "Just like him," she replied, laughing merrily; "nobody ever goes to the _White Lamb_ that can help it. You didn't see any one besides him in the room, I'll engage." True enough, I did not. A long, steep acclivity rises between Schneeberg and Eybenstock, from which you look down into deep, dark gulfs of fir forest, and away to hills swelling higher and higher in the distance--all alike sombre. So that when you come to a green vale, with its little hay-fields watered by a noisy brook, streaked in places with foam, it appears lovely by contrast. The road makes long curves and zigzags to avoid the heights, but the old track through the trees still remains, and shortens the distance at the expense of a little exertion in climbing. The wildness increases beyond Eybenstock. The forest descends upon the road, and you walk for an hour at a stretch under the shade of firs, with beech and birch sparsely intermingled, and here and there a stately pine springing from a mighty base to a height far above the rest, the topmost branches edged with gold by the declining sunbeams. Emerging from the grateful shade, we come to Wildenthal, a little green hollow at the foot of the Auersberg, enclosing a saw-mill, a school, a few cottages, fields and gardens, and an inn, _Gasthaus zum Ross_. Great slopes of firs rising on every side shut it out, as it were, from the rest of the world. The aged hostess at the _Gasthaus_ bustled about with surprising alacrity to answer the calls of her rustic guests for beer. "_Einfach_," cried one; another, "_Weisses_;" "_Lager_," broke in a voice from among the party of card-players, accompanied by a rapping of the pewter tankard-lid; "_Bayerisches_," shouted others from the ninepin-alley outside; and she, with her ready "_Gleich_"--directly--appeasing their impatience. Of these four kinds of beer, the first--literally Simple--is equivalent to our small-beer, and is much in request by a certain class of topers from its low price, and because they can drink it the whole day without fear of becoming stupid before the evening. The second--White--is very foamy, and has somewhat the lively flavour of ginger-beer: after standing some time in the glass a shake round revives its briskness. The third--Store-beer--is of sufficient strength to bear a year's keeping; and the fourth--Bavarian--is of a similar quality. The last two were the most to my liking. There was greater choice of beer than of viands; and the half-bent old dame thought fit to apologise because she could give me nothing for supper but omelettes and _Klese_; the latter a sort of dumpling made of potatoes and a sprinkling of wheaten flour. "If she had only known," and so forth. However, I found them palatable, and ate heartily, and therein she took comfort. Many times did I eat of such dumplings afterwards, for the relish for them is not confined to Saxony. Under the name of _Knädeln_, or _Kipfeln_, they are a standing dish among the Bohemians. To hundreds of families in the _Erzgebirge_ they are the only variety--but without the wheaten flour--in a perpetual potato diet: rarely can they get even the sour black bread of the country, and in the years of the potato disease famine and misery desolated many a hearth. The guests went away early, and then, as twilight fell, nothing disturbed the stillness of the vale save the murmur of running water and the whisper of the breeze among the slopes of firs, inviting to a contemplative stroll. I rose on the morrow soon after the sun, and scrambled up the Auersberg. It was really a scramble, for I pushed at a venture into the forest, aiming direct for the summit. How the grass and the diminutive black-eared rye glistened with dewdrops! Early as it was, the saw-mill had begun its busy clatter, and here and there on the hills the woodcutters' strokes sounded in the calm morning air. Once under the trees all signs of a track disappeared; and there were slopes slippery with decayed vegetation; little swamps richly carpeted with exquisite mosses; dense patches of bilberry, teeming with berries as purple ripe as when Kunz plucked in another part of the forest but a few miles distant. And after all, owing to the tower on the top having fallen down, and the trees having grown up, the view is limited to a narrow opening on either side, where an avenue, now rarely used, affords an easy though tedious ascent. A square block of stone stands near the remains of the tower, dedicated to an upper forest-master, who had fulfilled fifty years of service, by his friends and subordinates. However, there is such a charm in the wild, lonely forest, that one need not regret half an hour's exertion in scrambling up a steep hill under its shadow. I amused myself during breakfast with the _Erzgebirgischer Anzeiger_, a small quarto newspaper, published at Schneeberg thrice a week; the price twelve _neugroschen_ (about fifteen pence) per quarter. Beer and amusements occupied a large space among the advertisements; for every village and every _Wirthshaus_ in the forest, of any notoriety, promised music or dancing on Sundays, sometimes both; and fortunate was the one that could announce the military band. Double _Lager_ beer, a penny the pot, was offered in abundance sufficient to satisfy the thirstiest. "Stewed meat and fresh sausages next Friday," is the inducement held out by one ambitious little alehouse: and an enterprising refectioner declares, "In my garden it gives fine weather." And, as the _Dresdner Anzeiger_ shows, they do similar things in the metropolis. A coffee-house keeper, "up four steps," says: "My most honoured sir, I permit myself the freedom to invite you to a cup of coffee next Sunday afternoon at three o'clock." Certain young men publish their sentiments concerning their hostess, beginning with "Angels until now have led thee," and so on. A fortunate husband and father thanks Madame Krändel for the "happy _Entbindung_" of his wife, and publishes his wife's maiden name. Parents announce the death of a child, and invite their friends to "quiet sympathy." A stray Berlin paper makes it clear that a like practice prevails in the capital of Prussia. But most amusing of all was the advertisement, in French and English, of the landlord of the _Golden Star_, at Bonn. Here it is: "De cet hôtel la renommée Promet sans exagération Que vous y trouverez Le comble de la perfection. Le luxe de la salle à manger Surpassera même votre idée." "By all visitors of the Rhine Known as one of the most fine And best conducted models Of all Continental hotels. The dining-room allowed to be A grand pattern of luxury." Which does not say much for the bard of Bonn. Besides these there was the _Illustrated Village Barber_, a paper published at Leipzig, full of humorous cuts, over which the rustics chuckled not a little.[A] Wildenthal has no church; the people, therefore, are dependent on Eybenstock, three miles distant, for sermons, baptisms, marriages, and burials; but, in common with other villages, it has a good schoolhouse. Hearing the sound of voices as I passed, I went in, and had a talk with the master, who was a model of politeness. He had about a hundred scholars, of both sexes, in a room well-lighted and ventilated, with a spelling-frame, and black music board, ruled for four parts, and other appliances of education placed along the walls. Threepence a week--two and a half _neugroschen_--is the highest rate paid at country schools; but there are two lower rates to suit folk of scanty means, and the very poorest pay nothing. The children attend school from the age of six up to fourteen, with no vacations except a fortnight at each of the three rural ingatherings--haymaking, harvest, and potato-digging. The hours of attendance are from seven to ten in the forenoon, one to four in the afternoon. "Yes, they are pretty good children," said the master, in reply to my inquiry; "I have not much trouble to keep them in order; but, in case of need, here is a little instrument (_kleines Instrument_) which comes to my aid;" and he produced a small birch from a secret place behind his desk. A general nudging went through the school, and quick, sly looks from one to the other, at sight of the interwoven twigs. "Ha! ha!" cried the master, "you see they recognise it. However, 'tis very seldom called for." Then, mounting his rostrum, he said: "Now, children, tell me--which is the most famous country in the world?" "_Eng-land!_" from all the hundred voices. "Is it a most highly renowned country?" "_Ja--ja--ja!_" "And how is the chief city named?" "_Lundun_"--the _u_ sounded as in full. "And when Saxony wants factories, and steam-engines, and spinning-machinery, and railways, who is it sends them hither, or comes over and makes them?" "_Eng-land!_" again, and with enthusiasm. "Good. Now, children, look at the _Herr_ standing here by my side--look at him, I say, for he comes from that famous country--_Eng-land!_" It was a trial to my courage to become thus unexpectedly the object for all eyes, and feeling bound to say something in return for the master's compliment, I replied that, "If England did do so much for Saxony, it was only paying back in another form the prowess and vigour which the Saxons long time ago had carried into England. Moreover, in Saxony all children could read; but in England there were many boys and girls who could not read." "Is it possible!" exclaimed the master, holding up his hands. "How can that be?" "It is part of our liberty. Any one in England is perfectly free to be ignorant if he likes it best." "Remarkable!" answered the dominie; and he inquired concerning the amount of salary paid to schoolmasters in England. His own appeared very small in comparison; but were it not that bread was unusually dear, and firewood five dollars the _Klafter_--notwithstanding the vast forests--he was quite content, and could live in comfort. Beyond Wildenthal, the ascent is almost continuous: now the road traverses a clearing where the new undergrowth hides the many scattered stumps; now a grassy slope thickly bestrewn with wild flowers; now a great breadth of forest, where boulders peer out between the stems, and brooks flow noisily, and long bunches of hairy moss hang from the branches, and the new shoots of the firs, tipped with amber and gold, glisten and glow in the light of the morning sun. Ever deeper into the hills; the solitude interrupted now and then by a gang of charcoal-burners with their wagons, or an aristocratic carriage, or an humble chaise, speeding on its way from Carlsbad. Or the sound of the axe echoes through the wood, followed by the crash of a falling tree. And always the wind murmurs among the trees, swelling at times to a fitful roar. I saw a stone-breaker at work, afflicted with a huge goitre. He earns a dollar and a half per week, and complains sadly of the dearness of bread, and the hardness of the blue granite. Gradually the tall forest gives place to scrubby-looking firs, stony patches, rough with hardy heath, offering a wild and dreary prospect. Presently a square stone, standing by the road, exhibits on one side _K. Sachsen_ (Kingdom of Saxony), on the other _K. Boehmen_, and passing this you are in Bohemia. Near it is the guard-house, where two soldiers are always on the watch. One of them asked me if my knapsack contained anything for duty, accepted my negative without demur, and invited me to sit down and have a chat on the turfy seat by the side of the door. It was a pleasure to see a new face, for their life was very monotonous, looking out, from noon of one day to noon of the next, for honest folk and smugglers, suffering none to pass unquestioned. They were not much troubled with contrabandists, for these free-traders shun the highway, and cross the frontier by secret paths in lonely parts of the mountains. The summit here forms a table-land some three thousand feet above the sea-level, with a prospect by no means cheering; limited by the stunted firs, except towards the south-west, where a few black, dreary-looking undulations terminate the view. The road, however, soon begins to descend to a less inhospitable region, and presently makes a sudden dip, for the slope of the _Erzgebirge_, long and gradual towards Saxony, is abrupt on the Bohemian side. The other mountain ranges present a similar formation. Then we come to tall trees, and grassy glades, stony clearings, and acres of bilberries. A little farther, and the sight of a crucifix, bearing a gilt Christ, by the wayside, and of miserable wooden cottages, roofed with shingles, convinces you that the frontier is really crossed. A valley opens where haymakers are busy; the men wearing the straight tight boots, the women barefoot, and with a kerchief pinned hood-fashion under the chin. "_Gelobt sei Jesus Christus_"--Praised be Jesus Christ--salute the children as you pass, and some of them stand still with an expectant look. Then posts, and a toll-bar, painted in the diagonal stripes of black and yellow, which symbolise imperial Austria. The bar is kept down, but sufficiently high above the ground for a man to walk under it without ducking. Having passed this you are in Hirschenstand--the first Bohemian village. "Perhaps you come out of Saxony?" said a man, stepping from a house that had a double eagle above the door, and holding out his hand for my passport. He was very civil, and also very positive in his assurance that he could not grant me a _visa_ for Prague; only for Carlsbad, and he wished me a pleasant journey. A few yards farther I turned into the inn to dine, and at once met with characteristic specimens of the two races who inhabit Bohemia. There was the German, with a round, flat, hairy face, stolid in expression, and somewhat sluggish in movement, and by his side the Czech, or Stock-Bohemian, whose oval countenance, high intellectual forehead, arched eyebrows, clear olive complexion, unrelieved by moustache or whisker, presented a marked contrast; the Sclavonian, bright-eyed and animated; the Teuton, dull and heavy. Yet the latter is gaining upon his lively neighbour. The German population is every year increasing, and the Czechish language is spoken within a narrower circle. The contrast between the two races will be something for observation during our walk, and with another noticeable difference when we approach the frontier of Silesia. There was something peculiar in the room as well as in the guests; at one side a tall clock, and very tall candlesticks; in the middle a chopping-block, bearing a heap of sausage-meat; a washing-tub and copper-pans in one corner, and on the opposite side a species of bagatelle-board, on which the ball is expected to find its way into the holes between long palisades of little wires: an exciting game; for even the slow German was quickened as he watched the constant repulsions of the little globe hovering round the highest number only to fail of entering. Here, too, were the tall wooden chairs which are seldom seen beyond the Austrian frontier. It made me smile to renew acquaintance with the lanky, spider-legged things. Not the most comfortable contrivance for dispelling weariness, as you would perhaps think, reader, were you to see one. They are, however, very cheap; not more than thirty-five kreutzers apiece, made of pine, and a florin when of hard wood. Both curiosities in their way. Hirschenstand will hardly prepossess you in favour of Bohemian villages, for its houses are shabby boarded structures, put up with a wonderful disregard of order and neatness--windows all awry, the chimney anyhow, and the fit of the door a scandal to carpentry. And the cottages scattered about the valley, and for some distance along the road, preserve the family likeness strongly marked. They would have a touch of the picturesque with far projecting eaves, but the roofs are not made to overhang. You might easily fancy that the land had not yet recovered from the effects of the exterminating Hussite wars, out of which arose the proverb, "Scarce as Bohemian villages." But Carlsbad is nearly seven hours distant, and we must hasten onwards. The road still descends: the prospect opens over forests far broader than on the Saxon side: valleys branch off, and the scenery improves. Rocks choke the brooks, and burst out from the slopes; rows of ash, lime, and cherry-trees, bordering the road, succeed to the firs, and large whitewashed houses with tall roofs to the shabby cottages. Then iron works; and little needle factories driven by a mere spoutful of water rattling and buzzing merrily as grasshoppers. Then Neudeck, where a high rock overtops the houses, and projects into the street, having the appearance, when first seen, of an ancient tower. We shall see similar strange-looking rocks, from time to time, on the hill-side, as if to prepare us for rocky scenes of wonderful character in a subsequent part of our travel. A high steep hill close to the town is cut up with zigzags, by which the devout may ascend from station to station to the Calvary on the top, from whence the view, at all events, will repay the trouble. The road was made, and the stations and chapel were built, at the cost of an ancient maiden lady, who a few years ago expended 27,000 dollars in the purchase of the hill for the good of her soul. Now the road descends through a vale between broad fields of wheat and potatoes, to the smoky porcelain manufacturing town of Alt, where your eye will, perhaps, be attracted by a few pretty faces among the women, set off by a pink, blue, or green jacket, and petticoat of a different colour. But for the most part the women have a dowdy appearance, of which the Czechs, as we shall by-and-by see, exhibit the dowdiest examples. Still the road descends towards the black group of hills which encircle Carlsbad. It was nearly dark when I crossed the bridge and entered the celebrated watering-place. At first I thought every house an inn, for every front carries a sign--somewhat puzzling to a belated stranger. At length the _Gasthof zum Morgenstern_ opened its door to receive me; much to my comfort, for I was very tired, having walked altogether thirty miles. Great was my enjoyment of rest. At supper the landlord brought the beer in a large boot-shaped glass, and placed it before me with the chuckling remark that he liked his guests to be able to say they had one time in their lives drunk out of a boot. His wife, who appeared to be as good-humoured as she was good-looking, amused me with her gossip. Her especial delight was to laugh at the peculiarities of her guests, and their mistakes in speaking German. One, a bilious Greek, had come down one morning with his hand to his head complaining of _Fuss-schmerz_--foot-ache. The Saxons, she said, could not cook, or make good butter, and were ready to drink a quart of any kind of brown fluid, and believe it to be coffee. FOOTNOTE: [A] In Saxony there are published 220 newspapers; in Austria, 271; in Bavaria, 178. CHAPTER VI. Dr. Fowler's Prescription -- Carlsbad -- "A Matlocky sort of a Place" -- Springs and Swallows -- Tasting the Water -- The Cliffs and Terraces -- Comical Signs -- The Wiese and its Frequenters -- Disease and Health -- The Sprudel: its Discharge; its Deposit -- The Stoppage -- Volcanic Phenomena -- Dr. Granville's Observations -- Care's Rest -- Dreikreuzberg -- View from the Summit -- König Otto's Höhe -- "Are you here for the Cure?" -- Lenten Diet -- Hirschsprung -- The Trumpeters -- Two Florins for a Bed. "To lie abed till you are done enough," says Dr. Fowler, of Salisbury, "is the way to promote health and long life;" and he justifies his assertion by living to the age of ninety, with promise of adding yet somewhat to the number. Remembering this, I let duty and inclination have their way the next morning, and the market-women in front of the inn had nearly sold off their baskets of flowers and vegetables before I set out to explore the wonders of Carlsbad. "It's a Matlocky sort of a place!" cried a young lady, as I passed an elegant party, who were sauntering about the pleasant grounds behind the _Theresienbrunn_--"it's a Matlocky sort of a place!" And a merry laugh followed the iteration of her ingenious adjective. That it is not altogether inappropriate is apparent as soon as you arrive on the upper terrace and overlook a small town, lying deep between hills on either side of the Teple, a shallow and sharply-curved stream. All the springs but two are on the left bank, a few yards from the water's edge. There is a little architectural display in the buildings by which they are covered: a domed roof, supported on columns, or a square, temple-like structure, flanked by colonnades. The water flows into a cavity, more or less deeply sunk below the surface, surrounded by stone steps, on which sit the nimble lasses, priestesses of health, who every morning from six to ten are busily employed in dispensing the exhaustless medicine. A few vase-like cups stand ready for use; but numbers of the visitors bring their own glass, carried as a bouquet in the hand, of tasteful Bohemian manufacture, striped with purple or ruby, and some of the purest white. All are made of the same size--to contain six ounces--and a few have a species of dial attached, by which to keep count of the number of doses swallowed. The visitors, having their glasses filled at the fountain, walk up or down the colonnade, or along the paths of the pleasure-ground, listening to music, or form little groups for a morning gossip, and sip and chat alternately till the glasses are emptied. The rule is to wait a quarter-hour between each refilling, so that a patient condemned to a dozen glasses dissipates three hours in the watery task. The number imbibed depends on the complaint and constitution: in some instances four glasses are taken; in others, from twenty to forty. I tasted each spring as I came to it, and felt no inclination to repeat the experiment. The temperature of the _Theresienbrunn_ is 134 deg., of the _Mühlbrunn_ 138 deg., of the _Neubrunn_ 144 deg., in itself a cause of dislike, especially in hot weather, and much more so when combined with a disagreeable bitter, and a flavour which I can only compare to a faint impression of the odour of a dissecting-room. No wonder some of the drinkers shudder as they swallow their volcanic physic! But more about the waters after we have seen the _Sprudel_. In some places the cliff comes so near to the stream that there is no more than room for a colonnade, or narrow road, and here and there the path, stopped by a projecting rock, is carried round the rear of the obstacle by little intricate zigzags. And every minute you come to some ramifications of the narrow lanes, which here, so limited and valuable is the space, serve the purpose of streets, and afford ready access to the heights above. The houses rise tier over tier, in short rows, or perched singly on curious platforms excavated from the rock, in situations where back windows would be useless. The topmost dwellers have thus an opportunity to amuse their idleness by a bird's-eye view of what their neighbours are doing below. From May to September the influx of visitors is so great that every house is full of inmates. As every house has its sign or designation, ingenuity has been not a little taxed to avoid repetitions. One ambitious proprietor writes up _At the King of England_; another, contenting himself with his native tongue, has _König von England_; a third, _English House_. A little farther, and you see _Captain Cook_; _The Comet_; _The Aurora_; and many varieties of Rings, Spoons, and Musical Instruments. _Israelitisch Restauration_ notifies the tribes of a dining-room; here _The Admiral_, there _The Corporal_, yonder _The Pasha_ claims attention; and in a steep street leading towards Prague I saw _The A B C_. And here and there a doll in a glass-case fixed to the wall, representing St. Anne--a favourite saint of the Bohemians--looks down on the sauntering visitors. Continuing up the left bank you enter the market-place, where the indications of life and business multiply, and a throng are sipping around the _Marktbrunn_. This spring burst up from under the paving-stones in 1838; a temple was built over it, and ever since it has served as a temple of ease to some of the more crowded springs. A little farther, and you come to the _Wiese_, or meadow, which retains no more of grass than Hatton-garden does of gravelled paths and flower-beds: a row of houses and shops on one side, on the other a line of wooden booths concealing the river, and all between planted with trees which shelter an irregular regiment of chairs and tables. Here is the place where visitors most do congregate, pacing leisurely to and fro, or lounging on the chairs in front of the cafés, gossiping over the newspapers, or trifling around the stalls and shop windows. A remarkable throng, truly! Some with an air highly dignified and aristocratic; but the greater part somewhat grotesque in appearance. Graceful ladies with those ungraceful sprawling bonnets not uncommon in Germany; men, lanky and angular, and short and round, and square and awkward, wearing astonishing wide-awakes. Such a variety of loose, baggy trousers, magnificent waistcoats, and gauzy gowns, that look impalpable almost as a cloud! Here comes a Polish Jew with manifest signs of having remained unclean beyond more than one evening; here a Czechish count, who has not forgotten his military paces; here a spectacled professor, with boots turned up peak-wise, and toes turned broadly out; here a group of Hebrews glittering with jewelry; and here a miscellaneous crowd from all the countries of Europe, but Germans the most numerous. Of English very few. There is nothing stiff or formal about them; to make things pleasant seems to be a tacit understanding, for disease has brought them all to one common level. All are animated by the hope of cure, and find therein an inspiration towards gaiety. But who shall be gay in an hospital, among sallow, haggard faces, sunken eyes, and ghastly features? Some you see who, preyed upon by disease for years, have well-nigh lost all faith in the smiler who lingers so long at the bottom of the box; some afflicted by hypochondriasis appear to wonder that the sun should shine, that others can be happy while they themselves are so miserable. The lively fiddles, and twanging harps, and jingling tambourines--the Tyrolese minstrels--the glib conjuror, all fail to bring a flash of joy back to their deadened eye; to win for mirth one responsive thrill. I have never been more thankfully sensible of the blessing of robust health, than while strolling on the _Wiese_ at Carlsbad. What with its many stalls and shops, the _Wiese_ resembles a bazaar. All sorts of trifles and knick-knacks tempt the visitor, and entice money from the purse. Among queer-looking toys you see WINDSOR SOAP labelled in good, honest English; pipes, ribands, and pocket-books, fans, satchels, and jewelry, among specimens of _Sprudelstein_, and crystals and minerals, from the surrounding hills. Money-changers abound; and polyglot placards--English, French, German, Czechish, Hungarian--everywhere meet the eye. And not only here, but all over the town, brisk signs of business and prosperity are apparent. But to quote the gossip of my hostess, "many in Carlsbad have to endure hunger during the winter." The place is then deserted, for the season lasts only from May to September. Turn into a short _Gasse_ from the market-place, cross the foot-bridge, and you will see a Geyser without the fatigue of a voyage to Iceland. It is the far-famed _Sprudel_, or Bubbler. At one end of a colonnade open to the river on the right bank, a living column of water springs perpetually from the ground. Through an orifice in the centre of a basin about three feet deep, the water leaps and plays with a noise of gurgling, splashing, and bubbling, to a height of six or eight feet, and throwing off clouds of steam. Now it forms a column with palm-leafed capital--now a number of jets tumbling over in graceful curves--now broken, fan-like masses, all throbbing and dancing in obedience to the vigorous pulsations under ground. There is something fascinating in the sight. Allowing for the artificial elevation of the floor, the whole height of the jet is about twelve feet; and so has it leaped for ages, and with but one interruption since its fabulous discovery in the fourteenth century. The _Sprudel_ is the hottest of the springs, scalding hot, in fact, marking a temperature of 167 deg. Fahrenheit: hence the attendant Naiads--here a couple of strong-armed women--make use of a cup fixed to one end of a staff for filling the glasses. When a visitor approaches, the staff is held out to receive the glass; and after a plunge into the steaming jet, is handed back to the expectant drinker, who, taking his glass from the cup, swallows the contents at pleasure--if he can. The drinkers were but few when I came up, for ten o'clock was nigh; stragglers, who having arrived late, were sipping their last glasses--some not without a shudder. While the dose cooled, they examined the heads of walking-sticks, snuff-boxes, seals, and other specimens of _Sprudelstein_, on sale at a stall; or the time-tables and advertisement photographs hanging about the colonnade. The Naiads, in the interval, emptied ladles full of the water into stone-bottles, which a man rapidly corked in a noisy machine. The waste water flows away along a wooden shoot to the river, where it sends small light wreaths of steam floating about on the surface. But I saw nothing at all like what has been often described as a cloud of steam perpetually hovering above the _Sprudel_, visible from afar. Regarded near at hand, or from a distance, there is no cloud visible in July, whatever may be the case in the cool months. The quantity of water poured out every day by the _Sprudel_ alone is estimated at two million gallons. Multiplied by 365, it becomes truly amazing. In this quantity, as shown by Gilbert, a German chemist, ten thousand tons of Glauber salt, and fifteen thousand tons of carbonate of soda are thrown up in a year. And this has been going on from immemorial ages, the waters depositing calcareous matter in their outflow, which has slowly formed a crust over the vast boiling reservoir beneath. And on this crust Carlsbad is built. The constituents of all the springs, as proved by analyses, are identical with those of the _Sprudel_--soda in the form of carbonate, Glauber salt, and common salt; carbonic acid gas, and traces of iron and iodine. Bitumen is also found in a notable quantity, and a peculiar soapy substance, a species of animal matter, the cause, perhaps, of the cadaverous flavour already mentioned. The water, which when first caught is bright and clear, becomes turbid if left to cool, and throws down a pale-brown sediment. Ehrenberg, the celebrated microscopist of Berlin, who has examined specimens of this sediment under his microscope, declares it to be composed of fossil animalcules inconceivably minute; these animalcules being a portion of the material out of which Nature builds up the solid strata of the globe. Some patients have feared to drink the water because of the concreting property; but the medical authorities assure that in this respect it produces no injurious effect on the animal economy. Shopkeepers turn it to profit, and offer you fruits, flowers, plants, and other objects, petrified by the _Sprudel_ water. The roof of the colonnade above the spring is discoloured by the ascending steam; and standing on the bridge you can see how the wall is incrusted with calcareous matter, as, also, the big hump swelling up from the bed of the stream--a smooth ochreous coat, brightened in places by amber, in others darkened into a rich brown, or dyed with shades of green. This concretion is the _Sprudelstein_, or Sprudel-stone, noticed above; firm and hard in texture, and susceptible of a beautiful polish. A portion of the waste water is led into an adjoining building, where it undergoes evaporation to obtain the constituent salts in a dry state for exportation. From the other shoot, as it falls into the river, supplies are constantly dipped by the townsfolk, who use it to cook their eggs, to scald pork and poultry, and other purposes. All day long you may see women filling and carrying away on their shoulders big bucketfuls of the steaming water. Notwithstanding this constant inflow of hot water, the Teple appears to agree with fish, for I saw numbers swimming about in good condition but a short distance lower down. As a stream, it adds little to the salubrity of Carlsbad, for it is shallow, sluggish in places, and tainted by noisome drainage. Another cause of offence to the nostrils exists in what is so often complained of on the Continent, the obtrusive situation of the _latrinæ_ at the principal springs. Only in England are such matters properly cared for. In 1809, and for ten years thereafter, the _Sprudel_ ceased to flow, and the water broke through at a spot some fifty feet distant, to which the name _Hygieas Quelle_ was given. Here it continued to play till 1819, when it reappeared at the former source, and from that date there has been no interruption in the copious discharge of the _Sprudel_. The underground action is at times so powerful as to rend the crust and form new openings, and these, if large, have to be stopped, to prevent the loss of the springs. The yellow hump mentioned as swelling up from the river's bed, is nothing but a thick mass of masonry, braced together by iron bars, covering a great rent through which the waters once boiled up from below. Similar outbreaks occurred in 1713, and again fourteen years later, when attempts were made to ascertain the depth of the great subterranean reservoir by splicing poles together to a length of one hundred and eighty feet, but neither bottom nor wall could be touched in any direction. The hills around are of granite, containing mica and pyrites, and one of them, the _Hirschsprung_, is said to be the source of all the Carlsbad springs. Their bases come near together, and it is easy to imagine a huge cavern formed between them descending deep down into the bowels of the earth. As regards the efficacy of the Carlsbad waters, let us hear Dr. Granville, an authority on the subject: "They exert their principal sanative action," he says, "1st, on all chronic affections which depend on debility of the digestive organs, accompanied by the accumulation of improper secretions; 2ndly, on all obstructions, particularly of the abdomen, which, as Becher, the oracle of Carlsbad, observes, they resolve and disperse; 3rdly, on the acrimony of the blood, which they correct, alter, evacuate, or drive towards the extremities and the surface of the body; 4thly, on calculous and gravelly deposits; 5thly, on many occult and serious disorders, the nature of which is not readily ascertained until after the partial use of the waters, such as tic doloreux, spasms, rheumatisms, and gout." As if here were not virtues sufficient, the Doctor proceeds: "My own experience warrants me in commending the Carlsbad waters in all obstinate cases of induration, tumefaction, tenderness, and sluggish action of the liver; in imperfect or suppressed gout; in paralysis, dependent on the stomach, and not fulness of blood in the head; in cases of tic and nervous disorders; finally, in obstructions of the glands of the mesentery, and distended state of the splenetic vessels." The effect on stones in the bladder is almost magical, so promptly are they polished, reduced, rendered friable, and expelled, leaving the patient a happy example of perfect cure. "It is the despondent," to quote once more from the Doctor, "the dejected, misanthropic, fidgetty, pusillanimous, irritable, outrageous, morose, sulky, weak-minded, whimsical, and often despairing hypochondriac--for he is all these, and each in turn--made so by continued indigestion, by obstinate and unremitting gout, by affections of the nerves of sympathy and of the gastric region, and by other equally active causes, that Carlsbad seems pre-eminently to favour." After reading this, the wonder is, not that the visitors number from five to six thousand in the course of the season, but that they are not ten times as many. The Doctor finds nothing nauseous in the taste of the water. "Once arrived in the stomach," he says, "it produces an exhilarating sensation, which spreads itself to the intestinal canal generally." To him I leave the responsibility of this statement; for, preferring to let well alone, I sipped by spoonfuls only, and can therefore bring no testimony from my own experience. The practice of drinking the waters has almost set aside the once exclusive practice of bathing; but baths are always to be had, as well of mud and vapour as of the water of the springs. Now, after this stroll through the town, let us take a wider survey. As we follow the street down the right bank, we see parties setting off in carriages for excursions to the neighbourhood, and rows of vehicles in the open places ticketed, _Return to Marienbad_, _to Eger_, _to Töplitz_, _to Zwickau_, and the like, and drivers on the alert for what your London cab-driver calls "a job." A short distance beyond the _Morgenstern_ a path zigzags gradually up the hill and brings you soon under the shade of trees, and to many little nooks and sheltered seats contrived for delightful repose. One remote bower, apparently but little frequented, is inscribed, _Care's Rest: make thyself happy_. A little farther, and crossing a carriage-road, we come to a temple where you may have another rest, and enjoy at the same time the opening panorama. From hence the paths zigzag onwards to the top of the _Dreikreuzberg_--Three-Cross Hill--by easy shady slopes, which even a short-winded patient may ascend, while those with strong legs may shorten the distance by the steep cut-offs. An agreeable surprise awaits you at the top: a large, well-kept garden, gay and fragrant with flowers, surrounded by arbours of clipped fir, and a graceful screen of trees, while at one side stands a spacious _Restauration_--all clean and cheerful of aspect. From an elevated platform, or from the arched recesses on the terrace in front of the garden, you see all Carlsbad and the hilly region around. Now you see how singularly crooked is the narrow valley in which the town is built; how the white houses gleam from the steep green sides of the farther hills, and straggle away to the wooded hollow at the head of the valley, from whence the river issues in a shining curve. In and out flows the stream past the church, past the springs and public buildings, cutting the town in two, on its way to fall into the Eger. Your eye takes in the life of the streets, the goings to and fro, but on a reduced scale--such tiny men and women, and little carriages! 'Tis as if one were looking into Lilliput. Opposite rises the precipitous rocky hill, the Hirschsprung, to the craggy summit of which we shall climb by-and-by; and beyond it, ridgy summits, away to the gloomy expanse of the _Schlaggenwald_. Many are the paths that penetrate the rearward valleys, and white roads curving along the hill-sides high above Carlsbad, and far up the distant slopes. Altogether the view is striking, and somewhat romantic; yet in the eyes of the Germans fresh from their flat, uninteresting country, it is "_wunderschön_"--an epithet which they never tire of heaping on the landscape. From the garden a path leads along the ridge to a higher elevation, where the three tall crosses, seen for miles around, spring from a rocky knoll at the rear of a small semicircular opening, enclosed by firs, prettily intermingled with beech and birch. Heath and yellow broom grow from crevices in the rocks, and the wild thyme, crushed by your foot, fills the air with aromatic sweetness, for the spot is left to the nurture of the winds and the rain. It commands the same view as from the garden; but with a wider scope, and the town lying at a greater depth. The path still curving along the ridge brings you presently to _König Otto's Höhe_--King Otto's Height--the highest point of the hill. This is also an untrimmed spot, with two or three seats, and a fluted granite column, surmounted by a globe and star, rising in the midst. You now look over some of the nearer hills, and get fresh peeps into the valleys, discovering topographical secrets. Raised high into the region of cooling breezes, yet easily accessible, it is a pleasant place for quiet recreation. I took the shortest way down from Otto's Height, crossing the rough declivity and the fields that stretch far up the lower slope of the hill, and made a circuit to Findlater's monument at the upper extremity of Carlsbad. From the eminence on which it is erected you get a new prospect of the town, and up the valley of umbrageous retreats much resorted to by visitors on sultry afternoons. On my way back to the _Morgenstern_ I had another look at the _Sprudel_. The place was now deserted; the Naiads had departed; the stall-keeper had locked her glazed doors and withdrawn; and there was nothing near to subdue the vivid rushing sound of the water. So to remain till evening, when a few anxious patients would appear to quaff new draughts of health. The inn was in all the bustle of dinner, after the manner of a _table d'hôte_, but without its formality--twenty little tables instead of a single large one. By this arrangement the guests formed small parties, and ate and chatted at pleasure. Many came in who were not lodgers in the house--among them a countess, from Moravia, to whom no more attention was paid, nor did she appear to expect it, than to the others. The absence of stiffness was, indeed, an agreeable characteristic of the company, who were mostly Germans. "Are you here for the cure?" said an old gentleman who sat opposite me, and looked at my tankard of beer and salad with an air of surprise. "Are you not afraid?" My answer reassured him. Visitors who come to drink the waters are required by medical authority to conform to a simple regimen. To eat no salad, fruit, or vegetables--to drink no beer or wine--to eat no bread. The exceptional cases are rare; hence the provision consists but of sundry preparations of meat, decanters of water, pudding resembling boiled pound-cake, and baskets of small rolls. The latter, made of wheaten flour, are not recognised as bread, but come under the common term, _Semmel_--the simmel of which we read in descriptions of lordly banquets in our Plantagenet days. The term bread is confined to the large brown and black loaves made of rye meal, the staple of household diet in Bohemia; and to Carlsbad patients this is forbidden. So Nature always goes on vindicating her simple laws, convincing mankind, in spite of themselves, of the wholesome effects of fresh air, daily exercise, plain food, and spring water; and mankind, returned to crowded cities and artificial pleasures, go on forgetting a lesson which is as old as the hills. In the afternoon I mounted to the top of the _Hirschsprung_, and passed two or three hours on the jutting crags which overlook the town and a wide expanse of rolling fields and meadows towards Saxony. Stairs and fenced platforms on the outermost points enable you to survey in full security. The conformation of the crags is not unlike that which prevails in the Saxon Switzerland. Here and there tablets in the rock record the visits of royal personages, and on the topmost, surmounted by a cross, is an inscription in Russian, and the name of Czar Peter, who included among his exploits that of riding up the _Hirschsprung_ on horseback in 1711. You cannot be long in Carlsbad without hearing a flourish of trumpets from the top of the Watch-tower, announcing the arrival of visitors. No sooner do the trumpeters spy a carriage approaching from their lofty station, than they begin to sound, and, in proportion to the appearance of the vehicle, so do they measure out their blast--most wind for the proudest. While I was looking down, a sudden note, unusually prolonged, woke up the drowsy echoes, for rattling down the zigzagged highway from Prague came his unenviable majesty, Otho of Greece, to undergo a course of the _Sprudel_--at least, so said the newspapers. Not till he had alighted at the hotel did the trumpeters cease their salute, for kings can pay well; but let a dusty-footed wayfarer, with knapsack on shoulder, come into the town, and not a breath will they spare to give him welcome. At six in the evening--having surveyed Carlsbad from within and without, and from the highest points on either side--I started to walk to Buchau, a village about ten miles off--an easy distance before nightfall. The _Morgenstern_ charged me two florins for my bed, and less than two florins for all my diet--supper, breakfast, and dinner; which, in one of the dearest watering-places in Europe, was letting me off on reasonable terms. CHAPTER VII. Departure from Carlsbad -- Dreifaltigkeits-Kirche -- Engelhaus -- The Castle -- A Melancholy Village -- Up to the Ruins -- An Imperial Visit -- Bohemian Scenery -- On to Buchau -- The Inn -- A Crowd of Guests -- Roast Goose -- Inspiriting Music -- Prompt Waiters -- The Mysterious Passport -- The Military Adviser -- How he Solved the Mystery -- A Baron in Spite of Himself -- The Baron's Footbath -- Lighting the Baron to Bed. Some years ago Carlsbad was scarcely accessible by vehicles coming from the interior, so abrupt was the declivity of its western hill. Now the difficulty is overcome by the zigzags of an excellent road, such as Austrian engineers know well how to construct. The shortest way out of the town for one on foot is up a street painfully steep, which brings you at once to an elevation, whence there is a view of the hills and hollows at the head of the valley. The zigzags are long, and there are no cut-offs, whereby you lose sight but slowly of the Valley of Springs. Once past the brow and a view opens over a hilly landscape in the opposite direction, repeating the characteristics of Bohemian scenery--large unfenced fields, with clumps of firs and patches of forest on the highest swells, and the road, in long undulations, running between rows of birch and mountain-ash. There is a monotony about it, varied only by the difference of crops, the rise and fall of the ground, or rags of mist which, after a shower, hang about the dark sides of distant hills. By-and-by the ruined castle of Engelhaus, crowning a conical hill, peers up on the left, higher and higher as you advance, till at length it stands out a huge mass, looking grimly down on a village beneath. But now a low building on the right attracts your attention. It is a small, low, triangular church--_Dreifaltigkeits-Kirche_--in a narrow graveyard, where the few mounds and the low wooden crosses that mark them are scarcely to be seen for tall grass and weeds. The interior, so far as I could see through a chink in the rusty, unpainted door, contains nothing remarkable except a rude altar, and a small gallery in each angle. A chapel and arcades are built against two sides of the enclosing wall, and four life-size figures of apostolic aspect sit, recline, and kneel in front of a half-length figure, bearing a crucifix, placed in a recess. They seemed fit guardians of a place which wears an appearance of neglect. A little farther and there is a byeway, leading across the fields to Engelhaus, about a quarter-mile distant, and a very Irish-looking village it is; squalid and filthy, built in what, to a stranger, appears a total disregard of the fitness of things. Here and there the noise of a loom--a noise which denotes a poverty-stricken existence--sounded from some of the cottages, and the aspect of the villagers is quite in keeping with their environment. And yet a wandering musician, who carried a trestle to rest his organ on, was trying to coax a few _Kreutzers_ out of their pockets by airs most unmelodious; as if the worst kind of music were good enough for folk so deficient in a sense of propriety. The inside of the houses is no better than the outside. Seeing a pale, damp-browed weaver at a window, I stopped to put a question. He opened the casement, and out rushed a stream of air so hot, stifling, and malodorous as fully accounted for his abject looks, and made me content with the briefest answer. A steep path, completed in one place by a wooden stair, leads you up and along the precipitous side of the hill to the principal entrance of the castle, an old weatherbeaten arch bestriding the whole of the narrow way. Here a few tall trees form the commencement of an avenue, which the young trees planted farther on will one day complete, and increase the charm of the ancient remains. The path skirting the bold crags passes an old tower, and enters a court which, since the visit of the Emperor and Empress in 1854, is called the _Kaiserplatz_. Three young trees, supported by stakes painted black and yellow, and blue and white, are growing up into memorials of the incident, and dwarf-firs, set in the turfy slope, form the initials F i E--_Francis Joseph, Elizabeth_. A small pool in one corner reflects the dilapidated walls; the mountain-ash, trailing grasses, and harebells grow from the crevices, trembling in the breeze; and the place, cool, green, and sequestered, is one where you would like to sit musing on a summer afternoon. The steep and uneven ground adds much to the picturesque effect of the ruin. You make your way from court to court by sudden abrupt ascents and descents, protected in places by a fence--now under a broken arch, now creeping into a vault, now traversing a roofless hall, climbing the fragment of a stair, or pacing round the base of the mighty keep. Loose stones lie about, bits of walls peer through the soil, or, concealed beneath, form grassy hummocks, showing how great have been the ravages of time and other foes. Here and there stands a portion of wall on the very brink of the precipice, and a railing stretched from one to the other enables you to contemplate the prospect in safety. The appearance of the country is such that the hill appears to be in the centre of a great, slightly-hollowed basin, which has a dark and distant rim. The basin is everywhere heaving with undulations, patched and striped with firs and the lines of trees along the highways, while a few ponds gleam in some of the deepest hollows. A few widely scattered cottages, or the white walls of a farmstead, dot the green surface of the fields; and such is the general character of the scenery all the way from the _Erzgebirge_ to Prague--indeed, all the central region of Bohemia. One league, with small differences, is but a repetition of the other. I prowled so long about the ruins, enjoying the lusty breeze that shook the branches merrily and roared through the crevices, that long shadows crept over the landscape, raising the highest points into bold relief, and veiling the remoter scenes before I descended. The sun, fallen below the Saxon mountains, lit up an immense crescent of angry clouds with a lurid glare, from which the twilight caught a touch of awfulness. The ponds shone with unearthly lustre for a few moments, and then lay cold and gray, and there seemed something spectral in the thin lines of firs as they rose against the glare. I returned to the road, and found the last two or three miles solitary enough, for not a soul did I meet, and the way lay through a forest where the only light was a faint streak overhead. It was near ten o'clock when I came to Buchau--a village of low houses built round a great square--in which stood some twenty or thirty laden wagons. The appearance of things at _The Sun_ was not encouraging: a dozen wagoners in blue gaberdines lay stretched on straw in the sitting-room, leaving but a small corner of the floor vacant, where sat the host, who made many apologies for having to turn me away. I walked across the square, and tried _Der Herrnhaus_, and on opening the door met with a rare surprise. The large room was crowded with some threescore guests, including a few soldiers, seated at narrow tables along the sides and across the middle, every man with his tankard of beer before him. In one corner a party of gipsies played wild and lively music, making the room echo again with the sounds of flageolet, violin, and bass, and electrifying the company with their wizard harmonies. Some, unable to contain themselves, chanted a few bars of the inspiriting measure; others beat time with hands or feet, and joined in a whoop at the emphatic passages; and all the while a gruff outpouring of talk struggled with the bass for the mastery. There was a clatter of knives and forks, a rattling of pewter-lids by impatient tipplers, and hasty cries for pieces of bread. And over all hung a cloud of smoke, rolling broader and deeper as the puffs and swirls went up from fifty pipes. This scene bursting upon me all at once made me stand for a minute in doubtful astonishment, half dazzled by the sudden light, and half choked by the reeking atmosphere, while I looked round to discover the trencher-capped _Wirth_. If _The Sun_ had no room, what was to be hoped for here? However, the landlord, after a consultation with his wife, assured me of a chamber to myself; and placing a chair at the only vacant end of one of the tables, professed himself ready to supply "anything" for supper. He rung the changes on beef, veal, and sausage, with interpolation of roast goose. The meats were good, but the goose was prime; he could recommend that "_vom Herzen_," and he laid his hand on his heart as he said it. So I accepted roast goose; and presently a smoking dish of the savoury bird was set before me, with cucumber salad and rye bread. The landlord had not overpraised his Bohemian cookery, for he gave me a most relishing supper. As my eyes became accustomed to the smoky atmosphere, the forms and features of the company came out more distinct than at first. Among the wagoners and rustics who made up the greater number, I saw two or three heads of a superior cast--unmistakable Czechish heads--in marked contrast to the rest. A gentleman with his wife and brother, travelling to their estates, preferred quarters in the _Herrnhaus_ to a midnight stage, and sat eating their supper, apparently not less pleased with their entertainment than I was. By their side sat half a dozen tramping shoemakers, each busy with a plate of roast goose; and next to them, in the narrow space between the stove and the wall, lay a woman and her two children, sleeping on straw. The musicians came round for a largesse, and, reanimated by success, played a few tunes by way of finish, which made sitting still almost impossible. Every one seemed inclined to spring up and dance; and the host and his servants ran to and fro quicker than ever, under the new excitement. No sooner was a tankard emptied, than, following the custom of the country, it was caught up by one of the nimble attendants and refilled, without any asking leave or any demur, except on the part of one of the guests. Trencher-cap would by no means believe that I could be satisfied with a single measure, and I had to compromise for a glass of wine, which, when brought, he assured me proudly was genuine '34 _Adelsberger_. Whether or no, it was very good. Presently he asked for a sight of my passport, that his son might enter my name with those of the other travellers. I spread the document before him on the table; he bent down and examined it curiously, as an antiquary over a wormeaten manuscript, but with a look of utter bewilderment, for he had never before seen an English passport. He turned it upside down, sideways, aslant, back to front, every way, in short, in his endeavour to discover a meaning in it; but in vain. He caught eagerly at the British Minister's eagle, and the German _visas_, yet found nothing to enlighten him therein. His son then took a turn in the examination; still with no better result; and the two looked at one another in blank hopelessness. Presently the father, recollecting himself, beckoned secretly to one of the soldiers, who came to help solve the mystery. Taking the passport, he held it at arm's length, turned it every way as the _Wirth_ had done before, brought it close to his eyes; but could make nothing of it. Then, as if to assist his wit, he hooked one finger on the end of his nose, spread the mysterious document on the table, and pointing to the first paragraph, which, as tourists know, stands printed in good round hand, he began to read at all hazards: "_Vill--Vill--Vill--yam. Ja, ja. Villyam._ Ah! that's English!" Then he attacked the second word--"_Fre--Fre--Fre--Fredrich. Ja, ja._ That is English!" The next word, _Earl_, looked awkward, so, skipping that, he went on with many flourishes of his forefinger, "_Cla--ren--don. Ja, ja. Clarendon._ That's English!" Encouraged by success, he made a dash at the following word, "_Baron_," and stopped suddenly short, hooked his finger once more on his nose, stood for a minute as if in deep study, then repeating slowly, "_Villyam Fredrich Clarendon, Baron_," he gave the passport back into the landlord's hands, and said in a whisper, pointing slily to me, "He's a Baron." Hereupon the son, with nimble pen, entered me in the book as "_Villyam Fredrich Clarendon, Baron_." "You have made a pretty mistake," I interposed. "See, that's my name, written lower down, quite away from the titles of our Foreign Minister." But it was in vain that I spoke, and argued, and protested, the opposite party would not be convinced, and Trencher-cap, folding up the passport, looked at me with that expression which very knowing folk are apt to assume, and said, as he replaced it in my hand, "_Ja, ja._ We are used to that sort of thing. You wish not to travel in your real name. Yes, yes, we know. _Herr Baron_, I give you back your passport." I reiterated my protest, and vehemently; but all in vain. "_Herr Baron_" I had to remain for all the rest of the evening. Trencher-cap made a bow every time he addressed me, and went among his guests, telling them he had caged an English Baron. One and another came and sat near me for awhile, and talked with so much of deference, that at last I felt quite ashamed of myself--as if I were an accomplice in a hoax. The talk, however, was very barren; the only items of real information it brought forth were, that a good many needles were made in the neighbourhood, and that Buchau could muster ninety-nine master shoemakers. So it went on till eleven o'clock, when mine host, approaching with another bow, said, "_Herr Baron_, are you quite sure that it is a cold foot-bath you want?" "Quite." "I told the maid so," he replied; "but she says she cannot believe that a _Herr Baron_ will have cold water, and thinks it should be lukewarm." Satisfied on this point, he summoned the incredulous maid to light me to bed. She stooped low with what was meant for a curtsey, and would on no account turn her face from me, but went backwards up the stairs, holding the candle low, and begging me at every step not to stumble. "Verily," thought I, "the whole household joins in the conspiracy." She carried the candlestick delicately, as if it were of silver and not mere iron, placed it on a little deal table in the bedroom with a ceremonious air, made another low curtsey, and retreated to the door. Then, with one hand on the latch, she said, after a momentary pause, "_Herr Baron_, I wish you a good night;" and withdrew, leaving me alone to sleep as best I might under the burden of an unexpected title. CHAPTER VIII. Dawn -- The Noisy Gooseherd -- Geese, for Home Consumption and Export -- Still the Baron -- The Ruins of Hartenstein -- Glimpses of Scenery and Rural Life -- Liebkowitz -- Lubenz -- Schloss Petersburg -- Big Rooms -- Tipplers and Drunkards -- Wagoners and Peasants -- A Thrifty Landlord -- Inquisitorial Book -- Awful Gendarme -- Paternal Government -- Fidgets -- How it is in Hungary -- Wet Blankets for Philosophers -- An Unhappy Peasant. Neither nightmare nor anything else disturbed me till the wagoners, hooking on their teams amid noisy shouts, filed off in two directions from the square, at the earliest peep of dawn. The quiet that returned on their departure was ere long broken by a succession of wild and discordant cries, which, being puzzled to account for by ear, I got out of bed and used my eyes. The gooseherd stood in the middle of the square, calling his flock together from all quarters, with a voice, as it seemed to me, more expressive of alarm and anger than of invitation. However, the geese understood it, and they came waddling and quacking forth from every gateway and lane, and the narrow openings between the houses, till some hundreds were gathered round the herd, who, waving his long rod, kept up his cries till the last straggler had come up, and then drove them out to the dewy pasture beyond the village. A singular effect was produced by the multitude of long necks, and the awkward movements of the snow-white mass, accompanied as they were by a ceaseless rise and fall of the quacking chorus. Such a sight is common in Bohemia; for your Bohemian has a lively relish for roast goose, regarding it as a national dish; and mindful of his neighbours, he breeds numbers of the savoury fowl for their enjoyment. Walk over the _Erzgebirge_ in September, and you will meet thousands of geese in a flock, waddling slowly on their way to Leipzig, and the fulfilment of their destiny in German stomachs, at the rate of about three leagues a day. I doubted not that when the landlord had a fair look at me by daylight, he would recall the title conferred amid the smoke and excitement of the evening before. But, no! he met me at the foot of the stair with the same profound bow; hoped _Herr Baron_ had slept well; and would _Herr Baron_ take breakfast; all my remonstrances to the contrary notwithstanding. I drank my coffee with a suspicion that the sounding honour would have to be paid for; but I did the worthy man injustice, for when summoned to receive payment, he brought his slate and piece of chalk, and writing down the several items, made the sum total not quite a florin. Not often is a Baron created on such very reasonable terms. Even after I left his door, the host continued his attentions: he would go with me to the edge of the village, and point out the way to the castle, and the shortest way back to the main road. He must tell me, too, that the church was dedicated to St. Michael the Archangel; and of a spring not far off, known among the villagers as the "iron spring." Then, as we shook hands and parted, he made another low bow, and hoped I would recommend all my friends to seek for entertainment under his sign. It would be ungracious not to comply with his wish; so should any of my friends have the patience or courage to read these pages, and an inclination to visit Buchau, I hereby counsel them to tarry at the _Herrnhaus_. The castle, or rather the ruin, rises on the summit of a rounded hill about a mile from the village. There is but little in them to charm either the eye or the fancy, for their name and place recall nothing that lingers in the memory. A few words suffice to tell that here once stood the castle of Hartenstein, otherwise Hungerberg, sheltering knights as lawless as any reiving Johnstone, till King George Podiebrad, intolerant of their wild ways, rooted them out in 1468, and knocked their stronghold to pieces. He showed them the less mercy, from having had, the year before, to lay siege for twelve weeks to a castle near Raudnitz, held by conspirators who set him at defiance. Engelhaus, as is believed, felt the first touch of ruin some fifty years later. Nevertheless, the half-hour spent in the excursion is not time lost, for the spiral path that winds round the hill is well-nigh hidden by wild flowers--a right royal carpet, and perfumed withal, swept by all the breezes. And then there is always the view while you scramble about among the broken walls and bits of towers, getting peeps at parts of the landscape framed by a shattered window. It is something to note how unvarying is the scenery: hills shaped like barn roofs; the same undulations; vast fields; a few ponds; dark masses of firs, lacking somewhat of cheerfulness notwithstanding the sunshine; and the village in the midst of all, an irregular patch of gray and white. Far as eye can reach it is the same, and so shall we find it all the way to Prague. The wind increased mightily while I was on the hill, and as it swept coldly over the broad slopes of grain and clover, the whole landscape seemed to become a great, green, rippling sea. My recollections of this day include--a flock of geese grazing on a bit of common about every league; men leading oxen by a strip of hide to pasture on the roadside grass; women cutting fodder in nooks and corners; shepherds, whose booted legs gave them anything but a pastoral appearance; rows of cherry-trees, and the guards in straw huts keeping watch over the fruit; and miles of road irksomely straight between plum-trees. Here and there you come to a homestead or _Gasthaus_, surrounded by a high and thick whitewashed wall, with one or more arched gateways, as if the inmates could not give up the mediæval habit of living within a fortress. On approaching Liebkowitz, the pale colour of the land changes to a warm red, and fields of peas which seem endless, and small plantations of hops, diversify the surface, and contrast with the village, where the clean white pillars of the gateways, the red roofs, topped here and there with a purple ball, engage your eye. At Lubenz, where the main road, with its bordering of tall poles and telegraphic wire turns aside to the Saatzer Circle, I struck into the direct route for Prague, and keeping on at an easy pace, getting a passing view of Schloss Petersburg on the right--a factory-like building--I came at eventide to the _Gasthof zum Rose_ at Willenz. There is many a chapel in England smaller than the common room at the _Rose_, and the same may be said of nearly every roadside inn at which I stayed. Large as the rooms are, it is sometimes difficult to find a seat among the numerous guests; and on Sundays especially they are overcrowded. Here in one corner stood the stove enclosed by a dresser, on which all the preparations for cooking were carried on; and, in the opposite corner, the bar behind a wooden fence, running up to the ceiling. Bread, smoked sausage, _schnaps_, and liqueurs, are served from the bar; beer is fetched directly from the cellar. The host was thrifty, and kept his four daughters busy in waiting on customers. The eldest presided at the stove, and the other three went continually to and fro, refilling the tankards of beer-drinkers, or dealing out delicacies from the bar. Comely damsels they were, dressed in purple bodices, and pink skirts that trailed on the floor in all the amplitude prescribed by the milliners at Paris. I could not fail to be struck by the frequency of their visits to the cellar to supply the demands of about twenty men, who, seated at one of the tables, appeared to have been making a day of it. Tankard after tankard was swallowed with marvellous rapidity, and still the cry was "more." For the first time, in my few trips to the Continent, I saw drunkards, and these were not the only sots that came before me during the present journey: all, however, within Bohemia. Casual customers would now and then drop in, call for beer, drink a small quantity, and leave the tankard standing on the table and go away for half an hour, then return, take another gulp, and so on. One of the tables was covered by these drink-and-come-again tankards, and though all alike in appearance, I noticed that every man knew his own again. Among these bibbers by instalments the landlord was conspicuous, for he took a gulp from his tankard every five minutes, and never left it a moment empty. Now and then slouched in a troop of dusty-booted wagoners, who drank a cup of coffee, and went slouching forth to their wearisome journey. At times a half-dozen peasants strode noisily in, and refreshed themselves with a draught of beer for their walk home; and sausage and little broils were in constant request. The host rubbed his hands, and well he might, for trade was brisk; and when he brought me a baked chicken--which, by the way, is another favourite dish in Bohemia--for my supper, and heard my praise of his beer, he told me that he brewed his own beer and grew his own hops. "You will see two big pockets of hops on the landing when you go to bed," he added, with the look of an innkeeper thoroughly self-satisfied. And then he sat down and gave his two sons a writing-lesson. After supper, one of the pink-robed damsels placed a wooden candlestick, nearly a yard in height, on the table, and brought the inevitable book--that miscellaneous collection of travellers' autographs, kept for the edification of the Imperial police. More inquisitorial than any I had yet seen, this book contained three columns, in one of which I had to note whether I was married or single; "Catholic or other beliefed;" acquainted with any one in any of the places I intended to visit, or not! Having entered the required particulars, the damsel leaning over the page the while, I asked her what use would be made of them? "The gendarme comes to look at the book," she answered, "and if he found the columns empty, so would he blame my father sorely, and wake you up with loud noise to ask the reason. Ah! sometimes he comes before bedtime; sometimes not till midnight, when all folk are asleep. Then must doors be opened and questions answered; and if he discovers some one in bed whose name is not yet in the book, then he makes great outcry, and my father must pay a fine, and the stranger must to the guard-house if he have not good passport. Truly, the law is strong over the book." Happy land! Paternal government is so careful of the governed, so anxious to encourage sedentary virtues, that no one is allowed to go more than four hours, about twelve miles, from home without a passport or ticket of residence (_Heimathschein_); and should any one not quite so tame as his fellows wish to overpass the prescribed limit, paternal government not unfrequently keeps him waiting three days for the precious permit, or refuses it altogether. In a town which we shall come to by-and-by, I saw a poor woman, who begged leave to visit one of her children some fifteen miles distant, turned away with an uncompromising denial. Think of this, my countrymen!--Islanders free to jaunt or journey whithersoever ye will: be ye mighty or mean--even ticket-of-leave holders. Whatever the cause, the regulations concerning passports are in Bohemia very rigorous. It may be that the people have not forgotten they once had a king of their own, or that a remarkable intellectual movement is taking place among the Czechs, or that a simmering up of Protestantism has become chronic within the ring of mountains; whatever the cause, the pressure of authority's heaviest hand is manifest. For my own part--to mention a little thing among great things--I was more fidgetted about my passport in Bohemia than ever anywhere else. It is worse in Hungary. In that province the burden of oppression is felt to a degree inconceivable by an Englishman. Passports for France or England were peremptorily refused to Hungarians of whatever degree during the year 1855; and in 1856, when the rigour was somewhat relaxed, leave was granted for three months only. And should any one be known to have paid a visit to Kossuth while in London, even though he might believe the exile to be a better orator than ruler, he would find the discipline of imprisonment awaiting him on his return _home_. Think of Albert Smith, or any other enterprising tourist, having to ask Lord Clarendon's permission to steam up the Rhine, ascend Mont Blanc, or travel anywhither! 'Tis well the Magyars are not a hopeless race. The members of the Hungarian Academy at Pesth are not allowed to hold their weekly meetings unless an Imperial Commissioner be present to watch the proceedings, and stop the discussion of forbidden subjects. Not a word must be spoken concerning politics, or liberty in any form. History is tolerated only when she discourses of antiquities--urns, buildings, dress and manners, philology, or art. Science even must wear fetters, and preserve herself demure and orthodox. A speculative philosopher might as well attempt to utter high treason, as to read a paper demonstrating by geological proofs the countless ages of the earth's existence, or to quote a chapter from the _Vestiges of Creation_. This work is included among the prohibited books, of which a list is sent to the Academy once a week. One copy of the _Times_--a solitary feather from Liberty's wing--finds its way into Pesth: a rare indulgence for the Englishman who reads it. Imagine Sir Richard Mayne sitting at meetings of the Royal Society, with power to stop Sir Roderick Murchison in his Silurian evidences; or the Rev. Baden Powell in his speculations and inferences concerning the _Unity of Worlds_; or the utterance of Professor Faraday's opinions concerning gravitation; and telling them they shall not read Hugh Miller's _Testimony of the Rocks_! But to return. Among those who dropped in was a tall, grizzly peasant, who presently began a talk with me about what he called his sad condition. His lot was a hard one, because the country was kept down; and hoping for better times would be vain while France and England maintained their alliance. All who felt themselves aggrieved--and their number was great--saw no prospect of redress but in a new outbreak of strife between those two nations; let that only come, and from the Rhine to the Vistula all would be in revolution, wrong would be punished, and the right prevail. He knew many a peasant who was of the same way of thinking. Not being able to flatter him with hopes of a rupture between the Lion and the Cock, I suggested his taking the matter into his own hands, and making the best of present circumstances. Thrift and diligence would do him more good than a revolution. Whereupon he told me how he lived; how hard he worked to cultivate his plot of ground; how rarely he ate anything besides bread and potatoes; and as for beer, it was never seen under his roof. "Do you think it fair, then," I rejoined, "to sit here drinking? Why not carry home a measure of beer, and let your wife share it?" He made no answer; but rose from his seat, shook me by the hand, and walked heavily away. CHAPTER IX. The Village -- The Peasant again -- The Road-mender -- Among the Czechs -- Czechish Speech and Characteristics -- Crosses -- Horosedl -- The Old Cook -- More Praise of England -- The Dinner -- A Journey-Companion -- Famous Files -- A Mechaniker's Earnings -- Kruschowitz -- Rentsch -- More Czechish Characteristics -- Neu Straschitz -- A Word in Season from Old Fuller -- The Mechaniker departs. A hilly site, gardens, orchards, and green slopes, houses scattered at random among chestnuts and elders, and a general suspicion of Czechish carelessness, give to Willenz a touch of the picturesque: at least, when seen as I saw it, with the morning dew yet glistening on thatch, and flowers, and branches. Cherry-trees form a continuous avenue up the hill beyond, and here and there huts of fir branches were built against a stem, to shelter the guard set to watch the ripened fruit, and gatherers were busy aloft. You may pluck a cherry now and then with impunity; but not from the trees marked by a wisp of straw twisted round a conspicuous branch, for of those the fruit is sold, and the watchman eyes them jealously. Coming to the brow of the hill, I saw what seemed a giant standing on a high bank above the road. It was the grizzly peasant magnified through a thin haze. As soon as he saw me he came plunging down the bank, gave me a cheerful "_Gut' Morgen_," seized my hand, and said, "I have been waiting long to see you. I talk gladly with such as you, and could not let you go without asking whether you will come back this way. If so, then pray come to my house for a night. It is not far from Schloss Petersburg. We will make you comfortable." To return by the same road was no part of my plan, and when I told him so, the old man's countenance fell; he pressed my hand tighter, and cried, with a tone of disappointment, "Is it true? Ah! my wife will be so sorry. I told her what you said, and she wanted to see you as much as I." As there was no help for it, we had another talk, he all the while holding my hand as if fearful I should escape. The burden of his discourse was "a good time coming," mingled, however, with a dread that when it came it would not be half so desirable as the good old times, and between the past and future his life was a torment. "Whether you shall be miserable or not," I answered, "depends more on yourself than on the rulers of Bohemia. Why should a man grumble who has a house, and food, and land to cultivate? Only carry your enjoyments home instead of consuming them by the way, and cheerfulness will be there to gladden your wife as well as you." "Yes; but in the old times----" I bade him good-bye, and pursued my walk. Turning round just over the brow of the hill, I saw him still in the same spot, gazing after me. "Farewell, good friend!" he shouted, and strode away. Half an hour later I came to a road-mender, who told me he earned twenty kreutzers a day, and was quite content therewith. He had a wife and child; never ate meat or drank beer; lived mostly on potatoes, and was, nevertheless, strong and healthy, and by no means inclined to quarrel with his lot. The road was a constant source of employment; and if at times bad weather kept him at home for a day or two, his pay went on all the same. I mentioned my interview with the old peasant. "Ah!" he answered, laughing, "it is always so. No grumbler like a _Bauer_. All the world knows that peasants think everybody better off than themselves"--and down came his hammer with crashing force on a lump of granite. Wayside philosophy clearly had the best of it, and heartily approved the fable of the _Mountain of Miseries_ which I narrated. Every mile brings us more and more among the Czechs. Oval faces and arched eyebrows become more numerous, and women's talk sounds shrill and shrewish, as if angry or quarrelsome, as is remarked of the women in Caernarvonshire; and yet it is nothing more than friendly conversation. To a stranger the language sounds as unmusical as it is difficult; and to learn it--you may as well hope to master Chinese. Czechish names and handbills appear on the walls; the names of villages, with the usual topographical particulars, are written up in German and Czechish, of which behold a specimen: [Illustration: Ort und Gemeinde. _Misto á Obec._ Horzowitz. Bezirk Jechnitz. _Okres Jesenice._ Kreis Saaz. _Krái Zatéc._ Königr. Böhm. _Kral: Ceské._] In some of the villages no one but the landlord of the best inn can speak German, and you have only your eyes by which to study the natives and their ways. For my own part, my Czechish vocabulary being foolishly short, I could not ask the villagers why they preferred sluttishness to tidiness, though I longed to do so. It comprised three words only: _Piwo_, _Chleb_, _Máslo_--Beer, Bread, Butter. Crosses are frequent, erected at the corners where bye-roads branch off. Not the huge wooden things you see in Tyrol; but light iron crucifixes, graceful in form and brightly gilt, and mounted on a stone pedestal. Nearly all have been set up by private individuals to commemorate some family event: _By the married Pair_, you may read on one; _Dedicated to the Honour of God, by two Sisters_, on another; _In Memory of my Daughter, by Peter Schmidt, Bauer_, on a third--all apparently from some pious motive. While eating a crust under the pretentious sign, _Stadt Carlsbad_, at Horosedl, I saw how the dowager hostess practised her domestic economy. She was preparing dinner for the family, after her manner, drawing her hand repeatedly across her nose, for the stove was hot and the day sultry. She sliced cucumbers with an instrument resembling a plane, sprinkled the slices with salt, then squeezed them well between her hands, and exposed them to the sun in a shallow basket, one of five or six which, woven almost as close and water-tight as calabashes, served her as dishes. Then she grated a lump of hard brown dough, and used the coarse grains to thicken the soup--a substitute for vermicelli common among the peasantry. The hostess, meanwhile, chatted with me and set the table. She professed to admire the English, and thought it an honour that an Englishman had once slept a night in her house, "although he had to look into a book for all he wanted to say." She coincided entirely in the Saxon schoolmaster's opinion, that all best things came from England. As the clock struck eleven in came half a dozen serving men and maidens, and sat down to dinner with the master and mistress. The dowager supplied them with soup, beef, a mountain of potato-dumplings, and cucumber salad, and ate her portion apart with undoubting appetite. An old beggar crept in and stood hat in hand imploring charity for God's sake! She scolded him for his intrusion, and then gave him a smoking hot dumpling and a word of sympathy, which he received and acknowledged with humble thanks and the sign of the cross. It is a relief along this part of the road to see frequent hop plantations, and here and there rocks as richly red as the crimson cliffs of Sidmouth, while at rarer intervals a pale mass of sandstone on a distant hill-slope puts on the appearance of an enormous antediluvian fossil. I was pacing briskly along, enjoying a fresh breeze that had sprung up, when I heard a voice behind me: "_Ach!_ at last. I saw you from far, and said to myself, Perhaps that is a journey-companion--let me overtake him." Immediately a man, who walked as if he enjoyed the exercise, and wore what looked like his Sunday suit, came up to my side, and proposed to join company, so as to shorten the way with talk. We soon got through the preliminaries, and started topics enough to last all the rest of the day. The stranger notified himself as a _Mechaniker_ from Neudeck, going to Prague on business for his master. He, too, had much to say in praise of England. He had once worked with an Englishman, a certain James, or _Ya-mes_, as he pronounced it, and had ever since held him in the highest esteem and admiration. "That was a man!" he exclaimed; "if all Englishmen are the same, no wonder their nation is so great." English files also were not less praiseworthy--a fact of which Sheffield ought to be proud, seeing that her handicraft has often been reproached of late. "To dance," said the _Mechaniker_, "is not more pleasure than to file with an English file. How it bites, and lasts so long! Even an old one that has been thrown away for months is better than a German file. One is honest steel--the other is too much like lead." Some folk will, perhaps, feel surprised by this scrap of experimental testimony in favour of Hallamshire. We talked about wages. The _Mechaniker's_ earnings were six hundred florins a year; a small sum, as it seems, to English notions for a skilled workman in machinery--one held in high consideration by his master. Ordinary workmen get one-third less; he was, therefore, well content, and told me he could spare something for the savings bank, but not so much as formerly, owing to the increased price of provisions. So with sundry discourse we came to Kruschowitz, where we dined, looking out on thick belts of fruit-trees, that embower the village, and relieve the pale green of little plantations of acacias that show here and there among the bright-red roofs. Most of the houses exhibit the Czechish style, which shuns height and dispenses with an upper story. Then we went on at an after-dinner pace to Rentsch, where, striking into the old road to Prague, now but little frequented, we shortened the distance by four or five miles. All Czechish now, both to eye and ear. A difference is perceptible in the fields, the implements, sheds, and vehicles; they are not so neat or workmanlike in appearance as in the German districts, and yet the broad crops of wheat, already turning yellow, betoken glad abundance. Now we found pleasant footpaths through the beech-woods that border the road, and enjoyed the cool shade and the sound of rustling leaves. The men we met had a slouching gait, and the women, wearing coarse, baggy cotton stockings, and flimsy cotton gowns, and shabby kerchiefs on their heads, were unmistakable dowdies--an appearance which has come to be considered essentially Celtic. However, they failed not to salute us with their "_dobrýtro_" (good day) as we passed. The aspect of Neu Straschitz, the next village on our way, shows how we are getting into the heart of the country--the land of the Czechs. Wide streets, which make the low whitewashed houses look still lower than they are; a great, uneven square, patched here and there with ragged grass, bestrewn with rough logs of timber, ornamented at one side by a row of saplings, unhappy looking, as if pining for the rank of trees; on the other by a statue of St. John Nepomuk. Very lifeless! No merry noise of children in summer evening gambols; no fathers and mothers chatting in the cool lengthening shadows. The only living creatures are a man, a woman, and a dog, all three as far apart as possible. There is nothing stirring even around the _Bezirksamt_ or the church. Glazed windows are few: an opening in the wall, with a hinged shutter, suffices for most of the houses. And for door they have a big archway closed by heavy wooden gates, looking very inhospitable. Here and there one of these gates stands a little open, and you may get a peep at the interior, a square court, enclosed by stable, barn, and dwelling, heaped with manure and ugly rubbish. No notion here, you will say, of the fitness of things. Look at the wagon--a basket on wheels--the wheelbarrow, the rakes, huddled away anyhow, as if they were just as well in one place as another. Perhaps they are. Quaint old Fuller says of the Devonshire cotters of his day, "Vain it is for any to search their houses, being a work beneath the pains of a sheriff, and above the power of any constable." You will, perhaps, say the same here. Look in-doors! the same slovenliness prevails. The room would be just as comfortable, or rather uncomfortable, if chairs and table changed places; if the higgledy-piggledy at one end were shifted to the other. The condition of the utensils is by no means unimpeachable; and repelled by the pervading odour, you will not be less thankful than proud that your lot is not cast among the Czechs. The inn is an exception, and has the appearance of being too good for the village. The _Kellnerinn_ told us we could have as many bedrooms as we chose, for they were all empty. I was content with my day's walk, about twenty-five miles; but the _Mechaniker_, impatient to arrive at Prague, resolved to travel two hours farther; so, after he had finished his tankard of beer, we shook hands, and he went on alone, the _Kellnerinn_ assuring him as he departed that he would find good sleeping quarters almost every half-hour. CHAPTER X. A Talk with the Landlord -- A Jew's Offer -- A Ride in a Wagen -- Talk with the Jew -- The Stars -- A Mysterious Gun-barrel -- An Alarm -- Stony Ammunition -- The Man with the Gun -- The Jew's opinion of him -- Sunrise -- A Walk -- The White Hill -- A Fatal Field -- Waking up in the Suburbs -- Early Breakfasts -- Imperial and Royal Tobacco -- Milk-folk -- The Gate of Prague -- A Snappish Sentry -- The Soldiers -- Into the City -- Picturesque Features and crowding Associations -- The Kleinseite -- The Bridge -- Palaces -- The Altstadt -- Remarkable Streets -- The Teinkirche -- The Neustadt -- The Three Hotels. The landlord came in a few minutes afterwards, and, to encourage me to tell him all he wished to know about myself, declared himself a German. That he should ever have been so stupid as to tempt fortune at Neu Straschitz was a mistake haunting and vexing him continually. A living was not to be got in such a miserable village, and among such miserable people, and he meant to migrate as soon as he could find some one more stupid than himself to take the inn off his hands. I had seen two or three German names in the street, and asked him if they were of long standing. "Not very." And he went on to say that the Stock-Bohemians, as the Czechs are called, are perpetually encroached on, pressed within narrower limits by the German element. Though a good deal was said about Czechish vigour and intellectuality, some folk thought that the language would at no distant day cease to be spoken. As for the character of the Czechs, there was scarcely a German who did not believe them to be sly, false, double-faced. And what says the proverb?--Dirt is the offspring of Lying and Idleness. For his part, he knew the Czechs were dirty, but he didn't quite know whether, in other respects, they were worse than their neighbours. Any way, he rather liked the thought of removing from among them. After all this, mine host thought he had a fair claim on me for a sight of an English gold coin, and answers to all his questions concerning England. I was doing my best to satisfy him, when the _Kellnerinn_ called my attention to a _Herr_ who was going to start with his _Wagen_ in the course of the evening for Prague; and she suggested, very disinterestedly as it seemed to me, that the opportunity was too good to be lost. _Wagen_ is as comprehensive a word as our "conveyance:" the _Herr_ looked like a man who might be going to Prague in a carriage, so, as he promised plenty of room, and asked no more than a florin for the twenty miles, I accepted his offer. Having yet business to settle, he went out, and promised to call for me at nine o'clock. He had no sooner left the room, than the landlord said, "He is a Jew; but you need not be afraid of him. He is a very honest fellow, and comes here often." I saw no reason to be afraid, and when the Jew came back at the appointed hour was ready to accompany him. He led the way to a back street, where we waited in front of one of the low, undemonstrative houses. Presently the big gate swung back, and out came the _Wagen_--one of the four-wheeled basket wagons, drawn by a single horse pulling awkwardly at one side of the heavy pole. I had imagined something a little better than that; however, as the wagon was half full of new hay, with a comfortable back-cushion of clover, I scrambled in on one side while the Jew did the same on the other, and the driver, a Czech, perched himself uncomfortably on a bar in front. The wagon was just wide enough for two; and, what with the elastic sides and soft hay, there was no painful jolting. The west shone gloriously with the golden arch of sunset as we drove out of the village and entered on a bad road winding across the open fields; and Twilight came on so softly that you might have fancied Day was lingering to lend her his palest rays. The Jew was disposed to talk, and betrayed no little curiosity on the subject of travelling. Was it not very irksome to be away from home? was it not very expensive? and how much money did one need to carry? was there no danger? and so forth. But what interested him most was the question as to the money: he returned to it again and again. Next, he had much to ask concerning London--the sort of business transacted in the great city--the rate of profit--in short, he put me through a whole social and commercial catechism, from which he drew a conclusion that London would not be an undesirable place of residence. So it went on, interrupted only by his saying a few words now and then to the driver in Czechish, until my turn came, and I opened my questioning about Prague. The Jew, however, was readier in asking questions than in answering; indeed, he was stingy in reply, as if words were worth a florin the dozen. As the stars brightened the night became cold, and set me shivering. The Jew brought two cloaks out of a bag, and, wrapped in one of these, I lay on my back looking up at the sky, thinking of home-scenes and home-friends as my eye wandered from one bright spot to another; and solemn was the impression made on me by the sight of the glorious handiwork. "For the bright firmament Shoots forth no flame So silent, but is eloquent In speaking the Creator's name." I could not fail to note that astronomers have reason for telling us that meteoric phenomena are more common on any night than would be believed by those not accustomed to observe the heavens, for I saw twelve shooting-stars within two hours. As we went on, the lights in the public-houses became fewer, and ere long disappeared, and the silence was only disturbed by the fitful barking of dogs in the distance, and the slow noise of the wheels. Our horse dropped into a walk, and the driver off to sleep, and I was still gazing at the stars when I heard footsteps near the side of the wagon. Turning my eyes, without rising, I saw the top of a gun-barrel about two yards off, apparently resting on some one's shoulder. The sound of the footsteps woke the driver, who immediately began to quicken the horse's pace, but very cautiously, as if to avoid suspicion. The Jew seemed uneasy, and muttered a word or two in a low tone; the whip was used, the horse broke into a trot, but the gun-barrel was not left behind; I could still see it in the same place, keeping pace with the wagon. What did it mean? One time I fancied that perhaps the hay on which I lay so innocently was but a disguise for something contraband, whereof a cunning gendarme had gotten scent. Then I remembered the landlord's desire to see a gold coin, and the Jew's curiosity as to the amount and quality of a traveller's money, and a faint suspicion of having fallen into a trap did occur to me. Meanwhile the horse trotted in earnest; the gun-barrel was left in the rear; then the whip was plied vigorously; the Jew spoke energetically; the driver jumped from his perch, picked up two big stones, threw them into the wagon, and drove quickly on again. "There is one for you, and one for me," said the Jew to me, in a loud whisper. "What do you mean?" I asked. "The stones," he replied; "one for you, and one for me, if we are attacked." "Attacked or not, we are three to one, and one of the three is an Englishman." The Jew did not answer, for the footsteps were again heard approaching at a run, and soon the gun-barrel appeared once more abreast of the wagon. The driver kept the horse up to his speed, the Jew fumbled about with his feet for the big stones, and the chase--if such it could be called--continued for about ten minutes. All at once the gun-barrel darted from the road-side towards the wagon. I immediately sat up, and found myself face to face, and but a few inches apart, with the bearer of the weapon--a wild-looking fellow, wearing a slouched cap and hunting-jacket. A faint exclamation of surprise escaped him, and, whether it was that he saw two persons in the wagon, besides the driver, or that we did not look worth his trouble, I know not, but he gradually dropped behind, and we lost sight of the gun-barrel. A minute passed. "Now," said the Jew, "we are rid of him." But scarcely had he spoken, than a shrill whistle sounded afar through the silence of the night, followed after a short interval by a whistle at a distance from the road. "Quick! quick!" was now the word to the driver. "He is calling his comrades: they will be down upon us. Quick! quick!" The Czech seemed well inclined to obey; the pace was quickened into a gallop, and, in about a quarter-hour, we came to a village, where, stopping in front of the inn, he filled the rack with clover from the wagon, and gave the horse to feed. The place with its littery appendages looked unked, lying half in deep shadow; the door was fast, and not a light shone from the windows, cheating my hope of a cup of coffee. The Jew now sat up, talked for awhile vehemently with the driver, then said, turning to me, "We have had an escape. That fellow meant nothing good--nothing good--nothing good. A real bad fellow!" "Was he a robber?" "Perhaps worse. He meant nothing good. We are well out of it. I hope we shall not see him again." We did not; and by-and-by, as we went on again, and I lay looking up at the stars, they seemed to grow dim, then twinkle strangely, and at last they disappeared. It may be that I slept, for when next I looked at the sky it was flecked by streams of rosy tints, the fields were covered with dew as a veil, and, by the timid chirping of birds, and other signs, the eye might note the preparations for lifting the veil at the approach of the sun. My sheltering cloak, my hair and eyebrows, were thickly covered with dew, cold as the brightening dawn. The Jew, similarly bepearled, lay sleeping soundly, the Czech nodded on his perch, and the horse, taking advantage of the slumber, was moving only at a sober walk. It was not yet five when I alighted about three miles from Prague, to get warm by walking the remaining distance. The Jew took his florin with much demonstration of thanks, horse and driver roused up, and the wagon was soon out of sight. A few minutes brought me to the _Weissenberg_--White Hill--a battle-field not less fatal than famous. The road is bordered by ample rows of trees; woods thick with foliage clothe the neighbouring hollows and acclivities, and on the left, sloping gently upwards, with here and there a break, rises the hill. Here, then, was the scene of which I had often read, where Frederick of the Palatinate, who had married a princess of England, daughter of James I., lost the crown of Bohemia. Not long had he worn it--indeed, some of his contemporaries called him the Winter King--when he was forced to flee, with his wife and children, among them the infant Rupert, who afterwards won renown as chief of the Cavaliers in England. Treachery, as late researches show, aided the combined forces of Ferdinand of Austria and Maximilian of Bavaria, and from that day Bohemia ceased to be an independent monarchy, and became a province of the Austrian Empire, a loss yet mourned by many, who join in the poet's lament: "Ach Gott! die Weissenberger Schlacht Erreicht wohl Ostrolenka's Trauer, Und die darauf erfolgt die Racht, Hat trübere als Sibiriens Schauer." Terrible, indeed, was the _night_ that followed! And when one reads of Ferdinand's faithlessness and cruelty, his murderous vengeance on the chiefest of the conquered people, the wonder is not that Bohemia should have revolted, but that she did not reconquer her birthright. Thoughts of the past came crowding through my mind as I paced across the ground, and presently pursued my walk. I was approaching a city remarkable in itself, and in its historical associations, but for the moment my attention was drawn to immediate objects. As I went on down the now continuous descent, the tops of towers and spires came into view in the distance below, and on either hand appeared indications that a metropolis was not far off. Early folk were opening the booths, shops, and public-houses, which, scattered among the trees, presented ere long an unbroken line on both sides of the road. Cooling drinks were set out on tables, and many a shutter invited the passer-by to _Beer_ and _Brandy_, in various phrase. Now stalls covered with cherries and currants alternate with piles of bread, hard-boiled eggs, cheese, and smoked sausages; and working people stop to eat their earliest breakfast. Every few yards sits a woman with a basket of fresh, tempting _Semmel_--fancy bread, as we should call it--most of the little loaves thickly sprinkled with poppy-seeds, dear to the native palate. And here and there stands what looks like a roomy sentry-box, painted yellow, and adorned with the Austrian blazon--an _Imperial and Royal Booth for the sale of Tobacco_. Already the road is alive with vehicles, for from every lane and byepath speed dog-carts, or little wagons on two wheels, or large wagons on four wheels, all laden with tin cans of milk for the city. How the dogs pant, and the horses snort! for the driver, and his or her two or three companions, keep the animals at full speed, sparing neither lash nor voice. Long before they come into sight you can hear their shrill chatter, mingled with merry laughter, and, as they burst into view, a shout from all the others adds excitement to the race, and away they go, each trying to be first. Half a mile farther, and I overtake many of them at the turn of the road, where the women are sitting on the bank, putting on stockings and shoes. Some remount the wagons; others walk quietly onwards, showing a neat ankle and clean white leg to the morning sun. Now the city wall frowns towards you, and, once round the turn, there is the gate--_Reichsthor_--a few soldiers hanging about, and many persons passing to and fro, while the curious towers of the Strahow monastery, where Rupert was born, peer above trees and vine-slopes on the right. I passed through the gloomy arch unchallenged by any of the guards, and had got some distance down the steep street, when a man made me aware that shouts in the rear were intended for me. I turned: a soldier, who had come a few yards from the cavern-like gate, was making very peremptory use of his voice, and, as soon as I saw him, he beckoned with angry gestures. I retraced my steps, but at too slow a pace to satisfy the Imperial functionary, for he turned again and again, each time with the same impatient gesture. No sooner did I come within earshot, than he cried, snappishly, "Why did you not give me your passport?" "For two reasons," I answered, with a laugh; "this is my first visit to Prague, and I have not yet learnt your regulations; and secondly, why did you let me go by without asking me for it?" The lounging group of soldiers laughed as this was spoken, and my questioner having led the way to his darksome den, built at the elbow of the arch so as to command both approaches, took my passport and gave me the official receipt without further parley. As I emerged again into the sunshine, one of the soldiers said, "Do you know what? When any one goes away into the city without stopping at the guard-house, he must always come back to the gate where he entered, and give up his passport." I thanked him for his information, and took my way once more down the street. It was just six o'clock: all the shops were open; working people thronged the footways; heavy teams toiled slowly up the hill towards the gate; the milk-folk hurried down with noisy clatter, while men wearing glazed hats and a canvas uniform swept the streets. Signs of early rising everywhere. The peculiar features of the city multiply as you advance. High on the left, its cathedral tower springing above the rest, appears the Hradschin--an imposing mass of building in the factory style of architecture, stretching, as one might guess, for half a mile along the bold eminence, commanding the country for miles around. You can count four hundred windows. There, as every one knows, the Thirty Years' War began, by certain angry Bohemian nobles pitching two Imperial commissioners and their secretary out of one of the windows. Little did the haughty ejectors think of the consequences of their exploit--that before thirty years were over, 30,000 villages and more than a million men would be destroyed by war! Being very hungry, I was fain to drink a draught of milk and eat one of the poppy-seeded loaves at the door of one of the little shops, looking round all the while on curious gables, panelled fronts, ancient gateways, more numerous as we descend. Lower down, we are in the oldest part of the city, among the palaces of the great nobles whose names figure in history--Kollowrat, Lobkowitz, Wallenstein, and others. Massive edifices, whereby your eye and steps are alike arrested. And on every side are narrow lanes and courts, some nothing but a steep stair, and these, winding in and out, increase the charm of the ornamented architecture, and produce wonderful bits of perspective. Such effects of light and shade, and glorious touches of colour! Then a church crowded with carvings; old women sitting on the steps, young women and matrons going in to the early mass, of which, as the doors swing to and fro, you hear the loud notes of the organ. Then a square, and tall obelisk, and arcaded houses; and turning a corner there rises the bridge tower, strikingly picturesque. As my eye caught sight of its graceful roof and slender finials, I could not repress an exclamation of surprise and pleasure. Then through the narrow arch, and we are on the ancient bridge, looking down on the broad stream of the Moldau, flowing with noisy rush through the sixteen arches built 600 years ago; at houses, palaces, and churches rising one above another in the _Kleinseite_ through which we have just passed, and in the _Altstadt_ on the opposite side; at the mosaic pavement; at the gigantic statues which terminate every pier, noteworthy saints from the Bohemian calendar, chiefest among them St. John Nepomuk, who with his crescentic belt of five large ruby stars might be taken for another Orion. In no city that I have yet seen have I felt so much pleasure, or such varied emotions, as during my walk into Prague. Then we pass under the equally picturesque bridge tower of the _Altstadt_, and enter narrow streets lined with good shops, and full of bustle; and after many puzzling ins and outs, we emerge into the spacious area of the Ring--a lively scene, people crossing in all directions, or sauntering under the arcades; here and there sentries pacing up and down, and small parties of soldiers, in gay uniforms, marching away to beat of drum. And above the farther houses there shoot up the two towers of the _Teinkirche_--one of the most famous churches in Prague--which were built by George Podiebrad. The church itself is screened by the houses; but, whenever you see those graceful towers, you recognise the site of the edifice which was one of the strongholds of Hussite preachers, and where Tycho Brahe lies buried. More narrow streets; across the end of a market-place, and passing under the arch of the ancient Powder Tower, we enter the broad streets of the _Neustadt_. The Bohemian professor at Würzburg had recommended me to lodge at the _Blaue Stern_, so to the _Blue Star_ I went, and asked for a room. "Quite full," said the _Kellner_, at the same time surveying me inquisitively from head to foot. Two doors off was another hotel, where the answer, accompanied by a similar inquisition, was, "Nothing empty." A third replied, "Perhaps, to-morrow." I began to fancy that my not having been in bed all night--boots still dusty, and a few stalks of hay clinging to my coat--might have something to do with these denials. However, hotels are thickly grouped in this quarter of the city, and not many yards farther the _Schwarzes Ross_, in the _Kolowrat-strasse_, gave me quarters as comfortable as could be wished. CHAPTER XI. The Hausknecht -- A Place to Lose Yourself -- Street-Phenomena -- Book-shops -- Glass-wares -- Cavernous Beer-houses -- Signs -- Czechish Names -- Ugly Women -- Swarms of Soldiers -- A Scene on the Bridge -- A Drateñik -- The Ugly Passport Clerk -- The Suspension-bridge -- The Islands -- The Slopes of the Laurenzberg -- View over Prague -- Schools, Palaces, and Poverty -- The Rookery -- The Hradschin -- The Courts -- The Cathedral -- The Great Tomb -- The Silver Shrine -- Relics -- A Kissed Portrait -- St. Wenzel's Chapel -- Big Sigmund -- The Loretto Platz -- The Old Towers -- The Hill-top and Hill-foot. I had not been many minutes in my room when the _Hausknecht_--the German boots--brought me a printed form, in which, besides the inevitable particulars, I had to state the probable duration of my stay in Prague. For three days' residence the police authorities charge nothing, but if you enter on a fourth day you must pay two florins for a permit to reside. I escaped the tax by not having more than three days to spare. The day was all before me, and I made haste to "go lose myself, And wander up and down and view the city." Losing one's-self is not difficult in Prague--easier, indeed, than in any city I have yet visited; for the _Altstadt_ so abounds in queer nooks and corners, narrow streets and lanes all crooked and angular, running hither and thither in such unexpected directions, or coming to a sudden stop, as completely to puzzle a stranger. Even my organ of locality well-nigh failed me in the intricate maze. Among all these zigzags you discover the leading thoroughfares only by the busy appearance, the continuous stream of citizens going and coming, straggling all across the narrow roadway, now darting aside to escape a passing carriage, or slowly giving place to a long lumbering dray that rolls past with deafening rumble, the horses clattering on shoes with tall calkins that put you in mind of pattens. Here, too, are the best shops, displaying attractive wares behind coarse and uneven panes. The booksellers' windows exhibit a good variety of standard books, of maps and engravings, denoting the existence of a wholesome love of literature; very different from what is to be seen in the southern states of the empire. Some shops display none but Czechish books, and if you glance over the title-pages, you will discover that topography of their own country, and descriptions of the beautiful city _Praha_--as they call Prague--are favourite subjects with the Czechs. There is no uniformity. Next door to a cabinet-maker's, whose large-paned window exhibits a variety of tasteful furniture, you will see a cavern-like grocery without any window, and the wares all in seeming confusion. Next, beyond, is a shop resplendent with Bohemian glass, elegant forms in ruby, gold, and azure, each one a triumph of art and industry. England is a generous customer for these fragile articles, as may be seen any day in some of the best shops in London. Then comes a sullen-looking front, with grim grated window, showing no wares, and looking as if it had not cared about customers since the days of King George Podiebrad. Then a smirking coffee-house, with muslin curtains and touches of gilding. A little farther, and there is a great open arch, running far to the rear--a beer-house--the space between the street and the bar filled with tables bearing brown loaves cut in quarters, _Semmel_, and corpulent sausages. Turn which way you will, you find an endless diversity. "_Glück auf!_" writes up a little trader. "_Here are best Coals. Radnitzer Coal._" People who live on the upper floors hang a small wooden cruciform sign from their windows by a long string, low enough to catch the eye and strike the heads of those walking beneath; and on these dangling crosses, when they are not spinning round in the wind, you may read that a Dentist, Shoemaker, or Teacher aloft in his garret would be happy to supply your wants on reasonable terms. Judging from the number of queer-looking names over the doors, Prague must be the head-quarters of the Czechs, and yet one meets comparatively few examples of the fine intellectual brow and handsome features of which I had seen noble specimens in the villages. Most of the faces struck me as of a very common cast; and as for the gentle sex, never have I seen so many ugly women as in Prague. Those of the working classes are very dowdies, not to say slatterns, in many cases; and the rows of market-women squatting by their baskets resemble so many feather-beds tied round the middle, in a flimsy cotton dress, and crowned by a red or yellow kerchief pinned under the chin. Even among the graceful and gaily-dressed ladies I saw but very few pretty faces. Perhaps I expected too much, or it might be, as I was told, that all the pretty women had gone away to the watering-places! Surprising to a stranger is the number of soldiers, sauntering among the other pedestrians, in uniforms blue, green, gray, or white; or marching in short files at a brisk pace behind a corporal. Not once did I take a walk in Prague without seeing three or four of these little troops stepping out towards one or other quarter of the compass. What is there to be kept down that can need such an imposing force? At all events, it heightens the picturesque effect of the streets. Stand for half an hour on the bridge and you will see, while noting that scarcely any besides boys and priests take off their hats to St. John of the five stars, how great is the proportion which the army and the church bear to the rest of the inhabitants. At times the black and the coloured uniforms appear to have the best of it. All besides may be divided into two classes--the well-dressed and the shabby--for nothing appears between the two. There are, however, but few of those very miserable objects such as haunt the streets of large towns in England. Now a man hurries past carrying a tall circular basket filled with piled-up dinners in round dishes; now another wheeling bundles of coloured glass rods; now another with a barrow-load of bread, and many a slice will you see sold for a noonday repast. Then comes a troop of lawless-looking street-musicians; then beggars grinding out squeaky music from tinkered organs; then a girl carrying a coffin, painted black and yellow, under her arm, which bears a cross on its gabled lid. And now and then, among all these, your eye is arrested by a singular, wild-looking figure, whom you will think the strangest of all. He has lank black hair hanging to his shoulders from under a fluffy, round-crowned, broad-brimmed hat--of the fashion still worn by a few old Quakers in out-of-the-way places. He disdains a shirt, and wears a tight jacket and hosen of whitey-brown serge. He goes barefoot, walking with long, stealthy strides, looking, so you guess, furtively around. On his shoulder he carries a coil of fine iron wire, and in his hand a broken red pan or stone pitcher. Wild, however, and out of place as he looks, he is only a Wallachian plying his honest calling. He is a _Drateñik_--or _Drahtbinder_ (Wirebinder), as the Germans call it--going about to mend broken pans and pitchers by binding the fractures together with wire; a task which he performs with neatness and dexterity. I went to the _Polizeidirection_ to reclaim my passport. About a dozen persons were waiting. To some who looked poor and timid the clerk spoke roughly, assuming beforehand a something "not regular." One might fancy that his ungracious occupation had told upon his looks, for he was the ugliest man I ever saw, and, unlike the women, who gave themselves airs in the streets, he seemed to be aware of Nature's unkindness towards him. When my turn came, he asked, "Where are you going?" "To the _Riesengebirge_." "_So!_ But we can't sign a passport for the mountains. You must tell us the name of some town." "Make it Landeshut, if you will; or any frontier town in Silesia." "Can't do that. We must have some town on this side the mountains." "I don't yet know which of three routes I shall take. Say some town nearest to the mountains. Does it make any difference?" "_Schön!_ You can come back here when your mind is made up." And with this rejoinder, Ugly turned away to consider a timid lady's request for permission to go a journey of fifteen miles. There was time enough, so I strolled away to the suspension-bridge--_Kaiser Franzens Brücke_--which, more than 1400 feet long, crosses the Moldau and the _Schützen Insel_, a short distance above the stone bridge. The view midway will make you linger. On the right bank, _Franzens-quai_, stretching from one bridge to the other, forms a spacious esplanade, in the centre of which, surrounded by gardens, rises the monument erected by the Estates of Bohemia to the honour of Francis I. Beyond and on either side the towers and palaces are seen in a new aspect, differently grouped from our early morning view. Those of the _Kleinseite_, backed by the leafy slopes of the _Laurenzberg_, while immediately beneath your eye rests on the green sward and shady groves of three or four islands. The river rushing past to the dam makes a lively ripple, imparting a sense of coolness enjoyed by the visitors who throng the islands during the summer season. The _Sophien Insel_, named after the Archduchess Sophie, the emperor's mother, with its pleasure-grounds, dancing-floors, orchestras, refreshment-rooms, and baths, is the chief resort, especially on Sundays. The large ball-room was the scene of noisy public meetings in '48; the Sclave Congress was held there, followed by a Sclavonic costume ball. These islands are a pleasing feature in the view, and, with their shady bowers and the noise of the water mingling with strains of music, contrast agreeably with the matter-of-fact of the city. The _Schützen Insel_ is resorted to by rifle companies, and you may hear a brisk succession of shots from the practice that appears to be always going on. During the outbreak of June, 1848, the floor of the bridge was taken up, and the passage across completely interrupted for some weeks by the military. And it was to Prince Windischgratz's demonstrations during the same month that the inhabitants were indebted for an extension of their handsome quay. An old water-tower, and sundry ricketty wooden mills that stood at the end of the stone bridge, were set on fire by a shell from the prince's artillery, and the space cleared by the flames was taken into the newly-formed area. Passing from the bridge through the _Aujezder Thor_, you come to the pleasant slopes and gardens of the _Laurenzberg_, a hill that overlooks the city and country around. Winding paths agreeably shaded lead upwards, until you are stopped on the summit by massive fortifications; the great "Bread-wall," or "Hunger-wall"--for it is known by both names--which Karl IV. built all round the city five hundred years ago to give work to the citizens in a season of distress. From a buttress which projects clear of the trees, that cover all the hill-side with a broad mass of foliage, you have a wide prospect. Greater part of the city from the Jews' quarter to the Wissehrad lies beneath the eye as a panorama. The Moldau--breaking from between low hills, with here and there a _Kahn_ floating, or a long, narrow raft drifting to the gap in the dam--flows past in a grand curve between towers and palaces, wretched hovels and stately churches, and onwards round the hills below to join the Elbe. The islands are open as a map, and you see the puffs of smoke from the rifles on the _Schützen Insel_. It is a striking but disappointing view, for notwithstanding the ancient gables and various towers that shoot aloft, the city has somewhat the aspect of a collection of factories, so monotonous are the long lines of white, many-windowed wall, bearing their long slopes of bright red roof. Street after street stretching away, all of the same character, and scattering on the outskirts into a tame country, cruelly disappoint your expectations of the picturesque. Here and there are large patches of green among houses, and rows of poplars shooting up. Yet, after all, there is something in the view which makes you linger. In some of its architectural forms and features it partly realizes your mental pictures of the East, and your imagination flies back to the remote days when the Czechs left their far-away home towards the sunrise, and wandered on till their leader, looking down from the hills on the valley of the Moldau, determined that here should be the seat of his empire. I sat for an hour on the rough coping of the buttress looking down on the scene, while the leaves rustled cheerfully in a cooling breeze, and the sunbeams glistened and flashed from a thousand windows, and gilded weathercocks, and the lively ripples of the muddy stream. If inclined for a quiet stroll, you may wander among the trees and rocks on the crown of the hill, or visit the church of St. Lawrence, from whom the hill takes its name. From the highest summit, in very favourable weather, it is possible to see _St. Georgsberg_, near Raudnitz, and peaks of the _Mittelgebirge_ and _Riesengebirge_--mountains on the Saxon and Silesian frontier. On coming down from the hill, I prowled for awhile about the _Kleinseite_, where, besides the antiquities and rare old palaces, you are struck by the number of schools and institutions for education. Strange groupings indeed in this quarter of the city! Palaces as rich in treasures of art and literature as in historical associations, side by side with miserable hovels and narrow, crooked streets, where poverty lurks in rags and squalor. Little bits of architecture, that are a delight to look on, catch your eye in unexpected places, peering out in some instances from among things that delight not the eye. But the schools are close by, and innovation creeps slowly on though few perceive it. You may mount to the Hradschin by some of these byeways, where you will see how many windows have inner gratings, and how here and there the prison-like aspect is relieved by plants and flowers that screen the iron bars; and by these signs may you know where honest poverty dwells. In the _Hohler Weg_ and _Neue Welt_ you have specimens of the Rookery of Prague. At length, after many ins and outs and bits of steep stair, you find yourself on the terrace in front of the Hradschin, and you will be tempted to pause on the steps and survey the view across the house-tops. The mass of buildings here is large enough, and shelters inhabitants enough to form a town. It includes a royal fortress--the archbishop's residence--a nunnery and monastery, a penal reformatory, besides lodgings of the official functionaries. A considerable portion of the huge pile is now used as barracks for infantry and cavalry, and things military abound within its courts. There are sentries on duty, and soldiers off duty lounging about the guard-house, while their muskets lean against a rail painted black and yellow. But you pass unchallenged, and while crossing the quadrangle may see the word SALVE in large characters in the pavement. In the third court you come to the cathedral, an unfinished edifice dedicated to St. Vitus, still showing marks of Hussite mischief, and of the Great Frederick's cannon-balls. It covers the site of a church built in 930 in honour of the same saint by Wenzel the Holy--he who planted the first vineyard in Bohemia, on the eastern slope of the Hradschin hill. The foundation-stone of the present structure was laid by Charles IV., during the lifetime of his father John; and although the building went on for forty-two years, it was never completed. In 1673 Leopold I. made an attempt to finish it according to the original plan; but he did nothing more than build a few columns in different styles, which stood in the fore-court until 1842, when they were pulled down, as the beginning of a new effort for completing the structure. Stimulated by the zeal of Canon Pesina, a Prague Cathedral Building Union was founded, with Count Francis Thun for chief; and preparations were made for the work, and for raising a million florins to pay for it, when the troubles of 1848--fatal to so many hopes and noble purposes--put a stop to the proceedings. If the outside disappoint you by sundry additions and contradictory ornaments, which spoil the pure effect of the original Gothic, you will find cause enough for astonishment inside. At the western end of the nave stands the richly-carved mausoleum, erected in 1589 by Kollin of Nuremberg, at the cost of Rudolf II. It is of Carrara marble, and in magnitude and beauty of sculpture may well vie with Maximilian's tomb in the Court Church at Innsbruck. Royal dust is plentiful in the vault beneath, for therein lie, besides Rudolf himself, Charles IV. and his four wives, Wenzel IV., Ladislaus Posthumus, George von Podiebrad, Ferdinand I. and his wife Anna, Maximilian II., and the Archduchess Maria Amelia, who was buried in 1804. From admiring the manifold carvings, which show the touch of the true artist, you will perhaps look next at the tomb of St. John Nepomuk, on the right near the altar. Surely no other saint, or living bishop, even in this age of testimonials, ever had such a service of plate presented to him as that! It is a small mountain of silver. On high, silver angels hold a canopy over a silver shrine, which, borne aloft by angels, life size, contains the martyr's body in a crystal coffin, set off by shining statues, glittering ornaments, bas-reliefs, and tall candlesticks, all alike made of silver. If current testimony may be relied on, there are nearly two tons of the precious metal therein dedicated to the holy Johannes. No wonder that you see the saint's statue on so many bridges in Bohemia, and even for a few miles beyond the frontiers. The curiosities of the church are more than can be examined in a brief visit. There are twelve chapels ranged about the nave--the last fitted up as an oratory for the Imperial family. In one of them you may see the foot of a candlestick, which, according to tradition, was one of those made for Solomon's Temple, from whence it was conveyed to Rome, and afterwards to Milan, where Wladislaus I. seized the precious relic, and he brought it to Prague. At all events, the workmanship shows signs of great antiquity. And near the western end there hangs a "true image"--a head of Christ, the holy placid features showing a trace of sadness, the eyes looking at you with an earnest, though pitying expression. It is a remarkable specimen of early art; much venerated by the devout, who would soon obliterate it by kisses were it not protected by glass. A moustachioed man came up, and, taking off his hat, pressed his lips upon the sacred mouth while I was still looking at the painting. Frescoes bordered by gems adorn the walls of St. Wenzel's chapel; and here are preserved the saint's helmet and coat of mail, a brass ring to which he clung when he fell murdered by his brother's hand, and other relics. Here also the Bohemian regalia are kept in rigorous security under seven locks: St. Wenzel's sword is among them, and with this, after his coronation, the monarch creates knights of St. Wenzel's order. The verger gives you his cut-and-dry description; but, as he may omit to tell you a little bit of history, it would be well to remember that in this chapel the Archduke Ferdinand was chosen King of Bohemia in 1526, whereby the kingdom has ever since belonged to the house of Hapsburg. Further concerning statues, lamps, tombs, and paintings, and the organ, with its 2831 pipes, the treasure-chamber, where, among other things, are sixteen leaves of St. Mark's Gospel in the hand of the Evangelist--the rest said to be at Venice--the trinary chapel, and the seven bells in the tower, among which "Big Sigmund" weighs thirteen tons, and the octagon chapel, and the pulpit in the fore-court, may be read in guide-books. Go next to the _Loretto Platz_, and look at the palace which once belonged to Count Czernin, and at the Loretto chapel--an exact copy of the far-famed Holy House in Popedom. Or perhaps you will take more interest in remembering that in a house near this chapel Tycho Brahe made the observations from which he and Kepler produced the _Tabulæ Rudolphinæ_--a work well known to astronomers; perpetuating in its title the name of their munificent patron. As old engravings testify, the Hradschin once looked picturesque when its twenty-two high-roofed towers were all standing. Of these only four remain; and in the Black Tower you may see fearsome specimens of mediæval dungeons. If those grim walls could speak, the fate would be known of some of Bohemia's worthiest, who, within a year after the battle of the White Hill, suddenly disappeared from among their families and friends, and were never more heard of. You may end your exploration by crossing to the opposite side of the hill, and taking a view of the great range of buildings from the _Staubbrücke_, which crosses the _Hirschgraben_, and commands a prospect over the north-western environs of the city, and of the contrasts between the palace on the hill-top and the frowsy haunts at the foot. CHAPTER XII. The Tandelmarkt -- Old Men and Boys at Rag Fair -- Jews in Prague -- The Judenstadt -- Schools and Synagogues -- Remote Antiquity -- Ducal Victims -- Jewish Bravery -- Removal of Boundary Wires. From the Hradschin, with its imperial associations, living and dead, to an Old Clothes Market, is a change over which you may laugh or lament, according to your mood. If you have seen Rag Fair in London, you can form a weak notion of what I saw in the _Tandelmarkt_ at Prague on my return to the _Altstadt_ from the palatial hill. For, besides the difference of architecture, which heightens the general effect, foreign Jews, whether in consequence of shabbier clothes or dirtier habits, have always a more picturesque appearance than their brethren in England. What a gabble! accompanied by gesticulations so violent that you would think the traders were coming to blows. Old men bent by age, of venerable aspect and beard patriarchal, stand chaffering as eagerly for cast-off garments as if they had Methuselah's years before them in which to enjoy the proceeds. "It is naught," argues the buyer; and the graybeards whine over their frippery, and turn it about, and display it to the best advantage, and reply in a tone that extorts at last the reluctant coins from the customer's pocket. Look at the boys! How they ply nimbly hither and thither, picking up stray bargains: adepts already in the craft of their grandsires. Look at their fathers! No whining in their traffic: but hard altercation, in which patient subterfuge proves more than a match for vehemence. Here and there, however, a cunning Czech, by sharp practice with his tongue, and a timely exhibition of his money, succeeds in carrying off a blouse or hosen on his own terms; and the Hebrew, while pouching the coins, sends after him low mutterings, which forebode ill to the next customer. As you wander among the stalls, and push between the busy groups, noting how much of the merchandise appears utterly worthless, you will find cause enough for laughter and for lamentation. According to the census of 1850, the number of Jews in Prague is about nine thousand, of whom nearly eight thousand are natives. Besides these, there are many resident in some of the neighbouring villages; but the number is less now than formerly. Daily perambulations of the city with the old, familiar, dingy bag on shoulder, in quest of "clo," and the trade of the _Tandelmarkt_, are the resources to which most betake themselves. The place assigned for their residence, known as the _Judenstadt_ (altered of late years to _Josefstadt_), is a few acres of the _Altstadt_, lying between the _Grosser Ring_ and the river: by far the most densely populated part of Prague. It is crowded with houses: traversed by narrow streets not remarkable for cleanliness, and has altogether an uninviting aspect. Your sanitary reformer would here find a strong case of overcrowding: two or three families in one room, and a dozen, and, in some instances, more than twenty owners for a single house. The number of faces of men, women, and children at the windows, and the many comers and goers along the devious ways and in and out of the darksome passages, leave you no reason to doubt the fact. And in these miserable tenements dwell some of the chiefest men of the community--men appointed to places of trust and honour, who sit in the old Jewish council-house, and officiate in the synagogue. But even here the ancient complexion and character are changing. New and commodious houses built in a few places are a standing reproach to the rest of the neighbourhood, and to the partisans of dirt. And while prying about you will hear the voices of children in sundry schools, where the teachers talk and work as if they were in earnest. Nor is spiritual culture neglected, for you will see some four or five synagogues, and a _Temple of the Reformed Israelitish God's-worship_. In Prague, the manners and customs of the Jews are said to retain more of their primeval characteristics than in any other place out of Asia; the chief cause being the bitter persecutions to which the race, as everywhere else, were subjected. Some accounts assign their first settlement here to the fabulous ages of history, and make it seventy-two years earlier than that of the Czechs, or in the year 462 of the present era. And the tradition runs, that on the ground now occupied by the _Judenstadt_, and on part of the _Kleinseite_, the first buildings were erected. In the early days the Jews lived in whatever quarter of the city suited them best; but, in consequence of many corrupt practices, Duke Spitignew II. banished them all from Bohemia in 1059. Eight years later, Duke Wratislaw II., moved to pity, granted leave for their return, though not on compassionate conditions. Besides doubling their former amount of yearly tax, they were to pay an annual fine of two hundred silver marks, to purchase twelve houses near the river in the _Kleinseite_ for their residence, and to wear a yellow cloak as a distinguishing garment. Their number was never to exceed one thousand; but in a few years it had grown to five thousand, whereupon the surplus were banished; and, to check smuggling among the remainder, they were removed from the _Kleinseite_ to their present quarters. The yellow cloak having fallen into disuse, Ferdinand II. revived the regulation with sharp severity in 1561. From the Second Ferdinand (in 1627) the Jews obtained important privileges, in consideration of a yearly gift of forty thousand gulden: liberty to choose their own magistrates and judges, to establish schools, and multiply in numbers without limit. In 1648 they took a valiant part in the defence of Prague against the Swedes, and the banner won by their bravery is still preserved in the old synagogue. In 1745 they were once more banished, but had permission to return the following year. Joseph II. placed them on an equality with other citizens, and allowed them to buy land, and dress as they pleased. In the good old times, whenever any turbulence occurred in Prague, it was always made the excuse for plundering or persecution of the Jews; and in this particular their history accords with that of their brethren in all other cities of Europe. They did but barely escape in the memorable '48. Their town once had nine gates, which were shut at nightfall; and subsequently, wires stretched across the streets, marked the boundary between Hebrew and Christian: these were removed in the year last mentioned, and have not since been replaced. CHAPTER XIII. The Jewish Sabbath -- The Old Synagogue -- Traditions concerning it -- The Gloomy Interior -- The Priests -- The Worshippers and the Worship -- The Talkers -- The Book of the Law -- The Rabbi -- The Startling Gun -- A Birth at Vienna -- Departed Glory. My second day in Prague being a Saturday, I went to see the Jews at worship in their synagogue. The _Josefstadt_ was comparatively quiet; but few persons in the streets, and those dressed in their best; the boys carrying prayer-books, and the men with what looked like an apron rolled up under their arm. On entering the synagogue, I found that the apron was a white scarf (_talis_), with blue striped ends, which each man put on across his shoulders before taking his seat. But first, a few words about the building itself. On approaching it along the narrow _Beleles-gasse_, you are struck at once by its appearance of great antiquity--visibly the most ancient among buildings decrepit with age. It is sunk low in the ground, down a flight of some ten or twelve steps, as if the first builders, worshipping in fear, had sought concealment. Of architectural display there is none. Walls blackened by the dust and storms of centuries, with two or three narrow-pointed windows, looking so much more like a bride-well than a temple of the living God, that not till I had seen the steady procession of men and boys to the door could I believe it to be really the synagogue. No wonder that its foundation is referred back to days ere Europe had a history. One tradition says, that no sooner was the Temple at Jerusalem destroyed, than angels immediately set about building this synagogue on the bank of the Moldau. According to another, certain people digging in a hill which once covered the spot, came upon a portion of a wall, and, continuing their excavation, cleared away the hill, and found a synagogue built already to their hands. And, as before mentioned, there is the tradition which dates it seventy-two years earlier than the arrival of the Czechs. It was a remarkable sight that met my eyes as I descended into the building. If the outside conveys an impression of extreme age, much more does the inside. The deep-sunk floor, the dim light, the walls and ceiling as black as age and smoke can make them, are the features of a dungeon rather than of a place of thanksgiving. The height, owing to the low level of the floor, appears to be greater than the length, and, looking up, you can easily believe that cleansing has never been attempted since the first prayer was offered. Old-fashioned brass chandeliers hang from the ceiling, and here and there a brazen shield on the wall. The _almemmar_, or rostrum, occupies the centre of the floor, and in the narrow space on either side and at one end are the seats and stools for the congregation, with numerous reading-stands crowded between. These stands have a shabby, makeshift look, no two being alike in height or pattern, as if each man had constructed his own. Hence a general look of disorder as well as of dinginess. The doorkeeper requested me to keep my cap on; and I saw that all present sat covered. Even the officiating priests wore their hats, and in dress and appearance were in no way different from the hearers. Every man had his _talis_ on, and was continually fidgetting and shrugging to keep it on his shoulders, and his Hebrew prayer-book from slipping off the stand. The priests walked restlessly up and down the _almemmar_, but whether they were praying or exhorting I could not tell, for all sounded alike to me--a glib and noisy gabble. And all the while the men on the darksome seats under the gallery kept up a murmur of talk in twos and threes, in a way that sounded very much like a discussion of questions left unfinished on the _Tandelmarkt_. Now and then a "Hush! Hush!" was impatiently ejaculated by one of the devout who sat near with eyes fixed on his book; but the back seats took no heed, and, though in the temple, ceased not to talk of merchandise. Very few were they who maintained a fixed attention; a ceaseless rocking of the body to and fro, as, with half-closed eyes, they went through their recitations, distinguished them from the rest. Now and then the priests paused in their uneasy walk, drew together, and had a little bit of quiet talk among themselves, seasoned by a pinch of snuff all round. Then they separated, and one, pacing from side to side, gave repeated utterance to a short phrase, in a wailing, sing-song tone, while the others went behind the veil, and presently came forth again, one bearing what at first sight looked like a thick double roll surmounted by two silver candlesticks. It was the Book of the Law; and no sooner did the bearers appear than a cry of joy was set up by the whole assembly. A shabby wrapper and the silver ornaments were taken off, and then the sacred parchment was seen wound on two cylinders, so that as a portion was read from one it might be rolled up on the other. The scroll was laid on the table with some formal ceremony, and the priests, unrolling a part, began to read, but in such a snuffling tone and careless manner as indicated but little reverence. After each one had snuffled in turn, the old rabbi, wearing a long gown and fur cap, was assisted on to the _almemmar_, and, bending low over the scroll, he read a few passages solemnly and impressively, though in a voice weak and tremulous with age: audible to all, for the talkers under the gallery held their peace. His task finished, he was led back to his seat: the roll was wound up, and, with the wrapper and ornaments replaced, was returned to its place behind the veil. The monotonous murmur was renewed: one of the priests commenced a recitation, but he had scarcely opened his lips than the report of a cannon boomed loudly from the Hradschin, startling all within hearing, and making the streets echo again. "Ah!" cried the talkers, "that's for the empress. Is it prince or princess this time?" The priest halted in his recitation as the thunderous shocks succeeded--one, two, three, and so on, up to twenty-five--when, after another pause of listening expectation, "Ah!" cried the talkers again, "'tis only a princess;" and they took up once more the thread of their murmur. Then followed more gabbling and snuffling from the rostrum; and, as I listened and looked round from face to face, noting the expression, something like sadness came over me; for were not those slovenly utterances a hopeless lamentation over the glory that had departed? Was it clean gone for ever? Did no trace remain of that solemn and gorgeous ceremonial, instituted when the glory came down and filled the house in the presence of the king, and of the Levites and singers "arrayed in white linen, having cymbals, and psalteries, and harps;" and of the people? When the king prayed, "Now therefore arise, O Lord God, into Thy resting-place, Thou, and the ark of Thy strength: let Thy priests, O Lord God, be clothed with salvation, and let Thy saints rejoice in goodness." An hour passed, and still the recitations and murmur went on. I had seen enough, and thought, as I stepped forth into the daylight, that the cry, "His blood be on us, and on our children!" had been fearfully avenged. CHAPTER XIV. The Alte Friedhof -- A Stride into the Past -- The Old Tombs -- Vegetation and Death -- Haunted Graves -- Ancient Epitaph -- Rabbi Löw -- His Scholars -- Symbols of the Tribes -- The Infant's Coffin -- The Playground -- From Death to Life. The old synagogue and old Jewish burial-ground (_Alte Friedhof_) are but a few yards apart. On my way from one to the other I passed sundry groups, chiefly women, talking with animation about the interesting event signalized from the Hradschin. And more than one expressed a wish that a prince and not a princess had been born to the House of Hapsburg. The angle of a wall, overtopped within by foliage, marks the site of the burial-ground. The doorkeeper unlocked the gate, and, passing in, I felt as if, instead of merely stepping across a threshold, a long stride had been taken back into the Past. The living world is all shut out, and you are alone with the dead--the dead of long ago. _Beth Chaim_, or the House of Life, is the name in Hebrew; but there is no life save that of gnarly elder-trees, gooseberry-bushes, and creeping weeds that struggle up into a wild maze from among the overcrowded tombs and gravestones. The stones, thick and massive, are so incredibly numerous, that they are wedged and jammed together in most extraordinary confusion. Some lean on one side; some forwards, some backwards, and many would fall outright were they not propped up by others standing near. Hence all sorts of curious holes and corners, in which grow choking weeds and coarse grass, hiding the inscriptions, and producing a strange impression of neglect and decay. With this impression comes a sense of the mysterious, heightened by the nature of the ground, which, irregular in outline and very uneven, confines your view to but a small portion at once. Though the enclosure takes up about one-twelfth of the _Judenstadt_, your idea becomes one of a succession of patches of tangled foliage drooping over mouldering tombs. Now the path mounts a broken slope; now dips into a narrow way between the walls of encroaching streets and houses; now enters a widening area, where the fragrant blossoms and branches of the elders droop gracefully over the ancient memorials--or comes to an end in some out-of-the-way nook. Thus you are led on pace by pace, always wondering what will appear at the next turn. And there is something mysterious in the associations of the place. Tales are told of ghosts that haunt the tombs; unhappy spirits bringing terror and doom to the living, or goblins playing gruesome tricks. And again in its antiquity: anticipating by a hundred years the building of Prague, as proved by a date on a tombstone. No wonder that the ground is heaped high, and full of ups and downs! Thousands of Jews have turned to dust beneath the surface. Something, however, must be deducted from its antiquity. If, as careful investigation gives reason to believe, the old synagogue was built in the thirteenth century, we may suppose the opening of the burial-ground to have taken place within the same period. The notion arose from misreading the stone, whereby one thousand was subtracted from the date. The inscriptions are in the Hebrew character, and, for the most part, deeply cut. The stone in question is inscribed: _In Elul (August) the 22nd day: lamentation ... was the ornament of our head snatched away. Sara, whose memory stands in high praise, wife of Joseph Katz, died. She was modest; and reached out her hand to the poor. Her speech was mild and agreeable, without shame or vice. Her desire was after the house of the Creator. She gave herself up to whatsoever is holy, and continued steadfast. She trained up her children according to the law of God._ One of the most remarkable tombs is that of Rabbi Löw (or Lyon)--a handsome temple-formed sarcophagus, distinguished by a sculptured lion, and the beauty of its workmanship. The rabbi himself was a remarkable man in his day; eminent for nobleness of mind and great learning; and it is recorded of him that he was honoured by a visit from the Emperor Rudolf II. in his own house. He lies here in good company; for on both sides of his tomb extends a row of gravestones, thirty-three in number, marking the resting-place of thirty-three of his favourite scholars; and not far off a taller stone shows the grave of his son-in-law. On many of the slabs you will see curious devices deeply cut, and figures resembling a coat-of-arms. These indicate the tribe, or family or name of the deceased. There lies one of the house of Aaron, as shown by the two hands; a pitcher denotes the tribe of Levi; and Israel is signified by a bunch of grapes. The name _Fischeles_ or _Karpeles_ is symbolised by a fish; Lyon by the royal quadruped; and _Hahn_ by a domestic fowl; and so forth. All these and many other noteworthy objects will you see while wandering about this mortal wilderness; and the doorkeeper, if in the mood, will tell you many a legend, and point out the tombs of Simeon the Just, and Anna Schmiedes, concerning whom something might be said should the humour serve. No burials have been permitted since the reign of Joseph II.; and from that date, except that the path is clean, the whole place appears to have been abandoned to the influence of the seasons. Many of the stones are broken; here and there the slabs of the tombs are crumbled away, leaving large holes through which you may look and see green stains and patches of dark mould. In a dry spot at the foot of a wall I saw a bundle nailed up within rough staves of fir; it was a still-born infant in its coffin; and perhaps for such a little hole may still be dug in the ancient ground. Notwithstanding that the backs of a few old houses look down on the graves, they fit in with the scene, and your impression of deep loneliness remains undisturbed, except in one corner, where the surface is clear and level. It is used at times as a playground for the children, whose voices you hear from the open windows of the schoolroom that encloses one side. Painter and poet might alike make a picture of childhood, full of mirth and happiness, playing in the sunshine; and in the background, all too near, the haunted tombs of their forefathers. A few years ago the Jews, finding their quarter much too small for commodious or decent habitation, petitioned the authorities for leave to widen their boundaries, and in answer were recommended to destroy their venerable _Friedhof_, and build houses upon the ground. No willingness has yet been manifested to adopt the recommendation. As on entering, so on departing, are you aware of a strange impression; from the field of death, from silence and solitude, you pass at once to the noisy life of the streets, and the spell wrought upon you by the brief saunter where sits "The Shadow cloak'd from head to foot Who keeps the keys of all the creeds," is broken with a shock. And by-and-by, when in the noisier thoroughfares, vague fancies will come to you of having had a sepulchral dream. CHAPTER XV. The Kolowratstrasse -- Picolomini's Palace -- The Museum -- Geological Affluence -- Early Czechish Bibles -- Rare Old Manuscripts -- Letters of Huss and Ziska -- Tabor Hill -- Portraits -- Hussite Weapons -- Antiques -- Doubtful Hussites in the Market-place -- The Glückliche Entbindung -- A Te Deum -- Two Evening Visits -- Bohemian Hospitality -- The Gaslit Beer-house. The _Kolowratstrasse_ is one of the finest streets in Prague. It is broad, straight, and well paved; contains the best hotels, the most elegant coffee-houses, the handsomest shops, and a palace or two. It was always known as the _Graben_; for here once flowed the ditch separating the _Alt_ and _Neustadt_, and _Graben_ it still remains, the folkname prevailing over that of the Imperial minister after whom it was named some twenty years ago. One of the palaces formerly belonged to Wallenstein's opponent, Count Octavio Picolomini; the other now contains the Bohemian Museum, which, an honour to the city, is a praiseworthy example of the intellectual movement among the natives. The Museum Company, formed in 1818, to collect works of art, natural productions of the country, curiosities, and antiquities, appointed a committee in 1830 to promote a scientific cultivation of the Czechish language and literature, and to create a section of archæology and natural history. Under the designation _Matice ceská_ (Bohemian Mother), a fund was established and vigorously maintained, out of which the desired objects were accomplished; particularly as regards the literature. To call Palacky into activity--a historian of whom Bohemia is justly proud--was no trifling achievement. Up to 1847 the collections were kept in the Sternberg Palace at the Hradschin; but in that year they were removed to their present more convenient and accessible quarters. Later in the day I went to the Museum: I wished to see with what sort of carnal weapons the Hussites had gained so many victories over their fellow-countrymen. First you enter the department of geology and mineralogy, the richest and most important of the whole collection. The specimens are well arranged, and among them you may see minerals and fossils which give a special interest to the geology of Bohemia. Concerning these fossils, the late Dean of Westminster says, in his _Bridgewater Treatise_: "The finest example of vegetable remains I have ever witnessed, is that of the coal mines of Bohemia. The most elaborate imitations of living foliage upon the painted ceilings of Italian palaces bear no comparison with the beauteous profusion of extinct vegetable forms with which the galleries of these instructive coal-mines are overhung. The roof is covered as with a canopy of gorgeous tapestry, enriched with festoons of most graceful foliage, flung in wild, irregular profusion over every portion of its surface. The effect is heightened by the contrast of the coal-black colour of these vegetables with the light groundwork of the rock to which they are attached. The spectator feels himself transported, as if by enchantment, into the forests of another world; he beholds trees of forms and characters now unknown upon the surface of the earth, presented to his senses almost in the beauty and vigour of their primeval life; their scaly stems and bending branches, with their delicate apparatus of foliage, are all spread before him, little impaired by the lapse of countless ages, and bearing faithful records of extinct systems of vegetation, which began and terminated in times of which these relics are the infallible historians." If you care but little for botany and zoology, with plants, fossils, and creatures from before the Flood, the attendant will lead you at once to the archæological department, and uncover the glass-cases containing rare old manuscripts. Among them are a poem of the ninth century about Libussa, a somewhat mythical Queen of Bohemia, from whom Palacky has cleared away the fable; the _Niebelungenlied_ in Czechish; a Latin Lexicon with Bohemian gloss, date 1102; seven editions of the Bible in Czechish, all translated before Luther's, show how the Bohemians profited by the reading of Wycliffe's books which were sent to them from England; and a remarkable hymn-book, written at the cost of different guilds, each of whom ornamented their portion with exquisite paintings in miniature; specimens of the earliest representations of musical notes; and the first book printed in Bohemia, _Historia Trojanska_, 1468. You will look with interest at the letters by Huss, and the challenge which he hung up on the gate of the University, declaring his religious opinions, and his readiness to maintain them by argument against all comers: Latin documents, in a stiff, formal hand. Equally stiff is a letter written by Ziska, dated from the Hussite camp at Tabor; but there is a world of suggestion in those hard characters. That rusty leaf sets your memory recalling the events of five hundred years ago: the journey of Huss to face the wicked Council, and martyrdom at Constance, under a safe-conduct granted by the Emperor Sigismund, requiring all men to let the valiant preacher go and come, and tarry freely and unharmed;--the furious outbreak of the Protestants at the accursed condemnation of their teacher to the flames;--their sanguinary battles, and fiery zeal, and avowed determination to root out their enemies, whereby for eighteen years the land was laid waste with fire and sword, and the name of Hussite became a very terror:--and their redoubtable leader, Ziska the one-eyed, standing out from among them in bold relief, a captain most resolute and skilful, the instrument of righteous vengeance upon the execrable Sigismund; who, though he lost that single flashing eye of his, yet never lost a battle, nor the confidence of his followers. We see him amidst his rough and ready fighting men in the camp, on the heights to which, in the pride of their hearts, they gave a name from Scripture; and where they quenched their thirst in the water of Jordan, exulting, "What hill is like to Tabor hill in beauty and in fame?" From the letter you turn to look at a portrait of the warrior. It is a miserable painting, very much in the signboard style, yet you can mark the breadth of shoulder beneath the gleaming corslet, the oval face, aquiline nose, large bright eye, and lofty forehead, shaded by thick, black, curling hair, and picture to yourself a proper hero. There is another and a better portrait in the Strahow monastery, and by noting the best points of each you will improve your idea, though perhaps not to full satisfaction. The attendant, moreover, will call your attention to a portrait of Huss, whose features express but little of the intellectual qualities and the steadfastness by which he was characterized. A few paces farther, and there are the weapons with which the Hussites fought and won battles in the name of the Lord. Flails, shields, and firelocks of a very primitive construction. And such flails! The short swinging arm is hung by strong iron staples to the end of a stout staff, about six feet in length, and is braced up in iron bands, which bristle with projecting points, the better to make an impression on an enemy's skull. Truly a formidable weapon! Try the weight. The arm must be strong that would wield it with effect; and mighty must have been the motive that sent whole ranks armed therewith rushing to the onslaught as to a threshing-floor. Looking at these things, you realize somewhat of the shock and storm of the events in which they were employed. Besides the stacks of weapons, the room contains in glass-cases round the walls numerous ivory carvings of singular merit and rarity, and other curiosities with which you may divert your thoughts. And in a neighbouring apartment there hangs an engraved view of Prague as it stood a few years before the fatal day of the White Hill, well worth inspection. The Hradschin and Wyssehrad, at opposite ends of the city, look really picturesque crowned with numerous towers. Walking afterwards through the markets, and seeing the dowdies sitting by their stalls under large red umbrellas, and the number of shabby men loitering about, I wondered if they were indeed the descendants of those who, under Ziska's command, had wielded the flails. However, in 1848, the men proved that the fighting-blood still circulated in their veins. The authorities had lost no time, and on every corner placards were posted, announcing in loyal terms the "_glückliche Entbindung_" of the empress; but though crowds stopped to read, I saw no manifestations of joy. Great was the concourse, too, in the _Grosser Ring_, where a _Te Deum_ was offered with pomp and ceremony in presence of the city militia: close ranks of green uniforms interposed between priests and people. The letter of the Würzburg professor opened for me the hospitable doors of a pleasant house on a hill-slope beyond the city. Father, mother, and the two daughters joined in showing kindness to one who came to them with credentials from son and brother. The young ladies spoke English fluently, and while we sauntered between odorous flower-beds and under drooping cherry-trees, they took pleasure in exercising their acquirement. Then we had tea in a pretty garden-house, all open to the breeze and quivering sunbeams and rustling vespers of the leaves. A Bohemian tea--cutlets, potatoes, salad, cheese, and butter, bottled beer, _Toleranz_, and the fragrant beverage itself poured from a real teapot. _Toleranz_ was something new to me: it is a pungent, relishing preparation, in which horseradish is a principal ingredient, and at your first taste you will think it appropriately named. It was while chatting over this delightful repast that I was told all the pretty women had left Prague for the watering-places. Two at least were left behind. The conversation of the Czechish servants who waited on us, heard at a short distance, sounded like a screechy quarrel; and on my remarking that I had noticed similar discords during a ramble in Wales, one of the young ladies replied, in explanation, "Our friends often think we are scolding our servants, when all the while we are speaking to them in a quiet, natural tone. Your ear is deceived. There is nothing but good-humour among them." It was late each evening when I walked back across the fields to the city; just the hour, as it seemed, when the great arched beer-vaults in the _Rossmarkt_ were in their prime. There was something striking in the long gas-lit vista viewed from the entrance, every table crowded with tipplers, dimly seen through tobacco-smoke; waiters flitting to and fro with tankards; the damsel at the sausage-stall trying to serve a dozen customers at once; while high above the rumbling, rattling din, sounded the liveliest strains of music. I sat for awhile on an upturned barrel watching the scene. Here workmen and labourers, and those of lower degree, the proletaires of Prague, were enjoying their evening--making merry after the toils of the day. These were the folk who would fight whether or no in 1848; whose bullet-marks are yet to be seen on many of the houses. Either the beer was strong, or they drank too deeply, for many staggered into the street, and went reeling homewards; conquered more hopelessly by their own hand than by Prince Windischgratz's bombardment. CHAPTER XVI. Sunday Morning in Prague -- Gay Dresses -- Pleasure-seeking Citizens -- Service in the Hradschin Cathedral -- Prayers and Pranks -- Fun in the Organ-loft -- Glorious Music -- A Spell broken -- Priests and their Robes -- Osculations -- A Flaunting Procession -- An Old Topographer's Raptures -- The Schwarzes Ross -- Flight from Prague -- Lobositz -- Lost in a Swamp -- A Storm -- Up the Milleschauer -- After Dark -- The Summit -- Mossy Quarters -- The Host's Story. The streets were alive before the lazy hours approached on Sunday morning. Here and there the walls covered with handbills, red, blue, green, and yellow, presented a gay appearance. The Summer Theatre, in which you sit under the open sky and see plays acted by daylight, was open--_Jubelfest!_ ran the announcements: _Health and Prosperity to the House of Hapsburg_. Music and a ball on the Sophia Island--music on the Shooting Island--music at _Hraba's_ Railway Garden--music at the _Pstrossischer_ Garden--music at Podol--music at Wrssowitz--music at the _Fliedermühle_--a military band at Bubencz--in short, music everywhere. And everywhere "_Pilsen beer, in Ice_." And so the streets were alive at an early hour with citizens going to an early mass that longer time might remain for pleasure, or starting for some of the neighbouring villages, or for the White Hill, where a saint's festival was to be celebrated--all dressed in their Sunday clothes, and looking as if they had made up their minds for a holiday. The morning is bright and the breeze playful, and the sober colours having all chosen to stay at home, there are none but the gayest tints abroad in the sunshine. Pink appears to be the favourite. Pink skirts, pink scarfs, pink ribands, pink bonnets; but no lack of all besides, and more than make up the rainbow. Not a work-a-day dowdy to be seen. Here come father, mother, and half a dozen children, the sire carrying a basket, and one or two of the youngsters a havresack, all eager with anticipated pleasure. Here half a dozen sweethearts going to make a day of it. Here a troop of lads nimble of foot, noisy in talk, and proud of their orange and purple decorations in waistcoat and necktie, while now and then a _Fiaker_ trots past laden with a party who prefer a holiday on wheels; and always there come the eternal soldiers, rank and file, or tramping at liberty. The spectacle is animated in the spacious area of the _Grosser Ring_, where the gay throngs mingle and traverse from all directions; entering or leaving the _Teinkirche_, where service is performed in the Czechish tongue. Striking is the contrast between them and a group of sunburnt haymakers squatted in the centre, men and women in rustic garments, gazing wonderingly around from amid many-coloured bundles, piles of scythes, and scattered sickles. They look half amazed at finding themselves in a great city, and as if fearful of ever finding their way out again. All this and much more did I see while on my way to hear the service in the metropolitan church on the Hradschin. The steep stair-flights which, avoiding the narrow, crooked streets, lead directly up to the palace, were all a-blaze with shining silks and satins, the wearers of which were mounting slowly upwards on dainty feet in the full glare of the hot sun. Already nearly every seat in the church was filled, and as the service went on the aisles were thronged, the women on one side, the men on the other, though with exceptions. The opportunity was favourable for seeing something of the better class of citizens, for of such the congregation appeared chiefly to be. Again I looked for pretty faces along the variegated aisle, and though there was no dearth of grace and animation, I was forced to believe that the beauties had not yet returned from the watering-places. Meanwhile the service went on; three robed priests officiated at the altar, the little bell tinkled, the host was lifted up, every head was bowed, and incense floated around the cross, while the boys set to feed the censers pulled one another's hair on the sly, and played pranks in their corner. I crept quietly up to the organ-loft when the time for music was near, and saw seedy men take their post at the bellows, and in the front seat of the gallery a row of young men and boys tuning up their fiddles. The great height prevents the twang and scrape from being heard below, and affords, moreover, opportunity for fun, for as they screw and twang they reach across and tweak ears, or prod a cheek with the end of a bow, or bend down and tell some joke which well-nigh chokes them with suppressed laughter. At last the signal is given, and as if by one impulse they strike into a symphony, in which the organ joins at times with a sonorous note. I crept down to the aisle to listen. The harmonies, at first timid, grew gradually in volume and power, till at length they swelled into glorious music that filled the whole place, and held every ear entranced. Then the organ broke out with an exulting response, and all the echoes of the lofty roof and soaring arches repeated the sound, until there came a sudden pause, in which you presently heard the faintest of tones, like a plaintive wail, from the stringed instruments. Then strength came once more to the trembling notes, and again the strains which angels might have stayed to hearken to floated through the air. Where could such music come from? I felt constrained to go up again to the organ-loft. There sat the same boys carrying on their sports during the rests and pauses--the same seedy men at the bellows--earthly hands producing heavenly music which held the listeners spell-bound. For me the illusion was over, and I felt curious to see what sort of men they were who in stately robes had gone through the ceremonial at the altar. Surely they would exhibit signs of spiritual life. I placed myself close to the door by which they would have to pass to the sacristy, and observed them as they withdrew. They were men of sluggish feature, lit by no gleam of spirituality, and walked as if released from a wearisome duty. And the robes which seemed rich and costly in the distance, showed faded and shabby near at hand--unworthy attire for priests of a church that boasts a silver shrine. Here, thought I, we must not look for the Beauty of Holiness. Many a kiss did I see imprinted on the sacred picture of Christ as the congregation departed; and then, as they streamed forth and dispersed in groups in many directions, I hastened forwards to catch the view of the many-coloured procession as it descended the great stair, flaunting in the sun between the gray old houses. While crossing the ancient bridge for the last time, my impression was strengthened that from thence you get the best view of Prague--a view which conceals the damaging features seen from the hills. "Oh! it is a ravishing prospect!" exclaims an old topographer; "your eye knows not whether it shall repose on the mighty colossus of stone which appears to bid defiance to the broad Moldau stream, or whether it shall pasture on that romantic slope, from the summit of which the huge imperial fortress, and the highly-famed cathedral church, together with many palaces and churches, shine down upon you. Surprise, wonder, and bewilderment overcome him who for the first time turns hither and thither to look at the sight." If your raptures rise not to this lofty pitch, you will hardly fail, even at your last view, to sympathise with the antiquated narrator's enthusiasm. The _Schwarzes Ross_ has a worthy reputation, and deserves it, for the entertainment is good, the plenishing clean, and the beer excellent. Dinner is served, after the Carlsbad manner, at twenty or more small tables--an arrangement which favours conversation; and after the soup has disappeared, the host enters with his best coat on--a plump man, whose appearance does honour to his own viands--and he makes a solemn bow to every table. I had the happiness of catching his eye on three successive days. It was not by enchantment--though it seemed like it--but by steam, that, four hours later, having lost the way, I was trudging about in swampy meadows at the foot of the _Milleschauer_. My mind was confused with pictures of Prague, with glimpses of the journey, and, unawares, I had wandered from the track. At two miles from the city our train was entered by two soldiers, one of whom stood guard at the carriage door, while the other went from passenger to passenger demanding passports, that he might inspect the visas. This done, the _Podiebrad_--so the locomotive was named--hurried us past fruitful slopes, orchards, and poppy-fields; past bends of the river; between hills that come together in one place and form a glen, where tunnels pierce the projecting crags; across a broad plain, till at Raudnitz we saw the Elbe, and peaks and ridges in the distance, indicating our approach to the mountains. At Theresienstadt we stopped twenty minutes for the passing of the train from Dresden, there being but a single line of rails, beguiling the time by looking at the rafts on the river, and the broken line of hills. Then to Lobositz, where the folk appeared less wise than at Prague, for the flour-mill and chicory-factory were rattling and roaring in full work. I left my knapsack at the _Gasthof zum Fürst Schwarzenberg_, and started for the _Milleschauer_. Half an hour along the Töplitz road, bordered all the way by fruit-trees, and you come in sight of the mountain--a huge cone, two thousand seven hundred feet in height, one of the highest points of the _Mittelgebirge_. At the village of Wellemin you leave the road for an obscure track across uneven slopes; and here it was that, keeping too faithfully to the left, according to direction, I lost the way. I was trying back, when a fierce squall swept up from the west. The sky grew dark, the rain fell in torrents, the mountain disappeared shrouded in gloom, and from the woods that clothe its sides from base to cope, tormented by the cold wind, there came a roar as of the sea in a storm. I took shelter behind a thick-stemmed willow, and waited; but twilight crept on before the growl ceased. There were paths enough to choose from, too many, in fact, as there commonly are round the base of minor hills; however, by dint of making way upwards, through dripping copse and plashy glades, I came at last to a single track, completely hidden by the woods. It was part of a great spiral winding round the cone--now rising, now falling, but reaching always a higher elevation. The clouds still hung overhead; the sun had set, and under the trees I could see but a few yards ahead. I stopped at times to listen for some companionable sound, but heard only the heavy drip-drip from the leaves, and melancholy sighs among the branches. A little higher, and there, in the beds of moss around the roots, gleamed the tiny lanterns of swarms of glowworms--more than ever I had seen before--and the way felt less lonely with the pale green rays in view. Moreover, holding my watch near one of the tiny lanterns, it was possible to see the hour--half-past nine. Farther on I came to a little wagon standing in a gap, and then the path became exceedingly steep and hard to climb, and scarcely discernible in the increasing darkness. Steeper and steeper grew the path, and with it the prospect of a bivouac, when the trees thinned away, and a dark barrier stopped further advance. It was a rough stone wall, along which I felt my way, and coming presently to a door, kicked upon it vigorously. A dog barked. Footsteps approached, and a man's voice asked: "Who's there?" "An Englishman." "Good," replied the voice; and forthwith the bolt was shot, and the door opened. A man, whom I could scarcely see in the darkness, took my arm and led me down a short steep path, and round a corner into a small gloomy room, dimly lighted by a single lamp. Presently he brought another lamp, and then I saw that the seeming gloom was an effect of colour only, for the low apartment was lined with dark brown moss; a settee, thickly covered with the same production, ran from end to end along each side; and overhead you saw, resting on unhewn rafters, the rough underside of a mossy roof. To find such a sylvan retreat, comfortably warmed, too, by a stove, was an agreeable surprise. I stretched myself on the soft and springy couch, while the man went away to get my supper. He soon returned with a savoury cutlet and a pitcher of good beer; and while I enjoyed the cheer with an appetite sharpened by exercise, he sat down to talk. The place, he said, belonged to him. It comprised a group of huts, all built of poles and moss, in which he had often lodged sixty guests at once. There were a few sitting-rooms and many bedrooms, a garden, a dancing-floor, an oratory, a poultry-yard, pigeon-house, and other benevolent contrivances, as I should be able to see in the morning. The wagon which I had seen at the foot of the steep belonged to him. It was hard work for a horse to drag it up heavily laden; but harder still to carry the stores from thence on one's shoulder to the summit. He came up in May with his first load, and set to work to repair roofs, walls, and fences, to renew the moss and dry the beds, and then stayed till October busy with guests, who arrived by tens or twenties every day, chiefly from Töplitz, about ten miles distant. The voices we heard from time to time in an adjoining hut were those of a party of four, who had come from the fashionable spa to see the sun set, and had been disappointed by the storm. Perhaps sunrise would repay them. They and I were, as it happened, the only guests this night, so the host had time to talk without interruption. Supper over, he went before me with a lantern through the cold night wind to a hut some yards distant, where, with a friendly "_Gute Nacht_," he left me. What a snug little mossy chamber! At one end two beds--thick piles of moss with plenty of blankets, and sheets as clean as pure water and mountain breezes can make them. At the other, two washstands, a looking-glass, and little window. I had it all to myself, and was soon sound asleep. CHAPTER XVII. Morning on the Milleschauer -- The Brightening Landscape -- The Mossy Quarters by Daylight -- Delightful Down-hill Walk -- Lobositz again -- The Steam-boat -- Queer Passengers -- Sprightly Music -- Romantic Scenery -- Hills and Cliffs -- Schreckenstein -- How the Musicians paid their Fare -- Aussig -- The Spürlingstein -- Fairer Landscapes -- Elbe versus Rhine -- Tetschen -- German Faces -- Women-Waders -- The Schoolmaster -- Passport again -- Pretty Country -- Signs of Industry -- Peasants' Diet -- Markersdorf -- Rustic Cottages -- Gersdorf -- Meistersdorf -- School -- Trying the Scholars -- Good Results -- A Byeway -- Ulrichsthal. Sunrise! a bell rings loudly to waken the sleepers; and the host cries "_Frisch auf!_" at the door of the hut. I was up as the first rays from the great luminary streamed across the landscape. Not a cloud dimmed the sky, and it was a grand sight to see the ruddy light kindle on all the lower hill-tops, tremble on the tall clumps of forest, and creep down the slopes, till field after field caught the beams, and ponds glistened and windows twinkled. And anon the thin veil of mist was lifted from the valleys, and farms and villages rejoiced in the new-born day. Every moment the great panorama revealed more and more of its features, and bits of cliff, and glenlike hollows, ruined towers, and miles of road emerged from the obscure. And while the light strengthened, there stretched towards the west the mighty shadow of the mountain itself, eclipsing acres of the landscape, which lay dim between the streaming radiance rushing to an apex on either side. But the sun mounts apace, and the shadow grows shorter continually. The number of cone-like hills is remarkable, and here and there you see one of those circular, flat-topped elevations bristling with dark woods, which characterize much of Bohemian scenery along the Saxon frontier. While gazing on the singular forms, you may imagine them to be the crumbling remains of stupendous columns erected by giant hands in the old primeval ages. In the distance you see the Elbe, a long, pale stripe, resembling a narrow lake, and you wish there were more of it, for the want of water is a sensible defect in the view. The region is fruitful and well peopled: had it a few large lakes besides, your eye would roam over it with the greater pleasure. The expanse is wide. In very clear weather, so mine host assured me, you can see Prague, and _Schneekoppe_ in the _Riesengebirge_, each fifty miles distant. To enable you to get the view all round clear of the trees a circular wooden tower is built, from the platform of which you may gaze on far and near. Immediately beneath you look down into the walled enclosure, upon the huts, the flower-beds, the potato plot, the sheltering hazel copse, and all the ins and outs of the place. You see mossy arbours open to the south, and little nooks where you may recline at ease and contemplate different points of the view. I was glad after awhile to take refuge in one of these nooks, for the wind blew so strong and keen that my teeth chattered as I walked round the platform. However, there is steaming coffee ready to fortify you against the influences which mar the poetry of sunrise. The garden, sheltered by its wall and screen of hazel, teems with flowers, a pleasing sight as you go and come in your explorations. I surveyed the whole premises from the dairy to the dancing-floor; noted the inscriptions here and there with which the owner seeks to conciliate your good opinion; looked at his bazaar, where you may buy _Recollections of the Milleschauer_, and so round to the little altar under the bell. Here the inscription runs: Frisch auf! Zur Arbeit dran, Gott segne meine Plan: denn An Gottes Segen Ist Alles gelegen. Two hours passed. I took a farewell view under the broad sunlight, and then, having to meet a steamer at Lobositz, strode merrily down the hill. What a pleasant walk that was! Once below the summit, among the trees, and the temperature was that of a summer morning; and the woods looked glorious, fringed with light reflected from millions of raindrops--memorials of the former evening's storm, now become things of beauty. Beech, birch, and hazel, intermingled with larch and fir, robe the hill from base to cope, through which the path descends with continued windings; an ever-shifting aisle, as it seems, overarched by green leaves, among which you hear the gladsome chirp and warbling of birds. All the breaks and hollows which appeared so grim and gloomy the night before, the mouths of yawning caverns, now open as narrow glades or twinkling bowers, in which a thousand lights dart and quiver as the cheerful breeze sweeps through, caressing the leaves. Such a walk favours cheerful meditation, and prepares your heart for cloudy weather and dreary prospects; and in after days many a thought born within the wood flits back on the memory. It was like having been robbed of something to step out of the woods upon the rough grassy slopes at the foot of the hill, and presently to tramp along a hard, beaten road. However, there was the sight of the lofty cone rising in its forest vesture high into the sunlight for repayment; and the lively breeze ceased not to blow. The ill-favoured clerk at Prague had refused to accredit me beyond Lobositz, so here at nine o'clock I had to go to the _Bezirksamt_ for another visa. Again did I request that the name of some place at the foot of the mountains, or beyond the frontier, might be inserted; but no! I was going a trip down the Elbe, with intention to disembark at Tetschen, so for Tetschen the visa was made out, and the clerk, who was very polite, wished me a pleasant journey. I found a number of passengers waiting at the river side, reclining on the grass or strolling among the trees. Presently came a large flat boat and conveyed us all to an island, where, by the time we had assembled on the rude landing stage, the steamer _Germania_ arrived and took us on board; not without difficulty, for the deck was literally choked with queer-looking people and rubbishy baggage. What could such a company be travelling for? Wedged in among them sat a party of wandering musicians, men and women, with harps, guitars, fiddles, and flute: the space all too narrow for their movements. However, as soon as the vessel resumed her course down the rapid stream they began to play, and kept up a succession of airs that seemed to convert the exhilarating motion, the breeze and the sunshine into frolicsome music. I got a seat on the top of a heap of bundles, with clear outlook above the heads of the crowd. It was a delightful voyage, between scenes growing more and more romantic at every bend of the river. Now we shoot past scarped hills, split by narrow gullies dark with foliage, from whence little brooks leap forth to the light; now past sheltered coombs where rural homesteads nestle, and vines hang on the sunny slopes; now past variegated cliffs, all ochre and gray, that come near together, and compel the stream to swerve with boiling eddies and long trains of impatient ripples; now past fields and meadows where the retiring hills leave room for fruitful husbandry, and from far your eye catches the speck of colour--the red or blue petticoats of the women around the hay-wagons. And along the road which skirts the shore there go men and women, horses and vehicles, and there is always something strange to note in costume and appearance. And close by runs the railway, its course marked by the painted wicker balloons hanging aloft on the signal posts, and the bright colour of the jutting rocks through which the way is hewn, or by a train dashing past with echoing snort and tail of cloud. The hills crowd closer and higher at every bend. Here and there rises a cliff forming an imposing palisade of rock; then comes a wild mass of crags backed by woods that screen a little red-roofed chapel perched high aloft; then the tower of _Schreckenstein_ comes into view, crowning a tall, gray buttress, which gives a finishing touch to the picturesque. My attention was diverted from the scenery by a leaf of music held out by one of the musicians. Who could refuse a fee for such strains as theirs? Kreutzer after kreutzer, a few small silver coins, and two or three twopenny bank-notes were dropped into the receptacle, which was presently emptied into the ready hands of the fluteplayer. He counted, shook his head, and saying, "Not enough yet!" gave the signal for a fresh burst. Now came forth music singularly wild and inspiriting--the reserve, perhaps, for an emergency--and none within hearing could resist its influence. Had there been room, every one would surely have danced; as it was, eyes sparkled, heads wagged, and fingers snapped, keeping time with the measure. There seemed something magical about the leader, and I could not help fancying that her fiddle began to speak before the bow had touched the strings. They speak wisely who bid us go to Bohemia for music. The leaf went round once more, and not in vain; but the fluteplayer still shook his head, whereupon a song and a duet were sung; and then the flute, brought to a conclusion with his cares, went to the little crib by the paddle-box and bought tickets for the whole party. Then Aussig came into sight, and I soon ceased to wonder whither the queer-looking crowd were going. It was to Aussig fair. Bundle after bundle was pulled so rapidly from the heap on which I reclined that I was quickly brought down to the level of the deck, and a scramble and hubbub arose easier to be imagined than described. The musicians made haste to put the leathern covers on their instruments, and along with her fiddle I saw that the leader buckled up a spare stay-bone and a few miscellaneous articles of her toilet. The women carried the harps, and the men huge knapsacks, stuffed with their wives' gear as well as their own, and with a thick-soled boot staring out from either end. Once at the landing, a few minutes sufficed to clear the deck, and no sooner had the vagabonds departed than a boy came with a broom, and all was presently made clean, as behoved in a vessel bound to Dresden. Half an hour's stay gives you time to look at Aussig, to admire its pleasing environment, its busy boat-builders, and gondola-like pleasure-boats floating on the stream, and to commend the good quality of its beer. Among the passengers who came on board were a party of students, certain of them wearing gowns not larger than a jacket--which, as some say, betoken learning in proportion. Away we went again, and always with fairer landscapes to greet our eyes. Past great high-prowed barges, towed slowly against the current by horses; past small barges, towed still more slowly by a dozen or twenty men. Past the _Spürlingstein_, and bastion-like cliffs, and hollows, beyond which you catch sight of far-away peaks. Then a village of timbered houses, the fronts showing broad lines of chequer-work and quaint gables, and every house standing apart in its own garden, among hills hung with woods to the water's edge; and rocks peering out here and there from the shadow of the trees, shutting you in all round as in a lake. The sight of the varied features which open on you, increasing in beauty at every bend, will suggest frequent comparison. Here among the hills nature hems the Elbe in with loveliness, as if to prepare the great river for its long, dreary course from Dresden to the sea. You see not so many castles, but more variety than on the Rhine; more of untamed scenery, and less of monotonous vine-slopes; and perhaps you will incline to agree with those who hold that from Leitmeritz to Pirna the Elbe excels the far-famed stream that flows past Cologne. Beautiful is the view of Tetschen, backed by grand wooded hills; the river, spanned by a chain-bridge, making a sudden bend; the castle looking down on the stream from a forward cliff. Though topped by a spire, the castle will inevitably remind you of a factory; and you will be constrained to look away from it to the tunnelled cliff through which the railway passes, and the noisy stream that tumbles in on the opposite side. It had just struck one when I landed. The passport office was shut for two hours, that the functionaries might have time to dine--a praiseworthy arrangement, though trying at times to a traveller's patience. I dined at the _Golden Crown_, at one side of the great square, and regaled myself with a flask of _Melniker_--a right generous wine. The inn is the starting place for some twenty coaches and vans, and, looking round on the numerous guests as they went and came, it was easy to see you had left the Czechish for the German part of the population--oval faces for round ones. In the centre of the square stands a building, which, in appearance a pedestal for a big statue, is a little chapel in which mass is said twice a day. I spent a few minutes in looking at it, then strolled to the castle garden and the bridge, from whence I saw carts backed axle deep into the river to receive cotton bales from a barge, and women loading a boat wading out above their knees with heavy sacks on their shoulders. Then to the school--a sight that gave me real pleasure, so spacious is the building, so numerous are the scholars, so earnest the master in his work. His discourse was that of one who has found his true vocation: he was seldom cast down, and felt persuaded that it was a master's own fault if he had no joy in his scholars. After our few brief words I thought the inscription at the door yet more appropriate: Der Schule Saat reift für Zeit und Ewigkeit.[B] At three o'clock I sought out the passport clerk, and found him not a whit more willing to give a visa for the mountains, or a place over the border, than his fellows elsewhere. He admitted the argument that one of the pleasures of travel was an unrestricted choice or change of route, but "could not" do more; so I looked at my map, and chose Reichenberg as my next point of departure, and the official stamp and signature were forthwith applied. But the gentleman discovered an irregularity, and did not let me depart till it was rectified--that the leaves containing the visas and the passport were separate sheets. He fastened them together with a broad seal and a loop of black and yellow thread, and then wished me a pleasant journey. The wish was realized, for the route lies through a pretty country, the most populous and industrious part of Bohemia. It is heavy uphill work soon after leaving Tetschen, but the view from the top over the valley of the Elbe repays the labour, and rivals that from the _Milleschauer_. A little farther, and the prospect opens in the opposite direction, across a great wave, as it seems, of cones, ridges, scars, and rounded heights, sprinkled with spires and hamlets--a cheerful scene that invites you onwards. At every mile you see and hear more and more of the signs of industry. Men pass you wheeling barrows laden with coloured glass rods--material for beads and fragile toys, to be manufactured at home in their own little cottages, keeping up the olden practice. Now you hear the hiss and whiz of the polishing wheel; now the rattle of looms, and the croak of stocking-weavers. And at times comes a man pushing before him a great barrowful of bread--large, flat, brown loaves--on his way to supply the off hamlets which have no bakery. And now and then old women creep by, bending under a burden of firewood. Two whom I overtook told me they walked three miles twice a week to fetch a bundle of sticks from the forest; and when I asked if they ate meat or cheese, answered with a "_Gott bewahr!_ never. Nothing but bread and potatoes." At Markersdorf I left the highway for a cross-road, leading through a succession of hamlets, so close together that you can hardly tell where one begins and the other ends. Now the signs of labour multiply, and there is a ceaseless noise of the shuttle and polishing wheel. The little houses have a very rustic appearance, built of squared logs black with age, set off by stripes of white clay along all the joints, and a stripe of green paint around the windows. There is variety in their architecture: some imitate the Swiss style, with tall roofs and outside galleries; some exhibit dumpy gables and arched timbers along the lower story; and pretty they look in the midst of their poppy-strewn gardens and embowering orchards, watered by little brooks, which here and there set little mills a-clacking. Not a hamlet without its school; and you will see with pleasure how the importance of the school is recognised. Over the door of one at Gersdorf I read: Den Kleinen will die Schule frommen O laß sie alle, alle kommen.[C] At Meistersdorf, a furlong or two farther, on a little hill that overlooks miles of country, the school-house is one of the best buildings in the place. And here again a rhyming couplet, embodying a benevolent sentiment, crosses the lintel: Kommt hier zu mir ihr Kleinen, O kommt mit frommen Sinn Ich führ den Weg des Heiles euch zu dem Vater hin.[D] And the children really are taught. Scarcely a day passed that I did not stop boys and girls on the highway, and get them to talk about their school and what they learned. Not one did I meet above the age of eight who could not read and write, and do a little arithmetic, or recite the multiplication table, as I fully ascertained by sitting down on the bank and playing the schoolmaster--not a frowning one--myself. They answered readily, and wrote words on a scrap of paper, and seemed pleased to show off what they knew, and still more pleased at finding a kreutzer in their hand when the questions ended. In many of the schools the pupils may learn mathematics if they will, and drawing is taught in all. To this early acquaintance with the rules of art the Bohemian glass engravers are indebted for a resource that enables them to make the most of their skill and ingenuity. The school fees are from one penny to twopence a week. A short distance beyond the school I left the village road for a rough byeway across fields, and after a walk of five hours from Tetschen came to a row of wooden cottages, or farmsteads, as they might be called, each standing apart in its own ground, flanked by sheds, and fortified by a dungheap close to the door. Were it not for overhanging trees and garden plots they would wear a shabby look. Ulrichsthal was my destination; but here was no valley, only a slope. However, on inquiring at the last but one in the row of cottages, I found that I was really in Ulrichsthal, and at the very door I wanted. FOOTNOTES: [B] The school's seed ripens for time and eternity. [C] The school will profit the little ones, O! let them all, all come. [D] Come here to me ye little ones, oh, come with pious mind! I lead you on the way of salvation to the Father. CHAPTER XVIII. A Hospitable Reception -- A Rustic Household -- The Mother's Talk -- Pressing Invitations -- A Docile Visitor -- The Family Room -- Trophies of Industry -- Overheating -- A Walk in Ulrichsthal -- A Glass Polisher and his Family -- His Notions -- A Glass Engraver -- His Skill and Ingenuity -- His Earnings -- A Bohemian's Opinion on English Singing -- Military Service -- Beetle Pictures -- Glass-making in Bohemia -- An Englishman's Forget-me-Not -- The Dinner -- Dessert on the Hill -- An Hour with the Haymakers -- Magical Kreutzers -- An Evening at the Wirthshaus -- Singing and Poetry -- A Moonlight Walk -- The Lovers' Test. I once promised a Bohemian glass engraver, who showed me specimens of his skill under the murky sky of ugly Birmingham, that when the favourable time came I would find out his native place, and have a talk with his kinsfolk. The favourable time had come in all ways, for no sooner did I make myself known to the old man who was summoned to the door, than he took my hand and said, "Be welcome to my house." Suiting action to word, he led me into a large, low room, hot as an oven, where his wife and daughters and a sweetheart sat chatting away the dusk. At first they were somewhat shy; but when I brought out a little letter from the son in England, and the eldest daughter, having lit a candle, read it aloud, the mother, overjoyed at hearing news from "our Wilhelm," sprang up, gave me a kiss, and cried, "Only think, an Englishman is come to see us!" Here was an end to the shyness; and having shaken hands with all the lasses and the sweetheart, I became as one of the family. Of course I would stay all night; they could not think of letting me go to seek quarters at the public-house, unless, indeed, their own rustic entertainment would make me uncomfortable; and the entreaties were accompanied by preparations for supper. Who could resist such hearty hospitality? Not I; and forthwith an understanding prevailed that whatever pleased them best would please me best; excepting, that I should have leave to open one of the casements and sit close to it, for to me the temperature of the room was unbearable. Besides the heat from the stove, there was an odour of kine from the cowstall, which forms one half of the house, separated from the living room only by a passage. We had merry talk while I ate my supper of eggs, coffee, and bread and butter. "Our Wilhelm" was, however, the mother's favourite topic, and she returned to it again and again. She must tell me, too, of her other sons, one in America, another at Pesth; and how that one night they were all awoke by a loud knocking at the door, and a voice begging for a night's lodging. How that the stranger would not go away, but continued to knock and beseech, until all at once the mother recognised a tone, and cried, "Father, father, open the door! That's our David's voice. Our David, come home to see us, all the way from Hungary!" And then the joyful meeting that followed! Her eyes glistened with tears as she told me this. There were two beds in a little slip of a chamber opening from the principal room, of which the one nearest the window was given up to me, as I again had to stipulate for an open casement; and the more so, as notwithstanding the heat, I was expected to bury myself between two feather-beds, as the custom of the country is; the other was occupied by the old man. As for mother and daughters, they retreated to some place overhead, which must have been very like a loft. Had I slept well? was the question next morning; and this being answered in the affirmative, the family resolved by acclamation that I should stay with them a fortnight at least, nor would they at first believe that I could only spare them a single day. Could not an Englishman do anything? What mattered it if I returned to London a week sooner or later? The theatre at Steinschönau would be opened on Sunday, and it would be such a nice walk to go and see the play. Why should I be in a hurry to reach the mountains? Would it not be the same if I went to the top of all the hills around Ulrichsthal? So said the daughters, with much more of the like purport, and to resist persuasions backed by bright eyes, good looks, and blithesome voices, was a hard trial for my philosophy. However, I kept my resolution even when the mother rounded up with, "Only a day! that's not long enough to taste all my cookery." The good soul had risen early to make fresh _Semmel_ for breakfast. To pacify them, I promised to eat as much as ever I could, and to let them do whatever they liked with me during the day. Thereupon two of the damsels put on their broad-brimmed straw hats, shouldered their rakes, and betook themselves to the hay-field; the youngest, a lassie of fifteen, apprenticed to a glass engraver, said, "_Leb' wohl_," and went away to her work; the old man, privileged to be idle through age and infirmity, crept forth to find a sunshiny bit of grass on which to have a snooze; the mother began to bustle with pot and pan about the stove; and the eldest daughter, having put on her hat and a pink scarf, claimed the right to show me all that was worth seeing in Ulrichsthal. We began with the room itself. Its furniture was simple enough: wooden walls and ceiling; an uncomfortable wooden seat fixed to the wall along two sides; a table and a few wooden chairs; and the old man's polishing-bench, a fixture in one corner. The treadle and crank were still in place, but motionless; half a dozen wheels and sundry tools hung on the wall, memorials of the veteran's forty years of industry, and the bench did duty as dresser and bookshelf. Among the books were _Schiller's Werken_, in sixteen volumes, belonging to "our Wilhelm." With that simple machinery, hoarsely whirring day after day all through the prime of his manhood, had he gained wherewith to buy his two plots of land, and the comfort of repose in declining age. Here, in this overheated room, at once workshop, kitchen, and parlour, had been reared those four comely daughters, and the tall son whom I had met in England; all strong and hearty, in spite of high temperature and certain noxious influences arising out of a want of proper decency in the household economy. "We are used to it," was the answer, when I expressed my surprise that they could bear to live familiar with things offensive, and yet fearful of a passing breath from spring and summer. But this want of perception is not confined to Ulrichsthal; you cannot help noticing it in many, if not in most, Bohemian villages, and on the Silesian side of the mountains. But the damsel is impatient. We set off towards a row of houses on a higher part of the slope. Each has its long and narrow piece of land, an orchard immediately behind the house; then patches of wheat, barley, poppies, beetroot, grass, and potatoes, cultivated, with few exceptions, by the several families. But labourers can be hired when wanted, who are willing to work for one or two florins a week. We went into one of the houses. There sat a family grinding and polishing glass, alternating field-work by a day at the treadles. The operations were not new to me, but there was novelty to see them carried on in such a homely way; to see elegant vases, dishes, goblets, and jugs, fit ornaments for a palace, in the hands of rustics, or lying about on a rough pine shelf. The father, a tall, pale-faced man, with a somewhat careworn expression, stopped the noise of the wheels as soon as he heard of a visitor from London, and talked about that which he understood best--his business. Full thirty years had he sat at the bench, training up his children to the work one after another, but had not realized all the benefits he once hoped for. The brittle ware came to him in boxes from Prague, forty-five miles, and, when polished, was sent back in the same way; he having to bear the loss of whatever was broken while in his hands. "Look here," he said, showing me a large handsome jug; "my daughter spent a whole month over that jug, and then, as you see, broke the handle off. So I must keep it, and lose fifteen florins." To him it was useless: he could only place it apart with other crippled specimens--memorials of misfortune. "Ah! if glass would not break, then he would not be poor. However," he added, "we always get bread. God be thanked! And our bit of land helps." Cutters and polishers earn about four florins a week. He thought it good that young men got away to England, for they not only earned great wages, but escaped the remorseless military service. "A young man is not safe here: perhaps he works for twelve, eighteen months, and thinks he will be left quiet for the rest of his term, when all at once comes a sharp order, and he must away to Italy for a year or two." Then he set his treadle going, to show me that in Bohemia the polisher holds his glass against the bottom of the wheel, and, consequently, has the work always under his eye; while, in England, he holds it against the top of the wheel, and must be always turning it over to look at the surface. Higher up the slope we came to another house, where, instead of the harsh sound of grinding, we heard but a faint, busy hum. A change came over Röschen's manner as she entered, and saw a young man sitting at a lathe; and their greeting, when he looked round, was after the manner of lovers before a witness. On being told that I had come to see glass engraving, the young man plied his wheel briskly, and, taking up a ruby tazza, in a few minutes there stood a deer with branching antlers on a rough hillock in its centre--a pure white intaglio set in the red. I had never before seen the process, and was surprised by its simplicity. All those landscapes, hunting-scenes, pastoral groups, and whatever else which appear as exquisite carvings in the glass, are produced by a few tiny copper wheels, or disks. The engraver sits at a small lathe against a window, with a little rack before him, containing about a score of the copper disks, varying in size from the diameter of a halfpenny down to its thickness, all mounted on spindles, and sharpened on the edge. He paints a rough outline of the design on the surface of the glass, and, selecting the disk that suits best, he touches the edge with a drop of oil, inserts it in the mandril, sets it spinning, and, holding the glass against it from below, the little wheel eats its way in with astonishing rapidity. The glass, held lightly in the hands, is shifted about continually, till all the greater parts of the figure are worked out; then, for the lesser parts, a smaller disk is used, and at last the finest touches, such as blades of grass, the tips of antlers, eyebrows, and so forth, are put in with the smallest. Every minute he holds the glass up between his eye and the light, watching the development of the design; now making a broad excavation, now changing the disk every ten seconds, and giving touches so slight and rapid that the unpractised eye can scarcely follow them; and in this way he produces effects of foreshortening, of roundness, and light and shade, which, to an eye-witness, appear little less than wonderful. The work in hand happened to be _tazzi_, and in less than half an hour I saw deer in various positions roughed out on six of them, and three completely finished. Then the engraver fetched other specimens of his skill from up-stairs--a dish with a historical piece in the centre, and vignettes round the rim--a bowl engirdled by sylvan scenes, where fauns and satyrs, jolly old Pan and bacchanals, laughed out upon you from forest bowers and mazy vineyards--all, even to the twinkling eyes, the untrimmed beards, and delicate tendrils, wrought out by the copper wheels. The merchants at Prague took care that he should never lack work, and, according to the quality, he could earn from four to eight florins a week, and save money. Beef cost him 11 kreutzers the pound, veal 10, and salt 6 kreutzers. His bread was home-made. The lathe was his own: it cost forty florins; and the house, and the long strip of ground that sloped away behind, half hidden by the orchard. He did no field-work, but left that to his mother, who lived with him, and hired labourers. "It goes better in the house where a woman is," he said, with a glance at Röschen. The cleanliness and order of his own room--workshop though it was--justified his words. And though old habit would not yet permit him to sit with open door and window, he did not aggravate summer-heat by stove-heat, but had a cooking-place in an outer shed. His house had four rooms, of which two up-stairs, and a loft--all built of wood. The floor of the room above formed the ceiling, all the joints covered by a straight sapling split down the middle, resting on joists big and strong enough to carry a town-hall. Between these massive timbers hung pictures of saints, a drawing of trees, and a guitar. The engraver could play and sing, and recreated himself with music in the evenings, and on Sundays. He had heard that the English were fond of music, and thought there must be plenty of good singing among the working-people; and it surprised him not a little to be told that the Islanders' love for sweet sounds went far--far beyond their power of producing them. "Ah!" interrupted Röschen, "my brother writes that there is no music in his English workmates' singing." The engraver thought it a great privation, and could not well comprehend how the evenings could pass agreeably without a little music at home. "And when you are away from home," he went on, "it seems still better. Like all the young men here, I have been a soldier, have marched to Bucharest, to Pesth, to Trent, and Innsbruck, and what should we do on those long marches, and in dull quarters, if we could not sing?" Concerning the military service, he thought it a hardship to be obliged to serve, whether or no, but compensated by advantages. It added to a young man's knowledge and experience to march to distant lands, to see strange scenes, and strange people. You could always tell the difference between one who had travelled, even as a soldier, and a stay-at-home; the one had something to talk about, the other had nothing. Then, the pleasure of coming home again--a pleasure so sweet, that the thought of marching forth once more could hardly embitter it. For his part, he had been at home eighteen months, glad to resume his craft, and for the present saw no prospect of a call to arms. But there remained yet one year of his term unexpired, and he was liable at any moment to get an order requiring him to leave everything, and march. "Who can tell," he said, "how hard it is to go away so suddenly, to leave the little home, and all friends? Right glad shall I be when the year is over." Röschen looked as if she would be glad too, and, to make me aware of all the young man's cleverness, she took down the frame of trees from the wall and put it in my hands. I then saw that what looked like a coloured drawing was a picture made of insects. The engraver had a taste for natural history, and with a collection of beetles of all sizes, black, brown, green, gold, and sapphire, had constructed the group of trees which, when looked at from the middle of the room, showed as a highly-finished drawing. You saw here and there a withered branch shooting from the foliage--it was nothing but the horns and legs ingeniously placed, and those deep hollows in the trunks, places where owls may haunt, are produced by an artful arrangement of wings. Then Röschen would have him fetch down his trays of moths and portfolio of drawings. The moths had all been collected in walks about the neighbourhood, and were carefully preserved and labelled. The drawings showed the hand of an artist. The engraver had begun to learn to draw in school at the age of eleven, and had practised ever since, for without good drawing one could not engrave glass. He spoke of Röschen's youngest sister as a real genius, who would one day outstrip all the engravers in Ulrichsthal. Bohemia was the first to rival, and soon to excel, Venice in the art of glass-making. In her vast forests she found exhaustless stores of fuel and potash, and quartz and lime in her rocks, and produced a white glass which won universal admiration until about the beginning of last century, when English manufacturers discovered the process for making flint-glass with oxyde of lead as an ingredient. There was nothing superior to this glass, so it has been said, but the diamond, and the Bohemians, finding their craft in danger, introduced coloured glass, frosted glass, and pleasing styles of ornament. This practice they have since kept up. Their works are mostly situate in the great forests on the Bavarian frontier, where fuel and labour are alike cheap: the managers are well taught, and have a good knowledge of chemistry, and by striving always after something new, reproducing at times long-forgotten Venice patterns, they have achieved a reputation due more to the taste and elegance displayed in the forms of their manufactures than to their quality. From the rude forest villages the articles are sent all across the kingdom to the northern districts, where, as we have seen, the finishing touches that are to fit them for stately halls and drawing-rooms, are applied by the hands of humble cottagers. We were about to leave, when the engraver asked if I would not like to try my hand at the lathe, and, without waiting for an answer, he brought out a small, plain beaker of thick glass, and begged me to cut a forget-me-not upon it as a memorial of my visit. The process looked so easy, that I thought there would be no great risk in an attempt, so I sat down, spread out my elbows to rest upon the cushions, put my foot to the treadle, and the glass to the wheel. Whiz--skirr-r-r-r, and there was a fine white blur which, by a stretch of fancy, might have been taken for a cloud. Karl--as Röschen called him--took the beaker, and, leaning across me as I sat, speedily converted the blur into a rose, and bade me try again. I presented the opposite side, and this time with better effect, for the result was a very passable forget-me-not. I have seen many a worse on _A Trifle from Margate_. Röschen then said something about meeting in the evening, and we made haste home, for it was dinner-time. Immediately on arrival she proceeded to roll out a small piece of dry brown dough into a thin sheet, which she cut into strips, and these strips, laid three or four together, and shredded down very thin, produced an imitation of vermicelli, which was thrown into the soup. Now all was ready, and a proud woman was the mother as the soup was followed by two kinds of meat, stewed and roast--salad, potatoes, and a cool, slightly acid preserve, made from forest berries. And for drink there was pale beer from the _Wirthshaus_. She did not fail to remind me of my promise to "eat a plenty." Nor, after we had sipped our coffee, did Röschen fail to remind me of my morning's surrender, and pointing to the high hill-top, about two miles off, she said, "I mean to take you up there." So, as my docility remained unimpaired, we braved the hot sun, and had a very pretty walk over broken ground, and down into a bosky valley, watered by a noisy brook, before we reached the hill-foot. Then flowery meads, and presently the shadow of a forest, where we regaled ourselves with a second dessert of juicy bilberries and wild strawberries, both growing in profusion. From a little clearing, not far from the top, we saw heaving darkly against the blue, the hills of the Saxon Switzerland. The last bit was steep and pathless; but at length we came out upon a little hollow platform, the summit of a precipice, from which, the trees diverging and sinking on either hand, there was a grand view over the vale we had left, and far away, over field and hamlet, meadow and coppice, to a wavy line of hills, gray, purple, green, and brown, blended on the horizon. We sat for an hour; and after scanning the principal features Röschen pointed out the details, naming every house and field within a great sweep. Each man's little property lay distinctly mapped out, and we could see the neighbours and her sisters working in the sunshine. Our way back led us across the hay-field, where the lasses were bustling to finish in time for some evening's diversion, the nature of which was a secret. I proposed to help them, threw off my coat, seized a fork, and flung the hay up to the lass in the wagon quicker than she could trim it. Röschen took a rake, and had enough to do in gathering up the heaps which, pitching too vigorously, I sent clean over the wagon. All at once, as I was stooping, down came a mountain on my back, and the three lasses, taking advantage of my fall, came piling heap on heap above me--Pelion upon Ossa--till I was well-nigh smothered, and they went almost wild with laughter. They sat down to recover themselves; but when they saw me, after laborious thrust and heave, come creeping ingloriously out, their jocund mirth broke out again, and provoked me into a spirit of retaliation. "As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure." Then we fell to work once more, and when the wagon was laden I showed to the ragged urchin who was hired to drive, three of the lumbering old copper coins, bigger than penny-pieces, which pass for kreutzers in the neighbourhood, and at sight thereof he made the old horse drag the load home and come back for another in less time than horse had ever accomplished the task in Ulrichsthal. The second load was the last: by the time it was all pitched up our shadows grew long, and we followed it up to the house, where the mother had coffee and _Semmel_ ready for us. Now Röschen, reminding me once more of my promise to be tractable, revealed the secret. Karl was coming down, and Gottfried--the sweetheart I had seen the night before--and perhaps another, and then we were all to go to the _Wirthshaus_, about half an hour's walk. Presently the young men came in, and the lasses having changed their rustic garb for holiday gowns and dangling gold ear-drops, we walked in procession across fields to the rendezvous. A shout of welcome greeted our arrival from the young fellows already assembled--the Londoner was duly introduced, and treated by the host with especial favour, and we all sat down to a table, every man with his tankard of beer. The cup circulated literally, the custom being that everybody should drink from everybody's tankard. The lasses took their turn, though modestly and with discretion, as became them. The talk crackled merrily for awhile, and when it flagged a small tray bearing a set of little ninepins which were to be knocked down by a teetotum was placed on the table. The pins were so contrived that they could be all erected at once by pulling a string at one end of the tray, and the game went round not less briskly than the tankards, shouts of laughter repaying him who set the teetotum a-spinning without molestation to the pins. Then I proposed a song, and Karl charmed all ears with a musical ditty: another followed with a harmonious ballad, which had a chorus for burden, and as the tuneful harmony filled the room I could not help contrasting it with what would have been heard in a similar rustic alehouse in England. The ballad led to a talk about poetry, and one and another recited stanzas of favourite poems, and all seemed familiar with the best authors, drawing illustrations from Bürger's _Lenore_, Schiller's _Song of the Bell_, Goethe's _Erl King_, and one or two ventured upon the _Niebelungenlied_. The moon was high in heaven when we broke up, and gently the night wind swept across the fields laden with the freshness of dew. As we walked along the narrow paths Gottfried had to undergo a test: his maiden plucked a large ox-eye daisy, pulled the petals off one by one, keeping time with a few spoken surmises[E]: "_Du liebst mich vom Herzen, mit Schmerzen, ein Wenig, oder gar nicht._" The last petal came off with _vom Herzen_, but yet the inquirer was not quite content. It was all very well to be loved _from the heart_; but _with pain_ or _grief_ would have been much better. Then nothing would do but Röschen must try the experiment on me, and reciting and plucking she went round the frail circlet, and ended with _gar nicht_. She looked curiously at Karl, and Karl looked as if he were not by any means dissatisfied that she had got _not at all_ for a conclusion. It was past twelve when we came to our door, and then "farewell" had to be said, and "adieu till to-morrow;" and so ended for me a day of rural life that I shall long remember. If, reader, you should ever pay a visit of inquiry to the Ulrichsthalers, I feel assured they will tell you that next to themselves the best fellow in the world is an Englishman. FOOTNOTE: [E] Thou lovest me from the heart: with pain: a little; or not at all. CHAPTER XIX. More Hospitality -- Farewells -- Cross Country Walk -- Steinschönau -- The Playbill -- Hayda -- All Glass-workers -- Away for the Mountains -- Zwickau -- Gabel -- Weisskirchen -- A Peasant's Prayer -- Reichenberg -- Passport again -- Jeschkenpeak -- Reinowitz -- Schlag -- Neudorf -- A Talk at Grünheid -- Bad Sample of Lancashire -- Tannwald -- Curious Rocks -- Spinneries -- Populousness -- Przichowitz -- An Altercation -- Heavy Odds -- The Englishman Wins -- A Word to the Company. Fresh _Semmel_ for breakfast again the next morning, and renewed entreaties for my stay. I could only reply by putting on my knapsack. The old man grieved that infirmity prevented his showing me the shortest way to Hayda, some ten miles distant, where I should strike the main road. "But," he said, "Röschen knows the way, and she will be glad to go. I can trust her with you, for you are an Englishman." I felt bound to thank him for his compliment to my nationality, and not less for the unexpected pleasure of his daughter's company. Röschen went to put on her round hat, and then the mother said she would like to go too, "just a little half-hour," and tied on her kerchief. Then I had to give a kiss to the rest of the family--barring the old man--and with cordial hand-grip and many a good-bye I stepped from beneath the hospitable roof. The day was as bright and breezy as heart could wish, and it was delightful walking in and out, choosing the short cuts across the fields. The "little half-hour" brought us to a great cross by the wayside, where the mother, who lamented all the way that I would not let her carry my knapsack, gave me a hearty kiss, hoped I would soon come again and stay a month, bade Röschen take care of me, and turned away homewards with tears in her eyes. I thought to myself, if my gracious masters--long may they live!--did but grant me an uncircumscribed holiday, I would stay a month now. And would I not, oh, worthy hearts! strive to repay your hospitality by lessons to that young daughter of yours, who craves to learn English as a hungry man for bread. I had no claim on you: you had never heard of me, and yet you entertained me as if I had been your son. May the love that befalls the cheerful giver dwell ever with you! Röschen knew all the byepaths and little lanes running through belts of copse, by which, with many a rise and fall among the hills, we took our way, she all the time wondering at my pleasurable emotions at sight of the picturesque cottages and pretty scenery. To her they were nothing remarkable. By-and-by we saw Steinschönau on the left, where the surrounding hamlets buy groceries, hardware, and napery, and resort at times for a holiday. While skirting it we saw here and there on a cottage wall bills of the next Sunday's play. It would be, so states _Herr Direktor Feichtinger_, _In celebration of the highest delighting occurrence of the birth of an Imperial Sproutling, with festive Illumination. First, the Heart-elevating Austrian Folks-hymn: then Hanns Sachs, Shoemaker and Poet, a_ _Drama in Four Acts._ And he ends with a notification: _Price of Places as always. But to Generosity no Limit will be set._ Röschen promised herself much pleasure from a sight of the play. Hayda, though a small town, is a place of much importance in the glass trade. You hear the noise of wheels in every house. "None but glass-workers here," said the landlord of the inn where we dined. The repast over, I said good-bye to Röschen, vexed with myself for having occasioned her so long a walk, and taking the road which I had left at Markersdorf, stepped out for the _Riesengebirge_--distant a three days' tramp. The country between teems with manufactures and population--a cheerful country, hill and dale, grain, flax, and fruit-trees, and the people for the most part good-looking. Their faces are round, but not flat, and seemed to me to combine some of the best points of the German and Czech. You see dye-works and hear looms at Zwickau--not the Saxon town we explored a fortnight ago, but a dull place, with a great dull square; the wooden houses dingy, the brick houses rough and ragged. Beyond, we pass strange-looking rocks and short ranges of cliffs, the castle and grounds owned by Count Clam Gallas, and so to Gabel, a town which bears a _fork_ in its coat-of-arms; and is burdened with recollections of disasters from fire and sword. It has of course a great square, in the centre of which stands a tall column, surmounted by a figure of Christ looking towards the domed church. Its aspect is cheerful, notwithstanding that the old wooden houses with projecting gables are blackened by age. Then the road becomes more hilly, and the distance appears mountainous. We pass a singular mass of boulders--huge compressed bladders turned to stone; and from time to time other strangely formed rocks, betokening extraordinary geological phenomena, as if to prepare us for what we shall see a few days hence at Adersbach. By-and-by a deep glen, dark with firs above, green with birches below, into which you descend by long zigzags. Here among the trees sat a cuckoo, piping his name loud enough for all that passed to hear. It was the second time I had heard the gladsome note in Bohemia: the first was on the White Hill, while walking into Prague. Broad views, bounded always by hills, open as you emerge from the last slope, and there in a hollow lies the little village of Weisskirchen, where I tarried for the night. The innkeeper calls his house the _Railway Inn_, although there is no railway within half a day's walk, and in matter of diet all he could offer was smoked sausage--which is my abomination--and bread and butter. On the way to Reichenberg next morning I saw a small, tasteful iron crucifix, with a lamp, set up on a stone pedestal by the wayside, at the cost, so runs the inscription, of _Gottfried Hermann, Bauer in Rosenthal_; and underneath the devout peasant adds a prayer for the solace of wayfarers: An dem Abend wie am Morgen, Unter Arbeit, unter Sorgen, In der Freude, in dem Schmerz, In der Einsamkeit und Stille, Lenk' O Christ, mit Dankesfülle Zu dem Kreuz, das fromme Herz![F] At ten o'clock I came to Reichenberg: a town pleasantly situate on hilly ground, and animated by many signs of industry. It is the capital of the manufacturing region, and in importance ranks next to Prague. In 1848 the German Bohemians, not relishing the dictatorial tone of the Czechs in the metropolis and southern parts of the kingdom, made it the seat of their Reform Committee, and held meetings, in which speech, intoxicated by sudden, and, as it proved, short-lifed freedom, mistook words for things, and, before the mistake was discovered, lay once more fettered--faster than ever. I found out the _Bezirksamt_ at the farther end of the town, and was there told to go back to the middle, and get my passport signed at the _Magistratur_. I had to wait while four others passed the desk. The first, a portly gentleman, evidently of some consideration, was dismissed in half a minute, and treated to a pinch of snuff by the clerk. The second, a petty trader, was kept five minutes, and had to tell why he wished to journey, and what he meant to do. The third, a peasant, was only released after a cross-examination, as if he had been a conspirator; and a rigorous scrutiny of his passport, which occupied a quarter-hour. The fourth, a poor woman, as I have before mentioned, was denied, and went away with tears in her eyes. Then came my turn. "Where are you going?" I had always the same answer: "To the _Riesengebirge_." But as no visa could be given for mere mountains, I named Landeshut, a few miles beyond the frontier, telling the functionary at the same time that I had no intention of visiting the town, and should in all probability not go thither. Apparently it mattered not, for the visa was made out and stamped. This done, the clerk took my passport, and withdrew to an inner room. His brother clerks in all the offices I had yet entered had done the same. What did it mean? Is there a secret chamber where some highest functionary sits with a black list before him, in which he must search for suspected names? No one would tell me. After five minutes the clerk returned, gave me back my passport, but, less courteous than his fellows, did not wish me a pleasant journey. I dined at the _Rothen Adler_; strolled through the market-place and the arcades of the old houses on either side, noting the ways of the crowd who were buying and selling meal, fruit, and vegetables. Groups of countrywomen were passing in and out of the church at the upper end; and countrymen arrived with trains of bullock-wagons--the vehicles so disproportionately small when contrasted with the animals, that you could not look at them without laughing. However, they carry away cotton bales and dyestuffs, of which you see good store in the warehouses. You see piles of woollen cloth, too, and troops of factory-girls going to dinner. You will tarry awhile to admire the view from the hill beyond the town, and will, perhaps, think the tall chimneys rising here and there without the crowding roofs rather picturesque than otherwise. All around is hill and dale; the graceful peak of the _Jeschken_, 3000 feet high, is in sight; and away to the north-east, inviting you on, rise heaps of blue mountains. And as you proceed you descend every two or three miles into a charming little valley, where you see little factories, and stripes of linen stretched out to bleach on the grassy slopes. So at Reinowitz; so at Schlag; so at Neudorf; so at Morchenstern. At Grünheid, where I stayed for a half-hour's rest, there was a noticeable appearance of cleanliness. The inn, inviting of aspect, would have satisfied even a Dutchwoman. While drinking my glass of beer I had a talk with the hostesses--two happy-looking sisters, who presently told me they had a brother in England, at Oldham, learning how to spin cotton and manage a factory. Did I know Oldham?--had I ever been there?--could I tell them anything about it?--and so forth. Having visited more than once that hard-working town, I was enabled to gratify their curiosity. Then they told me of an Englishman who was employed in a factory about a mile distant. He had been there three years, yet his manners were so coarse and disagreeable that no one liked him, although at first many would have been his friends. He had learned but very little German, and that of the worst kind, and was over fond of drinking too much beer. "He has been trying for some time," they said, "to get a wife; but no woman will have him. While good Bohemian husbands are to be had, who would marry a bad Englishman? And so now he is going to fetch a wife from his own country." And then they asked, "Are all Englishmen such as he?" Need I record my answer? It enlightened them as to the real value of the sample they had described, and made them fully aware that I for one did not regard Lancashire as England's model county. More curious rocks as we drop down towards Tannwald--a place, as its name indicates, of fir forests. It lies deep among hills, watered by a stream brawling along a stony bed, and here and there you see the weatherbeaten heads of huge boulders peering from among the trees. The road makes short and frequent windings by the side of the stream; now skirted by groves of mountain ash, and slopes red with clustering loosestrife; now by feathery larches, green and graceful, contrasting beautifully with the melancholy firs. Then you pass an enormous spinnery, its thousand spindles driven by the dashing torrent; and peeping between the plants and flowers with which nearly every window is adorned, you see an army of girls within, busy at the machinery. Another and another spinnery succeeds; the houses of the masters appear aloft on pleasant sites, and signs of prosperous trade crowded into the bend of a narrow valley. In one place you see a broad alley through the firs to the top of the highest hill, cut at the masters' cost for the recreation of the workpeople. Thickly-strewn cottages betoken a numerous population. "I wish there were more factories," said the landlord of the _Goldene Krone_, "for we have people enough--more than enough." Every year things got dearer, greatly to the folks' surprise. Not many months ago a traveller has passed through, who told them that things would never be cheap again; but no one would believe him. Some of the best spinners could earn from five to six florins a week: thriftiness, however, was a rare virtue, and to earn the money easier than to save it. Perhaps mine host was the man of all others in Tannwald best able to speak with knowledge on this economical question. If so minded, you can travel from Reichenberg to Tannwald by _Stellwagen_; beyond, the road becomes more and more hilly, and worsens off to a stony track broken with deep ruts. By taking a short cut directly up the hill you may save a mile or more on the way to the next village--Przichowitz; a name that looks unpronounceable. It is a steep climb for about half an hour, provoking many a halt, during which you enjoy the ever-widening view. From the expanse of hill and dale to the numberless cottages all around you, each fronted by a fenced flower-garden, and haunted by the noise of looms, you will find ample occupation for the eye. And if you wish to observe domestic labour competing with the factory-units with an organized multitude--the opportunity is favourable. Przichowitz stands on what appears to be the very top of the hill till you see the wooded eminence, _Stephanshöh_, beyond. There are two inns: the _Grünen Baum_, with a fourth share of a bedroom; the _Gasthaus zur Stephanshöh_, somewhat Czechish in its appointments. I quartered myself at the latter; and discovered two redeeming points--good wine and excellent coffee. At bedtime the landlord demanded my passport, with an intimation that he should keep it in his possession all night. I demurred. He might bring his book and enter my name if he would: as for giving up to him a document so essential to locomotion anywhere within sight of the black and yellow stripes, I saw no reason why I should, and therefore shouldn't. "But you must." "But I won't." "The gendarme will come." "Let him come. He will find at least one honest man under your roof." The hostess came forward and put in her word: the company present, who were topping-off their three hours' potation of _Einfach_ with a glass of _Schnaps_, ceased their conversation, and put in theirs: "Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil, "Wi' usquebaugh we'll face the devil." the _Kellnerinn_ waiting all the while with my bed-candle in her hand. Every one, except the serving-maid, who held her peace, sided with the landlord. I urged the same reply over and over again, that not having been asked at any other _Wirthshaus_ to yield possession of my passport for a night, I could not believe that any regulation to the contrary prevailed for Przichowitz. At length the company, as it appeared, having exhausted their suggestions, the landlord fetched his book, and had dipped a pen into the inkstand, when two soldiers, who were eating a supper of sausage, brown bread and onions, at a table apart, beckoned him, and whispered something in his ear. The whisper revived his suspicions, and would have renewed the altercation; but I took up my knapsack, asked what was to pay, and declared for a moonlight walk to Rochlitz. The demonstration made him pause: he opened the book, dipped the pen once more into the inkstand, and looked wonderingly at my passport, which I held open before him. He tried to spell it out; but in vain. The pen went into the inkstand again; but to no purpose. He was completely bothered; and at last, putting the pen in my hand, he said, not now in a peremptory tone--"Will you enter your own name, if I let you do it?" It would have served him right had I refused, and left the task entirely to him. However, not to be too hard upon him, I promised not to inscribe Brown, Jones, or Robinson, and wrote what was required. Then, looking round on the company, I said: "A pretty set of cowards you are! Here are nine of ye, two of them soldiers, and you all take the part of a suspicious landlord against one--and that one a foreigner. No wonder you are all afraid of a gendarme; and submit to ask leave when you want to go a day's journey. Try, in future, and remember that honesty does not become rogue by travelling on foot. Good night!" "So, now it's settled," said the _Kellnerinn_, who still waited with the candle in her hand; and she led the way up-stairs. Before sleeping I repented of my speech; for what could be expected from people who never attended a vestry meeting--never saw a general election--never exercised the privilege of booting a candidate on the hustings? And never had a _Times_ to publish their grievances. FOOTNOTE: [F] In the evening as at morning, Under work, under cares, In joy, in sorrow, In solitude and silence, Lead, O Christ, with thankfulness To the Cross, the pious heart. CHAPTER XX. Stephanshöh -- A Presumptuous Landlord -- Czechs again -- Stewed Weavers -- Prompt Civilities -- The Iser -- A Quiet Vale -- Barrande's Opinion of the Czechs -- Rochlitz -- An offshoot from Tyre -- A Happy Landlord -- A Rustic Guide -- Hill Paths -- The Grünstein -- Rübezahl's Rose Garden -- Dreary Fells -- Source of the Elbe -- Solitude and Visitors -- The Elbfall -- Stony Slopes -- Strange Rocks -- Rübezahl's Glove -- Knieholz -- Schneegruben -- View into Silesia -- Tremendous Cliffs -- Basalt in Granite -- The Landlord's Bazaar -- The Wandering Stone -- A Tragsessel -- A Desolate Scene -- Rougher Walking -- Musical Surprises -- Spindlerbaude -- The Mädelstein -- Great Pond and Little Pond -- The Mittagstein -- The Riesengrund -- The Last Zigzags -- An Inn in the Clouds. Soon after six the next morning I was on the top of _Stephanshöh_--about twenty minutes' walk from the inn--prepared to enjoy the view: and did enjoy all that was not concealed by mist. Every minute, too, as the heaving vapour melted away, so did the landscape widen and rejoice in the sunbeams. We are here on the roots of the _Riesengebirge_, and all around is a rolling country, rising higher and higher towards the north. Because of the view the height is famous throughout the neighbourhood; visitors come to it even from Reichenberg. While I was drinking my early cup of coffee, the landlord came forward, made a bow, and expressed his hope to see me again some day. "Hope not," I replied, "for besides plaguing folk about their passport, you lodge them between dirty sheets over an unswept floor. Good morning!" Beware, reader, of Przichowitz! The road winding along a hill-side leads you onwards high above the valleys that open at every bend. After about an hour it narrows into a footpath, which presently branches off into many paths down the steep slope of a secluded vale. A woman of whom I asked the way shook her head, and answered, "_Böhmisch_," and to my surprise I found myself once more among the Czechs. A Sclavonic wedge, so to speak, here cuts between the German-speaking population who inhabit the northern border. With its base in the heart of the kingdom, it stretches away to the Silesian frontier, traceable for the most part by the names of numerous villages ending in _witz_. I chose a path for myself which led down between patches of clover and rye, beetroot and potatoes, through little orchards, under rows of limes, to a house which, at a distance, had an imposing, spacious appearance; deceitful till you come near. The ground stage is nothing but a rough mass of masonry supporting that which is really the house--a low wooden edifice, swarming with weavers, reared aloft, probably, to keep it out of the way of floods. As I mounted the rude steps in quest of information, a weaver opened a casement and put out his head, letting out, at the same time, a rush of the depraved air in which he and his mates were working. I asked the way. He shook his head, and answered, "_Böhmisch_." He did more. He started up from his loom, came actually forth into the wholesome air, and ran to a cottage some distance off, making signs to me to wait his return. He came presently back wearing a triumphant look, accompanied by another weaver, who could speak German enough to assure me that I was on the right track for Rochlitz, and that the mountain stream flowing so merrily past was the Iser. Poor men! they both had a pale, sodden look, which moved me to recommend fresh air and open windows. But no: they shivered, and could not weave when the windows were open. A bright stream is the Iser, and plenteous of trout: a water such as the angler loves, now brawling over shallows, now sleeping in hazel-fringed pools. You will pause more than once while climbing the hill beyond to scan the vale. All the greater slopes are broken up with lesser undulations--wherein much is half seen, and thickly-patched with wood; little cottages nestle everywhere among the trees, the little chapel near the summit; and here and there on the outskirts a dark ridge of firs reminds you of the melancholy miles of forest beyond. Here, far from great roads, all breathes of calm and content, all sights and sounds are rural; you hear the water babbling to the whispering leaves, and might fancy yourself in the very home of happiness. But "The statutes of the golden age, That lingered faint and long In sylvan rites of olden time, So dear to ancient song, The world hath trampled in its haste At Mammon's shrine to bow; And many a Tyre our steps may find, But no Arcadia now." With the Iser the Czechs are left behind. While taking leave of the oval-faced people, the opportunity seems fitting to bring forward a few words of testimony concerning them, which may be weighed against that mentioned in a former page. Barrande, the distinguished geologist, says, in his _Silurian System of Bohemia_, that, in 1840, he and his friends commenced a regular exploration of strata, employing native labourers in different parts of the country, either singly making new excavations, or in groups opening quarries. "These labourers," he continues, "provided with the necessary tools, and practically instructed by working with us for some time, soon acquired the knowledge indispensable for distinguishing every organic trace--the objects of our studies--at the first glance. In this respect we have often had occasion to admire the intelligence of the Bohemians (Czechs), even of those belonging to the humblest class. Some among them employed in our researches during ten or twelve years acquired a remarkable skill as seekers of fossils. They gather up and put together the smallest fragments which belong to any specimen broken in splitting the rock; they use a lens to discover the fugitive traces of the minutest embryo, and they know very well how to distinguish all rare or new forms in the district to which they are attached. A sort of nomenclature, improvised by themselves out of the Bohemian language, has served us to designate both the species and formations in which they are found." Thus, with his rustic Czechs, Mr. Barrande could carry on investigations at a distance, while in his study at Prague he prepared his truly great work for publication. One of the diggers brought in the specimens once a week; and in this way were discovered fifteen hundred species of what geologists call Silurian and Cambrian fossils, the existence of which in Bohemia was before unknown. It is not far to Rochlitz--perhaps a mile--but the vale is hidden ere you arrive by the shoulder of the hill. Almost the first house is _Gast und Einkehr Haus zur Linde_, and it has a living sign--a beautiful linden-tree. Here cleanliness prevails, and the speech is German; but the room is so hot from the scorching stove, that I prefer to eat my second breakfast on the grass in the shadow of the lime, and listen to the busy hum of countless bees among the branches. The room, however, was a study--a sort of museum: racks overhead, three glass closets, twenty-four pictures, a sofa, a score of daddy-longlegs chairs, a guitar and fiddle, two beds in view besides one shut off by a screen, and all the sundries common to a public-house. But for good housewifery it would be hideous. The landlord, a man of friendly speech, came out for a talk. From his orchard we could look down into a charming dell: a sylvan retreat, marred, alas! by an offshoot from Tyre. From among the trees there rose the tall chimney and staring walls of a factory; and while we talked, a dozen men went past, each wheeling a barrow-load of lime, from a distance of two miles, for the building. Mine host felt glad at the prospect of work for the people. "We have nine thousand inhabitants in Rochlitz," he said; "'tis a great place. To walk through it you must take three hours." And he pointed out a cliff overlooking a valley where mining works had just been bought by a Russian for two hundred thousand florins. "Yes, there would be work enough for the people." Plenty of work at little wages. A weaver earns one florin twenty-four kreutzers a week, and the happy few who achieve two florins are regarded as rich by their neighbours: perhaps with envy and admiration. Then he pointed out his own ground, and his forest run reaching to the very hill-top, all of which had cost him fifteen thousand florins; and he turned to all quarters of the compass with the air of a man well pleased with himself. "Those," he said, stretching his finger towards a row of short, round, wooden columns with conical roofs--"those are my beehives; come and look at them." These hives are about four feet high, fixed clear of the ground by stakes driven through the turf, and are constructed in compartments one fitting above the other. The bees begin to work in the lowest, and, when that is filled, ascend into the upper stories. One among them seemed deserted. "Let us see what's the matter," said the landlord; and he lifted off the top story. Immediately there swarmed out thousands of earwigs. "Huhu! that's not the sort of bees we want. Coobiddy, coobiddy!" And judging from the lusty crow that followed it, chanticleer and his seraglio must have had a satisfactory repast. But _Schneekoppe_ was yet far off, and there was no time to be lost if I wished to reach that Mont Blanc of German tourists before night. I inclined to leave the rough-beaten track through the valleys for short cuts across the hills, and asked the landlord about a guide. His woodcutter, who was splitting logs close by, knew great part of the way, and was ready to start there and then and carry my knapsack for a florin. He put a piece of coarse brown bread into a bag, which he lashed to one of the straps, and away we went. "Good-bye!" said the landlord: "a month later and you would have had company enough; for then students come in herds to see the mountains." We struck at once up a grassy hill on the left, and could soon look down on Rochlitz--houses scattered along either side of a narrow road in a deep valley; and, far in the rear, on Hochstadt, a wee town of great trade. Then we came to a _Jägerhaus_, and plunged into a pine forest, walking for two or three miles along winding paths, paved with roots, under a solemn shade where, here and there, sunny gleams sought out the richest brown of the tall, straight stems, and the brightest emerald among the patches of damp moss. At times we came to graceful birches scattered among the firs, and their drooping branches and silvery boles looked all the more beautiful amid companions so unbending. We emerged on a bare, turfy slope, and came presently to a stony ridge on the right--the _Grünstein_--so named from a large bright green circle of lichen on the broken rocks which first catch your eye. A little farther along the same ridge, and the guide points to a great ring of stones on the slope as _Rübezahl's_ Rose-garden, and the name makes you aware that here is the classic ground of gnomery. You remember the German storybooks read long ago with delight, wonder, or fear: the impish pranks, the tricks played upon knaves, the lumps of gold that rewarded virtue; the marvellous world deep underground, and all the weird romance. You will perhaps think that imps had a right to be mischievous in such a region. On the left opens a wild, dreary expanse of fells--the coarse brown turf strewn with hassocks of coarser grass, and pale lumps of quartz intermingled, and rushy patches of darker hue showing where the ground is soft and swampy. It has a lifeless aspect, increased by a few scattered bushes of _Knieholz_ that look like firs which have stunted themselves in efforts to grow. Now and then an Alpine lark twitters and flits past, as if impatient to escape from the cheerless scene. We crossed these fells, guided by an irregular line of posts planted far apart. In places the ground quakes under your foot, and attempts to cut off curves are baffled by treacherous sloughs. On you go for nearly an hour, the view growing wilder, until, in the middle of a spongy meadow, known as the _Naworer Wiese_, you see a spring bubbling up in a circular basin. It is the source of the Elbe. Here, 4380 feet above the sea-level, the solitude is complete. Here you may lie on your back looking up at the idle clouds, and enjoy the luxury of silence, for the prattle of the water disturbs it not. You will think it no loss that nothing now remains of monuments which the Archdukes Joseph and Rainer once erected here to commemorate their visit: the lonely scene is better without them. There are monuments not far off more to your mind. Towards the south rises the _Krkonosch Berg_[G]--sometimes called the _Halsträger_--and _Kesselkoppe_ towards the west; great purple-shaded slopes of darkest green. Not often during the summer will you find real solitude, as we did; for the Germans come in throngs and sit around the little pool to quaff the sparkling water, or pour libations of richer liquor. Is not this the birthplace of the Elbe, the river that carries fatness to many a broad league of their fatherland, and merchandise to its marts? Many a merry picnic has _Krkonosch_ witnessed, and many a burst of sentiment. Hither used to come in the holidays--perhaps he comes still--a certain rector of a Silesian school with his scholars; and after their frolics he would teach them that the life of a river was but the symbol of their own life; and then, after each one had jumped across the sprightly rivulet, he bade them remember when in after years they should be students at Wittenberg, how they had once sprung from bank to bank of the mighty stream. The Elbe has, however, two sources: this the most visited. The other is ten miles distant on the southern slope of _Schneekoppe_. They unite their waters in the _Elbgrund_. A stream is formed at once by the copious spring. We followed it down the slope-- "Infant of the weeping hills, Nursling of the springs and rills"-- to a rocky gulf, where it leaps a hundred feet into the precipitous chasm, and chafes onwards in a succession of cascades far below, gathering strength for its rush through the mountain barrier--the Saxon Highlands--and its long, lazy course through the plains of Northern Germany. Here a little shanty is erected, the tenants of which dam the water, and let it loose for its plunge when tourists arrive who are willing to pay a fee to see Nature improved on. But you may scramble about the rocks and down to the noisy influx of the _Pantsche Fall_ as long as you please, and peep over into the deep gulf, without any payment. Then up a steep stony acclivity to a higher elevation, another of the great steps or terraces which compose the Bohemian side of the mountains. From the top we should have seen _Schneekoppe_ himself, had he not been hidden by clouds; however, we saw a mass of gray cumulus behind which old Snowhead lurked, and that was something. Rougher and rougher grows the way: more and more of the big boulders lying as if showered down; and here and there singular piles of rock appear. Some resemble woolsacks heaped one above another, and flattened; some a pilastered wall, all splintered and cracked, sunken at one end; some heathen tombs and imitations of Stonehenge; and some animal forms hewn by rude people in the ancient days with but indifferent success. On one, an experienced guide--which mine was not--will show you the impression of a large hand, and tell you it is _Rübezahl's_ glove. The path makes many a jerk and twist among the rocks; at times through a dense scrub of _Knieholz_--a dwarfish kind of fir, crooked as rams'-horns, peculiar to these mountains, and, as travellers tell us, to the Carpathians. To its abundant growth some of the hills owe their dark green garment. Half an hour of such walking brought us in sight of _Rübezahl's_ chancel--walls of rocks split into horizontal layers--and strangely piled, as if by the hands of crazy Cyclopean builders. A fearsome place in olden time; now a shelter to the _Schneegrubenhaus_, where you will choose to rest and dine before further exploration. The house stands on the verge of a mighty precipice, from which you have a wide view over the most beautiful and picturesque part of Silesia. It was a glorious sight, miles of hill and dale, forest and meadow stretching far away--yellow and green, and blue and purple--touched here and there by flashing lights where the sun fell on ponds and lakes; villages, seemingly numberless, basking in the warmth of a July sun. The _Hirschbergerthal_, into which we shall travel ere many days be over, lies outspread beneath as in a map; Warmbrunn, with its baths in the midst, five hours distant, and yet apparently so near that you fancy a musket-shot would break one of the gleaming windows. Although, as some say, there is a want of water, you will still think it a view worth climbing the _Riesengebirge_ to see. "There is only one Silesia!" cried the Great Frederick, when he looked down upon it from the _Landeshuter Kamm_. Having feasted your eye with the remote, you will turn to look at the two _Schneegruben_--greater and lesser snow-gulfs. To the right and left the precipice is split by a frightful chasm a thousand feet deep, between jagged perpendicular cliffs. Looking cautiously over the edge, you scan the gloomy abyss where the sun never shines except for a brief space in the early morn. You see a chaos of fallen blocks and splinters, where the winter's snow, often unmelted by the summer rains, forms miniature glaciers, from one of which the Kochel springs to charm wondering eyes with its fall in the lowlands by Petersdorf. You see how the jutting crags threaten to tumble; how the heaps far below are overgrown by treacherous _Knieholz_, and form ridges which dam the sullen waters of two or three small lakes. A patch of green, a small meadow, smiles up at you from the lesser gulf; and it surprises you somewhat to be told that a painstaking peasant makes hay there, by stacking the grass on high poles, and carries it in winter when snow enables him to use a sledge. If sure of foot, you may scramble down the ridge and look at the cliffs from below, and on the way at a remarkable geological phenomenon. In the western declivity the ruddy granite is cut in two by a stratum of basalt, which broadens as you descend, its surface cut up by pale gray veins resembling a network. It is said to be the only instance in Europe of basalt found at such a height, and in such intimate neighbourhood with granite. It is laborious walking at the base, and dangerous where vegetation screens the numerous crevices. However, if you take pleasure in botany, there are rare plants to repay the exploit; and if you care only for the romantic, to have been frowned down upon by the tremendous cliffs will suffice you. When you climb back to the summit the host will ask you to look at his museum, and collection of knick-knacks for sale--memorials of the _Schneegruben_. There are crystals, and specimens from the neighbouring rocks, and carvings cut out of the _Knieholz_, an excellent wood for the purpose. Among these latter are heads of _Rübezahl_, with roguish look and bearded chin, to be used as whistles, or terminations for mountain-staves. Or, if you desire it, he will fire a small mortar to startle the echoes. You may, however, rouse echoes for yourself by rolling big stones into the gulf; but beware lest you meet the fate of Anton, the guide, who, in 1825, while starting a lump of rock, lost his balance, fell over, and was dashed to pieces against the crags. Such cliffs are said to be characteristic of the _Riesengebirge_. Another example of a _Schneegrube_ occurs near Agnetendorf, which is six hundred feet deep. And close by it is the Wandering Stone, a huge granite block of thirty tons' weight, which has moved three times within memory, to the wonder of the neighbourhood. In 1810 it travelled three hundred feet, in 1822 two hundred, and in 1848, between the 18th and 19th of June, about twenty-five paces. Another characteristic of these mountains, as I discovered, is that when you have climbed up one of their great steps or terraces, you have to make a deep descent on the farther side before coming to the next, whereby the labour of the ascent is increased. On leaving the _Schneegruben_, you traverse a level so thickly strewn with boulders and rocky fragments that you fancy more would not lie, till, coming presently to the descent, you find nothing but stone. In and out, rise and fall; now a long stride that shakes you rudely; now a cheating short step--such is the manner of your going down. Nothing but stone! the track in many places scarcely visible though trodden for years. You will think it a terrible stair before you have finished. Near the foot we met a party going up, one a lady seated in a _Tragsessel_--a sedan-chair without its case--carried by two men. Talk of palanquin-bearers in Hindoostan! their work must be play compared with that of these Silesian chair-carriers. I pitied them as they toiled up the stony steep, hard to climb with free limbs, much more so with such a burden; and yet they looked contented enough, though very damp. We met three more chairs, each with its lady, in the course of the next two hours. Nothing has ever realized my idea of utter desolation so entirely as the sight of that stony steep when I looked back on it from below. A great rounded hill of stone, blocks on blocks up-piled to the summit, sullen as despair, notwithstanding the greenish tinge of clinging lichen. I wondered whether the accursed hills by the Dead Sea could look more desolate. Rough walking now, through straggling _Knieholz_; across stony ridges, and past more of the uncouth piles of rock that look weird-like in the slanting sunbeams. All at once you hear the noise of a hurdy-gurdy: a surprise in so deserted a region, and you may fancy _Rübezahl_ at his pranks again; but presently you see a beggar squatted in the bush, whose practised ear having caught the sound of footsteps before you came in sight, the squeak is set a-going to inspire charity. And now these musical surprises will beset you every half-mile--flageolet, tambourine, clarionet, or fiddle. Where do the musicians live? No signs of a house are visible near their lurking-places. We came to a _Baude_, a lonely farmstead, with a few fields around: the dwelling roughly built of wood, without upper story. Many similar buildings are scattered among the mountains--cause of thankfulness to weary travellers, for the inmates are always ready with rustic fare and lodging. Here the guide had to ask the way, having already come farther than he knew. The path led us across swampy ground, where you walk for a mile or two on stepping-stones through open fir woods, always meeting some group of rocks. Another half-hour, and we emerged into a little green vale, shut in by high steep hills and forest, the _Spindlerbaude_ standing at the upper end. My guide being afraid to venture farther, I released him, and engaged another; one in full professional costume--tall boots, peaked hat, and embroidered jacket--who undertook to go the remaining distance with me for twenty kreutzers. While I drank a glass of beer, a man and woman made the room ring again with harp and clarionet. It was past six when we started, and betook ourselves at once to the steep ridge behind the _Baude_. Once up, we saw _Schneekoppe_ rising as a dark cone in the distance, and away to the right the _Mädelstein_, so named from a shepherdess having been frozen to death while sheltering under the rock from a snow-storm. On the Bohemian side, towards the south, the view is confined; but northwards, over Silesia, it spreads far as eye can reach, the nearer region in deep shade, for the sun is dropping low. By-and-by we leave the broken stony ground for the grassy ridge of the _Lahnberg_, where the path skirts a cliff, which, curving round to the right and left, encloses the _Grosser Teich_, a black lake, on which you look down from a height of six hundred feet. The inky waters fill an oval basin about twenty-four acres in extent and seventy-five feet deep, and remain quite barren of fish, although attempts have been made to stock it with trout. The superflux forms a stream named the Great Lomnitz. From hence more rock-masses are in sight: the _Mittagstein_, so named because the sun stands directly over it at mid-day, a sign to the haymakers and turf-diggers; the _Dreisteine_, fifty feet high, resembling the ruin of a castle, split into three by a lightning stroke a hundred years ago; the _Katzenschloss_ (Cat's Castle) and others, which the guide will tell you owe their names to _Rübezahl_. We cross the _Teichfelder_ and look down on the Little Pond: a lively sheet of water, for the surface is rippled by a waterfall that leaps down the precipice, and beneath trout are numerous as angler can desire. You will notice something crater-like in the form of the cliffs of both ponds: no traces of lava are, however, to be discovered. We passed the Devil's Gulf, through which flows the Silver Water, and came to more rough ground, and scrub, and lurking bagpipers. The veil of twilight was drawn over Silesia, and the peaks and ridges on the right loomed large and hazy against the darkening sky. We came to the _Riesenbaude_ on the edge of the _Riesengrund_ (Giant's Gulf), from which uprears a steeper slope than any we had yet encountered. It is incredibly steep, the path making short zigzags, as on the Gemmi, fenced by a low wall. On either side you see nothing but loose slabs of stone, which must have made the ascent well-nigh impossible to unpractised feet, before Count Schaffgotsch constructed the new path at his own cost. A hard pull to finish with. However, in about twenty minutes we come to a level, where the wind blows strong and cold, and something that looks like a house and a circular tower looms through the dusk. The guide steps forward and opens a door, which admits us to a dim passage. He opens another door, and I am dazzled by the lights of a large room, where some forty or fifty guests are sitting at rows of tables eating, drinking, and smoking, while three women with harps sing and play in a corner. To step from the chill gloom outside into such a scene was a surprise; and after my long day's walk to find a comfortable sofa five thousand feet above the sea, was a solace which I knew how to appreciate. FOOTNOTE: [G] _Krkonoski Hory_ is the Czechish name for the whole range of the _Riesengebirge_. CHAPTER XXI. Comforts on the Koppe -- Samples of Germany -- Provincial Peculiarities -- Hilarity -- A Couplet worth remembering -- Four-bedded Rooms -- View from the Summit -- Contrast of Scenery -- The Summit itself -- Guides in Costume -- Moderate Charges -- Unlucky Farmer -- The Descent -- Schwarzkoppe -- Grenzbäuden -- Hungarian Wine -- The Way to Adersbach -- Forty Years' Experience. Here, on the top of _Schneekoppe_, you find the appliances of luxury and elegance as well as of comfort. Many kinds of provisions, good wine, and beer of the best. A bazaar of crystals, carvings, _Rübezahl's_ heads, and mountain-staves. Beds for fifty guests, and _Strohlager_ (straw-lairs) for fifty more, besides music and other amusements, make up a total which satisfies most visitors. Do not, however, expect a room to yourself, for each chamber contains four beds, in one of which you will have to sleep or accept the alternative of straw. I heard no demur to these arrangements: in fact, most of the guests seemed to like throwing off conventionalities of the nether world while up among the clouds. For water--that is, to drink--you pay the price of beer, and with a disadvantage; seeing that, from being kept in beer-casks, its flavour is beery. The company, though German, is very mixed: specimens of the men and women-kind from many parts of Germany. Here are Breslauers, who will say _cha_ for _ja_: Berliners, who--cockneys of another sort, give to all their _g_'s the sound of _y_--converting _green_ into _yreen_, _goose_ into _yoose_: _gobble_ into _yobble_: Bremeners, whose Low Dutch has a twang of the Northumbrian burr; besides Saxons, Hanoverians, Mecklenburgers, and a happy couple, who told me they came from Gera--a principality about the size of Rutlandshire. Flat faces and round faces are the most numerous. The Silesians betray themselves by an angular visage and prominent chin. "Every province in Prussia," says Schulze to Müller, "has its peculiarity, or property, as they call it. Thus, for example, Pomerania is renowned for stubbornness; East Prussia for wit; the Rhineland for uprightness; Posen for mixed humour; the Saxon for softness; the Westphalian for hams and _Pumpernickel_; and Silesia--for good-nature." And here, on the highest ground in all North Germany, you may any day between Midsummer and Michaelmas bring the humourous philosopher's observations to the test. Hilarity prevailed: the songstresses sang their best and twanged their strings with nimble fingers, and--came round with a sheet of music. Then a few of the guests migrated into the little chambers which on two sides open from the principal room; then a few more; and I noticed that some stopped to read a label affixed to the wall. I did the same. It bore a couplet: _Wisse nur des Narren Hand Malt und schreibt auf Tisch und Wand._[H] Three hairy faces lay fast asleep on their pillows in the room to which I was shown. The bodies to which they belonged were covered with coats and wrappers, as well as blanket, for the night was very cold, and the wind blew around the house with an intermittent snarl. I did not rise with the next morning's sun, but two hours later. By that time the mists had cleared off, or become so thin as not to conceal the landscape, and, on going out among the shivering groups, I saw an open view all round the horizon. The Silesian portion is by far the most attractive. To the south-west the _Jeschken_ catches your eye, and, far beyond, the swelling outline of the _Erzgebirge_; to the south you see towns and villages in the valley of the Elbe, and in a favourable atmosphere the White Hill of Prague: in like circumstances Breslau can be seen, though forty-five miles distant to the north-east, and Görlitz with its hill--_Landskrone_--almost as far to the north-west, and on rare occasions, it is said, you can see the foremost of the Carpathians. Not one of the remotest points was visible. I took pleasure in tracing my yesterday's route, in which the _Schneegruben_ is all but hidden by an intervening ridge, and in surveying that which I had now to follow. There, in the direction towards Breslau, lay Schatzlar, and the lonely peak of the _Zobten_--the navel of Silesia, as old writers call it; and miles away easterly the _Heuscheuer_, a big hill on the Moravian frontier, which looks down on Adersbach, where we shall sleep to-night, if all go well. You can see a long stretch of the _Isergebirge_--mountains of the Iser which form part of the range--and deep gulfs, and grim rocky slopes, and pleasant valleys. But it is not the mountain scenery of Switzerland or Tyrol: you miss the awful precipices, the gloomy gorges thundering ever with the roar of waterfalls, the leagues on leagues of crowding hills, cliffs and forests, rushing higher and higher, till they front the storm zone with great white slopes and towering peaks that dazzle your eye when the sun looks at them. Here no snow remains save one "lazy streak" in a hollow of the crags on the heights above the _Riesengrund_. Imagine Dartmoor heaved up to twice its present elevation, and your idea of the view from _Schneekoppe_ will come but little short of the reality. The summit itself is a stony level, half covered by the inn, with its appurtenances and the chapel, leaving free space all round for visitors. Its height is 4965 Prussian feet above the sea. The boundary line between Bohemia and Silesia, which follows an irregular course along the range, crosses it. A chapel, dedicated to St. Lawrence, was first erected here by Count Leopold von Schaffgotsch, in 1668-81; but only since 1824 have Koppe-climbers found a house on the top to yield them shelter and entertainment. While walking about to get the view from every side you will not fail to be struck by the numerous guides in peaked hats, with broad band and feather, velveteen jackets heavy with buttons and braid; and not less by their coarse rustic dialect than by their costume. Extremes meet, and you will notice much in common, in sound at least, between this very High Dutch and the Low Dutch from Bremen and Hamburg. The afternoon is the best time for the view. The shadows then fall to the east, as when I saw it yesterday from the _Schneegruben_; the sun is behind you, looking aslant into the Silesian vales, searching out whatever they possess of beautiful, and bringing out the lights on towns and villages for leagues around. I had been told more than once while on the way that the charges on _Schneekoppe_ were "monstrous;" but my supper, bed, and early cup of coffee with rusks, cost not more than one florin fifty kreutzers, service included; a sum by no means unreasonable, especially when you remember that all the provant has to be carried up on men's shoulders. I have always been favoured with fine weather when among mountains, and here was no exception. The _Riesengebirge_, are, however, as much visited by fog, rain, and mist, as the mountains of Wales. Tourists come at times even from the shores of the Baltic, and go back disappointed, through prevalence of clouds and stormy weather. I heard of a farmer living not farther off than Schmiedeberg, who had climbed the _Koppe_ thirteen times to look down on his native land, and every time he saw nothing but rain. There came one summer a few weeks of drought; the ground was parched, and fears were entertained for the crops. Thereupon the neighbouring farmers assembled, waited on the persevering mountain-climber, and besought him to go once more up _Schneekoppe_. "Up _Schneekoppe_! for what?" "If you do but go, look ye, it will be sure to rain, and we shall be so thankful." Soon after six I started for the descent into Silesia, in company with two young wool-merchants from Breslau. On this side the slope is easy; but, as on the other side, after falling for awhile, the path makes a rise to pass over _Schwarzkoppe_ (Black Head), a hill rough with heather. To this succeeded pleasant fir-woods, then birch and beech, and before eight we came to _Grenzbäuden_ (frontier-buildings), a place renowned for its hospitality wherever lives a German who has seen the mountains. Three houses offer entertainment; but Hübner's is the most resorted to. There you find spacious rooms, a billiard-table, a piano, maps on the walls, and a colonnade for those who prefer the open air; and sundry appliances by which weather-bound guests may kill time. But, by common consent, Hübner's chief claim to consideration is, that Hungarian wine never fails in his cellar. "Did you taste the Hungarian wine?" is the question asked of all who wander to the Giant Mountains. The two Breslauers were not less ready for breakfast than myself. We each had a half-bottle of the famous wine, and truly its reputation is not unmerited. If you can imagine liquid amber suffused with sunshine, you will know what its colour is. It looks syrupy, and has the flavour of a sweet Madeira, not, as it appeared to me, provocative of a desire for more. Neither of the Breslauers inclined to try a second half-bottle, notwithstanding their exuberant praises; but one of them, sitting down to the piano, broke out with a "Vivat vinum Hungaricum" that made the room echo again. Its price is about twenty pence a bottle; but once across the boundary line, and you must pay three shillings. In winter, when snow lies deep, sledge-parties glide hither from Schmideberg to drink Hungarian, have a frolic, and then skim homewards down-hill swift as the wind. I had a talk with _Meinherr_ Hübner about the shortest way to Schatzlar. To think of going to Adersbach through Schatzlar was, he assured me, a grand mistake. The road was very hilly, hard to find, and, under the most favourable circumstances, I need not look to walk the distance in less than eighteen hours. My Frankfort map, with all its imperfections, had not yet misled me: it showed the route by Schatzlar to be the shortest, and on that I insisted. "Take my advice," rejoined Hübner; "it has forty years' experience to back it. Go down to Hermsdorf, and from thence through Liebau and Schömberg. That is the only way possible for you. The other will take you eighteen hours." The route suggested was that I hoped to follow on leaving Adersbach, and to travel twice over the same ground did not suit my inclination, and it was the longest. Moreover, I wished to keep within the _Schmiedeberger Kamm_; and forty years' experience to the contrary notwithstanding, I refused to be advised. I may as well mention at once that by five in the afternoon of the same day I was in Adersbach. FOOTNOTE: [H] Which, changing one word, may rhyme in English-- Know ye, only hand of fool Paints and writes on wall and stool. CHAPTER XXII. The Frontier Guard-house -- A Volunteer Guide -- A Knave -- Schatzlar -- Bernsdorf -- A Barefoot Philosopher -- A Weaver's Happiness -- Altendorf -- Queer Beer -- A Short Cut -- Blunt Manners -- Adersbach -- Singular Rocks -- Gasthaus zur Felsenstadt -- The Rock City -- The Grand Entrance -- The Sugarloaf -- The Pulpit -- The Giant's Glove -- The Gallows -- The Burgomaster -- Lord Brougham's Profile -- The Breslau Wool-market -- The Shameless Maiden -- The Silver Spring -- The Waterfall -- A Waterspout -- The Lightning Stroke. About a musket-shot below the _Bäuden_ stands the frontier guard-house. The two wool-merchants who had left Warmbrunn for the ordinary three days' excursion in the mountains, having no passports to show, were detained, while I, accredited by seven visas, had free passage and wishes for a pleasant journey. I took a road running immediately to the right, and had not gone far when one of Hübner's men came running after, and offered to show me the way to Schatzlar for twenty kreutzers. "If you mean the road," I answered, "I don't want you. But if you mean the shortest way, across fields, through bush, anywhere to save distance, come along." He hesitated a moment, and came. We scrambled anywhere; up and down toilsome slopes of ploughed fields, through scrub and brake. We saw the hamlet of Klein Aupa and the Golden Valley on the right. When, after awhile, _Schneekoppe_ came in sight, it appeared from this side to be the crest of a long, gradually-rising earth-wave. After about an hour and a half of brisk walking, we came to a brow, from which the ground fell steeply to a homely, straggling village, embosomed in trees, beneath. "There, that's Schatzlar," said Hübner's man, and, pointing to a lane that twisted down the slope, "that's the way to it." Hübner's man plays knavish tricks. On descending into the village I found it to be Kunzendorf: however, it was on the right way, and another two miles brought me to Schatzlar, a village of one street, the houses irregular; high, dark, wooden gables, resting on a low, whitewashed ground story, lit by shabby little windows. Here I took a road on the left, leading to Bernsdorf, from which, as it rises, you can presently look back upon the striped hill behind Schatzlar, the castle, now tenanted by the _Bezirksrichter_, and the beechen woods where the Bober takes its rise: a stream that flows northwards and falls into the Oder. Beech woods adorn this part of the country, and relieve the dark slopes of firs which here and there border the landscape; and everywhere you see signs of careful cultivation. After passing Bernsdorf--a village on the high road to Trautenau--I fell in with a weaver, and we walked together to Altendorf. A right talkative fellow did he prove himself; a barefoot philosopher, clad in a loose garment of coarse baize. He lived at Kunzendorf, where he kept his loom going while work was to be had, and, when it wasn't, did the best he could without. Thought a dollar a week tidy wages; a dollar and a half, jolly; and two dollars, wonderfully happy. Never ate meat; never expected it, and so didn't fret about it. Bread, soup, and a glass of beer at the _Wirthshaus_ in the evening, was all he could get, and a weaver who got that had not much to complain of. All this was said in a free, hearty tone, that left me no reason to doubt its sincerity. The country was no longer what it had been. Twelve years ago the land to the right and left, all the way from Schatzlar, was covered with forest; now it was all fields, and every year the fields spread wider, and up the hills; and though firewood was dearer, potatoes, beetroot, and rye were more plentiful; and that seemed only fair, because every year more mouths opened and wanted food. For every cottage we passed my philosopher had a joke; something about the bees' humming-tops, or frogs' hams, that sent the inmates into roars of laughter. I invited him to eat bread and cheese with me at Altendorf: he stared, gave a whoop of surprise, and accepted. Of all the large rooms I had yet seen in a public-house the one in the _Wirthshaus_ here was the largest; spacious enough for a town-hall. The groined and vaulted ceiling rests on tall, massive pillars; four chandeliers hang by long strings; in one corner stands a two-wheeled truck; an enormous bread-trough; platter-shaped baskets filled with flour, and a mountain of washing utensils. Trencher-cap brought us two glasses of beer--tall glasses, to match the room, vase-like in form, and fifteen inches high at least. The beer was of the colour of porter, and, as I thought, of a very disagreeable flavour; but the weaver took a hearty pull, smacked his lips, and pronounced it better than Bavarian, or _Stohnsdorfer_, or any other kind. That was the sort they always drank at Kunzendorf, and wholesome stuff it was; meat and drink too. He emptied my glass after his own--for one taste was enough for me--and then, as he bade me good-bye, and went his way, he expressed a hope that he might meet with an Englishman every time he took the same walk. From Altendorf a short cut by intricate paths over a wooded hill saves nearly two miles in the distance to Adersbach. It is a pretty walk, up and down slopes gay with loosestrife--_Steinrosen_, as the country folk call it--and among rocks, of which one of the largest is known as the _Gott und Vater Stein_. You emerge in a shallow valley, at Upper Adersbach, and follow the road downwards, past low-shingled cottages, the fronts coloured yellow with white stripes, the shutters blue, and all the rearward portion showing white stripes along the joints of the old dark wood, and crossing on the ends of the beams. The eaves are not more than six feet from the ground, so that where the house stands back in a garden, it is half buried by apple-trees and scarlet-runners, and the cabbages and flowers look in at the windows. The people are as rustic as their dwellings. Ask a question, and a blunt "_Was?_" is the first word in answer; no "_Wie meinen sie?_" as in other places. Good Papists, nevertheless, for they stop and recite a prayer before one of the gaudy crucifixes, which, surrounded by angels bearing inscribed tablets, or ornamented by pictures of the Virgin and St. Anne, stand within a wooden fence at the roadside here and there along the village. The valley narrows, and presently you see strange masses of stone peering from the fir-wood on the right, more and more numerous, till at length the rock prevails, and the trees grow only in gaps and clefts. The masses present astonishing varieties of the columnar form, some tall and upright, others broken and leaning; and looking across the intervening breadth of meadow, you can imagine doorways, porticos, colonnades, and grotesque sculptures. Here and there, fronting the rest, stands a semicircular mass, as it were a huge grindstone, one half buried in the earth, or a pile that looks like a weatherbeaten, buttressed wall; and, raised by the slope of the ground, you see the tops of other masses, continuing away to the rear. The spectacle grows yet more striking, for the height and dimensions of the rocks increase as you advance. About a mile onwards and a short range of similar rocks appears isolated in a wood on the left. Here a whitewashed gateway bestrides the road--the entrance to the _Gasthaus zur Felsenstadt_ (Rock-City Inn), resorted to every year by hundreds of visitors. Old Hübner was clearly mistaken. In seven hours of easy walking I had accomplished the distance from Grenzbäuden, and was ready, after half an hour's rest, to explore the wonders of Adersbach. The custom of the place is, that you shall take a guide whether or no, pay him a fee for his trouble, and another for admission besides; and to carry it out, a staff of guides are always at the service of visitors. Their costume is the same as that of the mountain guides--boots, buttons, hat and feather, and velveteen. You may wait and join a party if you like: I preferred going alone. The meadow behind the house is planted with trees forming shady walks. Here the guide calls your attention to two outlying masses, one of which he names _Rubezahl_, the other the Sleeping Woman. He talks naturally when he talks, but when he describes or names anything he does it in the showman's style--"Look to the left and there you see Admiral Lyons a-bombardin' of Sebastopol," &c.; and so frequent and sudden were these changes of voice and manner, that at last I could not help laughing at them, even in places where laughter was by no means appropriate. We crossed the brook--_Adersbach_--to an opening about forty feet broad, which forms an approach to the Rock City that makes a deep impression on you, and excites your expectations. It is an avenue bordered on either side by the remains of such buildings and monuments as we saw specimens of in the mountains on our way hither, only here the Cyclopean architects worked on a greater scale, and crowded their edifices together. Here, indeed, was their metropolis; and this the grand entrance, where now vegetation clothes the ruin with beauty. The road is soft and sandy: everywhere nothing but sand underfoot. The objects increase in magnitude as we proceed. Great masses of cliff look down on us, their sides and summit clothed with young trees--beech, birch, fir, growing from every crevice. The sand accumulated round their base forms a broad, sloping plinth, overgrown with long grass, creeping weeds, and bushes, through which run little paths leading to caverns, vaults, and passages in the rock. Some of the caverns are formed by great fragments fallen one against the other; some in the solid rock have the smooth and worn appearance produced by the action of the water, as in cliffs on the sea-shore; the galleries and passages are similarly formed; but here and there you see that the mighty rock has been split from head to foot by some shock which separated the halves but a few inches, leaving evidence of their former union in the corresponding inequalities of the broken surfaces. Presently we step forth into a meadow from which a stripe of open country undulates away between the bordering forest. Here, where the path turns to the left, you see the Sugarloaf, a huge detached rock some eighty feet high, rising out of a pond. Either it is an inverted sugarloaf, or you may believe that the base is being gradually dissolved by the water. Here, contrasted with the smooth green surface, you can note the abrupt outline of the rocks and its similarity to that of a line of sea-cliffs. Here are capes, headlands, spits, bays, coves, basins, and outlying rocks, reefs, and islets; but with the difference that here every crevice is full of trees and foliage, and branches overtop the crests of the loftiest. As yet we have seen but a suburb; now, having crossed the meadow, we enter the main city of the rocky labyrinth, and the guide, ever with theatrical tone and attitude, sets to work in earnest. He points out the Pulpit, the Twins, the Giant's Glove, the Chimney, the Gallows, the Burgomaster's Head; and bids you note that the latter wears a periwig, and has a snub nose. Some of these are close to the path, others distant, and only to be seen through the openings, or over the top of the nearer masses. The resemblance to a human head is remarkably frequent, always at the top of a column. I discovered Lord Brougham's profile, and advised the guide to remember it for the benefit of future visitors. Now the rocks are higher; they crowd close on the path, and presently we come to a narrow passage through a tremendous cliff, where further progress is barred by a door. And here you discover the use of the guide. Before unlocking, he holds out his hand for the twenty-kreutzer fee, which every one must pay for admittance; his own fee will be an after consideration. He then shows you the figure of a Whale in the face of the cliff on the left, then you cross the wooden bridge, and are locked in, as before you were locked out. There is, however, a free way through the water. The little brook that flows so prettily by the side of the path out to the entrance, comes through a vault in the cliff, about thirty yards, and by stooping you can see the glimmer of light from the far end. Three women came that way with bundles of firewood on their backs, and they wade it every time they go in quest of fuel. The water is less than a foot in depth. The passage is narrow and gloomy between the cliffs. As we emerge, the guide, pointing to a tall rock two hundred and fifty feet in height, names it the Elizabeth Tower of Breslau. Then comes the Breslau Wool-market, from a fancied resemblance in the surrounding rocks to woolsacks. Not far off are the Tables of Moses, the Shameless Maiden, St. John the Baptist, the Tiger's Snout, the Backbone, a long broken column, which forms a disjointed vertebræ. A long list of names might be given were it desirable. For the most part the resemblances are not at all fanciful; in some instances so complete, that you can scarcely believe the handiwork to be Nature's own. She was, however, sole artificer. We come to a small grassy oasis, where a damsel offers you a goblet of water from the Silver Spring, and invites you to buy crystals or cakes at her stall. The guide shows you the Little Waterfall, a feeder of the brook struggling in a crevice, and conducts you by a steep, rocky path to a cavern into which the Great Waterfall tumbles from a height of about sixty feet. The rocky sides converge as they rise, and leave an opening of a few feet at the apex through which the water falls into a shallow pool beneath. The margin of this pool, a narrow ledge, is the standing-place. The quantity of water is not great, but it makes a pretty cascade down the rugged side of the darksome cavern. After you have looked at it for a minute or two, the guide blows a shrill whistle, and before you have time to ask what it means, the gloom is suddenly deepened. You look up in surprise. The mouth of the cavern is entirely filled by a torrent which in another second will be down upon your head. You cannot start back if you would; the rock prevents, and in an instant you see that the water makes its plunge with scarcely a splash on the brim of the pool. Artificial improvement of waterfalls affords me but little pleasure. Here, however, the effect was so surprising that, as the water gleamed and danced in the dusky cavern, and the rushing roar and rapid gurgle at the outlet filled the place with loud reverberations, and the light spray imparted a sense of coolness, I was made to feel there might be an exception. In our further wanderings we met sundry parties of visitors all led by guides who had the same theatrical trick as mine. You return by the same way to the locked door; but explorations are being made to discover a new route among objects sufficiently striking. Outside the door all is free, and you may roam and make discoveries at pleasure. There are steep gullies which lead into very wild places, where for want of bridges, galleries, and beaten paths, the labour and fatigue of exploration are sensibly multiplied. In June, 1844, as inscribed on one of the stones, a waterspout burst over Adersbach, and flooded all the tortuous ways among the rocks to a depth of nine feet. Another inscription records the escape of two Englishmen in 1709. They were sheltering from a thunderstorm, when the rock under which they stood was struck by lightning, and the summit shattered without their receiving harm from the falling lumps. Inscriptions of another sort abound--the initials, or entire name and address, of hundreds of visitors, who with chisel or black paint have thought it worth while to let posterity know of their visit to Adersbach. Some ambitious beyond the ordinary, have climbed up thirty or forty feet to carve the capital letters. CHAPTER XXIII. The Echo -- Wonderful Orchestra -- Magical Music -- A _Feu de joie_ -- The Oration -- The Voices -- Echo and the Humourist -- Satisfying the Guide -- Exploring the Labyrinth -- Curious Discoveries -- Speculations of Geologists -- Bohemia an Inland Sea -- Marble Labyrinth in Spain -- A Twilight View -- After a'. "Will it please you to walk to the echo?" asks the guide, when we come back to the meadow. And if you assent--as every one does--he turns to the left and leads you up the open ground above-mentioned to a small temple--the Echo House. You see a man standing near the house playing a clarionet, pausing now and then to recite; but no answering note or word do you hear. But take your seat on the bench against that perpendicular rock on his right, and immediately you hear a whole orchestra of wind instruments among the rocks. Such delicious music! Soft, wild, warbling, rising and falling, melting one into the other in a way that you fancy could only be accomplished by a band of Kobolds with _Rübezahl_ for a leader. And when the player blows short phrases with pauses between, what mocking sprite is that who imitates the sound, flitting from crevice to crevice repeating the tones over and over again, fainter and fainter, till they seem not to die away, but to float out of hearing? Then his companion comes forward and fires a gun, a signal, so you might believe, for a great discharge of musketry among the rocks, platoon after platoon firing a _feu de joie_. One--two--three--four! The two men hold up their hands to signify--Listen yet! then comes the rattle of the fifth round from the short range of rocks which we saw on the left while coming down the valley; and the firing commenced by the troops in camp is ended by the outposts. Then one of the men makes a short oration about the wonders here grouped by which Nature attracts man from afar and fills him with joy and astonishment; voices repeat the oration among the rocks, and then--he comes to you for his fee. For the gunshot the tax is eight kreutzers; and if you give eight more for the music and oration, the two echo-keepers will not look unhappy. And now, if still incredulous, you may talk to the echo yourself. My test was perfectly convincing, for it woke up a dozen cuckoos among the rocks. When Schulze, the humourist already mentioned, was here, he questioned the mysterious voice concerning political matters, and got unhesitating answers. For example: _Philosopher._ "Wie steht's um Hellas? _Echo._ Helas! Helas! Helas! Wat hältst du von Russels Worte? Worte! Worte! Worte! Wat fehlt in Hessen? Essen! Essen! Essen! Was möchten gern die Wallachen? Lachen! lachen! lachen! Fließt dort (in Russia) nicht Milch und Honig? Jo nich! jo nich! jo nich! Wann kommt Deutschland zur Harmonie? O nie! O nie! O nie! Es fehlt ja man eene Kleinigkeit? Einigkeit! Einigkeit! Einigkeit!" Unluckily, the points would all become blunt if translated; I am constrained, therefore, to leave them in the original. My guide waited to be "satisfied." I asked him what amount of fee he usually received? "Sometimes," he answered, "I get a dollar." "But commonly not more than ten kreutzers?" "_M--m--ja_, that is true." "Then what would you say to fifteen kreutzers?" "Sir, I would say that I wish such as you would come every day to Adersbach." He left me fully "satisfied." And so, reader, you see that the picturesque is burdened with a tariff in Bohemia as it is in certain parts of England, Scotland, and Wales. I went back to the rocks. The locked door does not shut in all the wonders, and there are miles which you may explore freely. But unless you stick a branch here and there into the sand, or "blaze" the trees, you will never find your way out again. The great height of the rocks surprises you not less than their amazing number. They are intersected by blind alleys, open alleys, and lanes innumerable, intertwisting and crossing in all directions. Many a cavern, den, and grotto will you see, and many a delightful sylvan retreat, where the solitude is perfect; many a bower which is presently lost. Now you are overcome by wonder, now by awe, for thoughts will come to you of great rock cities and temples smitten by judgments; of the giant race that warred with the gods and were slain by thunder-bolts; of those who worshipped stones and burnt sacrifice on the loftiest rocks. A few paces farther, and seeing how tall trees grow everywhere among the stony masses, how smaller trees and shrubs shoot from the crevices, and moss enwraps pillar and buttress, and fringes the cliffs, you will think of Nature's silent revolutions; of the ages that rolled away while the labyrinth of Adersbach was formed. Here, so say the geologists, currents of water running for innumerable years, have worn out channels in the softer parts of a wide stratum of sandstone, and produced the effects we now witness. The stratum must have been great, for the rocks extend, more or less crowded, away to the _Heuscheuer_, a distance of three or four leagues. The mountain itself presents similar phenomena even on its summit. A supposition prevails, based on much observation, that the whole of Bohemia was once covered by a vast lake, or inland sea. The conformation of the country, its ring-fence of mountains--whence the term _Kessel Land_ (Kettle Land) among the Germans--broken only where the Elbe flows out, while almost every stream within the territory finds its way into that river, besides the fossil deposits so abundantly met with, are facts urged by the learned in favour of their views. It may have been during the existence of this great sea that the rocks were formed. It might be interesting to inquire whether the rocky labyrinth at Torcal, not far from Antequera, in Spain, presents phenomena similar to those of Adersbach. The rocks, as I have read, are of marble, covering a great extent of ground in groupings singularly picturesque. It was dusk when I had finished my prowl, for such it was, accompanied by much scrambling. Then I climbed to the top of one of the outlying crags for a view across the maze, and when I saw the numerous gray heads peering out from the feathery fir-tops, here and there a bastion, a broken pillar, and weather-stained tower, the fancy once more possessed me that here was a city of the giants--its walls thrown down, its buildings destroyed, and its rebellious inhabitants turned to stone. Gradually the hoary rocks looked spectral-like, for the dusk increased, the clouds gathered heavily, and rain began to fall. I walked back to the inn, feeling deeply the force of the Ettrick Shepherd's words, "After a', what is any description by us puir creturs o' the works o' the great God?" CHAPTER XXIV. Baked Chickens -- A Discussion -- Weckelsdorf -- More Rocks -- The Stone of Tears -- Death's Alley -- Diana's Bath -- The Minster -- Gang of Coiners -- The Bohdanetskis -- Going to Church -- Another Silesian View -- Good-bye to Bohemia -- Schömberg -- Silesian Faces and Costume -- Picturesque Market-place -- Ueberschar Hills -- Ullersdorf -- An amazed Weaver -- Liebau -- Cheap Cherries -- The Prussian Simplon -- Ornamented Houses -- Buchwald -- The Bober -- Dittersbach -- Schmiedeberg -- Rübezahl's Trick upon Travellers -- Tourists' Rendezvous -- The Duellists' Successors -- Erdmannsdorf -- Tyrolese Colony. As _Grenzbäuden_ is renowned for Hungarian wine, so is Adersbach for baked chickens, and every guest, unless he be a greenhorn, eats two for supper. They are very relishing, and quite small enough to prevent any breach of your moderate habit. Visitors were numerous: some reading their guide-books, some beginning supper, some finishing, some rounding up the evening with another bottle--for Hungarian is to be had in Adersbach. A party near me sat discussing with much animation the demerits of the taxes which impoverish, and of the beggars who importune, travellers around the City of the Rocks, and they drew an inference that the landlord's charges would not be parsimonious. Then they wandered off into the question of temperature--the temperature of _Schneekoppe_. Not one of them had yet trodden old Snowhead, so they went on guessing at the question, till I mentioned that it had been very cold up there in the morning. "In the morning! This morning? _Heut_, mean you?" "Yes, this very morning; for I was up there." "_Heut! Heut! Heut! Heut!_" ejaculated one after another, the last apparently more surprised than the first. "Yes, this very day." They would not believe it. I took up a sprig of heather from the side of my plate, which I had gathered on _Schwarzkoppe_, and showed them that as a token; and explained that the distance was, after all, not so very great, and might have been shortened had I descended directly from the _Koppe_ into the _Riesengrund_, and laid my course through the village of Dorngrund. They believed then; but having travelled the road prescribed to me by Father Hübner, could not imagine the distance from the mountain to be but about twenty miles. By rising early the next morning, when all was bright and fresh and the dust laid by the night's rain, I got time for another stroll among the rocks, and to walk two miles farther down the valley to Weckelsdorf, where another part of the rocky labyrinth is explorable. The rocks here are on a greater scale than at Adersbach, and rising on the slope of a hill, their romantic effect is increased, as also the difficulty of wandering among them. The proprietor, Count von Nummerskirch, has, however, taken pains to render them accessible by bridges, galleries, and stairs. A sitting figure, whose head-dress resembles that of the maidens of Braunau, is named the Bride of Braunau; near her is the Stone of Tears; the _Todtengasse_ (Death's Alley) is never illumined by a ray of sunshine; there is the Cathedral, and near it Diana's Bath; and at last the Minster, a natural temple, the roof a lofty pointed arch, where, while you walk up and down in the dim light, an organ fills the place with a burst of sound. It is sometimes called the Mint, or Money Church, because of a gang of coiners having once made it their head-quarters. The rocks have been a hiding-place for others as well as rogues. During the Hussite wars, many families found a refuge within their intricate recesses, little liable to a surprise, at a time when entrance was hardly possible owing to the numerous obstructions. As at Adersbach, there is a fee to pay for unlocking a door; there is an echo which answers the guide's voice, his pistol and horn, and has to be paid for. Nevertheless, you will neither regret the outlay of time and kreutzers in your visit to Weckelsdorf. If able to prolong your stay, you may take an excursion of a few hours to the _Heuscheuer_, and see a smaller Adersbach on its very summit--the highest of these extraordinary rock-formations. Or there is the ruin of Bischoffstein, within an easy walk, once the stronghold of the Bohdanetski family, who held half a score of castles around the neighbourhood, and made themselves obnoxious by their Protestantism and robberies, and envied for their wealth. They suffered at times by siege and onslaught from their neighbours, and at length their castles were demolished, and forty-seven Bohdanetskis and adherents were hanged by the emperor's command. The rest of the family, it is said, took flight, and settled in England. Is Baddenskey, who sits wearily at his loom down there in joyless Spitalfields, a descendant? I returned to the _Felsenstadt_ for my knapsack. For supper, bed, and breakfast the charge was equal to three and threepence, in which was included an extra fifteen kreutzers for the bedroom, which I had insisted on having all to myself. When guests are very numerous they have to sleep four in a room. Take your change in Prussian money, for "_Kaiserliches geld_," as the folk here call it--that is, imperial money--will not be current where you stop to dine. I retraced my steps for about a mile along the road by which I came yesterday, and at the church took a road branching off to the right. It leads through Ober Adersbach. The villagers were going to church: the men wearing tall polished boots and jackets, the women with their heads ungracefully muffled in red, blue, green, or yellow kerchiefs, and displaying broad, showy skirts and aprons, and clean white stockings. Now and then came an exception: a man in a light-blue jacket, and loose, baggy breeches; a woman with a stiff-starched head-dress, not unlike those worn in Normandy. The road continually rises, and by-and-by you cannot tell the main track from the byeways among the cottages. Still ascending, however, you come out a short distance farther on the brow of a precipitous hill, where you are agreeably surprised by another Silesian view--broad, rolling fields of good red land, bearing vetches, clover, flax, and barley, the little town of Schömberg in their midst, and always hills on the horizon. From the brow, a deep lane and a path through the fir-wood on the cliffy hill-side, lead you down to the road where finger-posts, painted black and white, indicate that we have exchanged the Austrian eagle for the Prussian. I must have crossed the frontier two or three times yesterday and to-day, but I saw no custom-house anywhere, and no guards, except at _Grenzbäuden_. Other signs showed me on nearing Schömberg that I had left Bohemia. The men are tall, of sallow complexion, and angular face. They wear long dark-blue coats and boots up to their knees, and stiff blue caps with a broad crown, and they carry pink or blue umbrellas. The women wear the same colour, and do not look attractive; and there is an _Evangelische Kirche_, in which the preaching is of Protestant faith and doctrine. The town has two thousand inhabitants, some of whom dwell in houses that are a pleasure to look upon, around the market-place. The gables--no two alike--are painted pale green, white, gray, or yellow, and what with the ornaments, the broken outlines, and arcades of wood and brick, the great square makes up a better picture than is to be seen in many a famous city. Although Sunday, the mill turned by the Kratzbach clacks briskly; there are stalls of fruit, bread, and toys under the arcades, and by the side of two or three wagons in the centre a group of blue-coated men. They look sedate, and talk very quietly, as if they felt the day were not for work. From hence the road, planted with beeches, limes, and mountain-ash, leads across well-cultivated fields, and between wooded slopes of the Ueberschar hills to Ullersdorf, where _Schneekoppe_ is seen peeping over a dark ridge on the left. I asked one of the weavers who inhabit here if he earned two dollars a week. "_Gott bewahr!_" he exclaimed, opening his eyes and holding up his hands apparently in utter amazement, "that would be too gladsome (_frolich_). No; I can be thankful for one dollar." Content with one dollar a week, which means a perpetual diet of rye bread and potatoes. Liebau and Schömberg, about five miles apart, are in many respects twin towns. If Liebau has not a strikingly picturesque market-place, nor a reputation for _Knackwürsten_ (smoked sausage), it has a new Protestant church, some good paintings in the Romish church, and a _Kreuzberg_, once the resort of thousands of pilgrims. The neighbouring _Tartarnberg_ was, according to tradition, the site of a Tartar camp in 1241. Rusty, half-decayed horseshoes and arrow-heads are still found at times upon it. After dining at the _Sonne_, I bought a dessert at a stall under the arcade: the woman gave me nearly a gallon of cherries for three-halfpence, with which I started for Schmiedeberg, ten miles farther. Numbers of villagers were walking on the road, all the women bedecked with pink aprons, and looking healthy and happy. Perhaps out of twenty or more chubby-faced children, who manifested a lively appetite for fruit, two or three will remember that they met a strange man who gave them a handful of cherries, and how that their mothers became all of a sudden eloquent with thanks, and bade them kiss their hands, and do something pretty. Unluckily, by the time I had gone two miles there was an end of the cherries. The road runs between the _Schmiedeberger Kamm_ and the _Landeshuter Kamm_. The main road, which crosses the latter from Schmiedeberg to Landeshut, is called the Prussian or Silesian Simplon, for it is the highest macadamized road in Prussia, its summit being at an elevation of more than 2200 feet. Extra horses are required to pass it; and the saying goes that millions of dollars have been paid on a stone at the top, known as the _Vorspannsteine_. Among rural objects you see huge barns; a tiled roof resting on tall, square pillars of brick, the intervals between which are boarded. And here and there a farm, with all the homestead enclosed by a high whitewashed wall, which has two arched entrances. The cottages are low, their roofs a combination of thatch and shingle, their shutters an exhibition of rustic art, bright red, with an ornamental wreath in the centre of the panels; and the wooden column, on which a saint stands by the wayside, displays a flowery spiral on a ground of lively green. To a man who was leaning over his gate, I said that it was very stupid to mar the effect of such artistic decorations by a slushy midden at the front door. "We don't think so: we are used to it," was his answer. Now and then you meet a little low wagon, the tilt-hoops painted blue, and the harness glittering with numerous rings and small round plates of brass. In the village of Buchwald the mill was at work, and the men were busy at the grindstone grinding their scythe-blades in readiness for the morrow. Here we come upon the Bober, grown to a lively stream, running along the edge of the far-spreading meadows on the left. About half a mile farther a wagon-track slants off to the right, making a short cut over the _Kamm_ to Schmiedeberg. It leads you by pleasant ways along hill-sides, across fields and meadows, into lonely vales and solitary lanes, that end on shaggy heather slopes. To me the walk was delightful, for uninterrupted sunshine, a merry breeze, and rural peace, favourable to the luxury of idle thought, lent a charm to pretty scenery. From Dittersbach the road ascends the _Passberg_, which, on the farther side, sends down a steep descent to Schmiedeberg. The town lies in a deep valley, and is so long from one extremity of its scattered outskirts to the other that you will be nearly an hour in walking through it, while, for the most part, it is little more than one street in width. It has an ancient look, and, owing to the many gardens and bleaching-grounds among the houses, combines country with town. The _Rathhaus_ is a fine specimen of tasteful architecture. From working in iron, the Schmiedebergers have turned to the making of shawls and plush, and the entertainment of holiday travellers. The iron trade began in an adventure on the _Riesengebirge_. Two men were crossing the mountains, when one, whose shoes were thickly nailed, found himself suddenly held fast on the stony path, unable to advance or return. He shook with terror. What else could it be than a spell thrown over him by _Rübezahl_? At length, by the other's assistance, he broke the spell; and the two having brought away with them the stone of detention, it was recognised as magnetic iron stone; and already, in the twelfth century, iron works were established, around which Schmiedeberg grew into a town. It now numbers four thousand inhabitants. Hither come tourists from far to see the mountains; and during your half hour's rest at the _Schwarzes Ross_, you will be amused by witnessing the eager manifestations of the newly-arrived, their exuberant gestures while bargaining with a guide, and the liberal way--the bargain once made--in which they load him with rugs, cloaks, coats, caps, bonnets, bags, bundles, umbrellas, parasols, and other travelling gear, until he carries a mountain on his own shoulders. Besides the trip to _Schneekoppe_, some mount to the great beech-tree and the _Friesenstein_, on the _Landeshuter Kamm_; or visit the laboratories at Krummhübel, where liqueurs, oils, and essences, are distilled and prepared from native plants: chemical operations first set on foot in 1700 by a few students of medicine who fled from Prague to escape the consequences of a duel. And some go beyond Krummhübel to look at Wolfshau, a place in the entrance of the _Melzergrund_, so shut in by wooded hills that it never sees the sun during December. And some to the village of Steinseifen, where, among iron-workers and herbalists, dwell skilful wood-carvers; one of whom for a small fee exhibits a large model of the _Riesengebirge_--a specimen of his own handiwork. On the left, as you leave Schmiedeberg, is the Ruheberg, a small castle standing in a bosky park belonging to a Polish prince, where the townsfolk find pleasant walks. Two miles farther, and the leafy slopes of Buchwald appear on the right, embowering another castle, and a park laid out in the English style, and with such advantages of position, among which are fifty-four ponds, that it has become an elysium for the neighbourhood. Once clear of the town, and the mountain-range opens on the left--rounded heights, ridges, scars, and peaks stretching away for miles on either side of the _Koppe_. Another hour, and turning from the main road which runs on to Hirschberg, you see houses scattered about the plain, built in the Alpine style, with outside stair and galleries, and broad eaves. We are in the village of Erdmannsdorf--the asylum granted by the King of Prussia to about a hundred Tyrolese families, who, in 1838, had to quit their native country for conscience' sake. They were Protestants hated by their bigoted neighbours, and disliked by the priests; and so became exiles. Nowhere else in Prussia could they have seen mountains at all approaching in grandeur those which look down on their native valley, and yet they must at first have deeply mourned the difference. Remembering my former year's experiences, I wished to find myself once more among the Tyrolese. True enough, there they were in their picturesque costume, in striking contrast with the Silesians; but there was a degenerate look about the _Wirthshaus_, as if they had forgotten their original cleanliness, which repelled me, and I went on to the _Schweizerhaus_, a large inn near the royal _Schloss_. As usual, it was overfull, so great is the throng of visitors, and I had to try in another direction, which brought me to the _Gasthof und Gerichtskretscham_, where the landlord promised me a bed if I would not mind sleeping in the billiard-room. CHAPTER XXV. Schnaps and Sausage -- Dresdener upon Berliners -- The Prince's Castle at Fischbach -- A Home for the Princess Royal -- Is the Marriage Popular? -- View from the Tower -- Tradition of the Golden Donkey -- Royal Palace at Erdmannsdorf -- A Miniature Chatsworth -- The Zillerthal -- Käse and Brod -- Stohnsdorf -- Famous Beer -- Rischmann's Cave -- Prophecies -- Warmbrunn. At Fischbach, in a pleasant valley, about an hour's walk from Erdmannsdorf, stands a castle belonging to Prince Wilhelm of Prussia, which is shown to curious tourists. A Dresdener, who thought it worth the trouble of the walk, asked me to accompany him next morning, and we started after an early breakfast. Early as it was a party of Silesian peasants were breaking their fast with _Schnaps_, sausage, and rye bread. Think of _Schnaps_ and sausage at seven in the morning! The Dresdener beguiled the way by laughing at the peculiarities of three Berliners, whom we had left behind at the _Gasthof_. A Prussian cockney, he said, was sure to betray himself as soon as he began to talk, for nothing would satisfy him but the most exalted superlatives. "When you hear," he continued, "a man talk of a thing as gigantic-- incomprehensibly beautiful--ravishingly excellent--insignificantly scarcely visible--set him down at once as a Berliner. You heard those three last night, how they went on; as we say in our country, hanging their hats on the topmost pegs. Yracious yoodness! what yiyantic yabble!" And the Saxon cockney laughed as heartily at his own wit as if it had been good enough for _Punch_. The castle is an old possession of the Knights Templars, repaired and beautified. It has towers and turrets, and windows of quaint device; a small inner court, and a surrounding moat spanned by a bridge at the entrance. Outside the moat are shady walks and avenues of limes, and the gardens, which did not come up to my notion of what is royal either in fruits or flowers. With plantations on the hills around, and in the park, the whole place has a pleasant bowery aspect. As we crossed the bridge, there seemed something inhospitable in the sight of two large cannon guarding the entrance; but the portress told us they were trophies from Afghanistan, captured at the battle in which Prince Waldemar was wounded--a present from the British government. The fittings of the room are mostly of varnished pine, to which the furniture and hangings do no violence. There are a few good paintings, among them a portrait of the Queen of Bavaria, which you will remember for beauty above all the rest; nor will you easily forget the marble head copied from the statue of Queen Louisa in the mausoleum at Charlottenburg. From looking at the rarities, the portress called us to hear the singing of an artificial bird, and seemed somewhat disappointed that we did not regard it as the greatest curiosity of all. "A snug little place," said the Dresdener, as we walked from room to room. "Not quite what your Princess Royal has been used to, perhaps; but she will be able to pass summer holidays here agreeably enough." And quickly the question followed: "But what do you think of the marriage in England. Is it very popular?" "Not very," I answered; "your Prussian Prince would have stood no chance had the King of Sardinia only been a Protestant. Nothing but her wholesome ingredient of Protestantism saves Prussia from becoming an offence to English nostrils." "_So-o-o-o-o!_" ejaculated the Dresdener, while he made pointed arches of his eyebrows. "That sounds pretty in the Prince's own castle." We went to the top of the tower, and looked out on the domain, the mountain chain, and the encircling hills--among which the rocky Falkenstein--the climbing test of adventurous tourists--rises conspicuous. According to tradition, great things are in store for the quiet little village of Fischbach; it is destined to grow into a city. In the _Kittnerberg_, a neighbouring hill, a golden donkey is some day to be found, and when found the city is forthwith to start up, and the finder to be chosen first burgomaster. Erdmannsdorf, once the estate of brave old Gneisenau, was bought by the former King Frederick William III., who built in a style combining Moorish and Gothic the _Schloss_, or palace, which, with its charming grounds and bronze statues of men-at-arms at the entrance keeping perpetual guard with battle-axes, rivals the Tyrolese and their houses in attracting visitors. No barriers separate the grounds from the public road, and you may walk where you please along the broad sandy paths, under tall groves, through luxuriant shrubberies, round rippling lakes, and by streams which here and there tumble over rocky dams. The place is a miniature Chatsworth, with its model village. Within the limits of the smooth green turf and well-kept walks stands the church, an edifice with a tall square tower in the Byzantine style. The palace, too, has a tall tower, from the top of which, on our return to Erdmannsdorf--that is the Dresdener and I--we got a view of the royal domain, and the scattered houses of the Tyrolese, and always in the background the _Riesengebirge_. Remembering their native valley, the Tyrolese named their settlement Zillerthal, and many a one comes here expecting to see a romantic valley. But all immediately beneath your eye is a great plain watered by the Lomnitz--the stream which flows out of the Big Pond up in the mountains--cut up by fields and meadows, crowded with trees around the palace, and in the deer-park adjoining. Only in Ober-Zillerthal, which lies nearer to the mountains, do the colonists have the pleasure of ascending or descending in their walks. The Tyrolese themselves built their first house entirely of wood, after the old manner; and this served as model for all the rest, which, with stone walls for the lower story, have been erected at the king's expense. The colonists find occupation in cattle-breeding and field-work, or in the great linen factory, the tall chimney of which is seen from far across the plain; and are well cared for in means of education and religious worship. In their _Friedhof_ you may see the first Tyrolese grave, the resting-place of Jacob Egger, a blind old man of eighty-three, who died soon after the immigration. Not far from the palace is a singular group of rocks named _Käse und Brod_ (_Cheese and Bread_), on the way to which you pass a stone quarry, where you can pick up fine crystals of quartz, and see men digging feldspar for the china-manufacturers at Berlin. Here I parted from the Dresdener and took the road to Warmbrunn--about six miles distant. Half way, at the foot of the rocky _Prudelberg_, lies the village of Stohnsdorf, famed for its beer; and not without reason. But while you drink a glass, the landlord will tell you that clever folk in distant places--Berlin or Dresden--damage the fame by selling bottled _Stohnsdorfer_ brewed from the waters of the Spree or Elbe. If inclined for a scramble up the _Prudelberg_, take a peep into Rischmann's Cave among the rocks, for from thence, in 1630, the prophet Rischmann delivered his predictions with loud voice and wild gestures. He was a poor weaver, who fancied himself inspired, and, although struck dumb in 1613, could always find speech when he had anything to foretel. Woe to Hirschberg was the burden of his prophecy: war, pestilence, and famine! The tower of the council-house should fall, and the stream of the Zacken stand still. Honour and reverence awaited the weaver, for everything came to pass as he had foretold. The Thirty Years' War brought pestilence and famine; the tower did fall down; and the Zacken being one of those rivers with an intermittent flow, its stream was subject to periodical repose. After frequent ups and downs, you come to the brow of a hill which overlooks a broad sweep of the Hirschbergerthal, and the little town of Warmbrunn, chief among Silesian spas--lying cheerfully where the valley spreads itself out widest towards the mountains. You will feel tempted to sit down for awhile and gaze on the view--for it has many pleasing features--touches of the romantic with the pastoral, and the town itself wearing an unsophisticated look. Seume said of the Hirschberg Valley--"Seldom finds one a more delightful corner of the earth; seldom better people." CHAPTER XXVI. The Three Berliners -- Strong Beer -- Origin of Warmbrunn -- St. John the Baptist's Day -- Count Schaffgotsch -- A Benefactor -- A Library -- Something about Warmbrunn -- The Baths -- Healing Waters -- The Allée -- Visitors -- Russian Popes -- The Museum -- Trophies -- View of the Mountains -- The Kynast -- Cunigunda and her Lovers -- Served her right -- The Two Breslauers -- Oblatt -- The Baths in the Mountains. I had gone a little way along the street when I heard voices crying, "_Eng-lischmann! Eng-lischmann! Eng-lischmann!_" and, looking about, I saw the three Berliners at the window of an hotel. "You must come up!" "You must come up!" "You must come up!" cried one after the other; so up I went. We had half an hour of yood-natured yossip about our morning's adventures, not forgetting the merits of Stohnsdorf; and one of them said something about the famous beer that justified the Dresdener's criticism. "Isn't it yood? Isn't it strong? Why it is so strong that if you pour some into your hand, and hold it shut for ten minutes, you can never open it ayain!" The old story. Some time in the twelfth century, Duke Boleslaw IV., while out hunting, struck the trail of a deer, and following it, was led to a _Warmbrunn_ (Warm Spring), in which, as by signs appeared, the animals used to bathe. The duke bathed too, and perhaps with benefit; for near by he built a chapel, and dedicated it to the patron saint of Silesia--John the Baptist. The news spread, even in those days; and with it a belief that on St. John's Day the healing properties of the spring were miraculously multiplied. Hence, on the 24th of June, sick folk came from far and near to bathe in the blessed water, and some, thanks to the energy of their belief, went away cured. And this practice was continued down to the year 1810. Such was the origin of the present _Marktfleck_ (Market Village) Warmbrunn. In 1387 King Wenzel sold it to Gotsche Schoff--Stemfather, as the Germans say, of Count von Schaffgotsch, who now rules with generous sway over the spa and estates that stretch for miles around. It was he who built the _Schneegrubenhaus_; who made the path up the Bohemian side of _Schneekoppe_; who opens his gardens and walks to visitors, and a library of forty thousand volumes with a museum for their amusement and edification; who established a bathing-house with twenty-four beds for poor folk who cannot pay, and who spares no outlay of money or influence to improve the place and attract strangers. Warmbrunn now numbers about 2300 inhabitants, who live upon the guests during the season, and the rest of the year by weaving, bleaching, stone-polishing, and wood-carving. Of hotels and houses of entertainment there is no lack; the _Schwarzer Adler_ and _Hôtel de Prusse_ among the best. But as at Carlsbad, nearly every house has its sign, and lets lodgings, dearest close to the baths, and cheaper as the distance increases, till in the outskirts, and they are not far off, you can get a room with attendance for two dollars a week, or less. Of refectioners there is no lack in the place itself, or about the neighbourhood. There are six baths. The Count's and Provost's--or Great and Little Baths--are near the middle of the village, separated by the street. These are the oldest. The water bursts up clear and sparkling from openings in coarse-grained, flesh-red granite, at a temperature of 94 degrees Fahrenheit in the great basin, and 101 degrees in the little basin. It is soft on the palate, with a taste and odour of sulphur, and in saline and alkaline constituents resembles the waters of Aix-la-Chapelle and Töplitz. It is efficacious in cases of gout, contractions, skin diseases, and functional complaints; in some instances with extraordinary results. I heard of patients who come to Warmbrunn so crooked and crippled that they can neither sit nor stand, nor lie in a natural posture, who have to be lifted in and out of the bath, and yet, after two months' bathing, have been able to walk alone. Although patients bathe a number together, the throng is so great in the hot months that many have to study a lesson in patience till their turn comes. Some, to whom drinking the water is prescribed, resort to the _Trinkquelle_; and in the other bathing-houses there are all the appliances for douche, showers, vapour, and friction. One room is fitted up with electrical and galvanic apparatus, to be used in particular cases. With so many visitors Warmbrunn has an appearance of life and gaiety; the somewhat rustic shops put on an upstart look, or a timid show of gentility. The _Allée_, a broad tree-planted avenue opening from the main street, by the side of the Count's _Schloss_, is the favourite promenade. Here, among troops of Germans, you meet Poles and Muscovites, some betraying their nationality by outward signs. I saw three men of very dingy complexion and sluggish movement, clad in shabby black coats, with skirts reaching to their heels, who seemed out of place among well-dressed promenaders. They were Russian popes. Great personages have come here at times in search of health, and on such occasions the little spa has grown vain-glorious. In 1687 the queen of John Sobieski III. came with one thousand attendants. In 1702 came Prince Jacob, their son, and stayed a year; and since then dignitaries without number, among the latest of whom was Field-Marshal Count von Ziethen, who took up his abode here in 1839. There are a few paintings worth looking at in the Romish church: one of them represents the rescue of a Count Schaffgotsch from drowning; and in the Evangelical church hang two portraits, one of the present king, the other of Blucher. But the museum established in the same building with the library, by the liberality of the Count, is the great attraction. Among the weapons you may see the scimitar which Sobieski snatched with his own hand from the grand vizier's tent when he raised the siege of Vienna; and near it a horsetail standard, a trophy of the same event, brought home by Johann Leopold von Schaffgotsch, one of the Count's ancestry. In other rooms are a collection of coins, of maps and charts--among them a few old globes, interesting to geographers--the Lord's Prayer in one hundred different languages, a model of the _Riesengebirge_, and other curiosities, which, with the library, afford abundant means for instruction and amusement. Then there is music twice a day in the _Schloss_ garden, and the theatre is open in the evening, besides the numerous excursions to the hills and mountains around. The _Allée_, about six hundred paces long, commands a striking view of the mountain chain from its farther end, where the ground falls away with gentle slope. I could see the prominent points which I had walked over a few days before; and nearer--about half an hour's walk--the Kynast, that much-talked-of ruin, crowning a dark-wooded hill. It attracts visitors as much by its story as by its lofty and picturesque situation. There once lived the beautiful but stony-hearted Cunigunda, who doomed many a wooer to destruction; for none could win her hand who had not first ridden his horse round the castle on the top of the wall. One after another perished; but she had vowed a vow, and would not relent. At last came one whose handsome face and noble form captivated at once the lady's heart. She would have spared him the adventure, but her vow could not be broken, and she watched with trembling heart while the stranger knight rode along the giddy height. He accomplished the task in safety; she would have thrown herself into his arms; but with a slap on her face, and a reproach for her cruelty, the Landgrave Albert of Thuringia--for he it was, who had a wife at home--turned his horse and galloped away. While sauntering, I met the two Breslauers--my companions on the descent to the _Grenzbäuden_--and under their guidance explored yet more of the neighbourhood. The guard at the frontier had treated them mercifully, and after half an hour's detention in a little room up-stairs, let them go. Since then they had been making the usual round of excursions: to the fall of the Zacken, to the Norwegian church at Wang, to the Annakapelle, to Hirschberg, and other places--all within two or three hours' walk. Two days more and they would have to return to the counting-house at Breslau. Near the refreshment-houses in the fields young girls followed us offering packets of _Oblatt_ for sale. This is a crisp cake, of agreeable flavour, thinner and lighter than the unleavened bread of the Jews, friendly to the enjoyment of a glass of beer on a hot afternoon; as we proved by eating a few packets while emptying our tankards in full view of the mountains, under an airy colonnade. On our return to the village we met the _Wirth_ from _Schneekoppe_, who had come down from his cloudy dwelling to bury a relative. I took the opportunity to send my compliments to Father Hübner, with a hint that his topographical information had not appeared to me of much more value than his man's morality. Mineral springs are frequent in the mountains. Flinsberg, a quiet village on the Queiss, about four hours from Warmbrunn, in the _Isergebirge_, is resorted to by women, to whom the saline water impregnated with iron is peculiarly beneficial. One of the springs is so highly charged with carbonic acid gas that the villagers call it the _Bierbrunnen_ (Beer Spring). And a short distance beyond Flinsberg, on the Bohemian side of the mountains, is Liebwerda, a romantic village, where springs of health bubble up, and Wallenstein's castle is within a walk. Quietest of all is Johannisbad, on the southern slope below _Schneekoppe_, not far from Marschendorf. There the fountains are lukewarm, and their influence is promoted by complete seclusion and repose. CHAPTER XXVII. Hirschberg -- The Officers' Tomb -- A Night Journey -- Spiller -- Greifenberg -- Changing Horses -- A Royal Reply -- A Griffin's Nest -- Lauban -- The Potato Jubilee -- Görlitz -- Peter and Paul Church -- View from the Tower -- The Landskrone -- Jacob Böhme -- The Hidden Gold -- A Theosophist's Writings -- The Tombs -- The Underground Chapel -- A Church copied from Jerusalem -- The Public Library -- Loebau -- Herrnhut. It was so dark when the omnibus from Warmbrunn arrived at Hirschberg--about five miles--that I lost the sight of its pretty environment, watered by the Bober and Zacken, and of its old picturesque houses, the gables of which were dimly visible against the sky. The town has more than seven thousand inhabitants, and for trade ranks next to Breslau. Its history is that of most towns along this side of Silesia: so much suffering by war, that you wonder how they ever survived. A memorial of the latest scourge is to be seen in the Hospital churchyard--a cast-iron monument in memory of three Prussians, who, wounded at Lützen in 1813, died here on the same day. Under their names runs the inscription: _They died in an Iron time for a Golden_. Not being able to see anything, I booked a place by _Stellwagen_ for Görlitz, and supped in preparation for a night of travel. We started at eleven, a company numerous enough to fill three vehicles, those lowest on the list taking their seats in the hindmost. As these hindmost carriages are changed at every stopping-place with the horses, I and other unfortunates had to turn out at unseasonable hours, and to find, in two instances, that we had not changed for the better--soft seats and cleanliness for hard seats and fustiness. So at Spiller: so at Greifenberg. It adds somewhat to one's experiences to be roused from uneasy slumber at midnight with notice to alight. You feel for umbrella and knapsack, and step down into the chill gloom of a summer night; and while the leisurely work of changing goes on, stroll a little way up or down the roughly-paved street, looking at the strange old houses, all so still and lifeless, as if they were fast asleep as well as their inmates. Why should you be awake and shivering when honest folk are a-bed? and you feel an inclination to envy the sleepers. If you turn a corner and get out of sight of the Posthouse, the houses look still more lonely and unprotected: not a glimmer to be seen, and it seems unfair that every one should be comfortable but you. Or from the outside of a house you picture to yourself those who inhabit it; or, perhaps, you get a peep into the churchyard, or venture through a dark arch to what looks like an ancient cloister, and your drowsy thought gives way to strange imaginings. But the night is chilly. Let us go into the Posthouse. There is comfort by the stove in the inner room, and the woman who has sat up to await our arrival brings an acceptable refreshment of coffee and cakes. Steaming coffee, with the true flavour; and not sixpence a cup, but six kreutzers. Then the driver blows his horn, and each one takes his allotted seat, to slumber if he can through another jolting stage. Greifenberg, a town of three thousand inhabitants, on the Queiss, is proud of four things: manufacture of fine linen and damask, a griffin in its coat-of-arms, and a right royal word of the Great Frederick. Certain deputies having appeared before the monarch to thank him for his prompt and generous aid in restoring the town after a great fire in 1783--"For that am I here!" was his kingly reply. About two miles distant is the Greifenstein, a basaltic hill, so named from a nest of young griffins found on the top of it at a date which no one can remember. It is now crowned by the ruins of a castle which was given by the Emperor Charles IV., in the fourteenth century, as a reward for service to the brave Silesian knight Schaffgotsch. Were it daylight we might see in the Romish church a vault which has been the burial-place of the Schaffgotsch family since 1546. It was early morning when we came to Lauban, and changed carriages by the side of the grass-grown moat at a break in the old round-towered wall. The view from the adjacent _Steinberg_ is described as equal in beauty to any other scene in Prussia. Unfortunately I had not time to judge for myself; but hope to go and see some future day. Perhaps, while waiting here, you will be reminded that Lauban was one of the Silesian towns which, on the 19th of August, 1836, held a jubilee to celebrate the three hundredth anniversary of the introduction of the potato into Europe by the famous circumnavigator Drake--as the promoters said. Of course potatoes cooked in many ways appeared plentifully at every table over half the province. We reached Görlitz at eight, and for some reason, perhaps known to the driver, went through the streets in and out, up and down, across the Neisse to the _Postamt_ in the new quarter, at a slow walking pace. I had three hours to wait for a train, and to improve the time, after comforting myself at the _Goldenen Strauss_, mounted to the top of the Peter and Paul church tower. Erected on a rocky eminence, rising steeply from the river, it commands a wide prospect. The town itself, a busy place of more than 18,000 inhabitants, closely packed, as in the olden time, around the church; spreading out beyond into broad, straight streets and squares, well-planted avenues, and pretty pleasure-grounds; and in this roomy border you see bleaching-greens, the barracks, the gymnasium, and observatory. From thence your eye wanders over the hills of Lusatia to the distant mountains--a fair region, showing a thousand slopes to the sun. About two miles distant the _Landskrone_ rises from the valley of the Neisse--a conspicuous rocky hill bristling with trees. We got a glimpse of it from _Schneekoppe_; and now you will perhaps fancy it a watch-tower, midway between the Giant Mountains and the romantic highlands of Saxony. The sight of that hill recalls the name of the "Teutonic philosopher"--Jacob Böhme. He was born at Alt-Seidenberg, about a mile from Görlitz, in 1575; and he relates that one day when employing himself as herdboy, to relieve the monotony of shoemaking, he discovered a cool bosky crevice on the _Landskrone_, and crept in for shelter from the heat of the sun. Inside, to his great surprise, he saw a wooden bowl, or vase, full of money, which he feared to touch, and went presently and told certain of his playmates of the discovery. With them he returned to the hill; but though they searched and searched again, they could never find the cleft, nor the wonderful hoard. A few years later, however, there came a cunning diviner, who, exploring with his rod, discovered the money and carried it off; and soon after perished miserably, for a curse had been declared on whomsoever should touch the gold. Fate had other things in store for Jacob, and allured him from his last to write voluminous works on theosophy, wherein he discusses the most mysterious questions about the soul, its relations to God and the universe, and such like; and great became the poor shoemaker's repute among the learned. Some travelled from far to confer with him; some translated his books into French and English; some studied German that they might read them in the original; and even Isaac Newton used at times to divert his mind from laborious search after the laws of gravitation by perusal of Böhme's speculations. That Jacob was not a dreamer on all points is clear from what he used to pen for those who begged a scrap of his writing: "_Wem Zeit ist wie Ewigkeit, Und Ewigkeit wie die Zeit, Der ist befreit von allem Streit._"[I] There is something to be seen in the church itself as well as from the top of the tower. It is a singularly beautiful specimen of Gothic architecture of the fifteenth century. The great height of the nave, with the light and graceful form of the columns and arches, produce an admirable effect, to which the high altar, the carved stone pulpit, and the large organ do no violence. It is one of those buildings you could linger in for hours, contemplating now its fair proportions, now the old tombs and monuments, and quaint devices of the sculptor's art. Below the floor at the eastern end is an underground chapel, a century older than the church itself, hewn out of the solid rock. Preaching is held in it once a year. The attendant will make you aware in the dim light of a spring that simmers gently up and fills a basin scooped in the solid stone of the floor. The church of the Holy Cross in the Nicolai suburb is remarkable as having been built, and with a sepulchre, after the original at Jerusalem by a burgomaster of Görlitz, who travelled twice to Jerusalem, in 1465 and in 1476, to procure the necessary plans and measurements for the work. There is a singularity about the sepulchre: it is always either too long or too short for any corpse that may be brought to it, and yet appears large enough for a Hercules. The town possesses two good libraries, each containing about twenty thousand volumes. In the _Rathsbibliothek_ you may see rare manuscripts, among them the _Sachsenspiegel_; and a book which purports to have been printed before the invention of printing, bearing date 1400! The other library belongs to the Society for the Promotion of Science, who have besides a good collection of maps, fossils, minerals, and philosophical instruments. Perhaps here in England writers and scholars in provincial towns will some day be able to resort to libraries and museums as easily as in the small towns of Germany. Many an English student would be thankful to find in his native town even one such library as those at Görlitz. The train from Breslau kept good time. It dropped me at Loebau, where there is a church in which service is performed in the Wendish tongue. From hence a branch line runs to Zittau. I stopped half way at Herrnhut, the head-quarters of the Moravians: a place I had long wished to see. FOOTNOTE: [I] To whom time is as eternity, And eternity as time, He is freed from all strife. CHAPTER XXVIII. Head-Quarters of the Moravians -- Good Buildings -- Quiet, Cleanliness, and Order -- A Gottesdienst -- The Church -- Simplicity -- The Ribbons -- A Requiem -- The Service -- God's-Field -- The Tombs -- Suggestive Inscriptions -- Tombs of the Zinzendorfs -- The Pavilion -- The Panorama -- The Herrnhuters' Work -- An Informing Guide -- No Merry Voices -- The Heinrichsberg -- Pretty Grounds -- The First Tree -- An Old Wife's Gossip -- Evening Service -- A Contrast -- The Sisters' House -- A Stroll at Sunset -- The Night Watch. I had seen the Moravian colony at Zeist near Utrecht, and was prepared for a similar order of things at Herrnhut. A short distance from the station along the high road to Zittau, and you come to a well-built, quiet street, rising up a gentle ascent, where, strange sight in Saxony, the footways are paved with broad stone slabs. Farther on you come to a broad opening, where two other main streets run off, and here the inn, _Gemeinlogis_, and the principal buildings are situate, all substantially built of brick. Everywhere the same quietness, neatness, and cleanliness, the same good paving, set off in places by rows and groups of trees, and hornbeam hedges. The innkeeper--or steward as he may be called, for he is a paid servant of the brotherhood--told me there would be a _Gottesdienst_ (God's service) at three o'clock, and suggested my occupying the interval with the newspapers that lay on the table. There was the _Görlitzer Anzeiger_, published three times a week, Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday, four good quarto pages, for fifteen pence a quarter; and equally cheap the _Zittauische Wochentliche Nachrichten_. But I preferred a stroll through the village and into the spacious gardens, which, teeming with fruit, flowers, and vegetables, stretch away to the south, and unite with the pleasure-walks in the bordering wood. At three I went to the church. Outside no pains have been taken to give it an ecclesiastical look; inside it contains a spacious hall, large enough to contain the whole community, with a gallery at each end, and on the floor two divisions of open seats made of unpainted fir placed opposite a dais along the wall. Whatever is painted is white--white walls, white panelling, white curtains to the windows, and a white organ. Something Quaker-like in appearance and arrangement. But when a number of women came in together wearing coloured cap-ribbons, passing broad and full under the chin, a lively contrast was opposed to the prevailing sobriety of aspect. The colours denote age and condition. The unmarried sisters put on cherry-red at sixteen, and change it after eighteen for pink. The married wear dark blue, and the widows white. Many a pretty, beaming face was there among them, yet sedate withal. The choir assembled on each side of a piano placed in the opening between the benches, for the organ was undergoing a course of repair. No practical jokes among them, as in the cathedral on the Hradschin; but all sedate too. Presently came in from the door on the left five dignified-looking sisters, and took their seats on one half of the dais; then seven brethren, among whom a bishop or two, from the door on the right, to the other half; and their leader, a tall man of handsome, intelligent countenance, to the central seat at the desk. The service was in commemoration of a sister whom in the morning the congregation had followed to her resting-place in the _Gottesacker_ (God's acre). The choir stood up, all besides remaining seated, and sang a requiem, and sang it well; for the Moravians, wiser than the Quakers, do not cheat their hearts and souls of music. A hymn followed, in which the whole assembly joined, the several voices according to their part, till one great solemn harmony filled the building. Then the preacher at the desk, still sitting, began an exhortation, in which a testimony concerning the deceased was interwoven with simple Gospel truth. His word and manner were alike impressive; no passion, no whining. Rarely have I heard such ready, graceful eloquence, combined with a clear and ringing voice. He ended suddenly: a hymn was sung, at the last two lines of which every one stood up, and with a few words of prayer the service was closed. It had lasted an hour. The congregation, which numbered about three hundred, dispersed quietly, the children walking as sedately as their parents. All the roads leading out of Herrnhut are pleasant avenues of trees--limes, oaks, beech, and birch. A short distance along the one leading to Berthelsdorf you come to a wooden arch bearing the inscription, "Christ is risen from the dead." It is the entrance to _God's field_; and if you turn on entering, you will see written on the inside of the arch, "And become the firstling of them that slept." The ground slopes gently upwards to the brow of the _Hutberg_, divided into square compartments by broad paths and clipped limes. Within these compartments are the graves; no mounds; nothing but rows of thick stone slabs, each about two feet in length, by one and a half in width, lying on the grass. All alike; no one honoured above the rest, except in some instances by a brief phrase in addition to the name, age, and birthplace. The first at the corner has been renewed, that a record of an interesting incident in the history of the place may not be lost. The inscription reads: _Christian David, the Lord's servant, born the 31st December, 1690, at Senftleben in Moravia. Went home the 3rd February, 1751_. _A carpenter: he felled the first tree for the building of Herrnhut, the 17th June, 1722._ _Went home_ and _fell asleep_ are favourite expressions occurring on many of the stones. _A member of the Conference of Elders_ is a frequent memorial on the oldest slabs, numbers of which are blackened, and spotted with moss by age. There are two counts and not a few bishops among the departed, but the same plain slab suffices for all. The separation of the sexes is preserved even after death, some of the compartments being reserved exclusively for women. As you read the names of birthplaces, in lands remote, from all parts of Europe and oversea, the West Indies and Labrador, you will perhaps think that weary pilgrims have journeyed from far to find rest for their souls in peaceful Herrnhut. There is, however, one marked exception to the rule of uniformity as regards the slabs. It is in favour of Count Zinzendorf and his wife and immediate relatives--a family deservedly held in high respect by the Brethren. Eight monumental tombs, placed side by side across the central path, perpetuate the names of the noble benefactors. Of the count himself it is recorded: _He was appointed to bear fruit, and a fruit that yet remains_. On the summit of the hill, beyond the hedge of the burial-ground, a wooden pavilion is built with a circular gallery, from whence you get a fine panoramic view of the surrounding country. The innkeeper had given me the key, and I loitered away an hour looking out on the prospect. Now you see the _Gottesacker_, with its fifteen formal clipped squares, some yet untenanted, and room for enlargement; the red roofs and white walls of the village; and beyond, the fir-topped _Heinrichsberg_, and planted slopes which beautify the farther end of the place. Berthelsdorf, the seat of the _Unität_, stands pleasantly embowered at the foot of the eastern slope. You see miles of road, two or three windmills, and umbrageous green lines thinning off in the distance, the trees all planted by the Herrnhuters; and the fields, orchards, and plantations that fill all the space between, testify to the diligent husbandry of the Brethren. Every place and prominent object within sight is indicated by a red line notched into the top rail of the balustrade, so that, while sauntering slowly round, you can read the name of any spire or distant peak that catches your eye. The summits are numerous, for hills rise on every side; among them you discover the Landskrone by Görlitz, and the crown of the _Tafelfichte_ in the _Isergebirge_, the only one of the mountains within sight. It is a view that will give you a cheerful impression of Saxony. The doorkeeper of the church had noticed a stranger, and came up for a talk. I asked him how much of what lay beneath our eyes belonged to the Brethren. "About two hundred acres," he answered, pointing all round, and to an isolated estate away in the direction of Zittau; "enough for comfort and prosperity." Once started, he proved himself no niggard of information. To give the substance of his words: "I like the place very well," he said, "and don't know of any discontent; though we have at times to lament that a brother falls away from us back into the worldly ways. Each fulfils his duty. We are none of us idle. We have weavers, shoemakers, harness-makers, coppersmiths, goldsmiths, workers in iron, lithographers, and artists; indeed, all useful trades; and our workmanship and manufactures are held in good repute. I am a cabinet-maker, and keep eight journeymen always at work. Each one from the age of eighteen to sixty takes his turn in the night-watch; and, night and day, the place is always as quiet as you see it now. You don't hear the voices of children at play, because children are never left to themselves. Whether playing or walking, they are always under the eye of an adult, as when in school. We do not think it right to leave them unwatched. We have service three times every Sunday, and at seven o'clock every evening; besides certain festivals, and a memorial service like that of this afternoon. The preacher you heard is considered a good one: his salary is four hundred dollars a year." He interrupted his talk by an invitation to go and see the grounds of the _Heinrichsberg_. As we walked along the street, I could not fail again to remark the absence of sounds which generally inspire pleasure. No merry laughter, accompanied by hearty shouts and quick foot-tramp of boys at play. No running hither and thither at hide-and-seek; no trundling of hoops; no laughing girls with battledore and shuttlecock. I saw but two children, apparently brother and sister, and they were walking as soberly as bishops. I should like to know whether such a repressive system does really answer the purpose intended; for I could not help questioning, in Goldsmith's words, whether the virtue that requires so constant a guard be worth the expense of the sentinel. The _Heinrichsberg_ is behind the _Bruderhaus_ and the street leading to Zittau. Here the fir forest, which once covered the whole hill, has been cut down, and replaced by plantations of beech, birch, hazel, and other leafy trees, and paths are led in many directions along the precipitous slopes, by which you approach a pavilion erected on the commanding point, as at the _Gottesacker_. The situation is romantic, overhanging the brown cliffs of a stone quarry, with a view into a deep wooded valley, spanned by the lofty railway viaduct. Here the Brethren have shown themselves wise in their generation, and, working with skilful hand, and eye of taste, have made the most of natural resources, and fashioned a resort especially delightful in the sultry days of summer. When my communicative guide left me to attend to his duties, I strolled up the Zittau road to the place where, in a small opening by the wayside, stands a square stone monument, on which an inscription records an interesting historical incident: _On the 17th June, 1772, was on this place for the building of Herrnhut the first tree felled._ Ps. lxxxiv. 4. It was cool there in the shade; and sitting down on a seat overhung by the trees, I fell into a reverie about things that had befallen since Christian David's axe wrought here to such good purpose. At that time all was dreary forest; no house nearer than Berthelsdorf, and little could the poverty-stricken refugees have foreseen such a result of their struggle as Herrnhut in its present condition. All at once I was interrupted by an elderly woman, who, returning to her village, sought a rest on the plinth of the monument, and proved herself singularly talkative. Perhaps she owed the Brethren a grudge, for she wound up with: "Nice people, them, sir, in Herrnhut; but they know how to get the money, sir." About two hundred persons, mostly youthful, were present at the evening service. The dais was occupied as before, but by a lesser number. The preacher, the same eloquent man, gave an exposition of a portion of the _Epistle to the Romans_, elucidating the Apostle's meaning in obscure passages, which lasted half an hour. He then pronounced a brief benediction, and delivered the first line of a hymn, which was sung by all present, and, as in the afternoon, only at the last two lines did any one stand up. I was deeply impressed by the contrast between the two services here in the unadorned edifice, and what I witnessed at Prague. Here no ancient prejudice, or ancient dirt, or slovenly ritual, as in the synagogue; but the outpouring of hope and faith from devout and cheerful hearts. Here no showy ceremonial; no swinging of censers, or kissing of pictures, or endless bowings and kneelings, or any of those mechanical observances in which the worshipper too often forgets that it has been given to him to be his own priest, and with full and solemn responsibility for neglect of duty. The service over, I went and asked permission to look over the Sisters' House: I had seen the Brothers' House at Zeist. It was past the hour for the admission of strangers; but the stewardess, as a special favour, conducted me from floor to floor, where long passages give access on either side to small sitting-rooms, workrooms, and one great bedroom; all scrupulously clean and comfortably furnished. The walls are white; but any sister is at liberty to have her own room papered at her own cost. I saw the chapel in which the inmates assemble for morning and evening thanksgiving;--the refectory where they all eat together;--the kitchen, pervaded by a savoury smell of supper;--and the ware-room in which are kept the gloves, caps, cuffs, and all sorts of devices in needlework produced by the diligent fingers of the sisters. There were some neither too bulky nor too heavy for my knapsack, and of these I bought a few for sedate friends in England. The unmarried sisters, as the unmarried brothers, dwell in a house apart; and as they eat together, and purchase all articles of consumption in gross, the cost to each is but small. Two persons are placed in authority over each house; one to care for the spiritual, the other for the economical welfare of the inmates. There are, besides, separate houses for widowers and widows. As the sun went down I strolled once more to the _Gottesacker_ and dreamt away a twilight hour on the gallery of the pavilion. As the golden radiance vanished from off the face of the landscape, and the stillness became yet more profound, I thought that many a heart weary of battling with the world might find in the _Work and Worship_ of Herrnhut a relief from despair, and a new ground for hopefulness. When I went back to the inn I found half a dozen grave-looking Brethren smoking a quiet pipe over a tankard of beer. We had some genial talk together while I ate my supper; but as ten o'clock approached they all withdrew. The doors were then fastened; and not a sound disturbed the stillness of the night. The watchers began their nightly duty; but they utter no cry as they go their rounds, leading a fierce dog by a thong, while three or four other dogs run at liberty. Should their aid be required in any house from sickness or other causes, a signal is given by candles placed in the window. CHAPTER XXIX. About Herrnhut -- Persecutions in Moravia -- A Wandering Carpenter -- Good Tidings -- Fugitives -- Squatters on the Hutberg -- Count Zinzendorf's Steward -- The First Tree -- The First House -- Scoffers -- Origin of the Name -- More Fugitives -- Foundation of the Union -- Struggles and Encouragements -- Buildings -- Social Regulations -- Growth of Trade -- War and Visitors -- Dürninger's Enterprise -- Population -- Schools -- Settlements -- Missions -- Life at Herrnhut -- Recreations -- Festivals -- Incidents of War -- March of Troops -- Praise and Thank-Feasts. While I sat by the monument of the first tree, and lingered in the glow of sunset at the pavilion, a desire came upon me to know something more of the history of Herrnhut. I partly gratify it in the present chapter. When the sanguinary Hussite wars ended in the triumph of the Jesuits, there remained in Bohemia and Moravia numbers of godly-minded Protestants, who, as the oppressor grew in strength, were forbidden the free exercise of their religion. They worshipped by stealth, hiding in caves and thickets, and suffered frightful persecution; but remained steadfast, and formed a union among themselves for mutual succour, and became the United Brethren. Their chief settlements were at Fulnek, in Moravia, and Lititz, in Bohemia. Though professing the principles of the earliest Christian church, many of them embraced the doctrines of Luther and Calvin, whereby they subjected themselves to aggravated persecutions; and cruelly were they smitten by the calamities of the Thirty Years' War. About 1710 a Roman Catholic carpenter set out from the little Moravian village, Senftleben, to fulfil his three "wander-years," and gain experience in his trade. While working at Berlin, he frequented the Evangelical Lutheran church; and afterwards at Görlitz the impression made on his mind by a Lutheran preacher was such that he went back to his home a Protestant. He was a bringer of good tidings to some of his relatives who were among the persecuted. He could tell them of a kingdom beyond the frontier where they might worship unmolested; of a youthful Count Zinzendorf, who had large estates in the hill-country of Saxony, and was already known as a benefactor to such as suffered for conscience' sake. It was on Whit-Monday, 1722, that Christian David--so the carpenter was named--brought the news. Three days later, two families, numbering ten persons, abandoned their homes, and under David's guidance came safely to Görlitz, after a nine days' journey. On the 8th of June the four men travelled to Hennersdorf, the residence of Zinzendorf's grandmother, who placed them under charge of the land-steward, with instructions that houses should be built for them. But as the steward wrote to his master, "the good people seek for the present a place only under which they may creep with wife and children, until houses be set up." After much consideration, it was resolved to build on the _Hutberg_, a hill traversed by the road from Loebau to Zittau--then a miserable track, in which vehicles sank to their axles. "God will help," replied the steward to one of his friends, who doubted the finding of water on the spot; and on the two following mornings he rose before the sun and went upon the hill to observe the mists. What he saw led him to believe in the existence of a spring; whereupon he took courage, and, as he tells the Count, "I laid the miseries and desires of these people before the Lord with hot tears, and besought Him that His hand might be with me, and prevent wherein my intentions were unpleasing to Him. Further I said, On this place will I build the first house for them in thy name." A temporary residence was found for the fugitives; the benevolent grandmother gave a cow that the children might have milk; and on June 17th, as already mentioned, the first tree was felled by Christian David. On the 11th of August the house was erected; the preacher at Berthelsdorf took occasion to refer to it as "a light set on the hill to enlighten the whole land;" and in October it was taken possession of with prayer and thanksgiving, the exiles singing from their hearts-- "Jerusalem! God's city thou." The steward, writing about this time to inform the Count of his proceedings, says: "May God bless the work according to His goodness, and procure that your excellency may build on the hill called the _Hutberg_ a city which not only may stand under the _Herrn Hut_ (Lord's protection), but all dwellers upon the _Lord's watch_, so that day and night there be no silence among them." Here we have the origin of the name of the place. Meanwhile, the neighbourhood laughed and joked about the building of a house in so lonely a spot, where it must soon perish; and still more when the digging for the spring was commenced. The land-steward had much ado to keep the labourers to their work. Fourteen days did they dig in vain; but in the third week they came to moist gravel, and soon water streamed forth in superabundance. On December 21st the Count arrived with his newly-married wife, and was surprised at sight of a house in a place which he had left a forest. He went in; spoke words of comfort to the inmates, and falling on his knees, prayed earnestly for protection. In the next year, Christian David journeyed twice into Moravia. The priests, angered at the departure of the first party, had worried their relatives, and forbade them to emigrate under penalty of imprisonment. Would not let them live in peace at home, nor let them go. Aided, however, by the messenger, twenty-six persons forsook their little possessions, their all, and stole away by night. "Goods left behind," says the historian, "but faith in their Father in the heart." They reached the asylum, where, by the spring of 1724, five new houses were ready to receive them. In this year came other fugitives, experienced in the church discipline of the old Moravian Brethren; and as the number yet increased, they besought the Count to institute the same constitution and discipline in Herrnhut. But differences of opinion arose, and for three years the harmony and permanence of the colony were seriously endangered. The Count, however, was not a man to shrink from a good work; he was remarkable for his power of influencing minds; and on the 12th of May, 1727, after a three hours' discourse, he succeeded in reconciling all differences, and the Reformed Evangelical United Brotherhood of the Augsburg Confession was established. This day, as well as the 13th of August of the same year, when the whole community renewed and confirmed their union in the church at Berthelsdorf, are days never to be forgotten by the Brethren. The success of Herrnhut was now secure. The number of residents had increased to three hundred, of whom one half were fugitives from Moravia. But they had still to endure privation; for they had abandoned all their worldly substance, and trade and tillage advanced but slowly: in the first six months, all that the two cutlers took from the passers-by was but two groschen: a lean twopence. Friedrich von Watteville, however, a much-beloved friend of the Count's, took a room in one of the houses that he might live among the struggling people, and help them in their endeavours. Of the thirty-four small wooden houses which then stood on both sides of the Zittau road not one now remains. In their place large and handsome houses of brick have risen, which, though the place be but a village, give it the appearance of a city. Besides those which have been mentioned, there are the _Herrschaftshaus_, the _Vogtshof_--a somewhat palatial edifice--the _Gemeinhaus_, the _Apotheke_, the _Pilgerhaus_, and others. An ample supply of water is brought in by wooden pipes, and two engines and eight cisterns in different quarters are always ready against fire. There are covered stalls for the sale of meat and vegetables; a common wash-house and wood-yard, and a dead-house, all under the charge and inspection of a _Platzaufseher_--an overseer who most undoubtedly does his duty. If ædiles in other places would only take a lesson from him, their constituents would have reason to be proud and grateful. An almoner is appointed to succour indigent strangers. In 1852 he relieved 3668 tramping journeymen. Year by year the Herrnhuters improved in circumstances, though often at hard strife with penury. However, they preferred hunger, with freedom of conscience, to the tender mercies of the Jesuits at Olmutz. The weavers of Bernstadt sent them wool to spin. In 1742 an order for shoes for the army was regarded as a special favour of Providence. The Seven Years' War, that brought misery to so many places, worked favourably for Herrnhut. In one day a hundred officers visited the place. Prince Henry of Prussia came and made large purchases, for the work of the shoemakers and tailors, not being made merely to sell, was much prized; and it sometimes happened that from 1500 to 2000 dollars were taken in one day. Austrians and Prussians--fierce foes--rode in alternately to buy; and while Herrnhut flourished, many erroneous notions which had prevailed concerning it were removed by what the visitors saw of the simple life and manners of the Brethren. To Abraham Dürninger, who established a manufacture of linen cloths, and whose skill and enterprise as a merchant were only matched by his ceaseless activity, the colony owed the mainstay of its commercial prosperity. Brother Dürninger's linen and woven goods were largely exported, particularly to Spain, South America, and the West Indies, and esteemed above all others in the market for the excellence of their quality. The trade has since fallen off, but not the reputation, as gold and silver medals awarded to the Herrnhuters by the governments of Prussia and Saxony for honest workmanship amply testify. In 1760, notwithstanding that many colonies and missions had been sent out, the population numbered 1200. This was the highest. The number remained stationary until the end of the century; since then it has slowly decreased, owing, as is said, to the decline of trade. In 1852 it was 925. No new buildings have been erected since 1805, so that Herrnhut has the appearance of a place completely finished. The streets were paved, and flagged footways laid down, eighty years ago; and since 1810 all the roads leading from the village have been planted and kept in good condition. Well-managed elementary schools supply all that is needful for ordinary education. Pupils who exhibit capabilities for higher training are sent to the _Pedagogium_ at Nisky, a village built by Bohemian refugees near Görlitz. Theological students are trained at the seminary in Gnadenfeld, in the principality of Oppeln; and those for the missions at Klein Welke, a village near Budissin, established as a dwelling-place for converts from among the Wends. Fifty-seven Moravian settlements and societies in different parts of the continent of Europe--Russia, Sweden, Holland, Germany, some founded by emigrants from Herrnhut, and all taking it for their pattern, mark the growth of the principles advocated by the Brethren. In England they have eleven settlements, among which Fulneck, in Yorkshire, renews the name of the old Moravian village; and Ockbrook, in Derbyshire, is the seat of the conference which directs the affairs of the British settlements, but always with responsibility to the Conference of Elders at Berthelsdorf. Scotland has one community--at Ayr; and Ireland seven. At the last reckoning, in 1848, the number of real members, exclusive of the societies, was 16,000. Besides these, there are seventy foreign mission-stations, the duties of which are fulfilled by 297 Brethren. The number of persons belonging to the several missions is 70,000. That in North America was commenced in 1734; Greenland, 1733; Labrador, 1770. The others are in the West Indies, Musquito territory, Surinam, South Africa, and Australia. At the instance of Dr. Gutzlaff, who visited Herrnhut in 1850, two missionaries have been sent to Mongolia.[J] Although life at Herrnhut may appear tame and joyless to an ordinary observer, it is not so to the Herrnhuters. A lasting source of pleasure to them are the cheerful situation of the place itself, and the delightful walks fashioned and planted by their own hands. Lectures, the study of foreign languages, and of natural history, and music, are among their permanent recreations. They excel in harmony, and find, as their celebrations partake more or less of a religious character, in the singing of oratorios, choruses, and hymns, an animating and elevating resource. They observe the anniversary of the foundation of Herrnhut, and of all other important incidents of its history, and thus have numerous festival days. In some instances, instrumental music, decorations of fir-branches, and an illumination, heighten the effect. Betrothals are times of gladness; baptism and marriage of solemn joy. Weddings always take place in the evening; and in the evening also are held, once in four weeks, the celebrations of the Lord's Supper. On these occasions the whole community are present. Three or four brothers who have received ordination, wearing white gowns, break the thin cakes of unleavened bread and distribute to the assembly, and when the last is served all eat together. The cup is then blessed and passed in order from seat to seat. On certain festive occasions love-feasts are held, after the manner of the _Agapæ_ of the earliest Christian churches. At these gatherings, which are intended to show the family ties which unite the members of the community with the spiritual head of the church, suitable discourse is held, hymns are sung; and cakes and tea--with at times wine and coffee--are partaken of. The Easter-morning celebration is especially remarkable. On that morning the whole brotherhood assemble before sunrise in the church, should the weather prove unfavourable; if fine, in the open air. Then they walk two by two, the trumpets sounding before them, to the hill of the _Gottesacker_, to watch from thence the rising of the sun. Arrived on the height, they form into a great square: the prayers and praises of the Easter-morning liturgy are then prayed and sung; meanwhile the sun appears above the dim and distant horizon; a spectacle in which the beholders see a foretoken of that glorious resurrection where, in the words of a brother, "the grave is not, nor death." Then the names of those who died during the past year are read, and with affectionate remembrances of them the celebration closes. The service on New Year's Eve is so numerously attended from all the neighbourhood round, that the church will hardly contain the throng. At half-past eleven a discourse is begun, in which the events of the year about to close are passed in review, with other subjects appropriate to the time, until, as the clock strikes twelve, the trumpet choir sound hail! to the new year. Then the verse "Now all give thanks to God" is sung, and with a prayer the service ends. Burials are characterized by a simplicity worthy of all imitation; in striking contrast to the vain and oft-times ludicrous proceedings, by which folk in some other places think they do honour to the dead. The Brethren assemble--wearing no kind of mourning except in their hearts--in the church, where a short discourse is delivered, and a narrative of the deceased's life is read. The procession is then formed, preceded by the trumpet-band, who blow sacred melodies; and the corpse is carried on a bright-coloured bier, covered with a striped pall, by four brothers, dressed in their usual clothes. The nearest relatives follow, and behind them the community, according to kin. They form a circle round the grave and sing a hymn, accompanied by the trumpets, during which the coffin is lowered. The burial service is then read, and the simple rite concludes with a benediction. Not least interesting among the annals of Herrnhut are incidents arising out of the wars which have afflicted Germany since the place was founded. All day the Brethren heard the roar of cannon when Frederick won his great victory at Lowositz; and a few days later, forty-eight of them had to keep watch against an apprehended foray of Trenck's wild Pandours. In 1757, General Zastrow quartered suddenly four thousand men upon them spitefully, and in defiance of a royal order to the contrary, keeping the peaceful folk in alarm all night; but the troops were withdrawn in the morning, and an indemnity was paid for the mischief they had committed. At times, long trains of men, horses, and artillery would pass through without intermission for a whole day--now Prussians, now Austrians, now heathen Croats. In the same year three thousand officers visited the place, among whom, during three weeks of the summer, were thirty-four princes, seventy-eight counts, and one hundred and forty-six nobles of other degree. Numbers of them attended the religious services of the Brethren. The Abbé Victor was one of the visitors, and on his return to Russia he said so much in praise of the Herrnhuters, that the emperor gave him permission to establish the colony of Sarepta in Southern Russia, which still exists. In 1766 came the Emperor Joseph II., and by his pleasing manners and friendly inquiries made a "lasting impression" on the minds of the Brethren. In October, 1804, Francis I.--the Franzl of the Tyrolese--with his wife. In 1810, Gustaf Adolf IV. of Sweden, who expressed a wish to become a member. In 1813 the Emperor Alexander came as a visitor, and examined all things carefully; and it is recorded of him that while the children sang he stood among them bareheaded. He was followed by three of the famous marshals--Kellermann, Victor, and Macdonald. This was a terrible year. With the retreat from Moscow came train on train of wounded Saxons on the way to Dresden. Requisition on requisition was made for linen and provisions; and one day, when no more wagons were left, the Brethren had to supply two hundred wheelbarrow-loads of rations. Night after night they saw the lurid glow of fires, for seventy-one places were burnt in the circles of Bautzen and Görlitz. Then came Cossacks, Calmucks, and squadrons of savage Bashkirs, armed with bows and arrows. Then Poniatowsky with his Poles, and Saxon Uhlans; and a review was held in a meadow behind the _Schwesternhaus_, and the sisters made hundreds of little pennons for the Polish lances. In August, Napoleon was at Zittau. Daily skirmishes took place among Prussians, Poles, and Russians, for possession of the _Hutberg_--the best look-out for miles around. In September, Blucher came with Gneisenau and Prince Wilhelm, and had the Prussian head-quarters here for five days. On the whole, Herrnhut suffered but little in comparison with other places; yet the Brethren were not slow to rejoice for the evacuation of Germany by the enemy, and the restoration of peace. "Praise and Thank-feasts" were held, with illuminations and fireworks; some of the fires being green and white, to represent the national colours of Saxony. FOOTNOTE: [J] According to the Report for 1851, the latest I have been able to get, the contributions received for missions in that year amounted to 86,221 dollars; the expenditure to 83,419 dollars. CHAPTER XXX. A Word with the Reader -- From Herrnhut to Dresden -- A Gloomy City -- The Summer Theatre -- Trip to the Saxon Switzerland -- Wehlen -- Uttewalde Grund -- The Bastei -- Hochstein -- The Devil's Kettle -- The Wolfschlucht -- The Polenzthal -- Schandau -- The Kuhstall -- Great Winterberg -- The Prebischthor -- Herniskretschen -- Return to Dresden -- To Berlin -- English and German Railways -- The Royal Marriage Question -- Speaking English -- A Dreary City -- Sunday in Berlin -- Kroll's Garden -- Magdeburg -- Wittenberg -- Hamburg -- A-top of St. Michael's -- A Walk to Altona -- A Ride to Horn -- A North Sea Voyage -- Narrow Escape -- Harness and Holidays. I fear, good-natured reader, that you will find this chapter too much like a catalogue. I am, however, admonished by the number of my pages that a swift conclusion is desirable. Moreover, my publisher--an amiable man in most respects--is apt to be dogmatic on questions of paper and print, fancying that he knows best, so I have no alternative but to humour him; and, after all, you will perhaps say that it is well to get over the ground as fast as possible when one comes again upon much-beaten tracks. From Herrnhut I travelled by rail to Dresden--Pianopolis as some residents call it. Taken as a whole, it is a singularly heavy-looking and gloomy city: some of the principal streets reminded me of back-streets in Oxford. I saw the picture-gallery and the great library; and desirous to see what our forefathers used to see at the Globe--a play acted by daylight in a roofless play-house--I went to the summer theatre in the _Grossen Garten_. It is an agreeable pastime in fine weather, for you can see green tree-tops all round above the walls, and feel the breeze, and enjoy your tankard of _Waldschloess_-- that excellent Dresden beer--while looking at the performance. A clever actress from Berlin made her first appearance; she played in the two pieces, and by her vivacity made amends for the miserable music, which was unworthy of Pianopolis, and of the leader's intense laboriousness in beating time. I should like to take you with me in my walk through the Saxon Switzerland; but can only glance thereat for reasons already shown. If you have read Sir John Forbes's picturesque description of that romantic country published last year in his _Sight-Seeing in Germany_, you will not want another. I may, however, tell you, that you may visit all the most remarkable places in two days. Leave Dresden by steamer at six in the morning; disembark at Wehlen, walk from thence through the _Uttewalde Grund_ to the _Bastei_, where, from the summit of a bastion rock springing from the Elbe, you have a magnificent view, with enough of water in it. You will see numerous specimens of those flat-topped hills, resembling the bases of mighty columns, such as we saw from the _Milleschauer_, and crag on crag, ridge on ridge, the gray stone shaded by forest for miles around. You will perceive Adersbach on a great scale; the same sort of sandstone split up in all directions, but the precipitous masses wide apart, isolated, and with glens and vales between all, glad with foliage and running water, instead of crevices and alleys. From the _Bastei_ you plunge down the zigzags among the crags to the _Amselgrund_, past the waterfall, and by wild ways to the _Teufelsbruch_ and the _Hochstein_, an isolated crag, from which you look down into the Devil's Kettle, 350 feet deep. Then down through the _Wolfschlucht_, a crevice in the cliff, which, where you descend by ladders, looks very much like a wolf's-gully. It brings you into the _Polenzthal_, where on the grassy margin of a trout stream, beneath the shade of birches, precipitous cliffs towering high aloft, something grand and beautiful at every bend, you will believe it the loveliest scene of all. Then up the _Brand_--another out-look, and from thence down to Schandau, where you pass the night. On the second day, walk up the _Kirnitschthal_ to the _Kuhstall_, a broad arch in a honeycombed rock on the top of a hill; from thence to the Little Winterberg and Great Winterberg, the latter more than 1700 feet high--the highest point of the district, commanding a grand prospect over hill and hollow, crag and forest. While gazing around in admiration, you will perhaps wish that the old name--Meissner Highlands--had not been changed, for there is but little of the real Switzerland in the view. Then on to the _Prebischthor_, crossing the frontier on the way into Bohemia at a lonely spot, uninfested as yet by guards or barrier. The _Prebischthor_ is a huge arch, more than a hundred feet high, also on a hill-top, 1300 feet above the sea. Two mighty columns support a massive block, a hundred feet in length, forming a marvellous specimen of natural architecture. You can walk under and around its base, and look at the landscape through the opening, or mount to the summit and look down sheer eight hundred feet into the _Prebischgrund_. Here, as everywhere else, you find an inn, good beer, and musicians, a throng of tourists, and an album filled with names, and rhyming attempts at wit and sentiment. From the _Prebischthor_ you descend by the valley of the Kamnitz to Herniskretschen, a village built on a narrow level between tall frowning cliffs and the Elbe. I arrived here in time for the steamer at two o'clock, by which I returned to Dresden. I had seen the Saxon Switzerland from all the best points of view, and saw all the romantic course of the river, except the eight miles from Tetschen to Herniskretschen. A pleasanter two days' trip could not well be imagined. Once at Wehlen, the places to be visited are but from three to four miles apart; the way from one to the other is easy to find, and there is constant diversity of scenery, to say nothing of the talkative groups of Germans with whom you may join fellowship. But, in truth, it is a region to loiter in, and you will wish that weeks were yours instead of scanty days. Soon after noon of the next day I was in Berlin. Travel the same route, and you will no longer wonder at the rapturous excitement of the Germans in the _Riesengebirge_. The country is one great plain--little fields, marshes, sluggish streams, ponds covered with water-lilies, windmills and sandy wastes sprinkled with a few trees that look miserable at having to grow in such a dreary land. Here and there a winding road--a mere deep-rutted track--winds across the landscape, making it look, if possible, still more melancholy. Look out when you will, you see the same monotonous features. In our own happy country you would have the additional sorrow of an uncomfortable carriage. To know what outrageous inflictions can be perpetrated by railway monopoly, and endured by your long-suffering countrymen, just ride for once from London to Lowestofft in an Eastern Counties third-class carriage--you will have more than enough of North German scenery and of English discomfort, but without the compensations of German beer and German coffee. Or vary your experiences by a journey to Winchester in a second-class on the South-Western line, and try to enjoy the landscape through the wooden shutter which the Company give you for a window. Go to Euston-square--anywhere in fact--and you find that the passenger with most money in his pocket is the one most cared for. Even the Great Western and South-Eastern Companies, who have outgrown the short-sighted habit of building dungeons and calling them carriages--even these mighty monopolists condemn their second-class passengers to a wooden seat. But on the line from Dresden to Berlin the third-class carriages are far more commodious than any second-class I have ever seen in England--except two or three at the Great Exhibition, which, perhaps, were meant only for show. The seats are broad, hollowed, and not flat, and with space enough between for the comfortable placing of your legs. The roof is lofty. You can stand upright with your hat on. At either end a broad shelf is fixed for small packages and light luggage; and more than all, the same civility and attention are extended by all the functionaries to third-class passengers as to the first. We brag of our liberty, and not without reason; but let us remember that the foreigner, though afflicted with passports, travels at less cost and with more comfort than we do. Here, too, my fellow-passengers made merry over the "_Palmerston gehänget_" story; and many questions had I to answer concerning the coming marriage of the Prussian Prince and English Princess. I gave the same reply as to the Dresdener in the palace at Fischbach. One of the company, who told us he was a professor of literature at Berlin, inclined to be saucy. It was all a mistake to suppose that there was one jot more liberty in England than in Prussia. He could speak English, and knew all about it. Unluckily, by way of proving how well he could speak English, he said we should arrive at "Twelve past half;" whereupon I set the others laughing to take the conceit out of him. He relapsed into German, and looked so unhappy, that, by way of consolation, I told him of a countryman of his in England who went to keep an appointment at "clock five." Berlin is a dreary, malodorous city, or rather an enormous village beginning to try to be a city; and fortunate in being the residence of men of taste and real artists who know what architecture and sculpture ought to be, as demonstrated by the improvements and embellishments around the palace and in the approach to that fine street _Unter den Linden_. You can hire a droschky to take you anywhere within the walls for fivepence; but be patient, for whether droschky or omnibus, the pace is as slow as if the drivers had to work for nothing. _Pour le roi de Prusse_, as the French say. Many a portrait of the English Princess Royal, along with that of her future consort, did I see in the print-sellers' windows; and on the morrow I saw how the Berliners pass their Sunday: not with shops open all the day as in Paris, but with much beer, music, and tobacco in the environs. I was simple enough to walk out to the Zoological Garden--a few pens very widely scattered in a neglected forest plantation, containing specimens of swine, poultry, goats, and kine, all made as much of as if they were in Little Pedlington. From thence I walked out to Charlottenburg, notwithstanding the offensive drains which border the road the whole distance, and saw the tasteful mausoleum in the palace grounds, and the lazy carp in the big pond. The Opera House was open in the evening with _Satanella_, a "fantastic ballet," in three acts; and crowds made their way out to Kroll's Garden--the Cremorne of Berlin--where a play was acted in the theatre, and two orchestras outside kept up a constant succession of lively music: one striking up as the other ended. The number of tall people among the throng was remarkable, and not less so the rapidity with which beer and coffee, cakes and cutlets, were consumed. The numerous troop of waiters had not an idle moment. I wished to see the place where the most terrible tragedy of the Thirty Years' War had been acted--where Tilly and Pappenheim-- Bloodthirsty and Ferocious--sacked a flourishing city just as the foremost of the Swedish horse, commanded by Gustavus the Avenger, came within sight of its walls. So I journeyed to Magdeburg: always the same great plain on either side; but hereabouts fertile, and among the best of the corn-land of Europe. The early train travels quickly: it accomplished the distance in a little more than three hours. I went directly to the cathedral, and, after a view of its noble interior, mounted to the gallery, which runs all round the top without a break. I stayed up there two hours pacing slowly round, surveying the busy town, the bustle of boats and barges on the Elbe, the citadel, the long line of fortification, and thinking over the history of the terrible siege. Besides the cathedral, the town contains but little to repay an exploration, and the people generally have a shabby look, as I proved by experiment, so I walked up the river bank to one of the suburban pleasure-gardens till the hour of departure approached. At five in the afternoon--away by train for Hamburg. Always the same great plain, heaved here and there into gentle swells. We slept at Wittenberg, and were off again the next morning long before the dew was dry. The plain abates somewhat of its monotony in Mecklenburg, and breaks into low hills with green valleys and pleasant woods between; and here, instead of groschen and dollars, we found schillings and marks--schillings worth a penny apiece. Shortly before eleven our long journey ended. I went to the steam-boat office; took a place for London; asked one of the clerks which was the tallest church in Hamburg; left my knapsack under his desk, and made my way through the maze of picturesque old streets to St. Michael's. The tower is 460 feet in height, and you have to mount hundreds of stairs, the last flight, quite open to the sky, running in a spiral round the pillars of the belfry. Some weak heads turn back here; but if you continue, the view from the little chamber at the top will reward you. A vast panorama meets the eye. Miles away into Hanover and Holstein, all the territory of Hamburg, across Mecklenburg, and down the broad river well-nigh to the sea, sixty miles distant. The city itself is an interesting sight: the contrast between the old and new so great; the bustle on the Elbe and in the streets; the numerous canals, basins, dams, and havens; the planted walks, all enclosed by green and undulating environs, make up a picture that you will be reluctant to leave. Some of the windows of the little chamber are fitted with glass of different colours, so that at pleasure you may look out on a fairy scene below. The charge for the ascent is one mark. Afterwards, when perambulating the streets, you will discover that Hamburg is a city not less interesting when viewed from the ground. The narrow streets, the old architecture, the variety of costumes, the curious ways of the traders, will arrest your attention at every step. And you will find much to commend in the building of the new quarter, and in the well-kept grounds and walks by the Exchange and around the Alster. Seeing all this, I regretted that my stay would be but for a few hours: however, I improved those hours as diligently as possible. I walked out to Altona, and lived for an hour under the sovereignty of Denmark while looking at the old council-house and some other quaint specimens of architecture. Then turning in the opposite direction I rode out to Horn by omnibus; walked from thence across the heath and through the groves to Wansbeck, and rode back by a different road--a little trip in which I saw much to admire in the pretty wayside residences of the Hamburgers, situate so pleasantly among gardens and trees, and the inmates taking their evening meal on the grass-plot in front.[K] I kept up my explorations till the approach of midnight warned me that it was time to embark. The watch at the city-gate let me out on payment of the accustomed toll--twopence at ten o'clock, a shilling at eleven--and I groped my way along the quay to the steamer _Countess of Lonsdale_. When I woke the next morning the pilot was being landed at Glückstadt; and we steamed across the North Sea with no other incident than that of nearly running down a Flemish fishing-boat in broad daylight; and yet we had a man on the look-out. But for the quick eye of the captain--who was telling amusing stories about the German fleet to a party of us lounging around him on the quarter-deck--and his sudden "hard a-port!" the little vessel would have been cut in two. As it was, she escaped but by a few inches. During the lazy leisure of a day at sea, I reckoned the sum of my journeyings and outlay. I had walked three hundred and fifty miles, and expended--up to Hamburg--fourteen pounds. The passage to London, with etceteras, including an unconscionable steward's-fee, amounted to nearly three pounds more. A voyage of forty-eight hours brought us to London; and at four in the morning of the 1st of August we stepped on shore at St. Katherine's Wharf. It was a lovely morning: even London looked picturesque in the clear rosy light. The opportunity was favourable, and I took it for an hour's study of the busiest phenomena of Billingsgate. Then I walked awhile, and sat on a certain doorstep reading Goldsmith's _Traveller_ till the maid came down, very early, at a quarter-past seven. Then I exchanged thick boots and a comfortable coat for the garb of Cockneydom. And then--sensations of liberty tingling yet in every limb, and swarming with happy recollections through my brain--I went and crept once more into the old official harness. Harness in which I earn glorious holidays. FOOTNOTE: [K] There is something suggestive concerning the resources of different populations in the following table of depositors in savings banks: In Bohemia there is 1 depositor for every 64 of the population; in Berlin, 1 in 12; in Frankfort, 1 in 10; in Hamburg, 1 in 6; in Leipsic, 1 in 5; in Altona, 1 in 3. INDEX. A. Adersbach, 228 Agnetendorf, 213 Alt, 59 Altenburg, 16, 25 Altendorf, 23, 227 Altona, 299 Amselgrund, the, 293 Aschaffenburg, 3 Auersberg, the, 50 Aussig, 167 B. Bamberg, 14 Bastei, the, 292 Beer, 49 Berlin, 296 Bernsdorf, 226 Berthelsdorf, 273 Bober, the, 226 Bohemia, Geology of, 147, 238 Bohemian Frontier, 55 Böhme, Jacob, 265 Bread and Semmel, 73 Breslau, 220 Buchau, 81 Buchwald, 246, 248 C. Carlsbad, 59 Carpathians, the, 220 Costumes, 20, 41, 44 Czechs, the, 57, 98, 102, 120, 204 D. Dittersbach, 247 Dreikreuzberg, 70 Dresden, 291 E. Ebersdorf, 31 Eckersbach, 33 Elbe, the, 166 Elbe, Source of, 208; fall of, 209 Elterlein, 30 Engelhaus, 76 Erdmannsdorf, 249 Erzgebirge, 17, 43, 50, 55 Eybenstock, 48 F. Fischbach, 250 Flinsberg, 261 Frankfort, 1 G. Gabel, 192 Geese, 86 Gersdorf, 172 Glass-workers, 179, 192 Glückstadt, 300 Görlitz, 265 Greifenberg, 264 Grenzbäuden, 223 Grünheid, 196 H. Hamburg, 298 Hanau, 3 Hartenstein, ruin, 88 Hayda, 192 Herniskretschen, 294 Herrnhut, 269 Heuscheuer, the, 220 Hildburghausens, 25 Hirschberg, 262 Hirschenstand, 56 Hirschsprung, the, 73 Hohenstaufens, 25 Hohensteiner Bad, 41 Holstein, 299 Horn, 299 Horosedl, 99 Hradschin, the, 126, 130 I. Iser, the, 203 Isergebirge, the, 220, 261 J. Jeschken, the, 196 Jews, 107, 131 Johannisbad, 261 Judenstadt, 132 K. Kirnitschthal, the, 293 Knieholz, 208 Krkonosch Berg, 208 Kruschowitz, 102 Kunzendorf, 226 Kunz von Kauffungen, 28, 37 Kynast, the, 260 L. Landskrone, the, 265 Lauban, 264 Liebau, 245 Liebkowitz, 89 Liebwerda, 261 Lobositz, 158 Loebau, 268 Lohr, 4 Lubenz, 89 Luther, 24, 27, 39 M. Mädelstein, 215 Magdeburg, 297 Markersdorf, 171 Mecklenburg, 298 Meistersdorf, 172 Milleschauer, the, 158 Mineral Springs, 40, 41, 62, 258, 261 Mittagstein, 216 Mittelgebirge, the, 158 Morchenstern, 196 Mulde, the, 33 Music, 47, 153, 155, 167, 235 N. Neudeck, 58 Neudorf, 196 Neustädl, 47 Neu Straschitz, 102 Newspapers, 51 Niederkainsdorf, 40 O. Oberhaselau, 42 Oberkainsdorf, 40 P. Planitz, 40 Polenzthal, the, 293 Prague, 114 Prebischthor, the, 293 Princes' Oaks, 17 Prinzenhöhle, 23 Prinzenraub, 18, 28, 35 Przichowitz, 198 R. Railways, 295 Raudnitz, 158 Reichenberg, 194 Reinowitz, 196 Rentsch, 102 Riesengebirge, 213 Rochlitz, 205 Rock-labyrinth, 229 Rübezahl, 207 S. Saal, the, 4 Saxon Switzerland, 292 Schandau, 293 Schatzlar, 226 Schlag, 196 Schmiedeberg, 247 Schneeberg, 45 Schneegruben, 211 Schneekoppe, 215 Schömberg, 243 Schools, 53, 170, 172 Schreckenstein, the, 167 Schwanhildis, Princess, 39 Schwarzkoppe, 223 Simplon, the, of Prussia, 246 Spessart, Forest of, 4 Spiller, 263 Spindlerbaude, 215 Sprudel, the, 66 Spürlingstein, the, 168 Steinschönau, 191 Stein Wine, 5 Stephanshöh, 201 St. Killian, 13 Stohnsdorf, 254 Synagogue, the, 136 T. Tandelmarkt, the, 131 Tannwald, 197 Taunus Mountains, 3 Tetschen, 169 Theresienstadt, 158 Triller, the, 32, 34, 37 U. Ueberschar Hills, 244 Ullersdorf, 244 Ulrichsthal, 173 Uttewalde Grund, 292 W. Wansbeck, 299 Warmbrunn, 256 Weckelsdorf, 241 Wehlen, 292 Weisskirchen, 193 Wends, the, 19, 22, 39 White Hill, the, 111 Wildenthal, 49 Wilhelmsbad, 3 Willenz, 90 Winterberg, Great and Little, 293 Wittenberg, 298 Würzburg, 4 Z. Zillerthal, 253 Zwickau, 33 THE END. C. WHITING, BEAUFORT HOUSE, STRAND. 
45567	----	Transcriber's Notes: When italics were used in the original book, the corresponding text has been surrounded by _underscores_. Some presumed printer's errors have been corrected. In particular, punctuation has been normalized and entries in the List of Illustrations and in the Index were altered to match the main text. Further, a single entry in the original List of Illustrations which referred to two distinct maps was split into two entries (SCOTLAND and ENGLAND AND WALES). Other corrections are listed below with the original text (top) and the replacement text (bottom): p. 40 many quaint timbered house many quaint timbered houses p. 95 employe employee p. 249 Wordsworh Wordsworth p. 212 Fort Williams Fort William p. 311 appoach approach p. 350 July 5, 1585 July 5, 1685 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ON OLD-WORLD HIGHWAYS ------------------------------------------------------------------------ _By the Same Author_ British Highways and Byways from a Motor Car THIRD IMPRESSION WITH FORTY-EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS AND TWO MAPS Sixteen Reproductions in Color, and Thirty-two Duogravures 320 Pages, 8vo, Decorated Cloth Price (Boxed), $3.00 ------- In Unfamiliar England With a Motor Car SECOND IMPRESSION WITH SIXTY-FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS AND TWO MAPS Sixteen Reproductions in Color and Forty-eight Duogravures 400 Pages, 8vo, Decorated Cloth Price (Boxed), $3.00 ------- Three Wonderlands of the American West SECOND IMPRESSION WITH FORTY-EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS AND TWO MAPS Sixteen Reproductions in Color and Thirty-two Duogravures 180 Pages, Tall 8vo, Decorated Cloth Price (Boxed) $3.00 Net ------- L. C. PAGE & COMPANY BOSTON ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration: THE MOUNTAIN MEADOWS, BAVARIAN TYROL From original painting by the late John MacWhirter, R. A.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ON OLD-WORLD HIGHWAYS A Book of Motor Rambles in France and Germany and the Record of a Pilgrimage from Land's End to John O'Groats in Britain. BY THOS. D. MURPHY AUTHOR OF "THREE WONDERLANDS OF THE AMERICAN WEST," "BRITISH HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS FROM A MOTOR CAR" AND "IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND WITH A MOTOR CAR." WITH SIXTEEN REPRODUCTIONS IN COLORS FROM ORIGINAL PAINTINGS BY EMINENT ARTISTS AND FORTY DUOGRAVURES FROM PHOTOGRAPHS. ALSO MAPS SHOWING ROUTES OF AUTHOR. [Illustration] BOSTON L. C. PAGE & COMPANY PUBLISHERS MDCCCCXIV ------------------------------------------------------------------------ _Copyright, 1914_ BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY (INCORPORATED) ------- _All rights reserved_ ------- First Impression, January, 1914 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Preface I know that of making books of travel there is no limit--they come from the press in a never-ending stream; but no one can say that any one of these is superfluous if it finds appreciative readers, even though they be but few. My chief excuse for the present volume is the success of my previous books of motor travel, which have run through several fair-sized editions. I have had many warmly appreciative letters concerning these from native Englishmen and the books were commended by the Royal Automobile Club Journal as accurate and readable. So I take it that my point of view from the wheel of a motor car interests some people, and I shall feel justified in writing such books so long as this is the case. I know that in some instances I have had to deal with hackneyed subjects; but I have striven for a different viewpoint and I hope I have contributed something worth while in describing even well-known places. On the other hand, I know that I have discovered many delightful nooks and corners in Britain that even the guide-books have overlooked. Besides, I am sure that books of travel have ample justification in the fact that travel itself is one of the greatest of educators and civilizers. It teaches us that we are not the only people--that wisdom shall not die with us alone. It shows us that in some things other people may do better than we are doing and it may enable us to avoid mistakes that others make. In short, it widens our horizon and tones down our self-conceit--or it should do all of this if we keep ears and eyes open when abroad. I make no apology for the fact that the greater bulk of the present volume deals with the Motherland, even if its title does not so indicate. Her romantic charm is as limitless as the sea that encircles her. Even now, after our long journeyings in every corner of the Island, I would not undertake to say to what extent we might still carry our exploration in historic and picturesque Britain. Should one delight in ivy-covered castles, rambling old manors, ruined abbeys, romantic country-seats, haunted houses, great cathedrals and storied churches past numbering, I know not where the limit may be. But I do know that the little party upon whose experiences this book is founded is still far from being satisfied after nearly twenty thousand miles of motoring in the Kingdom, and if I fail to make plain why we still think of the highways and byways of Britain with an undiminished longing, the fault is mine rather than that of my subject. In this book, as in my previous ones, the illustrations play a principal part. The color plates are from originals by distinguished artists and the photographs have been carefully selected and perfectly reproduced. The maps will also be of assistance in following the text. I hope that these valuable adjuncts may make amends for the many literary shortcomings of my text. THOMAS D. MURPHY Red Oak, Iowa, January 1, 1914. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CONTENTS Page I BOULOGNE TO ROUEN 1 II THE CHATEAU DISTRICT 29 III ORLEANS TO THE GERMAN BORDER 45 IV COLMAR TO OBERAMMERGAU 59 V BAVARIA AND THE RHINE 77 VI THE CAPTAIN'S STORY 104 VII A FLIGHT THROUGH THE NORTH 125 VIII THE MOTHERLAND ONCE MORE 145 IX OLD WHITBY 157 X SCOTT COUNTRY AND HEART OF HIGHLANDS 173 XI IN SUTHERLAND AND CAITHNESS 191 XII DOWN THE GREAT GLEN 210 XIII ALONG THE WEST COAST 224 XIV ODD CORNERS OF LAKELAND 246 XV WE DISCOVER DENBIGH 262 XVI CONWAY 279 XVII THE HARDY COUNTRY AND BERRY POMEROY 298 XVIII POLPERRO AND THE SOUTH CORNISH COAST 320 XIX LAND'S END TO LONDON 336 XX THE ENGLISH AND THEIR INSTITUTIONS 355 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS COLOR PLATES Page THE MOUNTAIN MEADOWS, BAVARIAN TYROL Frontispiece SUNSET IN TOURAINE 1 WOODS IN BRITTANY 26 PIER LANE, WHITBY 164 HARVEST TIME, STRATHTAY 180 A HIGHLAND LOCH 188 ACKERGILL HARBOUR, CAITHNESS 204 GLEN AFFRICK, NEAR INVERNESS 208 THE GREAT GLEN, SUNSET 210 "THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT" 236 THE FALLEN GIANT--A HIGHLAND STUDY 240 CONWAY CASTLE, NORTH WALES 280 "THE NEW ARRIVAL" 282 KYNANCE COVE, CORNWALL 334 SUNSET NEAR LAND'S END, CORNWALL 336 "A DISTANT VIEW OF THE TOWERS OF WINDSOR" 355 DUOGRAVURES ST. LO FROM THE RIVER 18 A STREET IN ST. MALO 24 CHENONCEAUX--THE ORIENTAL FRONT 32 AMBOISE FROM ACROSS THE LOIRE 34 GRAND STAIRWAY OF FRANCIS I. AT BLOIS 36 PORT DU CROUX--A MEDIEVAL WATCHTOWER AT NEVERS 46 CASTLE AT FUSSEN 66 OBERAMMERGAU 70 ULM AND THE CATHEDRAL 82 GOETHE'S HOUSE--FRANKFORT 86 BINGEN ON THE RHINE 88 CASTLE RHEINSTEIN 90 EHRENFELS ON THE RHINE 92 RUINS OF CASTLE RHEINFELS 94 LUXEMBURG--GENERAL VIEW 102 ST. WULFRAM'S CHURCH--GRANTHAM 150 OLD PEEL TOWER AT DARNICK, NEAR ABBOTSFORD 178 HOTEL, JOHN O'GROATS 200 URQUHART CASTLE, LOCH NESS 214 THE MACDONALD MONUMENT, GLENCOE 220 "McCAIG'S FOLLY," OBAN 224 GLENLUCE ABBEY 242 SWEETHEART ABBEY 244 WORDSWORTH'S BIRTHPLACE--COCKERMOUTH 250 CALDER ABBEY, CUMBERLAND 252 KENDAL CASTLE 258 KENDAL PARISH CHURCH 260 DENBIGH CASTLE--THE ENTRANCE AND KEEP 266 ST. HILARY'S CHURCH, DENBIGH 272 GATE TOWERS RHUDDLAN CASTLE, NORTH WALES 276 PLAS MAWR, CONWAY, HOME OF ROYAL CAMBRIAN ACADEMY 284 INNER COURT, PLAS MAWR, CONWAY 286 CONWAY CASTLE--THE OUTER WALL 292 BERRY POMEROY CASTLE, ENTRANCE TOWERS 312 BERRY POMEROY CASTLE--WALL OF INNER COURT 316 A STREET IN EAST LOOE--CORNWALL 322 POLPERRO, CORNWALL--LOOKING TOWARD THE SEA 324 LANSALLOS CHURCH, POLPERRO 326 A STREET IN FOWEY--CORNWALL 330 PROBUS CHURCH TOWER, CORNWALL 332 MAPS FRANCE AND GERMANY 380 SCOTLAND 388 ENGLAND AND WALES 388 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Through Summer France and The Fatherland ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration: SUNSET IN TOURAINE From original painting by Leon Richet] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ On Old-World Highways I BOULOGNE TO ROUEN Our three summer pilgrimages in Britain have left few unexplored corners in the tight little island--we are thinking of new worlds to conquer. Beyond the narrow channel the green hills of France offer the nearest and most attractive field. Certainly it is the most accessible of foreign countries for the motorist in England and every year increasing numbers of English-speaking tourists are seen in the neighboring republic. The service of the Royal Automobile Club, with its usual enterprise and thoroughness, leaves little to be desired in arranging the details of a trip and supplies complete information as to route. An associate membership was accorded me on behalf of the Automobile Club of America, whose card I presented and which serves an American many useful ends in European motordom. Mr. Maroney, the genial touring secretary, at once interested himself in our proposed tour. He undertook to outline a route, to arrange for transportation of our car across the Channel, to provide for duties and licenses and, lastly, to secure a courier-guide familiar with the countries we proposed to invade and proficient in the French and German languages. The necessary guide-books and road-maps are carried in stock by the club and the only charge made is for these. Our proposed route was traced on the map, a typewritten list of towns and distances was made and a day or two later I was advised that a guide had been engaged. Mr Maroney expressed regret that the young men who serve the club regularly in this capacity were already employed, but he had investigated the man secured for us and found him competent and reliable. "Still," said Mr. Maroney with characteristic British caution, "we would feel better satisfied with one of our own men on the job; but it is the best we can do for you under the circumstances." We learned that our guide was a young Englishman of good family, at present in somewhat straitened circumstances, which made him willing to accept any position for which his talents might fit him. He had previously piloted motor parties through France and Italy and spoke four languages with perfect fluency. He had done a lot of knocking about, having recently been in a shipwreck off the coast of South America and having held a captain's commission in the South African War. We therefore called him "the Captain," and I may as well adopt that designation in referring to him in these pages, since his real name would interest no one. He was able to drive the car and declared willingness to do a chauffeur's part in caring for it. The only doubt expressed by Mr. Maroney was that the Captain might "forget his place"--that of a servant--and before long consider himself a member of our party, and with characteristic frankness the touring secretary cautioned our guide in my presence against any such presumption. It is a fine May afternoon when we drive from London to Folkestone to be on hand in time to attend to the formalities for crossing the Channel on the following day. Police traps, we are warned, abound along the road and we proceed quite soberly, taking some four hours for the seventy-five miles including the slow work of getting out of London. The Royal Pavilion Hotel on low ground near the docks is strictly first-class and its rates prove more moderate than we found at its competitors on the cliff. Our car is left at the dock, arrangements for its transport having been made beforehand by the Royal Automobile Club; but we saunter down in the morning to see it loaded. We need not worry about this, for it goes "at the company's risk," a provision which costs us ten shillings extra. It is pushed upon a large platform and a steam crane soon swings it high in the air preparatory to depositing it on the steamer deck. "She's an airship now," said an old salt as the car reached its highest point. "We did fetch over a sure-enough airship last week--belonged to that fellow Paulhan and he's a decentish chap, too; you'd never think he was a Frenchman!"--which would seem to indicate that the entente cordiale had not entirely cleared away prejudice from the mind of our sailor-friend. Our crossing was as comfortable as any Channel crossing could be--which in our case is not saying much, for that green, rushing streak of salt water, the English Channel, always gives us a squeamish feeling, no matter how "smooth" it may be. We are only too glad to get on terra firma in Boulogne and to see our car almost immediately swung to the dock. I had read in a recently published book by a motor tourist of the dreadful ordeal he underwent in securing his license to drive; a stern official sat beside him and put him through all his paces to ascertain if he was competent to pilot a car in France. I was expecting to be compelled to give a similar exhibit, when the Captain came out of the station with driving licenses for both himself and me and announced that we would be ready to proceed as soon as he attached a pair of very indistinct number plates. "But the examination 'pour competence,'" I said. "O," he replied, "I just explained to his nobs that we were in a great hurry and couldn't wait for an examination--and a five-franc piece did the rest." A piece of diplomacy which no doubt left the honest official feeling happier than if I had given him a joy-ride over the cobbles of Boulogne. Filling our tank with "essence," which we learn, after translating some jargon concerning "litres" and "francs," will cost about thirty-five cents per gallon--we strike out on the road to Montreuil. It proves a typical French highway and our first impressions are confirmed later on. The road is broad, with perfect contour and easy grades, running straight away for miles--or should I say kilometers?--and showing every evidence of engineering skill and careful construction. But it is old-fashioned macadam without any binding material. The motor car has torn up the surface and scattered it in loose dust which rises in clouds from our wheels or has been swept away by the wind, leaving the roadbed bare but rough and jagged--a perfect grindstone on rubber tires. The same description applies to nearly all the roads we traversed in France, and no doubt the vast preponderance of them are still in the same state or worse. A movement for re-surfacing the main highways is now in progress and in a few years France will again be at the front, though at this time she is far behind England in the matter of modern automobile roads. The long straight stretches and the absence of police traps in the country make fast time possible--if one is willing to pay the tire bill. Thirty miles an hour is an easy jog and though we left Boulogne after three, we find we have covered one hundred and ten miles at nightfall, including a stop for luncheon. At Montreuil we strike the first and only serious grade, a long, steep hill up which winds the cobble-paved main street of the town--our first experience with the cobble pavement of the provincial towns, of which more anon. A few miles beyond Montreuil the Captain steers us into a narrow byroad which leads into the quaint little fisher town of Berck-sur-Mer and, indeed, the much-abused "quaint" is not misapplied here. The old buildings straggle along the single street, quite devoid of any touch of the picturesque and thronged by people of all degrees. We see many queer four-wheeled vehicles--not much larger than toy wagons--drawn by ponies and donkeys, the drivers lying at full length on their backs, staring at the sky or asleep, their motive power wandering along at its own sweet will. It is indeed ridiculous to see full-grown men riding in such a primitive fashion, but the sight is not unusual. We meet a troop of prawn fishers coming in from the sea--as miserable specimens of humanity as we ever beheld--ragged, bedraggled, bare-headed and bare-footed creatures; many old women among them, prancing along like animated rag-bags. Swinging back into the main highway, we soon reach Abbeville, whose roughly paved streets wind between bare, unattractive buildings. In places malodorous streams run along the streets--practically open sewers, if the smell is any indication. Abbeville affords an example of the terrible cobblestone pavement that we found in nearly all French cities of the second class. The round, uneven stones--in the States we call them "niggerheads"--have probably lain undisturbed for centuries. Besides the natural roughness of such a pavement, there are numerous chuck-holes. No matter how slowly we drive, we bounce and jump over these stones, which strike the tires with sledge-hammer force, sending a series of shivers throughout the car. It is no wonder that such pavements and the grindstone roads often limit the life of tires to a few hundred miles. Out of Abbeville we "hit up" pretty strongly, for it is nearly dark and we plan to reach Rouen for the night. The straight fine road offers temptation to speed, under the circumstances, and our odometer does not vary much from forty miles--when we are suddenly treated to a surprise that makes us more cautious about speeding on French roads at dusk. In a little hollow we strike a ditch six inches deep by two or three feet in width--a "canivau," as they designate it in France--with a terrific jolt which almost threatens the car with destruction. The frame strikes the axles with fearful force; it seems impossible that nothing should be broken. A careful search fails to reveal any apparent damage, though a fractured axle-rod a short time later is undoubtedly a result of the violent blow. It seems strange that an important main road should have such a dangerous defect, though we find many similar cases later; but as we travel no more after dusk, and generally at much more moderate speed, we have no further mishap of the kind. We light our lamps and proceed at a more sober pace to Neufchatel, where we decide to stop for the night at the rather unattractive-looking Lion d'Or. We have reason to congratulate ourselves, for the wayside inn is really preferable to the Angleterre at Rouen and the rates are scarcely half so much. It is a rambling old house, partly surrounding a stable-yard court where the motor is stored for the night. The regular meal time is past, but a plain supper is prepared for us. We are tired enough not to be too critical of our accommodations and the rooms and beds are clean and fairly comfortable. We have breakfast at a long table where the guests all sit together and the fare, while plain, is good. There is nothing of interest in Neufchatel, though its cheese has given it a world-wide fame. It is a market town of four or five thousand people, depending largely on the prosperous country surrounding it. We are early away for Rouen and in course of an hour we come in sight of the cathedral spire, the highest in all France, rising nearly five hundred feet and overtopping Salisbury, the loftiest in England, by almost one hundred feet. At the Captain's recommendation we seek the Hotel Angleterre--which means the Hotel England--a bid, no doubt, for the patronage of the numerous English-speaking tourists who visit the city. There is a deal of dickering before we get settled, for the rates are unreasonably high; but after considerable parley a bargain is made. We enter the diminutive "lift," which holds two persons by a little crowding, but after the first trip we use the stairway to save time. One could not "do" Rouen in the guide-book sense in less than a week--but such is not the object of our present tour. If one brings a motor to France he can hardly afford to let it stand idle to spend several days in any city. We shall see what we can of Rouen in a day and take the road again in the morning. Our first thought is of Jeanne d'Arc and her martyrdom in the old city and our second of the cathedral, in some respects one of the most remarkable in Europe. It is but a stone's throw from our hotel and is consequently our first attraction. The facade is imposing despite its incongruous architectural details and has a world of intricate carving and sculpture, partly concealed by scaffolding, for the church is being restored. The towers flanking the facade are unfinished, both lacking the tall Gothic spire originally planned and, indeed, necessary to give a harmonious effect to the whole. A spire of open iron-work nearly five hundred feet in height replaces the original wooden structure burned by lightning in 1822 and is severely criticised as being out of keeping with the elaborate stone building which it surmounts. Once inside we are overwhelmed by a sense of vastness--the great church is nearly five hundred feet in length, while the transept is a third as wide. The arches of the nave seem almost lost in the dim, softly toned light that streams in from the richly colored windows, some of which date from the twelfth century. If the exterior is incongruous, the interior is indeed a symphony in stone, despite a few jarring notes in the decorations of some of the private chapels. There are many beautiful monuments, mainly to French church dignitaries whom we never heard of and care little about, but the battered gigantic limestone effigy discovered in 1838 is full of fascinating interest, for it represents Richard the Lion-Hearted--the Richard of "Ivanhoe"--whose heart, enclosed in a triple casket of lead, wood and silver, is buried beneath. The figure is nearly seven feet in length and we wonder if this is a true representation of the stature of our childhood's hero, who, "starred with idle glory, came Bearing from leaguered Ascalon The barren splendour of his fame, And, vanquished by an unknown bow, Lies vainly great at Fontevraud." For Richard's body was interred at Fontevraud, near Orleans, with other members of English royalty. Henry II. is also buried in Rouen Cathedral--all indicative that there was a day when English kings regarded Normandy as their home! Another memorial which interests us is dedicated to LaSalle, the great explorer, who was born in Rouen. He was buried, as every schoolboy knows, in the great river which he discovered, but his memory is cherished by his native city as the man who gave the empire of Louisiana to France. Rouen has at least two other churches of first magnitude--St. Ouen and St. Maclou--but we shall have to content ourselves with a cursory glance at their magnificence. The former is declared to be "one of the most beautiful Gothic churches in existence, surpassing the cathedral both in extent and excellence of style." Such is the pronouncement of that final authority on such matters, Herr Baedeker! But, after all, is not Rouen best known to the world because of its connection with the strange figure of Jeanne d'Arc? Indeed, her career savors of myth and legend--not the sober fact of history--and it is hard to conceive of the scene that took place around the fatal spot in the Vieux-Marche, now marked with a large stone bearing the inscription, "Jeanne d'Arc, 30 Mar. 1431." Here a tender young woman whose only crime was an implicit belief that she was divinely inspired, was burned at the stake by order of a reverend bishop who, surrounded by his satellites, approvingly looked on the dreadful scene. And these men were not painted savages, but high dignitaries of Christendom. Much of old Rouen stands to-day as it stood then, but what a vast change has been wrought in humankind! Only a single ruinous tower remains of the castle where the Maid was confined. While imprisoned here she was intimidated by being shown the instruments of torture; but she withstood the callous brutality of her persecutors with fortitude and heroism that baffled them, though it only enraged them the more. We acknowledge the hopelessness of getting any adequate idea of a city of such antiquity and importance in a day and the Captain says we may as well quit trying. He suggests that we take the tram for Bonsecours, situated on the steep hill towering high over the town from the right bank of the river. Here is a modern Catholic cemetery with many handsome tombs and monuments and, in the center, a recently erected memorial to Joan of Arc. This consists of three little temples in the Renaissance style, the central chapel enclosing a marble statue of the Maid. There is a modern church near by whose interior--a solid mass of bright green, red and gold--is the most gorgeous we have seen. The specialty of this church is "votive tablets"--the walls are covered with little marble placards telling what some particular saint has done for the donor in response to a vow. A round charge, the Captain says, is made for each tablet, so that the income of Bonsecours Church must be a good one. But one will not visit Bonsecours to see the church or the memorial, though both are interesting in their way, but for the unmatched view of the city and the Seine Valley, which good authorities pronounce one of the finest panoramas in Europe. From the memorial the whole city lies spread out like a map--so far beneath that the five-hundred-foot spire of Notre Dame is below the level of our vision. The city, with its splendid spires rising amidst the wilderness of streets and house-roofs, fills the valley near at hand and the broad, shining folds of the Seine, with its old bridges and wooded shores, lends a glorious variety to the scene. The view up and down the river is quite unobstructed, covering a beautiful and prosperous valley bounded on either side by the verdant hills of Normandy. This view alone well repays a visit to Bonsecours, whether one's stay in Rouen be short or long. In leaving Rouen we cross the Seine and follow the fine straight road which runs through Pont Audemer to Honfleur on the coast. This was not our prearranged route, but the Captain apparently gravitates toward the sea whenever possible, and he is responsible for the diversion. From Honfleur we follow the narrow road along the coast--its sharp turns, devious windings, short steep hills and the hedgerows which border it in places recalling the byways of Devon and Cornwall. We again come out on the shore at Trouville-sur-Mer, a watering place with an array of imposing hotels. It is not yet the "season" and many of the hotels are closed, but the Belvue, one of the largest, is doing business and we have an elaborate luncheon here which costs more than we like to pay. Out of Trouville our road still pursues the coast, running through a series of resorts and fishing villages until it swings inland for Caen--a quaint, irregular old place which, next to Rouen, declares Baedeker, is the most interesting city in Normandy. We are sorry that many of its show-places are closed to us, for it is Sunday and the churches are not open to tourist inspection. In St. Stephen's we might have seen the tomb of William the Conqueror, though his remains no longer rest beneath it, having been disinterred and scattered by the Huguenots in 1562. Caen has two other great churches--St. Peter's and Trinity, which we can view only from the outside. It is Pentecost Sunday and the streets are thronged with young girls in white who have taken part in confirmation services; we have seen others at many places during the day. It is about the only thing to remind us that it is Sunday, for the shops are open, work is going on in the fields, and road-making is in progress; we note little suspension of week-day activities. The peasants whom we see by the roadside and in the little villages are generally very dirty but seem happy and content. The farm houses are usually unattractive, often with filthy surroundings--muck-heaps in front of the doors--not unlike what we saw in some parts of Ireland. The road from Caen to Bayeux runs as straight as an arrow's flight, broad, level and bordered--as most main roads are in France--by rows of stately trees. We give the motor full rein and the green sunny fields flit joyously past us. What a relief to "open her up" without thought of a policeman behind every bush! Is it any wonder that the oft-trapped Englishman considers France a motorist's paradise? The spires of Bayeux Cathedral soon rise before us and we must content ourselves with the exterior of this magnificent church. Not so with the museum which contains the Bayeux Tapestry, for the lady member of our party is determined to see this famous piece of needlework, willy nilly. The custodian is finally located and we are admitted to view the relic. It is a strip of linen cloth eighteen inches wide and two hundred thirty feet long, embroidered in colored thread with scenes representing the Conquest of England by William of Normandy. It is claimed that the work was done by Queen Matilda and her maidens, though this is disputed by some authorities; but its importance as a contemporary representation of historic events of the time of William I. far outweighs its artistic significance. The main road from Bayeux to St. Lo is one of the most glorious highways in France. It runs through an almost unbroken forest of giant trees for a good part of the distance--a little more than twenty miles--and the sunset sky gleaming through the stately trunks relieves the otherwise somber effect. By happy accident we reach St. Lo at nightfall and turn into the courtyard of the Hotel de Univers, a comfortable-looking old house invitingly close to the roadside. I say by happy accident, for we never planned to stop at St. Lo and but for chance might have remained in ignorance of one of the most charming little cathedral towns in France. Indeed, we feel that St. Lo is ours by right of discovery, for we find but scant mention of it in the guide-books. After an excellent though unpretentious dinner, we sally forth from our inn to view our surroundings in the deepening twilight. The town is situated on the margin of a still little river which wonderfully reflects the ancient vine-covered houses that climb the sharply sloping hillside. The huge bulk of the cathedral looms mysteriously over the town and its soaring twin spires are sharply outlined against the dim moonlit sky. The towers are not exact duplicates, as they appear from a distance, but both exhibit the same general characteristics of Gothic style. The whole scene is one of enchanting beauty; the dull glow of the river, the houses massed on the hillside, with lighted windows gleaming here and there and and crowning all the vast sentinellike form of the cathedral--a scene that would lose half its charm if viewed by the flaunting light of day. And we secretly resolve that we shall have no such disenchantment; we shall steal quietly out of St. Lo in the early morning with never a backward glance. We do not, therefore, see the interior of the church, which has several features of peculiar interest, and we may be pardoned for adopting the description of an English writer: "Notre Dame de Saint-Lo has a very unusual and original plan, widening towards the east and adding another aisle to the north and south ambulatories. On the north side is its chief curiosity, an out-door pulpit, built at the end of the fifteenth century and probably used by Huguenot preachers, to whom a sermon was a sermon, whether preached under a vaulted roof or the open sky. What strikes one most about the interior of the church is its want of light. The nave is absolutely unlighted, having neither tri-forium nor clerestory, and the aisles have only one tier of large windows, whose glass is old and very fine, though in most cases pieced together; the nave piers are massive, with a cluster of three shafts; those of the choir are quite simple, and have one noticeable feature, the absence of capitals, the vault mouldings dying away into the pier." [Illustration: ST. LO FROM THE RIVER] We shall remember our hotel as the best type of the small-town French inn--a simple, old-fashioned house where we had attentive service and a studied effort to please was made by all connected with the place. And not the least of its merits are its moderate charges--less than half we paid at many of the larger places, often for less satisfactory accommodations. Twenty miles westward from St. Lo we come to Coutances, which boasts of a cathedral church of the first magnitude and one of the oldest in Normandy, dating almost in entirety from the thirteenth century. Leaving the main highway a little beyond Coutances, we follow the narrow byroad running about a mile from the coast through Granville, a well-known seaside resort, to Avranches. This road is scarcely more than a winding lane with many sharp little hills, hedge-bordered in places and often overarched by trees--a little like the roads of Southern England, a type not very common in France. South of Granville it closely follows the shore for a few miles, then swings inland for a mile or two, affording only occasional glimpses of the sea. Avranches, from its commanding site on a lofty hill, soon breaks into view, and the Captain suggests luncheon at the Grand Hotel de France et de Londres, which he says is famous in this section. Besides, it is well worth while to ascend the hill for the panorama of St. Michel's Bay, with its cathedral-crowned islet, which may be seen to the best advantage from the town. It is a stiff, winding climb to the summit, but we reach the cobble-paved, vine-embowered court of the hotel just in time for dinner. I suppose the "Londres" was added to the name of the inn with a view of catching the English-speaking trade, which is considerable in Avranches, since the town is the stopping-place of many tourists who visit Mont St. Michel. From the courtyard we are ushered into the dining-room where, after the fashion of country inns in France, a single long table serves all the guests. At the head sits the proprietor, a suave, gray-bearded gentleman who graciously does the courtesies of the table. The meal is quite an elaborate one and there is plenty of old port wine for the bibulously inclined. I might say here that this inclusion of wines without extra charge is a common but not universal practice with the French country inns; generally these liquors are of the cheapest quality, little better than vinegar, and one trial will make the average tourist a teetotaler unless he wishes to order a better grade as an "extra." After the meal our host comes out to wish us "bon voyage" as we depart and we are at a loss to understand his intention when he picks up a small ladder and begins climbing up the wall. We see, however, that a rose-vine bearing a few beautiful blossoms clings to the stones above a window. The old gentleman cuts some of the choicest flowers and presents them, with a gracious bow, to the lady of our party. The new causeway makes Mont St. Michel easily accessible to motorists and affords a splendid view as one approaches the towered and pinnacled rock and the little town that climbs its steep sides. Formerly the tide covered the rough road that led to the mount, much the same as it still covers the approach to the Cornish St. Michael; but the new grade is above high-tide level and the abbey may be reached at any time of the day. It is a wearisome climb to the summit--for the car cannot enter the narrow streets of the town--and for some time we wait the pleasure of the guide, who, being a government official, does not permit himself to be unduly hurried. He speaks only French and but for the Captain's services we should know little of his story. To our half-serious remark that a lift would save visitors some hard work he replies with a shrug, "A lift in Mont St. Michel? It wouldn't be Mont St. Michel any longer!"--a hint of how carefully the atmosphere of mediaevalism is preserved here. The abbey as it stands to-day is largely the result of an extensive restoration begun by the government in 1863. This accounts for the surprisingly perfect condition of much of the building, and it also confirms the wisdom of the undertaking by which a great service has been rendered to architecture. Previous to the restoration the abbey was used as a prison, but it is now chiefly a show-place, though services are regularly conducted in the chapel. Especially noteworthy are the cloisters, a thirteenth-century reproduction, with two hundred and twenty columns of polished granite embedded in the wall and ranged in double arcades, the graceful vaults decorated with exquisite carving and a beautiful frieze. The most notable apartment is the Hall of the Chevaliers, likewise a thirteenth-century replica. The vaulting of solid stone is supported by a triple row of massive columns running the full length of nearly one hundred feet--like ranks of giant tree trunks. There is a beautiful chapel and dungeons and crypts galore, the names of which we made no attempt to remember. Likewise we gave little attention to the historic episodes of the mount, which are not of great importance. The interest of the tourist centers in the remarkably striking effect of the great group of Gothic buildings crowning the rock and in the artistic beauty of the architectural details. Many wonderful views of the sea and of the hills and towns around the bay may be seen to splendid advantage from the terraces and battlements. There are a number of pleasant little tea gardens where one may order light refreshments and in the meanwhile enjoy a most inspiring view of the sea and distant landscape. The little town at the foot of the rock is a quaint old-world place with a single street but a few feet wide. The small population subsists on tourist trade--restaurants and souvenir shops making up the village. Little is doing to-day, as we are in advance of the liveliest season. The greatest number of visitors come on Sunday--a gala day at Mont St. Michel in summer. A rough, stony road takes us to St. Malo and adds considerable wearisome tire trouble to an already strenuous day. We are glad to stop at the Hotel de Univers, even though it is not prepossessing from without. [Illustration: A STREET IN ST. MALO] St. Malo's antiquity and quaintness are its stock in trade, and these, together with its position on a peninsula, with the sea on every hand, make it one of the most popular resorts in France. Steamers from Southampton bring numbers of English visitors--we find no interpreter needed at the hotel. The town is encircled by walls, the greater part recently restored. They are none the less picturesque and the mighty towers at the entrance gateways savor strongly indeed of mediaevalism. In the older part of the town the streets are so narrow and crooked as to exclude motors, the widest not exceeding twenty feet, and there are seldom walks on either side. The houses bordering them show every evidence of age--St. Malo is best described by the often overworked term, "old-world." The huge church--formerly a cathedral--is so hedged in by buildings that it is impossible to get a good view of the exterior or to take a satisfactory photograph. As a result of such crowding it is poorly lighted inside, though it really has an impressive interior. A walk round the walls or ramparts of St. Malo affords a wonderful view of the sea and surrounding country and also many interesting glimpses of queer nooks and corners in the town itself. The bay is finest at full tide, which rises here to the astonishing height of forty-nine feet above low water. There are numerous fortified islands and it is possible to reach some of these on foot when the tide is out. St. Malo was besieged many times during the endless wars between England and France, but owing to its remarkable fortifications was never taken. There is more rough, badly worn road between St. Malo and Rennes, though in the main it is broad and level. Its effect on tires is indeed disheartening--we have run less than a thousand miles since landing and new envelopes are showing signs of dissolution. Part of the game, no doubt, but it is hard to be cheerful losers in such a game, to say the least. Rennes, we find, has other claims to fame than the Dreyfus trial, which is the first distinction that comes to mind. Its public museum and galleries contain one of the best provincial collections in France, and there is an imposing modern cathedral. We have an excellent lunch at the Grand Hotel, though it is a dingy-looking place that would hardly invite a lengthy stop if appearances should be considered. It is not Baedeker's number one and there is doubtless a better hotel in Rennes. The road which we follow in leaving the town is the best we have yet traversed in France; it is broad, straight and newly surfaced, and the thirty or more miles to Chateaubriant are rapidly covered. Here we find an ancient town of a few thousand people, and an enormous old castle partly in ruins, a fit match for Conway or Harlech in Britain. Its square-topped, crenelated towers and long embrasured battlements are quite different from the pointed Gothic style of the usual French chateau. Beyond Chateaubriant the road runs broad and straight for miles through a beautiful and prosperous country. Evidently the land is immensely fertile and tilled with the thoroughness that characterizes French agriculture. The small village is the only discordant note. We pass through several all alike, bare, dirty and uninteresting, quite different from the trim, flower-decked beauty of the English village. And they grow steadily more repulsive as we progress farther inland until, as we near the German border--but the subject is not pleasant enough to anticipate! [Illustration: WOODS IN BRITTANY From original painting by Leon Richet] Angers is a cathedral town of eighty thousand people on the River Maine, two or three miles above its confluence with the Loire. It is of ancient origin, but the French passion for making everything new (according to an English critic) has swept away most of its old-time landmarks save the castle and cathedral. The former was one of the most extensive mediaeval fortresses in all France and is still imposing, despite the fact that several of its original seventeen towers have been razed and its great moat filled up. It is now more massive than picturesque. "It has no beauty, no grace, no detail, nothing to charm or detain you; it is simply very old and very big and it takes its place in your recollections as a perfect specimen of a superannuated feudal stronghold." The huge bastions, girded with iron bands, and the high perpendicular walls springing out of the dark waters of the moat must have made the castle impregnable against any method of assault before the days of artillery. The castle is easily the most distinctive feature of Angers and the one every visitor should see, though I must confess we failed to visit it. We should also have seen the cathedral and museum, but museums consume time and time is the first consideration on a motor tour. Our Hotel, the Grand, though old, is cleanly and pleasant, with high ceilings and broad corridors which have immense full-length mirrors at every turn. The prices for all this magnificence are quite moderate--largely due, no doubt, to the Captain's prearrangement with the manager. The service, however, is a little slack, especially at the table. At Angers we are in the edge of the Chateau District, and as my chapter has already run to considerable length, I shall avail myself of this logical stopping place. The story of the French chateaus has filled many a good-sized volume and may well occupy a separate chapter in this rather hurried record. II THE CHATEAU DISTRICT For more than two hundred miles after leaving Angers we follow a road that may justly be described as one of the most unique and picturesque in France. It seldom takes us out of sight of the shining Loire and most of the way it runs on an embankment directly overlooking the river, affording a panoramic view of the fertile valley which stretches to green hills on either side. The embankment is primarily to confine the waters during freshets, but its broad level top makes an excellent roadbed, which is generally in good condition. A few miles out of Angers we get our first view of the Loire, a majestic river three or four hundred yards in width and in full flow at the present time. Occasional islets add to the beauty of the scene and the landscape on either hand is studded with splendid trees. It is an opulent-looking country and we pass miles of green fields interspersed at times with unbroken stretches of forest. There are several towns and villages on both sides of the river and they are cleaner and better in appearance than those we passed yesterday. Near Tours the country becomes more broken and the hillsides are covered with endless vineyards. In places the clifflike hills rise close to the roadside and these are honeycombed with caves; some are occupied as dwellings by the peasants, but the greater number serve as storage cellars for wine, which is produced in large quantities in this vicinity. These modern "cliff-dwellers" are not so poor as their homes would indicate; there are many well-to-do peasants among them. In fact, the very poor are scarce in rural France; the universal habits of industry and economy have spread prosperity among all classes of people; rough attire and squalid surroundings are seldom indicative of real poverty, as in England. Everybody is engaged in some useful occupation--old women may be seen herding a cow, donkey or geese by the roadside and knitting industriously the while. Tours is one of the most beautiful of the older French provincial cities. We have a fine view of the town from across the Loire as we approach, for it lies on the south side of the river. It is a famous tourist center--perhaps the first objective, after Paris, of the majority of Americans and English, and it has several pretentious hotels. We choose the newest, the Metropole, which proves very satisfactory. Here the Captain's wiles fail to reduce the first-named tariff, for the hotel is full, and we can only guess what the charge might have been if not agreed upon in advance. In defense of his bargaining the Captain tells a story of a previous trip he made with an American party in Italy. English was spoken at a hotel where one of the party asked the rates and the proprietor, assuming that his prospective guests did not understand the language of the country, had a little by-talk with a henchman as to charges and remarked that the tourists, being Americans, would probably stand three or four times the regular rates, which the inn-keeper proceeded to ask. He was greatly chagrinned when the Captain repeated the substance of the conversation he had heard and told the would-be robber that the party would seek accommodations elsewhere. I will let this little digression take the place of descriptive remarks concerning Tours, which has probably been written about more than any other city in France excepting Paris. The cathedral everyone will see; it is especially noteworthy for the facade, which is the best and most ornate example of the so-called Flamboyant style in existence. The great Renaissance towers are comparatively modern and to our mind lack the grace and fitness of the pointed Gothic style. The country about Tours has more to attract the tourist than the city itself, for within a few miles are the famous chateaus which have been exploited by literary travelers of all degrees. But it has lost none of its charm on that account and perhaps every writer has presented to some extent a different viewpoint of its beauty and romance. Touraine is quite unlike any other part of France; its vistas of grayish-green levels, diversified with slim shimmering poplars and flashes of its broad lazy rivers, are quite unique and characteristic. And when such a landscape is dotted with an array of splendid historic palaces such as Blois, Amboise, Chinon, Chaumont and Chenonceaux, it assuredly reaches the height of romantic interest. All of these, it is true, are not within the exact political limits of Touraine, but all are within easy reach of Tours. We make Chenonceaux our objective for the afternoon. It lies a little more than twenty miles east of Tours and the road follows the course of the Cher almost the whole distance. The palace stands directly above the river, supported on massive arches which rest on piles in the bed of the stream. A narrow drawbridge at either end cuts the entrances from the shore, though these bridges were never intended as a means of defense. Chenonceaux was in no sense a military fortress--its memories are of love and jealousy and not of war or assassination. It was built early in the sixteenth century by a receiver of taxes to King Francis, but so much of the public funds went into the work that its projector died in disgrace and his son atoned as best he could by turning the chateau over to the king. [Illustration: CHENONCEAUX--THE ORIENTAL FRONT] And here, in the heart of old France, we come upon another memory of Mary Stuart, for here, with Francis II., she spent her honeymoon--if, indeed, we may style her short loveless marriage a honeymoon--coming direct from Amboise, where she had unwillingly witnessed the awful scenes of the massacre of the Huguenots. What must have been the reveries of the girl-queen at Chenonceaux! In a foreign land, surrounded by a wicked, intriguing court, with scenes of bloodshed and death on every hand and wedded to a hopeless imbecile, foredoomed to early death--surely even the strange beauty of the river palace could not have driven these terrible ghosts from her mind. Chenonceaux has many memories of love and intrigue, for here in 1546 Francis I. and his mistress, the famous Diane of Poitiers, gave a great hunting party; but the heir-apparent, Prince Henry, soon gained the affections of the fair Diane and on his accession to the throne presented her with the chateau, to which she had taken a great fancy. She it was who built the bridgelike hall connecting the castle with the south bank of the river and she otherwise improved the palace and grounds; but on the death of the king, twelve years later, the queen--the terrible Catherine de Medici--compelled Diane to give up Chenonceaux and to betake herself to the older and less attractive Chaumont. The chateau escaped serious injury during the fiery period of the Revolution, but the insurrectionists compelled the then owner, Madame Dupin, to surrender her securities, furniture, priceless paintings and objects of art--the collection of nearly three centuries--and all were destroyed in a bonfire. Chenonceaux is now the property of a wealthy Cuban who has spent a fortune in its restoration and improving the grounds, which accounts for the trim, new appearance of the place. The great avenue leading from the public entrance passes through formal gardens brilliant with flowers and beautified with rare shrubbery and majestic trees. It is a pleasant and romantic place and the considerateness of the owner in opening it to visitors for a trifling fee deserves commendation. [Illustration: AMBOISE FROM ACROSS THE LOIRE] Quite different are the memories of Amboise, the vast, acropolislike pile which towers over the Loire some dozen miles beyond Tours and which we reach early the next day after a delightful run along the broad river. We have kept to the north bank and cross the river into the little village, from which a steep ascent leads to the chateau. The present structure is largely the result of modern restoration, the huge round tower being about all that remains of the ancient castle. This contains a circular inclined plane, up which Emperor Charles V. of the Holy Roman Empire rode on horseback when he visited Francis I. in 1539, and it is possible for a medium-sized automobile to make the ascent to-day. Amboise is chiefly remembered for the awful deeds of Catherine de Medici, who from the balcony overlooking the town watched the massacre, which she personally directed, of twelve hundred Huguenots. With her were the young king, Francis II., and his bride, Mary Stuart, who were compelled to witness the series of horrible executions which were carried out in the presence of the court. The leaders were hung from the iron balconies and others were murdered in the courtyard. They met their fate with stern religious enthusiasm, singing, it is recorded, until death silenced their voices. The direct cause of the massacre was the discovery of a plot on the part of the Huguenot leaders to abduct the young king in order to get him from under the evil influence of his mother. The chateau contains a tomb that alone should make it the shrine of innumerable pilgrims, for here is buried that many-sided genius, Leonardo da Vinci, who died in Amboise in 1519 and whom many authorities regard as the most remarkable man the human race has yet produced. But enough of horrors and tombs; we go out on the balcony, where the old tigress stood in that far-off day, and contemplate the enchanting scene that lies beneath us. Out beyond the blue river a wide peaceful plain stretches to the purple hills in the far distance; just below are the gray roofs of the town and there are glorious vistas up and down the broad stream. This is the memory we should prefer to carry away with us, rather than that of the murderous deeds of Catherine de Medici! On arriving at Blois, twenty miles farther down the river road, thoughts of belated luncheon first engage our minds and the Hotel de Angleterre sounds good, looks good, and proves good, indeed. Its dining-room is a glass-enclosed balcony overhanging the river, which adds a picturesque view to a very excellent meal. The chateau, a vast quadrangular pile surrounding a great court, is but a short distance from the hotel. Only the historic apartments are shown--quite enough, since several hours would be required to make a complete round of the enormous edifice. The castle has passed into the hands of the government and is being carefully restored. It is planned to make it a great museum of art and history and several rooms already contain an important collection. The palace was built at different periods, from the thirteenth to the seventeenth centuries, and was originally a nobleman's home, but later a residence of the kings of France. [Illustration: GRAND STAIRWAY OF FRANCIS I. AT BLOIS] Inside the court our attention is attracted by the elaborate decorations and carvings of the walls. On one side is a long open gallery supported by richly wrought columns; but most marvelous is the great winding stairway projecting from the wall and open on the inner side. Every inch of this structure--its balconies, its pillars and its huge central column--is wrought over with beautiful images and strange devices, among which the salamander of Francis I. is most noticeable. When we have admired the details of the court to our satisfaction, the guide conducts us through a labyrinth of gorgeously decorated rooms with many magnificent fireplaces and mantels but otherwise quite unfurnished. The apartments of the crafty and cruel Catherine de Medici are especially noteworthy, one of them--her study--having no fewer than one hundred and fifty carved panels which conceal secret crypts and hiding-places. These range from small boxes--evidently for jewels or papers--to a closet large enough for one to hide in. The overshadowing tragic event of Blois--there were a host of minor ones--was the assassination of the Duke of Guise in 1588. Henry III., a weak and vacillating king, was completely dominated by this powerful nobleman, whose fanatical religious zeal led him to establish a league to restore the supremacy of the Catholic religion. The king was forced to proclaim the duke lieutenant-general of the kingdom and to pledge himself to extirpate the heretics; but despite his outward compliance Henry was resolved on vengeance. According to the ideas of the times an objectionable courtier could best be removed by assassination and this the king determined upon. He piously ordered two court priests to pray for the success of his plan and summoned the duke to his presence. Guise was standing before the fire in the great dining-room and though he doubtless suspected his royal master's kind intentions toward him, walked into the next room, where nine of the king's henchmen awaited him. They offered no immediate violence, but followed him into the corridor, where they at once drew swords and fell upon him. Even against such odds the duke, who was a powerful man, made a strong resistance and though repeatedly stabbed, fought his way to the king's room, where he fell at the foot of the royal bed. Henry, when assured that his enemy was really dead, came trembling out of the adjoining room and kicking the corpse, exclaimed, "How big he is; bigger dead than alive!" The next morning the duke's brother, the Cardinal of Lorraine, was also murdered in the castle as he was hastening to obey a summons from the king. There is little suggestion of such horrors in the polished floors and gilded walls that surround us today as we hear the Captain translate the gruesome details from the guide's voluble sentences. We listen only perfunctorily; it all seems unreasonable and unreal as the sun, breaking from the clouds that have prevailed much of the day, floods the great apartments with light. We have not followed this tale of blood and treachery closely; it is only another reminder that cruelty and inhumanity were very common a few centuries ago. There is a minor cathedral in Blois, but the most interesting church is St. Nicholas, formerly a part of the abbey and dating from 1138. Its handsome facade with twin towers is the product of recent restoration. There are also many quaint timbered houses in Blois, dating from the fifteenth century and later, but we pay little attention to them. I hardly know why our enthusiasm for old French houses is so limited, considering how eagerly we sought such bits of antiquity in England. We pursue the river road the rest of the day, though in places it swings several miles from the Loire--or does the Loire swing from the road, which seems arrow-straight everywhere?--and cuts across some lovely rural country. Fields of grain, just beginning to ripen, predominate and there are also green meadows and patches of carmine clover. Crimson poppies and blue cornflowers gleam among the wheat, lending a touch of brilliant color to the billowy fields. The village of Beaugency, which we passed about midway between Tours and Orleans, is one that will arrest the attention of the casual passerby. It is more reminiscent of the castellated small town of England than one often finds in France. It is overshadowed by a huge Norman keep with sheltered, ivy-grown parapets, the sole remaining portion of an eleventh-century castle. The remainder of the present castle was built as a stronghold against the English, only to be taken by them shortly after its completion. The invaders, however, were driven out by the French army under Joan of Arc in 1429. The bridge at Beaugency is the oldest on the Loire, having spanned the river since the thirteenth century. The town has stood several sieges and was the scene of terrible excesses in the religious wars of the sixteenth century, the abbey having been burned by the Protestants in 1567. Towards evening we again come to the river bank and ere long the towers of Orleans break on our view. Despite its great antiquity the city appears quite modern, for it has been so rebuilt that but few of its ancient landmarks remain. Even the cathedral is a modern restoration--almost in toto--and there is scarcely a complete building in the town antedating 1500. The main streets are broad and well-paved and electric trams run on many of them. Our hotel, the Grand Aignan, is rather old-fashioned and somewhat dingy, but it is clean and comfortable and its rates are not exorbitant. There is a modern and more fashionable hotel in the city, but we have learned that second-class inns in cities of medium size are often good and much easier on one's purse. Our first thought, when we begin our after-dinner ramble, is that Orleans should change its name to Jeanne d'Arcville. I know of no other instance where a city of seventy thousand people is so completely dominated by a single name. The statues, the streets, the galleries, museums, churches and shops--all remind one of the immortal Maid who made her first triumphal entry into Orleans in 1429, when the city was hard pressed by the English besiegers. Every postcard and souvenir urged upon the visitor has something to do with the patron saint of the town and, after a little, one falls in with the spirit of the place, rejoicing that the memories of Orleans are only of success and triumph and forgetting Rouen's dark chapter of defeat and death. In the morning we first go to the cathedral--an ornate and imposing church, though one that the critics have dealt with rather roughly. It faces the wide Rue Jeanne d'Arc--again Orleans' charmed name--and it seems to us that the whole vast structure might well be styled a memorial to the immortal Maid of France. The facade is remarkable for its Late-Gothic towers, nearly three hundred feet high, while between them to the rear rises the central spire, some fifty feet higher. There are three great portals beneath massive arches, rising perhaps one-fourth the height of the towers, and above each of these is an immense rose window. Perhaps the design as a whole is not according to the best architectural tenets, but the cathedral seems grand to such unsophisticated critics as ourselves. Being a rather late restoration, it does not show the wear and tear of the ages, like so many of its ancient rivals, and perhaps loses a little charm on this account. The vast vaultlike interior is quite free from obstructions to one's vision and is lighted by windows of beautifully toned modern glass. These depict scenes in the life of Joan of Arc, beginning with the appearance of her heavenly monitors and ending with her martyrdom at the stake. The designing is of remarkably high order and the color toning is much more effective than one often finds in modern glass. There are a number of paintings and images, many of them referring to the career of the now venerated Maid. The usual gaudy chapels and altars of French cathedrals are in evidence, though none are especially interesting. Orleans has several other churches and all pay some tribute to the heroine of the town. A small part of St. Peter's dates from the ninth century, one of the few relics of antiquity to be found in Orleans. The Hotel de Ville, built about 1530, has a beautiful marble figure of Joan in the court, and an equestrian statue of the Maid is in the Grand Salon of the building, representing her horse in the act of trampling a mortally wounded Englishman. Both of these statues are the work of Princess Marie of Orleans--a scion of the old royal family of France. The Hotel de Ville also recalls a memory of Mary Stuart; here in 1560 her boy-husband, Francis II., expired in the arms of his wife, and her career was soon transferred from the French court to its no less troubled and cruel contemporary in Scotland. The town possesses an unusually good museum, which includes a large historical collection, and the gallery contains a number of paintings and sculptures of real merit. Of course one will wish to see the house where the patron saint of the town lodged, and this may be found at No. 37 Rue de Tabour. There is also on the same street the Musee Jeanne d'Arc, which contains a number of relics and paintings relating to the heroine and her times. But for all the worship of Joan of Arc in Orleans, she was not a native of the place and actually spent only a short time within the walls of the old city. The Maid was born in the little village of Domremy in Lorraine, some two hundred miles eastward, where her humble birthplace may still be seen and which we hope to visit when we make our next incursion into France. III ORLEANS TO THE GERMAN BORDER We have no more delightful run in France than our easy jaunt from Orleans to Nevers. We still follow the Loire Valley, though the road only occasionally brings us in sight of the somewhat diminished river. The distance is but ninety-six miles over the most perfect of roads and we proceed leisurely, often pausing to admire the landscapes--beautiful beyond any ability of mine to adequately describe. The roadside resembles a well-kept lawn; it is bordered by endless rows of majestic trees and on either hand are fertile fields which show every evidence of the careful work of the farmer. The silken sheen of bearded wheat and rye is dotted with crimson poppies and starred with pale-blue cornflowers. At times the poppies have gained the mastery and burn like a spot of flame amidst the emerald-green of the fields. Patches of dark-red clover lend another color variation, and here and there are dashes of bright yellow or gleaming white of buttercups and daisies. With such surroundings and on such a clear, exhilarating day our preconceived ideals of the beauty of Summer France suffer no disenchantment. Cosne is an old river town now rather dominated by manufactories and here Pope Pius VII. sojourned when he came to France upon the neighborly invitation of Napoleon I. He stopped at the Hotel du Cerf, but we try the Moderne for luncheon, which proves unusually good. About three o'clock we reach Nevers and a sudden thunder shower determines us to stop for the night at the Hotel de France. Outside it is quite unpretending, though queer ornamental panels between the windows and a roof of moss-green tiles redeem it somewhat from the commonplace. We have no reason to repent our decision, for the rambling old inn is scrupulously clean and the service has the personal touch that indicates the watchful eye of a managing proprietor. We are somewhat surprised to see a white-clad chef very much in evidence about the hotel and even taking a lively interest in guests who have suffered a break-down and are wrestling with their car in the stable-yard garage. We learn that this chef is the proprietor, and his wife, an English woman, is the manageress. The combination is an effective one; English-speaking guests are made very much at home and the excellence of the meals is sufficient proof of the competence of the proprietor-chef. [Illustration: PORT DU CROUX--A MEDIEVAL WATCHTOWER AT NEVERS] Nevers has a cathedral dating in part from the twelfth century, though the elaborate tower with its host of sculptured prophets, apostles and saints was built some three hundred years later. The most notable relic of mediaevalism in the town is the queer old Port du Croux, a fourteenth-century watch-tower which one time formed part of the fortifications. It is a noble example of mediaeval defense--a tall gateway tower with long lancet openings and two pointed turrets flanking the steep, tile-covered roof. The ducal palace and the Hotel de Ville are also interesting old-time structures, though neither is of great historic importance. The history of Nevers is in sharp contrast with the checkered career of its neighbor, Orleans, being quite uneventful and prosaic. It is a quiet place to-day, its chief industry being the potteries, which have been in existence some centuries. The next day, thirty miles on the road to Autun, we experience our first break-down in eighteen thousand miles of motoring in Europe--that is, a break-down that means we must abandon the car for the time. Near the little village of Tamnay-Chatillon an axle-rod breaks and a new one must be made before we can proceed. Our objective point, Dijon, is the nearest place where we will be likely to find facilities for repair and we resolve to go thither by train. We have been so delayed that train-time is past and we shall have to pass the night at the village inn. It is extremely annoying at the time, though in retrospect we are glad of our experience with at least one very small country road-house in France. The inn people spare no effort to make us as comfortable as possible and we have had many worse meals in good-sized cities than is served to us this evening. Our beds, though apparently clean, are not very restful, but we are too weary to be excessively critical. The next morning, leaving the crippled car in the stable-yard, we take the train for Dijon. The Captain carries the broken axle-rod as a pattern and soon after our arrival a workman is shaping a new one from a steel bar. And in this connection I might remark that we found the average French mechanic quick and intelligent, with almost an intuitive understanding of a piece of machinery. Our job proves slower than we anticipated; the work can be done by only one man at a time and it is not completed before midnight of the following day. In the meanwhile we have established ourselves at the Grand Hotel de la Cloche, a pretentious--and, as it proves, a very expensive stopping-place. We have large, well-furnished rooms which afford an outlook upon a small park fronting the hotel. Our enforced leisure allows us considerably more time to look about Dijon than we have been giving to such towns and we endeavor to make the most of it. The town is one of the military centers of France, being defended by no fewer than eight detached forts, and we see numerous companies of soldiers on the streets. The museum, we are assured, is the greatest "object of interest" in the city and, indeed, it comes up to the claims made for it. The municipal art gallery contains possibly the best provincial collection of paintings in France--an endless array of pictures of priceless value, representing the greatest names of French art. There is also a splendid showing of sculpture, occupying five separate rooms. The marble tombs of Philip the Brave and John the Fearless, old-time dukes of Burgundy, are wonderful creations. They were originally in the Church of Chartreuse, destroyed in 1793, when the tombs were removed to the cathedral in a somewhat damaged condition. They were later placed in the museum and restored as nearly as possible to their original state. Both have a multitude of marble statuettes, every one a distinct artistic study--some representing mourners for the deceased--and each little face has some peculiar and characteristic expression of grief. The strong contrast of white and black marbles is relieved by judicious gilding and, altogether, we count these the most elaborate and artistic mediaeval tombs we have seen, if we except the Percy monument at Beverly in England. The museum also has an important archaeological collection, including a number of historical relics found in the vicinity, for the city dates back to Roman times. The showing of coins, gems, vases, ivory, cabinets and jewelry would do credit to any metropolitan museum. And all this in a town of but seventy-five thousand people--which shows how far the French municipalities have advanced in such matters. Dijon is no exception in this regard, though other cities of the class may not quite equal this collection, which I have described in merest outline. Dijon has several churches of the first order, though none of them has any notable distinguishing feature. The Cathedral of St. Benigne is the oldest, dating in its present form from about 1280, though there are portions which go back still farther. It was originally built as an abbey church, but the remainder of the abbatial buildings have disappeared. St. Michael's Church is some four hundred years later than the cathedral, and has, according to the guide-books, a Renaissance facade, though it seems to us to be better described as a Moorish adaptation of the Gothic style. At any rate, it is an inartistic and unattractive structure and illustrates the poor results often attained in too great an effort after the unusual. Notre Dame is about the same date as the cathedral, though it has been so extensively restored as to have quite a new appearance. Its most remarkable feature is its queer statuettes--nearly a hundred little figures contorted into endless expressions and attitudes--which serve as gargoyles. The churches of Dijon are not particularly noteworthy for their interiors and none has especially good windows. Our extended sojourn in the city enables us to visit a number of shops, for which we have heretofore found little time. These are well-stocked and attractive and quite in keeping with a city of the size of Dijon. According to Herr Baedeker, the town is famous "for wine and corn, and its mustard and gingerbread enjoy a wide reputation." The Captain and myself take an early train for Tamnay-Chatillon and have the satisfaction of finding the new axle-rod a perfect fit. We enjoy the open car and the fine road more than ever after our enforced experience with the railway train. The country between Tamnay and Dijon is rolling and the road often winds up or down a great hill for two or three miles at a stretch, always with even and well-engineered gradients that insure an easy climb or a long exhilarating coast. There are many glorious panoramas from the hill-crests--wide reaches of hill and valley, with groves and vineyards and red-tiled villages nestling in wooded vales or lying on the sunny slopes. Most of the towns remain unknown to us by name, but the Captain points out Chateau Chinon clinging to a rather steep hillside and overshadowed by the vast ruined castle which once defended it. A portion of the old wall with three watch-towers still stands--the whole effect being very grim and ancient. Near the town of Pommard the hills are literally "vine-clad,"--vineyards everywhere running up to the very edge of the town. The Hotel St. Louis et de la Poste at Autun does not present a very attractive exterior, but it proves a pleasant surprise and we are hungry enough to do justice to an excellent luncheon, having breakfasted in Dijon at five o'clock. Autun has an unusual cathedral--"a curious building of the transition period"--some parts of which go back as far as the tenth century. The beautiful Gothic spire--the first object to greet our eyes when approaching the town--was built about 1470. Portions of the old fortifications still remain. St. Andrew's Gate, partly a restoration, is an imposing portal pierced by four archways and forms one of the main entrances. There is also the usual museum and Hotel de Ville to be found in all enterprising provincial towns of France. Beyond Autun the character of the country changes again; we come into a less prosperous section, intersected by stone fences which cut the rocky hillsides into small irregular fields. We pass an occasional bare-looking village and one or two ruined chateaus and we remark on the scarcity of ruins in France, so far as we have seen it, as compared with England. A more fertile and thriving country surrounds Dijon, which we reach in the late afternoon. We have had quite enough of Dijon, but we shall remain until morning; an early start should carry us well toward the German frontier before night. We find some terribly rough roads to Gray and Vesoul--macadam which has begun to disintegrate. The country grows quite hilly and while, in the words of the old hymn, "every prospect pleases," we are indeed tempted to add that "only man is vile." For the filthiness of some of the villages and people can only be designated as unspeakable; if I should describe in plain language the conditions we behold, my book might be excluded from the mails! The houses of these miserable little hamlets stretch in single file along both sides of the broad highway. In one end of the house lives the family and in the other the domestic animals--pigs, cows and donkeys. Along the road on each side the muck-piles are almost continuous and reach to the windows of the cottages. Recent rains have flooded the streets with seepage, which covers the road to a depth of two or three inches, and the odors may be imagined--if one feels adequate to such a task. The muck is drained into pools and cisterns from which huge wooden or iron pumps tower above the street. By means of these the malodorous liquid is elevated into wagon-tanks to be hauled away to the fields. And this work is usually done by the women! In fact, women are accorded equal privileges with a vengeance in this part of rural France--they outnumber the men in the fields and no occupation appears too heavy or degraded for them to engage in. We see many of the older ones herding domestic animals--or even geese and ducks--by the roadside. Sometimes it is only a single animal--a cow, donkey, goat or pig--that engages the old crone, who is usually knitting as well. The pigs, no doubt because of their headstrong proclivities, are usually confined by a cord held by their keepers, and with one of these we have an amusing adventure. The pig becomes unruly, heading straight for our car, and only a vigorous application of the brakes prevents disaster to the obstreperous brute. But the guardian of his hogship--who has been hauled around pretty roughly while hanging to the cord--is in a towering rage and screams no end of scathing language at us. "You, too, are pigs," is one of her compliments which the Captain translates, and he says it is just as well to let some of her remarks stand in the original! As we approach Remiremont, where we propose to stop for the night, we enter the great range of hills which form the boundary between France and Germany and which afford many fine vistas. Endless pine forests clothe the hillsides and deep narrow valleys slope away from the road which winds upward along the edges of the hills. Remiremont is a pleasant old frontier town lying along the Moselle River at the base of a fortified hill two thousand feet in height. It is cleaner than the average French town of ten thousand and clear streams of mountain water run alongside many of its streets. The Hotel du Cheval de Bronze seems a solid, comfortable old inn and we turn into the courtyard for our nightly stop. The courtyard immediately adjoins the hotel apartments on the rear and is not entirely free from objectionable odors--our only complaint against the Cheval de Bronze. Our rooms front on the street, the noise being decidedly preferable to the assortment of smells in the rear. The town has nothing to detain one, and is rather unattractive, despite its pleasing appearance from a distance. On the main street near our hotel are the arcades, which have a considerable resemblance to the famous rows of Chester. We are awakened early in the morning by the tramp of a large company of soldiers along the street, for Remiremont, being so near the frontier, is heavily garrisoned. These French soldiers we have seen everywhere, in the towns and on the roads, enough of them to remind us that the country is really a vast military camp. They are rather undersized, as a rule, and their attire is often slouchy and worse for wear. Their bearing seems to us anything but soldierly as they shuffle along the streets. Perhaps we remember this the more because of the contrast we see in Germany a little later. A good authority, however, tells us that the French army is in a fine state of preparedness and would give a good account of itself if called into action. We are early away from Remiremont on a fine road winding among the pine-clad hills. Some sixteen miles out of the town we find a splendid hotel at Gerardmer on a beautiful little lake of the same name in the Vosges Forest, where we should no doubt have had quite different service from the Cheval de Bronze. We have no regrets, however, since Remiremont is worth seeing as a typical small frontier town. At Gerardmer we begin the long climb over the mountain pass which crosses the German border; there are several miles of the ascent and in some places the grades are steep enough to seriously heat the motor. We stop many times on the way and there is a clear little stream by the roadside from which we replenish the water in the heated engine. The air grows cooler and more bracing as we ascend and though it is a fine June day, we see banks of snow along the road. On either side are great pine trees, through which we catch occasional glimpses of wooded hills and verdant valleys lying far beneath us. Despite the cool air, flowers bloom along the road and the ascent, though rather strenuous, is a delightful one. At the summit we come to the customs offices of the two countries, a few yards apart. Here we bid farewell to France and slip across the border into the Fatherland, as its natives so love to call it. A wonderful old official, who seems to embody all the dignity and power of the empire he serves, comes out of the customs house. His flowing gray beard is a full yard long and the stem of his mighty porcelain pipe is still longer. He is clad in a faultless uniform and wears a military cap bespangled with appropriate emblems--altogether, a marvel of that official glory in which the Germans so delight. His functions, however, do not correspond with his personal splendor, for he only officially countersigns our Royal Automobile Club passport, delivers us a pair of number plates and, lastly, collects a fee of some fifteen marks. He gives us a certificate showing that we are now entitled to travel the highways of the empire for two weeks, and should we remain longer we shall have to pay an additional fee on leaving the country. The Captain waves an approved military adieu, to which the official solemnly responds and we set out in search of adventure in the land of the Kaiser. IV COLMAR TO OBERAMMERGAU Had we crossed a sea instead of an imaginary dividing line we could hardly have found a more abrupt change in the characteristics of people and country than we discover when we descend into the broad green valley of the Rhine. We have a series of fine views as we glide down the easy grades and around the sweeping curves of the splendid road that leads from the crest to the wide plain along the river--glimpses of towns and villages lying far beneath, beyond long stretches of wooded hills. On our way we meet peasants driving teams of huge horses hitched to heavy logging wagons. The horses go into a panic at the sight of the car and the drivers seem even more panicky than the brutes; it is quite apparent that the motor is not so common in Germany as in England and France. The province of Alsace, by which we enter Germany, was held by France from the time of Napoleon until 1871, but it never entirely lost its German peculiarities during the French occupation. Its villages and farmhouses are distinctly Teutonic, though the larger towns show more traces of French influence. Colmar, some twenty miles from the border, is the first city--a place of about forty thousand people and interesting to Americans as the birthplace of the sculptor, Bartholdi, who designed the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor. It is a substantially built town with an enormous Gothic church and its museum has a famous collection of pictures by early German masters. A few miles from Colmar we come to the Rhine, so famed in German song and story, a green, rushing flood that seems momentarily to threaten the destruction of the pontoon bridge which bears us across. Beyond the river the level but poorly surfaced road leads to Freiburg, a handsome city of about seventy-five thousand people. It is a noted manufacturing town and has an ancient university with about two thousand students. Its cathedral is one of the finest Gothic structures in Germany, the great tower, three hundred and eighty feet in height, being the earliest and most perfect of its kind. The windows of fourteenth-century glass are particularly fine and there are many remarkable paintings of a little later date. The city has other important churches and many beautiful public buildings and monuments. Indeed, Freiburg is a good example of the neatness, cleanliness and civic pride that prevails in most of the larger German cities. It has many excellent hotels and we have a well-served luncheon at the Victoria. We should stop for the day at Freiburg were it not for our unexpected delay at Dijon; we must hasten if we are to reach Oberammergau in time for our reservations. In the three remaining daylight hours we make a swift run to Tuttlingen, some sixty miles eastward, passing several small villages and two good-sized towns, Neustadt and Donaueschingen, on the way. The latter is near the head waters of the Danube, and from here we follow the river to Tuttlingen. We pass through a beautifully wooded country and several inns along the way indicate that this section is a frequented pleasure resort. There are many charming panoramas from the road, which in places swings around the hillsides some distance above the river. Had we known the fate in store for us at Tuttlingen, we should surely have stopped at one of the hotels which we hastily passed in our dash for that town. But we reach it just at dusk--a place of about fifteen thousand people--and turn in rather dubiously at the unattractive Post Hotel. If the Post is a fair sample of the country inns of Germany, the tourist should keep clear of country inns when possible. On entering we meet an assortment of odors not especially conducive to good appetite for the evening meal, and this proves of the kind that requires a good appetite. We are hungry, but not hungry enough to eat the Post's fare with anything like relish and we are haunted by considerable misgivings about the little we do consume. The Post, however, does not lack patronage, though it seems to come mainly from German commercial men who are seeking trade in the thriving town. We are away early in the morning, following a rough, neglected road some dozen miles to Ludwigshaven at the head of Lake Constance, or the Boden See, as the Germans style it. A new highway leading down to the lake shore is not yet open, though nearly ready, and we descend over a temporary road which winds among tree stumps and drops down twenty per cent grades for a couple of miles. We are thankful that we have only the descent to make; I doubt whether our forty-horse engine would ever have pulled us up the "bank," as a Yorkshire man would describe it. But having reached the level of the lake, we find a splendid road closely following the shore for forty miles and affording views of some of the finest and most famous scenery in Europe. In all our journeyings we have had few more glorious runs. The clear balmy June day floods everything with light and color. The lake lies still and blue as the heavens above, and beyond its shining expanse rise the snow-capped forms of the Swiss Alps, their rugged ranks standing sharply against the silvery horizon. At their feet stretches the green line of the shore and above it the dense shadows of the pines that cover the slopes to the snow line. It is a scene of inspiring beauty that one sees to best advantage from the open road. Near at hand green fields stretch to the hills, no great distance away, and the belated fruit-tree blossoms load the air with perfume. Hay-making is in progress in the little fields--women swing the scythes or handle the rakes and pitchforks while staid old cows draw the heavy, awkward carts. There are several pleasant little towns along the shore, rather neater and cleaner than the average German village, though even these are not free from occasional touches of filthiness. Near the center of the lake is Friedrichshafen, a popular resort with numerous hotels. There is a beautiful drive along the lake, bordered with shrubs and trees, and fronting on this is the comfortable-looking Deutsches Haus, surrounded by gardens which extend to the shore. We remember the Deutsches Haus particularly, since on its glass-enclosed veranda we are served with an excellent luncheon. As we resume our journey, feeling at peace with the world, and open up a little on the smooth lakeside road, the Captain exclaims: "If I had all the money I could possibly want, do you know what I'd do? I'd just buy a motor, don't you know, and do nothing on earth but tour about Europe!" And we all agree that under such conditions and on such a day his proposed vocation seems an ideal one. Friedrichshafen, I should have said, was the home of Count Zeppelin of airship fame, and as we passed through the town his immense craft was being made ready for an experimental trip. It was then attracting much attention in Germany and was the precourser of the only line of commercial airships now in existence. Lindau, a small resort built on an island about three hundred yards from the shore, marks the point of our departure from Lake Constance. We enter the town over a narrow causeway which connects it with the main road, but find little to detain us. We climb the steep winding road leading out of the valley and for the remainder of the day our course wends among the foothills of the Bavarian Alps. It proves a delightful run; we witness constantly changing displays of color and glorious effects of light and shadow. Thunder storms are raging in the mountains and at intervals they sweep down and envelop our road in a dash of summer rain. Above us tower the majestic Alps; in places the dazzling whiteness of the snow still lies against the barren rocks or amidst the dense green of the pines, while above the summits roll blue-gray cumulus clouds glowing with vivid lightning or brilliant with occasional bursts of sunshine. Near at hand stretch green meadows of the foothills, variegated with great splashes of blue or yellow flowers as though some giant painter had swept his brush across the landscape. The effect is shown with striking fidelity in the picture by the late John MacWhirter R. A. which I have reproduced, though it is quite impossible on so small a scale to give an adequate idea of the original canvas--much less of the enchanting scene itself. Among the foothills and often well up the mountainsides are the characteristic chalets of Tyrol and an occasional ruined castle crowns some seemingly inaccessible rock. We pass several quaint little towns and many isolated houses, all very different from any we have seen elsewhere. The houses are mostly of plaster and often ornamented with queer designs and pictures in brilliant colors. The people are picturesque, too; the women and girls dress in the peculiar costume of the country; the men wear knitted jackets and knee pants with silver buckles and their peaked hats are often decorated with a feather or two. Our road averages fair, though a few short stretches are desperately bad--this unevenness we have noted in German roads generally. In one place where the rain has been especially heavy we plunge through a veritable quagmire, and we find spots so rough and stony as to make very uncomfortable going. We finally strike the fine highway which follows the River Lech and brings us into the mountain town of Fussen. It is a snug little place of some five thousand people, nestling in a narrow valley through which rushes a swift, emerald-green river. The Bayerischer-Hof proves a pleasant surprise; one of the cleanest, brightest and best-conducted inns we have found anywhere. Our large, well-lighted rooms afford a magnificent view of the snow-capped mountains, which seem only a little distance away. The landlord, a fine-looking, full-bearded native who speaks English fluently, gives the touch of personal attention that one so much appreciates in the often monotonous round of hotel life. To the rear of the hotel is a beer-garden where brilliant lights and good music in the evening attract the guests and townspeople in considerable numbers. Several other American motor parties stop at the hotel and we especially notice one French car because it carries nine people--and it is not a large car, either! The Bayerischer-Hof is first-class in every particular, and we find when we come to depart that the charges are first-class, too. The Captain is exasperated when we are asked sixty cents per gallon for "benzin" and says we will chance doing better on the way--a decision which, as it happens, causes us no little grief and some expense. Fussen has an impressive Gothic castle--a vast, turreted, towered, battlemented affair with gray walls and red-tiled roof which looms over the town from the slope above the river. I fear, though, that the castle is a good deal of a sham, for there are spots where the stucco has fallen from the walls, revealing wooden lath beneath, and while in Fussen they call it a "thirteenth-century" building, Baedeker gives its date as two or three hundred years later. It was never intended as a defensive structure, being originally built as the residence of the Bishop of Augsburg. It is now occupied by the district court and the interior is hardly worth a visit. [Illustration: CASTLE AT FUSSEN] Oberammergau lies over the mountain to the east of Fussen, scarcely ten miles away in a direct line, but to reach it we are compelled to go by the way of Schongau, about four times as far. We pursue a narrow, sinuous mountain road, very muddy in places. We have been warned of one exceptionally bad hill--a twenty-five per cent grade, according to the Royal Automobile Club itinerary--but we give the matter little thought. It proves a straight incline of half a mile and about midway the sharp ascent our motor gasps and comes to a sudden stop. We soon ascertain that the angle is too great for the gasoline to flow from the nearly empty tank, and we regret the Captain's economy at Fussen. A number of peasants gather about us to stare at our predicament, but they show nothing of the amusement that an American crowd would find in such a situation. A woman engages the Captain in conversation and informs us that she is the owner of a good team of horses, which will be the best solution of our difficulties. "Wie viel?" Seventy-five marks, or about eighteen dollars, looks right to her and she sticks to her price, too. Her only response to the Captain's indignant protests is that she keeps a road-house at the top of the hill, where he can find her if he decides we need her services. And she departs in the lordly manner of one who has delivered an ultimatum from which there is no appeal. A peasant tells us that the woman makes a good income fleecing stranded motorists and that the German automobile clubs have published warnings against her. He says that a farmer near by will help us out for the modest sum of ten marks and offers to bring him to the scene; he also consoles us by telling us that five cars besides our own have stalled on the hill during the day. The farmer arrives before long with a spanking big team, which gives us the needed lift, and the grade soon permits the motor to get in its work. We reach Oberammergau about two o'clock, only to find another instance where the Captain's economical tendency has worked to our disadvantage. He had declined to pay the price asked by Cook's agency in London for reservation of rooms and seats for the Passion Play and had arranged for these with a German firm, Shenker & Co. at Freiburg. On inquiring at the office of the concern in the village we find no record of our reservations and no tickets to be had. "Shenker is surely a 'rotter,'" says the Captain, immensely disgusted, and it requires no small effort to find quarters, but we at last secure tiny rooms in a peasant's cottage in the outskirts of the village. Tickets we finally obtain by an earnest appeal at Cook's offices, though at considerable premium. Our quarters are almost primitive in their plainness, but they are tolerably clean; the meals, served in a large dining-hall not far away, are only fair. The people of Oberammergau, our landlord says, face a difficult problem in caring for the Passion Play crowds. These come but once in ten years and during the intervening time visitors to the town are comparatively few. Yet the villagers must care for the great throngs of play years, though many apartments and lodging-houses must stand empty during the interval and the only wonder is that charges are so moderate. The regular population of Oberammergau is less than two thousand, though during the play it presents the appearance of a much larger place. The houses are nearly all of the prevailing Bavarian style, with wide, overhanging eaves and white walls often decorated with brightly colored frescoes. Through the center of the village rushes the Ammer, a clear, swift mountain stream which sometimes works havoc when flooded. The church is modern, but its Moorish tower and rococo decorations do not impress us as especially harmonious and there is little artistic or pleasing in the angular lines of the new theatre. The shops keep open on every day of the week, including Sunday, until nearly midnight. These are filled with carvings, pottery, postcards and endless trinkets for the souvenir-seeking tourist and perhaps yield more profit to the town than the play itself. There are several good-sized inns, but one has no chance of lodging in one of them unless quarters have been engaged months in advance--not very practicable when coming by motor. [Illustration: OBERAMMERGAU] One will best appreciate the magnificent situation of the village from a vantage-point on one of the mountains which encompass the wide green valley on every side. On the loftiest crag of all gleams a tall white cross--surely a fit emblem to first greet the stranger who comes to Oberammergau. In the center of the vale is the village, the clean white-walled houses grouped irregularly about the huge church, which forms the social center of the place. The dense green of the trees, the brighter green of the window-shutters, the red and gray-tile roofs and the swift river cleaving its way through the town, afford a pleasing variety of color to complete the picture. The surrounding green pastures with the herds of cattle are the property of the villagers--nearly every family of this thrifty community is a landholder. The scene is a quiet, peaceful one, such as suits the character of the people who inhabit this lovely vale. And these same villagers, simple and unpretentious as they are, will hardly fail to favorably impress the stranger. The Tyrolese costume is everywhere in evidence and there is a large predominance of full-bearded men, for the play-actors are not allowed to resort to wigs and false whiskers. They exhibit the peculiarities of the Swiss rather than the Germans and their manners and customs are simple and democratic in the extreme. While the head of the community is nominally the burgomaster, the real government is vested in the householders. The freedom from envy and strife is indeed remarkable; quarrels are unknown and very few of the inhabitants are so selfish as to seek for honor or wealth. The greatest distinction that can come to any of them is an important part in the play; yet there is never any contention or bitterness over the allotments. It would be hard to find elsewhere a community more seriously happy, more healthful or morally better than Oberammergau. I shall not write at length of the world-famous play. It has been so well and widely described that I could add but little new. It is interesting as the sole survival of a vast number of mediaeval miracle plays, though it has cast off the coarser features and progressed into a really artistic production. I must first of all plead my own ignorance of the true spirit and marvelous beauty of the play ere I saw it. I thought it the crude production of a community of ignorant peasants who were shrewd enough to turn their religion into a money-making scheme and I freely declared that I would scarcely cross the street to witness it. But when the great chorus of three hundred singers appeared in the prelude that glorious Sunday morning, I began to realize how mistaken I had been. And as the play progressed I was more and more impressed with its solemn sincerity, its artistic staging and its studied harmony of coloring. Indeed, in the last named particular it brought vividly to mind the rich yet subdued tones of Raphael and Michael Angelo, and the effect of the rare old tapestries one occasionally finds in the museums. The tableaux in many cases closely followed some famous picture--as Leonardo DaVinci's "Last Supper" or Rubens' "Descent from the Cross,"--all perfectly carried out in coloring and spirit. The costumes were rich and carefully studied, giving doubtless a true picture of the times of Christ. The acting was the perfection of naturalness and the crude and ridiculous features of the early miracle plays--and, not so very long ago, of the Passion Play itself--have been gradually dropped until scarce a trace of them remains. The devil no longer serves the purpose of the clown, having altogether disappeared; and even the tableau of Jonah and the whale, though given in the printed programs, was omitted, evidently from a sense of its ridiculousness. I found myself strangely affected by the simple story of the play. One indeed might imagine that he saw a real bit of the ancient world were it not for the great steel arches bending above him and the telephone wires stretching across the blue sky over the stage. But I think the best proof of the real human interest of the play is that it held the undivided attention of five thousand spectators for eight long hours on a spring day whose perfect beauty was a strong lure to the open sky. And it did this not only for one day but for weeks, later in the summer requiring an almost continuous daily performance. And, having seen it once, I have no doubt the greater number of spectators would gladly witness it again, for so great a work of art cannot be grasped from a single performance. Of course Oberammergau has not escaped the critics, but I fancy the majority of them are, like myself before our visit to the town, quite ignorant of the facts as well as the true spirit of the people. The commonest charge is that the play is a money-making scheme on the part of the promoters, but the fact is that the people are poor and remain poor. The actual profits from the play are not large and these are devoted to some public work, as the new theatre, the hospital and the good cause of public roads. The salaries paid the players are merely nominal, in no case exceeding a few hundred marks. The only source of private profit comes from the sale of souvenirs and the entertaining of visitors, but this can not be great, considering that the harvest comes only once in a decade. The play is "commercialized" only to the extent of placing it on a paying basis and if this were not the case there could be no performance. The very fear of this charge kept the villagers up to 1910 from placing their tickets and reservations in the hands of Cook and other tourist agencies, though they were finally persuaded to yield in this as an accommodation to the public. The most effective answer to the assertion that the chief end of the play is money-making may be found in the constant refusal of the villagers to produce it elsewhere than in Oberammergau. Offers of fabulous sums from promoters in England and the United States for the production of the play in the large centers of these countries have been steadily refused, and the actors have pursued their humble avocations in their quiet little town quite content with their meager earnings. Nor have they yielded to the temptation to give the play oftener, though it would be immensely profitable if presented every year or even every alternate year. We leave the little mountain-girdled valley with a new conception of its Passion Play and its unique, happy people. The majestic spectacle we have witnessed during our stay will linger with us so long as life shall last and it can never be otherwise than a pleasant and inspiring memory. V BAVARIA AND THE RHINE Munich is sixty miles north of Oberammergau and the road is better than the average of German highways. For some distance out of the village we pursue a winding course among the mountains, which affords some glorious vistas of wooded vales and snow-capped Alps while we descend to the wide plain surrounding Munich. We pass through several sleepy-looking villages, though they prove sufficiently wide-awake to collect a toll of two or three marks for the privilege of traversing their streets. A well-surfaced highway bordered by trees leads us into the broad streets of Munich, where we repair to the Continental Hotel. We remain here several days and have the opportunity of closely observing the Bavarian capital. We unhesitatingly pronounce it the cleanest, most artistic and most substantial city we have ever seen. A number of drives through the main streets and environs reveal little in the nature of slums; even the poorest quarters of the city are solidly built and clean, and next to its beautiful buildings and artistic monuments the cleanliness of Munich seems to us most noteworthy. Perhaps the ladies should be given credit for this--not the members of the women's clubs, who are often supposed to influence civic affairs for the better, but the old women who do the sweeping and scrubbing of the streets, for we see them in every part of the city. This spick-and-span cleanliness of the larger German cities forms a sharp contrast to the filth and squalor of the villages, some of which are even worse than anything we saw in France--but of this more anon. Munich has a population of more than a half million, and having been built within the last century, is essentially modern. It has many notable public buildings, mainly in the German Gothic style--the Rathhaus, with its queer clock which sets a number of life-size automatons in motion every time it strikes the hour, being the most familiar to tourists. The Royal Palace and the National Theatre are splendid structures and the latter is famous for grand opera, in which the Germans take great delight. Munich ranks as an important art capital, having several galleries and museums, among which the Bavarian National and German Museum are the most notable. There are numerous public gardens and parks, all kept with the trim neatness that characterizes the entire city. And one must not forget the beer-gardens, which play so large a part in German life; the whole population frequents these open-air drinking-places, where beer and other refreshments are served at small tables underneath the trees. The best feature of these is the excellent music which is an invariable accompaniment and Munich is famous for its musicians. The most proficient of these think it no detraction to perform in the beer-gardens, which are attended by the best people of all classes; students, artists, professors, business and military men make up a large proportion of the patrons of these resorts. The gardens are conducted by the big brewers and Munich beer is famous the world over. There is comparatively little manufacturing in the city, though we noted one exceptionally large iron foundry and a great engine works. During our stay we took occasion to have our car overhauled at a public garage and were impressed with the intelligence and efficiency of the German mechanics. They were usually large, fine-looking fellows, always good-natured and accommodating. The wages paid them are quite small as compared with those of American mechanics, being about one-third as much. At four o'clock in the afternoon everything stops for a quarter of an hour while the workmen indulge in a pot of beer and a slice or two of black bread. We saw this in a large foundry, where several hundred men were employed and were told that the custom is universal. The Captain, while admitting that most of the German workmen were very good fellows, often treated them in a supercilious manner that I fear sometimes worked against our interests. In fact, the Captain's dislike of everything German was decidedly pronounced and the sight of a company of soldiers usually put him in an ill humor. "I'll have to take a crack at those fellows some time, myself," he would say, in the firm conviction that war between England and Germany was inevitable. He was not put in a better state of feeling towards our Teutonic hosts when he came to pay the bill at the Continental. Through carelessness unusual on his part, he neglected to have an iron-clad understanding when he engaged accommodations and we had to suffer in consequence. He made a vigorous protest without appreciable effect on the suave clerk, who assured us that the rates of the Continental were quite like the laws of the Medes and the Persians. They were high--yes; but only persons of quality were received. Indeed, a princess and a baroness were among the guests at that moment and he hinted that many applicants were turned away because their appearance did not meet the requirements of the Continental. "We just look them over," said the clerk, "and if we don't like them we tell them we are full." All of which the Captain translated to us, though I should judge from his vehemence in replying to the clerk that he used some language which he did not repeat--perhaps it had no equivalent in English. But it was all to no purpose; we paid the bill and were free to get whatever comfort we could from the reflection that we had been fellow-guests with a princess. "I saw her one day," said the Captain. "She was smoking a cigarette in the parlor and I offered her one of mine, which she declined, though she talked with me very civilly for a few minutes." We start rather late in the day with Ulm and Stuttgart as objective points. The weather is fickle and the numerous villages through which we pass would be disgusting enough in the sunshine, but they fairly reek in the drizzling rain. The streets are inches deep in filth and we drive slowly to avoid plastering the car--though the odors would induce us to hasten if it were possible. Along the highroad stretch the low thatched cottages; each one is half stable and the refuse is often piled above the small windows. We dare not think of our plight if a tire should burst as we drive gingerly along, but we fortunately escape such disaster. Everywhere in these villages we see groups of sturdy children--"race suicide" does not trouble Germany, nor does the frightfully insanitary conditions of their homes seem to have affected them adversely. On the contrary, they are fat, healthy-looking rascals who--the Captain declares--scream insulting epithets at us. On all sides, despite the rather inclement weather, we see women in the fields, pulling weeds or using heavy, mattock-shaped hoes. We even see old crones breaking rock for road-work and others engaged in hauling muck from the villages to the fields. Men are more seldom seen at work--what their occupation is we can only surmise. They cannot be caring for the children, all of whom seem to be running the streets. Possibly they are washing the dishes. But, facetiousness aside, it is probable that the millions of young men who are compelled to do army service for three years leave more work for the women at home. The railway traveler in Germany sees little of the conditions I have described in these smaller villages; few of them are on the railroad and the larger towns and tourist centers are usually cleanly. The dominating feature of Ulm is the cathedral, whose vast bulk looms over the gray roofs of the houses crowding closely around it. It is the second largest church in Germany and has one of the finest organs in existence. The great central spire is the loftiest Gothic structure in the world, rising to a height of five hundred and twenty-eight feet, which overtops even Cologne. It has rather a new appearance, as a complete restoration was finished only a few years ago. The cathedral has made Ulm a tourist center and this no doubt accounts for the numerous hotels of the town. We have a very satisfactory luncheon at the Munster, though the charge startles us a little. We cannot help thinking that some of these inns have a special schedule for the man with an automobile--rating him as an American millionaire, who, according to the popular notion in Germany, is endowed with more money than brains. [Illustration: ULM AND THE CATHEDRAL] From Ulm we pursue a poor road along the River Fils to Stuttgart, making slow progress through the numerous villages. The streets are thronged with children who delight in worrying our driver by standing in the road until we are nearly upon them. The Captain often addresses vigorous language to the provoking urchins, only to be answered by an epithet or a grimace. Stuttgart is a clean, well-built city with large commercial enterprises. We see several American flags floating from buildings, for many Stuttgart concerns have branches in the States. It is a famous publishing center and its interest in books is evidenced by its splendid library, which contains more than a half million volumes. Among these is a remarkable collection of bibles, representing eight thousand editions in over one hundred languages. There are the usual museums and galleries to be found in a German city of a quarter of a million people and many fine monuments and memorials grace the streets and parks. The population is largely Protestant, which probably accounts for the absence of a church of the first magnitude. We stop at the old-fashioned Marquardt Hotel, which proves very good and moderate in rates. The next day we cover one hundred and sixty miles of indifferent road to Frankfort, going by the way of Karlsruhe, Heidelberg and Darmstadt. We come across a few stretches of modern macadam, but these aggregate an insignificant proportion of the distance. The villages exhibit the same unattractive characteristics of those we passed yesterday. Many have ancient cobblestone pavements full of chuck-holes; in others the streets are muddy and filthy beyond description. It is Sunday and the people are in their best attire; work is suspended everywhere--quite the opposite of what we saw in France. The country along our route is level and devoid of interest. From Karlsruhe we follow the course of the Rhine, though at some distance from the river itself. We pass through several forests which the government carefully conserves--in favorable contrast with our reckless and wasteful destruction of trees in America. There is much productive land along our way and the fields of wheat and rye are as fine as we have ever seen. But for all this the country lacks the trim, parklike beauty of England and the sleek prosperity and bright color of France. Heidelberg, thirty miles north of Karlsruhe, is a town of nearly fifty thousand people. The university, the oldest and most famous school in the empire, is not so large as many in America, having but sixteen hundred students in all departments. It has, however, an imposing array of buildings, some of these dating from the fourteenth century, when the school was founded. The town is picturesquely situated on the Neckar, which is crossed by a high bridge borne on massive arches. There is a fine view down the river from this bridge and one which we pause to contemplate. From the bridge we also get a good view of the town and the ancient castle which dominates the place from a lofty hill. Ruined castles, we have found, are as rare in Germany, outside the Rhine region, as they are common in England. We reach Frankfort at dusk, more weary than we have been in many a day. The roads have been as trying as any we have traversed in Europe for a like distance, and these, with the cobblestone pavements, have been responsible for an unusual amount of tire trouble, which has not tended to alleviate our weariness or improve our tempers. The Carlton Hotel looks good and proves quite as good as it looks. It is the newest hotel in the city, having been opened within a year by the well-known Ritz-Carlton Corporation. In construction, equipment and service it is up to the highest Continental standard--with prices to correspond. One would require several days to visit the points of interest in Frankfort, but our plans do not admit of much leisurely sightseeing. It is one of the oldest of German cities, its records running back to the time of Charlemagne in 793. We shall have to content ourselves with a drive about the principal streets and an outside view of the most important buildings. Chief among these is the magnificent opera house, the railway station--said to be the finest on the Continent--the library, the Stadel Museum, the "Schauspielhaus," or new theatre, and the municipal buildings. The Cathedral of St. Bartholemew is the oldest church, dating from 1235, but architecturally it does not rank with Cologne or Ulm. The interior has a number of important paintings and frescoes. St. Peter's, the principal Protestant church, is of the modern Renaissance style with an ornate tower two hundred and fifty feet in height. There is one shrine in Frankfort that probably appeals to a greater number of tourists than any of the monumental buildings we have named--the plain old house where the poet Goethe was born in 1749 and where he lived during his earlier years. Goethe occupies a place in German literature analogous only to that of Shakespeare in our own and we may well believe that this house is as much venerated in the Fatherland as the humble structure in Stratford-on-Avon is revered in England. It has been purchased by a patriotic society and restored as nearly as possible to its original condition and now contains a collection of relics connected with the poet--books, original manuscripts, portraits and personal belongings. The custodian shows us about with the officiousness and pride of his race and relates many anecdotes of the great writer, which are duly translated by the Captain. While it is hard for us to become enthusiastic over a German writer about whom we know but little, it is easy to see that the patriotic native might find as much sentiment in the Goethe house as we did in Abbotsford or Alloway. [Illustration: GOETHE'S HOUSE--FRANKFORT] It is only a short run from Frankfort to Mayence, where we begin the famous Rhine Valley trip. We pause for luncheon at the excellent Hotel d'Angleterre, which overlooks the broad river. The city, declares Herr Baedeker, is one of the most interesting of Rheinish towns and certainly one of the oldest, for it has a continuous history from 368, at which time Christianity was already flourishing. It figured extensively in the endless church and civil wars that raged during the middle ages, and was captured by the French in 1689 and 1792. After the latter fall it was ceded to France, which, however, retained it but a few years. Formerly it was one of the most strongly fortified towns in the kingdom, but its walls and forts have been destroyed, though it still is the seat of a garrison of seventy-five hundred soldiers. It has a cathedral of first importance, founded as early as 400, though few traces of the original building can be found. A notable feature is a pair of bronze doors executed in 988, illustrating historic events of that time. But the greatest distinction of Mayence is that Johann Gutenberg, the father of modern printing, was born here near the end of the fourteenth century. At least this is the general opinion of the savants, though there be those who dispute it. However, there is no doubt that he died in the city about 1468; neither is it disputed that he established his first printing shop in Mayence, and did much important work in the town. The famous Gutenberg Bible, a copy of which sold recently for $50,000, was executed here about 1450. A bronze statue of the famous printer by Thorwaldsen stands in front of the cathedral. [Illustration: BINGEN ON THE RHINE] The fifty or sixty miles between Mayence and Coblenz comprise the most picturesque section of the Rhine, so famous in song and legend, and our road closely follows the river for the whole distance. The really impressive scenery begins at Bingen, ten miles west of Mayence, where we enter the Rhine Gorge. On either side of the river rise the clifflike hills--literally vine-covered, for the steep slopes have been terraced and planted with vineyards to the very tops. Our road keeps to the north of the river and is often overhung by rocky walls, while far above we catch glimpses of ivy-clad ruins surmounting the beetling crags. The highway is an excellent one, much above the German average. In places it is bordered by fruit-trees--a common practice in Germany--and we pass men who are picking the luscious cherries. So strong is law and order in the Fatherland, we are told, that these public fruit-trees are never molested and the proceeds are used for road improvement. The day is showery, which to some extent obscures the scenery, though the changeful moods of light and color are not without charm. The great hills with their castles and vineyards are alternately cloud-swept and flooded with sunlight--or, more rarely, hidden by a dashing summer shower. Bingen has gained a wide fame from the old ballad whose melancholy lilt comes quickly to one's mind--though we do not find the simple country village we had imagined. It has about ten thousand people and lies in a little valley on both sides of the Nahe, a small river which joins the Rhine at this point. It is an ancient place, its history running back to Roman times. Slight remains of a Roman fortress still exist, though the site is now occupied by Klopp Castle, which was restored from complete ruin a half century ago. This castle is open to visitors and from its tower one may look down on the town with its gray roofs and huge churches. From Bingen to Coblenz, a distance of about forty miles, the gorge of the Rhine is continuous and we are never out of sight of the vine-covered hills and frequent ruins. Nearly all the ruined castles of Germany center here and we see fit matches for Caerphilly, Richmond or Kenilworth in Britain. In this hurried chronicle I cannot even mention all of these picturesque and often imposing ruins, though a few may be chosen as typical. [Illustration: CASTLE RHEINSTEIN] A short distance from Bingen is Rheinstein, originally built about 1270 and recently restored by Prince Henry as one of his summer residences, though he has visited it, the custodian tells us, but once in two years. A wearisome climb is necessary to reach the castle, which is some two hundred and fifty feet above the road where we leave our car. The mediaeval architecture and furnishings are carried out as closely as possible in the restoration, giving a good idea of the life and state of the old-time barons. There is also an important collection of armor and antiquities relating to German history. In this same vicinity is Ehrenfels, which has stood in ruin nearly three hundred years. Its towers still stand, proud and threatening, though the residential portions are much shattered. Opposite this ruin, on a small island in the river, is the curious "Mouse Tower," where, legend asserts, a cruel archbishop was once besieged and finally devoured by an army of mice and rats, a judgment for causing a number of poor people to be burned in order to get rid of them during a famine. But as the bishop lived about 915 and the tower was built some three hundred years later, his connection with it is certainly mythical and let us hope the rest of the story has no better foundation. The old name, Mausturm (arsenal), no doubt suggested the fiction to some early chronicler. The castles of Sonneck and Falkenburg, dating from the eleventh century, surmount the heights a little farther on our way. These were strongholds of robber-barons who in the middle ages preyed upon the river-borne traffic--their exploits forming the burden of many a ballad and tale. These gentry came to their just deserts about 1300 at the hands of Prince Rudolph, who consigned them to the gallows and destroyed their castles. Sonneck is still in ruins, but Falkenburg has been restored and is now private property. Almost every foot of the Rhine Gorge boasts of some supernatural or heroic tale--as myth-makers the Germans were not behind their contemporaries. We pass the Devil's Ladder, where the fiend once aided an ancient knight--no doubt on the score of personal friendship--to scale the perpendicular cliff to gain the hand of a "ladye fair." A little farther are the Lorelei Rocks, where the sirens enticed the sailors to destruction in the rapids just below. Quite as unfortunate were the seven virgins of Schonburg, who for their prudery were transformed into seven rocky pinnacles not far from the Lorelei--and so on ad infinitum. [Illustration: EHRENFELS ON THE RHINE] A volume would not catalog the legends and superstitions of the Rhine Gorge. At least the Captain so declares and adds that he knows a strange story of the Rhine that an old German once told him in Bingen. At our solicitation he repeats it as we glide slowly along the river road and I have thought it worth recasting for my book. There will be no harm done if it is skipped by the reader who has no taste for such things. It is a little after the style of several German legends of ancient gentry, who sold themselves to the Evil One to gain some greatly desired point--though I always thought these stories reflected on the business sagacity of the Devil in making him pay for something he was bound to get in the end without cost. The story, I find, is long enough to require a chapter of itself and it may appropriately follow this. There are endless small towns along the road, but they are quite free from the untoward conditions I have described in the more retired villages off the track of tourist travel. Boppard, St. Goar Oberwesel and Bornhofen are among the number and each has its storied ruin. Near the last-named are the twin castles of The Brothers, with their legend of love and war which the painstaking Baedeker duly chronicles. Above St. Goar towers the vast straggling ruin of Rheinfels, said to be the most extensive in Germany, which has stood in decay since its capture by the French in 1797. It crowns a barren and almost inaccessible rock which rises nearly four hundred feet above the river. Near Boppard is Marxburg, the only old-time castle which has never been in ruin. It has passed through many vicissitudes and at present serves as a museum of ancient weapons and warlike costumes. As we approach Coblenz we come in sight of the battlemented towers of Stolzenfels rising above the dense forests that cover the great hill on which it stands. The castle is three hundred and ten feet above the river, but the plain square tower rises one hundred and ten feet higher, affording a magnificent outlook. The present structure is modern, having been built in 1842 by the crown prince on the site of an old castle destroyed by the French. It now belongs to the emperor, who opens it to visitors when he is not in residence. It is a splendid edifice and gives some idea of the former magnificence of the ruins we have seen to-day. [Illustration: RUINS OF CASTLE RHEINFELS] Coblenz, at the junction of the Moselle and Rhine, appeals to us as a stopping-place and we turn in at the Monopol--just why I do not know. There are certainly much better hotels in Coblenz than this old-fashioned and rather slack place, though it has the redeeming feature of very moderate charges. The Captain is in very ill humor; he has quarreled with an employee at the garage and as nearly as I can learn, tried to drive the car over him. I feared the outraged Teuton might drop a wrench in our gear-box as a revenge for the rating the Captain gave him--though, fortunately, we experience no such misfortune. Coblenz has about fifty thousand people and while it is a very old city--its name indicating Roman origin--it has little to detain the tourist. An hour's drive about the place will suffice and we especially remember the colossal bronze statue of Emperor William I., which stands on the point of land where the two rivers join--a memorial which Baedeker declares "one of the most impressive personal monuments in the world." The equestrian figure is forty-six feet high and dominates the landscape in all directions, being especially imposing when seen from the river. Just opposite Coblenz is the fortress of Ehrenbreitstein, about four hundred feet above the river. A finely engineered road leads to the fort, where a large garrison of soldiers is stationed. Visitors are admitted provided they can satisfy the officials that they are not foreign military men who might spy out the defenses. Our route as planned by the Royal Automobile Club was to take us from Coblenz to Treves by way of the Moselle Valley, but our desire to see the cathedral leads us to follow the Rhine road to Cologne. Mr. Maroney of the Club afterwards told me that we made a mistake, since the scenery and storied ruins of Moselle Valley are quite equal to the Rhine Gorge itself. Cologne one can see any time, but the chance to follow the Moselle by motor does not come every day. We are disappointed in the trip to Cologne, since there is little of the picturesqueness and romantic charm that delighted us on the previous day. The castle of Drachenfels, on a mighty hill rising a thousand feet above the river, is the most famous ruin, but we do not undertake the rather difficult ascent. The far-reaching view from the summit was celebrated by Byron in "Childe Harold." Just opposite is the ruin of Rolandseck, with its pathetic legend of unrequited love and constancy. This castle, tradition says, was built by Roland, a crusader, who returned to find that his affianced bride had given him up as dead and entered a convent. He thereupon built this retreat whence he could look down upon the convent that imprisoned the fair Hildegund. When after some years he heard of her death he never spoke again, but pined away until death overtook him also a short time afterwards. Midway we pass through Bonn, the university town, a clean, modern city of sixty thousand people. The university was founded a century ago and has some three thousand students. Beethoven was born in Bonn in 1770, in a house which now contains a museum relating to the great composer. Our road keeps to the right of the river, which is swollen and dirty yellow from recent rains. We pass many villages with miserable streets--the road in no wise compares with the one we followed yesterday through the Gorge. Altogether, the fifty miles between Coblenz and Cologne has little to make the run worth while. We find ourselves in the narrow, crooked streets of Cologne well before noon and are stopped by--it seems to us--a very officious policeman who tells us we may proceed if we will be careful. This seems ridiculous and the Captain cites it as an example of the itching of every German functionary to show his authority, but later we learn that motors are not allowed on certain streets of Cologne between eleven and two o'clock. Our friend the officer was really showing us a favor on account of our ignorance in permitting us to proceed. We direct our course towards the cathedral, which overshadows everything else in Cologne, and the Savoy Hotel, just opposite, seems the logical place to stop. It proves very satisfactory, though it ranks well down in Baedeker's list. Cologne Cathedral is conceded to be the most magnificent church in the world and a lengthy description would be little but useless repetition of well-known data. We find, however, that to really appreciate the vastness and grandeur of the great edifice one must ascend the towers and view the various details at close range. It is not easy to climb five hundred feet of winding stairs, especially if one is inclined to be a little short-winded, but the effort will be rewarded by a better conception of the building and a magnificent view covering a wide scope of country. We are unfortunate today since a gray mist obscures much of the city beneath us and quite shuts out the more distant landscape. The great twin towers, which rise more than five hundred feet into the sky, were completed only a few years ago. In the period between 1842 and 1880 about five million dollars was expended in carrying out the original plans--almost precisely as they were drawn by the architects nearly seven hundred years ago. The corner-stone was laid in 1248 and construction was carried forward at intervals during the period of seven centuries. Inside, the cathedral is no less impressive than from the exterior. The vaulting, which rises over two hundred feet from the floor, is carried by fifty-six great pillars and the plan is such that one's vision may cover almost the whole interior from a single viewpoint. It is lighted by softly toned windows--mostly modern, though a few date from the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries and, altogether, the effect is hardly matched by any other church in Christendom. We make no attempt to see the show-places of Cologne during our stay--it would require a week to do this and we shall have to come again. An afternoon about the city gives us some idea of its monuments and notable buildings as well as glimpses of the narrow and often quaint streets of the old town. The next day we are away for Treves and Luxemburg before the "verboten" hour for motor cars. If we missed much fine scenery in the Moselle Valley by coming to Cologne, the loss is partly atoned for by the country we see to-day and the unusually excellent roads. Our route as far as Treves runs a little west of south and diverges some seventy-five miles from the Rhine. It is through a high, rolling country, often somewhat sterile, but we have many glorious views from the upland roads. There are long stretches of hills interspersed with wooded valleys and fields bright with yellow gorse or crimson poppies. There are many grain-fields, though not so opulent-looking as those we saw in the Rhine Valley, and we pass through tracts of fragrant pine forest, which often crowd up to the very roadside. There are many long though usually easy climbs, and again we may glide downward a mile or more with closed throttle and disengaged gears. Much of the way the roadside is bordered with trees and the landscapes remind us more of France than any we have so far seen in Germany. We pass but two or three villages in the one hundred and ten miles between Cologne and Treves; there are numerous isolated farmhouses, rather cleaner and better than we have seen previously. We stop at a country inn in the village of Prun for luncheon, which proves excellent--a pleasant surprise, for the inn is anything but prepossessing in appearance. The guests sit at one long table with the host at the head and evidently the majority are people of the village. Beer and wine are served free with the meal and some of the patrons imbibe an astonishing quantity. This seems to be the universal custom in the smaller inns; in the city hotels wine comes as an extra--no doubt somewhat of a deterrent on its free use. Treves--German Trier--is said to be the oldest town in Germany. The records show that Christianity was introduced here as early as 314 and the place was important in ecclesiastical circles throughout the middle ages. We have a splendid view of the town from the hills as we approach; it lies in the wide plain of the Moselle and its red sandstone walls and numerous towers present a very striking appearance. The cathedral, though not especially imposing, is one of the oldest of German churches--portions of it dating from 528 and the basilica now used as a Protestant church is a restored Roman structure dating from 306. But for all its antiquity Treves seems a pleasant, up-to-date town with well-paved streets--a point which never escapes the notice of the motorist. The surrounding hills are covered with vineyards and the wine trade forms one of the principal enterprises of the place. A few miles from Treves we enter the Grand Duchy of Luxemburg, an independent country, though part of the German Zollverein, which no doubt makes our touring license and number-plates pass current here. It is a tiny state of no more than a thousand square miles, though it has a quarter million people. Luxemburg, where we decide to stop for the night, is the capital. The Grand Hotel Brasseur looks good, though the service proves rather slack and the "cuisine" anything but first-class. Luxemburg is a delight--partly due to its peculiar and picturesque situation, but still more to the quaint buildings and crooked, narrow streets of the older parts and the shattered walls and watchtowers that still encircle it. The more modern portion of the town--which has but twenty thousand inhabitants--is perched on a rocky tableland, three sides of which drop almost precipitously for about two hundred feet to small rivers beneath. The hotels and principal business houses are on the plateau, but the older parts of the town are wedged in the narrow valleys. These are spanned by several high bridges, from one of which we have a delightful viewpoint. It is twilight and the gray houses are merging into the shadows, but the stern towers and broken walls on the heights fling their rugged forms more clearly than ever against the wide band of the sunset horizon. These are the remnants of the fortifications which were condemned to destruction by the Treaty of London in 1876, which guaranteed the neutrality of the Grand Duchy. Only the obsolete portions of the defenses were permitted to stand and these add wonderfully to the romantic beauty of the town. Indeed, the wide panoramas of valley and mountain, of bare, beetling rock and trim park and garden, groups of old trees, huge arched viaducts and the ancient fortifications, form one of the most striking scenes we have witnessed on the Continent. It evidently so impressed the poet Goethe, about one hundred years ago, for a graphic description of Luxemburg may be found in his writings. So charming is the scene that we linger until darkness quite obliterates it and return to our inn feeling that Luxemburg has more of real attractiveness than many of the tourist-thronged cities. [Illustration: LUXEMBURG--GENERAL VIEW] VI THE CAPTAIN'S STORY Friedrich Reinmuth had always been an unsettled and discontented youth; if his days were sad he complained because they were so and if they were prosperous he still found fault. It was not strange that, being of such a nature, he should already have tried many vocations, although yet a young man. At the time of my story he had become a soldier, and while he often fretted and chafed under the rigor of military discipline, he did not find it easy to shift from its shackles as had been his wont in other occupations. By chance he formed a friendship with an old and grizzled comrade, who, although he had served almost two score years in the army, was still hale and strong. The old man had been in the midst of numberless desperate engagements but had always come out of the fray unscathed. Queer stories were whispered about him among his soldier companions, but only whispered, for it was believed, and with reason, that he would take summary vengeance on anyone who crossed his path. He had murdered his own brother in a fit of fury, and to him was also imputed the assassination of the Baron of Reynold, who rebuked the fiery-tempered man on some trifling point; but he had never been brought to justice for any of his crimes. There was a vague rumor that Gottfried Winstedt had sold himself to the devil in return for the power to resist all mortal weapons and to escape all human justice--this it was that made him invulnerable in battle and shielded him from the wrath of the law. But Friedrich in his association with this man for the space of two months had noted little extraordinary about him. He never guessed why the veteran broke an habitual reserve to become his companion until one night when they were conversing on the eve of battle. As they sat moodily together by a waning camp-fire the older man, who had been even more morose than usual during the day, broke the silence. In a melancholy voice he said: "I have somewhat to tell you now, for before the set of tomorrow's sun I will be--God in Heaven, where will I be?--but let it pass; I dare not think of it. My life has been one of unparalleled wickedness; I have committed crimes the very recital of which would appall the most hardened criminal in the Kingdom, but I would not recite them to you if I could, for what would avail the monotonous story of vice and bloodshed for which there is no repentance? You have heard the rumors that these accursed fools have whispered of me--I will not say whether they be true or no. But long foreseeing--yes, foreknowing my fate--I have sought for someone in whom I might confide. I was drawn toward you--I hardly know why--yet I dare not wholly trust in you. Upon one condition, nevertheless, I will commit to you something of vast and curious importance." Friedrich in his amazement was silent and the veteran brought forth from the folds of his faded cloak a small sandalwood box, which he held toward the young man. "I would have you swear," he said, "by all you hold sacred that you will never open this casket except on one condition; it is that you should so desire some earthly thing--wealth, fame, love--that you are willing to barter your eternal welfare to secure it." Something in the old man's manner as well as his words aroused in Friedrich a feeling akin to fear. He took the required oath, mentally resolving that he would throw the mysterious casket in the river on the first opportunity. "Now leave me instantly; I shall never see you again in this world and even I am not so fiendish as to wish to see you in my next--but hark ye, if you ever break the seal out of idle curiosity I will return from the grave to avenge myself on you." Startled by the old man's vehemence, Friedrich hastened to his quarters and strove to sleep. But the strange event of the evening and thoughts of the morrow's conflict, with its danger and perhaps death, drove slumber from his eyes. He tossed about his barrack until the long roll summoned his regiment to the field of battle. The fight raged fiercely and long, and toward evening Friedrich fell, seriously wounded. It was many weeks before he was able to be on his feet again and finding himself totally unfitted by his wound for the profession of arms--and, in fact, for any active occupation--he sadly returned to his native town on the Rhine. Here it chanced there was an old portrait painter of some little renown who took a liking to the unfortunate young soldier and proposed that he study the art; and Friedrich applied himself with such diligence in his new vocation that before long he far excelled his master. Things went prosperously with him. His fame spread beyond the borders of his native town and came to the ears of many of the noble families of the vicinity. He had the good fortune to be patronized by some of these and he transferred the beauty of many a haughty dame and fair damsel to his canvas with unvarying success. Indeed, it is said that more than one of his fair clients looked languishingly at the young artist, whose skill and fame made much amends for humble birth. But Friedrich boasted that he gazed upon the fairest of them unmoved. Ambitious and free-hearted, he thought himself impervious to the wiles of love--a frame of mind he declared indispensible to his art. His success brought him gold as well as fame and but one achievement was needed to complete his triumphs--the patronage of the Herwehes, the noblest and wealthiest of all the great families within leagues of the town. True, the baron and his son were away at present, engaged in the war that still distracted the land, but the lady and her daughter were at home in the magnificent castle which surmounted an eminence far above the Rhine, in full view against the sky from the window of the artist's studio. The fact that the Herwehes withheld their countenance from him was a sore obstacle in the way of Friedrich's ambitions; their influence extended to every class, and many lesser lights, professedly imitators of the noble family, followed their example even in trivial matters. Great was the young artist's satisfaction when one afternoon two ladies descended from a coach (bearing the Herwehe coat-of-arms) which paused in the street before his studio. Both were veiled, but Friedrich had no doubt that his visitors were the baroness and her daughter, whose patronage he so earnestly desired. When both were seated the elder woman, throwing aside her veil, revealed a face that had lost little of its youthful charm, and with a tone of haughty condescension said: "I have seen some of your portraits, Master Reinmuth, and was pleased with them. I wish you, regardless of time and cost, to paint my daughter." By this time Friedrich had to some extent overcome his trepidation and with a profound courtesy replied, "I shall be happy to serve you, My Lady, if you will be good enough to indicate the time and place for the sittings." "Elsa, dearest, what are your wishes?" asked the mother, and in a voice whose tremulous sweetness thrilled the painter, the young woman replied: "Let it be at the castle, my dear mother, tomorrow at this time. I would rather not come to the studio, for I dread the ride over the rough mountain road." "I will be at your service, My Lady," answered Friedrich, and his visitors departed without delay. Friedrich marveled that his thoughts for the remainder of the day--and much of the night--should revert to the demure little figure whose voice had so moved him. Fame bespoke her the fairest of the fair, but it never entered his imaginings that he, a humble portrait painter, could think of the daughter of such an illustrious line but as one of a different order of beings from himself. He had never thought seriously of love; his mistress, he averred, had been fame. True, he had in idle moments dreamed of a being that he might madly adore--and, alas for him, his fancy had become embodied in human form. But why had this maiden so affected him? She had not lifted her veil and had spoken but once, and if her bearing were dignified and her form graceful, he had seen many others no less charming in these respects nor thought of them a second time. If he had analyzed his feelings he would probably have said that the unusual impression was due to the recognition of his talent by the Herwehes. The appointed hour on the morrow found him following the footpath which led to the castle gate--a much shorter though steeper way than the coach road. Intent as he was on his mission, he could not but pause occasionally to view the wonderful scene that spread out beneath him. The cliff on which the many-towered old castle stood almost overhung the blue waters of the Rhine, which here run between rocks of stupendous height. A little farther down the valley, but in full view from his splendid vantage-point, were vineyard-terraced hills interspersed with wooded ravines and luxuriant meadows. The magic touch of early autumn was over it all--a scene of enchanting beauty. On the opposite cliff was an ancient ruin (now entirely vanished) and Friedrich recalled more than one horrible tale about this abandoned place that had blanched his youthful cheeks. At his feet lay the gray roofs and church spires of his native town and perhaps a shadow of a thought of the renown he would one day bring to it flitted through his mind--for on such an errand and such a day what could limit his ambitious musings? He soon found himself at the castle gate and was admitted by the keeper, who knew of his coming. He was ushered into a magnificent apartment and told to await the Lady Elsa's arrival--and the servant added that the baroness was absent, having gone that morning to Coblenz to join her husband. Friedrich, in the few moments he waited, endeavored to compose himself, though feelings of anxiety and curiosity strove with his efforts at indifference; but when the oaken door swung softly open and his fair client stood before him, he started as though he had seen an apparition. Indeed, it flashed on him at once that all the perfection he had imagined, all the beauty of which he had dreamed, stood before him in the warm tints of life, though to his heated fancy she seemed more than a being of flesh and blood. In truth, the kindly eyes, the expressive and delicately moulded face, the flood of dark hair that fell over shapely shoulders, the slender yet gracefully rounded form, and, more than all, that certain nameless and indescribable something that makes a woman beautiful--did not all these proclaim her almost more than mortal to the over-wrought imagination of the young visionary? "Are you ill?" were her first words when her quick eye caught the ghastly pallor of the artist's face and the bewildered look that possessed it. At the sound of her voice he strove desperately to regain his composure. "No, not ill," he said. "I still suffer from a wound I received in the army and the climb up the mountainside somewhat overtaxed my strength." "I am sorry," she replied. "Had I known, I would gladly have come to the studio." The look of sympathetic interest with which she accompanied her words was a poor sedative to the already overmastering passions of the artist, but by a supreme effort he recovered himself to say: "No, no; it is better that I do not pass so much of my time there. I have applied myself too closely of late. Are you ready, lady, for the sitting?" "Yes," said she. "I have been preparing for you. Follow me." She led the way through several magnificent apartments to one even more splendid than the rest. "In this room," she continued, "I would have the portrait painted, and as a setting can you not paint a portion of the room itself?" Friedrich assented in an absent manner and taking up his palette was about to give his fair subject directions to seat herself to the best advantage when he saw she had already done so, with a pose and expression that might have delighted even a dispassionate artist's eye--if, indeed, any eye could gaze dispassionately on the Lady Elsa Herwehe. She had arranged the drapery of her dull-red silken robe so as to display to the best advantage--and yet not ostentatiously--the outlines of her graceful figure, and her dark hair fell in a shadowy mass over her shoulders. Her face bore a listless and far-away expression--was it natural, or only assumed for artistic effect? Friedrich knew not, but it made her seem superhuman. The artist took up his brush but his brain reeled and his hand trembled. "You are surely ill," exclaimed Lady Elsa and would have called a servant, but a gesture from Friedrich detained her. "No, lady, I am not ill"--and losing all control of himself he went madly on--"but I cannot paint the features of an angel. O, Lady Elsa, if it were the last words I should utter I must declare that I love you. The moment I saw you a tenfold fury seized my soul. I never loved before and I cannot stem the torrent now. O, lady, the difference between our stations in life is wide--but, after all, it may soon be otherwise; I have talent and the world will give me fame. This love in a day has become my life and what is mere breath without life? If you scorn me my life is gone"-- The Lady Elsa, who was at first overcome by astonishment, recovered herself to interrupt him. "Peace, you foolish babbler," cried she. "You came to paint my likeness, not to make love to me. If you cannot do your task, cease your useless vaporings and depart. Think you the daughter of an historic line that stretches back to Hengist could throw herself away on a poor portrait painter, the son of an ignorant peasant? Take you to your business or leave me." To Friedrich every word was a dagger-thrust. He seemed about to reply when--as awakening from a dreadful dream--he rushed from the apartment and fled in wild haste down the stony path to the town. Locking himself in his studio he threw himself on the couch in an ecstacy of despair and passed the greater part of the night in sleepless agony. From sheer exhaustion he fell into a troubled slumber towards morning--if such a hideous semi-conscious state may be called slumber. In his dream he saw a host of demons and in their midst a veiled figure at the sight of which his heart leaped, for it seemed the Lady Elsa. She approached and offered him her hand, veiled beneath the folds of her robe; when he had clasped it he stood face to face, not with the lady of his love, but with the sin-hardened and sardonic features of Gottfried Winstedt, the old soldier-comrade whose dreadful fate he had forgotten! With a wild start he awoke and his thoughts immediately flashed to the strange casket the old man had given him. The words of that anomaly of a man came to him with an awful significance: "When thou shalt so desire some earthly thing that thou wouldst barter thine eternal welfare to secure it, thou mayest open this casket." Fearing that his curiosity might some time overcome him and dreading the threat of old Gottfried, he had buried the casket in a lonely spot and quite forgotten it. His dream recalled it to his memory at a time when no price would be too great to pay for the love of Elsa Herwehe. He sprang from his couch and hastened to the secluded corner of his father's garden, where he had buried the mysterious casket in a wrapping of coarse sack-cloth. Returning to his room and carefully barring the doors he opened the box with little difficulty. It contained a roll of manuscript and a single sheet of yellow parchment. Friedrich unrolled this and a small scrap of paper fell at his feet. It bore these words in faded red letters: "Thou who art willing to bear the consequence, read; the incantation on the parchment, if repeated in a solitary spot at midnight, will bring the presence of the Prince of Evil, though thou canst not know the meaning of the words. He will give thee thy desire at the price of thy soul. But beware--thou hast yet the power to recede." Friedrich read these words with a strange fascination, nor did the solemn warning in the slightest degree alter his purpose to seek a conference with the enemy. The parchment bore but a single verse in a strange language, and the artist thrust it in his bosom with a feeling of triumph. A glance at the manuscript showed it the story of Gottfried Winstedt's life, which he contemptuously flung into the grate, saying: "What care I for the doings of the brutal old fool? To-night I will seek the old ruin across the Rhine which stands opposite the Herwehe estate--my future estate, perchance; no one will interrupt my business there!" And he laughed a mirthless laugh that startled even himself, for a hoarse echo seemed to follow it; was it the Fiend or the ghost of Gottfried Winstedt who mocked him? Meanwhile, the Lady Elsa sat in her chamber overcome with surprise at the actions of the artist; annoyed and angry, yet half pitying him, for he was a gallant young fellow, sure to gain the world's applause--and what woman ever found it in her heart to wholly condemn the man who truly loves her? She ordered a servant to restore to Friedrich his painting utensils which he had left in his precipitate flight, but the man returned saying he could not gain admittance to the studio and had left his charge at the door. The following day--the same on which Friedrich had recovered the fatal casket--the baroness returned from Coblenz, accompanied by her eldest son. She inquired as to the progress of the portrait and Elsa in a half careless, yet melancholy tone told her all and even expressed pity for the poor artist. But the haughty noblewoman was highly incensed at the presumption of the young painter and Heinrich, the son, who was present, flew into an uncontrollable fury and swore by all he considered holy that the knave's impudence should be punished. Snatching his sword he left the castle in a great rage. Elsa called to him to desist, but her words were unheeded. She then appealed to her mother: "Will you permit the rash boy to leave in such a passion? You know his fiery temper and he may do that which will cause him grave trouble." "I will not hinder him," replied the baroness. "Let him chastise the churl for his presumption; if we do not make an example of someone, the village tanner will next seek your hand." "And if he did, would I need hear his suit? Why give farther pain to the poor artist, who is already in deepest distress?" "I shall half believe you heard his suit with favor if you urge more in his defense," said the mother petulantly, and Elsa, who knew her moods, sighed and was silent. Meanwhile the wrathful young nobleman pressed on towards the town. The sun had already far declined and flung his low rays on the broad river till it seemed a stream of molten gold. The red and yellow hues of early autumn took on a brighter glow and the town, the distant vineyards and the wooded vales lay in hazy quietude. But little of this beauty engaged the mind of Heinrich Herwehe as he bounded down the mountain path. As he brooded over the insult to his sister his anger, instead of cooling, increased until the fury of his passion was beyond his control. In this mood he came to the outskirts of the town where, to his intense satisfaction, he saw the artist approaching. Friedrich was hastening toward the river and would have taken no notice of the young baron, whom he quite failed to recognize. But he was startled by a fierce oath from Heinrich, who exclaimed: "Ha, you paltry paint-dauber, draw and defend yourself or I will stab you where you stand." "Fool," replied the astonished artist, "who are you that thus accosts me on the highroad?" "That matters not; defend yourself or die." And with these words the impetuous young nobleman rushed upon the object of his wrath. But Friedrich was no insignificant antagonist; he had served in the army and had acquired the tricks of sword-play, and for a contest that required a cool indifference to life or death, his mood was far the better of the two. Little caring what his fate might be and without further words he coolly met the onslaught of his unknown enemy. Such was Heinrich's fury that he quite disregarded caution in his desire to overcome an opponent whom he despised. Such a contest could not be of long duration. In a violent lunge which the artist avoided, the nobleman's foot slipped on the sward and he was transfixed by his adversary's rapier. With scarce a groan he expired and Friedrich, hardly looking at his prostrate foe, exclaimed: "You fool, you have brought your fate upon yourself!" and, as he sheathed his sword, added, "Who you were and why you did so set upon me I cannot conceive, but it matters not; I doubt not that the confessor to whom I go will readily absolve me from this deed." He pursued his lonely way to the river's edge, where he stepped into a small boat and as he moved from the shore he muttered, "O, Elsa, Elsa, he who would give an earthly life for love might be counted a madman; what then of one who seeks to barter eternity for thee?" He soon reached the opposite bank of the river and began the steep ascent to the ruined castle. He beheld, in the gathering twilight, the same romantic scenes that had so thrilled him but two days ago and could scarce believe himself the same man. Darkness was rapidly gathering and by the time he reached the ruin the last glow of sunset had faded from the sky. He crossed the tottering bridge over the empty moat and entered the desolate courtyard. Here, in the uncertain gloom of the lonely ruin, he must wait the coming of midnight and wear away as best he could the ghostly monotony of the passing hours. But his purpose was fixed; his desperation had been only increased by the events of the day, and seating himself on a fragment of the wall he determined to endure whatever came. He heard the great cathedral bell of the distant town toll hour after hour and when midnight drew near he unfalteringly entered the vast deserted hall of state. Here he lighted his small lamp, whose feeble beams struggled fitfully with the shadows of the huge apartment. He drew forth the parchment--he had not mustered courage to look at it since morning--and as the last stroke of the great bell died in the gloom, he muttered the strange language of the incantation. Suddenly there came a rushing sound as of a gust of wind, which extinguished his lamp, and, forgetting that he must repeat the fatal words, he let the parchment fall. The wind whiffed it he knew not whither. No visible shape came before him, but in a moment he felt the awful presence and a voice sepulchral and stony came out of the darkness: "Mortal, who art thou that dost thus summon me? What wilt thou?" Sick with terror and yet determined even to death, Friedrich answered: "And knowest thou not? Men speak thee omniscient. But I can tell thee of my hopeless love--" "Nay, I know all," continued the voice. "Relight thy lamp and I will tell thee how thou mayst gain thy desire." Trembling, Friedrich obeyed and looked wildly about, expecting the visible form of the Fiend, but he saw nothing. Yet he felt the horrid presence and knew that his awful visitant was near at hand. From out of the darkness a heavy iron-clasped book fell at his feet and the voice continued: "Open a vein and sign thy name in the book with blood." Friedrich with changeless determination obeyed and the book disappeared. "Take this gold," said his dreadful monitor, and a heavy bag fell at the artist's feet with a crash, "and I will give thee graces to win the fair one's heart. Repeat the incantation that I may depart." For the first time since it had disappeared Friedrich thought of the fatal parchment and in an agony of horror remembered that it was gone. He would have rushed from the castle but the power of the presence held him immovable. "Fiend," he shrieked, "where is the parchment? Thou knowest; tell me, in God's name!" "Fool, tenfold fool, dost thou call on my archenemy to adjure me? The parchment is naught to me; it was thy business to guard it. I can wait till day-break when I must depart, and with me thou must go." "Fiend," he shrieked, "where is the parchment? I adjure thee"--but the voice was silent and the mighty power still chained its victim to the spot. It were useless to follow the blasphemous ravings of the unfortunate youth, who cursed God and humankind as well as the enemy until the first ray of the rising sun darted through the crumbling arches, when the inexorable power smote him dead and doubtless carried his spirit to the region of the damned. Herwehe Castle--and, indeed, the whole town and countryside--was in a wild uproar on the following morning. The young nobleman had been found murdered, sword in hand, and all knew from the wailing mother the mission on which he had set out the evening before. Friedrich was missing and was instantly accused as the murderer. Companies of furious retainers and villagers scoured the countryside until at last a party searching the old ruin found the object of their wrath. He lay dead upon the floor of the ancient hall of state with only an extinguished lamp near him and, to their amazement, a bag of gold. Various theories were advanced concerning him and his death. The commonly accepted one was that he had stolen the gold and murdered the young nobleman and, being struck with remorse, had ended his life with some subtle poison. But none ever knew the real fate of the poor artist save his old father, who guessed it from reading the manuscript of Gottfried Winstedt, which he found unconsumed in the grate of his son's studio. VII A FLIGHT THROUGH THE NORTH Twenty miles from Luxemburg we come to the French border, where we must pay another fee to the German official who occupies a little house by the roadside and who takes over the number-plates which we received on entering Germany. The French officer, a little farther on, questions us perfunctorily as to whether we have anything dutiable; we have purchased only a few souvenirs and trinkets in Germany and feel free to declare that we have nothing. We suppose our troubles with the customs ended and the Captain, who purchased several bottles of perfume in Cologne--the French are strongly prejudiced against German perfumes--rests easier. But in Longwy, a small town four or five miles from the border, another official professing to represent the customs stops us and is much more insistent than the former, though after opening a hand-bag or two and prying about the car awhile, he reluctantly permits us to proceed. And this is not all, for at the next town a blue-uniformed dignitary holds us up and declares he must go through our baggage in search of contraband articles. A lengthy war of words ensues between this new interloper and the Captain, who finally turns to us and says: "This fellow insists that if we do not give him a list of our purchases in Germany and pay duty, our baggage will be examined in the next town and if we are smuggling anything we'll have to go to jail." This is cheerful news, but our temper is roused by this time and we flatly refuse to give any information to our questioner or to permit him to examine our baggage. He leaves us--with no very complimentary remarks, the Captain says--and we make as quick a "get-away" as possible. We keep a sharp look-out in the next two or three villages, but are not again troubled by the minions of the law. We begin to suspect that the officers were simply local policemen who were trying to frighten us into paying a fee, and we are still of this opinion. After crossing the border we follow a splendid road leading through a rather uninteresting country and a succession of miserable villages, a description of which would be no very pleasant reading. Suffice it to say that their characteristics are the same as those of similar villages we have already written about--if anything, they are dirtier and uglier. They are all small and unimportant, Montmedy, the largest, having only two thousand inhabitants and a considerable garrison. This section was the scene of some of the great events of the war of 1870-71. About noon we come to Sedan, which gave its name to the memorable battle if, indeed, such a one-sided conflict can be called a battle. The Germans simply corralled the French army here with about as much ease as if it were a flock of sheep--but the Captain insists they would have no such "walk-away" to-day. The ancient inn--bearing the pretentious name of Hotel de la Croix d'Or--where we have lunch, endeavors to charge one franc "exchange" on an English sovereign, thereby arousing the Captain's ire, not so much on account of the extortion as for the presumption in questioning an English gold-piece, which ought to pass current wherever the sun shines. He indignantly seeks a bank and tells down French coin to the landlord, along with his compliments delivered in no very conciliatory tone. Sedan is an old and untidy town of about twenty thousand people and aside from its connection with the famous battle has little to interest the tourist. Our route along the river Meuse between Sedan and Mezieres takes us over much of the battlefield, but there is little to-day to remind one of the struggle. Out of Sedan the road is better--a wide, straight, level highway which enables us to make the longest day's run of our entire tour. The country improves in appearance and becomes more like the France of Orleans and Touraine. The day, which began dull and hazy, has cleared away beautifully and the flood of June sunshine shows Summer France at its best. From the upland roads there are far-reaching views, through ranks of stately trees, of green landscapes, flaming here and there with poppy-fields or glowing with patches of yellow gorse. The country is trim and apparently well-tilled; the villages are better and cleaner and the road a very dream for the motorist. At Guise there is a ruined castle of vast extent, its ancient walls still encircling much of the town. Guise was burned by the English under John of Hanehault in 1339, but the redoubtable John could not force the surrender of the castle, which was defended by his own daughter, the wife of a French nobleman then absent. So swift is our progress over the fine straight road that we find ourselves in the streets of St. Quentin while the sun is yet high, but a glance at our odometer tells us we have gone far enough and we turn in at the Hotel de France et d'Angleterre. It is evidently an old house and every nook and corner is cumbered with tawdry bric-a-brac--china, statuettes, candlesticks and a thousand and one articles of the sort. Our apartments are spacious, with much antique furniture, and the high-posted beds prove more comfortable than they look. Mirrors with massive gilt frames stare at us from the walls and heavy chandeliers hang from the ceilings. The price for all this magnificence is quite low, for St. Quentin is in no sense a tourist town and hotel rates have not yet been adjusted for the infrequent motorist. The hotel is well-patronized, apparently by commercial men, who make it a rather lively place. The meals are good and the servants prompt and attentive--superior in this respect to many of the pretentious tourist-thronged hotels. There is nothing to keep us in St. Quentin; in the morning we start out to drive about the town, but the narrow, crooked streets and miserable cobble pavements soon change our determination and we inquire the route to Amiens. It chances that the direct road, running straight as an arrow between the towns, is undergoing repairs and we are advised to take another route. I cannot now trace it on the map, but I am sure the Captain for once became badly mixed and we have a good many miles of the roughest going we found in Europe. We strike a stretch of the cobblestone "pave" which is still encountered in France and ten miles per hour is about the limit. These roads are probably more than a hundred years old. They are practically abandoned except by occasional peasants' carts and their roughness is simply indescribable. As it chances, we have a dozen miles of this "pave" before we reach the main road and we are too occupied with our troubles to look at the country or note the name of the one wretched village we pass. Once in the broad main highway, however, we are delighted with the beauty and color of the country. We pass through wide, unfenced fields of grain, interspersed with the ever-present poppies and blue cornflowers and from the hills we catch glimpses of the distant river. Long before we come to Amiens--shall I say before we come in sight of the city?--we descry the vast bulk of the cathedral rising from the plain below. The surrounding city seems but a soft gray blur, but the noble structure towers above and dominates everything else until we quite forget that there is anything in Amiens but the cathedral. We soon enter an ancient-looking city of some ninety thousand people and make the mistake of choosing the Great Hotel d'la Univers, for, despite its pretentious name, it is dingy and ill-arranged and the service is decidedly slack. Amiens Cathedral is one of the greatest churches of Europe, though the low and inharmonious towers of the facade detract much from the dignity of the exterior. Nor does the high and extremely slender central spire accord well with the general style of the building. The body of the cathedral, divested of spire and towers, would make a fit match for Cologne, which it resembles in plan and dimensions, but it has a more ancient appearance, having undergone little change in six centuries. The delicate sculptures and carvings are stained and weather-worn, but they present that delightful color toning that age alone can give. Inside, a recent writer declares, it is "one vast blaze of light and color coming not only from the clerestory but from the glazed triforium also, the magnificent blue glass typifying the splendor of the heavens"--a pleasing effect, on the whole, though the flood of softly toned light brings out to disadvantage the gaudy ornaments and trinkets of the private chapels so common in French cathedrals. Ruskin advises the visitor, no matter how short his time may be, to devote it, not to the contemplation of arches and piers and colored glass, but to the woodwork of the chancel, which he considers the most beautiful carpenter work of the so-called Flamboyant period. There is also a multitude of sculptured images, some meritorious wall frescoes, and several stained-glass windows dating from the thirteenth century. At the rear is a statue of Peter the Hermit, for the monk who started the great crusading movement of the middle ages was a native of Amiens. All of these things we note in a cursory manner; we recognize that the student might spend hours, if not days, in studying the details of such a mighty structure. But such is not our mood; the truth is, we are a little tired of cathedrals and are not sorry that Amiens is the last for the present. What an array we have seen in our month's tour: Rouen, Orleans, Tours, Dijon, Nevers, Ulm, Mayence, Cologne, Amiens--not to mention a host of lesser lights. We have had a surfeit and we shall doubtless be able to better appreciate what we have seen after a period of reflection, which will also bring a better understanding to our aid should we resume our pilgrimage to these ecclesiastical monuments. There is little besides the cathedral to detain the tourist in Amiens, unless, indeed, he should be fortunate enough to be able to go as leisurely as he likes. Then he would see the Musee, which has a really good collection of pictures and relics, or the library, which is one of the best in French provincial towns. There are some quaint old houses along the river and many odd corners to delight the artistic eye. John Ruskin found enough to keep him in Amiens many days and to fill several pages in his writings. But it would take more than all this to delay us now when we are so near the English shores. If we leave Amiens early enough we may catch the noon Channel boat--we ought to cover the ninety miles to Boulogne in three or four hours. But we find the main road to Abbeville closed and lose our way twice, which, with two deflated tires, puts our plan out of question. Much of the road is distressingly rough and there are many "canivaux" to slacken our speed. We soon decide to take matters easily and cross the Channel on the late afternoon boat. The picturesque old town of Abbeville was one of John Ruskin's favorite sketching grounds. We pass the market-place, which is surrounded by ancient houses with high-pitched gables colored in varied tints of gray, dull-blue and pale-green. The church is cited by Ruskin as one of the best examples of Flamboyant style in France, though the different parts are rather inharmonious and of unequal merit. Abbeville was held by the English for two hundred years and the last possession, except Calais, to be surrendered to France. Here in 1514 Louis of Brittany married Mary Tudor--the beautiful sister of Henry VIII.--only to leave her a widow a few months later. She returned to England and afterwards became the wife of the Duke of Suffolk. It is market-day in Montreuil and the streets are crowded with country people. We stop in the thronged market-place, where a lively scene is being enacted. All kinds of garden produce and fruits are offered for sale and we are importuned to purchase by the enterprising market-women. We find the fruit excellent and inexpensive, and this, with a number of other object lessons in the course of our travels, impressed us with the advantages of the European market plan, which brings fresh produce direct to the consumer at a moderate price. We have most of the afternoon about Boulogne. In starting on our tour a month before we hardly glanced at our landing port, so anxious were we for the country roads; but as we drive about the city now, we are delighted with its antiquity and quaintness. It is still enclosed by walls--much restored, it is true, and so, perhaps, are the unique gateways. The streets are mostly paved with cobbles, which make unpleasant driving and after a short round we deliver the car at the quay. At the Hotel Angleterre we order some strawberries as an "extra" with our luncheon--these being just in season--and we are cheerfully presented with a bill for six francs for a quantity that can be bought in the market-place for ten cents--this in addition to an unusually high charge for the meal. Evidently Boulogne Bonifaces are not in business solely for their health. The town is a frequented summer resort, with a good beach and numerous hotels and lodging-places. It is said to be the most Anglicized town in France--almost everyone we meet seems familiar with English. The Captain suggests that we may be interested in seeing the Casino, one of the licensed gambling-houses allowed in a few French towns. The government gets a good share of the profits, which are very large. We do not care to try our luck on the big wheel, but the Captain has no scruples--winning freely at first, but quitting the loser by a goodly number of francs--a common experience, I suppose. The small boy is not allowed to enter the gambling room, from which minors are rigidly excluded. We have a glorious evening for crossing to Folkestone--the dreaded Channel is on its best behavior. A magnificent sunset gilds the vast expanse of rippling water to the westward and flashes on the white chalk cliffs of the English shore. As we come nearer and nearer we have an increasing sense of getting back home--and England has for us an attractiveness that we did not find in France and Germany. And yet our impressions of these countries were, on the whole, very favorable. France, so far as we saw it, was a beautiful, prosperous country, though there was not for us the romance that so delighted us in England. We missed the ivied ruins and graceful church-towers that lend such a charm to the British landscapes. The highways generally were magnificent, though already showing deterioration in many places. The roads of France require dustless surfacing--oil or asphaltum, similar to the methods extensively used in England. Since the time of our tour steps have been taken in this direction and in time France will have by far the best road-system in the world. Her highways are already broad and perfectly engineered and need only surfacing. About Paris much of the wretched old pave is still in existence, but this will surely be replaced before long. The roads are remarkably direct, radiating from the main towns like the spokes of a wheel, usually taking the shortest cut between two important points. The squalor and filth of the country villages in many sections is an unpleasant revelation to the tourist who has seen only the cities, which are clean and well-improved. But for all this thrift is evident everywhere; nothing is allowed to go to waste; there are no ragged, untilled corners in the fields. Every possible force is utilized. Horses, dogs, oxen, cows, goats and donkeys are all harnessed to loads; indeed, the Captain says there is a proverb in France to the effect that "the pig is the only gentleman," for he alone does not work. The women seem to have more than their share of heavy disagreeable tasks, and this is no doubt another factor in French prosperity. Despite the notion to the contrary, France is evidently a very religious country--in her way. Crucifixes, crosses, shrines, etc. are common along the country roadsides, and churches are the best and most important buildings in the towns and cities. Priests are seen everywhere and apparently have a strong hold on their parishioners. In view of such strong entrenchment, it seems a wonder that the government was able to completely disestablish the church and to require taxation of much of its property. The country policeman, so omnipresent in England, is rarely seen in France, and police traps in rural districts are unknown. Even in towns arrests are seldom made--the rule being to interfere only with motorists who drive "to the danger of the public." One misses the handy fund of information which an English policeman can so readily supply; the few French officials we questioned were apparently neither so intelligent nor accommodating. We were astonished to see so few motor cars in France, and many which we did see were those of touring foreigners. France, for all her lead in the automobile industry, does not have many cars herself. She prefers to sell them to the other fellow and keep the money. The number of cars in France is below the average for each of the states of the Union, and the majority are in Paris and vicinity. French cars almost dominate the English market and many of the taxicabs in London are of French make. We saw a large shipment of these on the wharves at Boulogne. If it were not for our tariff, we may be sure that France would be a serious competitor in the motor-car trade of the United States. There is absolutely no prejudice against the motorist in France and foreigners are warmly welcomed to spend their money. The Frenchman does not travel much--France is good enough for him and he looks on the Americans and Englishmen who throng his country as a financial asset and makes it as easy for them to come as he possibly can. In fact, under present conditions it is easier to tour from one European country to another than it is among our own states--one can arrange with the Royal Automobile Club for all customs formalities and nothing is required except signing a few papers at each frontier. In some respects we noted a strong similarity between France and Germany. The cities of both countries are clean and up-to-date, with museums, galleries, splendid churches and fine public buildings. In both--so far as we saw--the small villages are primitive and filthy in the extreme and in rural districts the heaviest burdens appear to fall on the women. In both countries farming is thoroughly done and every available bit of land is utilized. Each gives intelligent attention to forestry--there are many forests now in their prime, young trees are being grown, and the roadsides are planted with trees. The roads of Germany are far behind those of France; nor does any great interest seem to be taken in highway improvement. Of course the roads are fairly well maintained, but there is apparently no effort to create a system of boulevards such as France possesses. Germany has even fewer motor cars than her neighbor, a much smaller number of automobile tourists enter her borders, and there is more hostility towards them on part of the country people. There are no speed traps, but one is liable to be arrested for fast driving in many towns and cities. The German business-man strikes one more favorably than the Frenchman; he is sturdy, good-looking and alert, and even in a small establishment shows the characteristics that are so rapidly pushing his country to the front in a commercial way. But the greatest difference in favor of Germany--at least so far as outward appearance goes--is to be seen in her soldiery. Soldiers are everywhere--always neat and clean, with faultless uniform and shining accoutrements, marching with a firm, steady, irresistible swing. To the casual observer it would seem that if an army of these soldiers should enter France they could march directly on Paris without serious resistance. But some authorities say that German militarism is a hollow show and that there is more real manhood in the Frenchman. Let us hope the question will not have to be settled again on the field of battle. Perhaps these random impressions which I have been recording are somewhat superficial, but I shall let them stand for what they are worth. On our long summer jaunt through these two great countries we have had many experiences--not all of them pleasant. But we have seen many things and learned much that would have been quite inaccessible to us in the old grooves of travel--thanks to our trusty companion of the wind-shod wheels. And perhaps the best possible proof that we really enjoyed our pilgrimage is a constantly increasing desire to repeat it--with variations--should our circumstances again permit. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Odd Corners of Britain ------------------------------------------------------------------------ VIII THE MOTHERLAND ONCE MORE Back to England--back to England! Next to setting foot in the homeland itself, nothing could have been more welcome to us after our month's exile on the Continent. And I am not saying that we did not enjoy our Continental rambles; that we did the pages of this book amply testify. It seemed to us, however, that for motor touring, England surpasses any other country in many respects. First of all, the roads average vastly better--we remembered with surprise the stories we had heard of the greatly superior roads of France--a delusion entertained by many Englishmen, for that matter. We had also found by personal experience that the better English inns outclass those on the Continent in service and cleanliness and never attempt the overcharges and exactions not uncommon in France and Germany. The second-rate French inn, we are informed on good authority, is more tolerable than the second-rate inn of England. An experienced English motorist told us that since expense was a consideration to him, he generally spent his vacations in France. He declared that there he could put up comfortably and cheaply at the less pretentious inns while he would never think of stopping at English hotels of the same class. I fancy, however, that if one follows Baedeker--our usual guide in such matters--and selects number one among the list, he will find every advantage with the English hotels. And we are sure that the English landscapes are the most beautiful in the world. Everywhere one sees trim, parklike neatness--vistas of well-tilled fields interspersed with great country seats, storied ruins and the ubiquitous church-tower so characteristic of Britain. It is a distinctive church-tower, rising from green masses of foliage such as one seldom sees elsewhere. And where else in a civilized country will one find such trees--splendid, beautifully proportioned trees, standing in solitary majesty in the fields, stretching in impressive ranks along the roadside or clustering in towering groups about some country mansion or village church? And who could be impervious to the charm of the English village? Cleanly, pleasantly situated and often embowered in flowers, it appeals to the artistic sense and affords the sharpest possible contrast to the filthy and malodorous little hamlets of France and Germany. The cities and larger towns of these countries do not suffer any such disadvantage in comparison with places of the same size in England--but we care less for the cities, often avoiding them. In England, we found ourselves among people speaking a common language and far more kindly and considerate towards the stranger within their gates than is common on the Continent. We can dispense with our courier, too, for though he was an agreeable fellow, we enjoy it best alone. So, then, we are glad to be back in Britain and are eager to explore her highways and byways once more. We plan a pilgrimage to John O'Groat's house and of course the Royal Automobile Club is consulted. "We have just worked out a new route to Edinburgh," said Mr. Maroney, "which avoids the cities and a large proportion of police traps as well. You leave the Great North Road at Doncaster and proceed northward by Boroughbridge, Wilton-le-Wear, Corbridge, Jedburgh and Melrose. You will also see some new country, as you are already familiar with the York-Newcastle route." And so we find ourselves at the Red Lion at Hatfield, about twenty miles out of London on the beginning of our northern journey. It is a cleanly, comfortable-looking old house, and though it is well after noon, an excellent luncheon is promptly served--the roadside inns are adapting themselves to the irregular hours of the motorist. Hatfield House--the Salisbury estate--is near the inn, but though we have passed it several times, we have never hit on one of the "open" days, and besides, we have lost a good deal of our ambition for doing palaces; half-forgotten and out-of-the-way places appeal more strongly now. We are soon away on the splendid highway which glistens from a heavy summer shower that fell while we were at luncheon. We proceed soberly, for we have had repeated warnings of police traps along the road. The country is glorious after the dashing rainfall; fields of German clover are in bloom, dashes of dark red amidst the prevailing green; long rows of sweet-scented carmine-flowered beans load the air with a heavy perfume. A little later, when we pass out of the zone of the shower we find hay-making in progress and everything is redolent of the new-mown grasses. Every little while we pass a village and at Stilton--I have written elsewhere of its famous old inn--a dirty urchin runs alongside the car howling, "Police traps! Look out for police traps!" until he receives a copper to reward his solicitude for our welfare. Toward evening we come in sight of Grantham's magnificent spire and we have the pleasantest recollections of the Angel Inn, where we stopped some years previously--we will close the day's journey here. One would never get from the Angel's modest, ivy-clad front any idea of the rambling structure behind it; indeed, I have often wondered how all the labyrinth of floors, apartments and hallways could be crowded behind such a modest facade as that of the Red Lion of Banbury, the Swan of Mansfield or the Angel of Grantham, for example. Such inns are no doubt a heritage of the days when it was necessary to utilize every available inch of space within the city walls. In most cases they are conducted with characteristic English thoroughness and are cleanly and restful, despite their antiquity and the fact that they are closely hedged in by other buildings. As a rule part or all of the old inner court which formerly served as a stable-yard has been adapted as a motor garage. The Angel is said to have been in existence as a hostelry as early as 1208, but the arched gateway opening on the street may be of still earlier date, having probably formed a part of some monastic building. Tradition connects Charles I. with the inn--an English inn of such antiquity would be poor indeed without a legend of the Wanderer--but the claims of the Angel to royal associations go back much farther, for King John is declared to have held his court here in 1213. Richard III. is also alleged to have stopped here and to have signed the death warrant of the Duke of Buckingham at the time. There is record of princely visitors of later dates and it is easy to see that the Angel has had rare distinction--from the English point of view. We remember it, however, not so much for its traditions as for the fact that we are given a private sitting-room in connection with our bed-rooms with no apparent increase in the bill. Our good luck in this particular may have been due to the slack business at the time of our arrival and we could hardly expect to have our accommodations duplicated should we visit the Angel and Royal again. Grantham is a town of nearly twenty thousand people, though it does not so impress the stranger who rambles about its streets. Two or three large factories are responsible for its size, but these have little altered its old-time heart. The center of this is marked by St. Wulfram's Church, one of the noblest parish churches in the Kingdom. Its spire, a shapely Gothic needle of solid stone, rises nearly three hundred feet into the heavens, springing from a massive square tower perhaps half the total height. The building shows nearly all Gothic styles, though the Decorated and Early English predominate. It dates from the thirteenth century and has many interesting monuments and tombstones. Its gargoyles, we agreed, were as curious as any we saw in England; uncanny monsters and queer demons leer upon one from almost any viewpoint. Inside there is a marvelously carved baptismal font and a chained library of the sixteenth century similar to the one in Wimborne Minster. Altogether, St. Wulfram's is one of the notable English country churches, though perhaps among the lesser known. Grantham also possesses an ancient almshouse of striking architecture and a grammar school which once included among its pupils Sir Isaac Newton, who was born at Woolsthorpe Manor, near the town. [Illustration: ST. WULFRAM'S CHURCH--GRANTHAM] Old Whitby appeals to our recollection as worth a second visit and we depart from our prearranged route at Doncaster, reaching York in the late afternoon. It has been a cold, rainy day and we cannot bring ourselves to pass the Station Hotel, though Whitby is but fifty miles farther and might be reached before nightfall. We have previously visited York many times, but have given our time mainly to the show-places and we devote the following forenoon to the shops. There are many interesting book-stalls and no end of antique-stores with many costly curios, such as a Scotch claymore, accompanied by documents to prove that it once belonged to Prince Charlie. The shops, it seemed to us, were hardly up to standard for a city of nearly one hundred thousand. But York, while of first rank as an ecclesiastical seat and famous for its quaint corners and antiquity, is not of great commercial or manufacturing importance. It is a busy railroad center, with hundreds of trains daily, and next to Chester probably attracts a greater number of tourists than any other English provincial town. Leeds, Bradford, Sheffield, Hull, Middlesbrough, Halifax and Huddersfield are all Yorkshire cities with larger population and greater commercial activities. Of English churches we should be inclined to give York Cathedral first place, though viewpoints on such matters are so widely different that this may be disputed by good authorities. In size, striking architecture and beautiful windows, it is certainly not surpassed, though it has not the historical associations of many of its rivals. Whitby is but fifty miles from York. An excellent road runs through a green, prosperous country as far as Pickering--about a score of miles--but beyond this we plunge into the forbidding hills of the bleakest, blackest of English moors. It is too early for the heather-bloom, which will brighten the dreary landscape a few weeks later, and a drizzling rain is falling from lowering clouds. The stony road, with steep grades and sharp turns, requires closest attention and, altogether, it is a run that is pleasant only in retrospect when reviewed from a cozy arm-chair by the evening fire. I am going to write a chapter giving our impressions of Old Whitby which, I hope, will reflect a little of its charm and romance, so we may pass it here. We resume our journey after a pleasant pause in the old town and proceed by Guisborough, Stockton and Darlington to Bishop Auckland, where we again take up our northern route. Bishop Auckland gets its ecclesiastical prefix from the fact that since the time of Edward I. it has been the site of one the palaces of the Bishops of Durham. The present building covers a space of no less than five acres and is surrounded by a park more than a square mile in extent. The palace is splendid and spacious, though very irregular, the result of additions made from time to time in varying architectural styles. It is easy to see how the maintenance of such an establishment--and others besides--keeps the good bishop poor, though his salary is about the same as that of the President of the United States. The town is pleasantly situated on an eminence near the confluence of the river Wear and a smaller stream. About a mile distant, at Escomb, is a church believed to date from the seventh century. It is quite small but very solidly built, the walls tapering upward from the ground, and some of the bricks incorporated in it are clearly of Roman origin, one of them bearing an old Latin inscription. Bishop Auckland marks the western termination of Durham's green fields and fine parks; we descend a steep, rough hill and soon find ourselves on a very bad road leading through a bleak mining country. Tow-Law is the first of several bald, angular villages with scarce a tree or shrub to relieve their nakedness; the streets are thronged with dirty, ragged urchins and slatternly women sit on the doorsteps along the road. The country is disfigured with unsightly buildings and piles of waste from the coal-mines; and the air is loaded with sooty vapors. It is a relief to pass into the picturesque hills of Northumberland, where, even though the road does not improve, there are many charming panoramas of wooded vales with here and there a church-tower, a ruin or a village. Towns on the road are few; we cross the Tyne at Corbridge, where a fine old bridge flings its high stone arches across the wide river. It is the oldest on the Tyne, having braved the floods for nearly two centuries and a half. In 1771 a great flood swept away every other bridge on the river, but this sturdy structure survived to see the era of the motor car. A bridge has existed at this point almost continuously since Roman times, and the Roman piers might have been seen until very recently. The vicinity is noted for Roman remains--sections of the Great Wall and the site of a fortified camp being near at hand. Many relics have been discovered near by and researches are still going on. The village by the bridge is small and unimportant, though it has an ancient church which shows traces of Roman building materials. Most remarkable is the Peel tower in the churchyard, where the parson is supposed to have taken refuge during the frequent Scotch incursions of the border wars. Leaving the bridge we follow the Roman Watling Street, which proceeds in almost a straight line through the hills. It leads through a country famous in song and story; every hill and valley is reminiscent of traditions of the endless border wars in which Northumberland figured so largely and for so many years. Its people, too, were generally adherents of the Stuarts and it was near the village of Woodburn, through which we pass, that the Jacobites attacked the forces of George I., only to meet with crushing defeat, resulting in the ruin of many of the noblest families of the county. A little farther, in the vale of Otterburn, was the scene of the encounter of the retainers of Douglas and Percy, celebrated in many a quaint ballad. In the next few miles are Byrness and Catcleugh, two fine country-seats quite near the roadside, and there is a diminutive but very old church close to the former house. Byrness is the seat of a famous foxhunting squire who keeps a large pack of hounds and pursues the sport with great zeal. The wild, broken country and sparse population are especially favorable to hunting in the saddle. There is no lack of genuine sport, since the wild fox is a menace to lambs and must be relentlessly pursued to the death. Just opposite Catcleugh House a fine lake winds up the valley for nearly two miles. It seems prosaic when we learn that it is an artificial reservoir, affording a water supply for Newcastle-on-Tyne, but it is none the less a charming accessory to the scenery. Beyond this the road runs through almost unbroken solitude until it crosses the crest of the Cheviots and enters the hills of Scotland. IX OLD WHITBY It is a gray, lowering evening when we climb the sharply rising slope to the Royal Hotel to take up our domicile for a short sojourn in Old Whitby. The aspect of the town on a dull wet evening when viewed from behind a broad window-pane is not without its charm, though I may not be competent to reflect that charm in my printed page. It is a study in somber hues, relieved only by the mass of glistening red tiles clustered on the opposite hillside and by an occasional lighted window. The skeleton of the abbey and dark solid bulk of St. Mary's Church are outlined against the light gray of the skies, which, on the ocean side, bend down to a restless sea, itself so gray that you could scarce mark the dividing line were it not for the leaden-colored waves breaking into tumbling masses of white foam. Looking up the narrow estuary into which the Esk discharges its waters, one gets a dim view of the mist-shrouded hills on either side and of numerous small boats and sailing vessels riding at anchor on the choppy waves. It is a wild evening, but we are tempted to undertake a ramble about the town, braving the gusty blasts that sweep through the narrow lanes and the showers of spray that envelop the bridge by which one crosses to the opposite side of the inlet. There is little stirring on the streets and the alleylike lanes are quite deserted. Most of the shops are closed and only the lights streaming from windows of the houses on the hillside give relief to the deepening shadows. The gathering darkness and the increasing violence of the wind deter us from our purpose of climbing the long flight of steps to the summit of the cliff on which the abbey stands and we slowly wend our way back to the hotel. The following morning a marked change has taken place. The mists of the previous evening have been swept away and the intensely blue sky is mottled with white vapory clouds which scurry along before a stiff sea-breeze. The deep indigo blue of the ocean is flecked with masses of white foam rolling landward on the crests of the waves, which break into spray on the rocks and piers. The sea-swell enters the estuary, tossing the numerous fishing smacks which ride at anchor and lending a touch of animation to the scene. The abbey ruin and church, always the dominating feature of East Cliff, stand out clearly against the silvery horizon and present a totally different aspect from that which impressed us last evening. In the searching light of day, the broken arches and tottering walls tell plainly the story of the ages of neglect and plunder that they have undergone and speak unmistakably of a vanished order of things. Last night, shrouded as they were in mysterious shadows, the traces of wreck and ruin were half concealed and it did not require an extraordinarily vivid imagination to picture the great structures as they were in their prime and to re-people them with their ancient habitants, the gray monks and nuns. To-day the red and white flag of St. George is flying from the low square tower of St. Mary's and crowds of Sunday worshipers are ascending the broad flight of stairs. Services have been held continuously in the plain old edifice for seven centuries--its remote situation and lack of anything to attract the looter or enrage the iconoclast kept it safe during the period which desecrated or destroyed so many churches. The history of a town like Whitby is not of much moment to the casual sojourner, who is apt to find himself more attracted by its romance than by sober facts. Still, we are glad to know that the place is very ancient, dating back to Saxon times. It figured in the wars with the Danes and in the ninth century was so devastated as to be almost obliterated for two hundred years. It was not until the reign of Elizabeth that it took rank as a seaport. The chief industry up to the last century was whale-fishing, and a hardy race of sea-faring men was bred in the town, among them Captain Cook, the famous explorer. While fishing was ostensibly the chief means of livelihood of the inhabitants of Whitby, it could hardly have been wholly responsible for the wealth that was enough to attract Robin Hood and his retainers to the town and they did not go away empty-handed by any means. The Abbot of Whitby protected his own coffers by showing the outlaw every courtesy, but Robin was not so considerate of the purses of the townspeople. Probably he felt little compunction at easing the reputed fishermen of their wealth, for he doubtless knew that it was gained by smuggling and it was, after all, only a case of one outlaw fleecing another. The position of the town behind some leagues of sterile moor, traversed by indifferent and even dangerous roads, was especially favorable for such an irregular occupation; and it moreover precluded Whitby from figuring in the great events of the Kingdom, being so far removed from the theatre of action. With the decline of the whale-fisheries, the mining and manufacture of jet began to assume considerable proportion and is to-day one of the industries of the place. This is a bituminous substance--in the finished product, smooth, lustrous and intensely black. It is fashioned into personal ornaments of many kinds and was given a great vogue by Queen Victoria. It is found only in the vicinity of Whitby and is sold the world over, though it has to compete with cheap imitations, usually made of glass. St. Hilda's Abbey is the chief monument of antiquity in Whitby and aside from actual history it has the added interest of being interwoven with the romantic lines of Scott's "Marmion." Situated on the summit of East Cliff, it has been for several centuries the last object to bid farewell to the departing mariner and the first to gladden his eyes on his return. Seldom indeed did the old monks select such a site; they were wont to seek some more sheltered spot on the shore of lake or river--as at Rievaulx, Fountains or Easby. But this abbey was founded under peculiar conditions, for the original was built as far back as 658 in fulfillment of a vow made by King Oswy of Northumbria. In accordance with the spirit of his time, the king made an oath on the verge of a battle with one of his petty neighbors that if God granted him the victory he would found an abbey and that his own daughter, the Lady Hilda, should be first abbess. All traces of this early structure have disappeared, but it was doubtless quite insignificant compared with its successor, for the Saxons never progressed very far in the art of architecture. The fame of Hilda's piety and intelligence attracted many scholars to the abbey, among them Caedmon, "the father of English poetry," who, as the inscription on the stately memorial in St. Mary's churchyard reads, "fell asleep hard by A. D. 680." The death of the good abbess also occurred in the same year. Her successor, Elfleda, governed for a third of a century, after which little record remains. The original abbey was probably destroyed in the Danish wars. It was revived after the Conquest in 1078 by monks of the Benedictine order and gradually a vast pile of buildings was erected on the headland, but of these only the ruined church remains. The great size and splendid design of the church would seem to indicate that in its zenith of power and prosperity Whitby Abbey must have been of first rank. Its active history ended with its dissolution by Henry VIII. Scott in "Marmion" represents the abbey as being under the sway of an abbess in 1513, the date of Flodden, but this is an anachronism, since an abbot ruled it in its last days and the nuns had long before vanished from its cloisters. He was a pretty poor saint in the "days of faith" who did not have several miracles or marvels to his credit and St. Hilda was no exception to the rule. One legend runs that the early inhabitants were pestered by snakes and that the saint prayed that the reptiles be transmuted into stone; and for ages the ammonite shells which abound on the coast and faintly resemble a coiled snake were pointed out as evidence of the efficacy of Hilda's petition. It was also said of the sea-birds that flew over Whitby's towers that "Sinking down on pinions faint, They do their homage to the saint." And an English writer humorously suggests that perhaps "the birds had a certain curiosity to see what was going on in this mixed brotherhood of monks and nuns." The most persistent marvel, however, which was credited by the more superstitious less than a century ago, was that from West Cliff under certain conditions the saint herself, shrouded in white, might be seen standing in one of the windows of the ruin; though it is now clear that the apparition was the result of a peculiar reflection of the sun's rays. The salt sea winds, the driving rain of summer and the wild winter storms have wrought much havoc in the eight hundred years that "High Whitby's cloistered pile" has braved the elements. A little more than fifty years ago the central tower crashed to earth, carrying many of the surrounding arches with it, and the mighty fragments still lie as they fell. The remaining walls and arches are now guarded with the loving care which is being lavished to-day upon the historic ruins of England and one can only regret that the spirit which inspires it was not aroused at least a hundred years ago. St. Mary's, a stone's throw from the abbey, is one of the crudest and least ornate of any of the larger churches which we saw in England. Its lack of architectural graces may be due to the fact that it was originally built--about 1110, by de Percy, Abbot of Whitby--for "the use of the common people of the town," the elaborate abbey church being reserved for the monks. Perhaps the worthy abbot little dreamed that the plain, massive structure which he thought good enough for the laity would be standing, sturdy and strong and still in daily use centuries after his beautiful abbey fane, with its graceful arches, its gorgeous windows and splendid towers had fallen into hopeless ruin. All around the church are blackened old gravestones in the midst of which rises the tall Caedmon Cross, erected but a few years ago. To reach St. Mary's one must ascend the hundred and ninety-nine broad stone steps that lead up the cliff--a task which would test the zeal of many church-goers in these degenerate days. [Illustration: PIER LANE, WHITBY From original painting by J. V. Jelley, exhibited in 1910 Royal Academy] We enjoyed our excursions about the town, for among the network of narrow lanes we came upon many odd nooks and corners and delightful old shops. The fish-market, where the modest catch of local fishermen is sold each day, is on the west side. The scene here is liveliest during the months of August and September, when the great harvest of the sea is brought in at Whitby. It was on the west side, too, that we found Pier Lane after a dint of inquiry--for the little Royal Academy picture which graces these pages had made us anxious to see the original. Many of the natives shook their heads dubiously when we asked for directions, but a friendly policeman finally piloted us to the entrance of the lane. It proved a mere brick-paved passageway near the fish-market, about five or six feet in width, and from the top we caught the faint glimpse of the abbey which the artist has introduced into the picture. It is one of the many byways that intersect the main streets of the town--though these streets themselves are often so narrow and devious as to scarce deserve the adjective I have applied to them. Whitby has no surprises in overhanging gables, carved oak beams, curiously paneled doorways or other bits of artistic architecture such as delight one in Ludlow, Canterbury or Shrewsbury. Everything savors of utility; the oldtime Yorkshire fisherman had no time and little inclination to carve oak and stone for his dwelling. I am speaking of the old Whitby, crowded along the waterside--the new town, with its ostentatious hotels and lodging-houses, extends along the summit of West Cliff and while very necessary, no doubt, it adds nothing to the charm of the place. As an English artist justly observes, "While Whitby is one of the most strikingly picturesque towns in England, it has scarcely any architectural attractions. Its charm does not lie so much in detail as in broad effects"--the effects of the ruin, the red roofs, the fisher-boats, the sea and the old houses, which vary widely under the moods of sun and shade that flit over the place. The words of a writer who notes this variation throughout a typical day are so true to life that I am going to repeat them here: "In the early morning the East Cliff generally appears merely as a pale gray silhouette with a square projection representing the church, and a fretted one the abbey. But as the sun climbs upwards, colour and definition grow out of the haze of smoke and shadows, and the roofs assume their ruddy tones. At midday, when the sunlight pours down upon the medley of houses clustered along the face of the cliff, the scene is brilliantly colored. The predominant note is the red of the chimneys and roofs and stray patches of brickwork, but the walls that go down to the water's edge are green below and full of rich browns above, and in many places the sides of the cottages are coloured with an ochre wash, while above them all the top of the cliff appears covered with grass. On a clear day, when detached clouds are passing across the sun, the houses are sometimes lit up in the strangest fashion, their quaint outlines being suddenly thrown out from the cliff by a broad patch of shadow upon the grass and rocks behind. But there is scarcely a chimney in this old part of Whitby that does not contribute to the mist of blue-gray smoke that slowly drifts up the face of the cliff, and thus, when there is no bright sunshine, colour and detail are subdued in the haze." In St. Mary's churchyard there is another cross besides the stately memorial dedicated to Caedmon that will be pointed out to you--a small, graceful Celtic cross with the inscription: "Here lies the body of Mary Linskill. Born December 13, 1840. Died April 9, 1891. After life's fitful fever she sleeps well Between the Heather and the Northern Sea." If Caedmon was Whitby's first literary idol, Mary Linskill is the last and best loved, for hundreds of Whitby people living to-day knew the gentle authoress personally. She was a native of the town and being early dependent on her own resources, she served an apprenticeship in a milliner's shop and later acted as an amanuensis to a literary gentleman. It was in this position, probably, that she discovered her own capacity for writing and her ability to tell a homely story in a simple, pleasing way. Her first efforts in the way of short stories appeared in "Good Words." Her first novel, "Cleveden," was published in 1876 and many others followed at various intervals. Perhaps the best known are distinctly Whitby stories--"The Haven Under the Hill," and "Between the Heather and the Northern Sea." Her novels in simplicity of plot and quiet sentiment may be compared with those of Jane Austen, though her rank as a writer is far below that of the Hampshire authoress. Her stories show a wealth of imagination and a true artistic temperament, but they are often too greatly dominated by melancholy to be widely popular. Most of them dwell on the infinite capacity of women for self-sacrifice and sometimes the pathetic scenes may be rather overdrawn. There are many beautiful descriptive passages and I quote one from "The Haven Under the Hill," because it sets forth in such a delightful manner the charm of Old Whitby itself: "Everywhere there was the presence of the sea. On the calmest day you heard the low, ceaseless roll of its music as it plashed and swept about the foot of the stern, darkly towering cliffs on either side of the harbour-bar. Everywhere the place was blown through and through with the salt breeze that was 'half an air and half a water,' scented with sea-wrack and laden not rarely with drifting flakes of heavy yeastlike foam. "The rapid growth of the town had been owing entirely to its nearness to the sea. When the making of alum was begun at various points and bays along the coast, vessels were needed for carrying it to London, 'whither,' as an old chronicler tells us, 'nobody belonging to Hild's Haven had ever gone without making their wills.' This was the beginning of the shipbuilding trade, which grew and flourished so vigorously, lending such an interest to the sights and sounds of the place, and finally becoming its very life. What would the old haven have been without the clatter of its carpenters' hammers, the whir of its ropery wheels, the smell of its boiling tar-kettles, the busy stir and hum of its docks and wharves and mast-yards? And where, in the midst of so much labour, could there have been found any time to laugh or to dance, but for the frequent day of pride and rejoicing when the finished ship with her flying flags came slipping slowly from the stocks to the waiting waters, bending and gliding with a grace that gave you as much emotion as if you had watched some conscious thing?... It is a little sad to know that one has watched the launching of the last wooden ship that shall go out with stately masts and rounding sails from the Haven Under the Hill. "Those of the men of the place who were not actually sailors were yet, for the most part, in some way dependent upon the great, changeful, bounteous sea. "It was a beautiful place to have been born in, beautiful with history and poetry and legend--with all manner of memorable and soul-stirring things." The house where Mary Linskill was born, a plain stone structure in the old town, still stands and is the goal of occasional pilgrims who delight in the humbler shrines of letters. It seems indeed appropriate that the old sea town, famous two centuries ago for its shipbuilding trade and hardy mariners, should have given to the world one of its great sea-captains and explorers. A mere lad, James Cook came to Whitby as the apprentice of a shipbuilder. His master's house, where he lived during his apprenticeship, still stands in Grape Lane and bears an antique tablet with the date 1688. Cook's career as an explorer began when he entered the Royal Navy in 1768. He was then forty years of age and had already established a reputation as a daring and efficient captain in the merchant service. He made three famous voyages to the south seas, and as a result of these, Australia and New Zealand are now a part of the British Empire, an achievement which will forever keep his name foremost among the world's great explorers. He lost his life in a fight with the natives of the Sandwich Islands in 1777, a year after the American Declaration of Independence. His mangled remains were buried in the sea whose mysteries he had done so much to subdue. I am sensible that in these random notes I have signally failed to set forth the varied charms of the ancient fisher-town on the Northern Sea, but I have the consolation that all the descriptions and encomiums I have read have the same failing to a greater or less degree. I know that we feel, as we speed across the moorland on the wild windy morning of our departure, that two sojourns in Whitby are not enough; and are already solacing ourselves with the hope that we shall some time make a third visit to the "Haven Under the Hill." X SCOTT COUNTRY AND HEART OF HIGHLANDS So rough and broken is the Northumberland country that we are scarcely aware when we enter the Cheviot Hills, which mark the dividing line between England and Scotland. The road is now much improved; having been recently resurfaced with reddish stone, it presents a peculiar aspect as it winds through the green hills ahead of us, often visible for a considerable distance. It is comparatively unfrequented; there are no villages for many miles and even solitary cottages are rare; one need not worry about speed limits here. Jedburgh is the first town after crossing the border and there are few more majestic ruins in all Scotland than the ancient abbey which looms high over the town. It recalls the pleasantest recollections of our former visit and the wonder is that it does not attract a greater number of pilgrims. We are again in an enchanted land, where every name reminds us of the domain of the Wizard of the North! Here all roads lead to Melrose and Abbotsford, and we remember the George as a comfortable, well-ordered inn, a fit haven for the end of a strenuous day. There are several good hotels in Melrose, made possible by the ceaseless stream of tourists bound to Abbotsford in summertime. We reach the George after the dinner hour, but an excellent supper is prepared for us, served by a canny Scotch waiter clad in a cleaner dress-suit than many of his brethren in British country inns are wont to wear. We have no fault to find with the George except that its beds were not so restful as one might wish after a day on rough roads and its stable-yard garage lacked conveniences. These shortcomings may now be remedied, for the spirit of improvement is strong among the inns of tourist centers in Scotland. The abbey is but a stone's throw from the hotel and one will never weary of it though he come to Melrose for the hundredth time. In delicate artistic touches, in beauty of design and state of preservation as a whole, it is quite unrivalled in Scotland. But for all that Melrose would be as unfrequented as Dundrennan or Arbroath were it not for the mystic spell which the Wizard cast over it in his immortal "Lay," and were it not under the shadow of Abbotsford. Abbotsford! What a lure there is in the very name! In the early morning we are coursing down the shady lane that leads to the stately mansion and reach it just after the opening hour. We are indeed fortunate in avoiding a crowd like that which thronged it on our former visit; we are quite alone and the purchase of a few souvenirs puts us on a friendly footing with the gray-haired custodian. His daily task has become to him a labor of love and he speaks the words, "Sir Walter," with a fervor and reverence such as a religious devotee might utter the name of his patron saint. He shows us many odd corners and relics which we missed before and tells us the story of the house, with every detail of which he is familiar. And, indeed, it is interesting to learn how Scott as a youth admired the situation and as he gained wealth bought the land and began the house. Its construction extended over several years and he had scarcely pronounced it complete and prepared to spend his old age in the home which he almost adored, when the blow fell. Everything was swept away and Scott, the well-to-do country laird, was a pauper. He did not see much of Abbotsford in the few years he had yet to live, though through the consideration of his creditors he remained nominally in possession. His days were devoted to the task of paying a gigantic debt which he conceived himself honor-bound to assume, though he might easily have evaded it by taking advantage of the law. Reflecting--after the lapse of nearly a century--who shall say that the world is not vastly the richer for its heritage of the sublime self-sacrifice, the heroism and flawless integrity of Walter Scott? The Abbotsford we see to-day has been considerably altered and added to since Scott's time, though the rooms shown to visitors remain precisely as he left them. The estate, considerably diminished, is still in possession of the family, the Hon. Mrs. Maxwell-Scott, the great-granddaughter of the author, being the present owner. She is herself of a literary turn and has written "The Making of Abbotsford," an interesting history of the place. The family is not wealthy and it was announced a few years ago that the sale of the estate had become necessary, though, happily, this was avoided. Our guide tells us that the home is usually leased during the "season" each year for three hundred pounds and Americans are oftenest the takers. Both the house and grounds are well-cared-for and we have many glimpses of smooth green lawns and flower gardens from the windows and open doors. The river, too, is near at hand and lends much to the air of enchantment that envelops Abbotsford, for we know how Scott himself loved the "silver stream" so often referred to in his writings. Indeed, as we leave we cannot but feel that our second visit has been even more delightful than our first--despite the novelty of first impressions. On our return, the picturesque old Peel tower at Darnick village catches our eye. It stands in well-kept grounds, the smooth lawn studded with trees and shrubs, and the gray stone walls and towers are shrouded by masses of ivy. It is the most perfect of the few remaining Peel towers in Scotland--little fortress-homes of the less important gentry four or five hundred years ago. These towers were usually built in groups of three, arranged in triangular form, to afford better opportunity for mutual defense against an enemy. Scott in his "Border Antiquities" tells something of these miniature castles: "The smaller gentlemen, whether heads of branches or clans, or of distinct families, inhabited dwellings upon a smaller scale, called Peels or Bastile-houses. They were surrounded by an enclosure, or barmkin, the walls whereof, according to statute, were a yard thick, surrounding a space of at least sixty feet square. Within this outer work the laird built his tower, with its projecting battlements, and usually secured the entrance by two doors, the outer of grated iron, the innermost of oak clenched with nails. The apartments were placed directly over each other, accessible only by a narrow turn-pike stair, easily blocked up or defended." Darnick, as I have intimated, is the best preserved of the towers now in existence, being almost in its original state, and it has very appropriately been adapted as a museum of relics, chiefly of Scottish history, though there is some antique furniture and many curious weapons from abroad. As we follow our guide about the cramped little rooms and up the narrow, twisting stairways, we cannot but think that the place is much more like a jail or prison than a gentleman's home--showing how the disturbed conditions of the country affected domestic life. The caretaker is an unusually communicative Scotchman, well-posted on everything connected with Darnick Tower and its contents, and proves to be not without a touch of sentiment. Taking from the glass case a rare old silver-mounted pistol, he places it in the hands of the small boy of our party. "Now, my lad, ye can always say that ye have held in your ain hands a pistol that was ance carried by bonnie Prince Charlie himsel'." And we all agree that it is no small thing for a boy to be able to say that; it will furnish him with material for many flights of fancy--even if Prince Charlie never saw the pistol. There are also some of Mary Stuart's endless embroideries--we have seen enough of them to stock a good-sized shop, but they may have all been genuine, since the poor queen had nothing else to do for years and years. These are typical of Darnick's treasures, which, with the rare old tower itself, may well claim an hour of the Abbotsford tourist's time. And he may recall that Sir Walter himself was greatly enamored of the old Peel and sought many times to annex it to his estate, but the owner would never sell. [Illustration: OLD PEEL TOWER AT DARNICK, NEAR ABBOTSFORD] "Auld Reekie" has seldom been hospitable to us in the way of weather. Of our many visits--I forget how many--only one or two were favored with sunny skies. The first I well recall, since we came to the old city on our national holiday, only to find the temperature a little above freezing and to encounter a bitter wind that seemed to pierce to the very bone. And again we are watching the rain-drenched city from our hotel window and wondering how we shall best pass such a dull day. We are familiar with the show-places of the town--we have seen the castle, Holyrood, John Knox's house, St. Giles, the galleries, the University, Scott's monument and his town house on Castle Street where "Waverley" was written--all these and many other places of renown have no longer the charm of novelty. We don our rain-proofs and call at the studio of an artist friend, who conducts us to the Academy exhibit, where we discover the beautiful "Harvest Time, Strathtay," which adorns this book. We confess a weakness for antique-shops, especially those where a slender purse stands some show, and our friend leads us to the oddest curio-shop we have seen in our wanderings. It is entered from an out-of-the-way inner court by a dark, narrow flight of stairs and once inside you must pause a moment to get your bearings. For piled everywhere in promiscuous heaps, some of them reaching to the ceiling, is every conceivable article that one might expect to find in such a place, as well as a thousand and one that he would never expect to see. From a dark corner issues the proprietor, an alert, gray-bearded old gentleman who we soon find is an authority in his line and, strange to say, all this endless confusion is order to him, for he has no difficulty in laying his hands on anything he seeks. He shows us about the dimly lighted place, descanting upon his wares, but making little effort to sell them. We are free to select the few articles that strike our fancy--there is no urging and few suggestions on his part; he names the modest price and the deal is completed. When we come to leave we are surprised to find that we have lingered in the queer old shop a couple of hours. [Illustration: HARVEST TIME, STRATHTAY From original painting by Henderson Tarbet. R. S. A. Exhibit, Edinburgh, 1910.] Edinburgh shops, especially on Princes Street, are handsome, large and well-stocked and are only second to the historic shrines with the average tourist. The town is a great publishing center and there are bookstores where the bibliophile might wish to linger indefinitely. Scotch plaids and tartans are much in evidence wherever textiles are sold and jewelers will show you the cairngorm first of all--a yellow quartz-crystal found in the Highland hills. Such things are peculiarly Scotch and of course are in great favor with the souvenir-seeking tourist. The rain ceases towards evening and from our hotel window we have a fine prospect of the city. It is clean and fresh after the heavy drenching and glistens in the declining sun, which shines fitfully through the breaking clouds. There have been many poetical eulogies and descriptions since Burns addressed his lines to "Edina, Scotia's Darling Seat," but W. E. Henley's "From a Window in Princes Street" seems to us most faithfully to give the impression of the city as we see it now: "Above the crags that fade and gloom Starts the bare knee of Arthur's seat: Ridged high against the evening bloom, The Old Town rises, street on street; With lamps bejewelled; straight ahead Like rampired walls the houses lean, All spired and domed and turreted, Sheer to the valley's darkling green; While heaped against the western grey, The Castle, menacing and severe, Juts gaunt into the dying day; And in the silver dusk you hear, Reverberated from crag and scar, Bold bugles blowing points of war." We watch the changing view until the twilight gathers and the lamps begin to appear here and there. We are bound for the heart of the Highlands. Our route is to lead through the "Kingdom of Fife" to Perth and from thence to Braemar, the most famous Scotch inland resort. Having already crossed the Forth at Queensferry, we decide to take the Granton-Burntisland boat, which crosses the estuary some six miles farther east. We find excellent provision for the transport of motor cars and our boat carries three besides our own. Landing at Burntisland, we follow the coast through Kirkcaldy to Largo. The attraction at the latter place is a little antique-shop close by the roadside in the village where two years before we found what we thought astonishing bargains in old silver, and our judgment was confirmed by an Edinburgh silversmith to whom we afterwards showed our purchases. The shopman had little of his wares in sight when we entered, but he kept bringing out article after article from some hidden recess until he had an amazing array before us. There was old silver galore, much of it engraved with armorial devices which the dealer said he had purchased at public auctions where the effects of old families were being turned into cash--not an uncommon occurrence in Britain these days. His prices were much less than those of city shops, and we were so well pleased with our few selections on our first visit that we think it worth while to visit Largo again. The shopman has not forgotten us and our finds are quite as satisfactory as before. And I must say that of all the odds and ends which we have acquired in our twenty-thousand miles of motoring in Europe, our old silver gives us the greatest satisfaction. It is about the safest purchase one can make, since the hall-mark guarantees its genuineness and it has a standard value anywhere. It cannot be bought to advantage in cities or tourist centers, where high prices are always demanded. The same conditions will doubtless prevail in the more remote country villages as the motor car brings an increased number of buyers. From Largo we traverse narrow byroads to Cupar, the county town of Fife. It is substantially built of gray stone and slate, but is not of much historic importance. The surrounding country is well-tilled and prosperous and there are many fine country houses which may occasionally be seen from the highroad. We hasten on to Newburgh and from thence to Perth, where we stop for luncheon at the splendid Station Hotel. The day has so far been clear and cool, but during our stop there comes a sudden dash of summer rain and a sharp drop in temperature--not a very favorable augury of fine weather in the Highlands, whither we are bound. Perth does not detain us, for despite its old-time importance and antiquity, scarce a vestige remains of its once numerous monastery chapels, castles and noblemen's houses. Perhaps the iconoclastic spirit inspired by old John Knox, who preached in Perth, may be partly responsible for this, or it may be as a Scotch writer puts it: "The theory which seems to prevail in the Fair City is that the Acropolis of Athens would be better out of the way if grazing for a few goats could be got on the spot; and the room of the historic buildings was always preferred to their company when any pretext could be found for demolishing them." The home ascribed to Scott's "Fair Maid," restored out of all knowledge, serves the plebian purpose of a bric-a-brac shop and there is nothing but common consent to connect it with the heroine of the novel. The fair maid indeed may have been but a figment of the great writer's imagination, but the sturdy armorer certainly lived in Perth and became famous for the marvelous shirts of mail which he wrought. Our route lies due north from Perth, a broad and smooth highway as far as Blairgowrie, near which is another original of the "Tullyveolan" of "Waverley"--the second or third we have seen. Here we plunge into the Highland hills, following a narrow stone-strewn road which takes us through barren moors and over steep rough hills, on many of which patches of snow still linger, seemingly not very far away. Its presence is felt, too, for the air is uncomfortably chilly. The low-hung clouds seem to threaten more snow and we learn later that snow actually fell during the previous week. For thirty miles there is scarcely a human habitation save one or two little inns which have rather a forlorn look. The road grows steadily worse and the long "hairpin curves" of the road on the famous "Devil's Elbow" will test the climbing abilities of any motor. While we are struggling with the steep, stony slopes and sharp turns of the Devil's Elbow, a driving rain begins and pursues us relentlessly for the rest of the day. The country would be dreary enough in the broad sunshine, but under present conditions it is positively depressing. The huge Invercauld Arms at Braemar is a welcome sight, though it proves none too comfortable; so cold and cheerless is the evening that every part of the hotel except the big assembly room, where a cheerful fire blazes in the ample grate, seems like a refrigerator. The guests complain bitterly of the unseasonable weather and one lady inquires of another, evidently a native: "What in the world do you do here in winter if it is like this in July?" "Do in winter? We sit and hug the fireplace and by springtime we are all just like kippered herring!" Braemar has lost much of the popularity it enjoyed in Victoria's day, when as many as ten thousand people came to the town and vicinity during the Queen's residence at Balmoral, some ten miles away. She was fond of the Highlands and remained several weeks, but King Edward did not share her liking for Balmoral and was an infrequent visitor. The British have the summer-resort habit to a greater extent than any other people and Braemar still has considerable patronage during the season--from June to September. The surroundings are quite picturesque; wooded hills, towering cliffs and dashing streams abound, but one who has seen America would hardly count the scenery remarkable. There is nothing to detain us in Braemar and the next morning finds us early on the road. The day promises fine, though of almost frosty coolness, and the roads in places are muddy enough to remind us of home. Braemar Castle, a quaint, towerlike structure near the town, attracts our attention and we find no difficulty in gaining entrance, for the family is away and the housekeeper is only too anxious to show visitors around in hopes of adding to her income. It proves of little interest, having recently been rebuilt into a summer lodge, the interior being that of an ordinary modern residence. The exterior, however, is very striking and the castle was of some consequence in the endless wars of the Highland clans. A few miles over a road overhung by trees and closely following the brawling Dee brings us in sight of Balmoral. Our first impression is of disappointment, since the castle seems but small compared with our preconceived ideas, formed, of course, from the many pictures we have seen. It has no traditions to attract us and as considerable formality is necessary to gain admission on stated days only, we do not make the attempt. The situation, directly on the river bank, is charming, and the park surrounding the castle is well-groomed. We hie us on to Ballater, a pretty, well-built village occupying a small plateau surrounded by towering hills. But a mile or two from the town is the house where Byron as a boy spent his vacations with his mother, and there are many references in his poems to the mountains and lakes of the vicinity. Lochnagar, which inspired his well-known verses, is said to be the wildest and most imposing, though not the loftiest, of Scotch mountains. It is the predominating peak between Braemar and Ballater. For some miles on each side of Ballater the road runs through pine forests, which evidently yield much of the lumber supply in Britain, for sawmills are quite frequent. The trees are not large and they are not slaughtered after the wholesale manner of American lumbering. [Illustration: A HIGHLAND LOCH From original painting by the late John MacWhirter, R. A.] The Palace Hotel in Aberdeen is well-vouched-for officially--by the Royal Automobile Club, the Automobile Association and an "American Touring Club" which is new to us--and we reckon, from the first mention in Baedeker, that it takes precedence of all others. It is conducted by the Great North of Scotland Railway and is quite excellent in its way, though not cheap or even moderate in rates. At dinner our inquisitive waiter soon learns that we are not new to Aberdeen; we have seen most of the sights, but we have to admit that we have missed the fish-market. "Then ye haven't seen the biggest sight in the old town," said he. "Seven hunder tons of fish are landed every day at the wharves and sold at auction. Get down early in the morning and ye'll aye have a fish story to tell, I'll warrant." And it proves an astonishing sight, to be sure. A great cement wharf a mile or more in length is rapidly being covered with finny tribes of all degrees, sorted and laid in rows according to size. They range from small fish such as sole and bloater to huge monsters such as cod, haddock and turbot, some of which might weigh two or three hundred pounds. It would take a naturalist, or an experienced deep-sea fisherman, to name the endless varieties; it is a hopeless task for us to try to remember the names of even a few of them. The harbor is filled with fishing craft waiting to unload their catch, and when one boat leaves the wharf its place is quickly occupied by another. And this is not all the fish-show of Aberdeen, for herring and mackerel are brought in at another dock. We return to our hotel quite willing to concede our waiter-friend's claim that the tourist who does not see the fish-market misses, if not the "biggest," as he styled it, certainly the most interesting sight in Aberdeen. We linger a few hours about the town, which is one of the cleanest and most substantially built it has been our good fortune to see. It shows to best advantage on a sunny day after a rain, when its mica-sprinkled granite walls glitter in the sun, and its clean, granite-paved streets have an unequalled attractiveness about them. Granite has much to do with Aberdeen's wealth and stateliness, for it is found in unlimited quantities near at hand and quarrying, cutting and polishing forms one of the greatest industries of the place. Civic pride is strong in Aberdeen and there are few cities that have greater justification for such a sentiment, either on account of material improvement or thrifty and intelligent citizens. XI IN SUTHERLAND AND CAITHNESS It is a wild, thinly inhabited section--this strangely named Sutherland--lying a thousand miles nearer the midnight sun than does New York City; but its silver lochs, its clear, dashing streams and its unrivalled vistas of blue ocean and bold, rugged islands and highlands will reward the motorist who elects to brave its stony trails and forbiddingly steep hills. Despite its loneliness and remoteness, it is not without historic and romantic attractions and its sternly simple people widely scattered throughout its dreary wastes in bleak little villages or solitary shepherd cottages, are none the less interesting and pleasant to meet and know. The transient wayfarer can hardly conceive how it is possible for the natives to wrest a living from the barren hills and perhaps it does not come so much from the land as from the cold gray ocean that is everywhere only a little distance away. Fishing is the chief industry of the coast villages, while the isolated huts in the hills are usually the homes of shepherds. The population of Sutherland proper is sparse indeed and one will run miles and miles over the rough trails which serve as roads with rarely a glimpse of human habitation. No railway reaches the interior or the western coast and the venturesome motorist will often find himself amid surroundings where a break-down would surely mean disaster--a hundred miles or more from effective assistance. The precipitous hills and stony roads afford conditions quite favorable to mishap, and for this reason the highways of Sutherland are not frequented by motor cars and probably never will be until a different state of affairs prevails. The Royal Automobile Club, however, has mapped a fairly practicable route, following roughly the coast line of the shire, and with this valuable assistance, we are told, a considerable number of motorists undertake the trip during the course of the summer. The name Sutherland--for the most northerly shire of a country which approaches the midnight sun--strikes one queerly; a Teutonic name for the most distinctly Celtic county in Scotland--both anomalies to puzzle the uninformed. But it was indeed the "land of the south" to the Norsemen who approached Scotland from the north, and landing on the shores of Caithness, they styled the bleak hills to the south as "Sudrland." There was not much to tempt them to the interior, the good harbors of Caithness and the produce of its fertile plains being the objective of these hardy "despots of the sea." The county of Caithness contains the greater part of the tillable land north of Inverness and this, with the extensive fisheries, supports a considerable population. The traveler coming from the south finds a pleasant relief in this wide fertile plain with its farmhouses and villages and its green fields dotted with sleek domestic animals. It was this prosperity that attracted the Norseman in olden days and he it was who gave the name to this county as well as to Sutherland--Caithness, from the "Kati," as the inhabitants styled themselves. We leave the pleasant city of Inverness on a gray misty morning upon--I was going to say--our "Highland tour." But Inverness itself is well beyond the northern limit of the Highland region of Scott and the wayfaring stranger in Scotland to-day can hardly realize that the activities of Rob Roy were mostly within fifty miles of Glasgow. A hundred years ago the country north of the Great Glen was as remote from the center of life in Scotland as though a sea swept between. To-day we think of everything beyond Stirling or Dundee as the "Wild Scottish Highlands," and I may as well adopt this prevailing notion in the tale I have to tell. For the first half hour the splendid road is obscured by a lowering fog which, to our delight, begins to break away just as we come to Cromarty Firth, which we follow for some dozen miles. The victorious sunlight reveals an entrancing scene; on the one hand the opalescent waters of the firth, with the low green hills beyond, and on the other the countryside is ablaze with the yellow broom. Dingwall, at the head of the firth, is a clean, thriving town, quite at variance with our preconceived ideas of the wild Highlands; and a like revelation awaits us at Tain, with its splendid inn where we pause for luncheon on our return a few days later. It is built of rough gray stone and its internal appointments as well as its service are well in keeping with its imposing exterior. But an excellent inn, seemingly out of all proportion to the needs of a town or the surrounding country, need surprise no one in Scotland--such, indeed, is the rule rather than the exception. At Bonar Bridge--the little town no doubt takes its name from the sturdy structure spanning Dornoch Firth--we cross into Sutherland and for the next hundred miles we are seldom out of sight of the sea. An ideal day we have for such a journey; the air is crystal clear, cool and bracing. The unsullied skies meet a still, shimmering sea on one hand and bend in a wide arch over gray-green hills on the other. Before our journey ends cloud effects add to the weird beauty of the scenes that greet our eyes--a play of light and color sweeping across the mottled sky and the quiet ocean. We are enchanted by one particularly glorious view as we speed along the edge of a cliff far above the ocean that frets and chafes beneath; a bank of heavy white clouds is shot through by the crimson rays of the declining sun; it seemingly rests on the surface of the still water and is reflected with startling brilliance in the lucent depths. Every mood of the skies finds a response in the ocean--gray, steely-blue, silver-white, crimson and gold, all prevail in turn--until, as we near our destination, the sky again is clear and the sea glows beneath a cloudless sunset. In a sheltered nook by the ocean, which here ripples at the foot of a bleak hill, sits Golspie, the first village of any note after crossing Dornoch Firth. It has little to entitle it to distinction besides its connection with Dunrobin Castle--the great Gothic pile that looms above it. Dunrobin is the seat of the Duke of Sutherland and Golspie is only the hamlet of retainers and tradesmen that usually attaches itself to a great country seat. It is clean and attractive and its pleasant inn by the roadside at once catches our eye--for our luncheon time is already well past. And there are few country inns that can vie with the Sutherland Arms of Golspie, even in a land famous for excellent country inns. A low, rambling stone building mantled with ivy and climbing roses and surrounded by flowers and green sward, with an air of comfort and coziness all about it, mutely invites the wayfarer to enjoy its hospitality. The interior is equally attractive and there are evidences that the inn is a resort for the fisherman and hunter as well as for the tourist. It is of little consequence that luncheon time is two hours past; the Scottish inn keeps open house all day and the well-stocked kitchen and sideboard stand ready to serve the wayfarer whenever he arrives. The sideboard, with its roast beef, mutton and fowls, would of itself furnish a substantial repast; and when this is supplemented by a salad, two or three vegetables, including the inevitable boiled potatoes, with a tart or pudding for dessert, one would have to be more particular than a hungry motorist to find fault. The landlady personally looks after our needs--which adds still more to the homelikeness of the inn--and as we take our leave we express our appreciation of the entertainment she has afforded us. She plucks a full-blown rose from the vine which clings to the gray walls and gives it to the lady member of our party, saying: "Would you believe that the roses bloom on this wall in December? Indeed, they do, for Golspie is so sheltered by the hills and the climate is so tempered by the ocean currents that we never have really severe weather." And this is nearly a thousand miles north of the latitude of New York City! The day is too far advanced to admit of a visit to Dunrobin Castle, despite the lure of its thousand years of eventful history. It stands on a commanding eminence overlooking the sea, its pinnacled turrets and battlements sharply fretted against the sky. Its style savors of the French chateau, though there are enough old Scottish details to redeem it from the domination of the foreign type, and, altogether, it is one of the stateliest of the homes of the Highland nobility. It has been in the unbroken possession of the present family for nearly a thousand years, having been originally built by Robert, Thane of Sutherland, in 1098. Its isolation no doubt saved it from the endless sieges and consequent ruin that so many ancient strongholds underwent. From Golspie to Wick we are seldom out of sight of the ocean and there are many pleasing vistas from the clifflike hills which the finely engineered road ascends in long sweeping curves. The entire road from Inverness to Wick ranks with the best in Scotland, but beyond--that is another story. The villages along the way are inhabited by fishermen, many of whom speak only Gaelic, and they are always civil towards the stranger. Especially do we notice this when we pass groups of children; they are always smiling and waving welcome in a manner that recalls in sharp contrast the sullen little hoodlums in the French and German towns. The country houses, though small and plain, are clean and solidly built of stone. Many well-bred domestic animals are to be seen, especially sheep. In this connection I recall a conversation I had with a young Montana ranchman whom I met on a train near Chicago. He had just sold his season's wool clip in that city and realized the highest price of the year--and he had imported his stock from Caithness, where he formerly lived. Wick is celebrated for its herring fisheries, upon which nearly the whole population of about twelve thousand is directly or indirectly dependent. It is the largest town north of Inverness and of some commercial importance. The artificial harbor was built at an immense cost and when the fisher fleet is in presents a forest of masts. On Mondays the boats depart for the fishing grounds, most of them remaining out for the week. Some of the boats are of considerable size and a single catch may comprise many tons of herrings. The unsavory work of cleaning and curing is done by women, who come from all parts of the country during the fishing season. Logically, Wick should mark the conclusion of our day's journey, which is of unusual length, and the huge Station Hotel is not uninviting, but we hasten farther, to fare--so far as accommodations are concerned--very considerably worse. John O'Groats is our destination. We have long been fascinated by the odd name at the far northern extremity of the map of Scotland--a fascination increased by the recurrence of the name in Scotch song and story--and it pleases our fancy to pass the night at John O'Groats. A friendly officer assures us that we will find an excellent hotel at our goal and with visions of a well-ordered resort awaiting our arrival we soon cover the dozen or more miles of level though bumpy road between Wick and the Scotch Ultima Thule. The country is green and prosperous--no hint of the rocky hills and barren moors that have greeted us most of the day. A half mile from the tiny village of John O'Groats--a dozen or more low stone huts--we come to the hotel and our spirits sink as we look about us. A small two-story building with an octagonal tower faces the lonely sea and it is soon evident that we are the sole guests for the night. Two unattractive young women apparently constitute the entire force of the inn; they are manageresses, cooks, waitresses, chambermaids and even "porteresses," if I may use such a word, for they proceed to remove our baggage and to carry it to our room. This is in the octagonal tower, fronting on the ocean, and is clean and orderly; but the dinner which our fair hostesses set forth precludes any danger of gormandizing, ravenously hungry though we happen to be. The dining-room occupies the first floor of the octagonal tower, which stands on the supposed site of the original house of John O'Groat, or John de Groote, the Dutchman whose fame is commemorated by a tradition which one must hear as a matter of course if he visits the spot. [Illustration: HOTEL, JOHN O'GROATS] John de Groote, a wealthy Hollander, is supposed to have established himself in Caithness in the time of James IV. to engage in commerce with the natives. As he was a person of importance, he brought with him a number of retainers, who held an annual feast in celebration of their arrival in Scotland. At this there were bickerings and heart-burnings as to who should occupy "the head of the table"--an honor that was made much of in those days. Wise old John de Groote pacified his jealous guests as best he could, assuring them that at their next gathering all should be equally honored and satisfied. He must have been a man of influence, for his enigmatical assurance seems to have been accepted by all. When the eight petty chieftains assembled again they beheld an octagonal house with eight doors and in it was a huge octagonal table with seats at each side for the jealous clansmen and their retainers. As they must enter simultaneously and as no one could possibly be exalted above his fellows, the question of precedence could not arise. And so John O'Groat gave his name to eternal fame--but if this strange domicile ever existed, all trace of it has disappeared, and the question of precedence does not trouble our little party nearly so much as the indifferent dinner, which we make but a poor pretense at eating. One will hardly find a lonelier or more melancholy scene--at least so it seems to us this evening--than the wide sweep of water confronting us when we look seaward from the sandy beach that slopes downward from the inn. Near at hand is a bold headland--the small rocky island of Stroma--while the dim outlines of the southernmost Orkneys rise a few miles away. No ship or sign of life is to be seen except two crab-fishers, who are rowing to the little landing-place. The beach is littered with thousands of dead crabs and masses of seaweed cling to the wreckage scattered along the water line. All is quiet and serene as the nightlong twilight settles down, save for the occasional weird scream of some belated sea-bird. The sun does not set until after nine o'clock and on clear nights one may read print at midnight under the open skies. And it is with an odd feeling, when awakened by the rising sun streaming into our windows, that I find on looking at my watch that the hour of three is just past. At the risk of being set down as heathen by the natives, who observe Sunday even more strictly than their southern brethren, we are early on the road. Our breakfast, hastily prepared by our hostesses, gives us added incentive for severing relations with John O'Groats. We settle our modest score--our inn has the merit of cheapness, at least--act as our own porter--saving a shilling thereby--and soon sally forth on the fine road to Thurso. The glorious morning soon effaces all unpleasant recollections. The road runs for miles in sight of the sea, which shows a gorgeous color effect in the changing light--deep indigo-blue, violet, amethyst, sapphire, all seem to predominate in turn, and the crisp breeze shakes the shimmering surface into millions of jewellike ripples. In sheltered nooks under the beetling crags of the shore the water lies a sheet of dense lapis-lazuli blue such as one sees in pictures but seldom in nature. On the other hand are the green fields, which evidence an unexpected fertility in this far northern land. But the scene changes--almost suddenly. Leaving the low, green meadows of western Caithness, we plunge into the dark, barren hills of Sutherland--a country as lonely and forbidding as any to be found within the four seas that encircle Britain. The road--splendid for a dozen miles out of Thurso--degenerates into a rough, rock-strewn trail that winds among the hills, often with steep grades and sharp turns. At some points where the road branches a weather-worn stone gives an almost illegible direction and at others there is nothing to assist the puzzled traveler. At one of these it seems clear to us that the right-hand road must lead to Tongue, and with some misgiving we take it. There is absolutely no human being in sight--an inquiry is impossible. The road grows so bad that we can scarce distinguish it and at last we catch sight of a shepherd-cottage over the hill. Two elfish children on the hilltop view us with open-mouthed wonder, but in response to our inquiries flee away to the house. The shepherd comes out, Bible in hand; he has no doubt been passing the morning in devotion at his home, since the kirk is too far away for him to attend. "The road to Tongue? Ah, an' it's a peety. Ye have ta'en the wrang turn and the road ye are on leads to--just nowhere." We thank him and carefully pilot our car backward for half a mile to find a practicable place to turn about. [Illustration: ACKERGILL HARBOUR, CAITHNESS From original painting by Henderson Tarbet] We have passed a few little hamlets since we left Thurso--Melvich, Strathy and Bettyhill--each made up of a few stone huts thatched with boughs or underbrush of some kind and though cleanly and decent, their appearance is poverty-stricken in the extreme. At Bettyhill we pass many people laboriously climbing the long hill to the kirk which stands bleakly on the summit--the entire population, old and young, appears to be going to the service. They are a civil, kindly folk, always courteous and obliging in their response to our inquiries, though we think we can detect a latent disapproval of Sunday motoring--only our own guilty consciences, perhaps. They seem sober and staid, even the youngsters--no doubt only the Scotchman's traditional reverence for the Sabbath; though one of the best informed Scotch writers thinks this mood is often temperamental--a logical result of the stern surroundings that these people see every day of their lives. For Mr. T. F. Henderson in his "Scotland of Today" writes of the very country through which we are passing: "With all their dreariness there is something impressive in these long stretches of lonely moorland, something of the same feeling that comes over one, you fancy, in the Sahara. As a stranger you will probably see them in the summertime. There is then the endless weird light of the northern sunrise and sunset, there is the charm of the sunlight; and nature using such magic effects is potent to infuse strange attractions into the wilderness itself. But the infinite gloom of the days of winter, the long periods of darkness, the rain-cloud and the storm-cloud sweeping at their will over the wild moorland without any mountain screen to break the storm! Can you wonder that men who spend their lives amid such scenes become gloomy and taciturn, and that sadness seems inseparable from such surroundings, and poverty inevitably appears twice as cruel and harsh here as elsewhere?" It is well past noon when the blue waters of the Kyle of Tongue flash through the rugged notches of the hills and a few furlongs along the shore bring us to the village of Tongue, with its hospitable inn. Though Tongue is fifty miles from the nearest railway station, enough lovers of the wild come here to make this pleasant, well-ordered inn a possibility. We find it very attractive inside; the July day is fresh and clear but chilly enough to make the fire burning in the diminutive grate in the drawing-room very acceptable to us who have never become really acclimated in Britain. But the same fire is evidently intended to be more ornamental than useful, for the supply of coals is exceedingly limited and they are fed into the grate in homeopathic doses. An Australian lady--who with her husband, we learn later, is on a honeymoon tour of Scotland--is even more sensitive to the chill than ourselves and ends the matter by dumping the contents of the scuttle on the fire and, like Oliver Twist, calling for more. Oliver's request possibly did not create greater consternation among his superiors than this demand dismayed our hostess, for coals might well be sold by troy instead of avoirdupois in Tongue. The supply must come by coast steamer from the English mines and the frequent handling and limited demand send the price skyward. The Australian lady's energetic act insures that the room will be habitable for the rest of the day--though it is easy to see that some of the natives think it heated to suffocation. At dinner our host, a hale, full-bearded Scotchman, sits at the head of the table and carves for his guests in truly patriarchal style. The meal is a satisfying one, well-cooked and served; the linen is snowy white and the silver carefully polished. We find the hotel just as satisfactory throughout; the rooms are clean and well-ordered and the whole place has a homelike air. It is evidently a haven for fishermen during the summer season and these probably constitute the greater number of guests. The entrance hall is garnished with many trophies of rod and gun and, altogether, we may count Tongue Inn a unique and pleasant lodge in a lonely land. The following day--it is our own national holiday--we strike southward through the Sutherland moors. The country is bleak and unattractive, though the road proves better than we expected. For several miles it closely follows the sedgy shores of Loch Loyal, a clear, shimmering sheet of water a mile in width, set in a depression of the moorland hills. The Sutherland lochs have little in their surroundings to please the eye; their greatest charm is in the relief their bright, pellucid waters afford from the monotony of the brown moors. There are many of these lakes, ranging in size from little tarns to Loch Shin--some seventy miles in length. We pass several in course of our morning's run, and cross many clear, dashing streams, but there is little else to attract attention in the forty miles to Bonar Bridge. Lairg is the only village on the way, a group of cottages clustered about an immense hotel which is one of the noted Scotch resorts for fishermen. It is situated at the southern extremity of Loch Shin, where, strange to say, fishing is free--not a common state of affairs with the Scotch lochs. It is famous for its trout and salmon, though it is decidedly lacking in picturesqueness, one writer describing it as "little better than a huge ditch." [Illustration: GLEN AFFRICK, NEAR INVERNESS From original painting by the late John MacWhirter, R. A.] From Bonar Bridge southward we retrace the broad, level road that we followed out of Inverness, and from the opposite direction the green and thriving countryside presents quite a new aspect. We have often remarked that it is seldom a hardship to retrace our way over a road through an interesting country. The different viewpoint is sure to reveal beauties that we have missed before. One cannot complain that the country here lacks attractions--there are many famous excursions to the lochs and glens and one of the most delightful is the ten-mile drive to Glen Affrick, which may be taken from Beauly. Mr. MacWhirter's picture shows a view of the dashing river--and I recall that the great artist, when showing me the original, remarked that if one were asked to guess, he would hardly locate Glen Affrick in the Scotch Highlands, so strongly suggestive of the Dark Continent is the name. XII DOWN THE GREAT GLEN That we had once--under the guidance of that patron saint of tourists, Thos. Cook--made the regulation boat trip down the Caledonian Lakes and Canal, in no wise lessens our eagerness to explore the Great Glen by motor car. On a previous occasion we reluctantly gave up the run from Inverness to Oban because of stories of inconvenient and even dangerous ferries; but recent information from the Royal Automobile Club shows that while only a few attempt the journey, it is entirely practicable. The English motorist, accustomed to perfect roads and adequate ferry service, is likely to magnify deviations from the best conditions, which would be scarcely remarked upon by his American brother, to whom good highways are the exception rather than the rule. And so it chanced that the Great Glen acquired a rather unsavory reputation and only a few Americans or an occasional venturesome native undertook the journey. At the present time, I understand, the road and service have been so improved that no one need hesitate in essaying this delightful trip. [Illustration: THE GREAT GLEN, SUNSET From original painting by Breanski] Mr. George Eyre-Todd, a Scottish author, in a recently published book gives some descriptive and historical information concerning the country we are about to explore: "Glen More na h' Albyn, the Great Glen of Scotland, stretching from the Moray Firth southwestward to the Sound of Mull, cuts the Scottish Highlands in two. For grandeur and variety of scenery--mountain and glen, torrent and waterfall, inland lake and arm of the sea--it far surpasses the Rhine; and though the German river, with its castled crags and clustering mountain-towns, has been enriched by the thronged story of many centuries, its interest even in that respect is fully matched by the legends, superstitions and wild clan memories of this great lake valley of the north. For him who has the key to the interests of the region the long day's sail from Inverness to Oban unrolls a panorama of unbroken charm. "The Caledonian Canal, which links the lakes of this great glen, was a mighty engineering feat in its day. First surveyed by James Watt in 1773, at the instance of the trustees of the forfeited estates, and finally planned by Telford in 1804, it was begun by Government for strategic purposes during the Napoleonic wars, and when finally opened in 1847 had cost no more than a million and a quarter sterling. It has a uniform depth of eighteen feet, and ships of thirty-eight feet beam and a thousand tons burden can sail through it from one side of Scotland to the other. In these peaceful times, however, the canal is very little used. In autumn and spring the brown sails of fishing-boats pass through in flights, and twice a day in summer the palace-steamers of David Macbrayne sweep by between the hills. But for the rest of the time the waters lap the lonely shores, the grey heron feeds at the burn mouths, and sunshine and rain come and go along the great mountainsides, exactly as they did in the days of Culloden or Inverlochy. "The canal at first has the country of Clan Mackintosh, of which Inverness may be considered the capital, on its left. At the same time, down to Fort Augustus, it has the Lovat country on the right. Glengarry, farther down, was the headquarters of the Macdonnells. South of that lies the Cameron country, Lochaber and Lochiel. And below Fort William stretches the Macdonald country. All these clans, in the '45, were disaffected to Government, and followed the rising of Prince Charles Edward." Inverness, with her bracing air and clear river, her beautiful island park, well-stocked shops and wealth of romantic associations, will always tempt one to linger, come as often as he may. It is our fourth stop in the pleasant northern capital; we have tried the principal hotels and we remember the Alexandra most favorably--though one traveler's experiences may not be of great value in such a matter. Individual tastes differ and a year or two may work a great change in an inn for better or worse. Within a dozen miles of Inverness one may find many historic spots. Few will overlook Culloden Moor, with its melancholy cairn and its memories of the final extinguishment of the aspirations of the Stuart line. Not less interesting in a different way is Cawdor Castle, the grim thirteenth-century pile linked to deathless fame in Shakespeare's "Macbeth." There are drives galore to glens and resorts and you will not be permitted to forget the cemetery, in which every citizen of the town seems to take a lugubrious pride. Indeed, it is one of the most beautiful burial grounds in the Kingdom. Crowning a great hill which commands far-reaching views of valley and sea, it lacks nothing that art and loving care can lavish upon it. But Inverness, with all her charm, must not detain us longer. Our journey, following the course of the lakes to Oban, begins in the early morning; the distance is only one hundred and twenty miles, but they tell us we are sure to experience considerable delay at the ferries. It is a dull, misty morning and the drifting fog half hides the rippling river which we follow some miles out of Inverness. By the time we reach the shores of Loch Ness, the sunlight begins to struggle through the mist which has enveloped everything and, to our delight, there is every promise of a glorious day. The lake averages a mile in width and for its entire length of nearly twenty-five miles is never more than a few score yards from the road. It is an undulating and sinuous road and one of the most dangerous in the Kingdom for reckless drivers. Here it turns a sharp, hidden corner; there it drops suddenly down a short, steep declivity into a dark little glade; at times it winds through trees that press too closely to allow vehicles to pass, and again it follows the edge of an abrupt cliff. Such a road cannot be traversed too carefully, but, fortunately, to anyone with an eye for the beauties of nature, there is no incentive to speed. Every mile of the lake presents new aspects--a dark, dull mirror or a glistening sheet of silver, and again a smiling expanse of blue, mottled with reflections of fleecy white clouds. In one place it shows a strange effect of alternating bars of light and shade sweeping from shore to shore, a phenomenon which we are quite unable to understand. About midway an old castle rises above the dark waters which reflect it with all the fidelity of a mirror, for at this point the plummet shows a depth of seven hundred feet. For six hundred years Castle Urquhart has frowned above the lake and about it has gathered a long history of romantic sieges and defenses, fading away into myth and legend. Its sullen picturesqueness furnished a theme for the brush of Sir John Millais, who was a frequent visitor to the Great Glen and an ardent admirer of its scenery. [Illustration: URQUHART CASTLE, LOCH NESS] As we pursue the lakeside road, we find ourselves contrasting our former trip by steamer, and we agree that the motor gives the best realization of the beauties of landscape and loch. There are points of vantage along the shore which afford views far surpassing any to be had from the dead level of the steamer deck; the endless variations of light and color playing over the still surface we did not see from the boat. There may be much of fancy in this; everything to the motor enthusiast seems finer and more enchanting when viewed from that queen of the road--the open car. The old chroniclers have it that St. Columba traversed the Great Glen in 565 A. D. and they declare that he beached his boat near Kilchimien on Loch Ness after having by his preaching and miracles converted the Pictish kings. This is the first record of the introduction of Christianity into the northern Highlands. Fort Augustus marks the southern extremity of Loch Ness and here are the great buildings of St. Benedict's Abbey and School, a famous Catholic college patronized by the sons of the gentry and nobility of that faith. The fort was built by the English a couple of centuries ago as a base of offense against the adherents of the Stuarts in the vicinity, and we may be sure that the fierce Highlanders did not permit the garrison to suffer from inactivity. At this point the road swings across the canal and follows the western shores of Loch Oich and Loch Lochy. We miss the trees which border Loch Ness; here we pass at the foot of high, barren hills over which, to the southward, rises Ben Nevis, the loftiest of Scotch mountains. There is not much of interest until we reach the vicinity of Fort William at the northern end of Loch Linnhe. As we approach the town we catch glimpses of the ivy-clad ruin of Inverlochy, one of the most ancient and romantic of northern Scottish castles. A portion of the structure is supposed to antedate the eighth century and it was long the residence of a line of Pictish kings--kings, indeed, even though their subjects were but a handful of ill-clad marauders. In any event, one of them, King Achaius, was of enough importance to negotiate a treaty with ambassadors sent by Charlemagne. It would be a long story to tell of the sieges and sallies, of the fierce combats and dark tragedies that took place within and about the walls of Inverlochy Castle; for in all its thousand years it saw little of peace or quiet until after the fight at Culloden; and such a story would accord well with the air of grim mystery that seems to hover over the sullen old ruin to-day. Standing on the verge of the still water, its massive round towers outlined against the rocky sides of Ben Nevis, whose snow-flecked summit looms high over it, it seems the very ideal of the home of chivalry, rude and barbarous though it may have been. Fort William, with its enormous hotels, shows the usual characteristics of a Scottish resort town--but the attractions which bring guests to fill such hotels are not apparent to us. More likely these are in the neighborhood rather than in the town itself. We pause here in an endeavor to get some authentic information concerning the ferry at Ballachulish, for our doubts have been considerably aroused about it. The office of the steamship company of David Macbrayne, who controls nearly all the coastwise shipping in North Scotland, seems a likely place and thither we hie ourselves. The canny Scot in charge assures us that the ferry is exceedingly dangerous--that motors are transferred on a row-boat and some day there will be a dreadful accident; he even darkly hints that something of the sort has already occurred. The safe and sane thing to do is to place our car aboard the next canal steamer, which will land us in Oban in the course of five or six hours--and it will cost us only three pounds plus transportation for ourselves. Shall he book us and our car for the boat? His eagerness to close the deal arouses our suspicion--besides, we have done the Caledonian trip by boat before and are not at all partial to the proposed plan. It occurs to us that the proprietor of a nearby garage ought to be as well informed on this matter and more disinterested than Mr. Macbrayne's obsequious representative. "Cars go that way every little while," he says. "Not especially dangerous--never had an accident that I know of." Thus encouraged, we soon cover the dozen miles to the ferry. Our fine weather has vanished and a drizzling rain is falling at intervals. At the ferry we learn that the crossing can be made only at high tide, which means four hours' wait amidst anything but pleasant surroundings. There are two vehicles ahead of us--a motor and a small covered wagon about which two miserably dirty and ragged little youngsters play, regardless of the steady rain. A dejected man and a spiritless woman accompany the wagon and soon respond to our friendly advances. They are selling linoleum made in Aberfeldy--traveling about the country in the wagon, stopping at cottages wherever a bit of their commodity is likely to be in demand. It is a pitiful story of poverty and privation, of days without sales enough to provide food, and of cold, wet nights by the roadside. If the end of the trip finds them even they are well content, but more often they are in debt to the makers of the linoleum. There are thousands of others, they tell us, gaining a precarious living, like themselves, though of course not all selling the same commodity. When they see our annoyance at the delay, they offer to yield us their turn in crossing, which we gladly accept, for it affords an excuse for a gratuity, which we feel our chance acquaintances sorely need. In the meantime the tide is flowing swiftly through the narrow strait which connects Loch Leven with the wide estuary of Loch Linnhe and our boat approaches from the opposite side. Four men are rowing vigorously and as the small craft grates alongside the slippery granite pier, one would never choose it as a fit transport for a heavy motor. It is about twenty feet in length by ten or a dozen wide; two stout planks are placed crosswise and two more form a runway from the sloping landing, and, altogether, the outlook is rather discouraging to anyone so prejudiced in favor of the terra firma as ourselves. We are half tempted to retrace our journey to Fort William, but fortunately, the two young men who have preceded us in a large runabout furnish an object lesson that proves the trick not nearly so difficult as it looks. We follow suit in our turn and our car, by a little careful jockeying, is soon nicely balanced on the planks in the center of the boat. We express surprise that the added weight seems scarcely to affect the displacement of the craft. "O, ay,--she'll carry twelve ton," says one of the men who overhears us. So the two tons of the car is far from the limit, after all. It is a strong pull, well out of the direct line in crossing, for the tide is running like a mill-race and would sweep us many furlongs down the shore were not due allowance made by the rowers. The landing is easier than the embarking, and we are soon away at something more than the lawful pace for Benderloch Station, where another crossing must be made. [Illustration: THE MACDONALD MONUMENT, GLENCOE] We might have wished to take the right-hand road to Glencoe, only a few miles from Ballachulish--mournful Glencoe, with its memories of one of the darkest deeds that stain the none too spotless page of Scottish history. For here the bloody Cumberland, acting upon explicit orders from the English throne, sent a detachment of soldiers under the guise of friends seeking the hospitality of Clan Macdonald, which received them with open arms. The captain of the troop was an uncle of the young chieftain's wife, which served still farther to win the utmost confidence of the unsuspecting clansmen. For two weeks the guests awaited fit opportunity for their dastardly crime, when they murdered their host in the very act of providing for their entertainment and dealt death to all his clan and kin, regardless of age or sex. A few escaped to the hills, only to perish miserably from the rigors of the Scottish midwinter. Such is the sad tale of Glencoe, where to-day a tall granite shaft commemorates the victims of the treacherous deed. A hundred tales might be told of the Great Glen--true tales--did our space permit. Here Bonnie Prince Charlie marshalled his forces and made his last stand in his struggle for the throne of his fathers. In 1745, at Gairlochy, near Fort William, the royal adventurer organized the nucleus of the army which was to capture Edinburgh and throw all the Kingdom into consternation by its incursion into England. Here he planned a battle with General Cope, who avoided the encounter, a move which gave great impetus to the insurrection. Charles was in high feather and passed a night in revelry at Invergarry Castle with the Highland chieftains, who already imagined their leader on the highway to the British throne. Less than a year later the prince again sought Invergarry in his flight from Culloden's fatal field, but he found the once hospitable home of the chief of Glengarry empty and dismantled and so surrounded by enemies that, weary and despairing as he was, he still must hasten on. Two weeks later, after a score of hairbreadth escapes, the royal fugitive left Scotland--as it proved, forever. We did not at the time reflect very deeply on these bits of historic lore; the rain was falling and the winding, slippery road required close attention. Much of the scenery was lost to us, but the gloomy evening was not without its charm. The lake gleamed fitfully through the drifting mists and the brown hills were draped with wavering cloud curtains. Right behind us rose the mighty form of Ben Nevis, on whose summit flecks of snow still lingered. The wildness of the country was accentuated by the forbidding aspect of the weather, but we regretted it the less since our former trip had been under perfect conditions. At Benderloch Station we found a railway motor van and flat car awaiting us, in response to our telephone message from Ballachulish. Our motor was speedily loaded on the car, while we occupied seats in the van, an arrangement provided for motorists by the obliging railway officials. All this special service costs only fifteen or twenty shillings; but no doubt the railroad people established the rate to compete with the ferry across Loch Creran Inlet. They set us down safe and sound on the other side of the estuary, and we soon covered the few remaining miles to Oban, where we needed no one to direct us to the Station Hotel, for we learned on a former visit that it is one of the best-ordered inns in the North Country. XIII ALONG THE WEST COAST The day following our arrival in Oban dawns clear and bright with that indescribable freshness that follows summer rain in the Highlands. We find ourselves loath to leave the pleasant little town, despite the fact that two former visits have somewhat detracted from the novelty of the surroundings. We could never weary of the quiet, land-locked harbor, with its shimmering white sails and ranges of green and purple hills beyond, or of the ivy-clad ruin of Dunolly that overhangs the waters when looking up the bay. The town ascends the steep hill in terraces and a climb to the summit is well rewarded by the splendid view. One also sees at close range the monstrous circular tower which dwarfs everything else in Oban and which one at first imagines must have some great historic significance. But the surmise that it was the work of ancient Romans in an effort to duplicate the Coliseum is dashed when we learn that Oban is scarcely a hundred years old and that "McCaig's Folly" was built after the foundation of the town. An eccentric native conceived the idea of erecting this strange structure "to give employment to his fellow-townsmen" and dissipated a good-sized fortune in the colossal gray-stone pile. Its enormous proportions can only be realized when one stands within the walls, which form an exact circle possibly two hundred feet in diameter and range from fifty to seventy-five feet in height. [Illustration: "McCAIG'S FOLLY," OBAN] While the town itself is modern, the immediate vicinity of Oban does not lack for ancient landmarks. Dunstaffnage, with its traditions of Pictish kings, is antedated by few Scottish castles and Dunolly is one of the most picturesque. Kilchurn and Duarte, though farther away, are easily accessible, and the former, on the tiny islet in Loch Awe, is one of the most beautiful of Scottish ruins. There are few drives that afford greater scenic charm than the circular trip past Loch Feochan and Loch Melfort, returning by Loch Awe, and there is no steamer trip in the Kingdom that excels in glorious scenery and historic interest the eighty-mile excursion to Staffa and Iona. With such attractions it is not strange that Oban is thronged with tourists during the short summer season. But we have "done" nearly everything in our two previous visits and have little excuse to linger. The only road out of the town, except the one by which we came, drops southward through a country we have not yet explored. Brown and barren hills greet us at first, relieved here and there by the glitter of tiny lakes and by green dales with flocks of grazing sheep. A touch of brilliant color is given to the landscape by the great beds of blue and yellow flags, or fleur-de-lis, which cover the marshy spots along the road. For several miles we skirt the shores of Loch Feochan, a tidal lake whose blue-green waters are at their height, making a beautiful picture with the purple hills as a background. The tiny village of Kilninver stands at the inlet of the loch and here the road re-enters the hills; there is a long steady climb up a steep grade ere the summit is reached and in places the narrow road skirts a sharp declivity, sloping away hundreds of feet to the valley beneath. We fortunately escape an unpleasant adventure here; just at the summit we find four men pushing an old-fashioned, high-wheeled car to the top of the grade. It lost its driving-chain, they tell us, and as the brake failed to work, narrowly missed dashing down the hill. Had it gone a rod farther such a catastrophe would surely have occurred; not very pleasant for us to contemplate, since at few places is there more than enough room to pass a vehicle driven with care, let alone one running amuck! The descent is not so abrupt and a long steady coast brings us to the Pass of Melfort, where a swift mountain stream dashes between towering cliffs. We run alongside until we again emerge on the sea-shore, following the rugged coast of Loch Melfort for some miles. The road is rough in places and passes a sparsely populated country with here and there an isolated village, usually harsh and treeless. Kilmartin is the exception--a rather cozy-looking hamlet with a huge old church surrounded by fine trees. In Kilmartin Glen, near by, are numerous prehistoric sculptured stones often visited by antiquarians. Thence to Loch Gilphead the road is first-class; it crosses over the Crinan Canal, through which steamers bound for Oban and Glasgow pass daily. Loch Gilphead is a straggling fishing-town, its docks littered with nets and the harbor crowded with small craft; its inn does not tempt us to pause, though luncheon hour is well past. For twenty miles or more we course along the wooded shores of Loch Fyne, another of the long narrow inlets piercing the west Scottish coast. It is a beautiful run; trees overarch the road and partly conceal the gleaming lake, though at intervals we come upon the shore with an unobstructed view of the rugged hills of the opposite side. Near the head of the lake is Inverary, the pleasant little capital of Argyleshire and as cleanly and well-ordered a village as one will find in Scotland. The Argyle Arms, seemingly much out of proportion to the village, proves a delightful place for our belated luncheon. No doubt the inn is necessary to accommodate the retinues of the distinguished visitors at Inverary Castle, which frequently include members of the royal family, with which the present duke is connected by marriage. The modern castle stands on an eminence overlooking town and loch and a smooth lawn studded with splendid trees slopes to the road. The design is Gothic in style, four-square, with pointed round towers at each corner, and the interior is well in keeping with the magnificence of the outside. The road we follow in leaving Inverary closely hugs the shores of Loch Fyne for some miles and but a short way out of the town passes beneath the ruin of Dunderawe Castle. Rounding the head of the loch, always keeping near the shore, we strike eastward through the range of giant hills that lie between Loch Fyne and Loch Lomond. It is a barren stretch of country; the road is rough and stone-strewn, with many trying grades--dangerous in places; long strenuous climbs heat the motor and interminable winding descents burn the brakes. There is little to relieve the monotony of the wild moorlands save a mountain stream dashing far below the road or a tiny lake set in a hollow of the hills, but never a village or seldom an isolated cottage for miles. Near the summit is a rude seat with the inscription, "Rest and be thankful," erected long ago for the benefit of travelers who crossed the hills on foot. The poet Wordsworth made this journey and described it in one of his sonnets as "Doubling and doubling with laborious walk," ending in a grateful allusion to the resting place. We are glad to see the waters of Loch Lomond, glinting with the gold of the sunset, flash through the trees, for we know that the lake-shore road is good and one of the most beautiful in Scotland. Miles and miles it follows the edge of the island-dotted loch, which broadens rapidly as we course southward. The waters darken to a steel-blue mirror, but the hills beyond are still touched with the last rays of the sun--a glorious scene, not without the element of romance which adds to the pleasure one so often experiences when contemplating Old Scotia's landscapes. It is only by grace of the long twilight that we are able to reach Glasgow by lamp-lighting time. Measured in miles, the day's run was not extraordinary, but much of the road was pretty strenuous and tire trouble has been above normal, so that the comfortable hotel of the metropolis does not come amiss. After a perfunctory round in Glasgow, our thoughts turn toward Ayr; even though we have already made two pilgrimages to Burnsland, the spell is unbroken and still would be though our two visits were two score. We will not follow the Kilmarnock route again, but for the sake of variety will go by Barrhead and Irvine on the sea. It proves a singularly uninteresting road; Barrhead is mean and squalid, the small villages are unattractive, and Irvine is a bleak, coal-shipping town. Irvine would be wholly commonplace had not the poet James Montgomery honored it by making it his birthplace and had not Bobby Burns struggled nearly a year within its confines to earn a livelihood as a flax-dresser. The ill luck that befell nearly all the poet's business ventures pursued him here, for his shop burned to the ground and Irvine lost her now distinguished citizen--though she little knew it then, for Burns was only twenty-two. Perhaps it was a fortunate fire, after all, for had he prospered he might have become more of a business man than poet, and the world be infinitely poorer by the exchange. A colossal statue recently erected commemorates his connection with Irvine and again reminds one how Burns overshadows everything else in the Ayr country. The Station Hotel affords such a convenient and satisfactory stopping-place that we cut short our day's run after completing the forty miles from Glasgow. There is really not much in the town itself to detain the tourist; we wander down the main street and cross the "Twa Brigs;" from the beach we admire the broad bay and the bold rocky "Heads of Ayr" to the south. In the distance are the dim outlines of the Emerald Isle, seen only on the clearest days, and nearer at hand the Isles of Bute and Arran. The town is quite modern; there is considerable manufacturing and ship-building and many of the landmarks of the time of Burns have been obliterated. Fortunate indeed is it that the shrines at Alloway have not shared the same fate--a third visit to these simple memorials may seem superfluous, but we must confess to a longing to see them all again. The birthplace, Kirk Alloway, the monument, the Brig o' Doon and the museum, with its priceless relics of the poet--all have a perennial interest for the admirer of Burns and Scotland. The bare simple room where the poet was born has a wealth of sentiment that attaches to few such places, and I cannot forbear quoting Mr. George Eyre-Todd's little flight of fancy inspired by this same primitive apartment: "One can try," he writes, "to imagine the scene here on the afternoon of that wild winter day when 'a blast o' Januar' win'' was to blow 'Hansel in on Robin.' There would be the goodwife's spinning-wheel set back for the nonce in a dark corner; the leglins, or milking-stools--on which the bright-eyed boy was to sit a few years later--pushed under the deal table; the wooden platters and bowls from which the household ate, arranged in the wall rack, and the few delf dishes appearing in the half-open aumrie or cupboard; while from the rafters overhead hung hanks of yarn of the goodwife's spinning, a braxie ham, perhaps, and the leathern parts of the horses' harness. Then, for the actors in the humble scene, there was a shadowy figure and a faint voice in the deep-set corner bed; the inevitable 'neighbour-woman' setting matters to rights about the wide fireplace in the open chimney; and William Burness himself, whip in hand, hurriedly getting into his heavy riding-coat to face the blast outside. "A glance at the face of the great eight-day clock, a whispered word and a moment's pause as he bends within the shadow of the bed, while the neighbour turns industriously to the fire, and then, with a pale face and some wildness in the eyes, the husband makes off, over the uneven floor of flags, and the door closes after him. In a minute or two the tramp of the hoofs of his galloping mare dies away in the distance, and the women are left, waiting. "Behind him as he turned from his door on that wild day, the farmer would hear the Doon thundering down its glen, and the storm roaring through the woods about the ruin of Alloway Kirk, which his son's wild fancy was afterwards to make the scene of such unearthly revels. The old road to Ayr was narrower and more irregular, between its high hedges, than the present one; and every step of the way had some countryside memory belonging to it. Behind, by its well, where the road rose from the steep river-bank among the trees, stood the thorn 'where Mungo's mither hanged hersel'.' In the park of Cambusdoon an ash tree still marks the cairn 'where hunters fand the murdered bairn.' Farther on, in a cottage garden close by the road, is still to be seen that 'meikle stane, where drucken Chairlie brak's neck bane.' And on the far side of the Rozelle wood, a hundred yards to the left of the present road, was 'the ford where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd.' "As William Burness reached the stream here a singular incident befell him. On the farther side, when he had crossed, he found an old woman sitting. The crone asked him to turn back and carry her over the river, which was much swollen by the rains. This, though he was in anxious haste, he paused and did, and then, dashing a third time through the torrent, sped off on his errand to Ayr. An hour later, on returning to his cottage with the desired attendant, he found to his surprise the gipsy crone seated by his own fireside. She remained in the house till the child was born, and then, it is said, taking the infant in her arms, uttered the prophecy which Burns has turned in his well-known lines: 'He'll ha'e misfortunes great and sma', But aye a heart abune them a', He'll be a credit till us a'; We'll a' be proud o' Robin.' "Shortly afterwards, as if to begin the fulfillment of the carline's prophecy, the storm, rising higher and higher, at length blew down a gable of the dwelling. No one was hurt, however, and the broken gable of a clay 'bigging' was not a thing beyond repair. "Such were the circumstances and such was the scene of the birth of the great peasant-poet. Much change, no doubt, has taken place in the appearance both of the cottage and of the countryside since the twenty-fifth of January in the year 1759; but after all it is the same countryside, and the cottage is on the identical spot. Within these walls one pictures the poet in his childish years: "There, lonely by the ingle-cheek He sat, and eyed the spueing reek That filled wi' hoast-provoking smeek The auld clay biggin', And heard the restless rattons squeak Aboot the riggin'." And in this rude apartment the immortal scene of "The Cotter's Saturday Night" was enacted--and here it occurred to us to ask Mr. Dobson to give us his conception of the family group at worship--how well he has succeeded the accompanying picture shows. We will be pardoned, I am sure, the repetition of the oft-quoted lines in connection with the artist's graphic representation of a scene already familiar the world over. "The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace, The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride; His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion with judicious care, And, 'Let us worship God!' he says, with solemn air." In this same ingle nook it may be that Burns spent an occasional evening with Highland Mary--for Mary Campbell was for a short time employed as governess in the vicinity, and it is not unlikely that she was a frequent guest at the Burns cottage--a probability that has supplied Mr. Dobson with another of his happiest themes. Associations such as these are more than the scant array of facts given in the guide-books concerning the old cottage, and they give to the bare walls and rude furnishings an atmosphere of romance that no familiarity can dispel. From Alloway our road quickly takes us to the seashore, which we are to follow for many miles. It is a glorious day, fresh and invigorating, the sky tranquil and clear, and the sea mottled with dun and purple mists which are rapidly breaking away and revealing a wide expanse of gently undulating water, beyond which, in the far distance, the stern outlines of Arran and Kintyre gradually emerge. [Illustration: "THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT" From original painting by H. J. Dobson, R. S. W.] It is a delightful run along the coast, which is rich in associations and storied ruins. Athwart our first glimpse of the ocean stands the dilapidated bulk of Dunure Castle, an ancient stronghold of the Kennedys, who have stood at the head of the Ayrshire aristocracy since 1466. Indeed, an old-time rhymester declared: "'Twixt Wigton and the town of Ayr, Port-Patrick and the Cruives of Cree, No man may think for to bide there, Unless he court Saint Kennedie." But to-day the traditions of the blue-blooded aristocrats of Ayrshire are superseded by the fame of the peasant-poet and the simple cottage at Alloway outranks all the castles of the Kennedys. We are again reminded of Burns at Kirkoswald, a tiny village a few miles farther on the road; here he spent his seventeenth summer and in the churchyard are the graves of the originals of Tam o' Shanter and Souter Johnnie. We pass in sight of Culzean Castle, a turreted and battlemented pile, standing on the verge of a mighty basaltic cliff beneath which the sea chafes incessantly. It is the seat of the Marquis of Ailsa--one of the Kennedys--built about a century ago, and the curious may visit it on Wednesdays. What Culzean lacks in antiquity is fully supplied by ruinous Turnberry, a scant five miles southward, associated as it is with the name of King Robert Bruce, who may possibly have been born within its walls. Here it was that Bruce, in response to what he thought a prearranged signal fire, made his crossing with a few followers from Arran to attempt the deliverance of his country. The tradition is that the fire was of supernatural origin and that it may still be seen from the shores of Arran on the anniversary of the eventful night. This incident is introduced by Scott into "The Lord of the Isles:" "Now ask you whence that wondrous light, Whose fairy glow beguiled their sight?-- It ne'er was known--yet gray-hair'd eld A superstitious credence held, That never did a mortal hand Wake its broad glare on Carrick strand; Nay, and that on the self-same night When Bruce cross'd o'er, still gleamed the light. Yearly it gleams o'er mount and moor, And glittering wave and crimson'd shore-- But whether beam celestial, lent By Heaven to aid the King's descent, Or fire hell-kindled from beneath, To lure him to defeat and death, Or were but some meteor strange, Of such as oft through midnight range, Startling the traveller late and lone, I know not--and it ne'er was known." Turnberry is very ruinous now and must have been rude and comfortless at its best--another reminder that the peasants of to-day are better housed and have more comforts and conveniences than kings and nobles enjoyed in the romantic times we are wont to dream about. Girvan is the first town of any size which we encounter on leaving Ayr, a quiet trading-place close on the shore. Just opposite is Ailsa Craig, a peculiar rocky island twelve miles away, though it looks much nearer. It seems very like Bass Rock, near Tantallon Castle on the east coast, though really it is higher and vaster, for it rises more than a thousand feet above the sea. It is the home of innumerable sea-birds which wheel in whimpering, screaming myriads about it. A solitary ruin indicates that it was once a human abode, though no authentic record remains concerning it. Southward from Girvan we traverse one of the most picturesque roads in all Scotland. It winds along the sea, which chafes upon huge boulders that at some remote period have tumbled from the stupendous overhanging cliffs. Among the scattered rocks are patches of shell-strewn sand on which the surf falls in silvery cascades as the tide comes rolling landward. Even on this almost windless day the scene is an impressive one and we can only imagine the stern grandeur of a storm hurling the waves against the mighty rocks which dot the coast-line everywhere. Soon the road begins to ascend and rises in sweeping curves to Bennane Head, a bold promontory commanding a wide prospect of the wild shore and sea, with the coast of Ireland some forty miles away--half hidden in the purple haze of distance. It is an inspiring view and one which we contemplate at our leisure--thanks to the motor car, which takes us to such points of vantage and patiently awaits our pleasure--different indeed from the transitory flash from the window of a railway car! A long downward glide takes us into the village of Ballantrae, whose rock-bound harbor is full of fishing-boats. Here the road turns inland some miles and passes through a rich agricultural section. In places apparently the whole population--men, women and children--are employed in digging potatoes, of which there is an enormous yield. Hay harvest is also in progress, often by primitive methods, though in the larger fields modern machinery is used. [Illustration: THE FALLEN GIANT--A HIGHLAND STUDY From original painting by the late John MacWhirter, R. A.] The road brings us again to the coast and a half dozen miles along the shore of Loch Ryan lands us in the streets of Stranraer. It is a modern-looking town and we stop at the King's Arms for luncheon, which proves very satisfactory. There is a daily service of well-appointed steamers from Stranraer to Larne, a distance of some thirty miles, and much the shortest route to Ireland. The peninsula on which Stranraer and Port Patrick are situated is reputed to have the mildest and most salubrious climate in Scotland and the latter place is gaining fame as a resort. There are many great country estates in the vicinity, notably Lochinch, the estate of the Earl of Stair. Near this is Castle Kennedy, which was burned in 1715, but the ruin is still of vast extent, with famous pleasure grounds surrounding it. The motorist may well employ a day in this locality and will be comfortable enough at Stranraer. There is no nobler highway in Scotland than the broad, level and finely engineered road from Stranraer through Castle Douglas to Dumfries. It passes through as beautiful and prosperous a country as we have seen anywhere--and we have seen much of Scotland, too. At Glenluce we make a short detour--though it proves hardly worth while--to see the mere fragment of the old abbey which the neighboring vicar is using as a chicken-roost. It is utterly neglected and we are free to climb over the mouldering walls, but there is no one to pilot us about and tell us the story of the abbey in its prosperous days. And it did have prosperous days, for it was once of great extent and its gardens and orchards were reputed one of the sights of Scotland. Here James IV. and his queen came on one of their journeys some four centuries ago and the record of his donation of four shillings to the gardener still stands--a pretty slim royal tip, it seems to us now. Newton-Stewart is beautifully situated on the River Cree, whose banks we follow to Wigtown Bay, along which the broad white road sweeps in graceful curves. Many country houses crown the green, undulating hills and we catch occasional glimpses of them through the trees--for the parks are all well wooded. The excellent road through Gatehouse and Castle Douglas we cover so rapidly that the sun is still high when we reach Maxwelton. Dumfries, just across the River Nith, is our objective and it occurs to us that there is still time to correct a mistake we made on a previous tour--our failure to see Sweetheart Abbey. It is near the village of New Abbey some ten miles down the river, but on arriving we learn that the abbey is not shown after six o'clock. A visit to the custodian's home, however, secures the key and we have sole possession of the ruin during the quiet twilight hour. [Illustration: GLENLUCE ABBEY] There are many abbey ruins in Scotland--and we have seen the most famous--but it may be the hour of our visit, quite as much as the strange story of Sweetheart, that leaves it with the rosiest memory of them all. In its one-time importance as well as in the beauty of its scattered remnants, it is quite the peer of any of its rivals, but none of these have such an atmosphere of romantic history. For Sweetheart stands forever as a monument of love and constancy, as intimated in its very name. John Baliol of Barnard Castle, Yorkshire, died in 1269, leaving his widow, Countess Devorgilla, to mourn his loss. And truly she did mourn it. There are many monuments to her sorrow--Baliol College, Oxford, Dundrennan Abbey and New Abbey--or Sweetheart, as it is now known. Both of the latter are in Galloway, for Devorgilla was the daughter of the Lord of Galloway and a native of the province. Upon the death of her only sister she became sole heiress to the vast estates of her father and when she became Baliol's widow she was easily the richest subject in all Britain. She survived her husband for twenty-one years, during which time she was engaged principally in benevolent work, visiting many parts of the country. Her husband's heart, embalmed and encased in a silver casket, she constantly carried with her and at her death in 1289 it was entombed upon her breast. She was buried in New Abbey, which she built as a memorial to Baliol and a resting place for her own body. When the abbey was dismantled her tomb was despoiled--but her epitaph still exists in one of the old chronicles: "In Devorgil a sybil sage doth dye as Mary contemplative, as Martha pious. To her, O deign, high King, rest to impart Whom this stone covers, with her husband's heart." Such is the story of the beautiful old abbey, whose roofless and windowless walls rise before us, the harsh outlines hidden by the drooping ivy and softened by the fading light. It is more ruinous and fragmentary than Melrose or Jedburgh, but enough remains to show its pristine artistic beauty and vast extent. The sculptures and other delicate architectural touches were doubtless due to workmen sent by the Vatican, since the Scotch had hardly attained such a degree of skill in 1270. It is wrought in red sandstone, which lent itself peculiarly well to the art of the carver and which, considering its fragile nature, has wonderfully withstood the ravages of time and weather. An extensive restoration is in progress which will arrest further decay and insure that the fine old ruin will continue to delight the visitor for years to come. [Illustration: SWEETHEART ABBEY] There is no one to point out refectory and chapel and other haunts of the ancient monks--but it is just as well. We know Sweetheart's story and that is enough, in the silence and solemnity of the gathering twilight, to make the hour we linger an enchanting one. And yet the feeling of sadness predominates, as we move softly about over the thick carpet of green sward--sadness that this splendid memorial to a life of sacrifice and good works should have fallen into such decay that the very grave of the benevolent foundress should be effaced! The spell is broken when one of our party reminds us that it is growing late; that we may miss the dinner hour at our hotel, and we regretfully bid farewell to Sweetheart Abbey. We are glad that the royal burgh of Dumfries is at the end of the day's journey--an unusually long one for us--for we know that its Station Inn is one of the most comfortable in Scotland. XIV ODD CORNERS OF LAKELAND Who could ever weary of English Lakeland? Who, though he had made a score of pilgrimages thither, could not find new beauties in this enchanted region? And so in our southward run we make a detour from Carlisle to Keswick by the way of Wigton, a new road to us, through a green and pleasant country. We soon find ourselves among the hills and vales of the ill-defined region which common consent designates as the Lake District. Rounding the slopes of Skiddaw--for we have a rather indirect route--we come upon a vantage point which affords a glorious view of Bassenthwaite Water, glittering like a great gem in its setting of forest trees. We have seen the District many times, but never under better conditions than on this clear, shimmering July day. The green wooded vales lying between the bold, barren hills, with here a church-tower or country mansion and there a glint of tarn or river, all combine to make an entrancing scene which stretches clear and distinct to the silvery horizon. We pause a short space to admire it, then glide gently down the slope and along the meandering Derwent into Keswick town. It is the height of the summer season here and the place shows unmistakable marks of the tourist-thronged resort; the Hotel Keswick, where we stop for luncheon, is filled to overflowing. It is the most beautifully located of the many hotels in the town, standing in its own well-cared-for grounds, which are bedecked with flower-beds and shrubbery. The Keswick is evidently a favorite with motorists, for we found many cars besides our own drawn up in front. It is a pleasant, well-conducted inn--everything strictly first-class from the English point of view--with all of which the wayfarer is required to pay prices to correspond. Keswick is anything but the retired village of the time of the poet Southey, whose home, Greta Hall, may be seen on an eminence overlooking the town. As the gateway by which a large proportion of tourists enter the Lake District, and as a resort where a considerable number of visitors--mostly English--come to spend their vacations, it is a lively place for some weeks in midsummer. There is not much of consequence in the town itself or in the immediate vicinity. It is the starting-point, however, for an endless number of excursions, mostly by coach, for the railroad does not enter many parts of the District frequented by tourists. Even wagon-roads are not numerous and the enthusiast who wishes to thoroughly explore the nooks and corners must do much journeying on foot. We have little reason for choosing the coast road in our southern journey through Cumberland, except the very good one that we have never traversed it, while we are familiar with the splendid highway which follows the lakes to Lakeside and over which runs the great course of tourist travel. The roads are not comparable in interest, so greatly does the lake route excel, both in scenic beauty and in literary and historic associations. Still, the dozen miles from Keswick to Cockermouth is a beautiful run, passing around the head of Derwentwater and following for its entire length--some four miles--the western shore of Bassenthwaite Water. The road winds through almost unbroken woodland and we catch only fugitive glimpses of the shimmering water between the thickly crowded trunks that flit between us and the lake. At intervals, however, we swing toward the shore and come into full view of the gleaming surface, beyond which stretches an array of wooded parks, surrounding an occasional country seat. Still beyond rise the stern outlines of Skiddaw, one of the ruggedest and loftiest of the lake country hills--though as a matter of fact, its crest is but three thousand feet above the sea. It is a delightfully quiet road; we meet no other wayfarers and aside from the subdued purr of the motor, there is no sound save the wash of the wavelets over the rocks or the rustle of the summer breeze through the trees. The north end of Bassenthwaite marks the limit of Lakeland for all except the casual tourist, and here a snug little wayside inn, the Pheasant, affords a retreat for solitude-loving disciples of Ike Walton. Cockermouth has little claim to distinction other than the fact that the poet Wordsworth was born here a little more than a century and a half ago. A native of whom we inquire points out the large square gray-stone house, now the residence of a local physician. The swift Derwent flows a few rods to the rear and the flower-garden runs down to the river's edge. The house stands near the highway and is no exception to the harsh, angular lines that characterize the village. It is in no sense a public show-place and we have no intention of disturbing the Sunday-afternoon quiet of the present occupants in an endeavor to see the interior. Wordsworth's connection with the house ceased at the death of his father, when the poet was but a child of fourteen. His young mother--a victim of consumption--had laid down life's burdens some six years earlier, and the orphan children were taken to the home of a relative at Kendal. Perhaps we are the more satisfied to pass the old house with a cursory glance because, if I must confess it, I was never able to arouse in myself any great enthusiasm over the poet Wordsworth or to read his writings except in a desultory way. He never had for me the human interest of Byron, Burns, Tennyson or many other great lights of English literature I might name. We were quite willing to assume the role of intruder at Somersby; we made more than one unsuccessful effort before we saw Newstead, and three pilgrimages to Alloway have not quenched our desire to see it again--but we are conscious of little anxiety to enter the doors of the big square house at Cockermouth. Perhaps we are not alone in such feeling, for pilgrims to the town are few and a well-known English author who has written a delightful volume on the Lake District admits that he paid his first visit to Cockermouth "without once remembering that it was Wordsworth's birthplace!" His objective was the castle, a fine mediaeval pile which overlooks the vale of the Derwent. It is in fair preservation, having been inhabited until quite recently. Like so many Northland fortresses, it has its legend of Mary Stuart, who came here after landing at Workington, a seaport a few miles distant. She had been led by the emissaries of Elizabeth to believe that an appeal to her "sister's" mercy would assure her a safe refuge in England, but she never drew a free breath in all the years she was to live after this act of sadly misplaced confidence. [Illustration: WORDSWORTH'S BIRTHPLACE--COCKERMOUTH, LAKE DISTRICT] "No one," says the writer just referred to, "would wish to go beyond Cockermouth," and though we prove one exception to this rule, it is a fairly safe one for the average tourist, since rougher, steeper and less interesting roads are scarce in England. A fairly good highway runs to Whitehaven, a manufacturing port on the Irish Sea where, according to an English historian, "John Paul Jones, the notorious buccaneer, served his apprenticeship, and he successfully raided the place in 1778, burning three vessels." Not many Americans have visited Whitehaven since, for it is in no sense a tourist town. We pursue its main street southward until it degenerates into a tortuous, hilly lane leading through the bleak Cumberland hills. It roughly follows the coast, though there are only occasional glimpses of the sea which to-day, half shrouded in a silvery haze, shimmers in the subdued sunlight. The road, with its sharp turns and steep grades, is as trying as any we have traversed in England; at times it runs between tall hedges on earthen ridges--an almost tunnellike effect, reminding us of Devon and Cornwall, to which the rough country is not dissimilar. Fortunately, we meet no vehicles--we see only one motor after leaving Whitehaven--but in the vicinity of the villages we keep a close look-out for the Sunday pedestrians who throng the road. Our siren keeps up a pretty steady scream and the natives stare in a manner indicating that a motor is an infrequent spectacle. We pass through several lone, cheerless-looking towns, devoid of any touch of color and wholly lacking the artistic coziness of the Midland villages. Egremont, Bootle, Ravenglass and Broughton are of this type and seemingly as ancient as the hills they nestle among. The ruin of a Norman castle towers above Egremont; shattered, bare and grim, it stands boldly against the evening sky. Yet it is not without its romance, a theme which inspired Wordsworth's "Horn of Egremont Castle." For tradition has it that in days of old there hung above the gate a bugle which would respond to the lips of none but the rightful lord. While the owner and his younger brother were on a crusade in the Holy Land, the latter plotted the death of the Lord of the Castle, bribing a band of villains to drown him in the Jordan. The rascals claim to have done their work and Eustace, with some misgivings, hastens home and assumes the vacant title, though he discreetly avoids any attempt to wind the famous horn. Some time afterwards, while engaged in riotously celebrating his accession, a blast of the dreaded horn tells him that his brother Hubert is not dead, and has come to claim his own. The usurper flees by the "postern gate," but years afterward he returns to be forgiven by Sir Hubert and to expiate his crime by entering a monastery. Wordsworth tells the story in a halting, mediocre way that shows how little his genius was adapted to such a theme. What a pity that the story of Egremont was not told by the Wizard with the dash of "Lochinvar" or the "Wild Huntsman." [Illustration: CALDER ABBEY, CUMBERLAND] There is a fine abbey ruin in the vale of the Calder about a mile from the main road. Calder Abbey was founded in the twelfth century and was second only to Furness in importance in Northwestern England. The beautiful pointed arches supporting the central tower are almost intact and the cloisters and walls of the south transept still stand. Over them all the ivy runs riot, and above them sway the branches of the giant beeches that crowd about the ruin. It is a delightfully secluded nook and in the quiet of a summer evening one could hardly imagine a spot more in harmony with the spirit of monastic peace and retirement. Such is the atmosphere of romance that one does not care to ask the cold facts of the career of Calder Abbey, and, indeed, there is none to answer even if we should ask its story. You would never imagine that Ravenglass, with its single street bordered by unpretentious slate-roofed, whitewashed houses and its harbor, little more than a shifting sand-bar, has a history running back to the Roman occupation, and that it once ranked in importance with Chester and Carlisle. Archaeologists tell us that in Roman times acres of buildings clustered on the then ample harbor, where a good-sized fleet of galleys constantly rode at anchor. Here came the ships of the civilized world to the greatest port of the North Country, bringing olives, anchovies, wines and other luxuries that the Romans had introduced into Britain, and in returning they carried away numbers of the hapless natives to be sold as slaves or impressed into the armies. The harbor has evidently filled with silt to a great extent since that day, scarcely any spot being covered by water at low tide except the channel of the Esk. Many relics have been discovered at Ravenglass, and the older houses of the town are built largely from the ruins of the Roman city. Most remarkable of all are the remains of a villa in an excellent state of preservation, which a good authority pronounces practically the only Roman building in the Kingdom standing above ground save the fragments that have been revealed by excavation. Ravenglass has another unique distinction in the great breeding ground of gulls and terns which almost adjoins the place. Here in early summer myriads of these birds repair to hatch their young, and the spectacle is said to be well worth seeing--and, in fact, does attract many visitors. The breeding season, however, was past at the time of our visit. An English writer, Canon Rawnsley of Carlisle, gives a graphic account of a trip to the queer colony of sea-birds during their nesting time: "Suddenly the silence of the waste was broken by a marvellous sound, and a huge cloud of palpitating wings, that changed from black to white and hovered and trembled against the gray sea or the blue inland hills, swept by overhead. The black-headed gulls had heard of our approach and mightily disapproved of our tresspass upon their sand-blown solitude. "We sat down and the clamour died; the gulls had settled. Creeping warily to the crest of a great billow of sand, we peeped beyond. Below us lay a natural amphitheatre of grey-green grass that looked as if it were starred with white flowers innumerable. We showed our heads and the flowers all took wing, and the air was filled again with sound and intricate maze of innumerable wings. "We approached, and walking with care found the ground cup-marked with little baskets or basket-bottoms roughly woven of tussock grass or sea-bent. Each casket contained from two to three magnificent jewels. These were the eggs we had come so far to see. There they lay--deep brown blotched with purple, light bronze marked with brown, pale green dashed with umber, white shading into blue. All colours and all sizes; some as small as a pigeon's, others as large as a bantam's. Three seemed to be the general complement. In one nest I found four. The nests were so close to one another that I counted twenty-six within a radius of ten yards; and what struck one most was the way in which, instead of seeking shelter, the birds had evidently planned to nest on every bit of rising ground from which swift outlook over the gull-nursery could be obtained. "Who shall describe the uproar and anger with which one was greeted as one stood in the midst of the nests? The black-headed gull swept at one with open beak, and one found oneself involuntarily shading one's face and protecting one's eyes as the savage little sooty-brown heads swooped round one's head. But we were not the only foes they had had to battle with. The carrion crow had evidently been an intruder and a thief; and many an egg which was beginning to be hard set on, had been prey to the black robber's beak. One was being robbed as I stood there in the midst of the hubbub. "Back to the boat we went with a feeling that we owed large apologies to the whole sea-gull race for giving this colony such alarm, and causing such apparent disquietude of heart, and large thanks to the Lord of Muncaster for his ceaseless care of the wild sea-people whom each year he entertains upon his golden dunes." It is growing late as we leave Ravenglass and we wonder where we shall pass the night. There is no road across the rough country to our right and clearly we must follow the coast for many miles until we round the southern point of the hills. Then the wide sand marshes of the Duddon will force us to turn northward several miles until we come to a crossing which will enable us to continue our southward course. Here again a memory of Wordsworth is awakened, for did he not celebrate this valley in his series of "Sonnets to the Duddon?" There is no stopping-place at Bootle or Millom or Broughton, unless it be road-houses of doubtful character and we hasten over the rough narrow roads as swiftly as steep grades and numerous pedestrians will permit. The road for some miles on either side of Broughton is little more than a stony lane which pitches up and down some frightful hills. It is truly strenuous motoring and our run has already been longer than is our wont. The thought of a comfortable inn appeals strongly indeed--we study the map a moment to find to our certain knowledge that nothing of such description is nearer than Furness Abbey, still a good many miles to the south. But the recollection of the splendid ruin is, for the time being, quite overshadowed by our memory of the excellent hotel, which I must confess exerts much the greater attraction. The country beyond Broughton has little of interest, but the road gradually improves until it becomes a broad, well-surfaced highway which enables us to make up for lost time. Shortly after sunset we enter the well-kept park surrounding the abbey and hotel. We have come many miles "out of our way," to be sure, for we are already decided on a northward turn for a last glimpse of Lakeland tomorrow--but, after all, we are not seeking shortest routes. Indeed, from our point of view, we can scarcely go "out of the way" in rural Britain; some of our rarest discoveries have been made unexpectedly when deviating from main-traveled routes. [Illustration: KENDAL CASTLE, "A STERN CASTLE, MOULDERING ON THE BROW OF A GREEN HILL"] On the following day we pursue familiar roads. Passing through Dalton and Ulverston, we ascend the vale of the Leven to Newby Bridge at the southern extremity of Windermere. We cannot resist the temptation to take the Lakeside road to Windermere town, though it carries us several miles farther north. It is surely one of the loveliest of English roads, and we now traverse it the third time--once in the sunlight of a perfect afternoon, once it was gray and showery, and to-day the shadows of the great hills darken the mirrorlike surface, for it is yet early morning. The water is of almost inky blackness, but on the far side it sparkles in the sunlight and the snowy sails of several small craft lend a pleasing relief to its somber hues. The road winds among the trees that skirt the shore and in places we glide beneath the overarching boughs. At times the lake glimmers through the closely standing trunks, and again we come into the open where our vision has full sweep over the gleaming expanse of dark water. We follow the Lakeside road for six miles until we reach the outskirts of the village of Bowness; here a turn to the right leads up a sharp hill and we are soon on the moorland road to Kendal. It shows on our map as a "second-class" road and, indeed, this description was deserved two years before. It is a pleasant surprise to find it smoothly re-surfaced--an excellent highway now, though in its windings across the fells it carries us over some steep grades. On either hand lies a barren and hilly country, which does not improve until we enter the green valley in which the town is situated. It is a charming place, depending now for its prosperity on the stretch of fertile country which surrounds it. Once it had numerous factories, but changing conditions have eradicated most of them excepting the woolen mills, which still operate on a considerable scale. The ancient castle--now a scanty ruin--looms high over the town: "a stern castle, mouldering on the brow of a green hill," as Wordsworth, who lived many years in the vicinity, describes it. It might furnish material for many a romance; here was born Catherine Parr, the queen who was fortunate enough to survive that royal Bluebeard, Henry VIII. It escaped the usual epitaph, "Destroyed by Cromwell," since it had long been in ruin at the time of the Commonwealth. But Cromwell, or his followers, must have been in evidence in Kendal, for in the church is the helmet of Major Robert Philipson--Robin the Devil--who gained fame by riding his horse into this selfsame church during services in search of a Cromwellian officer upon whom he sought to do summary vengeance. The exploits of this bellicose major furnish a groundwork for Scott's "Rokeby." The church is justly the pride of Kendal, being one of the largest in England and of quite unique architecture. It has no fewer than five aisles running parallel with each other and the great breadth of the building, together with its low square tower, gives it a squat appearance, though this is redeemed to some extent by its unique design. A good part of the building is more than seven hundred years old, though considerable additions were made in the fifteenth century. In the tower is a chime of bells celebrated throughout the North Country for their melody, which is greatly enhanced by the echoes from the surrounding hills. [Illustration: KENDAL PARISH CHURCH] Kendal serves as the southernmost gateway of the Lake District, the railway passing through the town to Windermere, and there is also a regular coaching service to the same place. When we resume our journey over the highway to the south we are well out of the confines of English Lakeland and I may as well close this chapter on the lesser known corners of this famous region. XV WE DISCOVER DENBIGH Night finds us in Chester, now so familiar as to become almost commonplace, and we stop at the Grosvenor, for we know it too well to take chances elsewhere. There has been little of consequence on the highway we followed from Kendal, which we left in the early forenoon, if we except the fine old city of Lancaster, where we stopped for lunch. And even Lancaster is so dominated by modern manufactories that it is hard to realize that its history runs back to Roman times. It has but few landmarks left; the castle, with the exception of the keep tower, is modern and used as a county jail--or gaol, as the English have it. St. Mary's Church, a magnificent fifteenth-century structure, crowns the summit of the hill overlooking the city and from which a wide scope of country on one hand and the Irish Sea and Isle of Man on the other may be seen on clear days. Preston, Wigan and Warrington are manufacturing towns stretching along the road at intervals of fifteen or twenty miles and ranging in population around one hundred thousand each. Their outskirts merge into villages and for many miles it was almost as if we traveled through a continuous city. The houses crowd closely on the street, which was often thronged with children, making slow and careful driving imperative. The pavements in the larger towns are excellent and the streets of the villages free from filth--a marked contrast to what we saw on the Continent. Shortly after leaving Warrington we crossed the Manchester Ship Canal, by which ocean-going vessels are able to reach that city. From thence to Chester our run was through a pretty rural section, over an excellent road. Chester is crowded even more than usual. An historical pageant is to take place during the week and many sightseers are already on the ground. Only our previous acquaintance enables us to secure rooms at the Grosvenor, since would-be guests are hourly being turned away. Under such conditions we do not care to linger and after a saunter along the "rows" in the morning we are ready for the road. We have not decided on our route--perhaps we may as well return to London and prepare for the trip to Land's End which we have in mind. A glance at the map shows Conway within easy distance. Few places have exerted so great a fascination for us as the little Welsh town--yes, we will sojourn a day or two in Conway and we may as well go by a route new to us. We will take the road through Mold and Denbigh, though it never occurs to us that either of them deserves more than a passing glance. The first glimpse of Denbigh arouses our curiosity. A vast ivy-mantled ruin surmounts a steep hill rising abruptly from the vale of the Clwyd, while the gray monotone of the slate roofs and stone walls of the old town covers the slopes. The noble bulk and tall spire of the church occupies the foreground and, indeed, as Dr. Samuel Johnson wrote in 1774, "Denbigh is not a mean town," if one may judge by its aspect from a little distance. The first view awakens a lively desire for closer acquaintance and soon we are ascending the long steep street that leads to the castle--for the castle is naturally the first objective of the newcomer in Denbigh. The hill rises five hundred feet above the level of the plain and the ascent, despite its many windings, is steep enough to change the merry hum of our motor to a low determined growl ere we pause before the grim old gateway in the fragment of the keep tower. We are fortunate in finding an intelligent custodian in charge, who hastens to inform us that he himself is an American citizen, having been naturalized during a sojourn in the States. We have reason to be proud of our fellow-countryman, for we have found few of his brethren who could rival him in thorough knowledge of their charges or who were able to tell their stories more entertainingly. There is little left of Denbigh Castle save the remnant of the keep and the outlines of the foundation walls, but these are quite enough to indicate its old-time defensive strength. Of all the scores of British castles we have seen, scarcely another, it seems to us, could have equalled the grim strength of Denbigh in its palmy days. The keep consisted of seven great towers, six of them surrounding a central one, known as the Hall of Judgment. And, indeed, dreadful judgments must have emanated from this gloomy apartment--gloomy in its best days, being almost windowless--for beneath the keep the dungeon is still intact to tell plainer than words the fate of the captives of Denbigh Castle. "Man's inhumanity to man" was near its climax in the mind of the designer who planned this tomblike vault, hewn in the solid rock, shut in by a single iron-bound trap-door and without communication with the outer air save a small passageway some two inches square and several feet in length which opened in the outside wall. Only by standing closely at the tiny aperture was it possible for the inmates to breathe freely, and when there were more than one in the dungeon the unfortunate prisoners took turns at the breathing-hole, as it was styled. The castle was originally of vast extent, its outer wall, which once enclosed the village as well, exceeding one and one-half miles in length; and there was a network of underground passageways and apartments. The complete ruin of the structure is due to havoc wrought with gunpowder after the Restoration. Huge fragments of masonry still lie as they fell; others, crumbled to dust, afford footing for shrubs and even small trees, while yellow and purple wall-flowers and tangled masses of ivy run riot everywhere. The great entrance gateway is intact and, strange to say, a statue of Henry de Lacy, the founder, stands in a niche above the doors, having survived the vicissitudes which laid low the mighty walls and stately towers. This gate was flanked by two immense watchtowers, but only a small part of the western one remains. The remnants, as an English writer has said, "are vast and awful; seldom are such walls seen; the huge fragments that remain of the exterior shell impress the mind vividly with their stupendous strength." Several underground passages have been discovered and one of these led beneath the walls into the town, evidently intended as an avenue of escape for the garrison in last extremity. A number of human skeletons were also unearthed, but as the castle underwent many sieges, these were possibly the remains of defenders who died within the walls. [Illustration: DENBIGH CASTLE--THE ENTRANCE AND KEEP] As we wander about the ruins, our guide has something to tell us of every nook. We hear the sad story of the deep well, now dry, beneath the Goblin Tower, into which the only son of the founder fell to his death, a tragedy that transferred the succession of the lordship to another line; and from the broken battlements there is much to be seen in the green valley below. Yonder was a British camp of prehistoric days, indicated by the earthen mounds still remaining; near by a Roman camp of more recent time, though it was little less than two thousand years ago that the legions of the seven-hilled city marched on yonder plain. Through the notch in the distant hills came the Cromwellians to lay siege to Denbigh Castle, the last fortress in the Kingdom to hold out for King Charles. There was no end of fierce fighting, sallies and assaults for several months in the summer of 1646--and a great exchange of courtesies between General Mytton of the Parliamentary Army and Sir William Salisbury, commanding the castle, who were oldtime friends. There were truces for burial of the dead of both armies, often with military honors on part of the opposing side, but all of this did not mitigate the bitterness with which the contest was waged. The straits of the garrison became terrible indeed, and at last the implacable old governor agreed to deliver the castle to his enemies provided he be given the honors of war and that the consent of the king be secured. His messenger was given safe conduct to visit Charles and the monarch readily absolved his faithful retainer from farther efforts in his behalf. Tradition has it that when the Parliamentarian troops were drawn up within the castle to receive the surrender, the commander gently reminded Colonel Salisbury that the key had not yet been delivered. The bellicose old Cavalier, standing on the Goblin Tower, flung the key to his conqueror with the bitter remark, "The world is yours. Make it your dunghill." But perhaps I have anticipated a little in relating the last great incident in the history of Denbigh Castle first of all, but its interest entitles it to precedence, though the earlier story of the castle is worth telling briefly. There are indications that this commanding site was fortified long before the Normans reared the walls now standing, but if so, there are few authentic details now to be learned. The present castle was built by Henry de Lacy during the latter half of the thirteenth century and was one of the many fortresses erected in Wales during the reign of Edward I. in his systematic attempt to subdue the native chieftains. Of its vicissitudes during the endless wars between the English and Welsh for nearly a century after its foundation, it would not be worth while to write, nor would a list of the various nobles who succeeded to its command be of consequence. Its most notable proprietor and the one who left the greatest impress of his ownership was the famous Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, whom we know best from his connection with Kenilworth. Dudley bought the castle from his patroness, Queen Elizabeth--it had long before her reign reverted to the crown--though there is no record that he ever paid even the first installment of purchase money, and after his death the Queen re-annexed the property on the ground that it had never been paid for. But even if he did not pay for his acquisition, Dudley found many ways to give evidence of his ownership to the people of Denbigh and the surrounding country. His lordship was one of oppression and rapine and he did not halt at any crime to advance his ends and to extort money for his projects. His influence was such that two of the young Salisburys, sons of one of the noblest families in the country, were hanged at Shrewsbury for pulling down one of his lordship's illegal fences! This was only typical of his high-handed proceedings, which were cut short by his sudden death, said to have been caused by drinking poison which he had prepared for another! During his ownership he repaired and added to the castle and began a church on a vast scale--still standing incomplete in ruin. This he hoped would supersede the cathedral at St. Asaph and the only recourse of the good people of that town against Leicester's ambitious schemes was prayer, which doubtless from their point of view seemed wonderfully efficacious when death snatched their oppressor away. There was little of importance in the castle's history during the half century between Leicester's death and the Civil War. Charles I. came here after Rowton Moor and then it was that the bold governor gave his oath not to surrender without the King's command. General Mytton, the victor of Rowton, closely pursued the defeated Royalists and followed Charles to Denbigh, but the monarch, on learning of his enemy's approach, escaped to Scotland, only to be captured a little later. Of the long siege we have already told. The fate of Denbigh Castle was peculiar in that it was not "destroyed by Cromwell," as were most of the ruined fortresses which it was our fortune to see in England. It was held by the Cromwellian army until the Restoration, when a special edict was framed by the Royal Parliament ordering that it be blown up with gunpowder. That the work was well done is mutely testified by the ruins that surround us to-day. For years the fallen walls served the natives as a stone quarry, but of late Denbigh has been seized with the zeal for preservation of things historic now so prevalent in Britain, and the castle is well looked after; decay has been arrested and the grounds are now a public park. A velvety lawn carpets the enclosure and a bowling green occupies the court which once echoed to the tread of armed men and war horses. But we note little evidence of all the stirring scenes enacted on this historic spot. It is an ideal summer day; there is scarce a breath of air to rustle the masses of ivy that cling to the walls; save for the birds that sing in the trees and shrubs, quiet reigns; there are no sightseers but ourselves. From the old keep tower a glorious view greets our eyes. All around lies the green vale of the Clwyd stretching away to blue hills; it is dotted here and there with red-roofed cottages whose walls gleam white as alabaster in the noonday sun. The monotony is further relieved by groups of stately trees which mark the surrounding country seats and by an occasional glint of the lazy river. Our guide points out the near-by village of Tremeirchion, whose name goes back to Roman times--signifying that there was a cavalry station near the spot. A gray house surrounded by trees is Brynbella, so named by Dr. Samuel Johnson, who frequently visited the owner, Mrs. Piozzi, during his residence near Denbigh. Felicia Hemans lived for some time in a cottage to be seen a little farther down the vale and there are traces of the beauties of the Clwyd in her poems. On the outskirts of the town are the ruins of an abbey founded in the reign of Henry III. and within a mile is Whitchurch, which has many curious features, among them a stained-glass window which was buried during the Civil War to save it from the image-smashers. Nor should we forget the little white cottage where Dr. Samuel Johnson lived while compiling his famous dictionary. He was attracted here by the rural quiet of the spot and for several years pursued his colossal task. The house stands in the edge of a fine grove and is shut in by a thickly set hawthorn hedge. A monumental shaft in the neighborhood commemorates the association of the great lexicographer with the spot. [Illustration: ST. HILARY'S CHURCH, DENBIGH. HENRY M. STANLEY WAS BAPTIZED IN THIS CHURCH] But Denbigh has a more recent distinction that will appeal to every schoolboy of the English-speaking world, for here, within a stone's throw of the castle gate, was born Henry M. Stanley, the great explorer. It was not by this name, however, that he was known when as a boy of five he was placed in the workhouse at St. Asaph by his mother's brothers, for it was little John Henry Rowlands who was so cruelly treated by the master. Stanley himself tells in his autobiography the story of this Welsh Dotheboys Hall and also of his escape from the institution after having given a severe thrashing to his oppressor, who was no match for the sturdy youth of sixteen. After many vicissitudes he reached New Orleans as a cabin boy on a merchant ship and was employed by a Henry Morton Stanley, who later adopted him. Of Stanley's career, one of the most varied and remarkable of which there is authentic record, we will not write here; only twice in his life did he visit Denbigh and the last time his mother refused even to see him, alleging that he had been nothing but a roving ne'er-do-well. She had married again--Stanley was but three years old when his father died--and had apparently lost all maternal love for her son, destined to become so famous. It seems to have been the bitterest experience of the explorer's life and he never attempted to see his mother again. Denbigh now deeply regrets that his humble birthplace was pulled down some years ago, but the little church where he was baptized--which ranks next in importance to the birthplace, according to accepted English ideas--still stands, though it is not now used and is very much dilapidated. Our guide, when he has quite exhausted his historic lore and when the "objects of interest" have been pointed out and duly expatiated upon, tells us a story of a certain noble dame of ancient Denbigh which every newcomer needs must hear at least once. Lady Catherine of Beraine was of royal descent, her mother being a cousin of Queen Elizabeth; she was enormously rich and was reputed of great intellectual attainments and force of character. But her fame to-day in her native town rests on none of these things; she is remembered as having had four noble husbands, all local celebrities, two of whom she acquired under, to say the least, very unusual circumstances. The first, a Salisbury, died not long after their marriage and was gathered to his fathers after the most approved fashion of the times. This required that a friend of the deceased escort the widow at the funeral and this--shall I say pleasant?--task fell to Sir Richard Clough, a widower of wealth and renown. Sir Richard's consolation went to very extraordinary length, for before the body of his friend was interred, he had proposed to the widow and been accepted! On the return journey from the tomb, Sir Maurice Wynne approached the lady with a similar proposal, only to find to his chagrin and consternation that he was too late. But he did the next best thing and before he was through had the widow's solemn promise that in case she should be called upon to mourn Sir Richard he should be his friend's successor! Sir Richard considerately died at forty and his gracious widow proved true to her promise. She wedded Maurice Wynne and went to preside over one of the fairest estates in Wales. But this did not end her matrimonial experiences, for Wynne ere long followed his two predecessors to the churchyard and the third-time widow made a fourth venture with Edward Thelwall, a wealthy gentleman of the town. Now while there may be some mythical details in this queer story, its main incidents were actually true, and so numerous are the descendants of the fair Catherine that she is sometimes given the sobriquet of Mam Cymru, the Mother of Wales. An English writer says of her, "Never, surely, was there such a record made by a woman of quality. Herself of royal descent and great possessions and by all accounts of singular mental attraction if not surpassing beauty, she married successively into four of the most powerful houses of North Wales." We thank the custodian for the pains he has taken to inform and entertain us and bid him farewell with the expected gratuity. We slip down the winding road to the market-place, where we pause for a short time to look about the town. We are told that it is one of the best in Northern Wales, both in a business and social way, and it is distinctly Welsh as contrasted with the English domination of Welshpool, Ludlow and Shrewsbury. We see a prosperous-looking class of country folk in the market-place and while English generally prevails, Welsh is spoken by some of the older people. They are well-clad and give evidence of the intelligence and sobriety for which the northern Welshman is noted. The excellent horses on the streets show that the Welsh are as particular about their nags as are their English brethren. We wish that our plans had not been already made--we should like to take up quarters at the Crown or Bull and remain a day or two in Denbigh. But the best we can do now is to pick up a few souvenirs at an old curiosity shop near the market and secretly resolve to come back again. [Illustration: GATE TOWERS RHUDDLAN CASTLE, NORTH WALES] The road out of the town follows the green vale of the Clwyd to St. Asaph and Rhuddlan, both of which have enough interest to warrant a few hours' pause. At St. Asaph we content ourselves with a drive around the cathedral--the smallest in the Kingdom--against which the haughty Leicester directed his designs three centuries ago. Its most conspicuous feature is its huge square tower one hundred feet in height. The St. Asaph who gave his name to the village and cathedral is supposed to have founded a church here as early as the middle of the sixth century, one of the earliest in the Kingdom. Five miles farther down the valley over a fine level road is Rhuddlan Castle. There are few more picturesque ruins in Britain than this huge redstone fortress with its massive round gate-towers, almost completely covered with ivy. Only the outer shell and towers remain; inside is a level plat of green sward that gives no hint of the martial activity within these walls six or seven centuries ago. Rhuddlan was one of the several castles built by Edward I. in his efforts to subdue the Welsh, and here he held his court for three years while engaged in his difficult task. The whole town was a military camp and numbers of the subdued Welsh chieftains and their retainers must have come hither to make the best terms they could with their conqueror. But the ruin is quiet enough under the blue heavens that bend over it to-day--the daws flap lazily above its ancient towers and the smaller songsters chatter and quarrel in the thick ivy. The castle has stood thus ever since it was dismantled by the same General Mytton who forced the surrender of Denbigh. There is much that might engage our time and attention along the twenty miles of roads that skirt the marshes and the sea between Rhuddlan and Conway, but we cannot linger to-day. An hour's run brings us into the little Welsh citadel shortly after noon and we forthwith repair to the Castle Hotel. XVI CONWAY Mr. Moran has given us in his striking picture a somewhat unusual view of the towers of Conway Castle. A better-known aspect of the fine old ruin is shown by the photograph which I have reproduced. Both, however, will serve to emphasize the point which I desire to make--that Conway, when seen from a proper distance, is one of the most picturesque of British castles. The first thing the wayfarer sees when he approaches is this splendid group of crenelated round towers and it is the last object to fade on his vision when he reluctantly turns his feet away from the pleasant old village. And I care not how matter-of-fact and prosaic may be his temperament, he cannot fail to bear away an ineffaceable recollection of the grim beauty of the stately pile. The sea road takes us into the town by the way of the great suspension bridge, whose well-finished modern towers contrast rather unpleasantly with the rugged antiquity of the castle across the river; but the suspension bridge is none the less a work of art and beauty compared with the angular ugliness of the tubular railway structure that parallels it. We pay our modest toll and crossing over the green tide that is now setting strongly up the river, we glide beneath the castle walls into the town. The Castle Hotel we know by previous experience to be one of those most delightful of old-fashioned country inns where one may be comfortable and quite unhampered by excessive formality. Baedeker, it is true, gives the place of honor to the Oakwood Park, a pretentious resort hotel about a mile from the town, but this will hardly appeal to pilgrims like ourselves, who come to Conway to revel in its old-world atmosphere. The Castle, with its rambling corridors, its odd corners and plain though substantial furnishings, is far more to our liking. It stands on the site of Conway's Cistercian Abbey, built by Prince Llewellyn in 1185, all traces of which have now disappeared. As the principal inn of the North Wales art center, its walls are appropriately covered with pictures and sketches--many of them original--and numerous pieces of artistic bric-a-brac are scattered about its hallways and mantels. We notice among the pictures two or three characteristic sketches by Mr. Moran and learn that he was a guest of the inn for several weeks last summer, during which time he painted the picture of the castle which adorns the pages of this book. The impression which he left with the manageress was altogether favorable; she cannot say enough in praise of the courtesy and kindness of her distinguished guest who gave her the much-prized sketches with his compliments. And she is quite familiar with the names and knows something about the work of several well-known British artists--for have they not been guests at the castle from time to time during the summer exhibits? Conway, as we shall see, occupies no small niche in the art world, having an annual exhibition of considerable importance, besides affording endless themes to delight the artistic eye. [Illustration: CONWAY CASTLE, NORTH WALES From original painting by Thos. Moran, N. A.] The immediate objective of the first-time visitor to Conway will be the castle, but this is our third sojourn in the ancient citadel and we shall give the afternoon to Plas Mawr. For, though we are quite as familiar with Plas Mawr as with the castle, the fine old mansion has a new attraction each year in the annual exhibit of the Royal Cambrian Academy and the walls are covered with several hundred pictures, many of them by distinguished British painters. The exhibit is generally acknowledged to be of first rank and usually includes canvases by Royal Academicians as well as the work of members of other distinguished British art societies. That it is not better known and patronized is not due to any lack of genuine merit; rather to the fact that so many tourists are ignorant of its very existence as well as the attractions of the town itself. Such, indeed, was our own case; on our first visit to Conway we contented ourselves with a glimpse of the castle and hastened on our way quite unaware of Plas Mawr and its exhibit. Stupid, of course; we might have learned better from Baedeker; but we thought there was nothing but the castle in Conway and did not trouble to read the fine print of our "vade mecum." A second visit taught us better; the castle one should certainly see--but Plas Mawr and its pictures are worth a journey from the remotest corner of the Kingdom. Indeed, it was in this exhibit that I first became acquainted with the work of Mr. H. J. Dobson of Edinburgh, whose pictures I have had the pleasure of introducing in America. His famous "New Arrival" was perhaps the most-talked-of picture the year of our visit and is surely worth showing herewith as typical of the high quality of the Royal Cambrian exhibit. And, indeed, this severely plain, almost pathetic, little home scene of the olden time might just as appropriately have been located in the environs of Conway. [Illustration: "THE NEW ARRIVAL" From original painting by H. J. Dobson, R. S. W., exhibited in the Royal Cambrian Academy, Plas Mawr, Conway] I have rambled on about Plas Mawr and its pictures to a considerable extent, but I have so far failed to give much idea as to Plas Mawr itself aside from its exhibit. Its name, signifying "the great house," is appropriate indeed, for in the whole Kingdom there are few better examples--at least such as are accessible to the ordinary tourist--of the spacious home of a wealthy country gentleman in the romantic days of Queen Bess. It was planned for the rather ostentatious hospitality of the times and must have enjoyed such a reputation, for it is pretty well established that Queen Elizabeth herself was a guest in the stately house. The Earl of Leicester, as we have seen, had large holdings in North Wales, and was wont to come to Snowdonia on hunting expeditions; Elizabeth and her court accompanied him on one occasion and were quartered in Plas Mawr. Tradition, which has forgotten the exact date of the royal visit, has carefully recorded the rooms occupied by the queen--two of the noblest apartments in the house. The sitting-room has a huge fireplace with the royal arms of England in plaster above the mantel. Adjoining this apartment is the bedroom, beautifully decorated with heraldic devices and lighted with windows of ancient stained glass. But I must hasten to declare that I have no intention of describing in detail the various apartments of the great house. Each one has its own story and nearly all are decorated with richly bossed plaster friezes and ceilings. The circular stairways, the corridors, the narrow passageways and the courtyard are all unique and bring to the mind a host of romantic musings. You are not at all surprised to learn of Plas Mawr's ghostly habitant--it is, on the contrary, just what you expected. I shall not repeat this authentic ghost story; you may find it in the little guide-book of the house if such things appeal to you; and, besides, it is hardly suitable for my pages. It is enough to record that Plas Mawr has its ghost and heavy footfalls may be heard in its vacant rooms by those hardy enough to remain on nights when storms howl about the old gables. And it is these same old "stepped" gables with the queer little towers and tall chimneys that lend such a distinguished air to the exterior of the old house. It would be a dull observer whose eye would not be caught by it, even in passing casually along the street on which it stands. Above the door the date 1576 proves beyond question the year of its completion and shows that it has stood, little changed, for more than three centuries. It was built by one of the Wynne family, which was so distinguished and powerful in North Wales during the reign of Elizabeth. At present it is the private property of Lord Mostyn, but one cannot help feeling that by rights it should belong to the tight little town of Conway, which forms such a perfect setting for this gem of ancient architecture. [Illustration: PLAS MAWR, CONWAY, HOME OF ROYAL CAMBRIAN ACADEMY] But enough of Plas Mawr--though I confess as I write to an intense longing to see it again. We must hie us back to our inn, for the dinner hour is not far off and we are quite ready for the Castle's substantial fare. There is still plenty of time after dinner to saunter about the town and the twilight hours are the best for such a ramble. When the subdued light begins to envelop castle and ancient walls, one may best realize the unique distinction of Conway as a bit of twelfth-century medievalism set bodily down in our workaday modern world. The telegraph poles and wires, the railways and great bridges fade from the scene and we see the ancient town, compassed with its mighty betowered walls and guarded by the frowning majesty of the castle. It is peculiarly the time to ascend the wall and to leisurely walk its entire length. We find it wonderfully solid and well-preserved, though ragged and hung with ivy; grasses carpet its crest in places, yellow and purple wall-flowers cling to its rugged sides, and in one place a sapling has found footing, apparently thriving in its airy habitat. Yet the wall is quite in its original state; the hand of the restorer has hardly touched it, nor does it apparently require anything in the way of repair. How very different is it from the walls of York and Chester, which show clearly enough the recent origin of at least large portions throughout their entire courses. It reaches in places a height of perhaps twenty feet and I should think its thickness at the base nearly as great. In old days it was surmounted by twenty-one watchtowers, all of which still remain in a state of greater or less perfection. Its ancient Moorish-looking gateways still survive, though the massive doors and drawbridges that once shut out the hostile world disappeared long since. We saunter leisurely down the wall toward the river and find much of interest whichever way we turn. The town spreads out beneath us like a map and we can detect, after some effort, its fanciful likeness to the shape of a harp--so dutifully mentioned by the guide-books. Just beneath this we gaze into the back yards of the poorer quarter and see a bevy of dirty little urchins going through endless antics in hope of extracting a copper or two from us--they know us well for tourists at once--who else, indeed, would be on the wall at such a time? A little farther are the rambling gables of Plas Mawr and on the extreme opposite side of the town, the stern yet beautiful towers of the castle are sharply silhouetted against the evening sky. How it all savors of the days of chivalrous eld; the flash of armor from yonder watchtowers, the deep voice of the sentry calling the hour, the gleam of rushlight from the silent windows or the reveille of a Norman bugle, would seem to be all that is required to transport us back to the days of the royal builder of the castle. Or if we choose to turn our gaze outside the walls, we may enjoy one of the finest vistas to be found in the British Isles. Looking down the broad estuary, through which the emerald-green tide is now pouring in full flow toward the sea, one has a panorama of wooded hills on the one hand and the village of Deganwy with the huge bulk of Great Orme's Head as a background on the other; while between these a vast stretch of sunset water loses itself in the distance. [Illustration: INNER COURT, PLAS MAWR, CONWAY] But we are at the north limit of the old wall--for it ends abruptly as it approaches the beach--and we descend to the promenade along the river. There is a boathouse here and a fairly good beach. If it had not so many rivals near at hand, Conway might boast itself as a resort town, but the average summer vacationist cares less for medieval walls and historic castles than for sunny beaches and all the diversions that the seaside resort town usually offers. He limits his stay in Conway to an hour or two and spends his weeks at Llandudno or Colwyn Bay. There are many odd corners that are worth the visitor's attention and one is sure to have them brought to his notice as he rambles about the town. "The smallest house in the Island" is one of them and the little old woman who occupies this curiosity will not let you pass without an opportunity to look in and leave a copper or two in recognition of her trouble. It is a boxlike structure of two floors about four by six feet each, comfortably furnished--to an extent one would hardly think possible in such very contracted quarters. There are many very ancient homes in the town dating from the sixteenth century and perhaps the best known of them--aside from Plas Mawr--is the little "Black Lion" in Castle Street. It is now fitted up as a museum, though its exhibit, I fear, is more an excuse to exact a shilling from the pocket of the tourist than to serve any great archeological end. The interior, however, is worth seeing, as it affords some idea of the domestic life of a well-to-do middle-class merchant of three or four hundred years ago. Another building in the same street is of even earlier date, for the legend, "A. D. 1400," appears in quaint characters above its door. Still another fine Elizabethan home shows the Stanley arms in stained glass--an eagle with outstretched wings swooping down upon a child--but this building, as well as many others in Conway, has been "restored" pretty much out of its original self. I name these particular things merely to show what a wealth of interest the town possesses for the observer who has learned that there is something else besides the castle and who is willing to make a sojourn of two or three days within the hoary walls. The church of St. Mary's has little claim to architectural distinction, but like nearly all the ancient churches of Britain, it has many odd bits of tradition and incident quite peculiar to itself. There is an elaborate baptismal font and a beautiful rood screen dating from the thirteenth century. John Gibson, R. A., the distinguished sculptor, who was born near Conway, is buried in the church and a marble bust has been erected to his memory. Another native buried within the sacred walls is entitled to distinction in quite a different direction, for a tablet over his grave declares: "Here lyeth the body of Nich's Hookes of Conway, Gent. who was ye 41 child of his father William Hookes Esq. and the father of 27 children, who died on the 20 day of Mch. 1637." Surely, if these ancient Welshmen were alive to-day they would be lionized by our anti-race-suicide propagandists! In the chancel there are several elaborate monuments of the Wynne family which exhibit the usual characteristics of old-time British mortuary sculpture. One of these tombs is of circular shape, and interesting from its peculiarity, though none of them shows a high degree of the sculptor's art. Outside, near the south porch, is a curious sun dial erected in 1761, which is carefully graduated to single minutes. Near this is a grave made famous by Wordsworth in his well-known poem, "We are Seven,"--for the poet, as we have learned in our wanderings, was himself something of a traveler and these simple verses remind us of his sojourn in Conway. Their peculiar appeal to almost every tourist is not strange when we recall that scarcely a school-reader of half a century ago omitted them. Conway, as might be expected, has many quaint customs and traditions. One of these, as described by a pleasing writer, may be worth retelling: "At Conway an old ceremony called the 'Stocsio' obtained till the present reign, being observed at Eastertide, when on the Sunday crowds carrying wands of gorse were accustomed to proceed to a small hill outside the town known as Pen twt. There the most recently married man was deputed to read out to a bare-headed audience the singular and immemorial rules that were to prevail in the town on the following day: All men under sixty were to be in the street by six o'clock in the morning; those under forty by four, while youths of twenty or less were forbidden to go to bed at all. Houses were searched, and much rough horse-play was going about. Defaulters were carried to the stocks, and there subjected to a time-honoured and grotesque catechism, calculated to promote much ridicule. Ball-play in the castle, too, was a distinguishing feature of all these ancient fete days." Another carefully preserved tradition relates to the tenure of the castle by the town corporation, which must pay annually a fee of eight shillings sixpence to the crown, and the presentation by way of tribute of a "dish of fish" to the Marquis of Hertford--the titular Earl of Conway--whenever he visits the town. This gave rise to a ludicrous misunderstanding not very long ago. An old guide-book substituted "Mayor of Hereford" for "Marquis of Hertford," and a perusal of this led the former dignitary to formally claim the honor when he was in Conway. The mayor of the ancient burg explained the error to his guest, but went on to say that had sparlings, the peculiar fish for which the Conway River is noted, been in season and obtainable, he would have had great pleasure in presenting a dish of them to the Mayor of Hereford; as it was, it was understood that in default of the sparlings the worthy civic clerk of Conway would treat his illustrious visitor to a bottle of champagne of an especially old and choice vintage. There is no record that the dignitary from Hereford made any objection to the substitution of something "just as good." In leaving the castle until the last, I am conscious that I am violating the precedent set by nearly all who have written of Conway and its attractions, but I have striven--I hope successfully--to show that there is enough in the old town to make a pilgrimage worth while, even if it did not have what is perhaps the most picturesque ruin in the Island. For the superior claims of Conway Castle are best described by the much-abused word, "picturesque." While it has seen stirring times, it did not cut the figure of Denbigh, Harlech or Carnarvon in Welsh history, nor did it equal many others in size and impregnability. But to my mind it is doubtful if any other so completely fulfills the ideal of the towered and battlemented castle of the middle ages. From almost any viewpoint this is apparent, though the view from across the river is well-nigh spoiled by the obtrusively ugly tubular railroad bridge; nor does the more graceful suspension bridge add to it, for that matter. In earlier times the only approach from this direction was by ferry--an "awkward kind of a boat called yr ysgraff," says a local guide-book. The boat seems to have been quite as unmanageable as its name, for on Christmas day, 1806, it capsized, drowning twelve persons. Twenty years later the suspension bridge was ready for use and the tubular bridge followed in 1848. [Illustration: CONWAY CASTLE--THE OUTER WALL] Conway Castle was one of the several fortresses built by the first Edward to complete the conquest of Wales. It was designed by Henry de Elreton, a builder of great repute in his time and also the architect of Carnarvon and Beumaris. The work was conducted under personal command of the king and its completion in 1291 was celebrated by a great fete at Christmastime. As one wanders through the roofless, ivy-clad ruin, carpeted with the green sward that has crept over the debris-covered floors, and contemplates the empty windows open to all the winds of heaven, the fallen walls and crumbling towers, the broken arches--only one of the eight which spanned the great hall remaining--amid all the pathetic evidence of dissolution and decay, it is hard indeed to reconstruct the scene of gay life that must have filled the noble pile in that far-off day. Here the high-spirited and often tyrannical king, accompanied by the queen, almost as ambitious and domineering as himself, had gathered the flower of English knighthood and nobility with their proud dames and brightly liveried retainers to make merry while the monarch was forging the chains to bind the prostrate principality. Here, we may imagine, the revelry of an almost barbarous time and people must have reached its height; and we may thank heaven that the old order of things is as shattered and obsolete as the ruined walls that surround us. As previously intimated, the history of Conway Castle is hardly in accord with its grandeur and importance. Its royal founder soon after its completion found himself closely besieged within its walls by the Welsh and was nearly reduced to an unconditional surrender, when the subsidence of the river made it possible for reinforcements to relieve the situation. A century later Richard II. commanded the troops raised to war in his behalf on the haughty Bolingbroke to assemble at Conway, but the monarch's feebleness and vacillation brought all plans of aggressive action to naught; for he basely abandoned his followers and rushed blindly into his enemy's power. And thus what might have been a historic milestone in the career of the castle degenerated into an unimportant incident. Conway escaped easily during the civil war which sounded the knell of so many feudal castles. The militant Archbishop Williams, whose memorial we may see in the parish church, espoused the side of the king and after his efforts had put everything in shape for defence, he was ordered to turn over the command to Prince Rupert. This procedure on the part of Charles led the warlike churchman to suddenly change his opinion of the justice of the royal cause and he at once joined forces with the Cromwellians. He carried with him a considerable following and personally assisted General Mytton in his operations against both Denbigh and Conway Castles. The latter was first to fall and the good bishop received the thanks of Parliament for his services and also a full pardon for the part he had taken in support of King Charles. He was also able to restore to his followers the valuables which had been hidden in the castle for safe keeping. Conway was another exception to Cromwell's rule of destruction of such feudal fortresses. Perhaps the fact that at the time of its surrender the Royalists were almost everywhere subdued and not likely to be able to reoccupy it, had something to do with this unusual leniency. In any event, the discredit for the destruction of the splendid structure rests with King Charles, who permitted one of his retainers to plunder it of its leaden roof and timbers. These materials were to be sent to Ireland--just for what purpose is not clear--but it does not matter, for the ships carrying the wreckage were all lost in a violent storm. Since that memorable period the old ruin has witnessed two and a half centuries of unbroken peace. Its enemies were no longer battering ram and hostile cannon. The wild storms of winter, the summer rains and the sea winds have expended their forces upon it, only to give it a weird, indescribable beauty such as it never could have possessed in its proudest days. Careful restoration has arrested further decay and insures its preservation indefinitely. It has never figured in song or story to the extent its beauty and romance would lead us to expect, though Owen Rhoscomyl, a native Welshman, has written a stirring novel, "Battlements and Towers," which deals with the castle in civil war days. The story has a historic basis and the graves of the lovers, Dafyd and Morfa, may still be seen in Conway Church. But no Welshman has yet arisen to do for his native land what Scott did for Scotland. The field is fully as rich--surely the struggles of this brave little people were as heroic and full of splendid incident as anything that transpired in Scotch history. But as a venture for letters the field still lies fallow and perhaps the unromantic atmosphere of our present-day progress will always keep it so. In leaving Conway for our fifth sojourn at Ludlow we find ourselves wondering which of these may outrank the other as the gem of all the smaller medieval towns we have visited in Britain. Indeed, we have not answered the query yet, but we are sure the distinction belongs to one or the other. XVII THE HARDY COUNTRY AND BERRY POMEROY It has been said that the traveler who has visited either John O'Groats or Land's End never feels at ease until he has both of these places to his "credit." I should be loath to confess that such a feeling had anything to do with our setting out from London with Land's End as an ill-defined objective, though appearances may indeed favor such an inference. Once before we were within ten miles of the spot and did not feel interested enough to take the few hours for the trip. But now we have spent a night at John O'Groats--and have no very pleasant recollection of it, either--and should we ever tell of our exploit the first question would be, "And did you go to Land's End?" Be that as it may, we find ourselves carefully picking our way through the crowded Oxford street which changes its name a half dozen times before we come out into the Staines Road. We are not in the best of humor, for it was two o'clock when we left our hotel--we had planned to start at nine in the morning! But a refractory magneto in the hands of an English repair man--who had promised it on the day before--was an article we could not very well leave behind. Our itinerary--we never really made one, except in imagination--called for the night at Dorchester. We had previously passed through the pleasant old capital of the "Hardy Country" and felt a longing for a closer acquaintance. But Dorchester is one hundred and thirty miles from London and our usual leisurely jog will never get us there before nightfall--a fact still more apparent when we find nearly an hour has been consumed in covering the dozen miles to Staines. We shall have to open up a little--a resolution that receives a decided chill when a gentlemanly Automobile Association scout, seeing the emblem on our engine hood, salutes us with, "Caution, Sir! Police traps all the way to Basingstoke." We take some chances nevertheless, but slow down when we come to a hedgerow or other suspicious object which we fancy may afford concealment for the despised motor "cop." At Basingstoke a second scout pronounces the way clear to Andover and Salisbury and the fine undulating road offers every opportunity to make up for lost time--and police traps. If the speed limit had been twice twenty miles per hour, I fear we might--but we are not bound to incriminate ourselves! Salisbury's splendid spire--the loftiest and most graceful in all Britain--soon arises athwart the sunset sky and we glide through the tortuous streets of the town as swiftly as seems prudent. The road to Blandford is equally good and just at dusk we enter the village of Puddletown, stretching for half a mile along the roadside. Its name is not prepossessing, but Puddletown has a church that stands to-day as it stood nearly three hundred years ago, for it has not as yet fallen into the hands of the restorer. Its paneled and beamed ceiling of Spanish chestnut, innocent of paint or varnish, its oaken pews which seated the Roundheads and Royalists of Cromwell's day, its old-fashioned pulpit and its queer baptismal font, are those of the country church of nearly three centuries ago. The village is a cozy, beflowered place on a clear little river, whose name, the Puddle, is the only thing to prejudice one against it. Just adjoining Puddletown is Aethelhampton Court, the finest country house in Dorset, which has been inhabited by one family, the Martins, for four hundred years. Darkness is setting in when we drive into the courtyard of the King's Arms in Dorchester. It is a wild, windy evening; rain is threatening and under such conditions the comfortable old house seems an opportune haven indeed. It is a characteristic English inn such as Dickens eulogizes in "Pickwick Papers"--one where "everything looks--as everything always does in all decent English inns--as if the travelers had been expected and their comforts prepared for days beforehand." There is a large, well-furnished sitting-room awaiting us, with bedrooms to match, and the evening meal is ready on a table resplendent with fresh linen and glittering silver. In a cabinet in the corner of the dining-room is an elaborate silver tea-service with the legend, "Used by His August Majesty King Edward VII. when as Prince of Wales he was a guest of the King's Arms, Dorchester, on--" but we have quite forgotten the date. A rather recent and innocent tradition, but perhaps the traveler of two centuries hence may be duly impressed, for the silver service will be there if the King's Arms is still standing. It is an irregular old house, built nobody knows just when, and added to from time to time as occasion required. The lack of design is delightfully apparent; it is a medley of scattered apartments and winding hallways. It would fit perfectly into a Dickens novel--indeed, with the wind howling furiously outside and the rain fitfully lashing the panes we think of the stormy night at the Maypole in "Barnaby Rudge." But it has been a rather trying day and our musings soon fade into pleasant dreams when we are once ensconced in the capacious beds of the King's Arms. One can spend a profitable half day in Dorchester and a much longer time might be consumed in exploring the immediate vicinity. There are two fine churches, All Saints', with a tall slender spire, and St. Peter's, with a square, battlemented tower from which peal the chimes of the town clock. In the latter church is a tomb which may interest the few Americans who come to Dorchester, since beneath it is buried Rev. John White, who took an active part in founding Massachusetts Colony. In 1624 he despatched a company of Dorset men to the new colony, raising money for them, procuring their charter and later sending out as the first governor, John Endicott of Dorchester, who sailed for New England in 1629 in the "George Bona Ventura." In both churches there is an unusual number of effigies and monuments which probably escaped because of Dorchester's friendliness for the Parliamentary cause--but none of them commemorates famous people. Outside St. Peter's there is a statue to William Barnes, the Dorset poet, with an inscription from one of his own poems which illustrates the quaint dialect he employed: "Zoo now I hope his kindly feace Is gone to find a better pleace: But still wi' vo'k a-left behind He'll always be a-kept in mind." The county museum, adjoining the church, contains one of the best provincial collections in England. The vicinity is noted for Roman remains and a number of the most remarkable have found a resting-place here. There are curiosities galore in the shape of medieval implements of torture, among them a pair of heavy leaden weights labeled "Mercy," which a tender-hearted jailer ordered tied to the feet of a man hanged for arson as late as 1836, so he would strangle more quickly. There are relics of Jeffreys' dread court, the chair he used when sentencing the Dorset peasants to transportation and death and the iron spikes on which the heads of the rebels were exposed to blacken in the sun. There is much besides horrors in Dorchester Museum, though I suppose the gruesome and horrible will always get the greater share of attention. And such things are not without their educational and moral value, for they speak eloquently of the progress the human race has made to render such implements of torture only objects of shuddering curiosity. To the admirer of Thomas Hardy, the novelist, Dorchester will always have a peculiar interest, for here the master still lives, much alone, in a little house near the town, his simple life and habits scarcely differentiating him from the humblest Wessex peasant. I say "the novelist," for another Thomas Hardy was also a Dorchester man--the admiral who supported the dying Nelson at Trafalgar. The great writer, however, is known to all the townsmen and is universally admired and revered. Shortly after our visit the people of the town essayed a fete in his honor, the chief feature being two plays adapted from Wessex tales. Mr. Hardy, though in his seventy-second year, followed the rehearsals closely, sitting night after night in a dark corner of the auditorium. A correspondent described him as "a grave, gray little figure with waxed moustache ends and bright vigilant eyes, who rose occasionally to make a suggestion, speaking almost apologetically as if asking a favor." His suggestions usually had to do with the character and effect of word cadences. Nothing could exceed his sensitiveness to the harmonies of speech. "Will you let me see the book, please?" he would say. "I think that sentence does not sound right; I will alter it a little." He also personally arranged the hornpipe dance by shepherds in the cottage where three wayfarers take shelter from a storm. The music was played by a fiddler nearly eighty years old who used to make a living by such rustic merrymakings and who is perhaps the last survivor of the race of fiddlers in Dorset. All the actors belonged to the town. One is a cooper, another a saddler, and there were clerks and solicitors and auctioneers. The producer who designed all the scenery is a monument mason and ex-mayor of Dorchester. It is perhaps too early to predict the place of Thomas Hardy in literature, though there be those who rank him with George Eliot. His home town, which he has given to fame as the Casterbridge of his tales, has no misgivings about the matter and freely ranks him with the immortals. The chilling philosophy of many of his books has not hidden his warm heart from his townsmen, who resent the word "stony" applied to him by an American writer. They say that his unpretentious life, his affability, his consideration for others and his modesty, all teach the lessons of love and hope, and that nothing is farther from his personal character than misanthropy or coldness. The history of Dorchester differs not greatly from that of many other English towns of its class. A Roman station undoubtedly existed here. The town was mentioned in the Doomsday Book and was a village of good size in the reign of Henry VIII. In 1613 it was totally destroyed by fire--a calamity which the citizens declared a "visitacion of God's wrath," to appease which they founded an almshouse and hospital. With business foresight they also established a brewery, the profits from which were expected to maintain the hospital, and the grave records show no intimation of any question whether such a plan might be acceptable to the Deity they sought to placate. Dorchester was strongly for the Parliament in the unpleasantness between Oliver and the king, but its loyalty was not very aggressive, for it surrendered to the royal army with scarcely a show of resistance--the more to its discredit, since it had been elaborately fortified and was well supplied with munitions of war. It suffered severely for its cowardice, for it was taken and retaken many times during the war and its citizens subjected to numberless exactions and indignities. The ascendency of the commonwealth brought Dorchester comparative peace for three or four decades. The next notable event in its career was the coming of Jeffreys the infamous to judge the unfortunate Dorset men who inclined, or were alleged to have inclined, towards the Duke of Monmouth in his ill-starred attempt on the throne of England. To expedite matters, Jeffreys let it be understood that a plea of guilty would predispose him to mercy, but the poor wretches who fell into this trap were sentenced to death or transportation on their own confessions. The charge lodged against most of the unfortunates was that they were "away from their habitacions att the tyme of the rebellion." For more than two centuries after this carnival of death, sanctioned by a corrupt and vengeful government, Dorchester has pursued the paths of unbroken peace and has grown and prospered in a quiet way. The fame of Thomas Hardy attracts many and the roving motor car also brings an increasing number of pilgrims, none of whom go away disappointed. It is a trim old town, still picturesque, though modern improvements are making inroads on its antique quaintness. Its environs are singularly beautiful; the country roads enter the town between ranks of splendid trees and the avenues around the town are bordered with giant limes, sycamores and chestnuts. The River Frome glides quietly past the place through reedy meadows and the smooth green sward covers the ancient Roman amphitheatre which adjoins the town on the south. This is by far the most perfect work of its kind in Britain; it is about two hundred feet in diameter and must have accommodated some twelve thousand spectators. It lies just along the road by which we leave the town and which runs almost due west to Bridport, Lyme Regis and Exeter. For some miles we pursue a sinuous course across the barren country and occasionally encounter forbiddingly steep grades. At Bridport we catch our first glimpse of a placidly blue sea, which frequently flashes through gaps in the hills for the next twenty miles. At Lyme Regis the road pitches down a sharp hill into the town, which covers the slopes of a ravinelike valley. It is a retired little seaside resort, though red roofs of modern villas now contrast somewhat with its rural appearance. No railroad comes within several miles of the place, which has a permanent population of only two thousand. It is not without historic tradition, for here the Duke of Monmouth landed on his ill-fated invasion to which we have already referred. The town was a favorite haunt of Jane Austen and here she located one of the memorable scenes in "Persuasion." It is still a very quiet place--a retreat for those seeking real seclusion and freedom from the formality and turmoil of the larger and more fashionable resorts. Its tiny harbor, encircled by a crescent-shape sweep of cliffs, is almost innocent of craft to-day, though there was a time when it ranked high among the western ports. It is one of those delightful old villages one occasionally finds in England, standing now nearly as they did three centuries ago, while the great world has swept away from them. We wish we might tarry a day in Lyme Regis, but our plans will not permit it now. We climb the precipitously steep, irregular road that takes us out of the place, though we cast many backward glances at the little town and quiet blue-green harbor edged by a scimiterlike strip of silver sand. The Exeter road is much the same as that between Lyme Regis and Dorchester--winding, steep, narrow and rough in places--and the deadly Devonshire hedgerow on a high earthen ridge now shuts out our view of the landscape much of the time. Devon and Cornwall, with the most charming scenery in England, would easily become a great motoring ground if the people would mend the roads and eradicate the hedgerows. At Exeter we stop at the Rougemont for lunch, despite the recollection of pretty high charges on a former occasion. It is one of the best provincial hotels, if it is far from the cheapest. A drizzling rain is falling when we leave the cathedral city for Newton Abbot and Totnes, directly to the south; in the market-place of the first-named town is the stone upon which William III. was proclaimed king after his landing at Brixham. Totnes, seven miles farther, has many quaint old houses with odd piazzas and projecting timbered gables, which give the streets a decidedly antique appearance. Here, too, is another famous stone, the identical one upon which Brutus of Troy first set foot when landing in Britain at a date so remote that it can only be guessed at. Indeed, there be wiseacres who freely declare that the Roman prince never set foot on it at all; but we are in no mood for such scepticism to-day, when cruising about in a steady rain seeking "objects of interest," as the road-book styles them. Of Totnes Castle only the foundations remain, though it must have been a concentric, circular structure like that of Launceston. From its walls on fair days there is a lovely, far-reaching view quite shut out from us by the gray mist that hovers over the valley--a scene described by a writer more fortunate than we as "a rich soft country which stretches far and wide, a land of swelling hills and richly wooded valleys and green corn springing over the red earth. Northwards on the skyline, the Dartmoor hills lie blue and seeming infinitely distant in the light morning haze; while in the opposite direction, one sees a long straight reach of river, set most sweetly among the hills, up which the salt tide is pouring from Dartmouth so rapidly that it grows wider every moment, and the bitter sea air which travels with it from the Channel reaches as far as the battlements on which we stand. Up that reach the Totnes merchants, standing on these old walls, used to watch their argosies sailing with the tide, homeward bound from Italy or Spain, laden with precious wines and spices." But no one who visits Totnes--even though the day be rainy and disagreeable--should fail to see Berry Pomeroy Castle, which common consent declares the noblest ruin in all Devon and Cornwall. We miss the main road to the village of Berry and approach the ruin from the rear by a narrow, muddy lane winding over steep grades through a dense forest. We are not sure whether we are fortunate or otherwise in coming to the shattered haunt of the fierce old de Pomeroys on such a day. Perhaps its grim traditions and its legends of ghostly habitants seem the more realistic under such a lowering sky--and it may be that the gloomy day comports best with the scene of desolation and ruined grandeur which breaks on our vision. The castle was an unusual combination of medieval fortress and palatial dwelling house, the great towers still flanking the entrance suggesting immense defensive strength, as does the situation on the edge of a rocky precipice. The walls are pierced by multitudes of mullioned windows--so many, indeed, an old chronicle records, that it was "a day's work for a servant to open and close the casements." In some details the more modern remnants of the structure remind one of Cowdray Palace--especially the great window groups. Verily, "ruin greenly dwells" at Berry Pomeroy Castle. Ivy mantles every inch of the walls and some fragments, rising tall and slender like chimneys, are green to the very tops. The green sward runs riot over the inner courts and covers fallen masses of debris; great trees, some of them doubtless as old as the castle itself, sway their branches above it; our pictures tell the story, perhaps better than any words, of the rank greenness that seems even more intense in the falling rain. One quite forgets the stirring history of the castle--and it is stirring, for does not tradition record that its one-time owners urged their maddened steeds to spring to death with their riders from the beetling precipice on which the castle stands, rather than to surrender to victorious besiegers?--I say one forgets even this in the rather creepy sensations that come over him when he recalls the ghostly legends of the place. For Berry Pomeroy Castle has one of the most blood-curdling and best authenticated ghost stories that it has been my lot to read. It has a weird interest that warrants retelling here and the reader who has no liking for such things may skip it if he chooses. [Illustration: BERRY POMEROY CASTLE, ENTRANCE TOWERS] "Somewhat more than a century ago, Dr. Walter Farquhar, who was created a baronet in 1796, made a temporary sojourn in Torquay. This physician was quite a young man at that time and had not acquired the reputation which, after his settlement in London, procured him the confidence and even friendship of royalty. One day, during his stay in Devon, he was summoned professionally to Berry Pomeroy Castle, a portion of which building was still occupied by a steward and his wife. The latter was seriously ill, and it was to see her that the physician had been called in. Previous to seeing his patient Dr. Farquhar was shown an outer apartment and requested to remain there until she was prepared to see him. This apartment was large and ill-proportioned; around it ran richly carved panels of oak that age had changed to the hue of ebony. The only light in the room was admitted through the chequered panes of a gorgeously stained window, in which were emblazoned the arms of the former lords of Berry Pomeroy. In one corner, to the right of the wide fireplace, was a flight of dark oaken steps, forming part of a staircase leading apparently to some chamber above; and on these stairs the fading gleams of summer's twilight shone through. "While Dr. Farquhar wondered, and, if the truth be told, chafed at the delay which had been interposed between him and his patient, the door opened, and a richly dressed female entered the apartment. He, supposing her to be one of the family, advanced to meet her. Unheeding him, she crossed the room with a hurried step, wringing her hands and exhibiting by her motions the deepest distress. When she reached the foot of the stairs, she paused for an instant and then began to ascend them with the same hasty step and agitated demeanour. As she reached the highest stair the light fell strongly on her features and displayed a countenance youthful, indeed, and beautiful, but in which vice and despair strove for mastery. 'If ever human face,' to use the doctor's own words, 'exhibited agony and remorse; if ever eye, that index of the soul, portrayed anguish uncheered by hope and suffering without interval; if ever features betrayed that within the wearer's bosom there dwelt a hell, those features and that being were then present to me.' "Before he could make up his mind on the nature of this strange occurrence, he was summoned to the bedside of his patient. He found the lady so ill as to require his undivided attention, and had no opportunity, and in fact no wish, to ask any questions which bore on a different subject to her illness. "But on the following morning, when he repeated his visit and found the sufferer materially better, he communicated what he had witnessed to the husband and expressed a wish for some explanation. The steward's countenance fell during the physician's narrative and at its close he mournfully ejaculated: "'My poor wife! my poor wife!' "'Why, how does this relation affect her?' "'Much, much!' replied the steward, vehemently. 'That it should have come to this! I cannot--cannot lose her! You know not,' he continued in a milder tone, 'the strange, sad history; and--and his lordship is extremely averse to any allusion being ever made to the circumstance or any importance attached to it; but I must and will out with it! The figure which you saw is supposed to represent the daughter of a former baron of Berry Pomeroy, who was guilty of an unspeakable crime in that chamber above us; and whenever death is about to visit the inmates of the castle she is seen wending her way to the scene of her crimes with the frenzied gestures you describe. The day my son was drowned she was observed; and now my wife!' "'I assure you she is better. The most alarming symptoms have given way and all immediate danger is at an end.' "'I have lived in and near the castle thirty years,' was the steward's desponding reply, 'and never knew the omen fail.' "'Arguments on omens are absurd,' said the doctor, rising to take his leave. 'A few days, however, will, I trust, verify my prognostics and see Mrs. S---- recovered.' "They parted, mutually dissatisfied. The lady died at noon. "Years intervened and brought with them many changes. The doctor rose rapidly and deservedly into repute; became the favourite physician and even personal friend of the Prince Regent, was created a baronet, and ranked among the highest authorities in the medical world. "When he was at the zenith of his professional career, a lady called on him to consult him about her sister, whom she described as sinking, overcome and heartbroken by a supernatural appearance. [Illustration: BERRY POMEROY CASTLE--WALL OF INNER COURT] "'I am aware of the apparent absurdity of the details which I am about to give,' she began, 'but the case will be unintelligible to you, Sir Walter, without them. While residing at Torquay last summer, we drove over one morning to visit the splendid remains of Berry Pomeroy Castle. The steward was very ill at the time (he died, in fact, while we were going over the ruins,) and there was some difficulty in getting the keys. While my brother and I went in search of them, my sister was left alone for a few moments in a large room on the ground-floor; and while there--most absurd fancy!--she has persuaded herself she saw a female enter and pass her in a state of indescribable distress. This spectre, I suppose I must call her, horribly alarmed her. Its features and gestures have made an impression, she says, which no time can efface. I am well aware of what you will say, that nothing can possibly be more preposterous. We have tried to rally her out of it, but the more heartily we laugh at her folly, the more agitated and excited does she become. In fact, I fear we have aggravated her disorder by the scorn with which we have treated it. For my own part, I am satisfied her impressions are erroneous, and rise entirely from a depraved state of the bodily organs. We wish for your opinion and are most anxious you should visit her without delay.' "'Madam, I will make a point of seeing your sister immediately; but it is no delusion. This I think it proper to state most positively, and previous to any interview. I, myself, saw the same figure, under somewhat similar circumstances and about the same hour of the day; and I should decidedly oppose any raillery or incredulity being expressed on the subject in your sister's presence.' "Sir Walter saw the young lady next day and after being for a short time under his care she recovered. "Our authority for the above account of how Berry Pomeroy Castle is haunted derived it from Sir Walter Farquhar, who was a man even more noted for his probity and veracity than for his professional attainments, high as they were rated. The story has been told as nearly as possible in Sir Walter's own words." Yonder is the "ghost's walk," along that tottering wall; yonder is the door the apparition is said to enter. If you can stand amidst these deserted ruins on a dark, lowering evening and feel no qualms of nervousness after reading the tale, I think you are quite able to laugh all ghosts to scorn. We have lingered long enough at Berry Pomeroy--we can scarce cover the twenty miles to Plymouth ere darkness sets in. But fortune favors us; at Totnes the rain ceases and a red tinge breaks through the clouds which obscure the western sky. We have a glorious dash over the wet road which winds through some of the loveliest of Devonshire landscapes. Midway, from the hilltop that dominates the vale of the Erme, we get a view of Ivy Bridge, a pleasant village lying along the clear river, half hidden in the purple haze of evening; and just at dusk we glide into the city of the Pilgrim Fathers. XVIII POLPERRO AND THE SOUTH CORNISH COAST We did not search our road-maps for Polperro because of anything the guide-books say about it, for these dismiss it as a "picturesque fishing village on the South Devonshire coast." There are dozens of such villages in Devon and Cornwall, and only those travelers whose feet are directed by some happy chance to Polperro will know how much it outshines all its rivals, if, indeed, there are any worthy to be styled as such. Our interest in the quaint little hamlet was aroused at a London art exhibit, where a well-known English artist showed some three score clever sketches which arrested our attention at once. "I made them last summer during a stay at Polperro," he said in answer to our inquiry. "And where is Polperro, pray?" we asked with visions of Italy or Spain and were taken aback not a little to learn that a Devonshire village afforded subject matter for the sketches. And forthwith Polperro was added to the list of places we must see on our projected Land's End tour. A diligent search of our maps finally revealed the name and showed the distance about twenty miles from Plymouth. The road is steep and winding and there is only a network of narrow lanes for some miles out of the village. We leave Plymouth after a night's sojourn at the Grand Hotel and cross the estuary at the Tor Point ferry, which makes trips at frequent intervals. A flat-bottomed ferry boat, held in place against the strong tides by heavy chains anchored at either end, takes us across for a moderate fare and we set out beneath a lowering sky to explore the rough and difficult but beautiful bit of country stretching along the coast from Plymouth to Fowey Harbor. Indeed, we had in mind to cross the estuary by ferry at the latter place and asked a garage employee about the facilities for so doing. "Hi wouldn't recommend it, sir. Last week a gent with a motor tried it and the boat tipped and let the car into the water. Hi went down to 'elp them get it out and you could just see the top sticking out at low tide." And so we altered our route to go around the estuary--some fifteen miles--rather than chance repeating the exciting experience of our fellow-motorist of the week before. But this is a digression--I had meant to say that there is little to engage our attention for several miles after crossing at Tor Point. The country is studded with rough hills and our route cuts across some of these, a wide outlook often rewarding the steep climb to the summits. We cautiously follow the sinuous road until it pitches sharply down into the ravinelike coomb occupied by the Looes, East and West, according to their position on the river. These villages cling to the steep hills, rising from either side of the river, which we cross by a lichen-covered bridge hung with a multitude of fishing nets. We see a confused medley of houses elbowing one another out into the roadway until their sagging gables nearly meet in places, built apparently with sublime disregard of the points of the compass and without any preconceived plan. Once it was a famous fishing port, but now the industry is conducted on a small scale only and the Looes have to depend largely on vacationists from Plymouth in summertime. We do not linger here, but after crossing the bridge we enter the narrow road that cuts straight across the hills to Polperro. It is a rough, hilly road and the heavy grades shift the gears more than once; but it carries us to splendid vantage-points where we pause to glance at the landscape. There are wide expanses of wooded hills with lovely intersecting valleys, the predominating green dashed with broad splotches of purple heather--the rankest and most brilliant of any we saw in a land famous for its heather! Over all stretches the mottled sky, reflecting its moods on the varied scenes beneath--here a broad belt of sunlight, yonder a drifting shower, for it is one of those fitful days that alternately smiles and weeps. We descend another long hill and enter the lane which runs down the ravine into the main street of Polperro. [Illustration: A STREET IN EAST LOOE--CORNWALL] The main street of Polperro! Was there ever another avenue like it?--a cobble-paved, crooked alley scarce a half dozen feet from curb to curb, too narrow for vehicles of any kind to pass. The natives come out and stare in wonderment at our presumption in driving a motor into Polperro--and we become a little doubtful ourselves when a sharp turn bars our progress near the post office. A man, seeing us hesitate, tells us we cannot very well go farther--a suggestion with which we quite agree--and leaving the car surrounded by a group of wondering children we set out on foot to explore the mysteries of Polperro. I think we can truthfully declare that of all the queer villages we saw in Britain--and it would be a long story to tell of them--no other matched the simple, unpretentious fisher-town of Polperro. No huge hotel with glaring paint, no amusement pier or promenade, none of the earmarks of the conventional resort into which so many fine old towns have--shall I say degenerated?--are to be seen; nothing but the strangest jumble of old stone houses, wedged in the narrow ravinelike valley. So irregularly are they placed, with such a total disregard of straight lines and directions, that it seems, as one writer has remarked, that they might originally have been built on the hillsides at decent distances from each other and by some cataclysm slid down in a solid mass along the river. The streets are little more than footpaths and wind among a hundred odd corners, of which the one shown in our sketch is only typical. We cross the river--at low tide only a shallow stream--by the narrow high-arched bridge, whose odd design and lichen-covered stones are in perfect keeping with the surroundings, and come out on the sea wall that overlooks the tiny harbor. A dozen old salts--dreaming, no doubt, of their active younger days on the blue sea stretching out before them--are roused from their reveries and regard us curiously. Evidently tourists are not an everyday incident in Polperro, and they treat us with the utmost civility, answering our queries in broad Cornish accent that we have to follow closely to understand. A few fishing boats still go out of the town, but its brave old days are past; modern progress, while it has left Polperro quite untouched, has swept away its ancient source of prosperity. Once its harbor was a famous retreat for smugglers, who did a thriving business along the Cornish coast, and it is possible some of these old fellows may have heard their fathers tell thrilling tales of the little craft which slipped into the narrow inlet with contraband cargos; of wrecks and prizes, with spoils of merchandise and gold, so welcome to the needy fisherfolk, and of fierce and often deadly conflicts with the king's officers. [Illustration: POLPERRO, CORNWALL--LOOKING TOWARD THE SEA] The tide is out and a few boats lie helplessly on their sides in the harbor; no doubt the scene is more animated and pleasing when the green water comes swelling up the inlet and fills the river channel, now strewn with considerable unsightly debris. A violent storm driving the ocean into the narrow cleft where the town lies must be a fearsome spectacle to the inhabitants, and fortunately it has been well described by Polperro's historian, who has told a delightful story of the town. "In the time of storm," he writes, "Polperro is a striking scene of bustle and excitement. The noise of the wind as it roars up the coomb, the hoarse rumbling of the angry sea, the shouts of the fishermen engaged in securing their boats, and the screams of the women and children carrying the tidings of the latest disaster, are a peculiarly melancholy assemblage of sounds, especially when heard at midnight. All who can render assistance are out of their beds, helping the sailors and fishermen; lifting the boats out of reach of the sea, or taking the furniture of the ground floors to a place of safety. When the first streak of morning light comes, bringing no cessation of the storm, but only serving to show the devastation it has made, the effect is still more dismal. The wild fury of the waves is a sight of no mean grandeur as it dashes over the peak and falls on its jagged summit, from whence it streams down the sides in a thousand waterfalls and foams at its base. The infuriated sea sweeps over the piers and striking against the rocks and houses on the warren side rebounds towards the strand, and washes fragments of houses and boats into the streets, where the receding tide leaves them strewn in sad confusion." A brisk rain begins as we saunter along the river, and we recall that the car has been left with top down and contents exposed to the weather. We hasten back only to find that some of the fisherfolk have anticipated us--they have drawn the top forward and covered everything from the rain as carefully as we could have done--a thoughtfulness for the stranger in the village that we appreciate all the more for its rarity. And though we left the car surrounded by a group of merry, curious children, not a thing is disturbed. [Illustration: LANSALLOS CHURCH, POLPERRO] The postmaster is principal shopkeeper and from him we learn something of the town and secure a number of pictures which we prize, though pictures are hopelessly inadequate to give any real idea of Polperro. As yet tourist visitors to the village are not numerous, though artists frequently come and are no longer a source of wonderment to the natives. Two plain but comfortable old inns afford fair accommodations for those who wish to prolong their stay. With the increasing vogue of the motor car, Polperro's guests are bound to be on the increase, though few of them will remain longer than an hour or two, since there is little to detain one save the village itself. Lansallos Church is a splendid edifice surrounded by tall trees beneath which are mouldering gravestones upon which one may read queer inscriptions and epitaphs. There is also an ancient water-mill just where the road enters the village, which still does daily duty, its huge overshot wheel turning slowly and clumsily as the clear little moorland stream dashes upon it. No famous man has come forth from the village, but it produced a host of hardy seamen, who, under such leaders as Drake and Nelson, did their full share in maintaining the unbroken naval supremacy of England. And not a few of those who fought so valiantly for their country gained their sea training and developed their hardihood and resourcefulness in the ancient and--in Devon and Cornwall--honorable occupation of smuggling. We follow narrow, hedge-bordered lanes northward for several miles to regain the main road from Liskeard to Lostwithiel; for while we should have preferred the coast route, we have no desire to try conclusions with the ferry at Fowey. The fitful weather has taken another tack and for half an hour we are deluged, the driving rain turning the narrow roads into rivers and making progress exceedingly slow. When we reach the main highway the rain abruptly ceases and the sky again breaks into mottled patches of blue and white, which scatter sunshine and shadow over the fields. The country is intensely green and we are now in a spot which a good authority declares the loveliest inland scenery in Cornwall. It is the pleasant vale of the River Fowey, in the center of which stands the charming old town of Lostwithiel, surrounded by luxuriant pastures which stretch away to the green encircling hills. There is a fourteenth-century bridge in the town which seems sturdy for all its six hundred years of flood and storm; and the church spire, with its richly carved open-work lantern, has been styled "the glory of Cornwall," and we will agree that it is one of the glories of Cornwall, in any event. It shows marks of cannon shot, for considerable fighting raged round the town during the civil war. So narrow and steep is the street that pitches down the hill into Fowey that we leave the car at the top and make the descent on foot. Indeed, the majority of the streets of the town are so narrow and crooked that it is difficult for a vehicle of any size to get about easily. From the hill we have a fine view of the little land-locked harbor, dotted with fishing vessels. It shows to-day a peculiar color effect--dark blue, almost violet, out seaward, while it fades through many variations of greens and blues into pale emerald near the shore. The town is clean and substantial-looking and it must have presented much the same appearance two hundred years ago--no doubt most of the buildings we now see were standing then. It is now a mere fisher village, somewhat larger and not quite so primitive as Polperro, though in the day of smaller ships it contended with Plymouth and Dartmouth for distinction as chief port of Cornwall. It was during its period of prosperity and maritime importance that the two towers, yet standing, were erected to guard the entrance of the harbor. A chain stretched between these made the town almost impregnable from attack by sea. Here the old-time seamen dwelt in security and plotted smuggling expeditions and raids upon the French--gentle occupations which greatly contributed to the prosperity of the town. These profitable trades about the middle of the fifteenth century proved Fowey's undoing. Peace had been declared with France, but the bold sailors went on with their raids and captured French vessels quite regardless of the treaties with that nation. This so incensed King Edward IV. that he caused numerous "leading citizens" of Fowey to be summarily hanged, levied a heavy fine on the town, and handed its ships over to the port of Dartmouth. The last proceeding seems like a grim bit of humor, for Dartmouth sailors were no less offenders against France than their unfortunate neighbors. After this sad experience it was long ere Fowey again held up its head and in the meanwhile it was far distanced by its former rivals. Its sailors, who had wrought many valorous deeds in the English navy, were little heard of afterwards and the rash, foolish action of the king practically wiped out an important port that would still have bred thousands of bold seamen to serve their country. [Illustration: A STREET IN FOWEY--CORNWALL] At the harbor wall a grizzled old fisherman approaches us and politely touching his cap offers to row us to a number of places which he declares we should see. We demur, not being fond of row-boats; he persists in his broad South-Country speech--to give it is past my linguistic powers, though I wish I could--"Pardon me for pushing my trade; it's the only way I have of earning a living now, since I gave up the sea." We think it worth the modest sum he proposes to charge us for a trip to hear him talk and we ask him about himself. "I was a sailor, sir, for more than fifty years and I saw a lot of hardship in my day with nothing to show for it now. It was all right when I was young and fond of roving, but as I grew old it began to pall and I wished I might have been able to lead a different life. But I had to stick to it until I was too old to stand the work, and I got the little boat here which makes me a poor living--there's nothing doing except in summertime and I have to get along as best I can in winter." "Do you own a house?" "Own a house?" he echoed in surprise at our ignorance. "Nobody owns a house here; the squire who lives in the big place on the hill yonder owns the town--and everybody in it. A common man hasn't any chance to own anything in England. It doesn't seem fair and I don't understand it--but we live by it in England--we live by it in England." We divert his bitter reflections by asking him about the town. "Don't forget the old Ship Inn," he said, "and the church--it has the tallest tower in Cornwall. You can see through the big castle on the hill if you get permission. Any famous people?--why, yes--Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch lives here. He's our only titled man and some of his books, they say, tell about Fowey." We thank our sailor friend and repair to the Ship Inn, as he counseled us. They show us the "great Tudor room," the pride of the house--a large beamed and paneled apartment with many black-oak carvings. But the chief end of the Ship to-day appears to be liquor selling, and not being bibulously inclined, we depart for the church. It was built in the reign of Edward IV., just before that monarch dealt the town its death-blow as a port and marked the end of Fowey's prosperity. The timber roof, the carved-oak pulpit and stone baptismal font are all unusually fine and there are some elaborate monuments to old-time dignitaries of the town. Place House, the great castellated palace on the hill, with immense, elaborately carved bow-windows, is the dominating feature of the town. Inside there is some remarkable open timberwork roofing the great hall and much antique paneling and carving. There is also a valuable collection of furniture and objects of art which has accumulated in the four hundred years that the place has belonged to the Treffry family. It is more of a palatial residence than a fortress and it appears never to have suffered seriously from siege or warfare. [Illustration: PROBUS CHURCH TOWER, CORNWALL] We are soon away on the highroad to Truro, which proves good though steep in places. There is a fine medieval church at St. Austell and another at Probus has one of the most striking towers we saw in England. It is of later origin than the main body of the church; some two hundred feet high, and is surmounted by Gothic pinnacles, with carved stone balustrades extending between them. Near the top it is pierced by eight large perpendicular windows, two to each side, and it is altogether a graceful and imposing edifice. Such churches in the poor little towns that cluster about them--no doubt poorer when the churches were built--go to show the store the Cornishmen of early days set by their religion, which led them out of their poverty to rear such stately structures; but it is quite likely that a goodly part of the profits of their old occupations--wrecking, smuggling and piracy--went into these churches as a salve to conscience. Nor is the church-building spirit entirely extinct, as proven by the magnificent towers of Truro Cathedral, of which I shall have more to say anon and which soon breaks into our view. [Illustration: KYNANCE COVE, CORNWALL From original painting by Warne-Browne] As a matter of variation we take the southern route by the way of Helston from Truro to Penzance. This is rougher and has more steep hills than the direct road through Rudruth. Helston is some ten miles north of the Lizard Peninsula, where there is much beautiful coast scenery--especially Kynance Cove. Coming up the road along the coast toward Marazion, one gets a perfect view of the castle-crowned bulk of the Cornish St. Michael's Mount, the seat of the St. Aubyns. In the distance it stands like an immense pyramid against a wide reach of sunset sky, but as we come nearer the towers and battlements of the castle come out weird and strange; in the purple shadows the whole vast pile savors of enchantment. Beyond it shimmers the wide calm of Penzance Harbor--as it chances, dotted with the dark forms of some fifty leviathans of the British navy. For there is to be a great naval review in Penzance the coming week; the king and queen and a host of celebrities are expected. The town is gay with decorations and delirious with expectancy of the big events to come. Graham-White, the famous aviator, is to appear and there are to be many thrilling evolutions and much powder-burning by the royal fleet. Hotels and lodging-houses are crowded to the limit and if we have ever been somewhat dubious whether to try the hospitality of Land's End for the night, it is settled now--we could hardly stay in Penzance unless we camp on the street. It was indeed a bitter disappointment to Penzance that the capricious Cornish weather completely ruined the expected fete. Furious winds and continual rain drove the fleet to the more sheltered Tor Bay and the programme, on a greatly reduced scale, took place there. Aside from the disappointment, the people of the town suffered a heavy loss in the large sums they had spent in anticipation of the event. But Penzance is all unconscious of the fate in store for it; its streets are thronged and it is fairly ablaze with the national colors and elaborate electrical decorations. We thread our way slowly through its streets into the lonely indifferent lane that winds over steep and barren hills to Land's End. XIX LAND'S END TO LONDON The first sight of Land's End Hotel, a low, drab-colored building standing on the bleak headland, is apt to beget in the wayfarer who approaches it at sunset a feeling of regret that he passed through Penzance without stopping for the night. Nor does his regret grow less when he is assigned to ill-furnished rooms with uncomfortable-looking beds--which, I may say, do not belie their looks--or when he sits down to a dinner that is only a slight improvement upon our memorable banquet at John O'Groats. But we did not come to Land's End to find London hotel comforts and conveniences, but for purely sentimental reasons, which should preclude any fault-finding if accommodations are not just to our liking. It was our fancy to spend a night at both Land's End and John O'Groats--and it must be largely imagination that attracts so many tourists to these widely separated localities, since there are surely hundreds of bits of English and Scottish coast more picturesque or imposing than either. [Illustration: SUNSET NEAR LAND'S END, CORNWALL From original painting by Thos. Moran, N. A.] But here we are, in any event, and we go forth in the gray twilight to take note of our surroundings. An old fellow who has been watching us closely since our arrival follows us and in a language that puzzles us a little urges the necessity of his services as guide if we are to see the wonders of Land's End. We are glad enough to have his assistance and he leads us toward the broken cliffs, thrusting their rugged bulk far into the white-capped waves which come rolling landward. The sky and sea are still tinged with the hues of sunset and a faint glow touches the reddish rocks along the shores. It is too late for the inspiring effect shown in Mr. Moran's wonderful picture--had we been an hour earlier we might have beheld such a scene. Subdued purplish hues now prevail and a dark violet-colored sea thunders upon the coast. The wind is blowing--to our notion, a gale, though our old guide calls it a stiff breeze. "A 'igh wind, sir? Wot would you call a wind that piles up the waves so you can't see yonder lighthouse, that's two hundred and fifty feet tall? That's wot I'd call a 'igh wind, sir. And you'd be drenched to the skin in a minute standing where you are." We revise our ideas of high winds accordingly, but a stiff breeze is quite enough for us, especially when the old man urges us to come out upon what seems to us an exceedingly precarious perch--because it is the "last rock in England." It stands almost sheer as a chimney with the sea foaming in indescribable fury some fifty or sixty feet below, and we have to decline, despite our guide's insistence that we are missing the chief sensation of Land's End. It was no doubt this identical spot which so impressed John Wesley, who visited Land's End in 1743, when he made his famous preaching tour in Cornwall. "It was an awful sight," he wrote. "But how will this melt away when God ariseth in judgment. The sea beneath doth indeed boil like a pot. One would indeed think the sea to be hoary! But though they swell, they cannot prevail. He shall set the bounds which they cannot pass!" But the great preacher did not say whether he stood on the "last rock" or not. We follow our guide in a strenuous scramble over the huge rocks to reach particular viewpoints, and, indeed, there are many awe-inspiring vistas of roaring ocean and rock-bound coast. Everywhere the sea attacks the shore in seeming fury, the great foam-crested waves sweeping against the jagged edges and breaking into a deluge of salt spray. "I've seen more than one ship go to pieces on these rocks in winter storms," says our guide. "At the last wreck twenty-seven lives were lost. I recovered one body myself--a fine Spanish-looking gentleman six feet three inches tall," he goes on, with an evident relish for gruesome details. "The winter storms must be terrible, indeed," we venture. "You can't imagine how dreadful," he answers. "I've seen the sea so rough that for three months no boat could reach yonder lighthouse a mile away; but the keeper was lucky to have food and he kept his light shining all the time. It's a dreary, lonely country in winter time, but more people would come if they only knew what an awful sight it is to see the sea washing over these headlands." The same story is told--in more polished language--by a writer who spent the winter in Cornwall and often visited Land's End on stormy nights: "The raving of the wind among the rocks; the dark ocean--exceedingly dark except when the flying clouds were broken and the stars shining in the clear spaces touched the big black incoming waves with a steely gray light; the jagged isolated rocks, on which so many ships have been shattered, rising in awful blackness from the spectral foam that appeared and vanished and appeared again; the multitudinous hoarse sounds of the sea, with throbbing and hollow booming noises in the caverns beneath--all together served to bring back something of the old vanished picture or vision of Bolerium as we first imagine it. The glare from the various lighthouses visible at this point only served to heighten the inexpressibly sombre effect, since shining from a distance they make the gloomy world appear vaster. Down in the south, twenty-five miles away, the low clouds were lit up at short intervals by wide white flashes, as of sheet lightning, from the Lizard light, the most powerful of all lights, the reflection of which may be seen at a distance of sixty or seventy miles at sea. In front of the Land's End promontory, within five miles of it, was the angry red glare from the Longships tower, and further away to the left the white revolving light of the Wolf lighthouse." Darkness has fallen and almost blotted out the wild surroundings save for the gleams which flash from the lighthouses across the somber waters. We wend our way back to our inn to rest as best we may in anything but comfortable beds after an unusually strenuous day; we have traveled but one hundred and twenty miles since leaving Plymouth in the morning, but we have seen so much and had such varied experiences that we have a dim feeling of having come many times as far. A glorious morning gives us the opportunity of seeing the wild coast at its best. A dark blue sea is breaking on the reddish brown rocks and chafing into white foam at their feet. We wander out on the headland to get a farewell glimpse of the scene--for there is little to tempt one to linger at Land's End; you may see it all at a sunset and sunrise. There is no historic ruin on the spot, and surely any thought of the hotel will hasten your departure if you ever had any intention of lingering. Sennan, a forlorn collection of stone huts about a mile from Land's End, is worth noting only as a type of the few tiny villages in the bit of barren country beyond Penzance and St. Ives. There is nothing to catch the artistic eye in these bleak little places; they lack the quaintness of Polperro or St. Ives and the coziness and color of the flower-embowered cottages of Somerset and Hampshire. The isolated farmhouses show the same characteristics and a description by a writer who lived in one of these during the winter months is full of interest: "Life on these small farms is incredibly rough. One may guess what it is like from the outward aspect of such places. Each, it is true, has its own individual character, but they are all pretty much alike in their dreary, naked and almost squalid appearance. Each, too, has its own ancient Cornish name, some of these very fine or very pretty, but you are tempted to rename them in your own mind Desolation Farm, Dreary Farm, Stony Farm, Bleak Farm and Hungry Farm. The farmhouse is a small, low place and invariably built of granite, with no garden or bush or flower about it. The one I stayed at was a couple of centuries old, but no one had ever thought of growing anything, even a marigold, to soften its bare, harsh aspect. The house itself could hardly be distinguished from the outhouses clustered round it. Several times on coming back to the house in a hurry and not exercising proper care I found I had made for the wrong door and got into the cow-house, or pig-house, or a shed of some sort, instead of into the human habitation. The cows and other animals were all about and you came through deep mud into the living-room. The pigs and fowls did not come in but were otherwise free to go where they liked. The rooms were very low; my hair, when I stood erect, just brushed the beams; but the living-room or kitchen was spacious for so small a house, and had the wide old open fireplace still common in this part of the country. Any other form of fireplace would not be suitable when the fuel consists of furze and turf." Such are the towns and farmhouses of this farthest Cornwall to-day--a country once prosperous on account of tin and copper mines which are all now abandoned. I doubt if there is a more poverty-stricken rural section in the Kingdom than Cornwall. I noted in a paper edited by a socialist candidate for the House of Commons a curious outburst over a donation made by the king to the poor of Cornwall, which was accompanied by a little homily from His Majesty on the necessity of the beneficiaries helping themselves. The article is so significant in the light it throws on certain social conditions and as illustrating a greater degree of freedom of speech than is generally supposed to exist in England that I feel it worth quoting: "Although we do not doubt the King's longing to help all his people, we must be forgiven if we refuse to be impressed by his apparent intensity of feeling. Not that we blame the King. In order to feel decently about the poor, one must have 'had some,' so to speak. And we can hardly imagine that King George knows much concerning the objects of his sympathy, when we consider the annual financial circumstances of his own compact little family. In the year that is ending they will have drawn between them the helpful pittance of six hundred thirty-four thousand pounds. This is exclusive of the income of the Prince of Wales, derived from the revenues of the Duchy of Cornwall. And even if this sum has been badly drained by Yuletide beneficence (as faintly threatened in the Church Army donation) the New Year will bring sure replenishment of the royal purse. "We should not have felt called upon to mention these little details were it not for the offensive phrase--'may they show their gratitude by industry and vigorous efforts to help themselves.' How can the poor devils who live in the foetid hovels which dot the Duchy of Cornwall 'help themselves?' Out of their shameful earnings--when they have any earnings--they must first pay toll to the bloated rent-roll of the King's infant son. Out of their constant penury they must help to provide an extravagant Civil List, to enable their Monarch to lecture on self-help at the end of a donation of twenty-five pounds. Help themselves? Show their gratitude? How can they help themselves when the earth was stolen from them before their birth, when their tools of production are owned and controlled by a group of moneyed parasites, when their laws are made and administered by the class which lives on their labours and fattens on their helplessness? Show their gratitude? Heaven have mercy upon us! What have they to be grateful for--these squalid, dependent, but always necessary outcasts of our civilization?" I fear this is pretty much of a digression, though I think an interesting one. Not all of Cornwall shows evidence of such poverty--the country steadily improves as we hasten to the fine old town of Truro and there is much good country beyond. Though we have come but thirty-six miles from Land's End, the indisposition of one of our party makes it advisable to pause in the old Cornish capital, where we may be sure of comfortable quarters at the Red Lion. We find this a commodious, substantial structure, built about two and a half centuries ago, with a fine entrance hall from which a black-oak stairway leads to the upper floors. Its accommodations and service seem to average with the best provincial hotels in towns the size of Truro, and, altogether, the Red Lion is perhaps as good a place to spend a day of enforced idleness as one is likely to come across. The town itself has little enough to interest the stranger, as I found in wandering about for some hours. Even the splendid cathedral lacks antiquity and historic association, for it still wants a few finishing touches. It has been about thirty years in building and more than a million dollars has been expended in the work. The exterior conforms to the best early English traditions, the most striking feature being the three splendid towers--the central one rising to a height of two hundred and fifty feet. The interior is somewhat glaring and bare, owing largely to the absence of stained-glass windows, of which there are only a few. A portion of the old parish church is included in the building and contains a few ancient monuments of little importance. On the whole, Truro Cathedral is a fine example of modern church architecture and proves that the art is not a lost one by any means. I was fortunate in happening to be inside during an organ rehearsal and more majestic and inspiring music I never heard than the solemn melodies which filled the vast vacant building. We are ready for the road after a day's sojourn in Truro, and depart in a steady rain which continues until nightfall. Our road--which we have traversed before--by way of St. Columb Major and Camelford to Launceston, is hilly and heavy and in the pouring rain we make only slow progress. The gray mist envelops the landscape; but it matters little, for the greater part of our road runs between the dirt fences I have described heretofore, which shut out much of the country, even on fine days. St. Columb and Camelford are dreary, angular little towns stretching closely along the highroad, quite unattractive in fine weather and under present conditions positively ugly. Camelford, some say, is the Camelot of the Arthurian romances, but surely no vestige of romance lingers about it to-day. From here we make a wild dash across the moor to Launceston--the rain is falling more heavily and the wind blowing a gale. Our meter seldom registers under forty miles, a pace that lands us quickly at the door of the White Hart; we are damp and cold and the old inn seems a timely haven, indeed. A change of raiment and warm luncheon makes us feel more at peace with the world, but we do not muster courage to venture out in the storm again. Perhaps if we could have foreseen that the following day would be no better, we should have resumed our journey. Indeed, the next morning the storm that drove the fleet away from Penzance was in full sway over Cornwall and a dreary, rain-swept country it was. The road northward to Holsworthy and Great Torrington is little else but a narrow and hilly lane, though as dreary a section as one will find in Cornwall or Devon, and here, also, the hedges intercept our view much of the way. The towns, too, are quite devoid of interest save the fine Perpendicular church which towers over Holsworthy. Bideford, famous in Kingsley's "Westward Ho!" and Barnstaple, with its potteries which produce the cheap but not inartistic "Barum ware," we have visited before and both have much worth seeing. We are now out of the zone of the storm and the weather is more tolerable; we have really been suffering from the cold in midsummer--not an uncommon thing in Britain. There are two first-class old inns at Taunton--on different occasions people of the town had assured us that each was the best--and though Baedeker gives the London the preference and honors it with the much coveted star, we thought the Castle equally good. It is a gray-stone, ivy-covered building near the castle and if our luncheon may be taken as an index, its service is all that can be desired. A little way out of Taunton we notice a monument a short distance from the roadside and easily identify it from pictures which we have seen as the memorial erected to commemorate the victory of King Alfred over the Danes at Sedgemoor. In olden times this whole section was a vast marsh in which was the Isle of Athelney, surrounded by an almost impenetrable morass. The king and a band of faithful followers built a causeway to the island, which served as a retreat while marshalling sufficient force to cope with the invaders. The rally of the Saxons around the intrepid king finally resulted in a signal victory, which broke the Danish power in England. Alfred built an abbey near the spot as a mark of pious gratitude for his success, but scarcely a trace remains of the structure to-day. In the same vicinity is supposed to have occurred the famous incident of King Alfred and the cakes, which he allowed to burn while watching them. Alfred was then in hiding, disguised as a farm laborer, and received a severe berating from the angry housewife for his carelessness. But Sedgemoor is historic in a double sense, for here the conflict occurred between the forces of James II. and the ill-fated Duke of Monmouth, to which we have previously referred. The rebels planned a night attack on the royal army, and, knowing that carelessness and debauchery would prevail in the king's camp on Sunday, they chose that day for the assault. The accidental discharge of a pistol gave warning of the approach of the assailants and they had the farther misfortune to be hopelessly entangled in the deep drainage ditches which then (as now) intersected the valley. The result was a disastrous defeat for the Duke's followers, of whom a thousand were slain. Monmouth himself was discovered by his enemies after two days' search, hiding in a ditch, and was duly executed in London Tower. Some five hundred of his followers--mostly ignorant peasants--were hanged at Taunton and Dorchester by orders of the infamous Jeffreys. This battle, which took place on Sunday, July 5, 1685, was the last of any consequence to be fought on English soil. The historic field to-day is green and prosperous-looking and the only indication that it was once a marshy fen is the ditches which drain its surplus waters. We pass Glastonbury and Wells, which might well detain us had we not visited them previously, for in all England there are few towns richer in tradition and history than the former; and the latter's cathedral no well-informed traveler would wish to miss. Bath, we know from several previous sojourns, affords an unequalled stopping-place for the night and we soon renew acquaintance at the Empire Hotel, where we are now fairly well known. Our odometer shows an unusually long day's run, much of which was under trying conditions of road and weather. This hotel belongs to a syndicate which owns several others, in London and at various resorts throughout the country. A guest who enters into a contract may stay the year round at these hotels for a surprisingly low figure, going from one to the other according to his pleasure--to Folkestone, for instance, if he wishes the seaside, or to London if he inclines towards the metropolis. Many English people of leisure avail themselves of this plan, which, it would seem, has its advantages in somewhat relieving the monotony of life in a single hotel. Though we have been in Bath several times, something has always interfered with our plan to visit the abbey church and we resolve to make amends before we set out Londonward. There are few statelier church edifices in the island--the "Lantern of England," as the guide-books style it, on account of its magnificent windows. These are mainly modern and prove that the art of making stained glass is far from lost, as has sometimes been insisted. So predominating are the windows, in fact, that one writer declares, "It is the beauty of a flower a little overblown, though it has its charms just the same." The most remarkable of all is the great western group of seven splendid windows illustrating biblical subjects in wonderfully harmonious colors. As may be imagined, the interior is unusually well lighted, though the soft color tones prevent any garish effect. The intricate tracery of the fine fan vaulted ceiling is clearly brought out and also the delicate carving on the screen--a modern restoration, by the way. The monuments are tasteless and, in the main, of little importance, though our attention is naturally arrested by a memorial to "William Bingham, Senator of the United States of America," who died at Bath in 1804. The exterior of the abbey--they tell us--has many architectural defects, though these are not apparent to the layman. The walls are supported by flying buttresses and the west front shows curious sculptures representing the angels upon Jacob's ladder. The tower, one hundred and sixty-five feet in height, is a pure example of English Perpendicular and is rather peculiar in that it is oblong rather than square. As we leave the town we cannot but admire its cleanliness and beautiful location. It skirts both banks of the River Avon and is surrounded by an amphitheater of wooded hills. To our notion it is the finest of inland English resort towns and certainly none has a more varied past, nor has any other figured so extensively in literature. It is about one hundred miles from London by road, and is a favorite goal for the motorist from that city. The road to London is a fine broad highway leading through Marlborough and Reading. It proves a splendid farewell run to our third long motor tour through Britain; we have covered in all nearly twenty thousand miles of highways and byways during varying weather. If there has been much sunshine, there have also been weeks of rain and many lowering gloomy days. There is scarce an historic shrine of importance in the Kingdom that has escaped us and we have visited hundreds of odd corners not even mentioned in the guide-books. And, best of all, we have come to know the people and have gained considerable familiarity with their institutions, which has not lessened our respect and admiration for the Motherland. Indeed, I feel that our experience sufficiently warrants a chapter on the English at home--as we saw them--and I make no apology for concluding this book with such. It is not free from criticism, I know, but could an honest observer write more favorably of our own country--if conditions were such that he might tour our populous states as thoroughly as we have done Britain? Our last day on the road fulfills the ideal of English midsummer; the storm has passed, leaving the country fresh and bright; green fields alternate with the waving gold of the ripening harvest, and here and there we pass an old village or a solitary cottage by the roadside--all typical of the rural England we have come to love so much. We drive leisurely over the fine road and linger an hour or two in Marlborough after luncheon at the Ailesbury Arms, whose excellence we have proven on previous occasions. We find an antique-shop here with a store of old silver that rivals our discovery in Largo, and the prices asked are no higher. From Reading we follow the Thames River road, which for some miles skirts the very shore of the historic stream and passes within a distant view of the towers of Windsor, rising in all their romantic majesty against the sunset sky. From Windsor we follow the familiar road to the heart of the teeming metropolis and our third long motor pilgrimage in Summer Britain is at its close. [Illustration: "A DISTANT VIEW OF THE TOWERS OF WINDSOR" From original painting by the late Edward Moran] XX THE ENGLISH AND THEIR INSTITUTIONS One who has spent many months in the United Kingdom, traveling about twenty thousand miles by motor and considerably by train, and who has met and conversed with the common people of every section of the country in the most retired nooks and in metropolitan cities, may, I hope without undue assumption, venture a few remarks on the English people and their institutions. One would be a dull observer indeed if he did not, with the opportunities which we had, see and learn many things concerning present-day Britain. It is the custom of some American writers, even of recent date, to allege that a general dislike of Americans exists in the Kingdom; and it would not be very strange if this should be true, considering the manner in which many Americans conduct themselves while abroad. Our own experience was that such an idea is not well founded. In all our wanderings we saw no evidence whatever of such dislike. In England everyone knows an American at sight and had there been the slightest unfriendliness towards Americans as a class, it would certainly have been apparent to us during such a tour as our own. I think many incidents cited in this as well as in my former books go to prove that the reverse is true, but these incidents are only a fraction of what I might have given. That a certain uncongeniality, due to a difference in temperament and lack of mutual understanding, exists between the average American and the average Englishman, we may freely admit, but it would be wrong to view this as personal dislike of each other. I have no doubt that even this barrier will disappear in time, just as the dislike and jealousy which really did exist a quarter of a century ago have disappeared. Who could now conceive of the situation that moved Nathaniel Hawthorne to write in "Our Old Home" fifty years ago: "An American is not apt to love the English people, on whatever length of acquaintance. I fancy they would value our regard and even reciprocate it in their ungracious way if we could give it to them, in spite of all rebuffs; but they are beset by a curious and inevitable infelicity which compels them, as it were, to keep up what they consider a wholesome feeling of bitterness between themselves and all other nations, especially Americans." Of our own experience, at least, we may speak with authority. As a result of our several sojourns in Britain and extensive journeyings in every part of the Kingdom, we came to have only the kindest regard for the people and greater appreciation of their apparent good will. As we became better informed we were only the more interested in the history and traditions of the Motherland, and we almost came to feel something of the pride and satisfaction that must fill the breast of the patriotic Englishman himself. Nothing will serve more to impress on one the close connection between the two countries than the common literature which one finds everywhere in both; and you will pass scarce a town or village on all the highways and byways of the Old Country that has not its namesake in America. Our impressions as to the fairness and honesty of the English people generally were most favorable. First of all, our dealings with hotels were perhaps the most numerous of our business transactions. Never to my recollection did we inquire in advance the price of accommodations, and I recall scarcely a single instance where we had reason to believe this had been taken advantage of. This was indeed in striking contrast to our experience with innkeepers on the Continent. For an American in possession of a motor to take up quarters in the average French or German hotel without close bargaining and an exact understanding as to charges would soon mean financial ruin to the tourist of moderate means. We could give almost as good report of the many English shopkeepers with whom we dealt--there was no evidence of any attempt to overcharge us on account of being tourists. Nor did I ever have a cab or carriage-driver try to exact more than was coming to him--though of course a small extra fee is always expected--certainly a contrast with New York City, for instance, where it is always hazardous to get into a cab without an iron-clad agreement with the driver. Perhaps the credit for this state of affairs may be due not so much to the honesty of the English Jehus as to a public sentiment which will not tolerate robbery. Nor should I fail to mention that in twenty thousand miles of touring our car was left unguarded hundreds of times with much movable property in it, and during our whole journey we never lost the value of a farthing from theft. It is no new thing to say that the average Englishman is insular--but this became much more to us than mere hearsay before we left the country. The vision of few of the people extends beyond the Island, and we might almost say, beyond an immediate neighborhood. There is a great disinclination to get out of an established groove; outside of certain classes there appears to be little ambition to travel. I know of one intelligent young man of thirty who had never seen salt water--nowhere in England more than a hundred miles distant. I was told that a journey from a country town in Scotland or North England to London is an event in a lifetime with almost any one of the natives. The world beyond the confines of England is vague indeed; Germany, the universal bugbear, is best known and cordially hated, but of America only the haziest notions prevail. Not one in a thousand has any conception of our distances and excepting possibly a dozen cities, one town in America is quite as unknown as another. Akin to this insularity is the lack of enterprise and adaptability everywhere noticeable--a clinging to outworn customs and methods. Since the English vision does not extend to the outer world, but little seems to be expected or even desired of it. There is not the constant desire for improvement, and the eager seeking after some way to do things quicker and better--so characteristic of America--is usually wanting. An American manufacturer will discard even new machinery if something more efficient comes out, but an Englishman only thinks of making his present machine last to the very limit of endurance. A friend told me of a relative of his who boasted that in his mill a steam engine had been running fifty years; it never occurred to the mill-owner that the old engine almost yearly ate up the cost of a new one on account of inefficiency and wasted fuel. Often in garages where I took my car to have it cleaned and oiled, I could not help noting the inefficiency of the workmen. At times I had the engine crank case removed and cleaned and this one little thing gave a painful insight into the methods of the English workman. Nothing could be simpler than removing and replacing the dust shield under the engine--simply snapping six spring catches out of and into position. Yet I have seen one or even two men crawl around under the car for a half hour or more in performing this simple operation. In replacing the oil reservoir and pump I found that nothing would take the place of personal supervision--a cotter pin, gasket or what not would surely be left out to give further trouble. Repairing an American car in a provincial town would be a serious job unless the owner or his driver were able to oversee and direct the work. As I have stated, we left England with decidedly favorable impressions of the country and people; so much so that I doubt not many of our fellow-countrymen would think us unduly prejudiced. But all this did not blind us to the fact that England in many regards is in a distinctly bad way and that a thorough awakening must come if she is to avoid sure decadence. Indeed, there are many, chief among them distinguished Englishmen and colonials, who aver that such decadence has already begun, but there is much difference of opinion as to its cause and as to what may best check its progress. If I were to give my own humble opinion as to the chief disadvantage from which the country suffers and the most depressing influence on national character, I should place feudalism first of all and by this I mean the system of inherited titles, offices and entailed estates. I know that the government of the Kingdom is regarded as one of great efficiency and stability, and I think justly so; and this is often urged by apologists for the feudal system. But the Englishman is slow to learn that just as stable and quite as efficient government may be had without the handicap of outworn medievalism. That the present system seems to work well in England is not due to any inherent merit it may possess, but to the homogeneity of the nation, and to a universal spirit of law-abiding that would insure success for almost any respectable type of government. It does not work well in Ireland and never has; and it has substantially been abandoned in the self-governing colonies. It seems to me, however, that the question as to how the feudal system works in government is of little consequence as compared with its ultimate effect on national character under modern conditions; for it is all out of accord with the spirit of modern progress, and if it ever served a useful purpose, it has well outlived it. One may justly claim that the king and the nobility have really little to do with governing, especially since the abolition of the veto of the House of Lords; that the will of the people finds expression in England quite as strongly as anywhere; but even if we admit this, I cannot see that it offers any argument in favor of feudalism. No one can make a tour of England such as ours and not observe the spirit of servility among the common people due to the inbred reverence for a title. Indeed, there is no feeling in England that all men are born free and equal, or that one man is quite as good as another so long as he behaves himself. A mere title, Sir, Duke, Earl, Lord or what-not, creates at once a different order of being and the toadyism to such titular distinctions is plainly noticeable everywhere. An earl or a duke is at our hotel; he may be a bankrupt, inconsequential fellow, it is true; he may not have a single personal trait to command respect and he may not be engaged in any useful industry. But there is much salaaming and everyone about the place assumes an awe-stricken, menial attitude, merely because the gentleman has the prefix Earl or Duke--there can be no other reason. Is it strange that such a spirit causes the common people to lose self-reliance and yield up their ambition to be anything more than their fathers before them? A proportion of the nobility may be composed of men of character and ability, fitted to occupy positions of authority and public responsibility and the present king may be all that a king should be; but the system is wrong and its effect on English character can hardly fail to have an untoward influence on the nation. I find this view borne out in a guarded way in a book recently published by a prominent colonial official who spent some time in England. He insists that the lack of patriotism, which one can hardly fail to observe, is due to the present social system. He declares that the common people take little interest in national affairs and make no study of problems confronting the government. They expect the so-called "upper classes" to do the governing for them; there is no need to concern themselves over matters that must be settled by a House of Lords in whose choosing they can have no voice. The recruits to the nobility now come almost exclusively from the wealthy class; we often have flung in our faces in England the taunt that there is an aristocracy of wealth in America, and that the pursuit of the Almighty Dollar is the all-prevailing passion. It may be just, in the same general way that I intend these remarks to apply to England, but we can at least retort that our oil, beef, mining and railway magnates cannot purchase a title and found a "family," thus becoming in the public eye a superior class of beings and established as our hereditary rulers. A wealthy brewer may not become "my lord" for a consideration, in any event. A recent American writer makes the curious apology for the House of Lords as a legislative body that it affords the English people the services of the most successful moneyed men in framing laws and that the sons of such men are pretty sure to be practical, well-trained fellows themselves. He also argues that the families usually die out in a few generations, thus introducing new blood continually and forming, in his estimation, a most capable legislative body. The preposterous nature of such statements can best be shown by trying to apply such a system to the United States Senate. If our senators, for instance, were hereditary lords, recruited from the oil, beef, brewing, mining or railway magnates aforementioned, what might the American people expect from them? We complain vigorously if any senator is shown to be influenced by such interests and more than one legislator has found out to his grief that such a connection will not be tolerated. Suppose we had a system that put the principals themselves in a permanent legislative body and invested them with all the glamour of "his grace" or "my lord?" Quite unthinkable--and yet such is the system in Britain. And these self-sacrificing hereditary legislators are no fonder of bearing the real burdens of the country than our own plutocrats are. There is much complaint in England that in the ranks of the nobility are to be found the most flagrant tax dodgers in the Kingdom. Nor does this complaint lack for vigorous utterance--a most hopeful sign of the times, to my notion. But recently a London paper exploited the case of the Marquis of Bute, owner of Cardiff Castle--and most of Cardiff, for that matter--who returned his personal tax at less than a thousand pounds, and that included Cardiff Castle and grounds, which represent literally millions! Yet no man in the Kingdom is better able to afford payment of his just tax than this nobleman. To show the gross injustice of his tax, a comparison was made of the castle with a humble tailor shop in Cardiff, ninety by one hundred and twenty feet, which was taxed at a higher figure! The newspaper in question also declared that this case was typical of tax-dodging lords all over the country. That there is a strong under-current against the feudal system cannot be doubted; we found it everywhere, though at times but half expressed and again only to be inferred, but it exists none the less. Indeed, more recent developments have shown the extent of such sentiment in the overthrow of the veto power of the Lords. This is a great step in advance, though England would be infinitely the gainer if the feudal system were abolished and not merely modified. This antagonism does not extend to royalty--that institution escapes through the popularity of the present king and queen. But the time may come when a weak and unpopular king will turn public sentiment against the very keystone of feudalism and the whole structure is likely to fall. When one recollects the furore that prevailed in England when the former king as Prince of Wales was mixed up with the Baccarat scandals, it is easy to see how much royalty owes its existence to good behavior. At that time doubt was freely expressed as to whether the prince would ever be king of England, but he lived it all down by his subsequent good record. I had many intelligent men admit that "your system of government is right; we shall come to it some time," or words to that effect, and we heard many ill-concealed flings at the nobility. "We are all the property of the nobility," said one intelligent young shopman of whom in the course of conversation we inquired if he owned his home. "No one has any chance to own anything or be anything in England." And in a prayer-book at Stratford Church we found the petition "for the nobility" erased with heavy pencil lines. I give these as typical of many similar instances, but I have no space in this book for discussion of the impressions I record. A volume would be required should I attempt this. I can only set down these random notes without elaborate argument. And yet, what could be more convincing that the social system of England is wrong than the hopelessness we found everywhere and the refrain that we heard oftener than any other, "A common man has no chance in England?" If he is not fortunate or a genius, there is nothing for him. He must either succumb to inevitable mediocrity and poverty or get away to some new country to gain the opportunity of competence and social promotion in any degree. It is to the feudal system that can be charged the astonishing state of affairs in England that makes a gentleman of a person with no occupation--a loafer, we would style him in America--and socially degrades the useful citizen engaged in trade. On this particular phase I will not pass my own comment, but quote from a book, "Wake Up, England," by P. A. Vaile, Premier of New Zealand, lately issued by a London publisher: "There is perhaps nothing in English life so disgusting to a man who has not the scales upon his eyes as the loathsome snobbery of those who profess to despise a man because his income is derived from a trade or business. It is wholly inexcusable and contemptible. Trade, instead of being considered honourable and dignified, is, in the eyes of every snob, a degradation. Unfortunately, snobs in England are not scarce. "The tradesman is himself in a great measure to blame for this, for he accepts humbly as his due the contempt that is meted out to him. Most of those who so freely despise the poor necessary man of trade, have a portion of their savings, when they are lucky enough to have any, invested in some large millinery or pork-butcher's business that has been floated into a limited liability company--yet to them the man who earns their dividends is absolutely outside the pale. "If there is any nation that I know that is hopelessly bourgeois, it is England. Why can we not be manly enough to recognize the fact, to acknowledge and freely admit to ourselves that we are a nation of very commonplace individuals, mostly shopkeepers, that it is the shopkeepers who have made the nation what she is, and that commerce is an occupation worthy of any gentleman instead of being a calling which merits the contempt of the idle, the rich and the foolish?" If such a condition prevails in England, it can surely be chargeable to nothing else than a system which places the stamp of superiority on the idler and puts him in a position where he can assume a patronizing air towards those who are the backbone and mainstay of the nation. Hand in hand with outworn feudalism goes the established church, of which it is really a part and parcel. A state religion of which a none too religious king may be the head, and whose control may fall into the hands of politicians who are frequently without the first qualification of churchmen, is an incongruity at best. If America has proven anything, she has demonstrated that absolute separation is best for both church and state; that true religious freedom and amity can best be conserved by it. But in England the established church is a constant bone of contention; its supercilious, holier-than-thou attitude toward the other churches is the cause of much heart-burning and friction. It has the sanction of the state, the social rank, the great church buildings and the traditions, and forces other Christian denominations into the attitude of the poor and rather shabby relation of a wealthy aristocrat--the wealth in this case not measured merely in money. Class distinction, the curse of England everywhere, is only fomented by the attitude of the established church. In religious matters it is not human nature to concede to anyone else superiority, and not until the Church of England places itself on common ground with its contemporaries, will true fraternity among the different denominations be possible in England as it is rapidly becoming in America. I remember a kindly old gentleman who showed us much courtesy in the English Boston in pointing out to us the places of interest, but who did not fall in with our enthusiasm over the great church. "Ah, yes," he said. "It once belonged to Rome, who grew arrogant and oppressive--and fell; it now belongs to a church that is just as arrogant and would be as much of an oppressor if she dared--and her downfall is just as sure." And the enthusiasm with which he pointed out the plain Wesleyan chapel betrayed his own predilections. That the educational system of England is faulty and inefficient we have the testimony of many leading English educators themselves. The constant interference of the Church of England and the Catholics with the public schools is greatly responsible for the chaos of the educational situation of the country. Conditions in England are such that a most excellent public school system might easily be maintained. The density of population and the perfect roads would make every rural school easily accessible, and there would be distinct advantages not enjoyed by many American communities which have far better schools. But church jealousy, hidebound tradition, and the almost universal inefficiency of English school-teachers, are obstacles hard to overcome. I cannot discuss so great a question in the limits of a short chapter, but the testimony of the most representative English educators may be found in the report of the commission which visited American schools under the guidance of Mr. Alfred Mosely. That England, generally speaking, is better and more efficiently governed than the United States is no proof that its system is as good as our own, or that its possibilities equal ours. It is rather due to the homogeneity of the masses and to a more prevalent respect for law and authority among the people. Justice is surer and swifter when the criminal's offense is once proven in the courts; but the many technicalities and the positive nature of proof required enables a large number of swindlers and rascals to keep at large. Dead-beats will evade debts, irresponsible tenants refuse payment of rents for indefinite periods, and petty swindlers go quite free--all of whom would be given short shrift in America--simply because it is a dangerous matter to risk infringing the "rights of the subject" and thus lay oneself liable to heavy damages should charges fail of proof. The excellence of the British police system is proverbial; in efficiency and honesty of administration it has no parallel in America. Bribery and corruption among policemen are unknown, as Americans sometimes learn to their grief--illustrated by the instance of a rich New Yorker who offered a gold coin to an officer who had held up his motor for speeding. The offender was fined, not only for speeding, but much more heavily for attempted bribery--as it was justly regarded by the court. From the hundreds of policemen of whom we made inquiries--often very stupid, no doubt, to the officer--we never had an answer with the slightest trace of ill nature or impatience. Frequently the officer gave us much assistance in a friendly way and information as to places of interest. The British policeman has no swagger or ostentation about him; he carries no weapon--not even the club so indispensible in the States--yet he will control the riotous crowds more effectively than his American brother; but we should remember that even a riotous English mob has more respect for law than one on our side. He appears to appreciate thoroughly the value of his position to him personally and his dignity as a conserver of law and order, which he represents rather than some ward politician or saloon-keeper. And, speaking of saloons--public houses, they call them in Britain--the drink evil averages worse than in the United States. Three quarters of a billion dollars go directly every year for spirituous liquors and no statistics could show the indirect cost in pauperism, suffering and crime, to say nothing of the deleterious effect on the health of a large portion of the people. In America liquor in the country hotel is an exception, constantly becoming rarer; in England it is the universal rule. Every hotel is quite as much a saloon, in our vernacular, as a house of entertainment for travelers. Women with children in their arms frequent the low-grade drink houses and women as bar-maids serve the liquors. More than once I had to exercise great caution on account of reeling drunken men on the streets of the smaller towns; but we had only hearsay for it that in the slums of Liverpool and London one may find hundreds of women dead drunk. There was much indignation over an insinuation made in parliament against the character of the bar-maids, but it is hard to see how many of these women, surrounded by the influences forced upon them by their vocation, can lead a decent life for any length of time. Surely the drink evil in Great Britain and Ireland is a serious one and deserves far more active measures than are being taken against it. That sentiment is slowly awakening is shown by the fight made for the "licensing bill" which proposed a step, though a distant one, towards repression of the traffic. That the almost world-wide movement against the liquor business will make headway in England is reasonably certain and those who have her welfare at heart will earnestly hope that its progress may be rapid. But in this connection I wish to emphasize that my observations on the liquor question in Britain are broadly general; there are millions of people in the Kingdom to whom they do not apply, and there are whole sections which should be excepted had I space to particularize. North Wales, for instance, has a population that for sobriety and general freedom from the evils of drink will rival any section of similar population anywhere. The mining towns of Southern Wales, however, are quite the reverse in this particular. While Wales is a loyal and patriotic part of the British Empire, there are many ways in which the people are quite distinct and peculiar as compared with native Englishmen. Perhaps the most notable point of difference is consistent opposition to the established church, which has little support in Wales and has been practically forced upon the Welsh people by the British government. Only recently a measure for disestablishment has been entertained in parliament and it is sure to come sooner or later. For the people of Northern Wales we came to have the highest respect and even regard. They were universally kind and courteous and their solicitude for the stranger within their gates seemed to be more than a mere desire to get his money. There is no place in the Kingdom where one may find good accommodations cheaper, barring a half dozen notable resorts in the height of the season. Added to this, the beauty of the country and its romantic and historic interest make a combination of attractions that would long detain one whose time permitted. The foregoing observations about the Welsh are applicable in a greater or less degree to many sections of England and to most of rural Scotland, save that in the latter country hotel expenses will average higher. A word on hotels generally may not come amiss from one whose experience has dealt with several hundreds of them of all classes and degrees, from the country inn to the pretentious resort hotel. It was our practice to seek out the best in every case, since we hardly enjoyed hotel life even under the most favorable conditions; but it was largely saved from monotony by the traditions which have gathered about almost every ancient inn in the Kingdom. One would miss much if he did not visit the old inns such as the Feathers in Ludlow, the Lygon Arms in Broadway, the Great White Horse in Ipswich, the King's Head in Coventry--but I could fill pages with names alone; I would as soon think of missing a historic castle or a cathedral as some of the inns. It is this sentiment that has led me to give the rather extended individual mention accorded in some cases. As a whole, the British hotels are comfortable and well conducted. Outside of London one will find the menus rather restricted and usually quite heavy and substantial from an American point of view. Special dishes are not easily obtained in the country inns and request for them is not at all enthusiastically received. Eggs and bacon--with the latter very nearly answering the specification of ham in America--with fish, usually sole or plaice, and tea or rather bad coffee, is the standard breakfast. Fruit cannot usually be had even in season without prearrangement the evening before, and then only at exorbitant prices. Strawberries, for instance--there are none finer than the English in season--may be selling for sixpence a quart, but you will pay half a crown extra for a lesser quantity served with your breakfast. An assortment of cold meats, usually displayed on the sideboard, forms the basis for luncheon and the very wise native will go to the sideboard and select his own portions. There will sometimes be a hot dish of meat; cabbage and potatoes are the standard vegetables, the latter cooked without seasoning and generally poor. A lettuce salad and cheese, with stewed fruit or a tart, as they style a pastry something similar to an American pie, will complete the meal--at least for one who does not care for liquid refreshments, which may be had in great variety. Dinner in the smaller inns is usually served on the table d'hote plan. A very poor soup, a bit of stale fish--inexcusable in a country surrounded by the sea; an entree, usually a highly seasoned hotch-potch, or chicken and bacon--often a vile combination--followed by some heavy, indigestible "sweet," made the standard evening meal. We finally rebelled against this and had many a lively tilt with the manageress in our efforts to get a plain meal of eggs, tea, bread and butter and perhaps a chop. In some of the resort hotels our demands caused positive consternation and in more than one case had to be taken up with the proprietor himself. The difficulty was chiefly due to the disarrangement of the regime; the table d'hote meal was ready, though often stale and cold, and one waiter by following the fixed routine could serve a dozen people, while our simple wants usually disarranged the whole program, both in kitchen and dining room. It was rare indeed that a mutton chop could be had in the hotel; some one must be sent to the meat shop for it, and any such departure from the fixed order of things jarred the nerves of the whole establishment. It is only fair to state, however, that at some of the fine inns I have especially mentioned there were notable exceptions to these generalizations. The rooms in the country hotel do not average very comfortable; the furniture is scant; they are poorly lighted--if not with candles, a single dim electric bulb or gas light serves the purpose; feather beds, with the odors that these give out in a damp climate, were not uncommon, though flat rebellion against them would often bring out the fact that there were others in the house. Bathing facilities were usually poor, a dirty bathroom or two serving the entire house. Not in a single case did we find running water in the rooms. But with all its drawbacks, the British provincial hotel will probably average as good as may be found in any country, and in motoring one has the option of going on to the next town if conditions seem too bad to be endured. Rates--to tourists--in the better class hotels are not low; yet I would not call them exorbitant as a rule. Two shillings for breakfast, three for luncheon and four to six for dinner may be given as the average, while the charge for rooms can hardly be generalized. Five or six dollars per day per person should cover the hotel expense, including tips. And, speaking of tips, these aggregate no inconsiderable item; a smaller individual amount will give satisfaction than in America, but the number of beneficiaries is so much greater that the total cost is more. Every servant who does anything for you or who ought to do anything, must have a fee--porter, boots, chambermaid, waiter, head waiter, stable man, garage attendant, the man who cleans your car or brings you oil or petrol; in fact, everyone in the hotel except the proprietor or manageress expects from sixpence to half a crown for the day, as the case may be, and it does not pay to withhold it. One subjected to such exactions cannot but view with great concern the increase of the practice of tipping in America; should it ever become so prevalent here at the much higher rate that the American servant requires, traveling would be prohibitive except for millionaires. [Illustration: FRANCE AND GERMANY Outline map showing Author's route on Continent.] INDEX A Abbeville, 7-8, 133. Abbotsford, 173-177. Aberdeen, 188-190. Achaius, King, 217. Ailsa Craig, 239. Alfred, King, 348-349. Alloway, 231-236, 250. Alsace, 59-60. Amboise, 32, 33, 35-36. Amiens, 129-133. Andover, 299. Angel Inn, Grantham, 149-150. Angers, 27-28. Austen, Jane, 308. Autun, 52-53. Avranches, 20-21. Awe, Loch, 225. Ayr, 230-231. B Baliol, John, 243-245. Ballachulish, 217-221, 223. Ballantrae, 240. Ballater, 188. Balmoral Castle, 187-188. Barnes, William, 302-303. Barnstaple, 348. Barrhead, 230. Bartholdi, Frederic, 60. Basingstoke, 299. Bassenthwaite Water, 246, 248-249. Bath, 350-351. Bayerischer-Hof, Fussen, 66-67. Bayeux, 16-17. Beaugency, 40-41. Beethoven, Ludwig, 97. Benderloch Station, 221, 223. Bennane Head, 240. Ben Nevis, 216, 217, 223. Berck-sur-Mer, 6-7. Berry Pomeroy Castle, 311-319. Bettyhill, 204-205. Beauly, 209. Bideford, 347-348. Bingen, 89-91. Bishop Auckland, 153-154. Blairgowrie, 185. Blandford, 300. Blois, 32, 36-40. Bonar Bridge, 194, 208. Bonn, 97. Bonsecours, 13-14. Bootle, 252, 257. Boppard, 93. Bornhofen, 93. Boroughbridge, 147. Boulogne, 4-6, 133, 134-135. Bowness, 259. Braemar, 182, 186-187. Bridport, 308. Broughton, 252, 257-258. Burns, Robert 181, 230-237. Burntisland, 182. Byrness, 156. Byron, Lord, 96, 188. C Caedmon, 162, 164, 168. Caen, 15-16. Caithness, 192-193. Calder Abbey, 253-254. Caledonian Canal, 210-212. Camelford, 346-347. Carlisle, 246. Carlton Hotel, Frankfort, 86. Casino, The, Boulogne, 135. Castle Douglas, 241, 242. Castle Hotel, Conway, 278, 280-281. Catcleugh, 156. Catherine de Medici, 34, 35-36, 38. Catherine of Beraine, Lady, 274. Cawdor Castle, 213. Charles I., 149, 267-268, 270, 295-296. Charles Edward, Prince, 152, 178-179, 212, 221-222. Chateaubriant, 26. Chaumont, 32. Chenonceaux, 32-34. Chester, 262-263. Chinon, 32, 52. Coblenz, 89, 94-96. Cockermouth, 248-251. Colmar, 60. Cologne, 96-99, 125. Constance, Lake, 62-64. Continental Hotel, Munich, 77, 80-81. Conway, 263-264, 278-297. Cook, Capt., 160, 170-171. Cook & Sons, Thos., 69-70, 210. Corbridge, 147, 155. Cosne, 46. Coutances, 20. Crinan Canal, 227. Cromarty Firth, 194. Cromwell, Oliver, 306. Culloden Moor, 212, 213, 217, 222. Culzean Castle, 237. Cupar, 184. D Dalton, 259. Darlington, 153. Darmstadt, 84. Darnick, 177-178. Deganwy, 287. Denbigh, 264-278. Derwentwater, 247, 248. Deutsches Haus, Friedrichshafen, 63-64. Devorgilla, Countess, 243-245. Diane of Poitiers, 33-34. Dickens, Charles, 301. Dijon, 48-53. Dingwall, 194. Dobson, H. J., 235-236, 282. Donaueschingen, 61. Doncaster, 147, 151. Dorchester, 299, 300-307, 350. Dornoch Firth, 194-195. Drachenfels, 96. Duarte, 225. Dudley, Robert, 269-270, 277. Dumfries, 241, 242, 245. Dunderawe Castle, 228. Dunolly, 224, 225. Dunrobin Castle, 195, 197. Dunure Castle, 237. Dunstaffnage, 225. E Edinburgh, 178-182. Edward I., 269, 277, 293. Edward IV., 330, 332. Edward VII., 186, 301. Egremont Castle, 252-253. Ehrenbreitstein, 95-96. Ehrenfels, 91. Elizabeth, Queen, 251, 269, 283. Elreton, Henry de, 293. Endicott, John, 302. English Channel, 2, 4, 133, 135. Escomb, 154. Eyre-Todd, George, 211, 232. Exeter, 308, 309. F Falkenburg Castle, 92. Feochan, Loch, 225-226. Folkestone, 3, 135. Fort Augustus, 212, 216. Fort William, 212, 216-218, 222. Fowey, 321, 328-333. Francis I., 35, 37. Francis II., 33, 35, 44. Frankfort, 84, 86-88. Freiburg, 60-61, 69. Friedrichshafen, 63-64. Furness Abbey, 258. Fussen, 66-68. Fyne, Loch, 227-228. G Gairlochy, 222. Gatehouse, 242. George, I., 156. George V., 343. Gerardmer, 57. Gibson, R. A., John, 289. Gilphead, Loch, 227. Girvan, 239. Glasgow, 229-230. Glastonbury, 350. Glen Affrick, 209. Glencoe, 221. Glengarry, 212. Glenluce, 241-242. Goethe, 87, 103. Golspie, 195-198. Grantham, 149-151. Granton, 182. Grand Hotel de France et de Londres, Avranches, 20-21. Granville, 20. Gray, 53. Great Glen, The, 193, 210-223. Great Orme's Head, 287. Great Torrington, 347. Guisborough, 153. Guise, 128. Guise, Duke of, 38-39. Gutenberg, Johann, 88-89. H Hardy, Thos., 303-305, 307. Hatfield, 147-148. Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 356. Heidelberg, 84-85. Helston, 334. Hemans, Felicia, 272. Henderson, T. F., 205. Henley, W. E., 181. Henry II., England, 12. Henry III., France, 38-39. Henry, VIII., England, 162, 260. Holsworthy, 347. Honfleur, 15. Hotel de France, Nevers, 46-47. Hotel de France et d'Angleterre, St. Quentin, 128-129. Hotel de la Croix d'Or, Sedan, 127. Hotel de Univers, St. Lo, 17, 19. Hotel de Ville, Orleans, 43-44. I Inverary, 228. Invercauld Arms, Braemar, 186. Invergarry, 222. Inverlochy, 212, 216-217. Inverness, 193, 212-213. Iona, 225. Irvine, 230-231. Isle of Athelney, 348. Ivy Bridge, 319. J James II., England, 349. James IV., Scotland, 242. Jeanne d'Arc, 10, 12-13, 41-44. Jedburgh, 147. Jeffreys, Judge, 303, 306-307, 350. John, King, 150. John O'Groats, 147, 199-202, 298, 336. Johnson, Dr. Samuel, 264, 272. Jones, John Paul, 251. K Karlsruhe, 84-85. Kendal, 259-261. Kennedy Castle, 241. Keswick, 246-248. Kilchimien, 216. Kilchurn, 225. Kilmartin, 227. Kilninver, 226. King's Arms, Dorchester, 300-301. Kingsley, Chas., 348. Kintyre, 236. Kirkcaldy, 182. Kirkoswald, 237. Klopp Castle, 90. Knox, John, 179, 184. L Lacy, Henry de, 266, 268. Lairg, 208. Lake District, 246-261. Lancaster, 262. Land's End, 263, 298, 336-341. Lansallos Church, 327. Largo, 182-184. Larne, 241. LaSalle, 12. Launceston, 346-347. Leven, Loch, 219. Lindau, 64. Linnhe, Loch, 216, 219. Linskill, Mary, 167-170. Lion d'Or, Neufchatel, 9. Liskeard, 328. Lochinch, 241. Lochnagar, 188. Lochy, Loch, 216. Loire River, 29, 40. Lomond, Loch, 228-229. London, 3, 352, 354. Longwy, 125. Looes, 322. Lorelei, The, 92. Lostwithiel, 328-329. Loyal, Loch, 207-208. Ludwigshaven, 62. Luxemburg, 99, 101-103, 125. Lyme Regis, 308-309. M Macbrayne Steamship Co., David, 212, 218. MacWhirter, R. A., John, 65, 209. McCaig's Folly, Oban, 224-225. Manchester Ship Canal, 263. Marlborough, 352-353. Marxburg, 94. Mary Stuart, 33, 35, 44, 179, 250-251. Maxwell-Scott, Hon. Mrs., 176. Maxwelton, 242. Mayence, 88-89. Melfort, Loch, 225, 227. Melfort, Pass of, 227. Melrose, 147, 173-174. Melvich, 204. Mezieres, 127. Millais, Sir John, 215. Millom, 257. Monmouth, Duke of, 306, 307, 349. Montgomery, James, 230. Montmedy, 127. Montreuil, 5-6, 134. Mont St. Michel, 20-24. Moran, Thos., 279-281, 337. Moselle River, 94, 96, 99, 101. Mosely, Alfred, 371. Mouse Tower, The, 91-92. Munich, 77-81. Mytton, Gen., 267-268, 270, 278. N Ness, Loch, 214-216. Neufchatel, 8-9. Neustadt, 61. Nevers, 45-47. New Abbey, 242-245. Newburgh, 184. Newby Bridge, 259. Newton Abbot, 309. Newton, Sir Isaac, 151. Newton-Stewart, 242. O Oban, 210, 214, 223-225. Oberammergau, 61, 68-77. Oberwesel, 93. Oich, Loch, 216. Orleans, 40-45. Oswy, King, 161. Oxford, 298. P Palace Hotel, Aberdeen, 188-190. Peel Tower, Darnick, 177-179. Penzance, 334-335, 341, 347. Perth, 182, 184-185. Peter the Hermit, 132. Philipson, Major Robert, 260-261. Pickering, 153. Pius VII., Pope, 46. Plas Mawr, 281-285. Plymouth, 318-319, 321, 329. Polperro, 320-327. Pommard, 52. Pont Audemer, 15. Port Patrick, 237, 241. Preston, 262. Probus, 333. Prun, 100. Puddletown, 300. Q Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur, 332. R Ravenglass, 254-257. Rawnsley, Canon, 255. Reading, 352, 354. Remiremont, 55-57. Rennes, 25-26. Rheinfels, 94. Rhine River, 59-60, 85, 89-96, 99-100. Rheinstein Castle, 91. Rhoscomyl, Owen, 296. Rhuddlan, 276-278. Richard I., 11-12. Richard II., 294. Richard III., 150. Robin Hood, 160. Rolandseck, 96-97. Rouen, 8-15, 42. Royal Automobile Club, 1, 3, 58, 68, 96, 147, 192, 210. Royal Cambrian Academy, 281. Rudruth, 334. Ruskin, John, 131, 133. Ryan, Loch, 240. S St. Asaph, 270, 273, 276-277. St. Austell, 333. St. Benedict's Abbey, 216. St. Columba, 215-216. St. Columb Major, 346. St. Goar, 93-94. St. Hilda's Abbey, Whitby, 161-164. St. Ives, 341. St. Lo, 17-20. St. Malo, 20-24. St. Mary's Church, Conway, 289. St. Mary's Church, Whitby, 157, 159, 162, 164-165, 167. St. Michael's Mount, 22, 334. St. Michel, Mont, 20-24. St. Peter's Church, Dorchester, 302-303. St. Quentin, 128-129. St. Wulfram's Church, Grantham, 149-150. Salisbury, 299-300. Salisbury, Sir Wm., 267-268. Schonburg, 93. Schongau, 68. Scott, Sir Walter, 161, 162, 173-179, 185, 238, 253, 261, 296-297. Sedan, 127-128. Sedgemoor, 348-349. Sennan, 341. Shin, Loch, 208. Ship Inn, Fowey, 332-333. Skiddaw, 246. Sonneck Castle, 92. Southey, Robt., 247. Staffa, 225. Staines, 298, 299. Stanley, Henry M., 273-274. Stilton, 148. Stockton, 153. Stolzenfels Castle, 94. Stranraer, 240-241. Strathy, 204. Stuttgart, 81, 83-84. Sutherland, 191, 193. Sutherland Arms, Golspie, 196-197. Sweetheart Abbey, 242-245. T Tain, 194. Tamnay-Chatillon, 47-48, 51. Taunton, 348, 350. Thorwaldsen, Albert Bertel, 89. Thurso, 203. Tongue, 203-207. Tongue Inn, 206-207. Totnes, 309-311, 318. Tours, 30-32, 35. Tow-Law, 154. Tremeirchion, 272. Treves, 96, 99, 101. Trouville-sur-Mer, 15. Truro, 334, 345-346. Turnberry Castle, 237-239. Tuttlingen, 61-62. Tyne River, 155. U Ulm, 81-83. Ulverston, 259. Urquhart Castle, 215. V Vaile, P. A., 368. Vesoul, 53. Victoria, Queen, 186. Vinci, da, Leonardo, 36. W Warrington, 262-263. Wells, 350. Wesley, John, 338. Whitby, 151, 152-153, 157-172. Whitchurch, 272. Whitehaven, 251. White, Rev. John, 302. Wick, 198-199. Wigan, 262. Wilton-le-Wear, 147. Windermere, 259, 261. William I., England, 15, 17. William I., Germany, 95. William III., England, 310. Windsor Castle, 354. Woolsthorpe Manor, 151. Wordsworth, Wm., 229, 249-250, 252-253, 257, 260, 290. Y York, 151-152. Z Zeppelin, Count, 64. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration: SCOTLAND Outline map showing Author's route--in red--as covered in present volume. Route in black refers to previous book--"In Unfamiliar England."] [Illustration: ENGLAND AND WALES] INDEX TO MAP OF ENGLAND AND WALES Green Lines Show Approximate Routes Covered in This Book; Light-Faced Red and Black Lines, Routes Covered by Author's Previous Books, "British Highways and Byways from a Motor Car" and "In Unfamiliar England" A Aberystwith 17 E Alcester 18 M Alnwick 3 M Ambleside 7 J Arundel 25 Q Askrigg 8 L Avebury 21 M B Bakewell 13 M Bamborough 2 M Banbury 19 O Bangor 13 G Barmouth 16 H Barnard Castle 7 M Barnsley 12 N Barnstaple 23 G Bath 22 K Battle Abbey 24 T Bawtry 12 P Beaulieu 24 O Beddgelert 14 G Bedford 18 R Belvoir Castle 15 P Berkeley 20 L Berwick 1 M Bettws-y-Coed 14 H Beverly 10 Q Bexhill 25 T Bideford 24 F Billingshurst 24 R Birtsmorton 18 L Bishop's Castle 17 J Bodiam 23 T Bolton Abbey 10 L Bolton Castle 8 L Boston 14 R Bottisford 14 Q Bournemouth 24 M Bowes 7 L Bowness 8 J Bradford-on-Avon 23 L Brampton 5 K Brecon 19 I Bridgnorth 16 K Bridlington 9 R Brighton 24 S Brington 17 P Bristol 21 K Brixham 27 H Broadway 19 M Brough 7 L Broxborne 19 S Buckingham 19 O Buildwas 16 L Builth 18 H Burnham Thorpe 14 U Bury St. Edmunds 18 U Buxton 13 M Bylands Abbey 8 N C Caerleon 20 K Caerphilly 21 H Caister Castle 15 X Calder Abbey 7 I Cambridge 18 S Camelford 25 E Canterbury 22 V Cardiff 22 I Cardigan 18 E Carlisle 5 J Carmarthen 19 F Carnarvon 13 G Cerne Abbas 24 K Cerrig-y-Druidion 14 I Chagford 25 G Chalfont St. Giles 21 P Chawton 23 P Cheddar 23 K Chelmsford 20 T Cheltenham 19 M Chepstow 21 I Chester 13 I Chesterfield 13 N Chichester 24 Q Chigwell 20 T Chippenham 21 M Chipping Ongar 20 T Chirk 15 J Chorley Wood 20 Q Clovelly 24 F Cockermouth 6 I Colchester 19 T Coniston 8 I Conway 13 H Corfe 26 M Coventry 17 M Cowbridge 22 H Cowes 25 O Coxwold 8 O Cromer 14 W Crowland 16 R D Darfield 11 O Darlington 7 N Dartmouth 27 H Denbigh 13 I Derby 14 M Dereham 16 U Devizes 22 M Dinas Mawddwy 16 H Dolgelly 15 G Doncaster 11 P Dorchester 25 L Dover 23 W Downe 22 S Drayton 14 L Dukeries 13 N Dunster 23 H Durham 6 M E Eastbourne 25 T East Looe 26 F Edgeware 20 P Egremont 7 I Ely 17 S Epsom 22 R Eversley 22 P Evesham 18 M Exeter 25 G F Farnham 23 Q Fishguard 19 D Folkestone 24 V Fotheringhay 16 R Fountains Abbey 9 M Fowey 27 E Freshwater 26 M Furness Abbey 9 I G Gad's Hill 22 S Glastonbury 23 K Glossop 12 M Gloucester 20 L Grantham 15 Q Grasmere 7 I Greenstead Church 20 S Guildford 22 R Guisborough 7 O H Hampton Court 22 R Harborough 16 Q Harlech 15 G Harrogate 10 M Harrow 21 Q Haselmere 23 Q Hastings 24 U Haverfordwest 20 D Haverhill 19 T Haworth 10 L Hay 19 I Helmsley 8 P Hereford 19 K Hexham 4 M Holyhead 12 D Honiton 24 H Howard Castle 9 P Hucknall 14 M Huntingdon 14 Q Hythe 24 V I Ilfracombe 22 G Ilkley 10 M Ipswich 18 V J Jarrow 5 N Jordans 21 P K Kendal 8 K Kenilworth 17 M Keston 22 R Keswick 6 J Kettlewell 9 L King's Lynn 15 T Kirby Hall 17 Q Knaresborough 10 O Knutsford 13 L L Lacock 22 L Land's End 28 A Lamberhurst 23 S Lancaster 9 K Lanercost Priory 5 L Launceston 26 E Leamington 18 O Ledbury 19 K Leeds 10 N Leicester 16 P Lewes 24 R Leyburn 8 M Llangollen 15 J Llandaff 22 H Llandovery 19 G Lincoln 13 Q Lichfield 16 L Liverpool 12 J London 21 R Lostwithiel 26 E Ludlow 17 J Lulworth 26 L Lutterworth 17 P Lymington 25 O Lyme Regis 25 J Lyndhurst 24 M M Maidstone 22 U Malmsbury 21 K Malvern 18 K Manchester 12 L Mansfield 13 O Marazion 28 B Margate 21 W Marlborough 21 N Marney 19 V Midhurst 24 O Middleham 9 L Mildenhall 17 T Monmouth 20 J Monken Hadley 20 R Montgomery 16 J Moreton Hampstead 25 G Much Wenlock 17 L Mundesley 14 X N Neath 21 H Nether Stowey 23 I Netley 24 O Newark 14 P Newcastle 5 M Newcastle-under-Lyme 14 K Newlyn 28 A Newmarket 17 U Newport 21 V Newport 20 O Newstead Abbey 14 O Newtown 17 I Northampton 18 P Nottingham 14 N Norwich 16 W O Olney 19 Q Oswestry 15 I Oundle 17 R Oxford 20 N P Penn's Chapel 4 R Penrith 6 K Penshurst 23 T Penzance 28 B Peterborough 16 R Pevensey 24 S Plymouth 27 F Polperro 27 E Pontefract 11 O Prince Town 26 G R Raby Castle 7 M Raglan 20 I Ravenglass 7 I Reading 22 O Reculver 22 V Retford 13 P Rhuddlan 13 H Richmond 8 M Rievaulx Abbey 9 M Ripon 9 M Ripple 19 L Rochester 22 T Romsey 23 M Ross 19 K Rowton Moor 13 K Ryde 25 P Rye 24 U S Saint Asaph 13 H St. Albans 20 R St. David's 19 B St. Ives 27 B St. Ives 17 S Salisbury 23 L Sandringham Palace 15 U Scarborough 8 R Scrooby 12 O Sedgemoor 23 J Selborne 23 O Settle 9 L Seven Oaks 22 T Sheffield 12 N Sherborne 24 L Shottermill 24 P Shrewsbury 16 J Skipton 10 L Somersby 13 R Southampton 24 M Southwell 14 O Stilton 17 R Stockton 6 O Stoke Poges 21 Q Stokesay Manor 17 K Stratford-on-Avon 18 N Sulgrave 16 P Swansea 20 G T Tadcaster 10 O Tamworth 16 N Taunton 23 J Tavistock 26 F Tewkesbury 19 M Thetford 17 U Tintagel 25 D Tintern 20 J Tong 16 L Torquay 26 H Totnes 26 H Truro 27 C Tunbridge Wells 23 T U Usk 20 I Uttoxeter 15 M Uxbridge 21 Q V Ventnor 26 P W Wakefield 11 N Walsingham 15 V Waltham 20 S Wantage 21 N Wareham 25 L Warrington 11 K Warwick 18 M Wellington 24 I Wells 23 J Wells-next-the-Sea 14 V Westerham 24 R West Looe 27 E Weston-Super-Mare 22 J Whitby 7 P Whittington 14 J Wimborne 24 L Winchelsea 24 T Winchester 23 O Windermere 8 J Windsor 21 P Wokingham 22 P Woodstock 20 N Worcester 18 L Worthing 25 R Wroxeter 16 K Wymondham 17 V Y Yarmouth 16 X Yarmouth 25 N Yeovil 24 K York 10 O ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Books by Thos. D. Murphy ------- Three Wonderlands of the American West (Second Revised Edition) Splendidly illustrated with sixteen reproductions in colors from original paintings by Thos. Moran, N. A. and thirty-two duogravures from photographs, also three maps. 180 pages, tall 8vo. decorated cloth. Price (boxed) $3.00 net. Carriage 30 cents extra. In this volume Mr. Murphy turns to our own country and both text and pictures tell a story that may well engage the attention of any one interested in the beauty and grandeur of natural scenery. The book will come as a revelation to many who have had a vague notion that there may possibly be something worth seeing in America--after one has "done" Europe. The author himself admits of such skepticism before he made the tour described in the book. He says, "I found myself wondering if there could be such an enchanted land as Mr. Moran portrays--such a land of weird mountains, crystal cataracts and emerald rivers all glowing with a riot of coloring that seem more like an iridescent dream than a sober reality." A tour through the three wonderlands gives the answer--neither pen nor picture has ever told half the story. The sixteen illustrations from original paintings by Thomas Moran come nearer, perhaps, than anything excepting a personal visit in presenting to the eyes the true grandeur of the wonderlands described; and these are supplemented by thirty-two splendid photographs, reproduced in duogravure and printed in a rich shade of brown. These features make the book one of the most notable ever coming from the American press, and it will serve the purpose of a guide to intending visitors, as well as a beautiful and appropriate souvenir for those who have visited one or all of the wonderlands so graphically portrayed. British Highways and Byways From a Motor Car (Third Edition) With sixteen illustrations in color from original paintings by noted artists, and thirty-two duogravures from English photographs, also descriptive maps of England and Scotland. 320 pages 8vo, decorated cloth, gilt top. Price (boxed) $3.00. An interesting record of a summer motor tour in Great Britain by an American who took his car with him and drove over some thousands of miles of British roads. The tour includes the cities, towns and villages, the solitary ruins, the literary shrines, every cathedral in the Island and many of the quaintest and most fascinating out-of-the-way places not on the usual route of travel. A book of value to anyone contemplating a tour of Britain or interested in the country and its people. In Unfamiliar England With a Motor Car (Second Edition) A new book on England, with incursions into Ireland and Scotland. Splendidly illustrated with sixteen reproductions in color from original paintings by noted artists, including Moran, Leader, Bowman, Elias, Sherrin and others, and forty-eight duogravures from English photographs, illustrating many of the quaint places visited by the author. Also indexed map of England and Wales and map showing routes in Ireland and Scotland. A chronicle of the extensive wanderings by motor car of an American in rural England and a record of his discoveries in the out-of-the-way corners of the Island; also of delightful incursions into Scotland and Ireland. It is a story redolent with the summer beauty of the loveliest countryside in the world, and is replete with the tales of lonely ruins, quaint old churches, historic manor houses and palaces; it takes one through the leafy byways, into the retired country villages, and to many unfrequented nooks on the seashore. Particularly has the writer sought out the historic shrines in England of especial interest to Americans themselves, and his book is quite a revelation in this respect. The book has much of interest seldom noted in the literature of travel and will please alike the actual traveler or the reader who does his traveling in an easy chair by his own fireside. Of Mr. Murphy's motor travel books dealing with Great Britain, the Royal Automobile Club Journal speaks the following commendatory words: England Through American Eyes A member of the Automobile Club of America, who is also an Individual Associate of the Royal Automobile Club, Mr. Thomas D. Murphy, has for several years past spent two or three months in touring in his car throughout the United Kingdom, and the result has been the publication in America of two books, one entitled, 'British Highways and Byways from a Motor Car,' and the other, 'In Unfamiliar England.' "In the former Mr. Murphy deals, in a most readable and attractive style, with many of the better known places of interest in our country; but in his book entitled 'In Unfamiliar England,' the author describes many out-of-the-way places which are totally unknown to the average English motorist, and even to people who pride themselves upon a knowledge of their own country. A short time ago the Touring Department received an inquiry from a member of the Club concerning an old building in the Eastern Counties; wished to know the exact position of the place, also whether it was open to the public. A diligent search was made through all the usual books of reference, and no trace of it could be discovered. As a last resource Mr. Murphy's book was consulted, and not only was the exact information required obtained, but in addition an excellent illustration of the building was found. It seems curious that the Touring Department should have to consult a book written by an American in order to obtain information about an interesting spot in this country. "The writing of a motoring guide book is a very difficult matter, and the majority are either crammed with information and very unreadable, or else they are written in a very personal manner which becomes rather irritating to the person who wishes to obtain information from them. It is an exceedingly difficult matter to combine road information, historical facts, and interesting legends, in such a manner that the dry sections are not so numerous as to make the book wearisome and the lighter sections not so drawn out as to make the reading matter trivial. We should imagine that it is much easier to write an ordinary novel than a good guide-book of the readable description. Mr. Murphy is one of the few people who can manage this difficult undertaking successfully." SENT POSTPAID ON RECEIPT OF PRICE BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY BOSTON PUBLISHERS 
17624	----	A BIBLIOGRAPHICAL Antiquarian AND PICTURESQUE TOUR. PRINTED BY WILLIAM NICOL, AT THE Shakspeare Press [Illustration: FILLE DE CHAMBRE, NUREMBERG] A BIBLIOGRAPHICAL, Antiquarian AND PICTURESQUE TOUR IN FRANCE AND GERMANY. BY THE REVEREND THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN, D.D. MEMBER OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY AT ROUEN, AND OF THE ACADEMY OF UTRECHT. SECOND EDITION. VOLUME III. [Illustration: Logo] DEI OMNIA PLENA. LONDON: PUBLISHED BY ROBERT JENNINGS, AND JOHN MAJOR. 1829. CONTENTS OF VOLUME III. CONTENTS VOLUME III. LETTER I. Strasbourg to Stuttgart. Baden. The Elder Schweighæuser. STUTTGART. The Public Library. The Royal Library, 1 LETTER II. The Royal Palace. A Bibliographical Negotiation. Dannecker the Sculptor. Environs of Stuttgart, 43 LETTER III. Departure from Stuttgart. ULM. AUGSBOURG. The Picture Gallery at Augsbourg, 55 LETTER IV. AUGSBOURG. Civil and Ecclesiastical Architecture. Population. Trade. The Public Library, 91 LETTER V. MUNICH. Churches. Royal Palace. Picture Gallery. The Public Library, 105 LETTER VI. Further Book-Acquisitions. Society. The Arts, 149 LETTER VII. Freysing. Landshut. Altöting. Salzburg. The Monastery of St. Peter, 169 LETTER VIII. Salzburg to Chremsminster. The Lake Gmunden. The Monastery of Chremsminster. Lintz, 206 LETTER IX. The Monasteries of St. Florian, Mölk, and Göttwic, 232 LETTER X. VIENNA. Imperial Library. Illuminated MSS. and early printed Books, 279 LETTER XI. Population. Streets and Fountains. Churches. Convents. Palaces. Theatres. The Prater. The Emperor's Private Library. Collection of Duke Albert. Suburbs. Monastery of Closterneuburg. Departure from Vienna, 335 SUPPLEMENT. Ratisbon, Nuremberg, Manheim, 407 LETTER I. STRASBOURG TO STUTTGART. BADEN. THE ELDER SCHWEIGHÆUSER. STUTTGART. THE PUBLIC LIBRARY. THE ROYAL LIBRARY. _Stuttgart, Poste Royale, August 4, 1818._ Within forty-eight hours of the conclusion of my last, I had passed the broad and rapidly-flowing Rhine. Having taken leave of all my hospitable acquaintances at Strasbourg, I left the _Hôtel de l'Esprit_ between five and six in the afternoon--when the heat of the day had a little subsided--with a pair of large, sleek, post horses; one of which was bestrode by the postilion, in the red and yellow livery of the duchy of Baden. Our first halting place, to change horses, was _Kehl_; but we had not travelled a league on this side of the Rhine, ere we discovered a palpable difference in the general appearance of the country. There was more pasture-land. The houses were differently constructed, and were more generally surrounded by tall trees. Our horses carried us somewhat fleetly along a good, broad, and well-conditioned road. Nothing particularly arrested our attention till we reached _Bischoffsheim, à la haute monté_; where the general use of the German language soon taught us the value of our laquais; who, from henceforth, will be often called by his baptismal name of Charles. At Bischoffsheim, while fresh horses were being put to, I went to look at the church; an humble edifice--but rather picturesquely situated. In my way thither I passed, with surprise, a great number of _Jews_ of both sexes; loitering in all directions. I learnt that this place was the prescribed _limits_ of their peregrinations; and that they were not suffered, by law, to travel beyond it: but whether this law restricted them from entering Suabia, or Bavaria, I could not learn. I approached the church, and with the aid of a good-natured verger, who happened luckily to speak French, I was conducted all over the interior--which was sufficiently neat. But the object of my peculiar astonishment was, that Jews, Protestants, and Catholics, all flocked alike, and frequently, at the SAME TIME, to exercise their particular forms of worship within this church!--a circumstance, almost partaking of the felicity of an Utopian commonwealth. I observed, indeed, a small crucifix upon the altar, which confirmed me in the belief that the Lutheran worship, according to the form of the Augsbourg confession, was practised here; and the verger told me there was no other place of worship in the village. His information might be deceitful or erroneous; but it is to the honour of his character that I add, that, on offering him a half florin for his trouble in shewing me the church, he seemed to think it a point of conscience _not_ to receive it. His refusal was mild but firm--and he concluded by saying, gently repelling the hand which held the money, "jamais, jamais!" Is it thus, thought I to myself, that "they order things in" Germany? The sun had set, and the night was coming on apace, after we left _Bischoffsheim_, and turned from the high road on the left, leading to Rastadt to take the right, for _Baden_. For the advantage of a nearer cut, we again turned to the right--and passed through a forest of about a league in length. It was now quite dark and late: and if robbers were abroad, this surely was the hour and the place for a successful attack upon defenceless travellers. The postboy struck a light, to enjoy the comfort of his pipe, which he quickly put to his mouth, and of which the light and scent were equally cheering and pleasant. We were so completely hemmed in by trees, that their branches brushed strongly in our faces, as we rolled swiftly along. Every thing was enveloped in silence and darkness: but the age of banditti, as well as of chivalry--at least in Germany--appears to be "gone." We sallied forth from the wood unmolested; gained again the high road; and after discerning some lights at a distance, which our valet told us (to our great joy) were the lights of BADEN, we ascended and descended--till, at midnight, we entered the town. On passing a bridge, upon which I discerned a whole-length statue of _St. Francis_, (with the infant Christ in his arms) we stopped, to the right, at the principal hotel, of which I have forgotten the name; but of which, one Monsieur or Le Baron Cotta, a bookseller of this town, is said to be the proprietor. The servants were yet stirring: but the hotel was so crowded that it was impossible to receive us. We pushed on quickly to another, of which I have also forgotten the name--and found the principal street almost entirely filled by the carriages of visitors. Here again we were told there was no room for us. Had it not been for our valet, we must have slept in the open street; but he recollected a third inn, whither we went immediately, and to our joy found just accommodation sufficient. We saw the carriage safely put into the remise, and retired to rest. The next morning, upon looking out of window, every thing seemed to be faëry land. I had scarcely ever before viewed so beautiful a spot. I found the town of Baden perfectly surrounded by six or seven lofty, fir-clad hills, of tapering forms, and of luxuriant verdure. Thus, although compared with such an encircling belt of hills, Baden may be said to lie in a hollow--it is nevertheless, of itself, upon elevated ground; commanding views of lawns, intersected by gravel walks; of temples, rustic benches, and detached buildings of a variety of description. Every thing, in short, bespeaks nature improved by art; and every thing announced that I was in a place frequented by the rich, the fashionable, and the gay. I was not long in finding out the learned and venerable SCHWEIGHÆUSER, who had retired here, for a few weeks, for the benefit of the waters--which flow from _hot_ springs, and which are said to perform wonders. Rheumatism, debility, ague, and I know not what disorders, receive their respective and certain cures from bathing in these tepid waters. I found the Professor in a lodging house, attached to the second hotel which we had visited on our arrival. I sent up my name, with a letter of introduction which I had received from his Son. I was made most welcome. In this celebrated Greek scholar, and editor of some of the most difficult ancient Greek authors, I beheld a figure advanced in years--somewhere about seventy-five--tall, slim, but upright, and firm upon his legs: with a thin, and at first view, severe countenance--but, when animated by conversation, and accompanied by a clear and melodious voice, agreeable, and inviting to discourse. The Professor was accompanied by one of his daughters; strongly resembling her brother, who had shewn me so much kindness at Strasbourg. She told me her father was fast recovering strength; and the old gentleman, as well as his daughter, strongly invited us to dinner; an invitation which we were compelled to decline. On leaving, I walked nearly all over the town, and its immediate environs: but my first object was the CHURCH, upon the top of the hill; from which the earliest (_Protestant_) congregation were about to depart--not before I arrived in time to hear some excellently good vocal and instrumental music, from the front seat of a transverse gallery. There was much in this church which had an English air about it: but my attention was chiefly directed to some bronze monuments towards the eastern extremity, near the altar; and fenced off, if I remember rightly, by some rails from the nave and side aisles. Of these monuments, the earliest is that of _Frederick, Bishop of Treves_. He died in 1517, in his 59th year. The figure of him is recumbent: with a mitre on his head, and a quilted mail for his apron. The body is also protected, in parts, with plate armour. He wears a ring upon each of the first three fingers of his right hand. It is an admirable piece of workmanship: bold, sharp, correct, and striking in all its parts. Near this episcopal monument is another, also of bronze, of a more imposing character; namely, of _Leopold William Margrave or Duke of Baden_, who died in 1671, and of the _Duchess_, his wife. The figure of Leopold, evidently a striking portrait, is large, heavy, and ungracious; but that of his wife makes ample amends--for a more beautifully expressive and interesting bronze figure, has surely never been reared upon a monumental pedestal. She is kneeling, and her hands are closed--in the act of prayer. The head is gently turned aside, as well as inclined: the mouth is very beautiful, and has an uncommon sweetness of expression: the hair, behind, is singular but not inelegant. The following is a part of the inscription: "_Vivit post funera virtus. Numinis hinc pietas conjugis inde trahit_." I would give half a dozen ducats out of the supplemental supply of Madame Francs to have a fine and faithful copy of this very graceful and interesting monumental figure. As I left the church, the second (_Catholic_) congregation was entering for divine worship. Meanwhile the heavens were "black with clouds;" the morning till eleven o'clock, having been insufferably hot and a tremendous thunder storm--which threatened to deluge the whole place with rain--moved, in slow and sullen majesty, quite round and round the town, without producing any other effect than that of a few sharp flashes, and growling peals, at a distance. But the darkened and flitting shadows upon the fir trees, on the hills, during the slow wheeling of the threatening storm, had a magnificently picturesque appearance. The walks, lawns, and rustic benches about Baden, are singularly pretty and convenient. Here was a play-house; there, a temple; yonder, a tavern, whither the _Badenois_ resorted to enjoy their Sunday dinner. One of these taverns was unusually large and convenient. I entered, as a stranger, to look around me: and was instantly struck by the notes of the deepest-toned bass voice I had ever heard--accompanied by some rapidly executed passages upon the harp. These ceased--and the softer strains of a young female voice succeeded. Yonder was a _master singer_[1]--as I deemed him--somewhat stooping from age; with white hairs, but with a countenance strongly characteristic of intellectual energy of _some_ kind. He was sitting in a chair. By the side of him stood the young female, about fourteen, from whose voice the strains, just heard, had proceeded. They sang alternately, and afterwards together: the man holding down his head as he struck the chords of his harp with a bold and vigorous hand. I learnt that they were uncle and niece. I shall not readily forget the effect of these figures, or of the songs which they sang; especially the sonorous notes of the mastersinger, or minstrel. He had a voice of most extraordinary compass. I quickly perceived that I was now in the land of music; but the guests seemed to be better pleased with their food than with the songs of this old bard, for he had scarcely received a half florin since I noticed him. Professor Schweighæuser came to visit me at the appointed hour of six, in order to have an evening stroll together to a convent, about two miles off, which is considered to be the fashionable evening walk and ride of the place. I shall long have reason to remember this walk; as well from the instructive discourse of my venerable and deeply learned guide, as from the beauty of the scenery and variety of the company. As the heat of the day subsided, the company quitted their tables in great crowds. The mall was full. Here was Eugene Beauharnois, drawn in a carriage by four black steeds, with traces of an unusual length between the leaders and wheel horses. A grand Duke was parading to the right: to the left, a Marchioness was laughing _à pleine gorge_. Here walked a Count, and there rode a General. Bavarians, Austrians, French, and English--intermixed with the tradesmen of Baden, and the rustics of the adjacent country--all, glittering in their gayest sabbath-attires, mingled in the throng, and appeared to vie with each other in gaiety and loudness of talk. We gained a more private walk, within a long avenue of trees; where a small fountain, playing in the midst of a grove of elm and beech, attracted the attention both of the Professor and ourselves. "It is here," observed the former--"where I love to come and read your favourite Thomson." He then mentioned Pope, and quoted some verses from the opening of his Essay on Man--and also declared his particular attachment to Young and Akenside. "But our Shakspeare and Milton, Sir--what think you of these?" "They are doubtless very great and superior to either: but if I were to say that I understood them as well, I should say what would be an untruth: and nothing is more disgusting than an affectation of knowing what you have, comparatively, very little knowledge of." We continued our route towards the convent, at a pretty brisk pace; with great surprise, on my part, at the firm and rapid movements of the Professor. Having reached the convent, we entered, and were admitted within the chapel. The nuns had just retired; but we were shewn the partition of wood which screens them most effectually from the inquisitive eyes of the rest of the congregation. We crossed a shallow, but rapidly running brook, over which was only one plank, of the ordinary width, to supply the place of a bridge. The venerable Professor led the way--tripping along so lightly, and yet so surely, as to excite our wonder. We then mounted the hill on the opposite side of the convent; where there are spiral, and neatly trimmed, gravel walks, which afford the means of an easy and pleasant ascent--but not altogether free from a few sharp and steep turnings. From the summit of this hill, the Professor bade me look around, and view a valley which was the pride of the neighbourhood, and which was considered to have no superior in Suabia. It was certainly very beautiful--luxuriant in pasture and woodland scenery, and surrounded by hills crowned with interminable firs. As we descended, the clock of the convent struck eight, which was succeeded by the tolling of the convent bell. After a day of oppressive heat, with a lowering atmosphere threatening instant tempest, it was equally, grateful and refreshing to witness a calm blue sky, chequered by light fleecy clouds, which, as they seemed to be scarcely impelled along by the evening breeze, were fringed in succession by the hues of a golden sun-set. The darkening shadows of the trees added to the generally striking effect of the scene. As we neared the town, I perceived several of the common people, apparently female rustics, walking in couples, or in threes, with their arms round each others necks, joining in some of the popular airs of their country. The off-hand and dextrous manner in which they managed the _second parts_, surprised and delighted me exceedingly. I expressed my gratification to Mr. Schweighæuser, who only smiled at my wondering simplicity. "If _these_ delight you so much, what would you say to our _professors_?"--observed he. "Possibly, I might not like them quite so well," replied I. The professor pardoned such apparent heresy; and we continued to approach the town. We were thirsty from our walk, and wished to enter the tea gardens to partake of refreshment. Our guide became here both our interpreter and best friend; for he insisted upon treating us. We retired into a bocage, and partook of one of the most delicious bottles of white wine which I ever remember to have tasted. He was urgent for a second bottle; but I told him we were very sober Englishmen. In our way home, the discourse fell upon literature, and I was anxious to obtain from our venerable companion an account of his early studies, and partialities for the texts of such Greek authors as he had edited. He told me that he was first put upon collations of Greek MSS. by our _Dr. Musgrave_, for his edition of _Euripides_; and that he dated, from that circumstance, his first and early love of classical research. This attachment had increased upon him as he became older--had "grown with his growth, and strengthened with his strength"--and had induced him to grapple with the unsettled, and in parts difficult, texts of _Appian_, _Epictetus_, and _Athenæus_. He spoke with a modest confidence of his _Herodotus_--just published: said that he was even then meditating a _second_ Latin version of it: and observed that, for the more perfect execution of the one now before the public, he had prepared himself by a diligent perusal of the texts of the purer Latin historians. We had now entered the town, and it was with regret that I was compelled to break off such interesting conversation. In spite of the lateness of the hour (ten o'clock) and the darkness of the evening, the worthy old Grecian would not suffer me to accompany him home--although the route to his house was devious, and in part precipitously steep, and the Professor's sight was not remarkably good. When we parted, it was agreed that I should breakfast with him on the morrow, at eight o'clock, as we intended to quit Baden at nine. The next morning, I was true to the hour. The Professor's coffee, bread, butter, and eggs were excellent. Having requested our valet to settle every thing at the inn, and bring the carriage and horses to the door of M. Schweighæuser by nine o'clock, I took a hearty leave of our amiable and venerable host, accompanied with mutual regrets at the shortness of the visit--and with a resolution to cultivate an acquaintance so heartily began. As we got into the carriage, I held up his portrait which Mr. Lewis had taken,[2] and told him "he would be neither out of _sight_ nor out of _mind_" He smiled graciously--waved his right hand from the balcony upon which he stood--and by half-past nine we found the town of Baden in our rear. I must say that I never left a place, which had so many attractions, with keener regret, and a more fixed determination to revisit it. That "revisit" may possibly never arise; but I recommend all English travellers to spend a week, at the least, at Baden--called emphatically, _Baden-Baden_. The young may be gratified by the endless amusements of society, in many of its most polished forms. The old may be delighted by the contemplation of nature in one of her most picturesque aspects, as well as invigorated by the waters which gush in boiling streams from her rocky soil. I shall not detain you a minute upon the road from Baden to this place; although we were nearly twenty-four hours so detained. _Rastadt_ and _Karlsruhe_ are the only towns worth mentioning in the route. The former is chiefly distinguished for its huge and tasteless castle or palace--a sort of Versailles in miniature; and the latter is singularly pleasing to an Englishman's eye, from the trim and neat appearance of the houses, walks, and streets; which latter have the footpaths almost approaching to our pavement. You enter and quit the town through an avenue of lofty and large stemmed poplars, at least a mile long. The effect, although formal, is pleasing. They were the loftiest poplars which I had ever beheld. The churches, public buildings, gardens, and streets (of which _latter_ the principal is a mile long) have all an air of tidiness and comfort; although the very sight of them is sufficient to freeze the blood of an antiquary. There is nothing, apparently, more than ninety-nine years old! We dined at Karlsruhe, and slept at _Schweiberdingen_, one stage on this side of Stuttgart: but for two or three stages preceding Stuttgart, we were absolutely astonished at the multitude of apple-trees, laden, even to the breaking down of the branches, with goodly fruit, just beginning to ripen: and therefore glittering in alternate hues of red and yellow--all along the road-side as well as in private gardens. The vine too was equally fruitful, and equally promising of an abundant harvest. There was a drizzling rain when we entered THIS TOWN. We passed the long range of royal stables to the right, and the royal palace to the left; the latter, with the exception of a preposterously large gilt crown placed upon the central part of a gilt cushion, in every respect worthy of a royal residence. On, driving to the hotel of the _Roi d'Angleterre_, we found every room and every bed occupied; and were advised to go to the place from whence I now address you. But the _Roman Emperor_ is considered to be more fashionable: that is to say, the charges are more extravagant. Another time, however, I will visit neither the one nor the other; but take up my quarters at the _King of Wirtemberg_--the neatest, cleanliest, and most comfortable hotel in Stuttgart. In _this_ house there is too much noise and bustle for a traveller whose nerves are liable to be affected. As a whole, Stuttgart is a thoroughly dull place. Its immediate environs are composed of vine-covered hills, which, at this season of the year, have an extremely picturesque appearance; but, in winter, when nothing but a fallow-like looking earth is visible, the effect must be very dreary. This town is large, and the streets--especially the _Könings-strasse,_ or King-Street,--are broad and generally well paved. The population may be about twenty-two thousand. He who looks for antiquities, will be cruelly disappointed; with the exception of the _Hôtel de Ville_, which is placed near a church, and more particularly of a _Crucifix_--there is little or nothing to satisfy the hungry cravings of a thorough-bred English Antiquary. The latter is of stone, of a rough grain, and sombre tint: and the figures are of the size of life. They are partly mutilated; especially the right leg of our Saviour, and the nose of St. John. Yet you will not fail to distinguish, particularly from the folds of the drapery, that precise character of art which marked the productions both of the chisel and of the pencil in the first half of the sixteenth century. The Christ is, throughout, even including the drapery, finely marked; and the attitude of the Virgin, in looking up, has great expression. She embraces intensely the foot of the cross; while her eyes and very soul seem to be as intensely rivetted to her suffering and expiring Son. I was not long in introducing myself to M. LE BRET, the head Librarian; for the purpose of gaining admission to the PUBLIC LIBRARY. That gentleman and myself have not only met, but met frequently and cordially. Each interview only increased the desire for a repetition of it: and the worthy and well-informed Head Librarian has partaken of a trout and veal dinner with me, and shared in one bottle of _Fremder Wein_, and in another of _Ordinärer Wein_.[3] We have, in short, become quite sociable; and I will begin by affirming, that, a more thoroughly competent, active, and honourable officer, for the situation which he occupies, his Majesty the King of Würtemberg does not possess in any nook, corner, or portion of his Suabian dominions. I will prove what I say at the point of--my pen. Yet more extraordinary intelligence. A "deed of note" has been performed; and to make the mystery more mysterious, you are to know that I have paid my respects to the King, at his late levee; the first which has taken place since the accouchement of the Queen.[4] And what should be the _object_ of this courtly visit? Truly, nothing more or less than to agitate a question respecting the possession of _two old editions of Virgil_, printed in the year 1471. But let me be methodical. When I parted from Lord Spencer on this "Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour," I was reminded by his Lordship of the second edition of the _Virgil_ printed at Rome by _Sweynheym_ and _Pannartz_, and of another edition, _printed by Adam_, in 1471, both being in the public library of this place:--but, rather with a desire, than any seriously-grounded hope, on his part of possessing them. Now, when we were running down upon _Nancy_--as described in a recent despatch,[5] I said to Mr. Lewis, on obtaining a view of what I supposed might be the Vosges, that, "behind the Vosges was the _Rhine_, and on the other side of the Rhine was _Stuttgart!_ and it was at Stuttgart that I should play my first trump-card in the bibliographical pack which I carried about me." But all this seemed mystery, or methodised madness, to my companion. However, I always bore his Lordship's words in mind--and something as constantly told me that I should gain possession of these long sought after treasures: but in fair and honourable combat: such as beseemeth a true bibliographical Knight. Having proposed to visit the public library on the morrow--and to renew the visit as often and as long as I pleased--I found, on my arrival, the worthy Head Librarian, seriously occupied in a careful estimate of the value of the Virgils in question--and holding up _Brunet's Manuel du Libraire_ in his right hand--"Tenez, mon ami," exclaimed he, "vous voyez que la seconde édition de Virgile, imprimée par vos amis Sweynheym et Pannartz, est encore plus rare que la premiére." I replied that "c'étoit la fantasie seule de l'auteur." However, he expressed himself ready to receive preliminaries, which would be submitted to the Minister of the Interior, and by him--to the King; for that the library was the exclusive property of his Majesty. It was agreed, in the first instance, that the amount of the pecuniary value of the two books should be given in modern books of our own country; and I must do M. Le Bret the justice to say, that, having agreed upon the probable pecuniary worth, he submitted a list of books, to be received in exchange, which did equal honour to his liberality and judgment. I have said something about the _local_ of this Public Library, and of its being situated in the market-place.[6] This market-place, or square, is in the centre of the town; and it is the only part, in the immediate vicinity of which the antiquarian's eye is cheered by a sight of the architecture of the sixteenth century. It is in this immediate vicinity, that the _Hôtel de Ville_ is situated; a building, full of curious and interesting relics of sculpture in wood and stone. Just before it, is a fountain of black marble, where the women come to fetch water, and the cattle to drink. Walking in a straight line with the front of the public library (which is at right angles with the Hôtel de Ville) you gain the best view of this Hotel, in conjunction with the open space, or market place, and of the churches in the distance. About this spot, Mr. Lewis fixed himself, with his pencil and paper in hand, and produced a drawing from which I select the following felicitous portion. [Illustration: Drawing] But to return to the Public Library. You are to know therefore, that The Public Library of Stuttgart contains, in the whole, about 130,000 volumes. Of these, there are not fewer than 8200 volumes relating to the _Sacred Text_: exclusively of duplicates. This library has been indeed long celebrated for its immense collection of _Bibles_. The late King of Würtemberg, but more particularly his father, was chiefly instrumental to this extraordinary collection:--and yet, of the very earlier Latin impressions, they want the _Mazarine_, or the _Editio Princeps_; and the third volume of _Pfister's_ edition. Indeed the first volume of their copy of the latter wants a leaf or two of prefatory matter. They have two copies of the first _German Bible_, by _Mentelin_[7]--of which _one_ should be disposed of, for the sake of contributing to the purchase of the earliest edition of the Latin series. Each copy is in the original binding; but they boast of having a _complete series of German Bibles_ before the time of Luther; and of Luther's earliest impression of 1524, printed by Peypus, they have a fine copy UPON VELLUM, like that in the Althorp Library; but I think taller. Of Fust's Bible of 1462, there is but an indifferent and cropt copy, upon paper; but of the _Polish Bible_ of 1563, there is a very fine one, in the first oaken binding. Of _English Bibles_, there is no edition before that of 1541, of which the copy happens to be imperfect. They have a good large copy, in the original binding, of the _Sclavonian Bible_ of 1581. Yet let me not dismiss this series of earlier Bibles, printed in different languages, without noticing the copies of _Italian versions_ of August and October 1471. Of the August impression, there is unluckily only the second volume; but such _another_ second volume will not probably be found in any public or private library in Europe. It is just as if it had come fresh from the press of _Vindelin de Spira_, its printer. Some of the capital letters are illuminated in the sweetest manner possible. The leaves are white, unstained, and crackling; and the binding is of wood. Of the _October_ impression, the copy is unequal: that is to say, the first volume is cruelly cut, but the second is fine and tall. It is in blue morocco binding. I must however add, in this biblical department, that they possess a copy of our _Walton's Polyglott_ with the _original dedication_ to King Charles II.; of the extreme rarity of which M. Le Bret was ignorant.[8] I now come to the CLASSICS. Of course the _two Virgils_ of 1471 were the first objects of my examination. The _Roman_ edition was badly bound in red morocco; that of _Adam_ was in its original binding of wood. When I opened the _latter_, it was impossible to conceal my gratification. I turned to M. Le Bret, and then to the book--and to the Head Librarian, and to the book--again and again! "How now, Mons. Le Bibliographe?" (exclaimed the professor--for M. Le Bret is a Professor of belles-lettres), "I observe that you are perfectly enchanted with what is before you?" There was no denying the truth of the remark--and I could plainly discern that the worthy Head Librarian was secretly enjoying the attestations of my transport. "The more I look at these two volumes (replied I, very leisurely and gravely,) the more I am persuaded that they will become the property of Earl Spencer." M. Le Bret laughed aloud at the strangeness of this reply. I proceeded to take a particular account of them.[9] Here is an imperfect copy of an edition of _Terence_, by _Reisinger_, in folio; having only 130 leaves, and twenty-two lines in a full page.[10] It is the first copy of this edition which I ever saw; and I am much deceived if it be exceeded by any edition of the same author in rarity: and when I say this, I am not unmindful of the Editio Princeps of it by _Mentelin_--which happens _not_ to be here. There is, however, a beautifully white copy of this latter printer's Editio Princeps of _Valerius Maximus_; but not so tall as the largest of the two copies of this same edition which I saw at Strasbourg. Of the _Offices of Cicero_, of 1466, there is rather a fine tall copy (within a quarter of an inch of ten inches high) UPON VELLUM; in the original wooden binding. The first two or three leaves have undergone a little martyrdom, by being scribbled upon. Of J. de Spira's edition of the _Epistles of Cicero_, of 1469--having the colophon on the recto of the last leaf--here is a fine, broad-margined copy, which however ought to be cleansed from the stains which disfigure it. I was grieved to see so indifferent a copy of the Edit. Prin. of _Tacitus_: but rejoiced at beholding so large and beautiful a one (in its original wooden binding) of the _Lucan_ of 1475, with the Commentary of Omnibonus; printed as I conceive, by _I. de Colonia and M. de Gherretzem_.[11] But I had nearly forgotten to acquaint you with a remarkably fine, thick-leaved, crackling copy--yet perhaps somewhat cropt--of Cardinal _Bessarion's Epistles_, printed by Sweynheym and Pannartz at Rome in 1469. It is in old gilt edges, in a sort of binding of wood. I now come to the notice of a few choice and rare _Italian books_: and first, for _Dante_. Here is probably the rarest of all the earlier editions of this poet: that is to say, the edition printed at Naples by Tuppo, in two columns, having forty-two lines in a full column. At the end of the _Inferno_, we read "Gloria in excelsis Deo," in the gothic letter; the text being uniformly roman. At the end of the _Purgatorio_: SOLI DEO GLORIA. Erubescat Judeus Infelir. At the end of the _Paradiso_: DEO GRATIAS--followed by Tuppo's address to Honofrius Carazolus of Naples. A register is on the recto of the following and last leaf. This copy is large, but in a dreadfully loose, shattered, and dingy state--in the original wooden binding. So precious an edition should be instantly rebound. Here is the Dante of 1478, with the _Commentary of Guido Terzago, printed at Milan in_ 1478, folio. The text of the poet is in a fine, round, and legible roman type--that of the commentator, in a small and disagreeable gothic character. _Petrarch_ shall follow. The rarest edition of him, which I have been able to put my hand upon, is that printed at Bologna in 1476 with the commentary of Franciscus Philelphus. Each sonnet is followed by its particular comment. The type is a small roman, not very unlike the smallest of Ulric Han, or Reisinger's usual type, and a full page-contains forty-one lines. Of _Boccaccio_, here is nothing which I could observe particularly worthy of description, save the very rare edition of the _Nimphale_ of 1477, printed by _Bruno Valla of Piedmont_, and _Thomaso of Alexandria._ A full page has thirty-two lines. I shall conclude the account of the rarer books, which it was my chance to examine in the Public Library of Stuttgart, with what ought perhaps, more correctly, to have formed the earliest articles in this partial catalogue:--I mean, the _Block Books_. Here is a remarkably beautiful, and uncoloured copy of the first Latin edition of the _Speculum Humanæ Salvationis_. It _has_ been bound--although it be now unbound, and has been unmercifully cut. As far as I can trust to my memory, the impressions of the cuts in this copy are sharper and clearer than any which I have seen. Of the _Apocalypse_, there is a copy of the second edition, wanting a leaf. It is sound and clean, but coloured and cut. Unbound, but formerly bound. Here is a late German edition of the _Ars Moriendi_, having thirty-four lines on the first page. Of the _Historia Beatæ Virginis_, here is a copy of what I should consider to be the second Latin edition; precisely like a German edition of the _Biblia Pauperum_, with the express date of 1470,--which is also here. The similarity is in the style of art and character of the type, which latter has much of a _Bamberg_ cast about it. But of the _Latin Biblia Pauperum_ here is a copy of the first edition, very imperfect, and in wretched condition. And thus much, or rather thus little, for _Block Books._ A word or two now for the MANUSCRIPTS--which, indeed, according to the order usually observed in these Letters, should have preceded the description of the printed books. I will begin with a _Psalter,_ in small folio, which I should have almost the hardihood to pronounce of the _tenth_--but certainly of the early part of the _eleventh_--century. The text is executed in lower-case roman letters, large and round. It abounds with illuminations, of about two inches in height, and six in length--running horizontally, and embedded as it were in the text. The figures are, therefore, necessarily small. Most of these illuminations, have a greenish back-ground. The armour is generally in the Roman fashion: the helmets being of a low conical form, and the shields having a large knob in the centre. Next comes an _Evangelistarium_ "seculo undecimo aut circà annum 1100:--pertinuit ad Monasterium Gengensbachense in Germania, ut legitur in margine primi folii." The preceding memorandum is written at the beginning of the volume, but the inscription to which it alludes has been partly destroyed--owing to the tools of a modern book-binder. The scription of this old MS. is in a thick, lower case, roman letter. The illuminations are interesting: especially that of the Scribe, at the beginning, who is represented in a white and delicately ornamented gown, or roquelaure, with gold, red, and blue borders, and a broad black border at bottom. The robe should seem to be a monastic garment: but the figure is probably that of St. Jerom. It is standing before an opened book. The head is shaved at top; an azure glory is round the head. The back-ground of the whole is gold, with an arabesque border. I wish I could have spared time to make a facsimile of it. There are also figures of the four Evangelists, in the usual style of art of this period; the whole in fine preservation. The capital initials are capricious, but tasteful. We observe birds, beasts, dragons, &c. coiled up in a variety of whimsical forms. The L. at the beginning of the "Liber Generationis," is, as usual in highly executed works of art of this period, peculiarly elaborate and striking. A _Psalter_, of probably a century later, next claims our attention. It is a small folio, executed in a large, bold, gothic character. The illuminations are entirely confined to the capital initials, which represent some very grotesque, and yet picturesque grouping of animals and human figures--all in a state of perfect preservation. The gold back-grounds are not much raised, but of a beautiful lustre. It is apparently imperfect at the end. The _binding_ merits distinct notice. In the centre of one of the outside covers, is a figure of the Almighty, sitting; in that of the other, are the Virgin and Infant Christ, also sitting. Each subject is an illumination of the time of those in the volume itself; and each is surrounded by pencil-coloured ornaments, divided into squares, by pieces of tin, or lead soldered. A sheet of _horn_ is placed over the whole of the exterior cover, to protect it from injury. This binding is uncommon, but I should apprehend it to be not earlier than the very commencement of the xvth century. I have not yet travelled out of the twelfth century; and mean to give you some account of rather a splendid and precious MS. entitled _Vitæ Sanctorum_--supposed to be of the same period. It is said to have been executed under the auspices of the _Emperor Conrad,_ who was chosen in 1169 and died in 1193. It is an elegant folio volume. The illuminations are in outline; in red, brown, or blue--firmly and truly touched, with very fanciful inventions in the forms of the capital letters. The initial letter prefixed to the account of the _Assumption of the Virgin_, is abundantly clever and whimsical; while that prefixed to the Life of _St. Aurelius_ has even an imposing air of magnificence, and is the most important in the volume. Here is a curious _History of the Bible, in German verse_, as I learn, by Rudolph, Count of Hohen Embs. Whether "curious" or not, I cannot tell; but I can affirm that, since opening the famous MS. of the Roman d'Alexandre,[12] at Oxford, I have not met with a finer, or more genuine MS. than the present. It is a noble folio volume; highly, although in many places coarsely, adorned. The text is executed in a square, stiff, German letter, in double columns; and the work was written (as M. Le Bret informed me, and as warranted by the contents) "in obedience to the orders of the Emperor Conrad, son of the Emperor Frederick II: the greater part of it being composed after the chronicle of Geoffrey de Viterbe." To specify the illuminations would be an endless task. At the end of the MS. are the following colophonic verses: _Uf den fridag was sts Brictius Do nam diz buch ende alsus Nach godis geburten dusint jar Dar su ccc dni vnx achtzig als eyn har_. the "_ccc_" are interlined, in red ink: but the whole inscription implies that the book was finished in 1381, on Friday, the day of St. Brictius. It follows therefore that it could not have been written during the life-time of Conrad IV. who was elected Emperor in 1250. This interesting MS. is in a most desirable condition. There are two or three _Missals_ deserving only of brief notice. One, of the XIVth century, is executed in large gothic letter; having an exceedingly vivid and fresh illumination of a crucifixion, but in bad taste, opposite the well-known passage of "Te igitur clementissime," &c. It is bound in red satin. Two missals of the xvth century--of which one presents only a few interesting prints connected with art. It is ornamented in a sort of bistre outline, preparatory to colouring--of which numerous examples may be seen in the Breviary of the Duke of Bedford in the Royal Library at Paris.[13] I examined half a dozen more Missals, which the kind activity of M. Le Bret had placed before me, and among them found nothing deserving of particular observation,--except a thick, short, octavo volume, in the German language, with characteristic and rather clever embellishments; especially in the borders. There is a folio volume entitled "_La Vie, Mort, et Miracles de St. Jerome_." The first large illumination, which is prettily composed, is unluckily much injured in some parts. It represents the author kneeling, with his cap in his right hand, and a book bound in black, with gold clasps and knobs, in the other. A lady appears to receive this presentation-volume very graciously; but unfortunately her countenance is obliterated. Two female attendants are behind her: the whole, gracefully composed. I take this MS. to be of the end of the xvth. century. There is a most desirable MS. of the _Roman de la Rose_--of the end of the xivth century; in double columns; with some of the illuminations, about two inches square, very sweet and interesting. That, on the recto of folio xiiij, is quite charming. The "testament" of the author, J. de Meun, follows; quietly decorated, within flowered borders. The last illumination but one, of our Saviour, sitting upon a rainbow is very singular. This MS. is in its old binding of wood. A few _miscellaneous articles_ may be here briefly noticed. First: a German metrical version of the Game of Chess, moralized, called _Der Schachzabel._ This is an extraordinary, and highly illuminated MS. upon paper; written in a sort of secretary gothic hand, in short rhyming verse, as I conceive about the year 1400, or 1450. The embellishments are large and droll, and in several of them we distinguish that thick, and shining, but cracked coat of paint which is upon the old print of St. Bridget, in Lord Spencer's collection.[14] Among the more striking illuminations is the _Knight_ on horseback, in silver armour, about nine inches high--a fine showy fellow! His horse has silver plates over his head. Many of the pieces in the game are represented in a highly interesting manner, and the whole is invaluable to the antiquary. This MS. is in boards. Second: a German version of _Maundeville_, of the date of 1471, with curious, large, and grotesque illuminations, of the coarsest execution. It is written in double columns, in a secretary gothic hand, upon paper. The heads of the Polypheme tribe are ludicrously horrible. Third:--_Herren Duke of Brunswick_, or the _Chevalier au Lion_,--a MS. relating to this hero, of the date of 1470. A lion accompanies him every where. Among the embellishments, there is a good one of this animal leaping upon a tomb and licking it--as containing the mortal remains of his master. Fourth: a series of German stanzas, sung by birds, each bird being represented, in outline, before the stanza appropriated to it. In the whole, only three leaves. The "last and not least" of the MSS. which I deem it worthy to mention, is an highly illuminated one of _St. Austin upon the Psalms_. This was the _first_ book which I remembered to have seen, upon the continent, from the library of the famous _Corvinus King of Hungary,_ about which certain pages have discoursed largely. It was also an absolutely beautiful book: exhibiting one of the finest specimens of art of the latter end of the XVth century. The commentary of the Saint begins on the recto of the second leaf, within such a rich, lovely, and exquisitely executed border--as almost made me forget the embellishments in the _Sforziada_ in the Royal Library of France.[15] The border in question is a union of pearls and arabesque ornaments quite standing out of the background ... which latter has the effect of velvet. The arms, below, are within a double border of pearls, each pair of pearls being within a gold circle upon an ultramarine ground. The heads and figures have not escaped injury, but other portions of this magical illumination have been rubbed or partly obliterated. A ms. note, prefixed by M. Le Bret, informs us, in the opinion of its writer, that this illumination was the work of one "_Actavantes de Actavantibus of Florence_,--who lived towards the end of the XVth century," and who really seems to have done a great deal for Corvinus. The initial letters, throughout this volume, delicately cross-barred in gold, with little flowers and arabesques, &c. precisely resemble those in the MS. of Mr. Hibbert.[16] Such a white, snowy page, as the one just in part described, can scarcely be imagined by the uninitiated in ancient illuminated MSS. The binding, in boards covered with leather, has the original ornaments, of the time of Corvinus, which are now much faded. The fore-edges of the leaves preserve their former gilt-stamped ornaments. Upon the whole--an ALMOST MATCHLESS book! Such, my good friend, are the treasures, both in MS. and in print, which a couple of morning's application, in the Public Library of Stuttgart, have enabled me to bring forward for your notice. A word or two, now, for the treasures of the ROYAL LIBRARY, and then for a little respite. The Library of his Majesty is in one of the side wings, or rather appurtenances, of the Palace: to the right, on looking at the front. It is on the first floor--where _all_ libraries should be placed--and consists of a circular and a parallelogram-shaped room: divided by a screen of Ionic pillars. A similar screen is also at the further end of the latter room. The circular apartment has a very elegant appearance, and contains some beautiful books chiefly of modern art. A round table is in the centre, covered with fine cloth, and the sides and pillars of the screen are painted wholly in white--as well as the room connected with it. A gallery goes along the latter, or parallelogram-shaped apartment; and there are, in the centre, two rows of book-cases, very tall, and completely filled with books. These, as well as the book-cases along the sides, are painted white. An elaborately painted ceiling, chiefly composed of human figures, forms the graphic ornament of the long library; but, unluckily, the central book-cases are so high as to cover a great portion of the painting--viewed almost in any direction. At the further end of the long library, facing the circular extremity, is a bust of the late King of Würtemberg, by Dannecker. It bears so strong a resemblance to that of our own venerable monarch, that I had considered it to be a representation of him--out of compliment to the Dowager Queen of Würtemberg, his daughter. The ceiling of this Library is undoubtedly too low for its length. But the circular extremity has something in it exceedingly attractive, and inviting to study. In noticing some of the contents of this Library, I shall correct the error committed in the account of the Public Library, by commencing here with the MANUSCRIPTS in preference to the Printed Books. The MSS. are by no means numerous, and are perhaps rather curious than intrinsically valuable. I shall begin with an account of a _Prayer-Book, or Psalter,_ in a quarto form, undoubtedly of the latter end of the XIIth century. Its state of preservation, both for illumination and scription, is quite exquisite. It appears to have been expressly executed for Herman, and Sophia his wife, King and Queen of Hungary and Bohemia--who lived at the latter end of the twelfth century. The names of these royal patrons and owners of, the volume are introduced at the end of the volume, in a sort of litany: accompanied with embellishments of the Mother of Christ, Saints and Martyrs, &c.: as thus: "_Sophia Regina Vngariæ, Regina Bohemiæ_"--"_Herman Lantgrauius Turingie, Rex Vngariæ, Rex Bohemiæ_." In the Litany, we read (of the _latter_) in the address to the Deity, "_Vt famulu tuu_ HERMANNV _in tua misericordia confidente, confortare et regere dignter:_" so that there is no doubt about the age of the MS. In the representations of the episcopal dresses, the tops of the mitres are depressed--another confirmation of the date of the book. The initial letters, and especially the B before the Psalms, are at once elegant and elaborate. Among the subjects described, the _Descent into Hell_, or rather the Place of Torment, is singularly striking and extraordinary. The text of the MS. is written in a large bold gothic letter. This volume has been recently bound in red morocco, and cruelly cut in the binding. Of course, here are some specimens of illuminated _Hours_, both in manuscript and print. In the former, I must make you acquainted with a truly beautiful volume; upon the fly leaf of which we read as follows: "I 3 F, RT, lo _Fortitudo Eius Rhodum tenuit Amadeus Graff^{9} Sauoia_." Below, "_Biblioth: Sem: Mergenth_:" then, a long German note, of which I understood not one word, and as M. Le Bret was not near me, I could not obtain the solution of it. But although I do not understand one word of this note, I do understand that this is one of the very prettiest, and most singularly illuminated Missals, which any library can possess: broad margins: vellum, white as snow in colour, and soft as that of Venice in touch! The text is written in a tall, close, gothic character--between, as I should conceive, the years 1460 and 1480. The _drolleries_ are delightfully introduced and executed. The initial letters are large and singular; the subject being executed within compartments of gothic architecture. The figures, of which these subjects are composed, are very small; generally darkly shaded, and highly relieved. They are numerous. Of these initial letters, the fifth to the ninth, inclusively, are striking: the sixth being the most curious, and the ninth the most elaborate. The binding of this volume seems to be of the sixteenth century. This is as it should be. But, more precious than either, or than both, or than three times as many of the preceding illuminated volumes--in the estimation of our friend * * * would be a MS. of which the title runs thus: "_Libri Duo de Vita_ S. WILLIBROORDI _Archiepiscopi autore humili de vita_ ALCUINI _cum prefat. ad Beonradum Archiepiscopum. Liber secundus metrice scriptus est_."[17] Then an old inscription, thus: "_Althwinus de vita Willibrordi Epi_." There can be no doubt of this MS. being at least as old as the eleventh century. The PRINTED BOOKS--at least the account of such as seemed to demand a more particular examination, will not occupy a very great share of your attention. I will begin with a pretty little VELLUM COPY of the well-known _Hortulus Animæ_, of the date of 1498, in 12mo., printed by _Wilhelmus Schaffener de Ropperswiler,_ at _Strasbourg_. The vellum is excellent; and the wood cuts, rather plentifully sprinkled through the volume, happen fortunately to be well-coloured. This copy appears to have come from the "_Weingarth Monastery"_, with the date of 1617 upon it--as that of its having been then purchased for the monastery. It is in its original wooden binding: wanting repair. Here are a few _Roman Classics_, which are more choice than those in the Public Library: as _Reisinger's Suetonius_, in 4to. but cropt, and half bound in red morocco, with yellow sprinkled edges to the leaves--a woful specimen of the general style of binding in this library. _Lucretius_, 1486: _Manilius_, 1474: both in one volume, bound in wood--and sound and desirable copies. _Eutropius_, 1471; by Laver; a sound, desirable copy, in genuine condition. Of _Bibles_, here is the Greek Aldine folio of 1518, in frightful half binding, cropt to the quick: also an Hungarian impression of the two Books of Samuel and of Kings, of 1565, in folio--beginning: AZ KET SAMVEL: colophon: _Debreczenbe_, &c. MDLXV: in wretched half binding. The small paper of the _Latin Bibles_ of 1592, 1603. And of _Greek Testaments_ here are the first, second, fourth and fifth editions of Erasmus; the first, containing both parts, is in one volume, in original boards, or binding; a sound and clean copy: written upon, but not in a _very_ unpicturesque manner. The second edition is but an indifferent copy. The following may be considered _Miscellaneous Articles._ I will begin with the earliest. _St. Austin de Singularitate Clericorum_, printed in a small quarto volume by _Ulric Zel_, in 1467: a good, sound, but cropt copy, along with some opuscula of _Gerson_ and _Chrysostom_, also printed by Zel: these, from the Schönthal monastery. At the end of this dull collection of old theology, are a few ms. opuscula, and among them one of the _Gesta Romanorum:_ I should think of the fourteenth century. The _Wurtzburg Synod_, supposed to be printed by Reyser, towards the end of the fifteenth century; and of which there is a copy in the Public Library, as well as another in that of Strasbourg. To the antiquary, this may be a curious book. I mention it again,[18] in order to notice the name and seal of "Iohannes Fabri,--clericus Maguntin diocesz publicus imperiali auctoritate notarius, &c. Scriba iuratus"--which occur at about one fourth part of the work: as I am desirous of knowing whether this man be the same, or related to the, printer so called, who published the _Ethics of Cato_ in 1477?--of which book I omitted to mention a copy in the Public Library here.[19] Bound up with this volume is Fyner's edition of _P. Niger contra perfidos Iudæos_, 1475, folio. Fyner lived at Eislingen, in the neighbourhood of this place, and it is natural to find specimens of his press here. The _Stella Meschiah_ of 1477, is here cruelly cropt, and bound in the usually barbarous manner, with a mustard-coloured sprinkling upon the edges of the leaves. _Historie von der Melusina:_ a singular volume, in the German language, printed without date, in a thin folio. It is a book perfectly _à la_ Douce; full of whimsical and interesting wood cuts, which I do not remember to have seen in any other ancient volume. From the conclusion of the text, it appears to have been composed or finished in 1446, but I suspect the date of its typographical execution to be that of 1480 at the earliest. I looked about sharply for fine, old, mellow-tinted _Alduses:_--but to no purpose. Yet I must notice a pretty little Aldine _Petrarch_ of 1521, 12mo. bound with _Sannazarius de partu Virginis_, by the same printer, in 1527, 12mo.: in old stamped binding--but somewhat cropt. The leaves of both copies crackle lustily on turning them over. These, also, from the Weingarth monastery. I noticed a beautiful little Petrarch of 1546, 8vo. with the commentary of Velutellus; having a striking device of Neptune in the frontispiece: but no _membranaceous_ articles, of this character and period, came across my survey. I cannot, however, take leave of the Royal Library (a collection which I should think must contain 15,000 volumes) without expressing my obligations for the unrestricted privilege of examination afforded me by those who had the superintendance of it. But I begin to be wearied, and it is growing late. The account of the "court-levee," and the winding up of other Stuttgart matters, must be reserved for to-morrow. The watchman has just commenced his rounds, by announcing, as usual, the hour of _ten_--which announce is succeeded by a long (and as I learn _metrical_) exhortation--for the good folks of Stuttgart to take care of their fires and candles. I obey his injunctions; and say good night. [1] See vol. ii. p. 421. [2] [Of this PORTRAIT, which may be truly said to enrich the pages of the previous edition of the Tour, a more _liberal_ use has been made than I was prepared to grant. My worthy friends, Messrs. Treuttel, Würtz, and Richter were welcome to its republication; but a _third edition_ of it, by another hand, ought not to have been published without permission. The ORIGINAL of this Portrait has ceased to exist. After a laborious life of fourscore years, the learned Schweighæuser has departed--in the fullest maturity of reputation arising from classical attainments; to which must be added, all the excellences of a mild, affable, christian-like disposition. As a husband, a father, and a friend, none went before him: no one displayed these domestic virtues in a more perfect and more pleasing form. As a Greek Scholar and Commentator, he may be said to rank with Hemsterhusius, Wyttenbach, and Heyne. He was equally the boast of Strasbourg and the glory of his age. Never was profound learning more successfully united with "singleness of heart," and general simplicity of character. He ought to have a splendid monument (if he have it not already?) among his Fellow Worthies in the church of St. Thomas at Strasbourg. PEACE TO HIS ASHES!] [3] For the first time, my bill (which I invariably called for, and settled, every day) was presented to me in a printed form, in the _black letter_, within an ornamented border. It was entitled Rechnung von Gottlob Ernst Teichmann, zum Waldhorn in Stuttgart. The printed articles, against which blanks are left, to be filled up according to the quantity and quality of the fare, were these: Fruhstuck, Mittag-Essen, Nacht Essen, Fremder Wein, Ordinarier Wein, Verschiedenes, Logis, Feuerung, Bediente. I must be allowed to add, that the head waiter of the Waldhorn, or _Hunting Horn_, was one of the most respectably looking, and well-mannered, of his species. He spoke French fluently, but with the usual German accent. The master of the inn was coarse and bluff, but bustling and civil. He frequently devoted one of the best rooms in his house to large, roaring, singing, parties--in which he took a decided lead, and kept it up till past midnight. [4] [The late Duchess of OLDENBURG.] [5] See vol. ii. p. 356. [6] [This Public Library is now pulled down, and another erected on the site of it.] [7] In one of these copies is an undoubtedly coeval memorandum in red ink, thus: "_Explicit liber iste Anno domini Millesio quadringentissimo sexagesimosexto_ (1466) _format^{9} arte impssoria p venerabilem viru Johane mentell in argentina_," &c. I should add, that, previously to the words "_sexagesimosexto_" were those of "_quiquagesimosexto_"--which have been erased by the pen of the Scribe; but not so entirely as to be illegible. I am indebted to M. Le Bret for the information that this Bible by Mentelin is more ancient than the one, without date or place, &c. (see _Bibl. Spencer_, vol. i. p. 42, &c.) which has been usually considered to be anterior to it. M. Le Bret draws this conclusion from the comparative antiquity of the language of Mentelin's edition. [8] This was the _second_ copy, with the same original piece, which I had seen abroad; that in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris being the first. I have omitted to notice this, in my account of that Library, vol. ii. p. 156-7, &c. [9] [Both volumes will be found particularly described in the _Ædes Althorpianæ_, vol. ii. p. 285-290.] [10] Lord Spencer has recently obtained a PERFECT COPY of this most rare edition--by the purchase of the library of the Duke di Cassano, at Naples. See the _Cassano Catalogue_, p. 116. [11] A very particular description of this rare edition will be found in the _Bibl. Spencer_, vol. ii. p. 141. [12] See the _Bibliographical Decameron_, vol. i. p. cxcviii. [13] See vol. ii. p. 73. [14] See _Ottley's History of Engraving_, vol. i. p. 86; where a fac-simile of this cut is given--which, in the large paper copies, is coloured. [15] See vol. ii. p. 134-5. [16] The SFORZIADA: See the Catalogue of his Library, no. 7559. [17] The prologue of this metrical life begins thus: _Ecce tuis parui uotis uenerande sacerdos Cor quia de vro feruet amore mihi Pontificis magna wilbroodi et psulis almus Recurrens titulis inclyta gesta tuis Sit lux inferior strepitant cum murmure rauco illius egregi^{9} sermo meus meritis_ This life consists of only 11 leaves, having 23 verses in a full page. It is printed in the _Lect. Antiq. of Canisius_, vol. ii. p. 463; and the prose life is printed by _Surius_ and by _Mabillon_. [18] Before described in the _Bibl. Spenceriana_; vol. IV. p. 508. [19] The book in question has the following colophon: _Hoc opus exiguum perfecit rite iohannes Fabri: cui seruat lingonis alta lares. Ac uoluit formis ipsum fecisse casellis. M.cccc.lxxcii de mense maii_. The _s_ is very singular, being smaller than the other letters, and having a broken effect. This copy, in the Public Library at Stuttgart, is not bound, but in excellent condition. LETTER II. THE ROYAL PALACE. A BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NEGOTIATION. DANNECKER THE SCULPTOR. ENVIRONS OF STUTTGART. The morrow is come; and as the morning is too rainy to stir abroad, I sit down to fulfil the promise of last night. This will be done with the greater cheerfulness and alacrity, as the evenings have been comparatively cooler, and my slumbers, in consequence, more sound and refreshing. M. LE BRET--must be the first name mentioned upon this occasion. In other words, the negotiation about the _two Virgils_, through the zeal and good management of that active Head-Librarian, began quickly to assume a most decided form; and I received an intimation from Mr. Hamilton, our Chargé d'Affaires, that the King expected to see me upon the subject at the "circle"--last Sunday evening. But before you go with me to court, I must make you acquainted with the place in which the Court is held: in other words, with the ROYAL PALACE of STUTTGART. Take away the gilt cushion and crown at the top of it, and the front façade has really the air of a royal residence. It is built of stone: massive and unpretending in its external decorations, and has two wings running at right angles with the principal front elevation. To my eye, it had, at first view, and still continues to have, more of a Palace-like look than the long but slender structure of the Tuilleries. To the left, on looking at it--or rather behind the left wing is a large, well-trimmed flower-garden, terminating in walks, and a carriage way. Just in front of this garden, before a large bason of water, and fixed upon a sort of parapet wall--is a very pleasing, colossal group of two female statues--_Pomona_ and _Flora_, as I conceive--sculptured by Dannecker. Their forms are made to intertwine very gracefully; and they are cut in a coarse, but hard and pleasingly-tinted, stone. For out-of-door figures, they are much superior to the generality of unmeaning allegorical marble statues in the gardens of the Thuilleries. The interior of the palace has portions, which may be said to verify what we have read, in boyish days, of the wonder-working powers of the lamp of Aladdin. Here are porphyry and granite, and rosewood, and satin-wood, porcelaine, and or-molu ornaments, in all their varieties of unsullied splendor. A magnificent vestibule, and marble staircase; a concert room; an assembly-room; and chamber of audience: each particularly brilliant and appropriate; while, in the latter, you observe a throne, or chair of state, of antique form, but entirely covered with curious gilt carvings--rich, without being gaudy--and striking without being misplaced. You pass on--room after room--from the ceilings of which, lustres of increasing brilliance depend; but are not disposed to make any halt till you enter a small apartment with a cupola roof--within a niche of which stands the small statue of _Cupid_; with his head inclined, and one hand raised to feel the supposed-blunted point of a dart which he holds in the other. This is called the Cupid-Room, out of compliment to DANNECKER the sculptor of the figure, who is much patronised by the Queen. A statue or two by Canova, with a tolerable portion of Gobeleine tapestry, form the principal remaining moveable pieces of furniture. A minuter description may not be necessary: the interiors of all palaces being pretty much alike--if we put pictures and statues out of the question. From the Palace, I must now conduct you to the "circle" or Drawing Room--which I attended. Mr. Hamilton was so obliging as to convey me thither. The King paid his respects personally to each lady, and was followed by the Queen. The same order was observed with the circle of gentlemen. His Majesty was dressed in what seemed to be an English uniform, and wore the star of the Order of the Bath. His figure is perhaps under the middle size, but compact, well formed, and having a gentlemanly deportment. The Queen was, questionless, the most interesting female in the circle. To an Englishman, her long and popular residence in England, rendered her doubly an object of attraction. She was superbly dressed, and yet the whole had a simple, lady-like, appearance. She wore a magnificent tiara of diamonds, and large circular diamond ear rings: but it was her _necklace_, composed of the largest and choicest of the same kind of precious stones, which flashed a radiance on the eyes of the beholder, that could scarcely be exceeded even in the court-circles of St. Petersburg. Her hair was quietly and most becomingly dressed; and with a small white fan in her hand, which she occasionally opened and shut, she saluted, and discoursed with, each visitor, as gracefully and as naturally as if she had been accustomed to the ceremony from her earliest youth. Her dark eyes surveyed each figure, quickly, from head to foot--while ... "_Favours_ to none, to all she _smiles_ extends." Among the gentlemen, I observed a young man of a very prepossessing form and manners--having seven orders, or marks of distinction hanging from his button-holes. Every body seemed anxious to exchange a word with him; and he might be at farthest in his thirtieth year. I could not learn his name, but I learnt that his _character_ was quite in harmony with his _person_: that he was gay, brave, courteous and polite: that his courage knew no bounds: that he would storm a citadel, traverse a morass, or lead on to a charge, with equal coolness, courage, and intrepidity: that repose and inaction were painful to him--but that humanity to the unfortunate, and the most inflexible attachment to relations and friends, formed, equally, distinctive marks of his character. This intelligence quite won my heart in favour of the stranger, then standing and smiling immediately before me; and I rejoiced that the chivalrous race of the _Peterboroughs_ was not yet extinct, but had taken root, and "borne branch and flower," in the soil of Suabia. When it came to my turn to be addressed, the king at once asked--"if I had not been much gratified with the books in the Public Library, and particularly with two _ancient editions_ of Virgil?" I merely indicated an assent to the truth of this remark, waiting for the conclusion to be drawn from the premises. "There has been some mention made to me (resumed his Majesty) about a proposed exchange on the part of Lord Spencer, for these two ancient editions, which appear to be wanting in his Lordship's magnificent collection. For my part, I see no objection to the final arrangement of this business--if it can be settled upon terms satisfactory to all parties." This was the very point to which I was so anxious to bring the conference. I replied, coolly and unhesitatingly, "that it was precisely as his Majesty had observed; that his own Collection was strong in _Bibles_, but comparatively weak in Ancient _Classics_: and that a diminution of the _latter_ would not be of material consequence, if, in lieu of it, there could be an increase of the _former_--so as to carry it well nigh towards perfection; that, in whatever way this exchange was effected, whether by money, or by books, in the first instance, it would doubtless be his Majesty's desire to direct the application of the one or the other to the completion of his _Theological Collection_." The King replied "he saw no objection whatever to the proposed exchange--and left the forms of carrying it into execution with his head librarian M. Le Bret." Having gained my point, it only remained to make my bow. The King then passed on to the remainder of the circle, and was quickly followed by the Queen. I heard her Majesty distinctly tell General Allan,[20] in the English language, that "she could never forget her reception in England; that the days spent there were among the happiest of her life, and that she hoped, before she died, again to visit our country." She even expressed "gratitude for the cordial manner in which she had been received, and, entertained in it."[21] The heat had now become almost insupportable; as, for the reason before assigned, every window and door was shut. However, this inconvenience, if it was severe, was luckily of short duration. A little after nine, their Majesties retired towards the door by which they had entered: and which, as it was reopened, presented, in the background, the attendants waiting to receive them. The King and Queen then saluted the circle, and retired. In ten minutes we had all retreated, and were breathing the pure air of heaven. I preferred walking home, and called upon M. Le Bret in my way. It was about half past nine only, but that philosophical bibliographer was about retiring to rest. He received me, however, with a joyous welcome: re-trimmed his lamp; complimented me upon the success of the negotiation, and told me that I might now depart in peace from Stuttgart--for that "the affair might be considered as settled."[22] I have mentioned to you, more than once, the name of DANNECKER the sculptor. It has been my good fortune to visit him, and to converse with him much at large, several times. He is one of the most unaffected of the living Phidias-tribe; resembling much, both in figure and conversation, and more especially in a pleasing simplicity of manners, our celebrated _Chantry_. Indeed I should call Dannecker, on the score of art as well as of person, rather the Chantry than the _Flaxman_ or _Canova_ of Suabia. He shewed me every part of his study; and every cast of such originals as he had executed, or which he had it in contemplation to execute. Of those that had left him, I was compelled to be satisfied with the plaster of his famous ARIADNE, reclining upon the back of a passant leopard, each of the size of life. The original belongs to a banker at Frankfort, for whom it was executed for the sum of about one thousand pounds sterling. It must be an exquisite production; for if the _plaster_ be thus interesting what must be the effect of the _marble_? Dannecker told me that the most difficult parts of the group, as to detail, were the interior of the leopard's feet, and the foot and retired drapery of the female figure--which has one leg tucked under the other. The whole composition has an harmonious, joyous effect; while health, animation, and beauty breathe in every limb and lineament of Ariadne. But it was my good fortune to witness _one_ original of Dannecker's chisel--of transcendent merit. I mean, the colossal head of SCHILLER; who was the intimate friend, and a townsman of this able sculptor. I never stood before so expressive a modern countenance. The forehead is high and wide, and the projections, over the eye-brows, are boldly, but finely and gradually, marked. The eye is rather full, but retired. The cheeks are considerably shrunk. The mouth is full of expression, and the chin somewhat elongated. The hair flows behind in a broad mass, and ends in a wavy curl upon the shoulders: not very unlike the professional wigs of the French barristers which I had seen at Paris. Upon the whole, I prefer this latter--for breadth and harmony--to the eternal conceit of the wig à la grecque. "It was so (said Dannecker) that Schiller wore his hair; and it was precisely with this physiognomical expression that he came out to me, dressed en roquelaure, from his inner apartment, when I saw him for the last time. I thought to myself--on so seeing him--(added the sculptor) that it is thus that I will chisel your bust in marble." Dannecker then requested me to draw my hand gently over the forehead--and to observe by what careful, and almost imperceptible gradations, this boldness of front had been accomplished; I listened to every word that he said about the extraordinary character then, as it were, before me, with an earnestness and pleasure which I can hardly describe; and walked round and round the bust with a gratification approaching to ecstacy. They may say what they please--at Rome or at London--but a _finer_ specimen of art, in its very highest department, and of its particular kind, the chisel of _no living_ Sculptor hath achieved. As a bust, it is perfect. It is the MAN; with all his MIND in his countenance; without the introduction of any sickly airs and graces, which are frequently the result of a predetermination to treat it--as _Phidias_ or _Praxiteles_ would have treated it! It is worth a host of such figures as that of Marshal Saxe at Strasbourg. "Would any sum induce you to part with it?"--said I, in an under tone, to the unsuspecting artist ... bethinking me, at the same time, of offering somewhere about 250 louis d'or--"None:" replied Dannecker. "I loved the original too dearly to part with this copy of his countenance, in which I have done my utmost to render it worthy of my incomparable friend." I think the artist said that the Queen had expressed a wish to possess it; but he was compelled to adhere religiously to his determination of keeping it for himself. Dannecker shewed me a plaster cast of his intended figure of CHRIST. It struck me as being of great simplicity of breadth, and majesty of expression; but perhaps the form wanted fulness--and the drapery might be a little too sparing. I then saw several other busts, and subjects, which have already escaped my recollection; but I could not but be struck with the quiet and unaffected manner in which this meritorious artist mentioned the approbation bestowed by CANOVA upon several of his performances. He is very much superior indeed to Ohmacht; but comparisons have long been considered as uncourteous and invidious--and so I will only add, that, if ever Dannecker visits England--which he half threatens to do--he shall be fêted by a Commoner, and patronised by a Duke. Meanwhile, you have here his Autograph for contemplation. [Illustration: Autograph of Dannecker] [20] Afterwards Sir Alexander Allan, Bart. I met him and Captain C * * *, of the Royal Navy, in their way to Inspruck. But Sir Alexander (than whom, I believe a worthier or a braver man never entered the profession of which he was so distinguished an ornament) scarcely survived the excursion two years. [21] The Queen of Würtemberg survived the levee, above described, only a few months. Her DEATH was in consequence of over-maternal anxiety about her children, who were ill with the measles. The queen was suddenly called from her bed on a cold night in the month of January to the chamber where her children were seriously indisposed. Forgetful of herself, of the hour, and of the season, she caught a severe cold: a violent erysipelatous affection, terminating in apoplexy, was the fatal result--and SHE, who, but a few short-lived months before, had shone as the brightest star in the hemisphere of her own court;--who was the patroness of art;--and of two or three national schools, building, when I was at Stuttgart, at her own expense--was doomed to become the subject of general lamentation and woe. She was admired, respected, and beloved. It was pleasing, as it was quite natural, to see her (as I had often done) and the King, riding out in the same carriage, or phaeton, without any royal guard; and all ranks of people heartily disposed to pay them the homage of their respect. In a letter from M. Le Bret, of the 8th of June 1819, I learnt that a magnificent chapel, built after the Grecian model, was to contain the monument to be erected to her memory. Her funeral was attended by six hundred students from Tubingen, by torch light. [22] For the sake of juxta-position, I will here mention the SEQUEL, as briefly as may be. The "affair" was far from being at that time "settled." But, on reaching Manheim, about to recross the Rhine, on my return to Paris--I found a long and circumstantial letter from my bibliographical correspondent at Stuttgart, which seemed to bring the matter to a final and desirable issue. "So many thousand francs had been agreed upon--there only wanted a well bound copy of the _Bibliographical Decameron_ to boot:--and the Virgils were to be considered as his Lordship's property." Mr. Hamilton, our Chargé d'Affaires, had authority to pay the money--and I ... walked instantly to _Artaria's_--purchased a copy of the work in question, (which happened to be there, in blue morocco binding,) and desired my valet to get ready to start the next morning, by three or four o'clock, to travel post to Stuttgart: from whence he was not to return _without_ bringing the VIRGILS, in the same carriage which would convey him and the Decameronic volumes. Charles Rohfritsch immediately prepared to set out on his journey. He left Manheim at three in the morning; travelled without intermission to Stuttgart,--perhaps fourscore or ninety miles from Manheim--put up at his old quarters _zum Waldhorn_ (see p. 17, ante.) waited upon M. Le Bret with a letter, and the morocco tomes--RECEIVED THE VIRGILS--and prepared for his return to Manheim--which place he reached by two on the following morning. I had told him that, at whatever hour he arrived, he was to make his way to my chamber. He did as he was desired. "LES VOILA!"--exclaimed he, on placing the two volumes hastily upon the table.--"Ma foi, Monsieur, c'est ceci une drôle d'affaire; il y a je ne sçai pas combien de lieues que j'ai traversé pour deux anciens livres qui ne valent pas à mes yeux le tiers d'un Napoleon!" I readily forgave him all this saucy heresy--and almost hugged the volumes ... on finding them upon my table. They were my constant travelling companions through France to Calais; and when I shewed the _Adam Virgil_ to M. Van Praet, at Paris--"Enfin (remarked he, as he turned over the broad-margined and loud-crackling leaves) voilà un livre dont j'ai beaucoup entendu parler, mais que je n'ai jamais vu!" These words sounded as sweet melody to mine ears. But I will unfeignedly declare, that the joy which crowned the whole, was, when I delivered _both_ the books ... into the hands of their present NOBLE OWNER: with whom they will doubtless find their FINAL RESTING PLACE. [Such was my bibliographical history--eleven years ago. Since that period NO copy of EITHER edition has found its way into England. "Terque quaterque beatus!"] LETTER III. DEPARTURE FROM STUTTGART. ULM. AUGSBOURG. THE PICTURE GALLERY AT AUGSBOURG. _Augsbourg, Hôtel des Trois Nègres, Aug. 9, 1818._ MY DEAR FRIEND; I have indeed been an active, as well as fortunate traveller, since I last addressed you; and I sit down to compose rather a long despatch, which, upon the whole, will be probably interesting; and which, moreover, is penned in one of the noblest hotels in Europe. The more I see of Germany, the more I like it. Behold me, then in _Bavaria_; within one of its most beautiful cities, and looking, from my window, upon a street called _Maximilian Street_--which, for picturesque beauty, is exceeded only by the High-street at Oxford. A noble fountain of bronze figures in the centre of it, is sending forth its clear and agitated waters into the air--only to fall, in pellucid drops, into a basin of capacious dimensions: again to be carried upwards, and again to descend. 'Tis a magnificent fountain; and I wish such an one were in the centre of the street above mentioned, or in that of Waterloo Place. But to proceed with my Journal from Stuttgart. I left that capital of the kingdom of Würtemberg about five in the afternoon, accompanied by my excellent friend M. Le Bret, who took a seat in the carriage as far as the boundaries of the city.[23] His dry drollery, and frankness of communication, made me regret that he could not accompany us--at least as far as the first stage _Plochingen_;--especially as the weather was beautiful, and the road excellent. However, the novelty of each surrounding object--(but shall ... I whisper a secret in your ear?--the probably successful result of the negotiation about the two ancient editions of Virgil--yet more than each surrounding object) put me in perfect good humour, as we continued to roll pleasantly on towards our resting-place for the night--either _Göppingen_, or _Geislingen_,--as time and inclination might serve. The sky was in a fine crimson glow with the approaching sun-set, which was reflected by a river of clear water, skirted in parts by poplar and birch, as we changed horses at _Plochingen_. It was, I think, _that_ town, rather than Göppingen, (the next stage) which struck us, en passant, to be singularly curious and picturesque on the score of antiquity and street scenery. It was with reluctance that I passed through it in so rapid a manner: but necessity alone was the excuse. We slept, and slept comfortably, at _Göppingen_. From thence to _Geislingen_ are sweet views: in part luxuriant and cultivated, and in part bold and romantic. Here, were the humble and neatly-trimmed huts of cottagers; there, the lofty and castle-crowned domains of the Baron. It was all pleasing and heart-cheering; while the sky continued in one soft and silvery tint from the unusual transparency of the day. On entering _Geislingen_, our attention was quickly directed to other, and somewhat extraordinary, objects. In this town, there is a great manufactory of articles in _ivory_; and we had hardly stopped to change horses--in other words, the postilion had not yet dismounted--ere we were assailed by some half dozen ill-clad females, who crawled up the carriage, in all directions, with baskets of ivory toys in their hands, saluting us with loud screams and tones--which, of course, we understood to mean that their baskets might be lightened of their contents. Our valet here became the principal medium of explanation. Charles Rohfritsch raised himself up from his seat; extended, his hands, elevated his voice, stamped, seized upon one, and caught hold of another, assailant at the same time--threatening them with the vengeance of the police if they did not instantly desist from their rude assaults. It was indeed high time to be absolute; for Mr. Lewis was surrounded by two, and I was myself honoured by a visit of three, of this gipsy tribe of ivory-venders: who had crawled over the dicky, and up the hinder wheels, into the body of the carriage. There seemed to be no alternative but to purchase _something_. We took two or three boxes, containing crucifixes, toothpicks, and apple-scoops; and set the best face we could upon this strange adventure. Meanwhile, fresh horses were put to; and the valet joked with the ivory venders--having desired the postilion, (as he afterwards informed me) as soon as he was mounted, to make some bold flourishes with his whip, to stick his spurs into the sides of his horses, and disentangle himself from the surrounding female throng as speedily as he could. The postilion did as he was commanded: and we darted off at almost a full gallop. A steep hill was before us, but the horses continued to keep their first pace, till a touch of humanity made our charioteer relax from his efforts. We had now left the town of Geislingen behind us, but yet saw the ivory venders pointing towards the route we had taken. "This has been a strange piece of business indeed, Sir," (observed the valet). "These women are a set of mad-caps; but they are nevertheless women of character. They always act thus: especially when they see that the visitors are English--for they are vastly fond of your countrymen!" We were now within about twenty English miles of ULM. Nothing particular occurred, either by way of anecdote or of scenery, till within almost the immediate approach, or descent to that city--the last in the Suabian territories, and which is separated from Bavaria by the river Danube. I caught the first glance of that celebrated river (here of comparatively trifling width) with no ordinary emotions of delight. It recalled to my memory the battle of _Blenheim_, or of _Hochstedt_; for you know that it was across this very river, and scarcely a score of miles from Ulm, that the victorious MARLBOROUGH chased the flying French and Bavarians--at the battle just mentioned. At the same moment, almost, I could not fail to contrast this glorious issue with the miserable surrender of the town before me--then filled by a large and well-disciplined army, and commanded by that non-pareil of generals, J.G. MACK!--into the power of Bonaparte... almost without pulling a trigger on either side--the place itself being considered, at the time, one of the strongest towns in Europe. These things, I say, rushed upon my memory, when, on the immediate descent into Ulm, I caught the first view of the tower of the MINSTER ... which quickly put Marlborough, and Mack, and Bonaparte out of my recollection. I had never, since quitting the beach at Brighton, beheld such an _English-like_ looking cathedral--as a whole; and particularly the tower. It is broad, bold, and lofty; but, like all edifices, seen from a neighbouring and perhaps loftier height, it loses, at first view, very much of the loftiness of its character. However, I looked with admiration, and longed to approach it. This object was accomplished in twenty minutes. We entered Ulm about two o'clock: drove to an excellent inn (the _White Stag_--which I strongly recommend to all fellow-travellers) and ordered our dinner to be got ready by five; which, as the house was within a stone's cast of the cathedral, gave us every opportunity of visiting it before hand. The day continued most beautiful: and we sallied forth in high spirits, to gaze at and to admire every object of antiquity which should present itself. You may remember my mentioning, towards the close of my last despatch, that a letter was lying upon the table, directed to one of the Professors of the University, or _gymnase_, of this place. The name of that Professor was VEESENMEYER; a very respectable, learned, and kind-hearted gentleman. I sought his house (close to the cathedral) the very first thing on quitting the hotel. The Professor was at home. On receiving my letter, by the hands of a pretty little girl, one of his daughters, M. Veesenmeyer made his appearance at the top of a short stair case, arrayed in a sort of woollen, quilted jacket, with a green cloth cap on, and a pipe in his mouth--which latter seemed to be full as tall as himself. I should think that the Professor could not be taller than his pipe, which might be somewhere about five feet in length. His figure had an exceedingly droll appearance. His mode of pronouncing French was somewhat germanized; but I strained every nerve to understand him, as my valet was not with me, and as there would have been no alternative but to have talked Latin. I was desirous of seeing the library, attached to the cathedral. "Could the Professor facilitate that object?" "Most willingly--" was his reply--"I will write a note to * * the librarian: carry it to him, and he will shew you the library directly, if he be at home." I did as he desired me; but found the number of the house very difficult to discover--as the houses are numbered, consecutively, throughout the town--down one street and up another: so that, without knowing the order of the _streets_ through which the numbers run, it is hardly possible for a stranger to proceed. Having sauntered round and round, and returned almost to the very spot whence I had set out, I at last found the residence of the librarian.--On being admitted, I was introduced to a tall, sharp-visaged, and melancholy-complexioned gentleman, who seemed to rise six feet from the ground on receiving me. He read the Professor's note: but alas! could not speak one word of French. "Placetne tibi, Domine, sermone latino uti?" I answered in the affirmative; but confessed that I was totally out of the habit of speaking it in England: and besides, that our _mode of pronunciation_ was very different from that of other countries. The man of dark vestments and sombre countenance relaxed into a gentle smile, as I added the latter part of this remark: and I accompanied him quickly, but silently, to the library in question. Its situation is surely among the most whimsical in existence. It is placed up one pair of stairs, to the left of the choir; and you ascend up to it through a gloomy and narrow stone staircase. If I remember rightly, the outward door, connecting with the stairs, is in the cathedral yard. The library itself is very small; and a print, being a portrait of its Donor, hangs up against the shelves--facing as you enter. I had never seen this print before. It was an interesting portrait; and had, I think, a date of somewhere about 1584. The collection was chiefly theological; yet there were a few old classics, but of very secondary value. The only book that I absolutely coveted, was a folio, somewhat charged with writing in the margins, of which the title and colophon are as follow:--for I obtained permission to make a memorandum of them. "Gutheri Ligurini Poetæ clarissimi diui Frid. pri Dece libri foeliciter editi: _impssi per industriu & ingeniosu Magistru Erhardu Oeglin ciuem augustesem Ano Sesquimillesimo & septimo mese Apprilio_" This edition contains M vj, in sixes. The preceding article is followed by six leaves, containing supplemental matter. I asked my sable attendant, if this book could be parted with--either for money, or in exchange for other books? he replied, "that that point must be submitted to the consideration of a chapter: that the library was rarely or never visited; but that he considered it would not be proper to disturb its order, or to destroy its identity, since it was a _sacred legacy_." I told him that he reasoned well; but that, should the chapter change such a resolution, my address would be found at Vienna, poste restante, till the 20th of the following month. We parted in terms of formal politeness; being now and then a little checked in my discourse, by the reply, on his part, of "Non prorsus intelligo." I am glad, however, to have seen this secluded cabinet of books; which would have been the very place for the study of Anthony Wood or Thomas Hearne. It had quite an air of monastic seclusion, and it seemed as if scarcely six persons had trod the floor, or six volumes had been taken down from the shelves, since the day when the key was first turned upon the door which encloses the collection. After a few "_salves_," and one "_vale_," I returned to the White Stag. The CATHEDRAL of ULM is doubtless among the most respectable of those upon the continent. It is large and wide, and of a massive and imposing style of architecture. The buttresses are bold, and very much after the English fashion. The tower is the chief exterior beauty. Before we mounted it, we begged the guide, who attended us, to conduct us all over the interior. This interior is very noble: and even superior, as a piece of architecture, to that of Strasbourg. I should think it even longer and wider--for the truth is, that the tower of _Strasbourg_ Cathedral is as much too _tall_, as that of _Ulm_ cathedral is too _short_, for its nave and choir. Not very long ago, they had covered the interior by a white wash; and thus the mellow tint of probably about five centuries--in a spot where there are few immediately surrounding houses--and in a town of which the manufactories and population are comparatively small--the _latter_ about 14,000--thus, I say, the mellow tint of these five centuries (for I suppose the cathedral to have been finished about the year 1320) has been cruelly changed for the staring and chilling effects of whiting. The choir is interesting in a high degree. At the extremity of it, is an altar--indicative of the Lutheran form of worship[24] being carried on within the church--upon which are oil paintings upon wood, emblazoned with gilt backgrounds--of the time of _Hans Burgmair_, and of others at the revival of the art of painting in Germany. These pictures turn upon hinges, so as to shut up, or be thrown open; and are in the highest state of preservation. Their subjects are entirely scriptural; and perhaps old _John Holbein_, the father of the famous Hans Holbein, might have had a share in some of them. Perhaps they may come down to the time of _Lucas Cranach_. Whenever, or by whomsoever executed, this series of paintings, upon the high altar of the cathedral of Ulm, cannot be viewed without considerable satisfaction. They were the first choice specimens of early art which I had seen on this side of the Rhine; and I of course contemplated them with the hungry eye of an antiquary. After a careful survey of the interior, the whole of which had quite the air of English cleanliness and order, we prepared to mount the famous tower. Our valet, Rohfritsch, led the way; counting the steps as he mounted, and finding them to be about three hundred and seventy-eight in number. He was succeeded by the guide. Mr. Lewis and myself followed in a more leisurely manner; peeping through the interstices which presented themselves in the open fretwork of the ornaments, and finding, as we continued to ascend, that the inhabitants and dwelling houses of Ulm diminished gradually in size. At length we gained the summit, which is surrounded by a parapet wall of some three or four feet in height. We paused a minute, to recover our breath, and to look at the prospect which surrounded us. The town, at our feet, looked like the metropolis of Laputa. Yet the high ground, by which we had descended into the town--and upon which Bonaparte's army was formerly encamped--seemed to be more lofty than the spot whereon we stood. On the opposite side flowed the _Danube_: not broad, nor, as I learnt very deep; but rapid, and in a serpentine direction. The river here begins to be navigable for larger boats; but there is little appearance of bustle or business upon the quays. Few or no white sails, floating down the stream, catch the morning or the evening sun-beam: no grove of masts: no shouts of mariners: no commercial rivalry. But what then? Close to the very spot where we stood, our attention was directed to a circumstance infinitely more interesting, to the whimsical fancy of an Antiquary, than a whole forest of masts. What might this be? Listen. "Do you observe, here, gentlemen?" said the guide--pointing to the coping of the parapet wall, where the stone is a little rubbed, "I do"--(replied I) "What may this mean?" "Look below, Sir, (resumed he) how fearfully deep it is. You would not like to tumble down from hence?" This remark could admit but of one answer--in the _negative_; yet the man seemed to be preparing himself to announce some marvellous fact, and I continued mute. "Mark well, gentlemen; (continued he) it was here, on this identical spot, that our famous EMPEROR MAXIMILIAN stood upon one leg, and turned himself quite round, to the astonishment and trepidation of his attendants! He was a man of great bravery, and this was one of his pranks to shew his courage. This story, gentlemen, has descended to us for three centuries; and not long ago the example of the Emperor was attempted to be imitated by two officers,--one of whom failed, and the other succeeded. The first lost his balance, and was precipitated to the earth--dying the very instant he touched the ground; the second succeeded, and declared himself, in consequence, MAXIMILIAN the SECOND!" I should tell you, however, that these attempts were not made on the same day. The officers were Austrian. The room in the middle of the platform, and surmounted by a small spire does not appear to be used for any particular purpose. Having satisfied our curiosity, and in particular stretched our eyes "as far (to borrow Caxton's language) as we well might"--in the direction of _Hochstedt_--we descended, extremely gratified; and sought the hotel and our dinner. Upon the whole, the cathedral of Ulm is a noble ecclesiastical edifice: uniting simplicity and purity with massiveness of composition. Few cathedrals are more uniform in the style of their architecture. It seems to be, to borrow technical language, all of a piece. Near it, forming the foreground of the Munich print, are a chapel and a house surrounded by trees. The chapel is very small, and, as I learnt, not used for religious purposes. The house (so Professor Veesenmeyer informed me) is supposed to have been the residence and offices of business of JOHN ZEINER, the well known _printer_, who commenced his typographical labours about the year 1470,[25] and who uniformly printed at Ulm; while his brother GUNTHER as uniformly exercised his art in the city whence I am now addressing you. They were both natives of _Reutlingen_; a town of some note between Tubingen and Ulm. Let no man, from henceforth, assert that all culinary refinement ceases when you cross the Rhine; at least, let him not do so till he has tasted the raspberry-flavoured soufflet of the _White Stag of Ulm_. It came on the table like unto a mountain of cream and eggs, spreading its extremities to the very confines of the dish; but, when touched by the magic-working spoon, it collapsed, and concentrated into a dish of moderate and seemly dimensions. In other words, this very soufflet--considered by some as the _crux_ of refined cookery--was an exemplification of all the essential requisites of the culinary art: but without the _cotelette_, it would not have satisfied appetites which had been sharpened by the air of the summit of the tower of the cathedral. The inn itself is both comfortable and spacious. We dined at one corner of a ball-room, upon the first floor, looking upon a very pleasant garden. After dinner, I hastened to pay my respects to Professor Veesenmeyer, according to appointment. I found him, where all Professors rejoice to be found, in the centre of his library. He had doffed the first dress in which I had seen him; and the long pipe was reposing horizontally upon a table covered with green baize. We began a bibliographical conversation immediately; and he shewed me, with the exultation of a man who is conscious of possessing treasures for which few, comparatively, have any relish--his _early printed_ volumes, upon the lower shelf of his collection. Evening was coming on, and the daylight began to be treacherous for a critical examination into the condition of old volumes. The Professor told me he would send me a note, the next morning, of what further he possessed in the department of early printing,[26] and begged, in the mean time, that he might take a walk with me in the town. I accepted his friendly offer willingly, and we strolled about together. There is nothing very interesting, on the score of antiquities, except it be the _Rath Haus_, or Town Hall; of which the greater part may be, within a century, as old as the Cathedral.[27] On the following morning I left Ulm, well pleased to have visited the city; and, had the time allowed, much disposed to spend another twenty-four hours within its walls. But I had not quitted my bed (and it was between six and seven o'clock in the morning) before my good friend the Professor was announced: and in half a second was standing at the foot of it. He pulled off his green cloth cap, in which I had first seen him--and I pulled off my night cap, to return his salutation--raising myself in bed. He apologised for such an early intrusion, but said "the duties of his situation led him to be an early riser; and that, at seven, his business of instructing youth was to begin." I thanked him heartily for his polite attentions--little expecting the honour of so early a visit. He then assumed a graver expression of countenance, and a deeper tone of voice; and added, in the Latin language--"May it please Providence, worthy Sir, to restore you safely, (after you shall have examined the treasures in the imperial library of Vienna) to your wife and family. It will always gratify me to hear of your welfare." The Professor then bowed: shut the door quickly, and I saw him no more. I mention this little anecdote, merely to give you an idea of the extreme simplicity, and friendliness of disposition, (which I have already observed in more than this one instance) of the German character. The day of my departure was market-day at Ulm. Having ordered the horses at ten o'clock, I took a stroll in the market-place, and saw the several sights which are exhibited on such occasions. Poultry, meat, vegetables, butter, eggs, and--about three stalls of modern books. These books were, necessarily, almost wholly, published in the German language; but as I am fond of reading the popular manuals of instruction of every country--whether these instructions be moral, historical, or facetious--I purchased a couple of copies of the _Almanac Historique nommé Le_ _Messager Boiteux_, &c: a quarto publication, printed in the sorriest chap-book manner, at Colmar, and of which the fictitious name of _Antoine Souci, Astronome et Hist._ stands in the title-page as the author. A wood-cut of an old fellow with a wooden leg, and a letter in his right hand, is intended to grace this title-page. "Do you believe (said I to the young woman, who sold me the book, and who could luckily stammer forth a few words of French) what the author of this work says?" "Yes, Sir, I believe even _more_ than what he says--" was the instant reply of the credulous vender of the tome. Every body around seemed to be in good health and good spirits; and a more cheerful opening of a market-day could not have been witnessed. Perhaps, to a stranger, there is no sight which makes him more solicitous to become acquainted with new faces, in a new country, than such a scene as this. All was hilarity and good humour: while, above, was a sky as bright and blue as ever was introduced into an illuminated copy of the devotional volumes printed by the father of the ULM PRESS; to wit, _John Zeiner of Reutlingen_. We crossed the Danube a little after ten o'clock, and entered the territories of the King of BAVARIA. Fresh liveries to the postilion--light blue, with white facings--a horn slung across the shoulders, to which the postilion applied his lips to blow a merry blast[28]all animated us: as, upon paying the tax at the barriers, we sprung forward at a sharp trot towards _Augsbourg_. The morning continued fine, but the country was rather flat; which enabled us, however, as we turned a frequent look behind, to keep the tower of the cathedral of Ulm in view even for some half dozen miles. The distance before us now became a little more hilly: and we began to have the first glimpse of those _forests of firs_ which abound throughout Bavaria. They seem at times interminable. Meanwhile, the churches, thinly scattered here and there; had a sort of mosque or globular shaped summit, crowned by a short and slender spire; while the villages appeared very humble, but with few or no beggars assailing you upon changing horses. We had scarcely reached _Günzbourg_, the first stage, and about fourteen miles from Ulm, when we obtained a glimpse of what appeared to be some lofty mountains at the distance of forty or fifty miles. Upon enquiry, I found that they were a part of a chain of mountains connected with those in the Tyrol. It was about five o'clock when we reached AUGSBOURG; and, on entering it, we could not but be struck with the _painted exteriors_, and elaborate style of architecture, of the houses. We noticed, with surprise not wholly divested of admiration, shepherds and shepherdesses, heroes and heroines, piazzas, palaces, cascades, and fountains--in colours rather gay than appropriate--depicted upon the exterior walls:--and it seemed as if the accidents of weather and of time had rarely visited these decorations. All was fresh, and gay, and imposing. But a word about our Inn, (_The Three Moors_) before I take you out of doors. It is very large; and, what is better, the owner of it is very civil. Your carriage drives into a covered gate way or vestibule, from whence the different stair-cases, or principal doors, lead to the several divisions of the house. The front of the house is rich and elegant. On admiring it, the waiter observed--"Yes, Sir, this front is worthy of the reputation which the _Hôtel of the Three Moors_ possesses throughout Europe." I admitted it was most respectable. Our bed rooms are superb--though, by preference, I always chose the upper suit of apartments. The _caffé_ for dining, below, is large and commodious; and I had hardly bespoke my first dinner, when the head-waiter put the _travelling book_ into my hands: that is, a book, or _album_, in which the names and qualities of all the guests at that inn, from all parts of Europe, are duly registered. I saw the names of several of my countrymen whom I well knew; and inscribed my own name, and that of my companion, with the simplest adjuncts that could be devised. In doing so, I acted only according to precedent. But the boast and glory of this Inn is its GALLERY OF PICTURES: for sale. The great ball-room, together with sundry corridores and cabinets adjoining, are full of these pictures; and, what renders the view of them more delectable, is, the _Catalogue_:--printed in the _English language_, and of which a German is the reputed author. My attention, upon first running over these pictures was, unluckily, much divided between them and the vehicle of their description. If I turned to the number, and to the description in the printed catalogue, the language of the latter was frequently so whimsical that I could not refrain from downright laughter.[29] However, the substance must not be neglected for the shadow; and it is right that you should know, in case you put your travelling scheme of visiting this country, next year, into execution, that the following observations may not be wholly without their use in directing your choice--as well as attention--should you be disposed to purchase. Here is _said_ to be a portrait of _Arcolano Armafrodita_, a famous physician at Rome in the XVth century, by _Leonardo da Vinci_. Believe neither the one nor the other. There are some _Albert Durers_; one of the _Trinity,_ of the date of 1523, and another of the _Doctors of the Church_ dated 1494: the latter good, and a choice picture of the early time of the master. A portrait of an old man, kit-cat, _supposed_ by _Murillo_. Two ancient pictures by _Holbein_ (that is, the _Father_ of Hans Holbein) of the _Fugger family_--containing nine figures, portraits, of the size of life: dated 1517 and deserving of notice. An old woman veiled, half-length, by _J. Levens_: very good. Here are two _Lucas Cranachs_, which I should like to purchase; but am fearful of dipping too deeply into Madame Francs's supplemental supply. One is a supposed portrait (it is a mere supposition) of _Erasmus_ and his mistress; the other is an old man conversing with a girl. As specimens of colouring, they are fine--for the master; but I suspect they have had a few retouches. Here is what the catalogue calls "A _fuddling-bout. beautyful small piece, by Rembrand_:" nº. 188: but it is any thing but a beautiful piece, and any thing but a Rembrandt. There is a small picture, said to be by _Marchessini_, of "Christ dragged to the place of execution." It is full of spirit, and I think quite original. At first I mistook it for a _Rubens_; and if Marchessini, and not Otho Venius, had been his master, this mistake would have been natural. I think I could cull a nosegay of a few vivid and fragrant flowers, from this graphic garden of plants of all colours and qualities. But I shrewdly suspect that they are in general the off-scourings of public or private collections; and that a thick coat of varnish and a broad gilt frame will often lead the unwary astray. While I am upon the subject of _paintings_, I must take you with me to the TOWN HALL ... a noble structure; of which the audience room, up one pair of stairs--and in which Charles V. received the deputies respecting the famous _Augsbourg Confession of Faith_, in 1530,--is, to my taste, the most perfectly handsome room which I have ever seen. The wainscot or sides are walnut and chestnut wood, relieved by beautiful gilt ornaments. The ceiling is also of the same materials; but marked and diversified by divisions of square, or parallelogram, or oval, or circular, forms. This ceiling is very lofty, for the size of the room: but it is a fault (if it be one) on the right side. I should say, that this were a chamber worthy of the cause--and of the actors--in the scene alluded to. It is thoroughly imperial: grave, grand, and yet not preposterously gorgeous. Above this magnificent room is the PICTURE GALLERY. It is said to receive the overflowings of the gallery of Munich--which, in turn, has been indebted to the well known gallery of Dusseldorf for its principal treasures. However, as a receiver of cast-off apparel, this collection must be necessarily inferior to the parent wardrobe, yet I would strongly recommend every English Antiquary--at all desirous of increasing his knowledge, and improving his taste, in early German art--to pay due attention to this singular collection of pictures at Augsbourg. He will see here, for the first time in Bavaria--in his route from the capital of France--productions, quite new in character, and not less striking from boldness of conception and vigor of execution. Augsbourg may now be considered the soil of the _Elder Holbein_, _Hans Burgmair_, _Amberger_, and _Lucas Cranach_. Here are things, of which Richardson never dreamt, and which Walpole would have parted with three fourths of his graphic embellishments at Strawberry Hill to have possessed. Here are also portraits of some of the early Reformers, of which an excellent Divine (in the vicinity of Hackney church) would leap with transport to possess copies, wherewith to adorn his admirable collection of English ecclesiastical history. Here, too, are capricious drolleries, full of character and singularity--throwing light upon past manners and customs--which the excellent PROSPERO would view with ... an almost coveting eye! But to be more particular; and to begin with the notice of a curious performance of John, or the ELDER HOLBEIN. It is divided, like many of the pictures of the old German masters, into three compartments. The _Nativity_ occupies one; the _Assumption_ another: and the decapitation of _St. Dorothy_ the third. In the Assumption, the Trinity, composed of three male figures, is introduced as sanctifying the Virgin--who is in front. Below this group is the church of "_Maria Maior_," having two bells in the steeple; upon one of which, in the act of being tolled, is the date of 1499: upon the other, in a quiescent state, are the words HANS HOLBEIN: with the initial L.B. to the right. To the left, at bottom, is the inscription HIE LITBE GRA; to the right, below, on a piece of stone, the initial H. The third piece in this composition, the death of St. Dorothy, exhibits a sweetly-drawn and sweetly coloured countenance in that of the devoted Saint. She is kneeling, about to receive the uplifted sword of the executioner; evincing a firmness, yet meekness of resignation, not unworthy the virgin martyrs of the pencils of Raphael and Guido. Her hair is long, and flows gracefully behind. A little boy, habited in a whimsical jacket, offers her a vase filled with flowers. The whole picture is rich and mellow in its colouring, and in a fine state of preservation. Another piece, by the same uncommon artist, may be also worth particular notice. It is a miscellaneous performance, divided into three compartments; having, in the upper part of the first, a representation of the Agony in the Garden of Gethsemane. Our Saviour is placed in a very singular situation, within a rock. The comforting angel appears just above him. Below is the Pope, in full costume, in the character of St. Peter, with a key in his left hand, and in his right a scroll; upon the latter of which is this inscription: "_Auctoritate aplica dimitto vob omia pcta_"[30] The date of 1501 is below. This picture, which is exceedingly gorgeous, is in the purest state of preservation. Another compartment represents our Saviour and the Virgin surrounded by male and female martyrs. One man, with his arms over his head, and a nail driven through them into his skull, is very striking: the head being well drawn and coloured. To the left, are the Pope, Bishops, and a Cardinal between St. Christopher and a man in armour. One Bishop (_St. Erasmus_) carries a spit in his left hand, designating the instrument whereby he suffered death. This large picture is also in a very fine state of preservation. A third display of the graphic talents of the Elder Holbein (as I should conceive, rather than of the son, when young--as is generally believed) claims especial notice. This picture is a representation of the leading events in the _Life of St. Paul_; having, like most other performances of this period, many episodes or digressions. It is also divided into three compartments; of which the central one, as usual, is the most elevated. The first compartment, to the left, represents the conversion of St. Paul above, with his baptism by Ananias below. In this baptism is represented a glory round the head of St. Paul--such as we see round that of Christ. Before them stands a boy, with a lighted torch and a box: an old man is to the left, and another, with two children, to the right. This second old man's head is rather fine. To the left of the baptism, a little above, is St. Paul in prison, giving a letter to a messenger. The whole piece is, throughout, richly and warmly coloured, and in a fine state of preservation. The central piece has, above, ["_Basilica Sancti Pauli_."] Christ crowned with thorns. The man, putting a sceptre in his hand, is most singularly and not inelegantly clothed; but one or two of the figures of the men behind, occupied in platting the crown of thorns, have a most extraordinary and original cast of countenance and of head-dress. They appear ferocious, but almost ludicrous, from bordering upon caricature; while the leaves; and bullrush-like ornaments of their head-dress, render them very singularly striking personages. To the right, Joseph of Arimathea is bargaining for the body of Jesus; the finger of one hand placed against the thumb of the other telling the nature of the action admirably. Below this subject, in the centre, is St. Paul preaching at Athens. One of the figures, listening to the orator with folded arms, might have given the hint to Raphael for one of _his_ figures, in a similar attitude, introduced into the famous cartoon of the same subject. Before St. Paul, below, a woman is sitting--looking at him, and having her back turned to the spectator. The head-dress of this figure, which is white, is not ungraceful. I made a rude copy of it; but if I had even coloured like * * * I could not have done justice to the neck and back; which exhibited a tone of colour that seemed to unite all the warmth of Titian with all the freshness of Rubens. In the foreground of this picture, to the right, St. Peter and St. Paul are being led to execution. There is great vigour of conception and of touch (perhaps bordering somewhat upon caricature) in the countenances of the soldiers. One of them is shewing his teeth, with a savage grin, whilst he is goading on the Apostles to execution. The headless trunk of St. Paul, with blood spouting from it, lies to the left; the executioner, having performed his office, is deliberately sheathing his sword. The colouring throughout may be considered perfect. We now come to the remaining, or third compartment. This exhibits the interment of St. Paul. There is a procession from a church, led on by the Pope, who carries the head of the Apostle upon a napkin. The same head is also represented as placed between the feet of the corpse, in the foreground. There is a clever figure, in profile, of a man kneeling in front: the colouring of the robe of a Bishop, also kneeling, is rich and harmonious. A man, with a glory round his head, is let down in a basket, as from prison, to witness the funeral. But let me not forget to notice the head of an old man, in the procession, (coming out of the church-door) and turning towards the left:--it is admirably well touched. I shall now give you a notion of the talents of HANS BURGMAIR--a painter, as well as engraver, of first-rate abilities. I will begin with what I consider to be the most elaborate specimen of his pencil in this most curious gallery of pictures. The subject is serious, but miscellaneous: and of the date of 1501. It consists of Patriarchs, Evangelists, Martyrs, male and female, and Popes, &c. The Virgin and Christ are sitting, at top, in distinguished majesty. The countenances of the whole group are full of nature and expression: that of the Virgin is doubtless painted after a living subject. It exhibits the prevailing or favourite _mouth_ of the artist; which happens however to be generally somewhat awry. The cherub, holding up a white crown, and thrusting his arm as it were towards the spot where it is to be fixed, is prettily conceived. Upon the whole, this picture contains some very fine heads. Another picture of Hans Burgmair, worth especial attention, is dated 1504. It is, as usual, divided, into three compartments; and the subject is that of _St. Ursula and her Virgins_. Although of less solid merit than the preceding, it is infinitely more striking; being most singularly conceived and executed. The gold ornaments, and gold grounds, are throughout managed with a freedom and minuteness of touch which distinguish many of the most beautiful early missals. In the first compartment, or division, are a group of women round "_Sibila Ancyra Phrygiæ_." The dresses of these women, especially about the breast, are very curious. Some of their head dresses are not less striking, but more simple; having what may be called a cushion of gold at the back of them. In the second compartment is the _Crucifixion_--in the warmest and richest (says my memorandum, taken on the very spot) glow of colour. Beneath, there is a singular composition. Before a church, is a group of pilgrims with staves and hats on; a man, not in the attire of a pilgrim, heads them; he is habited in green, and points backwards towards a woman, who is retreating; a book is in his left hand. The attitudes of both are very natural. Further to the right, a man is retreating--going through an archway--with a badge (a pair of cross keys) upon his shoulder. The retreating woman has also the same badge. To the left, another pilgrim is sitting, apparently to watch; further up, is a house, towards which all the pilgrims seem to be directing their steps to enter. A man and woman come out of this house to receive them with open arms. The third division continues the History of St. Ursula. Her attire, sitting in a vessel by the side of her husband Gutherus, is sumptuous in the extreme. I would have given four ducats for a copy of it, but Mr. Lewis was otherwise engaged. A Pope and Cardinal are to the right of St. Ursula: the whole being in a perfect blaze of splendour. Below, they are dragging the female Saint and her virgin companions on shore, for the purpose of decapitation. An attitude of horror, in one of the virgins, is very striking. There is a small picture by Burgmair of the _Virgin and Christ_, in the manner of the Italian masters, which is a palpable failure. The infant is wretchedly drawn, although, in other respects, prettily and tenderly coloured. Burgmair was out of his element in subjects of dignity, or rather of _repose_. Where the workings of the mind were not to be depicted by strong demarcations of countenance, he was generally unsuccessful. Hence it is, that in a subject of the greatest repose, but at the same time intensity of feeling--the _Crucifixion_--this master, in a picture here, of the date of 1519, has really outdone himself: and perhaps is not to be excelled by _any_ artist of the same period. I could not take my eyes from this picture--of which the figures are about half the size of life. It is thus treated. Our Saviour has just breathed his dying exclamation--"it is finished." His head hangs down--cold, pale death being imprinted upon every feature of the face. It is perhaps a painfully-deadly countenance: copied, I make no doubt, from nature. St. Anne, Mary, and St. John, are the only attendants. The former is quite absorbed in agony--her head is lowly inclined, and her arms are above it. (The pattern of the drapery is rather singular). Mary exhibits a more quiet expression: her resignation is calm and fixed, while her heart seems to be broken. But it is in the figure and countenance of _St. John_, that the artist has reached all that an artist _could_ reach in a delineation of the same subject. The beloved disciple simply looks upwards--upon the breathless corpse of his crucified master. In that look, the world appears to be for ever forgotten. His arms and hands are locked together, in the agony of his soul. There is the sublimest abstraction from every artificial and frivolous accompaniment--in the treatment of this subject--which you can possibly conceive. The background of the picture is worthy of its nobler parts. There is a sobriety of colouring about it which Annibal Caracci would not have disdained to own. I should add, that there is a folding compartment on each side of the principal subject, which, moving upon hinges, may be turned inwards, and shut the whole from view. Each of these compartments contains one of the two thieves who were crucified with Our Saviour. There is a figure of S. Lazarus below one of them, which is very fine for colour and drawing. The last, in the series of old pictures by German masters, which I have time to notice, is an exceedingly curious and valuable one by CHRISTOPHER AMBERGER. It represents _the Adoration of the Magi_. There are throughout very successful attempts at reflected light; but what should set this picture above all price, in my humble estimation, is a portrait--and the finest which I remember to have seen--of MELANCTHON:--executed when he was in the vigour of life, and in the full possession of physiognomical expression. He is introduced in the stable just over those near the Virgin, who are coming to pay their homage to the infant Christ: and is habited in black, with a black cap on. Mr. Lewis made the following rough copy of the head in pencil. To the best of my recollection, there is _no engraving_ of it--so that you will preserve the enclosed for me, for the purpose of having it executed upon copper, when I reach England. It is a countenance full of intellectual expression. [Illustration] Of the supposed _Titians_, _Caraccis_, _Guidos_, _Cignanis_, and _Paolo Veroneses_, I will not presume to say one word; because I have great doubts about their genuineness, or, at any rate, integrity of condition. I looked about for _Albert Durer_, and _Lucas Cranach_, and saw with pleasure the portraits of my old friends _Maximilian I._ and _Charles V._ by the former--and a _Samson and Dalila_ by the latter: but neither, I think, in the very first rate style of the artist. There was a frightful, but expressive and well coloured, head of a Dwarf, or Fool, of which Mr. Lewis took a pencil-copy; but it is not of sufficient importance to enclose in this despatch. It is the EARLY GERMAN SCHOOL of Art which is here the grand and almost exclusive feature of attraction--speaking in an antiquarian point of view. ReÏchard estimates the number of these pictures at _twelve hundred_, but I should rather say _seven hundred_. I find, however, that it will be impossible to compress all my _Augsbourg_ intelligence in one epistle; and so I reserve the remainder for another opportunity. [23] [Several years have elapsed since I have received a letter from Mons. Le Bret. Is he alive? If he be living, let him be assured of my unalterable and respectful attachment: and that I have unfeigned pleasure in annexing a fac-simile of his AUTOGRAPH--from a letter to me of the date of June 8th 1819: a letter, which I received on the 17th of the same month following--the very day of our _Roxburghe Anniversary Dinner_. Singularly enough, this letter begins in the following strain of bibliographical jocoseness: "_Monsieur, et très reverend Frère de Boocace l'Immortel!_"] [Illustration: Signature--f.c. Lebret] [24] The predominant religion is the Protestant. Indeed I may say that the number of Catholics is exceedingly limited: perhaps, not an eighth part of the population of the town. [25] I presume this to be the earliest date which any of his books exhibit. His brother GUNTHER, or GINTHER (for the name is spelt both ways in his colophons) began to print in 1468. Lord Spencer possesses a beautiful copy (which I obtained from the library of St. Peter's Monastery, at Salzbourg) of _Bonaventure's Meditations upon the Life of Christ_, of the date of 1468, printed by G. Zainer, or (Zeiner) at Augsbourg; and considered to be the first effort of his press. [26] The note, above mentioned, was written in Latin: the Professor telling me that he preferred that language to the French, as he thought he could write it more grammatically. A _Latin note_ must be rather a curiosity to my readers: which, as it is purely bibliographical, and in other respects highly characteristic of the _bon-hommie_ of the writer, shall receive a place here. After mentioning the books above specified, the Professor goes on thus: "Haec paucula e pluribus notare libuit, quæ reliqua temporis angustia ostendere non permisit. Habeo enim alias, quas vocant, editiones principes, e.g. Diogenis Laertii, Bas. 1533-4. Josephi, Bas. 1544. fol. Jo. Chrysostomi [Greek: _peri pronoias_] 1526-8. Ej. [Greek: peri hierôsunês], ib 1525-8. Aliorum Græcorum et Patrum. Calpurnii et Nemesiani Eclogarum editionem, ab. do. Alex. Brassicano curatam editionem ad MS. antiquum factam et Argent. 1519-4. impressam. Præterea aliquot Aldinas et Juntinas editiones, aliquot a Mich. Vascosano, Paris. factas, in quibus Thucydidis Libri III. priores, Paris. 1548. 4. cujus margini Lectt. Varr. e MSto adscriptæ sunt, non memoratæ in editione Bipontina. Æschylus, ex edit. Franc. Robortelli, Venet. 1552. 8. Idem ex ed. Henr. Stephani, ex offic. Henr. Stephani, 1557. 4. Dionysii Halic. Opera Rhet. ex. ed. Rob. Stephani, Par. 1547. Fol. Diodor. Sicul. ex edit. Henr. Stephani, 1559. Fol. "Pauculos Codd. MSS. e. gr. Ciceronis de Officiis, Aratoris in Acta App. Fragmenta Liuii et Terentii ostendere tempus non concessit: præter eos habeo aliquot Ciceronis Orationes, Excerpta ex Liuio, duos Historiæ Griseldis, et alios minoris pretii. "Maximam collectionis, Bibliothecam appellare non fas est, meæ partem efficit magnus librorum et libellorum numerus ab Ao. 1500. usque ad 1550. editorum a Reformatoribus eorumque aduersariis, qui numerum sex millium superant, in quibus adsunt Serueti de Trinitatis erroribus, eiusdemque Dialogi, Tomi Pasquillorum, Henr. Corn. Agrippæ aliquot opera, Lemnii Epigrammata, aliquot libelli, Lutheri et Melancthonis manu ornati; præterea alia Collectio Documentorum, quorum antiquissimum est ab. A. 1181 et Epistolarum [Greek: _autographôn_], a viris doctis Sæculorum XV. XVI. XVII. XVIII. conscriptarum, in quibus Henr. Steinhoevvelii, Raym. Peraudi, Lutheri, Melancthonis, Zwinglii, Gruteri, Casauboni, Ludolfi, Camerarii, Patris, Rittershusiorum, Piccarti, aliorumque. "Sed nolo longiore enarratione molestus esse, ne vanus esse uidear, a quo vitio nemo me alienior est. Vt divina providentia iter prosperum esse iubeat, est, quod ex animo TIBI, VIR--precatur Vlmæ, Aug. MDCCCXVIII. [Illustration: Signature] P.S. Et TIBI præsenti, et superiora heri nocte et somno ingruente scribens referre omiseram, esse mihi ex XXII. libris _ab Academia Veneta, della Fama dicta_, editis XV. Omnes adeo sunt rari, ut vel instructissimæ bibliothecae vix aliquot eorum habeant. Addo _germanicam Sixti Papæ Bullæ datæ 1474 versionem,_ sine dubio Vlmæ eodem anno impressam, et quinque foliis constantem; quam apud me vidisti." The Professor, with the above note, was also so obliging as to present me with a copy of his "_Specimen Historico-Litterarium de Academia Veneta_. Qua Scholarchæ et Vniversum Gymnasii quod Ulmæ floret Consilium Mæcenates Patronos Fautores ejusdem Gymnasii ad Orationem aditialem A.D. XXIV. Febr. A. 1794, habendam officiose atque decenter invitant."--A Latin brochure of twelve pages: "_Ulmæ ex Officina Wagneri, Patris_." [27] [There is an excellent lithographic print of this Rath Haus, which I possess.] [28] The postboys in the Duchy of Baden, and in the territories of Würtemberg, have also horns; but I never could get any thing, in the character of a tune, performed by either of them. The moment you enter BAVARIA, you observe a greater elasticity of character. [The ARMS of Bavaria head the first page of this third volume of my Tour.] [29] The reader may try the effect of perusing the following articles (taken from this printed catalogue) upon his own muscles. The performance, as I suspect, is by a native of Augsbourg. 75. _Portrait of Justus Lipsius by Rembrand_. This head of a singulary verity shews of draughts of a man of science: the treatement of Clothing is most perfectful, the respiring of life, the hands all wunder-worthy to be admired. 208. _A hunting-piece_ of great beauty by Schneyders, the dogs seem to be alife, the wild-fowls, a hare, toils, just as in nature. 341. _Queen Marie Christine of Sweden_ represented in a very noble situation of body and tranquility of mind, of a fine verity and a high effect of clair-obscure. By Rembrand. 376. _Cromwell Olivier_, kit-cat the size of life, a Portrait of the finest carnation, who shews of a perfect likeness and verity, school of Vandyk, perhaps by himself. 398. Portrait of _Charles the first king of England_ (so many Portraits of famous persons by Classick painters will very seldom be found into a privat collection) good picture by Janson van Miereveld. 399. A large and precious battle piece representing a scene of the famous _victory by Blindheim wonen by Marleborough_ over the frensh 1704. We see here the portrait of this hero very resembling, he in a graceful attitude on horsebak, is just to order a movement: a many generals and attendance are arround him. The leaguer, the landscape, the groups, the fighting all with the greatest thruth, there is nothing that does not contribute to embellish this very remarcable picture, painted by a contemporary of the evenement and famous artist in battle pieces, George Philipp Rugendas. [30] This was no uncommon representation in the early period of art. "In the church of St. Peter the Younger, at Strasbourg, about the year 1515, there was a kind of large printed placard, with figures on each side of it, suspended near a confessional. On one side, was a naked Christ, removing the fire of purgatory with his cross, and sending all those, who came out of the fire, to the Pope--who was seated in his pontifical robes, having letters of indulgence before him. Before him, also, knelt emperors, kings, cardinals, bishops and others: behind him was a sack of silver, with many captives delivered from Mahometan slavery--thanking the supreme Pontiff, and followed by clergymen paying the ransom money to the Turks. There might also be seen captives, at the bottom of a deep well, shut down by bars of iron; and men, women, and children, making all manner of horrible contortions. "Those, says the chronicler Wencker, "who saw such a piteous sight, wept, and gave money liberally--for the possession of indulgences;--of which the money, raised by the sale, was supposed to be applied towards the ransom of Christian captives." HERMANN; _Notices Historiques, &c. de Strasbourg_: vol. ii. p. 434. LETTER IV. AUGSBOURG. CIVIL AND ECCLESIASTICAL ARCHITECTURE. POPULATION. TRADE. THE PUBLIC LIBRARY. In ancient times--that is to say, upwards of three centuries ago--the CITY OF AUGSBOURG was probably the most populous and consequential in the kingdom of Bavaria. It was the principal residence of the noblesse, and the great mart of commerce. Dukes, barons, nobles of every rank and degree, became domiciled here. A thousand blue and white flags streamed from the tops of castellated mansions, and fluttered along the then almost impregnable ramparts. It was also not less remarkable for the number and splendour of its religious establishments. Here was a cathedral, containing twenty-four chapels; and an abbey or monastery (of _Saints Vlric and Afra_) which had no rival in Bavaria for the size of its structure and the wealth of its possessions. This latter contained a LIBRARY, both of MSS. and printed books, of which the recent work of Braun has luckily preserved a record;[31] and which, but for such record, would have been unknown to after ages. The treasures of this Library are now entirely dispersed; and Munich, the capital of Bavaria, is the grand repository of them. Augsbourg, in the first instance, was enriched by the dilapidations of numerous monasteries; especially upon the suppression of the order of the Jesuits. The paintings, books, and relics, of every description, of such monasteries as were in the immediate vicinity of this city, were taken away to adorn the town hall, churches, capitals and libraries. Of this collection, (of which no inconsiderable portion, both for number and intrinsic value, came from the neighbouring monastery of Eichstadt,[32]) there has of course been a pruning; and many flowers have been transplanted to Munich. Yet there are _graphic_ treasures in Augsbourg well deserving the diligent search and critical examination of the English Antiquary. The church of the _Recollets_ has an organ which is considered among the noblest in Europe: nor must I forget to notice the pulpit, by Eichlen, and some old pictures in the church of St. Anne. [Illustration: MONASTERY OF SAINTS ULRIC & AFRA, AUGSBURG.] The TOWN HALL in this city, which I mentioned in my last letter, is thought to be the finest in Germany. It was yet exceeded, as I learn, by the old EPISCOPAL PALACE, now dismembered of its ancient dimensions, and divided into public offices of government. The principal church, at the end of the _Maximilian Street_, is that which once formed the chief ornament of the famous Abbey of Sts. Ulric and Afra.[33] I should think that there is no portion of the present building older than the fourteenth century; while it is evident that the upper part of the tower is of the middle of the sixteenth. It has a nearly globular or mosque-shaped termination--so common in the greater number of the Bavarian churches. It is frequented by congregations both of the Catholic and Protestant persuasion; and it was highly gratifying to see, as I saw, human beings assembled under the same roof, equally occupied in their different forms of adoration, in doing homage to their common Creator. It was also pleasing, the other day, to witness, upon some high religious festival, the crowds of respectable and well-dressed people (chiefly females) who were issuing from the Church just above mentioned. It had quite an English Sunday appearance. I have said that these females were "well dressed"--I should, rather have said superbly dressed: for their head-ornaments--consisting of a cap, depressed at top, but terminating behind in a broad bow--are usually silk, of different colours, entirely covered with gold or silver gauze, and spangles. The hair appeared to be carefully combed and plaited, either turned up in a broad mass behind, or terminating in ringlets. I asked the price of one of the simplest of these caps--worn by the common order of servants--and found it to be little less than a guinea. But they last long, and the owners attach some importance to them. Augsbourg was once distinguished for great learning and piety, as well as for political consequence; and she boasts of a very splendid _martyrological roll_.[34] At the present day, all is comparatively dull and quiet; but you cannot fail to be struck with the magnificence of many of the houses, and the air of importance hence given to the streets; while the paintings upon the outer walls add much to the splendid effect of the whole. The population of Augsbourg is supposed to amount to about thirty thousand. In the time of Maximilian, and Charles V. it was, I make no doubt, twice as numerous. Of the TRADE of Augsbourg, I am not enabled to transmit any very flattering details. Silks, stuffs, dimity, (made here for the first time) and jewellery, are the chief commodities; but for the _latter_, connected with articles of dress, there is rather a brisk demand. The reputation of the manufactory of _Seethaler_, is deserving of mention. In the repository of this respectable tradesman you will find varieties of every description: rings, buckles, clasps, bracelets, and images of Saints, of peculiar and interesting forms. Yet they complain here of stagnation of commerce in almost every one of its branches: although they admit that the continuance of peace will bring things comfortably round again. The late war exhausted both the population and the treasury of Bavaria. They do a good stroke of business in the concerns of the bank: and this is considered rather a famous place for the management of letters and bills of exchange. With respect to the _latter_, some singular customs and privileges are, I understand, observed here: among others, if a bill become due on a _Wednesday_, eight days of grace are invariably allowed. It was the thoughts of the PUBLIC LIBRARY alone that afforded the chief comfort to the depressed state of my spirits, from the excessive heat of the day. What I might _do_, and at last, what I had _done_, within the precincts of that same library, was sure to be my greatest solace during the evening rambles near the ramparts. The good fortune which attended me at Stuttgart, has followed to this place. Within two yards' length of me repose, at this present instant, the first _Horace_, and the finest copy imaginable of the _Polish Protestant Bible_ of Prince Radzivil--together with a _Latin Bible_ of 1475, by _Frisner and Sensenschmidt_, in two enormous folio volumes, of an execution of almost unparalleled magnificence. These are no common stimulants to provoke appetite. It remains to see whether the banquet itself be composed of proportionably palatable ingredients. On leaving Stuttgart, M. Le Bret told me that Messrs. BEYSCHLAG and MAY were the principal librarians or curators of the Public Library of this place; and that I should find them intelligent and pleasant gentlemen. Professor Veesenmeyer at Ulm confirmed this statement. I had a letter from the latter, to the Rector Beyschlag, which procured me an immediate entrance into the library. The Rector's coadjutor, Professor May, was also most prompt to shew me every rarity. In the countenance of the _latter_, I saw, what you could not fail to call that of a handsome-looking English gentleman. I had never before so vehemently desired to speak the German language, or for my new acquaintance to speak my own. However, the French tongue was the happy medium of imparting my ideas and propositions to both the gentlemen in question; and we had hardly exchanged half a dozen sentences, when I opened what I considered (and what eventually turned out to be) a well directed fire upon the ancient volumes by which I was at the time surrounded. The exterior of this library has a monastic form. The building is low and unpretending, having an octangular tower, up the staircase of which you mount to the library. It is situated within a stone's throw of the High Street. The interior of the library is not less unpretending than its exterior: but in a closet, at the hither end, (to the left on entering) are preserved the more ancient, choice, and curious volumes. In one compartment of this cabinet-like retreat are contained the _books printed at Augsbourg_ in the infancy of the press of this town:[35] a collection, extremely creditable in itself and in its object; and from which, no consideration, whether of money, or of exchange for other books, would induce the curators to withdraw a volume. Of course I speak not of _duplicates_ of the early Augsbourg press. Two comparatively long rooms, running in parallel lines, contain the greater part of the volumes of the public library; and amongst them I witnessed so many genuine, fair, and original conditioned copies of literary works, of the early period of the Reformation, that I almost sighed to possess them--except that I knew they could not possibly pay the expenses of conveyance. But for the "well directed fire" above alluded to. It produced a _capitulation_ respecting the following articles--which were selected by myself from the boudoir just mentioned, and about which neither mystery was observed nor secrecy enjoined. In fact, the contract, of the venders was to be submitted to, and sanctioned by, the supreme magistracy of the place. The Rector Beyschlag hath much of merriment and of wit in his composition. "Now, Sir,"--observed he--"bring those treasures forward which we can spare, and let us afterwards settle about their value: ourselves affixing a price." I desired nothing better. In consequence forth came the _first_ (quarto) _Horace_, without date or place, fair, sound, and perfect: the _Familiar Epistles of Cicero_ of the date of 1469, by S. and Pannartz, in a condition perfectly unparalleled in every respect; the _Latin Bible_ of _Frisner and Sensenschmidt_ of 1475, in an equally desirable and pristine condition;[36] the _Polish Protestant Bible_ of 1563, with its first rough-edged margins and in wooden binding; _St. Jerom's Epistles_, printed _at Parma_, by _A. de Portilia_--most captivating to the eye; with a curious black-letter broadside, in Latin sapphics, pasted in the interior of the cover; the _History of Bohemia, by Pope Pius II_, of 1475, as fresh and crackling as if it had just come from the printer: _Schuzler's edition of the Hexameron of Ambrosius_, 1472: the _Hungarian Chronicle_ of 1485.... "Ohe jam satis est...." for one bargain, at least,--methinks I hear you remark. It may be so; but the measure must be fuller. Accordingly, after having shot off my great guns, I brought my howitzers into play. Then commenced a pleasant and not unprofitable parley respecting little grammatical tracts, devotional manuals, travels, philology, &c. When lo!--up sprung a delightful crop of _Lilies_, _Donatuses_, _Mandevilles_, _Turrecrematas_, _Brandts_, _Matthews of Cracow_--in vellum surcoats, white in colour, firm in substance, and most talkative in turning over their leaves! These were mere _florin_ acquisitions: the preceding were paid for in heavy metal of a _golden_ hue. It is not fair to betray all that took place upon this Cockerian transaction; but there may be no harm in mentioning that my purse was lightened by upwards of 100 louis d'or. My spirits were lightened in the same proportion. Neither venders nor vendee grieved at the result. Professor May was most joyous; and although the Rector Beyschlag was sonorous in voice, restless in action, and determined in manner--about fixing an alarmingly high price upon the _first Horace_--yet, by degrees, he subsided into a softer note, and into a calmer action--and the Horace became _mine_ by a sort of contre-projet proposition. Nothing would please Professor May but that I must go home with him, and try my luck in purchasing a few similar rarities out of his _own_ collection. I did so. Madame Francs' supplemental supply became gradually diminished, and I began to think that if I went on in this manner I should not only never reach _Vienna_, but not even _Munich_. This doubt was frankly stated to my book-guardians; and my _ducats_ were immediately commuted into _paper_. The result will doubtless prove the honour of the purchaser; for I have drawn upon a quarter which I had exclusively in view when I made the bargain, and which was never known to fail me. "Surely," thought I to myself as I returned to my hotel, "Messrs. Beyschlag and May are among the most obliging and the most enlightened of their fraternity." I returned to the Public Library the next morning, as well to conclude a bargain for an exchange of books for certain recent bibliographical publications, as to take a list of a few of the more rare, fine, and curious volumes, in their own collection, which were destined _always_ to retain their situations. They have, very properly, the FIRST BOOK PRINTED AT AUGSBOURG: namely, _Aurbach's Meditations upon the Life of Christ_, of the date of 1468, printed by _Gunther Zainer_. But one of the most uncommon books examined by me was "_Augustinus Ypponensis Episcopus De Consensu Evangelistarum: In ciuitate Langingen. Impressus. anno a partu virginis salutifero. Millesimoquadringentesimoseptuagesimotercio. Pridie Idus. Aprilis_." The type is very singular; half gothic and half roman. Of the printer and place I know nothing; except that I learnt from the librarians that "_Langingen_" is situated about ten leagues from Augsbourg, upon the Danube. I made every effort--as well by the _ducat_ as by the _exchange_ method--to prevail upon them to part with this book; but to no purpose. The blood-freezing reply of Professor Veesenmeyer was here repeated--"ça reste, à ... Augsbourg." This book is unbound. Another volume, of the same equivocal but tempting description, was called "_Alcuinus de Trinitate_:--IMPRESSUM IN UTTIPURRHA _Monasterio Sacto^{4} marty^{4}, Alexadri et Theodri. Ordiis Scti Bndicti. Anno Sesquimillesimo KL. septembris_ [Hebrew]." It is printed in a rude gothic letter; and a kind of fly leaf contains a wood-cut portrait of Alcuin. The monastery, where this volume was printed, is now suppressed. A pretty little volume--"as fresh as a daisy" (so says my ms. note taken upon the spot) of the "_Hortulus Rosarium de valle lachrymarum_" (to which a Latin ode by S. Brandt is prefixed), printed by I. de Olpe, in 1499, in the original wooden binding--closed my researches among the volumes executed in the fifteenth century. As I descended into the sixteenth century, the choice was less, although the variety was doubtless greater. A fine genuine copy of _Geyler's Navicula Fatuorum_, 1511, 4to. in its original binding, was quickly noted down, and as quickly _secured_. It was a duplicate, and a ducat made it my own. It is one of the commonest books upon the continent--although there _was_ a time when certain bibliomaniacal madcaps, with us, pushed the bidding for this volume up to the monstrously insane sum of £42:[37]--and all, because it was coated in a Grolier binding! Among the theological books, of especial curiosity, my guides directed my attention to the following: "_Altera hæc pars Testam^ti. veteris emendata est iuxta censuras Inquisitionis Hispanicæ an^o 79_. Nouu testam. recusandu omnino est; rejicienduq. propter plurimos errores qui illius scholiis sunt inserti." This was nothing else than the younger R. Stephen's edition of the vulgate Bible of 1556, folio, of which the _New Testament_ was absolutely SEALED UP. It had belonged to the library of the Jesuits. There was a copy of Erasmus, "_Expurgatus iuxta censuram Academiæ Louaniæ an^o 79_." The name of the printer--which in the preceding Bible had been tried to be _cancelled_--was here uniformly _erased_: but it was doubtless the Basil edition of Erasmus by good old honest Froben and his sons-in-law.[38] What think you of undoubted proofs of STEREOTYPE PRINTING in the middle of the sixteenth century? It is even so. What adds to the whimsical puzzle is, that these pieces of metal, of which the surface is composed of types, fixed and immoveable, are sometimes inserted in wooden blocks, and introduced as titles, mottoes, or descriptions of the subjects cut upon the blocks. Professor May begged my acceptance of a specimen or two of the types, thus fixed upon plates of the same metal. They rarely exceeded the height of four or five lines of text, by about four or five inches in length. I carried away, with his permission, two proofs (not long ago pulled) of the same block containing this intermixture of stereotype and block-wood printing. I believe I have now told you all that appears worthy of being told, (as far as my own opportunities of observation have led me) of the CITY OF AUGSBOURG. I shall leave it (to-morrow) with regret; since a longer residence would, I am persuaded, have introduced me to very pleasant society, and made me acquainted with antiquities, of all kinds, well deserving of _some_ record, however trivial. As it is, I must be content with what the shortness of my time, and the more immediately pressing nature of my pursuits, have brought me in contact. A sight of the _Crucifixion by Hans Burgmair_, and the possession of the most genuine copy of the _editio princeps of Horace_, have richly repaid all the toil and expense of the journey from Stuttgart. The Horace, and the Protestant Polish Bible of 1563, will be my travelling companions--at least as far as _Munich_--from whence my next despatch will be dated.[39] I hope, indeed, to dine at that renowned city ere "the set of to-morrow's sun." In the mean while, adieu. [31] His account of the PRINTED BOOKS in the XVth century, in the monastery above mentioned, was published in 1786, in 2 vols. 4to. That of the MANUSCRIPTS, in the same monastic library, was published in 1791, in 2 vols. or rather perhaps, six parts, 4to. [32] Among the books in this monastery was an uncut copy of the famous edition of the _Meditationes J. de Turrecremata_, of the date of 1467, which is now in the Library of Earl Spencer. In Hartmann Schedel's _Chronicon Norimbergense_, 1493, fol. CLXII, are portraits of the Founders of the Town and Monastery of Eichstadt, or EISTETT; together with a large wood-cut view of the town. This monastery appears to have been situated on a commanding eminence. [33] [This Abbey was questionless one of the most celebrated and wealthy in Europe. The antiquarian reader will be pleased with the OPPOSITE PLATE--presenting a bird's eye view of it, in the year 1619--(when it stood in its pristine splendour) from the _Monasteriologia_, attached to the _Imagines Sanctorum_.] [34] In the BAVARIA SANCTA of RADERUS, 1615-27, 3 vols. folio, will be found a succession of martyrological details--adorned by a series of beautiful engravings by _Ralph Sadeler_. The text is in Latin, and the author has apparently availed himself of all the accessible authorities, in manuscript and print, which were likely to give interest and weight to his narrative. But it seems to have been composed rather for the sake of the ENGRAVINGS--which are generally most admirably executed. Great delicacy and truth of drawing, as well as elegance of grouping, are frequently discernible in them; and throughout the whole of the compositions there is much of the air of _Parmegiano's_ pencil; especially in the females. Sadeler makes his monks and abbots quite _gentlemen_ in their figures and deportment; and some of his miracles are described with great singularity and force of effect. [35] Such is ZAPF'S work, entitled _Annales Typographiæ Augustanæ_, 1778; 4to. republished with copious additions in 1786, two volumes, 4to. The text of the latter is (unfortunately, for the unlearned) printed in the German language. [36] [This Latin Bible came from the Eichstadt Monastery.] [37] _Bibliographical Decameron_, vol. iii. p. 115. [38] See the _Bibliographical Decameron_, vol. ii. p. 170. &c. [39] [The first Horace, the Cicero Epist. ad Familiares, 1469, the Latin Bible by Frisner and Sensenschmidt, 1475 and the Polish Bible of 1563, (all so warmly and so justly eulogised in the above pages) have been reposing these last ten years in the library of Earl Spencer: and magnificent and matchless as is that library, it contains no FINER volumes than the four preceding. I conclude this detail by subjoining the Autographs of the two BIBLIOGRAPHICAL WORTHIES who have cut such a conspicuous figure in the scene above described. The latter is now NO MORE.] [Autographs] LETTER V. MUNICH. CHURCHES. ROYAL PALACE. PICTURE GALLERY. PUBLIC LIBRARY. _Munich; Hôtel of the Black Eagle; Aug. 16, 1818._ MY DEAR FRIEND; Behold me, now, in the capital of Bavaria: in a city remarkable for its bustle, compared with the other German cities which I have visited, and distinguished rather for the general creditable appearance of the houses and public buildings, than for any peculiar and commanding remains of antiquity. But ere I speak of the city, let me detain you for a few seconds only with an account of my journey thither; and of some few particulars which preceded my departure from Augsbourg. It turned out as I predicted. "Ere the set of sun," ensuing my last despatch, I drove to the principal front of this large, comfortless, and dirty inn; and partook of a dinner, in the caffé, interrupted by the incessant vociferations of merchants and traders who had attended the market (it being market day when I arrived), and annoyed beyond measure by the countless swarms of flies, which chose to share my cutlet with me. On taking a farewell look of Augsbourg, my eyes seemed to leave unwillingly those objects upon which I gazed. The Paintings, the Town Hall, the old monastery of Saints Ulric and Afra, all--as I turned round to catch a parting glance--seemed to have stronger claims than ever upon my attention, and to reproach me for the shortness of my visit. However, my fate was fixed--and I now only looked steadily forward to Munich; my imagination being warmed (you will say "inflamed") with the thoughts of the countless folios, in manuscript and in print--including _block-books_, unheard and undreamt of--which had been described to me as reposing upon the shelves of the Royal or PUBLIC LIBRARY. In consequence, Hans Burgmair, Albert Durer, and the Elder Holbein were perfectly forgotten--after we had reached the first stage, and changed horses at _Merching_. From Augsbourg to Munich is but a pleasant and easy drive of about forty-five English miles. The last stage, from _Fürstenfelbruck_ to this place, is chiefly interesting; while the two tall brick towers of the cathedral church of Nôtre Dame keep constantly in view for the last seven or eight miles. A chaussée, bordered on each side by willows, poplars, and limes, brings you--in a tediously straight line of four or five miles--up to the very gates of MUNICH. At first view, Munich looks like a modern city. The streets are tolerably spacious, the houses are architectural, and the different little squares, _or places_, are pleasant and commodious. It is a city of business and bustle. Externally, there is not much grandeur of appearance, even in the palaces or public buildings, but the interiors of many of these edifices are rich in the productions of ancient art;--whether of sculpture, of painting, of sainted relics, or of mechanical wonders. Every body just now is from home; and I learn that the bronzes of the Prince Royal--which are considered to be the finest in Europe--are both out of order and out of view. This gallant Prince loves also pictures and books: and, of the latter, those more especially which were printed by the _Family of Aldus_. Upon the whole, there is something very anglicised in the appearance both of this city and of its inhabitants. Of the latter, I have reason to speak in a manner the most favourable:--as you shall hear by and by. But let me now discourse (which I must do very briefly) of inanimate objects--or works of art--before I come to touch upon human beings ... here in constant motion: and, as it should seem--alternately animated by hope and influenced by curiosity. The population of Munich is estimated at about 50,000. Of course, as before, I paid my first visit to the CATHEDRAL, or mother church of NÔTRE DAME, upon the towers of which I had fixed my eyes for a whole hour on the approach to the city. Both the nave and towers, which are of red brick, are frightful in the extreme; without ornament: without general design: without either meaning or expression of any kind. The towers cannot be less than 350 feet in height: but the tops are mere pepper-boxes. No part of this church, or cathedral, either within or without, can be older than the middle of the fifteenth century.[40] The interior has really nothing deserving of particular description. But I check myself in an instant: It _has_ something--eminently worthy of distinct notice and the most unqualified praise. It has a monument of the EMPEROR Louis IV. which was erected by his great-grandson Maximilian I. Duke of Bavaria, in 1603-12. The designer of this superb mausoleum was _Candit_: the figures are in black marble, the ornaments are in bronze; the latter executed by the famous _Krummper_, of Weilheim. I am ignorant of the name of the sculptor. This monument stands in the centre of the choir, of which it occupies a great portion. It is of a square form, having, at each corner, a soldier, of the size of life, bending on one knee and weeping: supporting, at the same time, a small flag between his body and arm. These soldiers are supposed to guard the ashes of the dead. Between them are three figures, of which two stand back to back. Between these two, somewhat more elevated, is raised the figure of the Emperor Louis IV.--dressed in his full imperial costume. But the two figures, just mentioned, are absolutely incomparable. One of them is _Albert V._ in armour, in his ducal attire:[41] the other is _William V._ habited in the order of the golden fleece. This habit consists of a simple broad heavy garment, up to the neck. The wearer holds a drawn sword in his right hand, which is turned a little to the right. This figure may be full six feet and a half high. The head is uncovered; and the breadth of the drapery, together with the erect position of the figure, and the extension of the sword, gives it one of the most commanding, and even appalling, airs imaginable. I stood before it, till I almost felt inclined to kneel and make obeisance. The entire monument is a noble and consummate specimen of art: and can hardly have any superior, of its kind, throughout Europe. Perhaps I should add that the interior of this Church contains twenty-four large octagonal pillars, dividing the nave from the side aisles: and that around these latter and the choir, there are not fewer than twenty-four chapels, ornamented with the tombs of ancient families of distinction. This interior is about 350 English feet in length, by about 145 in width. Of the other Churches, that of St. MICHAEL, attached to the _late College of the Jesuits_,--now forming the Public Academy or University, and containing the Public Library--is probably the most beautiful for its simplicity of ornament and breadth of parts. Indeed at this moment I can recollect nothing to be put in competition with it, as a comparatively modern edifice. This interior is, as to _Roman_ architecture, what that of St. Ouen is as to _Gothic_: although the latter be of considerably greater extent. It is indeed the very charm of interior architecture: where all the parts, rendered visible by an equal distribution of light, meet the eye at the same time, and tell their own tale. The vaulted roof, full 300 English feet in length, has not a single column to support it. Pilasters of the Corinthian order run along each side of the interior, beneath slightly projecting galleries; which latter are again surmounted by rows of pilasters of the Doric order, terminating beneath the spring of the arched roof. The windows are below the galleries. Statues of prophets, apostles, and evangelists, grace the upper part of the choir--executed from the characteristic designs of Candit. The pulpit and the seats are beautifully carved. Opposite the former, are oratories sustained by columns of red marble; and the approach to the royal oratory is rendered more impressive by a flight of ten marble steps. The founder of this church was William V., who lies buried in a square vault below: near which is an altar, where they shew, on All Saints Day, the brass coffins containing the ashes of the Princes of Bavaria. The period of the completion of this church is quite at the end of the sixteenth century.[42] But ere I quit it, I must not fail to direct your attention to a bronze crucifix in the interior--which is in truth a masterpiece of art. My eye ran over the whole of this interior with increased delight at every survey; and while the ceremony of high mass was performing--and the censers emitted their clouds of frankincense--and the vocal and instrumental sounds of a large congregation pervaded every portion of the edifice--it was with reluctance (but from necessity) that I sought the outward door, to close it upon such a combination of attractions! Of the nine or ten remaining churches, it will not be necessary to notice any other than that of St. CAETAN, built by the Electress Adelaide, and finished about the year 1670. It was built in the accomplishment of a vow. The pious and liberal Adelaide endowed it with all the relics of art, and all the treasures of wealth which she could accumulate. It is doubtless one of the most beautiful churches in Bavaria:--quite of the Italian school of art, and seems to be a St. Peter's at Rome in miniature. The architect was Agostino Barella, of Bologna. This church is in the form of a cross. In the centre is a cupola, sustained by pillars of the Corinthian order. The light comes down from the windows of this cupola in a very mellow manner; but there was, when I saw it, rather a want of light. The nave is vaulted: and the principal altar is beneath the dome, separating the nave from the choir. The façade, or west front, is a building of yesterday, as it were: namely, of 1767; but it is beautiful and striking. This church is considered to be the richest in Munich for its collection of pictures; but nothing that I saw there made me forget, for one moment, the Crucifixion by Hans Burgmair.[43] I should say that the interior of this church is equally distinguished for the justness of its proportions, the propriety of its ornaments, and the neatness of its condition. It is an honour to the city of Munich. There were, some half century ago, about a dozen more churches;--but they have been since either destroyed or _desecrated_. From the Churches, I must conduct you, but in a very rapid manner, to some of the public buildings; reserving, as usual, my last and more leisurely description for the PUBLIC LIBRARY. Of these buildings, the _Hôtel de Ville_, _Theatres_, and _Royal Residence_, are necessarily the most imposing in size, and most attractive from their objects of public utility or amusement. The Royal Palace was built by Maximilian I.--a name as great in the annals of Bavaria, as the same name was in those of Austria about a century before. This palace is of about two centuries standing: and its eastern façade measures 550 English feet in length. It abounds, within and without, with specimens of bronze ornaments: and two bronze lions (the work of Krummper, after the designs of Candit) which support the shields of the Electoral houses of Bavaria and Lorraine, have been considered superior to the Lion in the Place of. St. Mark at Venice. This immense pile of building contains three courts. In that of "the Fountain," to the left, under an arch, is a huge black pebble stone, weighing nearly 400 Bavarian pounds. An old German inscription, of the date of 1489, tells you that a certain Bavarian Duke, called _Christopher the Leaper_, threw this same pebble stone to a considerable distance. Near it, you observe three large nails driven into the wall. The highest of them may be about twelve feet from the ground:--the mark which Christopher the Leaper reached in one of his frolicksome jumps. I find they are lovers of marvellous attainments, in Bavaria:--witness, the supposed feat of the great Emperor Maximilian upon the parapet wall at the top of the cathedral of Ulm.[44] To describe the fountains and bronze figures, in these three courts, would be endless; but they strike you with a powerful degree of admiration--and a survey of every thing about you, is a convincing proof that you have entered a country where they shrink not from solidity and vastness in their architectural achievements: while the lighter, or ornamental parts, are not less distinguished by the grace of their design and the vigour of their execution. Will you believe it--I have not visited, nor shall I have an opportunity of visiting, the _Interior_? An interior, in which I am told that there are such gems, jewels, and varieties--such miracles of nature and of art, as equally baffle description and set competition at defiance. As thus:--a chapel, of which the pavement is mosaic work, composed of amethysts, jaspers, and lapis lazuli: of which the interior of its cupola is composed of lapis lazuli, adorned with gilt bronze: wherein is to be seen a statue of the Virgin, in a drapery of solid gold, with a crown upon her head, composed of diamonds:--a massive golden crucifix, adorned with precious stones--and upon which there is an inscription cut upon an emerald an inch square: again, small altars, supported by columns of transparent amethyst, &c. I will say nothing of two little caskets, studded with cameos and turquoises, in this chapel of fairy land--(built by Maximilian I.) of which one contains two precious pictures by Jean d'Aix la Chapelle--and the other (of massive gold, weighing twenty-four pounds) a painting of the resurrection and of paradise, in enamel. Even the very organ is constructed of gold, silver, ebony, turquois and lapis lazuli ornaments; of pearls and of coral. As to the huge altar of massive silver--adorned with cariatides, candelabra, statues, vases, and bouquets of the same metal--and especially the _pix_, lined with diamonds, rubies, and pearls--what shall I say of these--ALL the fruit of the munificent spirit of MAXIMILIAN? Truly, I would pass over the whole with an indifferent eye, to gaze upon a simple altar of pure gold--the sole ornament of the prison of the unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots; which Pope Leo XI. gave to William V. Elector of Bavaria--and which bears the following inscription: EXILII COMES ET CARCERIS IMAGO HAEC MARIAE STUARDAE, SCOT. REG. FUIT, FUISSET ET CAEDIS, SI VIXISSET. Not less marvellous things are told of the _Jewellery_ in this palace of wonders:--among which the BLUE DIAMOND ... attached to the order of the Golden Fleece--which is set open, and which, opposed to the sun, emits rays of the most dazzling lustre,--is said to be the nonpareil of coloured precious stones. It weighs 36 carats and 144 grains. Of the _Pearls_, that called the PALATINAT, half white and half black, is considered the greatest curiosity; but in a cabinet is preserved the choicest of all choice specimens of precious art and precious metals. It is a statue of _St. George and the Dragon_, of the height of about a foot and a half, in pure and solid gold: the horse is agate: the shield is of enamelled gold: the dragon is jasper: the whole being thickly studded with diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and pearls--to the number of at least two thousand! Another cabinet contains the crowns of emperors, dukes and.... But you are already dazzled and bewildered; and I must break off the description of this ENCHANTED PALACE. What is of easy access is rarely visited. I asked several of my acquaintance here, whether this spectacle were worth seeing?--and they as frequently replied in the negative as in the affirmative. But the PICTURE GALLERY I _have_ seen, and seen with attention;--although I am not likely to pay it a second visit. I noted down what I saw: and paid particular attention to the progress of art in the early German school of painting. I knew that this collection had long enjoyed a great celebrity: that it had been the unceasing object of several of the old Dukes of Bavaria to enrich it; and that the famous Theodore, equally the admirer of books and of pictures, had united to it the gallery of paintings collected by him at Manheim. It moreover contained the united collections of Deux-Ponts and Dusseldorf. This magnificent collection is arranged in seven large rooms on the same floor. Every facility of access is afforded; and you observe, although not so frequently as at Paris, artists at work in copying the treasures before them. In the entrance-hall, where there is a good collection of books upon the fine arts, are specimens by _Masaccio_, _Garofalo_, _Ghirlandaio_, _Perugino_, _Lucas de Leyden_, _Amberger_, _Wohlgemuth_, _Baldonetti, Aldegrave_, _Quinten Matsys_--with several others, by masters of the same period, clearly denoting the order of time in which they are supposed to have been executed. I was well pleased, in this division of the old school, to recognise specimens of my old friends Hans Burgmair and the Elder Holbein; and wished for no individual at my elbow so much as our excellent friend W.Y. Ottley:--a profound critic in works of ancient art, but more particularly in the early Italian and German Schools. To conduct you through all these apartments, or seven rooms, with the methodical precision of an experienced guide, is equally beyond my inclination and ability. Much as I may admire one or two _Titians_, one or two of the _Caracci_ school, the same number of _Veroneses_ and _Schidones_, and a partial sprinkling of indifferent _Raffaelles_, I should say that the boast of this collection are the pictures by _Rubens and Vandyke_. Of the former there are some excellent portraits; but his two easel pictures--the one, the _Fall of the Damned_, and the other the _Beatitude of the Good_--are marvellous specimens of art. The figures, extending from heaven to earth, in either picture, are linked, or grouped together, in that peculiarly bold and characteristic manner which distinguishes the pencil of the master.[45] The colouring throughout is fresh, but mellow and harmonious. Among the larger pictures by this renowned artist, are _Susanna and the Elders_, and _the Death of Seneca_; the latter considered as a distinguished production. But some of the whole length portraits, by the same hand, pleased me better. The pictures of Rubens occupy more particularly the fourth room. Vandyke shines in the second, sixth, and seventh rooms: in which are some charming whole length portraits--combining, almost, the dignity of Titian with the colouring of Rembrandt:--and yet, more natural in expression, more elegant in attitude, and more beautiful in drawing, than you will find in the productions of either of these latter artists. If the art, whether of sculpture or of painting, take not deep root, and send forth lusty branches laden with goodly fruit, at Munich--the fault can never be in the _soil_, but in the waywardness of the _plant_. There is encouragement from every quarter; as far as the contemplation of art, in all its varieties, and all its magnificence, can be said to be a stimulus to exertion. When the re-action of a few dozen years of peace shall have nearly obliterated the ravages and the remembrance of war--when commerce and civil competition shall have entirely succeeded to exaction and tyranny from a foreign force--(which it now holds forth so auspicious a promise of accomplishing)--and when literature shall revert within its former fruitful channels of enlightening the ignorant, gratifying the learned, and illustrating what is obscure among the treasures of former times--then I think Munich will be a proud and a flourishing city indeed.[46] But more of this subject on a future occasion. Let us take a walk abroad--in the fields, or in the immediate vicinity of the town--for methinks we have both had sufficient in-door occupation of late. One of the principal places of resort, in the immediate vicinity of Munich, is a garden--laid out after the English fashion--and of which the late Count Rumford had the principal direction. It is really a very pleasing, and to my taste, successful effort of art--or rather adaptation of nature. A rapid river, or rivulet (a branch of the _Iser_) of which the colour is a hazy or misty blue, very peculiar--runs under a small bridge which you pass. The bed of the river has a considerable descent, and the water runs so rapidly, as to give you the idea that it would empty itself in a few hours. Yet--"Labitur et labetur in omne volubilis ævum." I strolled frequently in the shady walks, and across the verdant lawns, of this pleasant garden; wherein are also arbour-covered benches, and embowered retreats--haunts of meditation--where ... voices, through the void deep sounding, seize Th'enthusiastic ear! But SKELL must not be deprived of his share of praise in the construction of this interesting pleasure ground. He was the principal active superintendant; and is considered to have had a thorough knowledge of _optical effect_ in the construction of his vistas and lawns. A Chinese pagoda, a temple to Apollo--and a monument to Gessner, the pastoral poet--the two latter embosomed in a wood--are the chief objects of attraction on the score of art. But the whole is very beautiful, and much superior to any thing of the kind which I have seen since leaving England. I told you, at the beginning of this letter, that it was market-day when we arrived here. Mr. Lewis, who loses no opportunity of adding to the stores of his sketch book, soon transferred a group of MARKET PEOPLE to his paper, of which you are here favoured with a highly finished copy. The countenances, as well as the dresses, are strongly indicative of the general character of the German women. [Illustration] I was surprised to be told, the other day, that the city of Munich, although lying upon a flat, apparently of several miles in circumference, is nevertheless situated upon very lofty ground:--full twelve or thirteen hundred feet above the level of the sea--and that the snow-charged blasts, from the Tyrolese mountains, towards the end of autumn, render it at times exceedingly cold and trying to the constitution. But I must now revert to the city, and proceed at once to an account of the most interesting of ALL the public edifices at Munich--in my very humble, and perhaps capricious, estimation. Of course you will instantly catch at what I mean. "What, BUT the edifice which contains THE PUBLIC LIBRARY?" 'Tis wisely conjectured; and to this boundless region of books, of almost every age and description, let us instantly resort: first paying our respects to the Directors and Librarians of the establishment. Of the former, the BARON VON MOLL, and MR. FREDERIC SCHLICHTEGROLL are among the principal: of the latter, Messrs. SCHERER and BERNHARD have the chief superintendence: of all these gentlemen, more in my next.[47] At present, suffice it to say, that I was constantly and kindly attended during my researches by M. Bernhard--who proved himself in the frequent discussions, and sometimes little controversies, which we had together, to be one of the very best bibliographers I had met upon the continent. In the bibliographical lore of the fifteenth century, he has scarcely a superior: and I only regretted my utter ignorance of the German language, which prevented my making myself acquainted with his treatises, upon certain early Latin and German Bibles, written in that tongue. But it was his kindness--his diffidence--his affability, and unremitting attention--which called upon me for every demonstration of a sense of the obligations I was under. It will not be easy for me to forget, either the kind-hearted attentions or the bibliographical erudition of M. Bernhard ... "Quæ me cunque vocant terræ." Be it known to you therefore, my good friend, that the PUBLIC LIBRARY at MUNICH is attached to what was once the _College of Jesuits_; and to which the beautiful church, described in a few preceding pages, belonged. On the suppression of the order of Jesuits, the present building was devoted to it by Charles Theodore in 1784: a man, who, in more than this one sense, has deserved well of his country. Would you believe it? They tell me that there are at least _half a hundred_ rooms filled by books and MSS. of one kind or other--including duplicates--and that they suppose the library contains nearer _four_, than _three hundred thousand volumes_! I scarcely know how to credit this; although I can never forget the apparently interminable succession of apartments--in straight lines, and in rectangular lines: floor upon floor: even to the very summit of the building, beneath the slanting roofs--such as I had seen at Stuttgart. But _here_ it should seem as if every monastery throughout Bavaria had emptied itself of its book-treasures ... to be poured into this enormous reservoir. But I will now begin my labours in good earnest. An oblong, narrow, boudoir-sort of apartment, contains the more precious MSS., the block books, and works printed upon vellum. This room is connected with another, at right angles, (if I remember well) which receives the more valuable works of the fifteenth century--the number of which latter, alone, are said to amount to nearly _twenty thousand_. In such a farrago, there must necessarily be an abundance of trash. These, however, are how under a strict assortment, or classification; and I think that I saw not fewer than half a dozen assistants, under the direction of M. Bernhard, hard at work in the execution of this desirable task. LATIN MS. OF THE GOSPELS; _in small folio_. I have no hesitation in ascribing this MS. to the ninth century. It is replete with evidences of this, or even of an earlier, period. It is executed in capital letters of silver and gold, about a quarter of an inch in height, upon a purple ground. Of course the MS. is upon vellum. The beginning of the text is entirely obliterated; but on the recto of the XVth leaf we read "_Explt Breuiarium_." LATIN MS. of the GOSPELS; in _large folio_. This is a more superb, but more recent, MS. than the preceding. Yet I suspect it to be not much later than the very early part of the eleventh century. It is executed in a large, lower-case, roman letter: somewhat bordering upon the Gothic. But the binding, at the very outset, is too singular and too resplendent to be overlooked. The first side of it has the crucifixion, in a sort of parallelogram frame work--in the centre: surrounded by a double arabesque, or Greek border, of a most beautiful form. The whole is in ivory, of a minute and surprisingly curious workmanship. The draperies partake of the character of late Roman art. Round this central ivory piece of carving, is a square, brass border, with the following inscription; which, from the character of the capital letters, (for it is wholly composed of such) is comparatively quite modern: GRAMMATA QVI QVERIT COGNOSCERE VERE HOC MATHESIS PLENE QVADRATVM PLAVDAT HABERE EN QUI VERACES SOPHIE FULSERE SEQUACES ORNAT PERFECTAM REX HEINRICH STEMMATE SECTAM. In the outer border are precious stones, and portraits, with inscriptions in Greek capital letters. These portraits and inscriptions seem to me to be perfect, but barbarous, specimens of Byzantine art. Around the whole are the titles of the Four Gospels in coeval capital letters. The general effect of this first side of the book-cover, or binding, is perfect--for antiquarian genuineness and costliness. The other side of the binding contains representations of the cardinal virtues, in brass, with the lamb in the centre: but they are comparatively modern. The interior of this book does not quite accord with its exterior. It is in pure condition, in every respect; but the art is rather feeble and barbarous. The titles to the Gospels are executed upon a purple ground. The larger subjects, throughout the illuminations, are executed with freedom, but the touch is heavy and the effect weak. The gold back grounds are rather sound than resplendent. Yet is this MS., upon the whole, a most costly and precious volume. LATIN PSALTER. Probably of the latter part of the twelfth century. The text is executed in a lower-case gothic. In the Calendar of Saints are found the names of Edward the Martyr, Cuthbert, Guthlac, Etheldrith, and Thomas à Becket. I think I am fully justified in calling this one of the richest, freshest, and most highly ornamented PSALTERS in existence. The illuminations are endless, and seem to comprise the whole history of the Bible. In the representations of armour, we observe the semicircular and slightly depressed helmet, and no nasels. I must now lay before you a MS. of a very different description--called The ROMANCE OF SIR TRISTRANT;[48] in verse. This ms. is wholly in the German language; written in the XIIIth century, and containing fifteen illuminations. M. Schérer, the Head Librarian, was so obliging as to furnish me with an account of it; having himself translated, as literally as possible, the original text into our own language. I shall now put together a few miscellaneous notices, taken, like all the preceding, from the articles themselves--and which you will find to relate chiefly to books of Missals and Offices, &c. I shall begin, however, with a highly illuminated MS. called The TWELVE SIBYLS. This beautiful book is doubtless of the XVth century. It begins with a representation of the "_Sibila Persica_." The principal merit of these illuminations may, by some, be thought to consist in their _freshness_; but others will not fail to remark, that the accompaniments of these figures, such as the chairs on which they sit, and the pillars which form the frame work of the pieces, are designed and executed in a style of art worthy of the Florentine School of this period. Every Sibyl is succeeded by a scriptural subject. If the faces of these figures were a little more animated and intelligent, this book would be a charming specimen of art of the XVth century. The _Erythræan Sibyl_ holds a white rose very prettily in her left hand. The _Agrippinian Sibyl_ holds a whip in her left hand, and is said "to have prophesied XXX years concerning the flagellation of Christ." This volume is a thin quarto, in delightful condition; bound in yellow morocco, but a _sufferer_ by the binding. A CALENDAR. This is a pretty little duodecimo volume, containing also short prayers to Christ; and embellished by a representation of the several months in the calendar. Each illumination has a border, and its apposite characteristic subject attached to the month. Among the latter, those of October and November are vigorously touched and warmly finished. A picture of the Deluge follows December. The scription is in a neat roman character. This book is bound in lilac velvet, with silver clasps, and preserved in a yellow morocco case. OFFICE OF THE VIRGIN. An exquisite little octavo or rather duodecimo; bound in silver, with coloured ornaments inlaid. The writing, in small roman, shews an Italian calligraphist. The vellum is white, and of the most beautiful quality. The text is surrounded by flowers, fruits, insects, animals, &c. The initial letters are sparkling, and ornamented in the arabesque manner. But the compositions, or scriptural subjects, are the most striking. Among the more beautiful specimens of high finishing, is the figure of Joseph--with the Virgin and Child--after the subject of the Circumcision. Upon the whole, the colours are probably too vivid. The subjects seem to be copies of larger paintings; and there is a good deal of French feeling and French taste in their composition. The rogue of a binder has shewn his love of cropping in this exquisite little volume. The date of 1574 is upon the binding. MISSAL: beginning with the _Oratio devota ad faciem dni nostri ihu xpi_--A most exquisite volume in 8vo.: bound in black fish skin, with silver clasps of an exceedingly graceful form, washed with gold, and studded with rubies, emeralds, and other coloured stones. The head of Christ, with a globe in his hand, faces the beginning of the text. This figure has a short chin, like many similar heads which I have seen: but the colours are radiant, and the border, in which our Saviour is bearing his cross, below, is admirably executed. The beginning of St. John's Gospel follows. The principal subjects have borders, upon a gray or gold ground, on which flowers are most beautifully painted: and some of the subjects themselves, although evidently of Flemish composition, are most brilliantly executed. There is great nature, and vigour of touch, in the priests chanting, while others are performing the offices of religion. The _Annunciation_ is full of tenderness and richness; and, in the _Christ in the manger_--from whose countenance, while lying upon the straw, the light emanates and shines with such beauty upon the face of the Virgin--we see the origin perhaps of that effect which has conferred such celebrity upon the NOTTE of CORREGIO. What gives such a thorough charm to this book, is, the grace, airiness, and truth of the flowers--scattered, as it were, upon the margins by the hand of a faëry. They have perhaps suffered somewhat by time: but they are truth and tenderness itself. The writing is a large handsome square gothic. OFFICE OF THE VIRGIN: bound in massive silver--highly ornamented, in the arabesque manner, and washed with gold. The back is most ingeniously contrived. But if the exterior be so attractive, the interior is not less so--for such a sweetly, and minutely ornamented, book, is hardly to be seen. The margins are very large and the text is very small: only about fifteen lines, by about one inch and three quarters wide. Upon seeing the margins, M. Schérer, the head-librarian, exclaimed, "I hope that satisfies you!" But they are by no means disproportionate--and the extraordinary colour and quality of the vellum render them enchanting. We come now to the ornaments. These are clusters of small flowers, strung in a pearl-like manner, and formed or grouped into the most pleasing and tasteful shapes. The figures are small, with a well indicated outline. How pretty are the little subjects at the foot of each month of the Calendar! And how totally different from the common-place stiffness, and notorious dullness, of the generality of Flemish pieces of this character! This book has no superior of its kind in Europe; and is worthy, on a small scale, of what we see in the superb folios of Matthias Corvinus.[49] A BOOK OF PRAYERS--almost entirely spoilt by damp and rottenness within. I should think, from the writing and illuminations, it was executed between the years 1450 and 1480. The outside is here the principal attraction. It is a very ancient massive binding, in silver. On each side is a sacred subject; but on that, where the Crucifixion is represented, the figure to the right has considerable expression. At the bottom of each compartment are the arms of Bavaria and of the Dukes of Milan. This is a precious treasure in its way. The present is probably the proper place to notice the _principal gem_--in the department of illuminated books of devotion--preserved in the Royal Library at Munich:--I mean, what is called, ALBERT DURER'S PRAYER BOOK. This consists merely of a set of marginal embellishments in a small folio volume, of which the text, written in a very large lower-case gothic letter, forms the central part. These embellishments are said to be by the hand of ALBERT DURER: although, if I mistake not, there is a similar production, or continuation, by LUCAS CRANACH. They are executed in colours of bistre, green, purple, or pink; with a very small portion of shadow--and apparently with a reed pen. Nothing can exceed the spirit of their conception, the vigour of their touch, and the truth both of their drawing and execution. They consist chiefly of _capriccios_, accompanied by the figure or figures of four Saints, &c. They afford one addition to the very many proofs, which I have already seen, of the surprising talents of Albert Durer: and, if I remember rightly; this very volume has been lithographised at Munich, and published in our own country.[50] Descending lower in the chronological order of my researches, I now come to the notice of four very splendid and remarkable folio volumes, comprising only the text of the SEVEN PENITENTIAL PSALMS: and which exhibit extraordinary proofs of the united skill of the _Scribe_, the _Musician_, the _Painter_, and the _Book Binder_--all engaged in the execution of these volumes. Of each of these artists, there is a PORTRAIT; but among them, none please my fancy so much as that of GASPAR RITTER, the book-binder. All these portraits are executed in body colour, in a slight but bold manner, and appear to me to be much inferior to the general style of art in the smaller and historical compositions, illustrative of the text of the book. But Gaspar Ritter well merits a distinct notice; for these volumes display the most perfect style of binding, which I have yet seen, of the sixteenth century. They are in red morocco, variegated with colours, and secured by clasps. Every thing about them is firm, square, knowing and complete. The artist, or painter, to whom these volumes are indebted for their chief attraction, was John MIELICH; a name, of which I suspect very little is known in England. His portrait bears the date of 1570. Looking fairly through these volumes--not for the sake of finding fault, or of detecting little lapses from accuracy of drawing, or harmony of composition--I do not hesitate one moment to pronounce the series of embellishments, which they contain, perfectly unrivalled--as the production of the same pencil. Their great merit consists in a prodigious freedom of touch and boldness of composition. The colouring seems to be purposely made subordinate. Figures the most minute, and actions the most difficult to express, are executed in a ready, off-hand manner, strongly indicative, of the masterly powers of the artist. The subjects are almost interminable in number, and endless in variety. I shall now proceed at once to an account of the xylographical productions, or of BLOCK BOOKS in the public library of this place; and shall begin with a work, of which (according to my present recollection) no writer hath yet taken notice. It is a _Life of Christ_, in small quarto, measuring scarcely five inches by four. The character of the type is between that of Pfister and the Mazarine Bible, although rather more resembling the latter. Each side of the leaf has text, or wood cut embellishments. The first eight pages contain fifteen lines in a page: the succeeding two pages only thirteen lines; but the greater number of the pages have fourteen lines. It is precisely the dotted ground, in the draperies, that impresses me with a notion of the antiquity of these cuts. Such a style of art is seen in all the earlier efforts of wood engraving, such as the _St. Bernardinus_ belonging to M. Van-Praet, and the prints pasted within the covers of Mr. George Nicol's matchless copy of the Mazarine Bible, upon vellum, in its original binding.[51] M. Bernhard also shewed me, from his extraordinary collection of early prints, taken from the old MS. volumes in this library, several of this precise character; and to which we may, perhaps with safety, assign the date of 1460 at the latest. I have been particular in the account of this curious little volume, not so much because it is kept in a case, and considered to be _unique_, as because, to the best of my recollection, no account of it is to be found in any bibliographical publication. EXHORTATION AGAINST THE TURKS, &c.: of the supposed date of 1455. This is the singular tract, of which Baron Aretin (the late head librarian of this establishment) published an entire fac-simile; and which, from the date of M.cccc.lv appearing at the bottom line of the first page, was conceived to be of that period. M. Bernhard, however,--in an anonymous pamphlet--proved, from some local and political circumstances introduced, or referred to, in the month of _December_--in the Calendar attached to this exhortation--that the _genuine_ date should rather be 1472. This brochure is also considered to be unique. It is a small quarto, of six leaves only, of which the first leaf is blank. The type is completely in the form of that of Pfister, and the paper is unusually thick. At the bottom of the first leaf it is observed, in ms. "_Liber eximiæ raritatis et inter cimelia bibliothecæ asservandus. F. Er_." ARS MEMORANDI, &c. Here are not fewer than _five copies_ of this well known--and perhaps first--effort of block-book printing. These are of the earliest dates, yet with trifling variations. The wood cuts in all the copies are coloured; some more heavily than others; and in one of them you observe, in the figure of St. Matthew, that red or crimson glossy wash, or colour, so common in the earliest prints--and which is here carried over the whole figure. One of these five copies is unbound. ARS MORIENDI. Here are two editions, of which one copy is indisputably the most ancient--like that in Lord Spencer's library,[52]--but of a considerably larger size, in quarto. There can be no doubt of the whole of this production being xylographical. Unluckily this fine copy has the first and last pages of text in ms. The other pages, with blank-reverses, are faintly impressed in brown ink: especially the first, which seems to be injured. A double-line border is round each page. This copy, which is bound in blue morocco, has also received injury from a stain. I consider the second copy, which is bound in red morocco, to be printed with moveable _metal_ types. The ink is however of a palish brown. I never saw another copy of this latter impression. BIBLIA PAUPERUM. _In Latin_. I doubt whether this be the first edition; but at any rate it is imperfect. _In German_: with the date of 1470. Here are two copies; of which I was anxious to obtain the duplicate (the largest and uncoloured,) for the library in St. James's Place; but the value fixed upon it was too high; indeed a little extravagant. The APOSTLES CREED. _In German_. Only seven leaves, but pasted together--so that, the work is an opistographised production. This is a very rare, and indeed unique volume; and utterly unknown to bibliographers. Each cut is about the same size, and there are twelve in the whole. There is no other text but the barbarous letters introduced at the bottom of the cut. MIRABILIA URBIS ROMÆ. Another generally unknown xylographic performance; printed in the German language: being a small quarto. I have secured a duplicate of this singular volume for Lord Spencer's library, intending to describe it in the _Ædes Althorpianæ_.[53] The LIFE OF ST. MEINRAT; _in German_, in a series of wood-cut representations. This Saint was murdered by two men, whose Christian names were Peter and Richard, and who were always afterwards haunted by a couple of crows. There is a German introduction of two pages, preceding the cuts. These cuts are forty-eight in number. At the thirtieth cut, the Saint is murdered; the earlier series representing the leading events of his life. The thirty-first cut represents the murderers running away; an angel being above them; In the thirty-second cut, they continue to be pursued. The thirty-third cut thus describes them; the German and the version being as follow; "_Hie furt man die mord vo danne un wil schleisse vn redern die rappen volget alle zit hin nach vn stechet sy_." "Here they bring the murderers, in order to drag them upon the hurdle to execution, and to break them upon the wheel. The crows follow and peck them." In the thirty-fourth cut Peter and Richard are tied and dragged at the heels, of a horse. In the thirty-fifth they are broken upon the wheel. The _Calendar of Regiomontanus_--A decidedly xylographical production; the first date is 1475, the last 1525. A fine sound copy, but cropt. In a duplicate copy the name of the mathematician is given at the end. CANTICA CANTICORUM. First edition. A beautiful copy; cropt, but clean. Sixteen cuts, uncoloured. The leaves have been evidently pasted together. Another copy, coloured; but of a later date. In fine preservation. A third copy; apparently the first edition; washed all over with a slight brown tint, and again coarsely coloured in parts: This copy singularly enough, is intermixed with portions of the first edition (as I take it) of the _Apocalypse_: very clumsily coloured. A fourth copy, also, as I conceive, of the first edition; rather heavily coloured. The back grounds are uncoloured. This is larger than the other copies. DEFENSIO IMMACULATÆ CONCEPTIONIS B.M.V. _Without place; of the date of 1470_. This is a Latin treatise; having four cuts in each page, with the exception of the first two pages, which exhibit only Saints Ambrose, Austin, Jerom and Gregory. At the bottom of the figure of St. Austin, second column, first page, it is thus written; "_f.w. 1470_." In the whole sixteen pages. The style of art is similar to that used in the Antichrist.[54] Of this tract, evidently xylographical, I never saw or heard of another copy. The foregoing list may be said to comprise the _chief rarities_ among the BLOCK BOOKS in the Public Library at Munich; and if I am not mistaken, they will afford no very unserviceable supplement to the celebrated work of Heineken upon the same subject. From this department in the art of printing, we descend naturally to that which is connected with metal types; and accordingly I proceed to lay before you another list of _Book-Rarities_--taken from the earlier _printed volumes_ in this most extraordinary Library. We will begin with the best and most ancient of all Books:--the BIBLE. They have a very singular copy of what is called the _Mazarine edition_: or rather the parent impression of the sacred text:--inasmuch as it contains (what, I believe, no other copy in Europe contains, and therefore M. Bernhard properly considers it as unique) _four printed leaves of a table_, as directions to the Rubricator. At the end of the Psalter is a ms. note thus: "_Explicit Psalterium, 61_." This copy is in other respects far from being desirable, for it is cropt, and in very ordinary calf binding. _Mentelin's German Bible_. Here are two copies of this first impression of the Bible in the German language: both of which have distinct claims to render them very desirable. In the one is an inscription, in the German language, of which M. Bernhard supplied me with the following literal version: "_Hector Mulich and Otilia his wife; who bought this Bible in the year of Our Lord, 1466, on the twenty-seventh day of June, for twelve florins_." Their arms are below. The whole is decidedly a coeval inscription. Here, therefore, is another testimony[55] of the printing of this Bible at least as early as the year 1466. At the end of the book of Jeremiah, in the same copy, is a ms. entry of 1467; "_sub Papa Paulo Secundo et sub Imperatore Frederico tertio_." The second copy of this edition, preserved in the same library, has a German ms. memorandum, executed in red ink, stating that this edition is "_well translated, without the addition of a single word, faithful to the Latin: printed at Strasbourg with great care_." This memorandum is doubtless of the time of the publication of the edition; and the Curators of the library very judiciously keep both copies. A third, or triplicate copy, of Mentelin's edition--much finer than either of the preceding--and indeed abounding with rough edges--was purchased by me for the library in St. James's place; but it was not obtained for a sum beneath its full value.[56] Here is a copy of _Eggesteyn's Latin Bible_, containing forty-five lines in a full page, with the important date of "_24th May, 1466_"--in a coeval ms. memorandum. Thus, you see, here is a date two years earlier[57] than that in a copy of the same Bible in the Public Library at Strasbourg; and I think, from hence, we are well warranted in supposing that both Mentelin and Eggesteyn had their presses in full play at Strasbourg in 1466--if not earlier. This copy of Eggesteyn's first Bible, which is in its original binding of wood, is as fine and large as it is precious. I shall continue, miscellaneously, with the earlier printed books. _T. Aquinas de Virtutibus et Vitiis_; printed by _Mentelin_ in his smallest character. At the end, there is the following inscription, in faded green ink; _Johannes Bamler de Augusta hui^9 libri Illuiator Anno 1468_. Thus Bamler should seem to be an illuminator as well as printer,[58] and Panzer is wrong in supposing that Bamler _printed_ this book. Of course Panzer formed his judgment from a copy which wanted such accidental attestation. _Ptolemy_, 1462: with all the maps, coloured. _Livy_ (1469): very fine--in its original binding--full sixteen inches high. _Cæsar_, 1469: very fine, in the original binding. _Lucan_, 1469: equally fine, and coated in the same manner. _Apuleius_, 1469: imperfect and dirty. The foregoing, you know, are all EDITIONES PRINCIPES. But judge of my surprise on finding neither the first edition of _Terence_, nor of _Valerius Maximus_, nor of _Virgil_[59]--all by Mentelin. I enquired for the first _Roman_ or _Bologna Ovid_: but in vain. It seemed that I was enquiring for "blue diamonds;"[60]--so precious and rare are these two latter works. Here are very fine copies of the _Philosophical works of Cicero, printed by Ulric Han_--with the exception of the Tusculan Questions and the treatise upon Oratory, of the dates of 1468, 1469--which are unluckily wanting. M. Bernhard preserves _four_ copies of the _Euclid_ of 1482, because they have printed variations in the margins. One of these copies has the prefix, or preface of one page, printed in letters of gold. I saw another such a copy at Paris. Here is the _Milan Horace of 1474_--the text only. The _Catholicon by Gutenberg, of 1460_: UPON VELLUM: quite perfect as to the text, but much cropt, and many pieces sliced out of the margins--for purposes, which it were now idle to enquire after; although I have heard of a Durandus of 1459 in our own country, which, in ancient times, had been so served for the purpose of writing directions on parcels of game, &c. _Catholicon of 1469 by G. Zeiner_; also UPON VELLUM, and equally cropt--but otherwise sound and clean. This copy contains an ancient manuscript note which must be erroneous; as it professes the first owner to have got possession of the book before it was _printed_: in other words, an _unit_ was omitted in the date, and we should read 1469 for 1468.[61] Among the more precious ITALIAN BOOKS, is a remarkably fine copy of the old edition of the _Decameron of Boccaccio_, called the _Deo Gracias_--which Lord Spencer purchased at the sale of the Borromeo library in London, last year. It is quite perfect, and in a fine, large condition. It was taken to Paris on a certain memorable occasion, and returned hither on an occasion equally memorable. It contains 253 leaves of text and two of table; and has red ms. prefixes. It came originally from the library of Petrus Victorius, from which indeed there are many books in this collection, and was bought by the King of Bavaria at Rome. What was curious, M. Bernhard shewed me a minute valuation of this very rare volume, which he had estimated at 1100 florins--somewhere about £20. below the price given by Lord Spencer for his copy, of which four leaves are supplied by ms. Here is a magnificent copy of the _Dante of 1481_, with XX CUTS; the twentieth being precisely similar to that of which a fac-simile appears in the B.S. This copy was _demanded_ by the library at Paris, and xix. cuts only were specified in the demand; the twentieth cut was therefore secreted, from another copy--which other copy has a duplicate of the first cut, pasted at the end of the preface. The impressions of the cuts, in the copy under description, are worthy of the condition of the text and of the amplitude of the margins. It is a noble book, in every point of view. I was shewn a great curiosity by this able bibliographer; nothing less than a sheet, or _broadside_, containing _specimens of types from Ratdolf's press_. This sheet is in beautiful preservation, and is executed in double columns. The first ten specimens are in the _gothic_ letter, with a gradually diminishing type. The last is thus: _Hunc adeas mira quicunq: volumina queris Arte uel ex animo pressa fuisse tuo Seruiet iste tibi: nobis (sic) iure sorores Incolumem seruet vsq: rogare licet._ This is succeeded by three gradually diminishing specimens of the printer's _roman_ letter. Then, four lines of Greek, in the Jensonian or Venetian character: next, in large black letter, as below.[62] But a still greater curiosity, in my estimation, was a small leaf; by way of _advertisement_, containing a list of publications issuing from the press of a printer whose name has not yet been discovered, and attached apparently to a copy of the _Fortalitium Fidei_; in which it was found. Luckily there was a duplicate of this little broadside--or advertisement--and I prevailed upon the curators, or rather upon M. Bernhard (whose exclusive property it was) to part with this Sibylline leaf, containing only nineteen lines, for a copy of the _Ædes Althorpianæ-- _as soon as that work should be published.[63] Of course, this is secured for the library in St. James's Place. I am now hastening to the close of this catalogue of the Munich book-treasures. You remember my having mentioned a sort of oblong cabinet, where they keep the books PRINTED UPON VELLUM--together with block books, and a few of the more ancient and highly illuminated MSS. I visited this cabinet the first thing on entering--and the last thing on leaving--the Public Library. "Where are your _Vellum Alduses_, good Mr. Bernhard?" said I to my willing and instructive guide. "You shall see only _two_ of them"--(rejoined he) but from these you must not judge of the remainder. So saying, he put into my hands the _first editions of Horace and Virgil_, each of 1501, and bound in one volume, in old red morocco. They were gems--almost of the very first order, and--almost of their original magnitude: measuring six inches and three eighths, by three inches and seven eighths. They are likewise sound and clean: but the Virgil is not equal to Lord Spencer's similar copy, in whiteness of colour, or beauty of illumination. Indeed the illuminations in the Munich copy are left in an unfinished state. In the ardour of the moment I talked of these two precious volumes being worth "120 louis d'or." M.B. smiled gently, as he heard me, and deliberately returned the volumes to their stations--intimating, by his manner, that not thrice that sum should dispossess the library of such treasures. I have lost my memoranda as to the number of these vellum Alduses; but the impression upon my mind is, that they have not more than _six_. Of course, I asked for a VELLUM _Tewrdanckhs_ of 1517, and my guide forthwith placed _two_ MEMBRANACEOUS copies of this impression before me:--adding, that almost every copy contained variations, more or less, in the text. Indeed I found M.B. "doctissimus" upon this work; and I think he said that he had published upon it as well as Camus.[64] This is about the ninety-ninth time that I have most sensibly regretted my utter ignorance, of the language (German) in which it pleaseth M. Bernhard to put forth his instructive bibliographical lucubrations. Of these two copies, one has the cuts coloured, and is very little cropt: the other has the cuts uncoloured, and is decidedly cropt. With the Tewrdanckhs, I take my leave both of the public library of Munich and (for the present) of its obliging and well-informed Second Librarian. But I must not leave this WORLD OF BOOKS without imparting to you the satisfaction which I felt on witnessing half a dozen grave-looking scribes employed, chiefly under the direction of M. Bernhard, in making out a classed catalogue of _Fifteeners_--preparatory to the sale of their Duplicates. This catalogue will be important in many respects; and I hope to see it in my own country within two years from the date of the present epistle.[65] And now methinks it is high time to put the concluding paragraph to this said epistle--so charged with bibliographical intelligence respecting the capital of Bavaria. You must give it more than _one_ perusal if you wish to digest it thoroughly. My next, within forty-eight hours hereof, will leave me on the eve of departure from hence. In the meanwhile, prepare for some pleasant BOOK TIDINGS in my ensuing despatch. [40] Both the nave and towers appear in Hartmann Schedel's view of Munich, in the _Nuremberg Chronicle_ of 1493: see fol. ccxxvi. The "pepper-box" terminations are, I conceive, of a later date. [41] I take this to be the famous Albert who died in 1500; and who, in Schedel's time, kept lions for his disport--at Munich: "qui sua magnificentia plures nutrit leones" _Chron. Norimb._ 1493. _Ibid._ [42] The steeple fell down in the year 1599, and has never been rebuilt. [43] See p. 87 ante. [44] See p. 66 ante. [45] [Sir J. Reynolds criticised these pictures when they were in the _Dusseldorf Gallery_: but I cannot just now lay my hand upon his remarks.] [46] [It has made, and is yet making, great strides towards the accomplishment of the above-mentioned objects--since the above passage was written.] [47] [With the exception of the first, (although I do not make this exception with _confidence_) all the above-named gentlemen have CEASED TO EXIST. Mr. Bernhard I believe died before the publication of the preceding edition of this work: and I add, with perfect sincerity, that _his_ decease, and that of _M. Adam Bartsch_ (vide post) were, to me, among the bitterest regrets which I ever experienced in my intercourse with foreign literati. [48] The able editor of the Romance of Sir TRISTREAM, ascribed to Thomas of Ercildoune, appears to have been entirely ignorant of the existence of this highly curious and coeval German version. I regret that I am unable to give the reader a complete analysis of the whole. From this account, I select the following very small portion--of fidelity of version--with a fac-simile of one of the Embellishments. So all his thoughts were wavering: _Wilen abe vn wilent an_-- One while above, and one while down, _Er tet wol an im selben schin_ He truly on himself made shew, _Daz der minnende mot_ That an amorous mind behaves _Reht als der vrie fogel tot_ Even as the bird in the open air, _Der durch die friheit dier hat_ Who, by the liberty he enjoys, _Vf daz gelimde twi gestat_ Slightly sits on the lime-twig down; _Als er des limes danne entsebet_ As soon as he the lime descrys, _Vnd er sieh vf ze fluhte hebet_ And rises up to fly in haste, _So chlebet er mit den fossen an_. His feet are clinging to the twig. This simile of the bird seems expressed in the illumination, of which the outline has been faithfully copied by Mr. Lewis: [Illustration] [49] See page 33 ante. [50] It appeared in the year 1808, and was sold for 2l. 12s. 6d. But a blank space was left in the middle--which, in the original, is occupied by a heavy gothic text. The publication of the continuation by Lucas Cranach appeared in 1818. [51] Now in the Collection of Henry Perkins, Esq. [52] See _Bibl. Spenceriana_, vol. i. p. xv-xxiii. where fac-similes of some of the cuts will be found. [53] Where it is fully described, in vol. ii. p. 188, &c. with fac-similes of the type and ornaments. An entire page of it is given at p. 189. [54] See _Bibl. Spenceriana_, vol. i. p. xxxi. [55] A copy in the public library at Stuttgart has a ms. memorandum in which the same dominical date is entered. See note, at page 21 ante. [56] It must be mentioned, however, that a fine copy of the _German edition of Breydenbach's Travels, of 1486_, was given into the bargain. [57] In the _Bibl. Spencer_, vol. i. p. 38-9--where a fac-simile of the type of this edition is given--the impression is supposed to have been executed in "the year 1468 at latest." The inscription of 1468 in the Strasbourg copy (see vol. ii. p. 404.) should seem at least to justify the caution of this conclusion. But, from the above, we are as justified in assigning to it a date of at least two years earlier. [58] Lord Spencer possesses a copy of _St. Austin de Civitate Dei_, with the Commentary of Trivetus, printed by Mentelin, which was also illuminated by Bamler in the same year as above--1468. The memorandum to this effect, by Bamler, is given in the _Ædes Althorpianæ_; vol. ii. p. 20. [59] I will not say _positively_ that the VIRGIL is _not_ there; but I am pretty sure of the absence of the two preceding works. My authority was, of course, the obliging and well informed M. Bernhard. [60] See page 115 ante. [61] The inscription is this: "_Anno dni Millesimo cccc^o lxviij^o. Conparatus est iste Katholicon tpe Iohis Hachinger h^{9} ccclie p tunc imeriti pptti. p. xlviij Aureis R flor^{9} taxatus p. H xxi faciunt in moneta Vsuali xlvj t d_." So that it seems a copy of this work, upon vellum, was worth at the time of its publication, _forty-six golden florins_. [62] _Indicis characterum diversarum manerieru impressioni parataru: Finis. Erhardi Ratdolt Augustensis viri solertissimi: preclaro ingenio & mirifica arte: qua olim Venetijs excelluit celebratissimus. In imperiali nunc vrbe Auguste vindelicorum laudatissime impressioni dedit. Annoq; salutis_ M.CCCC.LXXXXVI. _Cale Aprilis Sidere felici compleuit_. [63] An admirably executed fac-simile of the above curious document appears in the work here referred to: vol. ii. p. 131--where the subject of its probable printer is gone into at considerable length. [64] The reader, if he have leisure and inclination, may consult a long note in the _Bibliographical Decameron_, vol. i. p. 201, respecting the best authorities to be consulted upon the above very splendid and distinguished performance. Camus is included in the list of authorities referred to. [65] Seven years have elapsed since the above was written, but no CLASSED CATALOGUE of any portion of the Public Library of Munich has appeared in this country. Speaking of _duplicates_, not printed in the fifteenth century, it may be worth observing that they have at Munich not fewer than six copies (double the number of those at Strasbourg;) of the ACTA SANCTORUM; good handsome copies in vellum binding. [Since the first edition of this Tour was published, several copies of this stupendous, but unfortunately imperfect work, have been imported into England: among which, however, none, to my recollection, have found their way from MUNICH. Indeed, the heavy expense of carriage is almost an interdiction: unless the copies were obtained at very moderate prices.] LETTER VI. FURTHER BOOK-ACQUISITIONS. SOCIETY. THE ARTS. The bright bibliographical star, which shone upon me at Stuttgart, has continued to shine with the same benign lustre at this place. "[Greek: _Heurêka Heurêka_]"!--the scarcest and brightest of all the ALDINE GEMS has been found and secured by me: that gem, for which M. Renouard still continues to sigh and to rave, alternately, in despair of a _perfect_ copy; and which has, only very recently, been placed among the most brilliant ornaments of the Royal Library at Paris.[66] What may these strange exclamations and inuendos imply?--methinks I hear you say. You shall know in a trice--which just brings me to the very point with which my previous epistle concluded. Those "pleasant book-tidings," referred to in my last, and postponed for the present opportunity, are "as hereafter followeth." In my frequent conversations with the Guardians of the Public Library, I learnt that one STOEGER, a bookseller chiefly devoted to the purchase and sale of _Aldine_ volumes, resided in this metropolis; that his abode was rather private than public; and that his "magasin" was lodged on the second or third floor, in a row of goodly houses, to the right, on entering the city. M. Bernhard added, that Mr. Stoeger had even a copy of the first Aldine edition of the _Greek hours_ (printed in 1497)--which is the very gem above alluded to; "but (observed my intelligent informant, as he accompanied me to the door of the bookseller in question) "he will not part with it: for both the Prince Royal and our Public Library have been incessant in their importunities to possess it. He sets an extravagant price upon it." Having been instructed from early youth, "never to take that for _granted_ which remained to be _proved_," I thanked the worthy M. Bernhard for his intelligence; and, wishing him a good morning, entered the chamber of Mr. Stoeger. I had previously heard (and think that I have before made mention) of the eagerness with which the Prince Royal of Bavaria purchases _Alduses_; and own, that, had I chosen to reflect one little minute, I might have been sufficiently disheartened at any reasonable prospect of success, against two such formidable opponents as the Prince and the Public Library. However, in cases of emergency, 'tis better to think courageously and to act decisively. I entered therefore the chamber of this Aldine bookseller, resolved upon bearing away the prize--"coute qu'il coute"--provided that prize were not absolutely destined for another. M. Stoeger saluted me formally but graciously. He is a short, spare man, with a sharp pair of dark eyes, and speaks French with tolerable fluency. We immediately commenced a warm bibliographical discussion; when Mr. Stoeger, all of a sudden, seemed to raise himself to the height of six feet--gave three strides across the room--and exclaimed, "Well, Sir; the cabinet of my Lord Spencer wants something which I possess in yonder drawer." I told him that I knew what it was he alluded to; and, with the same decision with which I seemed to bespeak the two Virgils at Stuttgart, I observed, that "_that_ want would soon cease; for that ere I quitted the room, the book in question would doubtless become the property of the nobleman whom he had just mentioned." Mr. Stoeger, for three seconds, was lost in astonishment: but instinctively, as it were; he approached the drawer: opened it: and shewed me an unbound, sombre-looking, but sound and perfect copy of the _first edition_ of the GREEK HOURS, _printed by Aldus_. As I had among my papers a collation of the perfect copy at Paris, I soon discovered that Mr. Stoeger's copy was also complete; and ... in less than fifteen minutes I gained a _complete victory_ over the Prince Royal of Bavaria and the corps bibliographique of Messrs. Von Moll, Schlichtegroll, Schérer, Bernhard, &c.--the directors and guardians of the Public Library at Munich. In other words, this tiny book, measuring not quite four inches, by not quite three, was _secured_--for the cabinet in question--at the price of * * florins!! The vender, as I shrewdly suspect, had bought it of a brother bookseller at Augsbourg,[67]of the name of KRANSFELDER (a worthy man; whom I visited--but with whom I found nothing but untransportable Latin and German folios) for ... peradventure only the _hundredth part_ of the sum which he was now to receive. What shall we say? The vender is designated by Mr. Schlichtegroll, in the preface of the last sale catalogue of the duplicates of the Public Library (1815, 8vo.) as "bibliopola honestissimus"--and let us hope that he merits the epithet. Besides, books of this excessive rarity are objects of mere caprice and fancy. To return to this "bibliopola honestissimus," I looked out a few more tempting articles, of the Aldine character,[68] and receiving one or two as a douceur; in the shape a present, settled my account with Mr. Stoeger ... and returned to my lodging more and more confirmed in the truth of the position of "not taking _that_ for granted which remained to be _proved_." The whole of this transaction was, if I may so speak, in the naughty vanity of my heart, a sort of _octodecimo_ illustration of the "VENI, VIDI, VICI" of a certain illustrious character of antiquity. Of a very different character from this _Aldine bibliopolist_ is a bookseller of the name of VON FISCHHEIM: the simplest, the merriest, the most artless of his fraternity. It was my good friend Mr. Hess (of whom I shall presently speak somewhat more at large) who gave me information of his residence. "You will find there (added he) all sorts of old books, old drawings, pictures, and curiosities." What a provocative for an immediate and incessant attack! I took my valet with me--for I was told that Mr. Von Fischheim could not speak a word of French--and within twenty minutes of receiving the information, found myself in the dark and dreary premises of this same bibliopolist. He lives on the first floor; but the way thither is almost perilous. Mr. Fischheim's cabinet of curiosities was crammed even to suffocation; and it seemed as if a century had elapsed since a vent-hole had been opened for the circulation of fresh air. I requested the favour of a pinch of snuff from Mr. Fischheim's box, to counteract all unpleasant sensations arising from effluvia of a variety of description--but I recommend English visitors in general to _smoke a segar_ while they rummage among the curiosities of Mr. Fischheim's cabinet! Old Tom Hearne might here, in a few minutes, have fancied himself ... any thing he pleased! The owner of these miscellaneous treasures wore one unvarying smile upon his countenance during the whole time of my remaining with him. He saw me reject this, and select that; cry "pish" upon one article, and "bravo" upon another--with the same settled complacency of countenance. His responses were short and pithy, and I must add, pleasant: for, having entirely given up all hopes of securing any thing in the shape of a good picture, a good bust, or a genuine illumination from a rich old MS., I confined myself strictly to printed books--and obtained some very rare, precious, and beautifully-conditioned volumes upon most reasonable and acceptable terms.[69] Having completed my purchase, the books were sent to the hotel by a shopman, in the sorriest possible garb, but who wore, nevertheless, a mark of military distinction in his button-hole. From henceforth I can neither think, nor speak, but with kindness of Paul Ludwig Von Fischheim, the simplest, the merriest, and most artless of his fraternity. The day following this adventure, I received a note informing me that a person, practising physic, but also a collector and seller of old books, would be glad to see me in an adjoining street. He had, in particular, some "RARE OLD BIBLES." Another equally stimulant provocative! I went, saw, and... returned--with scarcely a single trophy. Old Bibles there were--but all of too recent a date: and all in the _Latin_ language. Yet I know not how it was, but I suffered myself to be prevailed upon to give some twenty florins for a doubtfully-printed _Avicenna_, and a _Biblia Historica Moralisata_. Had I yielded to further importunities, or listened to further information, I might have filled the large room in which I am now sitting--and which is by much the handsomest in the hotel[70]--with oak-bound folios, vellum-clad quartos, and innumerable broadsides. But I resisted every entreaty: I had done sufficient--at least for the first visit to the capital of Bavaria. And doubtless I have good reason to be satisfied with these Bavarian book-treasures. There they all lie; within as many strides of me as Mr. Stoeger took across the room; while, more immediately within reach, and eyed with a more frequent and anxious look, repose the _Greek Hours_, the _first Horace_, the _Mentelin German Bible_, and the _Polish Protestant Bible_; all--ALL destined for the cabinet of which Mr. Stoeger made such enthusiastic mention. A truce now to books, and a word or two about society. I arrived here at a season when Munich is considered to be perfectly empty. None of the noblesse; no public gaieties; no Chargé d'Affaires--all were flown, upon the wings of curiosity or of pleasure towards the confines of Italy. But as my business was rather with Books and bookmen, I sought chiefly the society of the latter, nor was I disappointed. I shall introduce them one by one. First therefore for the BARON VON MOLL; one of the most vivacious and colloquial of gentlemen; and who perhaps has had more to do with books than any one of his degree in Bavaria. I know not even if he have not had two or more monastic libraries to dispose of--which descended to him as ancestral property. I am sure he talked to me of more than one chateau, or country villa, completely filled with books; of which he meditated the disposal by public or private sale. And this, too--after he had treated with the British Museum through the negotiation of our friend the Rev. Mr. Baber, for two or three thousand pounds worth of books, comprehending, chiefly, a very valuable theological collection. The Baron talked of twenty thousand volumes being here and there, with as much sang-froid and certainty as Bonaparte used to talk of disposing of the same number of soldiers in certain directions. The other Sunday afternoon I accompanied him to one of his villas, in the direct road from Munich--near which indeed I had passed in my route hither. Or, rather, speaking more correctly the Baron accompanied me:--as he bargained for my putting a pair of post-horses to my carriage. He wished me to see his books, and his rural domain. The carriage and burden were equally light, and the road was level and hard. We therefore reached the place of our destination in a short hour. It was a very pleasant mansion, with a good garden, and several fertile fields of pasture and arable land. The Baron made it his summer residence. His books filled the largest room in the house. He invited me to look around, to select any volumes that I might fancy, provided they were not grammatical or lexicographical--for, in that department, he never wished his strength to be diminished, or his numbers to be lessened. I did as he desired me: culled a pretty book-posey;--not quite so blooming as that selected at Lincoln,[71] some dozen years ago,--and, as the sun was setting, voted the remainder of the evening, till supper-time, to a walk with the Baron upon the neighbouring heights. The evening was fair and mild, and the Baron was communicative and instructive. His utterance is rapid and vehement; but with a tone of voice and mode of action by no means uninteresting. We talked about the possession of Munich by the French forces, under the command of Moreau, and he narrated some particulars equally new and striking. Of Moreau, he spoke very handsomely; declaring him to have been a modest, grave, and sensible man--putting his great military talents entirely out of the question. The Baron himself, like every respectable inhabitant of Munich, was put under military surveillance. Two grenadiers and a petty officer were quartered upon him. He told me a curious anecdote about Bonaparte and Marshal Lasnes--if I remember rightly, upon the authority of Moreau. It was during the crisis of some great battle in Austria, when the fate of the day was very doubtful, that Bonaparte ordered Lasnes to make a decisive movement with his cavalry; Lasnes seemed to hesitate. Bonaparte reiterated the order, and Lasnes appeared to hesitate again--as if doubting the propriety of the movement. Bonaparte eyed him with a look of ineffable contempt; and added--almost fixing his teeth together, in a hissing but biting tone of sarcasm--"_Est-ce que je t'ai fait trop riche?_" Lasnes dashed his spurs into the sides of his charger, turned away, and prepared to put the command of his master into execution. So much for the Baron Von Moll. The name of SCHLICHTEGROLL was frequently mentioned in my last letter. It is fitting, therefore, that you should know something of the gentleman to whom this name appertains. Mr. F. Schlichtegroll is the Director in Chief of the Public Library at Munich. I was introduced to him in a room contiguous to that where they keep their models of public buildings--such as bridges, barriers, fortifications, &c. which are extremely beautiful and interesting. The director received me in the heartiest manner imaginable; and within five minutes of our first salutation, I found his arm within my own, as we walked up and down the room--discoursing about first editions, block-books, and works printed upon vellum. He was delighted to hear of my intention to make a vigorous attack, with pen, ink, and paper, upon the oblong cabinet of _Fifteeners_ and precious MSS. of which my last letter made especial mention; and promised to afford me every facility which his official situation might command. Unluckily for a more frequent intercourse between us, which was equally wished by both parties, the worthy Director was taken ill towards the latter part of my stay;[72]--not however before I had visited him twice, and been his guest attended by a numerous party. Mr. SCHERER is the third figure upon this bibliographical piece of canvass, of which I deem it essential to give you a particular description. He is very hearty, very alert in the execution of his office, and is "all over English" in his general appearance and manner of conduct. He is learned in oriental literature; is a great reader of English Reviews; and writes our language with fluency and tolerable correctness. He readily volunteered his kind offices in translating the German ms. of _Sir Tristrem_, of which my last letter made mention--and I have been indebted to him upon every occasion, wherein I have solicited his aid, for much friendly and much effectual attention. He has, luckily for his own character, vouchsafed to _dine_ with me; although it was with difficulty I could prevail upon him so to do, and for him to allow me to dine at the protracted hour of _four_. After dinner, it was with pleasure,--when surrounded by all the book-treasures, specified in the early part of this letter, and which were then lying in detached piles upon the floor[73]--I heard Mr. Schérer expatiate upon the delight he felt in taking a trip, every summer or autumn, among the snow-capt mountains of the Tyrol; or of burying his cares, as well as changing his studies and residence, by an excursion along the lakes and mountains of Switzerland. "When that season arrives (added he--stretching forth both arms in a correspondently ardent manner) I fly away to these grand scenes of silence and solitude, and forget the works of man in the contemplation of those of nature!" As he spake thus, my heart went a good way with him: and I could not but express my regret that London was not situated like the capital of Bavaria. Of Mr. BERNHARD, the sub-librarian, I have already spoken frequently; and in a manner, I trust, to shew that I can never be insensible either of his acquirements or his kindness. He has one of the meekest spirits--accompanied by the firmest decision--which ever marked the human character; and his unconsciousness both of the one and of the other renders his society the more delightful. A temporary farewell to Bibliography, and to Bibliographers. You may remember that I introduced the name of Hess, in a former part of this letter; with an intention of bringing the character, to whom it belonged, at a future period before your notice. You will be gratified by the mention of some particulars connected with him. Mr. Hess has passed his grand climacteric; and is a Professor of Design, but more especially a very distinguished Engraver. His figure, his manner of conversation, his connections, and his character, are all such--as to render it pleasing to find them combined with a man of real talent and worth. I had brought with me, from England, a drawing or copy of one of the original portraits at Althorp--supposed to be painted by Anthony More--with a view of getting it engraved abroad. It is very small, scarcely four inches square. I had shewn it at Paris to Lignon, who _modestly_ said he would execute it in his very best manner, for 3000 francs! M. Hess saw it--and was in extacies. "Would I allow him to engrave it?" "Name your price." "I should think about thirty-five guineas." "I should think (replied I) that that sum would entitle me to your best efforts." "Certainly; and you shall have them"--rejoined he. I then told him of the extravagance of Lignon. He felt indignant at it. "Not (added he) that I shall execute it in _his_ highly finished manner." I immediately consigned the precious portrait into his hands--with a written agreement to receive the engraving of it next year, at the stipulated sum.[74] Thus you see I have set Mr. Hess to work in my absence--when I quit Munich--which will be to-morrow, or the following day at farthest. This worthy artist won upon me at every interview. His dress and address were truly gentlemanly; and as he spoke the English language as well as he did the French, we were of course glad to renew our visits pretty frequently. His anxiety to promote my views, and to afford my companion every assistance in his power, connected with the Fine Arts, will be long and gratefully remembered by us.[75] But Mr. NOCKHER shall not be passed over "sub silentio." He is a banker; and I found another FRANCS in the promptitude and liberality of his offers of pecuniary supply. He, together with Mr. Hess, has tasted the best red wine, at my humble table, that the _Schwartzen Adler_ can afford; and I have quaffed his souchong, in society in which I should like to have mingled again and again. The subjects of pictures and prints occupied every moment of our time, and almost every word of our discussion; and Mr. Nockher shewed me his fine impression of the _Dresden Raphael_, in a manner that proved how perfectly well he was qualified to appreciate the merits of the graphic art. That print, you know, is considered to be the masterpiece of modern art; and it is also said that the engraver--having entirely finished every portion of it--did NOT LIVE TO SEE A FINISHED PROOF. Mr. Nockher bought it for some three or four napoleons, and has refused twenty for it. I own that, to my eye, this print has more power, expression, and I may say colouring, than almost any which I remember to have seen. The original is in the second, or darker style of colouring, of the master; and this engraving of it is as perfect a copy of the manner of the original, as that by Raphael Morghen of the last Supper of Leonardo da Vinci--so celebrated all over Europe. Mr. Nockher is both a good-natured man, and a man of business; and the facility and general correctness of his mode of speaking the English language, renders a communication with him very agreeable. He has undertaken to forward all my book-purchases to England--with the exception of a certain _little Greek duodecimo_, which has taken a marvellous fancy to be the travelling companion of its present master. Mr. Nockher also promises to forward all future book-purchases which I may make--and which may be directed for him at Munich--on to England. Thus, therefore--when I quit this place--I may indulge a pleasing anticipation of the future, without any anxieties respecting the past.[76] And now fare you well. Within twenty-four hours I start from hence, upon rather a _digressive_ excursion; and into which the Baron Von Moll and M. Schlichtegroll have rather coaxed, than reasoned, me. I am to go from hence to _Freysing_ and _Landshut_--and then diverge down, to the right, upon _Salzburg_--situated 'midst snow-clad mountains, and containing a LIBRARY within the oldest monastery in Austria. I am to be prepared to be equally struck with astonishment at the crypt of Freysing, and at the tower of Landshut--and after having "revelled and rioted" in the gloomy cloisters and sombre apartments of St. Peter's monastery, at Salzburg, I am instructed to take the _Lake of Gmunden_ in my way to the _Monastery of Chremsminster_--in the direct route to Lintz and Vienna. A world of variety and of wonder seems therefore to be before me; and as my health has been recently improved, from the comparatively cool state of the weather, I feel neither daunted nor depressed at the thought of any difficulties, should there be any, which may await me in the accomplishment of this journey. My next, God willing, will assuredly be from Salzburg--when I shall have rested awhile after a whirl of some two hundred miles. [66] [See vol. ii. p. 147. Renouard, _L'Imprim. des Alde_, vol. i. 36-7. There are however, NOW, I believe, in this country, FIVE copies of this very rare book; of which four are perfect.] [67] The copy in question had, in 1595, been the property of F. Gregorius, prior of the monastery of Sts. Ulric and Afra at Augsbourg: as that possessor's autograph denotes. [68] The principal of these "tempting articles" were a fine first _Statius_ of 1502, _Asconius Pedianus_, 1522. _Cicero de Officiis_, 1517, and _Leonicerus de Morbo Gallico_--with the leaf of errata: wanting in the copy in St. James's Place. But perhaps rarer than either, the _Laurentius Maoli_ and _Averrois_, each of 1497--intended for _presents_. But Mr. Stoeger had forgotten these intended presents--and _charged_ them at a good round sum. I considered his word as his bond--and told him that honest Englishmen were always in the habit of so considering the words of honest Germans. I threatened him with the return of the whole cargo, including even the beloved _Greek Hours_. Mr. Stoeger seemed amazed: hesitated: relented: and adhered to his original position. Had he done otherwise, I should doubtless have erased the epithet "honestissimus," in all the copies of the sale catalogue above alluded to, which might come within my notice, and placed a marginal emendation of "avidissimus." [69] It may be a novel, and perhaps gratifying, sight to the reader to throw his eye over a list (of a few out of the fifty articles) like the following: _Flor. Kreutz. Liber Moralizat. Biblic. Ulm_. 1474. Folio. Fine copy 11 _Biblia Vulg. Hist. Ital. Venet._ Giunta 1492. Fol. 8 _Horatius. Venet._ 1494. 4to. Fig. lig. incis. 11 _Cronica del rey don Iuan_. _Sevilla_. 1563. 4to. 11 _Breviarium. Teutonicè_. 4to. In MEMBRANIS. A most beautiful and spotless book. It contains only the Pars Hyemalis of the cathedral service. 11 _Dictionarium Pauperum_. _Colon_. 1504. 8vo. 1 _Pars quart. Ind. Orient. Francof_. 1601. 5 30 _Fabulæ Æsopicæ_. _Cura Brandt_. 1501. Folio. Perhaps a matchless copy; in original binding of wood. Full of cuts 55 Thirteen different opuscula, at one florin each; many very curious and uncommon 13 The Lord's Prayer and Creed--in the German language--printed by "_Fricz Crewsner_," in 1472: folio: _broadside_. Perhaps UNIQUE 22 The florin, at the time of my residence at Munich, was about 1s. 9d. [70] [However severely I may have expressed myself in a preceding page (105) of the general condition of this huge Inn, yet I cannot but gaze upon the subjoined view of it with no ordinary sensation of delight when I remember that the three-windowed room, on the first floor, to the right--close to the corner--was the room destined to be graced by the BOOK TREASURES above mentioned. This view may also serve as a general specimen of the frontage of the larger Inns in Bavaria.] [Illustration] [71] [All the _book-world_ has heard mention of THE LINCOLNE NOSEGAY, --a small handful of flowers, of choice hues, and vigorous stems, culled within the precincts of one of the noblest cathedrals in Europe. Neither Covent Garden at home, nor the Marché aux Fleurs at Paris, could boast of such a posey. I learn, however, with something approaching to horror, that the Nosegay in question has been counterfeited. A _spurious_ edition (got up by some unprincipled speculator, and, I must add, bungling hand--for the typographical discrepancy is obvious) is abroad. Roxburghers, look well to your book-armouries! The foe may have crept into them, and exchanged your steel for painted wood.] [72] There is something so hearty and characteristic in the Director's last letter to me, that I hope to be pardoned if I here subjoin a brief extract from it. "M. Schérer vient me quitter, et m'annoncer que votre départ est fixé pour demain. Jamais maladie--auxquelles, heureusement, je suis très rarement exposé--m'est survenu aussi mal-à-propos qu'à cette fois-ci. J'avois compté de jouir encore au moins quelques jours, après mon rétablissement, de votre entretien, et jetter les fondemens d'une amitié collegiale pour la future. La nouvelle, que M. Schérer m'apporte, me désole. J'avois formé le plan de vous accompagner pour voir quelqu'uns de nos Institutions rémarquables, principalement _La Lithographie_, "Vana Somnia!" Votre résolution de quitter Munich plutôt que je n'avois pensé, détruit mes esperances. N'est-ce-pas possible que vous passiez par Munich à votre retour de Vienne? Utinam! Combien de choses restent, sur lesquelles j'esperais de causer et de traiter avec vous! "I bono alite: pede fausto." [Autograph] [The author of this Letter is NO MORE!] [73] See the note, p. 157 ante. [74] This Engraving appears in the _Ædes Althorpianæ_, vol. i. p. 246. On my return to England, it was necessary to keep up a correspondence with the amiable and intelligent character in question. I make no apology, either to the reader, or to the author of the Epistle, for subjoining a copy of one of these letters--premising, that it relates to fac-similes of several old copper cuts in the Public Library at Munich, as well as to his own engraving of the above-mentioned portrait. There is something throughout the whole of this letter so hearty, and so thoroughly original, that I am persuaded it will be perused with extreme gratification: _Munich, 17 May, 1819._ Dear and Reverend Sir; I am a good old fellow, and a passable engraver; but a very bad Correspondent. You are a ... and minister of a religion which forgive all faults of mankind; and so I hope that you will still pardon me the retardation of mine answer. I am now 65 years old, and have never had any sickness in mine life, but I have such an averseness against writing, that only the _sight_ of an ink-horn, pen and paper, make me feeling all sort of fevers of the whole medicinal faculty;--and so I pray that you would forgive me the brevity of mine letters. Following your order, I send you jointly the first proof prints of those plates still (already) finished. The plate of that beautiful head of an English artist, is not yet so far advanced; but in about six weeks you will have it--and during this time, I expect your answer and direction to whom I shall deliver the whole. I wish and hope heartily that the fac-similes and portraits would be correspondent with your expectation. I hold it for necessary and interesting, to give you a true copy of that old print--"_Christ in the lap of God the Father_." You'll see that this print is cutten round, and carefully pasted upon another paper on a wooden band of a book: which proves not only a high respect for a precious antiquity, but likewise that this print is much older than the date of 1462--which is written in red ink, over the cutten outlines, of that antique print. You may be entirely assured of the fidelity of both fac-similes. Now I pray you heartily to remember my name to our dear Mr. Lewis, with my friendliest compliments, and told him that the work on _Lithography_ is now finished, and that he shall have it by the first occasion. In expectation of your honorable answer, I assure you of the highest consideration and respect of Your most obedient humble Servant, [Autograph] [75] [This GRAPHIC WORTHY now _ceases to exist_. He died in his seventy-first year--leaving behind, the remembrance of virtues to be reverenced and of talents to be imitated.] [76] [Another OBITUARY presses closely upon the preceding--but an Obituary which rends one's heart to dwell upon:--for a kinder, a more diligent, and more faithful Correspondent than was Mr. Nockher, it has never been my good fortune to be engaged with. Almost while writing the _above_ passage, this unfortunate gentleman ... DESTROYED himself:--from embarrassment of circumstances!] LETTER VII. FREYSING. LANDSHUT. ALTÖTING. SALZBURG. THE MONASTERY OF ST. PETER. _Salzburg; Golden Ship, Aug. 23, 1818._ MY DEAR FRIEND; If ever I wished for those who are dear to me in England, to be my companions during any part of this "_antiquarian_ and _picturesque_ tour," (for there are comparatively few, I fear, who would like to have been sharers of the "_bibliographical_" department of it) it has been on the route from Munich to this place: first, darting up to the north; and secondly, descending gradually to the south; and feasting my eyes, during the descent, upon mountains of all forms and heights, winding through a country at once cultivated and fertile, and varied and picturesque. Yes, my friend, I have had a glimpse, and even more than a glimpse, of what may be called ALPINE SCENERY: and have really forgotten Fust, Schoeffher, and Mentelin, while contemplating the snow-capt heights of the _Gredig_, _Walseberg_, and _Untersberg_:--to say nothing of the _Gross Klokner_, which raises its huge head and shoulders to the enormous height of 12,000 feet above the level of the sea. These be glorious objects!--but I have only gazed; and, gazed at a distance of some twenty or thirty miles. Surrounded as I am, at this moment,--in one of the most marvellous and romantic spots in Europe--in the vicinity of lakes, mountain-torrents, trout-streams, and salt-mines,--how can you expect to hear any thing about MSS. and PRINTED BOOKS? They shall not, however, be _wholly_ forgotten; for as I always endeavour to make my narrative methodical, I must of necessity make mention of the celebrated library of INGOLDSTADT, (of which Seemiller has discoursed so learnedly in a goodly quarto volume,) now, with the University of the same place, transferred to LANDSHUT--where I slept on the first night of my departure from Munich. A secret, but strong magnetic power, is pulling me yet more southerly, towards _Inspruck_ and _Italy_. No saint in the golden legend was ever more tortured by temptation, than I have been for the last twenty-four hours ... with the desire of visiting those celebrated places. Thrice has some invisible being--some silver-tongued sylph--not mentioned, I apprehend, in the nomenclature of the Rosicrusian philosophy, whispered the word ... "ROME ..." in mine ear--and thrice have I replied in the response... "VIENNA!" I am therefore firmly fixed: immoveably resolved ... and every southerly attraction shall be deserted for the capital of Austria: having determined to mingle among the Benedictin and Augustin monks of _Chremsminster_, _St. Florian_, and _Mölk_--and, in the bookish treasures of their magnificent establishments, to seek and obtain something which may repay the toil and expense of my journey. But why do I talk of monastic delights only in _contemplation_? I have _realized_ them. I have paced the cloisters of St. Peter's, the mother-convent of Austria: have read inscriptions, and examined ornaments, upon tombstones, of which the pavement of these cloisters is chiefly composed: have talked bad Latin with the principal, and indifferently good French with the librarian--have been left alone in the library--made memoranda, or rather selected books for which a _valuable consideration_ has been proposed--and, in short, fancied myself to be thoroughly initiated in the varieties of the Bavarian and Austrian characters. Indeed, I have almost the conceit to affirm that this letter will be worth both postage and preservation. Let me "begin at the beginning." On leaving Munich, I had resolved upon dining at Freysingen, or _Freysing_; as well to explore the books of Mr. Mozler, living there--and one of the most "prying" of the bibliopolistic fraternity throughout Germany--as to examine, with all imaginable attention, the celebrated Church to which a monastery had been formerly attached--and its yet more celebrated _Crypt_. All my Munich friends exhorted me to descend into this crypt; and my curiosity had been not a little sharpened by the lithographic views of it (somewhat indifferently executed) which I had seen and purchased at Munich. Some of my Munich friends considered the crypt of Freysing to be coeval with Charlemagne. This was, at least, a very romantic conjecture. The morning was gray and chill, when we left the _Schwartzen Adler_; but as we approached Garching, the first stage, the clouds broke, the sun shone forth, and we saw Freysing, (the second stage) situated upon a commanding eminence, at a considerable distance. In our way to Garching, the river Iser and the plains of Hohenlinden lay to the right; upon each of which, as I gazed, I could not but think alternately of MOREAU and CAMPBELL. You will readily guess wherefore. The former won the memorable battle of Hohenlinden--fought in the depth of winter--by which the Austrians were completely defeated, and which led to the treaty of Luneville: and the latter (that is, our Thomas Campbell) celebrated that battle in an _Ode_--of which I never know how to speak in sufficient terms of admiration: an ode, which seems to unite all the fire of Pindar with all the elegance of Horace; of which, parts equal Gray in sublimity, and Collins in pathos. We drove to the best, if not the only, Inn at Freysing; and, ordering a late dinner, immediately visited the cathedral;--not however without taking the shop of Mozler, the bookseller, in our way, and finding--to my misfortune--that the owner was absent on a journey; and his sister, the resident, perfectly ignorant of French. We then ascended towards the cathedral, which is a comparatively modern building; at least every thing _above_ ground is of that description. The CRYPT, however, more than answered my expectations. I should have no hesitation in calling it perfectly unique; as I have neither seen, nor heard, nor read of any thing the least resembling it. The pillars, which support the roof, have monsters crawling up their shafts--devouring one another, as one sees them in the margins of the earlier illuminated MSS. The altar beneath Our Lady's chapel was a confused mass of lumber and rubbish; but, if I were to select--from all the strange and gloomy receptacles, attached to places of religious worship, which I have seen since quitting the shores of my own country--any ONE SPOT, in preference to another, for the celebration of mysterious rites--it should be the CRYPT of the CATHEDRAL of FREYSING. And perhaps I should say that portions of it might be as old as the latter end of the eleventh century. From the foundation, we ascended to the very summit of the building; and from the top of the tower, had a most extensive and complete view of the plains of _Hohenlinden_, the rapid _Iser_, and the gray mist of Munich in the distance. I was much struck with a large bell, cast about fourscore years ago; the exterior of which was adorned by several inscriptions, and rather whimsical ornaments. Having gratified a curiosity of this kind, my companion and valet left me, for a stroll about the town; when I requested the guide (who could luckily talk a little bad French) to shew me the LIBRARY belonging to the monastery formerly attached to the cathedral. He told me that it was the mere relics of a library:--the very shadow of a shade. Indeed it was quickly obvious that there were certain _hiatuses_ upon the shelves--which told their own tale pretty readily. The books, once occupying them, had been taken to Munich. The room is light, cheerful, and even yet well garnished with books: most of them being in white forel or vellum binding. There were Bibles, out of number, about the beginning of the sixteenth century; and an abundant sprinkling of glosses, decretals, canon law, and old fashioned scholastic lore of the same period. Nevertheless, I was glad to have examined it; and do not know that I have visited many more desirable book-apartments since I left England. In my way to the inn, I took a more leisurely survey of the collection of Mr. Mozler: but his sister had not returned from vespers, and I was left absolutely alone--with the exception of a female servant; who, pointing to the book-room above stairs, as the supposed fittest place for my visit, betook herself to her culinary occupations. Since the sight of the premises of the younger Manoury at Caen,[77] I had never witnessed such a scene of darkness, lumber, and confusion:--yet I must do Mr. Mozler the justice to say, that there was much which might have repaid the toil of a minute examination. But I was pressed for time: and the appetites of my travelling companions might be sharpened so as to stand in need of an immediate attack upon the cotelette and wine. We dined as expeditiously as ever the Trojans or Grecians did, on expecting a sally from the foe. The red wine was, I think, the most delicious I had then drank in Germany. A little before six, we left Freysing for _Moosburg_: a ten mile stage; but we had not got a quarter of a league upon our journey, when we discovered, to the right, somewhat in our rear, a more complete view of the Tyrolese mountains than we had yet seen. They appeared to be as huge monsters, with overtopping heads, disporting themselves in an element of their own--many thousand feet in the air! It was dusk when we changed horses at _Moosburg_: and the moon, then pretty far advanced towards the full, began to supply the light of which we stood so much in need. _Landshut_ was our next and final stage; but it was unlucky for the first view of a church, of which the tower is considered to be the highest in Bavaria, that we were to see it at such a moment. The air of the evening was mild, and the sky was almost entirely covered by thin flaky clouds, as we pushed on for Landshut. On our immediate approach to it, the valet told us that he well remembered the entrance of the French into Landshut, on Bonaparte's advance to Munich and Vienna. He was himself in the rear of the assault--attending upon his master, one of the French generals. He said, that the French entered the further end of the town from that where we should make our entrance; and that, having gained a considerable eminence, by a circuitous route, above the river, unobserved, they rushed forward--bursting open the barriers--and charging the Austrians at the point of the bayonet. The contest was neither long nor sanguinary. A prudent surrender saved the town from pillage, and the inhabitants from slaughter. On entering Landshut, without having caught any thing like a determined view of the principal church, we found the centre of the principal street entirely occupied by booths and stalls, for an approaching fair--to take place within a few following days. The line of wooden buildings could scarcely extend less than half a mile. We drove to the principal inn, which was spacious and _tolerably_ clean; bespoke good beds, and found every appearance of comfort. I was resolved to devote the next day entirely to the PUBLIC LIBRARY--attached to the University, brought hither from Ingoldstadt. Of course I had been long acquainted with the general character of the early-printed books, from the valuable work of Seemiller;[78] and was resolved to make especial enquiry, in the first place, for the Aldine duodecimo of the _Greek Hours_, of which you have already heard so much. I carried with me a letter to Professor SIEBENKEES, the Head Librarian. In short, I anticipated a day of bibliographical "joyaunce." I was not disappointed in my expectations. The day was as beautiful without, as I found it profitable within doors. The Professor was all kindness, and was pleased to claim a long and intimate acquaintance with me, through certain works which need not be here mentioned: but it would be the height of affectation _not_ to avow the satisfaction I felt in witnessing a thoroughly cut-open, and tolerably well-thumbed copy, of the _Bibl. Spenceriana_ lying upon his table. I instantly commenced the examination of the library, while the Professor as readily offered his services of assistance. "Where are your _Aldine Greek Hours_ of 1497?" observed I. "Alas, Sir, that book exists no longer here!"--replied the Professor, in a melancholy tone of voice, and with an expression of countenance which indicated more than was meant by his _words_. "Nevertheless, (rejoined I) Seemiller describes it as having been at Ingoldstadt." "He does so--but in the conveyance of the books from thence hither, it has _somehow_ disappeared."[79] Again the Professor _looked_ more significantly than he _spake_. "What is invisible cannot be seen"--observed I--"and therefore allow me to take notes of what is before my eyes." "Most willingly and cheerfully. Here is every thing you wish. The more you write, the greater will be my satisfaction; although, after Paris and Munich, there is scarcely any thing worthy of particular description. But ere you begin your labours, allow me to introduce you to the several rooms in which the books are contained." I expressed great pleasure in complying with the Professor's request, and followed him into every apartment. This library, my dear friend, is placed in one of the prettiest situations imaginable. Some meandering branches of the Iser intersect and fertilize considerable tracts of meadow land; equally rich in colour and (as I learnt) in produce: and terminated by some gently swelling hills, quite in the vicinity of the town. The whole had a perfectly English aspect. The rooms were numerous, and commanded a variety of views. They were well lighted by side windows, and the shelves and wainscots were coloured chiefly in white. One small hexagonal closet, or cabinet, on the first floor--(as is indeed the whole suite of apartments) caught my fancy exceedingly, and won my very heart. The view before it, or rather from three of its six sides, was exhilirating in the extreme. "Here Mr. Professor, quoth I, (gently laying hold of his left arm) here will I come, and, if in any spot, put together my materials for a _third_ edition of the BIBLIOMANIA." The worthy Professor, for a little moment, thought me serious--and quickly replied "By all means do so: and you shall be accommodated with every thing necessary for carrying so laudable a design into execution." It was a mere bibliomaniacal vision:[80] dissipated the very moment I had quitted the apartment for another. I shall now give you the result of my examination of a few of the rarer and early-printed books in the PUBLIC LIBRARY of Landshut. And first of MANUSCRIPTS. An _Evangelistarium_, probably of the tenth century, is worth particular notice; if it be only on the score of its scription--which is perfectly beautiful: the most so of any, of such a remote period, which I have ever seen. It is a folio volume, bound in wood, with a stamped parchment cover of about the end of the fifteenth century. They possess a copy of the _oldest written Laws of Bavaria_; possibly of the twelfth--but certainly of the thirteenth century. It is a duodecimo MS. inlaid in a quarto form. No other MS. particularly struck my fancy, in the absence of all that was Greek or Roman: but a very splendid _Polish Missal_, in 8vo. which belonged to Sigismund, King of Poland, in the sixteenth century, seemed worthy of especial notice. The letters are graceful and elegant; but the style of art is heavy, although not devoid of effect. The binding is crimson velvet, with brass knobs, and a central metallic ornament--apparently more ancient than the book itself. This latter may have been possibly taken from another volume. Of the _Printed Books_--after the treasures of this kind seen (as the Professor intimated) at Paris and Munich--there was comparatively very little which claimed attention. They have a cropt and stained copy of Mentelin's _German Bible_, but quite perfect: two copies of the _supposed_ first _German Bible_, for one of which I proposed an exchange in a copy of the B.S. and of the _Ædes Althorpianæ_ as soon as this latter work should be published. The proposition was acceded to on the part of the Head Librarian, and it will be forwarded to the honest and respectable firm of John and Arthur Arch, booksellers; who, previously to my leaving England, had requested me to make something like a similar purchase for them--should a fine copy of this German Bible present itself for sale.[81] Here I saw Mentelin's edition of the _De Civitate Dei_ of _St. Austin_: and a good sound copy of the very rare edition of _Mammotrectus_, printed by _Helias de Helie_, in 1470: a beautiful copy of _Martin Brand's Psalter_ of 1486, printed at Leipsic, in 4to. in a large square gothic type; and a duplicate copy of the Leipsic Psalter of the preceding year, printed by _Conrad Kachelovez_, in 4to. which latter I obtained for the library in St. James's Place. There were at least ten copies of the early Block Books; of which the _Ars Memorandi_ and the _Anti-Christ_ (with extracts inserted in the latter from the B.S.) appeared to be the more ancient and interesting. But I must not forget to mention a very indifferent and imperfect copy of the _Latin Bible of Fust_, of 1462, UPON VELLUM. A few leaves in each volume are wanting. Here too I saw the _Pfarzival_ of 1477 (as at Strasbourg) printed in a metrical form. As I got among the books of the _sixteenth_ century, I was much more gratified with the result of my researches. I will begin with a very choice article: which is nothing less than a copy of the _Complutensian Polyglott_, purchased by Eckius, in 1521, of the celebrated Demetrius Chalcondylas--as the following coeval ms. memorandum attests: "Rome empta biblia ista P Eckium P xiiij ducatis largis a Demetrio Calcondyla anno 1521; mortuo iam Leone Papa in Decembri." The death of Leo is here particularly mentioned, because, during his life, it is said that that Pontiff prohibited the sale of the work in question. The copy is fair and sound; but both this, and a duplicate copy, wants the sixth volume, being the Dictionary or Vocabulary. The mention of Eckius leads me to notice a little anecdote connected with him. He was, as you may have read, one of the most learned, most eloquent, and most successful of Luther's antagonists. He was also the principal theological Professor in the University of Ingoldstadt. They preserve at Landshut, brought from the former place, the chair and the doctor's cap of their famous Anti-Lutheran champion. You see both of these in one of the principal apartments of the Public Library. I was requested to sit in the chair of the renowned Eckius, and to put his doctorial bonnet upon my head. I did both:--but, if I had sat for a century to come, I should never have fancied myself Eckius ... for more reasons than _one_. The Sub Librarian, who is a Catholic, (Professor Siebenkees being a Protestant) has shewn great good sense in preserving all the tracts, which have fallen in his way, both _for_ and _against_ the Lutheran controversy. You go between two small book-cases, or sets of shelves, and find _Luther_ in front, and _Eckius_ and his followers in the rear of you; or vice versa. A considerable number of rare and curious little pieces of _Erasmus_ and _Melancthon_, are mixed in this collection, which is far from being small either in number or value. In this interesting collection, I saw a good copy of Ross's work against Luther, of the date of 1523, which appeared to me to be printed by Pynson.[82] It had the autograph of Sir Thomas More--("_Thom^{9} mor^{9}"--_) who indeed is said to have been the author of the work. This very copy belonged to Eckius, and was given to him by the author, when Eckius came over to England in 1525: the fact being thus attested in the hand-writing of the latter: "_Codex iste dono datus est mihi Johanni Eckio ab illius autore in Anglia, dum visendi cupidus in Insulam traiecissem, 1525, Augusto x_." The worthy Professor next put into my hands what he considered to be an _absolutely unique_ copy of _Der Veis Ritter_, in 1514, folio: adding, that no other copy of the adventures of the _White Knight_, of the _same_ date, was known to bibliographers. I assented to the observation--equally from courtesy and sheer ignorance. But surely this is somewhat difficult to believe. There was nothing further that demanded a distinct registry; and so, making my bow, and shaking hands with the worthy Librarian very heartily, I quitted this congenial spot;--not however before I had been introduced to a Professor of botany (whose name has now escaped me) who was busily engaged in making extracts in the reading room, with a short pipe by the side of him, and a small red tasselled cap upon his head. He had an expressive countenance; understood our language so as to read Shakespeare with facility, and even with rapture: and to a question of mine, whether he was not much gratified with Schlegel's critical remarks upon that dramatist, he replied, that "he did not admire them so much, as, from the Edinburgh Review, the English appeared to do." To another question--"which of Shakspeare's plays pleased him most?" he replied, unhesitatingly, "_Romeo and Juliet_." I own, I should have thought that the mystical, or philosophy-loving, brain of a German would have preferred _Hamlet_. On leaving the library, I surveyed the town with tolerably minute attention. After Munich, it appeared sufficiently small. Its population indeed scarcely exceeds 8000. The day turned out very beautiful, and my first and principal attention was directed to _St. Martin's Church_; of which the tower (as I think I before told you) is considered to be full 420 feet in height, and the loftiest in Bavaria. But its height is its principal boast. Both in detail, and as a whole, the architecture is miserably capricious and tasteless. It is built of red brick. Many of the monuments in the church-yard, but more particularly some mural ones, struck me as highly characteristic of the country. Among these rude specimens of sculpture, the representation of _Our Saviour's Agony in the Garden_--the favourite subject in Bavaria--was singularly curious to a fresh eye. It may be between two and three hundred years old; but has suffered no injury. They have, in the principal street, covered walks, for foot-passengers, in a piazza-fashion, a little resembling those at Chester: but neither so old nor so picturesque. The intermixture of rural objects, such as trees and grass plats--in the high street of Landshut--renders a stroll in the town exceedingly agreeable to the lover of picturesque scenery. The booths and stalls were all getting ready for the fair--which I learnt was to last nearly a fortnight: and which I was too thankful to have escaped. We left Landshut on a fine sun-shining afternoon, purposing to sleep at the second stage--_Neümarkt_--(Angl. "Newmarket") in the route to Salzburg. _Neümarkt_ is little better than a small village, but we fared well in every respect at the principal, if not the only, inn in the place. Our beds were even luxurious. Neümarkt will be quickly forgotten: but the following stage--or _Altöting_--will not be so easily banished from our recollection. We reached it to a late breakfast--after passing through the most fertile and beautifully varied country which I had yet seen--and keeping almost constantly in view the magnificent chain of the Tyrolese mountains, into the very heart of which we seemed to be directing our course. ALTÖTING is situated upon an eminence. We drove into the Place, or Square, and alighted at what seemed to be a large and respectable inn. Two ladies and two gentlemen had just arrived before us, from Munich, by a different route: and while I was surveying them, almost mistaking them for English, and had just exchanged salutations, my valet came and whispered in my ear that "these good folks were come on a pilgrimage to the shrine of the _Black Virgin_." While I was wondering at this intelligence, the valet continued: "you see that small church in the centre of the square--it is _there_ where the richest shrine in Bavaria is deposited; and to-day is a 'high day' with the devotees who come to worship." On receiving this information, we all three prepared to visit this mean-looking little church. I can hardly describe to you with sufficient accuracy, the very singular, and to me altogether new, scene which presented itself on reaching the church. There is a small covered way--in imitation of cloisters--which goes entirely round it. The whole of the interior of these cloisters is covered with little pictures, images, supposed relics--and, in short votive offerings of every description, to the Holy Virgin, to whom the church is dedicated. The worshippers believe that the mother of Christ was an _African_ by birth, and therefore you see little black images of the virgin stuck up in every direction. At first, I mistook the whole for a parcel of pawnbrokers shops near each other: and eyed the several articles with a disposition, more or less, to become a purchaser of a few. But the sound of the chant, and the smell of the frankincense, broke in upon my speculations, and called my attention to the interior. I entered with a sort of rush of the congregation. This interior struck me as being scarcely thirty feet by twenty; but the eye is a deceitful rule in these cases. However, I continued to advance towards the altar; the heat, at the same time, being almost suffocating. An iron grating separated the little chapel and shrine of our _Black Lady_ from the other portion of the building; and so numerous, so constant, and apparently so close, had been the pressure and friction of each succeeding congregation, for probably more than two centuries, that some of these rails, or bars, originally at least one inch square, had been worn to _half_ the size of their pristine dimensions. It was with difficulty, on passing them, that I could obtain a peep at the altar; which, however, I saw sufficiently distinctly to perceive that it was entirely covered with silver vases, cups, dishes, and other _solid_ proofs of devotional ardour--which in short seemed to reach to the very roof. Having thus far gratified my curiosity, I retreated as quickly as possible; for not a window was open, and the little light which these windows emitted, together with the heat of the place, produced so disagreeable an effect as to make me apprehensive of sudden illness. On reaching the outward door, and enjoying the freedom of respiration, I made a sort of secret, but natural vow, that I would never again visit the shrine of _Our Black Lady_ on a festival day. An excellent breakfast--together with the neatness and civility of the female attendants--soon counter-acted the bad effects of the hydrogen contained within the walls of the place of worship we had just quitted. Every thing around us wore a cheerful and pleasing aspect; inasmuch as every thing reminded us of our own country. The servants were numerous, and all females; with their hair braided in a style of elegance which would not have disgraced the first drawing-room in London. We quaffed coffee out of cups which were perfectly of the Brobdignagian calibre; and the bread had the lightness and sweetness of cake. Between eleven and twelve, Charles Rohfritsch (alias our valet) announced that the carriage and horses were at the door; and on springing into it, we bade adieu to the worthy landlady and her surrounding attendants, in a manner quite natural to travellers who have seen something very unusual and interesting, and who have in other respects been well satisfied with good fare, and civil treatment. Not one of the circle could speak a word of French; so I told Charles to announce to them that we would not fail to spread the fame of their coffee, eggs, and bread, all over England! They laughed heartily--and then gave us a farewell salutation ... by dropping very-formal curtesies--their countenances instantly relapsing into a corresponding gravity of expression. In three minutes the inn, the square, and the church of the _Black Virgin_, were out of sight. The postilion put his bugle to his mouth, and played a lively air--in which the valet immediately joined. The musical infatuation, for an instant, extended to ourselves; for it was a tune which we had often heard in England, and which reminded me, in particular, of days of past happiness--never to return! But the sky was bright, the breeze soft, the road excellent, and the view perfectly magnificent. It was evident that we were now nearing the Tyrolese mountains. "At the foot of yonder second, sharp-pointed hill, lies SALZBURG"--said the valet: on receiving his intelligence from the post-boy. We seemed to be yet some twenty miles distant. To the right of the hill pointed out, the mountains rose with a loftier swell, and, covered by snow, the edges or terminations of their summits seemed to melt into the sky. Our road now became more hilly, and the time flew away quickly, without our making an apparently proportionate progress towards Salzburg. At length we reached _Burckhausen_; which is flanked by the river _Salz_ on one side, and defended by a lofty citadel on the other. It struck us, upon the whole, as rather a romantic spot: but the road, on entering the town, is in some places fearfully precipitous. The stratum was little better than rock. We were not long in changing horses, and made off instantly for _Tittmaning_; the last stage but one on that side of Salzburg. The country wore a more pleasing aspect. Stately trees spread their dark foliage on each side of the road; between the stems, and through the branches of which, we caught many a "spirit-stirring" view of the mountains in the neighbourhood of Salzburg--which, on our nearer approach, seemed to have attained double their first grandeur. After having changed horses at _Tittmaning_, and enjoyed a delightfully picturesque ride from Burckhausen thither, we dined at the following stage, _Lauffen_; a poor, yet picturesque and wildly-situated, large village. While the dinner was preparing, I walked to the extremity of the street where the inn is situated, and examined a small church, built there upon high ground. The cloisters were very striking; narrow and low, but filled with mural monuments, of a singular variety of character. It was quite evident, from numberless exhibitions of art--connected with religious worship--along the road-side, or attached to churches--that we had now entered a territory quite different from that of Baden, Wirtemberg, and even the northern part of Bavaria. Small crucifixes, and a representation of the _Agony in the Garden_, &c, presented themselves frequently to our view; and it seemed as if Austria were a land of even greater superstition than Bavaria. On concluding our dinner, and quitting Lauffen, it grew dusk, and the rain began to fall in a continued drizzling shower. "It always rains at Salzburg, sir," said the valet--repeating the information of the post boy. This news made us less cheerful on leaving Lauffen than we were on quitting _Altöting_: but "hope travelled through"--even till we reached the banks of the river Salz, within a mile or two of Salzburg--where the Austrian dominions begin, and those of Bavaria terminate. Our carriage was here stopped, and the trunks were examined, very slightly, on each side of the river. The long, wooden, black and yellow-striped bar of Austria--reaching quite across the road--forbade further progress, till such examination, and a payment of four or five florins, as the barrier-tax,--had been complied with. I had imagined that, if our trunks had been examined on _one_ side of the water, there needed no examination of them on the _other_; unless we had had intercourse with some water fiend in the interval. It seemed, however, that I reasoned illogically. We were detained full twenty minutes, by a great deal of pompous palaver--signifying nothing--on the part of the Austrian commissioner; so that it was quite dark when we entered the barriers of the town of Salzburg:--mountains, trees, meadows, and rivulets having been long previously obliterated from our view. The abrupt ascents and descents of the streets--and the quivering reflection of the lights from the houses, upon the surface of the river _Salz_--soon convinced us that we were entering a very extraordinary town. But all was silent: neither the rattling of carriages, nor the tread of foot-passengers, nor the voice of the labourer, saluted our ear on entering Salzburg--when we drove briskly to the _Gölden-Schiff_, in the _Place de la Cathedrale_, whence I am now addressing you. This inn is justly considered to be the best in the town; but what a melancholy reception--on our arrival! No rush of feet, no display of candles, nor elevation of voices, nor ringing of the bell--- as at the inns on our great roads in England--but ... every body and every, thing was invisible. Darkness and dulness seemed equally to prevail. One feeble candle at length glimmered at the extremity of a long covered arch-way, while afterwards, to the right, came forward two men--with what seemed to be a farthing candle between them, and desired to know the object of our halting? "Beds, and a two-day's residence in your best suite of apartments," replied I quickly--for they both spoke the French language. We were made welcome by one of them, who proved to be the master, and who helped us to alight. A long, and latterly a wet journey, had completely fatigued us--and after mounting up one high stair-case, and rambling along several loosely-floored corridors--we reached our apartments, which contained each a very excellent bed. Wax candles were placed upon the tables: a fire was lighted: coffee brought up; and a talkative, and civil landlord soon convinced us that we had no reason to grumble at our quarters.[83] On rising the next morning, we gazed upon almost every building with surprise and delight; and on catching a view of the CITADEL--in the back ground, above the Place de la Cathedrale--it seemed as if it were situated upon an eminence as lofty as Quito. I quickly sought the _Monastery of St. Peter_;--the oldest in the Austrian dominions. I had heard, and even read about its library; and imagined that I was about to view books, of which no bibliographer had ever yet--even in a vision--received intelligence. But you must wait a little ere I take you with me to that monastic library. There is a pleasing chime of bells, which are placed outside of a small cupola in the _Place_, in which stands the cathedral. I had heard this chime during the night--when I would rather have heard ... any thing else. What struck me the first thing, on looking out of window, was, the quantity of grass--such as Ossian describes within the walls of _Belcluthah_--growing between the pavement in the square. "Wherefore was this?" "Sir, (replied the master of the Gölden Schiff) this town is undergoing a gradual and melancholy depopulation. Before the late war, there were 27,000 inhabitants in Salzburg: at present, there are scarcely 15,000. This _Place_ was the constant resort of foreigners as well as townsmen. They filled every portion of it. Now, you observe there is only a narrow, worn walk, which gives indication of the route of a few straggling pedestrians. Even the very chimes of yonder bells (which must have _delighted_ you so much at every third hour of the night!) have lost their pleasing tone;--and sound as if they foreboded still further desolation to Salzburg." The man seemed to feel as he spoke; and I own that I was touched by so animated and unexpected a reply. I examined two or three old churches, of the Gothic order, of which I have already forgotten the names--unless they be those of _Ste. Trinité_ and _St. Sebastien_. In one of them--it being a festival--there was a very crowded congregation; while the priest was addressing his flock from the steps of the altar, in a strain of easy and impassioned eloquence. Wherever I went--and upon almost whatever object I gazed--there appeared to be traces of curious, if not of remote, antiquity. Indeed the whole town abounds with such--among which are some Roman relics, which have been recently (1816) described by Goldenstein, in a quarto volume published here, and written in the German language.[84] But you are impatient for the MONASTERY OF ST. PETER.[85] Your curiosity shall be no longer thwarted; and herewith I proceed to give you an account of my visit to that venerable and secluded spot--the abode of silence and of sanctity. It was my first appearance in a fraternity of MONKS; and those of the order of ST. BENEDICT. I had no letter of recommendation; but, taking my valet with me, I knocked at the outer gate--and received immediate admission within some ancient and low cloisters: of which the pavement consisted entirely of monumental slabs. The valet sought the librarian, to make known my wishes of examining the library; and I was left alone to contemplate the novel and strange scene which presented itself on all sides. There were two quadrangles, each of sufficiently limited dimensions. In the first, there were several young Monks playing at skittles in the centre of the lawn. Both the bowl and pins were of unusually large dimensions, and the direction of the former was confined within boards, fixed in the earth. These athletic young Benedictins (they might be between twenty and thirty years of age) took little or no notice of me; and while my eye was caught by a monumental tablet, which presented precisely the same coat-armour as the device used by Fust and Schoeffher,--and which belonged to a family that had been buried about two hundred and fifty years--the valet returned, and announced that the Principal of the College desired to see me immediately. I obeyed the summons in an instant, and followed Rohfritsch up stairs. There, on the first floor, a middle-aged monk received me, and accompanied me to the chamber of the President. On rapping at the door with his knuckles, a hollow but deep-toned voice commanded the visitor to enter. I was introduced with some little ceremony, but was compelled, most reluctantly, to have recourse to Latin, in conversing with the Principal. He rose to receive me very graciously; and I think I never before witnessed a countenance which seemed to _tell_ of so much hard fagging and meditation. He must have read every _Father_, in the _editio princeps_ of his works. His figure and physiognomical expression bespoke a rapid approach to the grand climacteric of human life. The deeply-sunk, but large and black, beaming eye--the wan and shrivelled cheek--the nose, somewhat aquiline, with nostrils having all the severity of sculpture--sharp, thin lips--an indented chin--and a highly raised forehead, surmounted by a little black silk cap--(which was taken off on the first salutation) all, added to the gloom of the place, and the novelty of the costume, impressed me in a manner not easily to be forgotten. My visit was very short, as I wished it to be; and it was concluded with an assurance, on the part of the Principal, that the librarian would be at home on the following day, and ready to attend me to the library:--but, added the Principal, on parting, "we have nothing worthy of the inspection of a traveller who has visited the libraries of Paris and Munich. At Mölk, you will see fine books, and a fine apartment for their reception." For the sake of _keeping_, in the order of my narrative, I proceed to give you an account of the visit to the library, which took place on the morrow, immediately after breakfast. It had rained the whole of the preceding night, and every hill and mountain about Salzburg was obscured by a continuation of the rain on the following day. I began to think the postilion spoke but too true, when he said "it always rains at Salzburg." Yet the air was oppressive; and huge volumes of steam, as from a cauldron, rose up from the earth, and mingled with the descending rain. In five minutes, I was within the cloisters of the monastery, and recognised some of the _skittling_ young monks--whom I had seen the day before. One of them addressed me very civilly, in the French language, and on telling him the object of my visit, he said he would instantly conduct me to Mr. GAERTNER, the librarian. On reaching the landing place, I observed a long corridore--where a somewhat venerable Benedictin was walking, apparently to and fro, with a bunch of keys in one hand, and a thick embossed-quarto under his other arm. The very sight of him reminded me of good _Michael Neander_, the abbot of the monastery of St. Ildefonso--the friend of Budæus[86]--of whom (as you may remember) there is a print in the _Rerum Germanicarum Scriptores_, published in 1707, folio. "That, Sir, is the librarian:"--observed my guide: "he waits to receive you." I walked quickly forward and made obeisance. Anon, one of the larger keys in this said bunch was applied to a huge lock, and the folding and iron-cramped doors of the library were thrown open. I descended by a few steps into the ante-room, and from thence had a completely fore-shortened view of the library. It is small, but well filled, and undoubtedly contains some ancient and curious volumes: but several _hiatuses_ gave indication that there had been a few transportations to Vienna or Munich. The small gothic windows were open, and the rain now absolutely descended in torrents. Nevertheless, I went quickly and earnestly to work. A few slight ladders were placed against the shelves, in several parts of the library, by means of which I left no division unexplored. The librarian, after exchanging a few words very pleasantly, in the French language, left me alone, unreservedly to prosecute my researches. I endeavoured to benefit amply by this privilege; but do not know, when, in the course of three or four hours, I have turned over the leaves of so many volumes ... some of which seemed to have been hardly opened since they were first deposited there ... to such little purpose. However, he is a bad sportsman who does not hit _something_ in a well-stocked cover; and on the return of the librarian, he found me busily engaged in laying aside certain volumes--with a written list annexed--"which might _possibly_, be disposed of ... for a valuable consideration?" "Your proposal shall be attended to, but this cannot be done immediately. You must leave the _consideration_ to the Principal and the elder brethren of the monastery." I was quite charmed by this response; gave my address, and taking a copy of the list, withdrew. I enclose you the list or catalogue in question.[87] Certainly I augur well of the result: but no early _Virgil_, nor _Horace_, nor _Ovid_, nor _Lucretius_, nor even an early _Greek Bible_ or _Testament_! What struck me, on the score of rarity, as most deserving of being secured, were some little scarce grammatical and philological pieces, by the French scholars of the early part of the sixteenth century; and some controversial tracts about Erasmus, Luther, and Eckius. So much for the monastic visit to St. Peter's at Salzburg; and yet you are not to quit it, without learning from me that this town was once famous for other similar establishments[88]--which were said anciently to vie with the greater part of those in Austria, for respectability of character, and amplitude of possessions. At present, things of this sort seem to be hastening towards a close, and I doubt whether the present principal will have half a dozen successors. It remains only to offer a brief sketch of some few other little matters which took place at Salzburg; and then to wish you good bye--as our departure is fixed for this very afternoon. We are to travel from hence through a country of mountains and lakes, to the _Monastery of Chremsminster_, in the route to Lintz--on the high road to Vienna. I have obtained a letter to the Vice-President of _Mölk monastery_, from a gentleman here, who has a son under his care; so that, ere I reach the capital of Austria, I shall have seen a pretty good sprinkling of _Benedictins_--as each of these monasteries is of the order of St. Benedict. The evening of the second day of our visit here, enabled me to ascertain something of the general character of the scenery contiguous to the town. This scenery is indeed grand and interesting. The summit of the lowest hill in the neighbourhood is said to be 4000 feet above the level of the sea. I own I have strong doubts about this. It is with the heights of mountains, as with the numbers of books in a great library,--we are apt to over-rate each. However, those mountains, which seem to be covered with perennial snow, must be doubtless 8000 feet above the same level.[89] To obtain a complete view of them, you must ascend some of the nether hills. This we intended to do--but the rain of yesterday has disappointed all our hopes. The river _Salz_ rolls rapidly along; being fed by mountain torrents. There are some pretty little villas in the neighbourhood, which are frequently tenanted by the English; and one of them, recently inhabited by Lord Stanhope, (as the owner informed me,) has a delightful view of the citadel, and the chain of snow-capt mountains to the left. The numerous rapid rivulets, flowing into the Salz, afford excellent trout-fishing; and I understood that Sir Humphry Davy, either this summer, or the last, exercised his well-known skill in this diversion here. The hills abound with divers sorts of four-footed and winged game; and, in short, (provided I could be furnished with a key of free admission into the library of St. Peter's Monastery) I hardly know where I could pass the summer and autumn months more completely to my satisfaction than at SALZBURG. What might not the pencils of Turner and Calcott here accomplish, during the mellow lights and golden tints of autumn? Of course, in a town so full of curiosities of every description, I am not able, during so short a stay in it, to transmit you any intelligence about those sights which are vulgarly called the _Lions_. But I must not close this rambling, desultory letter, without apprising you that I have walked from one end of the _Mönschberg_ to the other. This is an excavation through a hard and high rocky hill, forming the new gate, or entrance into the town. The success of this bold undertaking was as complete, as its utility is generally acknowledged: nor shall it tarnish the lustre of the _mitre_ to say, that it was a BISHOP of Salzburg who conceived, and superintended the execution of, the plan. A very emphatic inscription eternises his memory: "TE SAXA LOQUUNTUR." The view, from the further end of it, is considered to be one of the finest in Europe: but, when I attempted to enjoy it, every feature of the landscape was obscured by drizzling rain. "It always rains at Salzburg!"--said, as you may remember, the postilion from Lauffen. It may do so: but a gleam of _sunshine_ always enlivens that moment, when I subscribe myself, as I do now, your affectionate and faithful friend. [77] See vol. i. p. 199. [78] It is thus entitled: _Bibliothecæ Ingolstadiensis Incunabula Typographica_, 1787, 4to.: containing four parts. A carefully executed, and indispensably necessary, volume in every bibliographical collection. [79] [I rejoice to add, in this edition of my Tour, that the LOST SHEEP has been FOUND. It had not straggled from the fold when I was at Landshut; but had got _penned_ so snugly in some unfrequented corner, as not to be perceived.] [80] [A vision, however, which AGAIN haunts me!] [81] This copy has since reached England, and has been arrayed in a goodly coat of blue morocco binding. Whether it remain in Cornhill at this precise moment, I cannot take upon me to state; but I can confidently state that there is _not a finer copy_ of the edition in question in his Britannic Majesty's united dominions. [This copy now--1829--ceases to exist... in Cornhill.] [82] On consulting the _Typog. Antiquities_, vol. ii. p. 510, I found my conjectures confirmed. The reader will there see the full title of the work--beginning thus: "_Eruditissimi Viri Guilelmi Rossei opus elegans, doctum, festiuum, pium, quo pulcherrime retegit, ac refellit, insanas Lutheri calumnias," &c._ It is a volume of considerable rarity. [83] The charges were moderate. A bottle of the best red ordinary wine (usually--the best in every respect) was somewhere about 1s. 6d. Our lodgings, two good rooms, including the charge of three wax candles, were about four shillings per day. The bread was excellent, and the _cuisine_ far from despicable. [84] We learn from Pez (_Austriacar. Rer._ vol. ii. col. 185, taken from the Chronicle of the famous _Admont Monastery_,) that, in the year 1128, the cathedral and the whole city of Salzburg were destroyed by fire. So, that the antiquity of this, and of other relics, must not be pushed to too remote a period. [85] Before the reader commences the above account of a visit to this monastery, he may as well be informed that the SUBJOINED bird's-eye view of it, together with an abridged history (compiled from Trithemius, and previous chroniclers) appears in the _Monasteriologia of Stengelius_, published in 1619, folio. [Illustration] The monastery is there described as--"et vetustate et dignitate nulli è Germaniæ monasteriis secundum." Rudbertus is supposed to have been its founder:--"repertis edificiis basilicam in honore SANCTI PETRI construxit:" _Chronicon Norimberg._ fol. cliii.; edit. 1493. But this took place towards the end of the sixth century. From Godfred's _Chronicon Gotvvicense_, 1732, folio, pt. i. pp. 37, 39, 52--the library of this Monastery, there called "antiquissima," seems to have had some very ancient and valuable MSS. In Stengelius's time, (1620) the monastery appears to have been in a very flourishing condition. [86] As it is just possible the reader may not have a very distinct recollection of this worthy old gentleman, and ambulatory abbot--it may be acceptable to him to know, that, in the _Thanatologia of Budæus_ (incorporated in the _Tres Selecti Scriptores Rerum Germanicarum_, 1707, folio, p. 27, &c.) the said Neander is described as a native of Sorau, in Bohemia, and as dying in his 70th year, A.D. 1595, having been forty-five years Principal of the monastery of St. Ildefonso. A list of his works, and a laudatory Greek epigram, by Budæus, "UPON HIS EFFIGY," follow. [87] For the sake of juxta-position I here lay before the reader a short history of the issue, or progress of the books in question to their present receptacle, in St. James's Place. A few days after reaching _Vienna_, I received the following "pithy and pleasant" epistle from the worthy librarian, "Mon très-revérend Pasteur. En esperant que vous êtes arrivé à Vienne, à bon port, j'ai l'honneur de declarer à vous, que le prix fixé des livres, que vous avez choisi, et dont la table est ajoutée, est 40 louis d'or, ou 440 florins. Agréez l'assurance, &c." [Autographs] I wrote to my worthy friend Mr. Nockher at Munich to settle this subject immediately; who informed me, in reply, that the good monks would not part with a single volume till they had received "the money upon the nail,"--"l'argent comptant." That dexterous negotiator quickly supplied them with the same; received the case of books; and sent them down the Rhine to Holland, from thence to England: where they arrived in safe and perfect condition. They are all described in the second volume of the _Ædes Athorpianæ_; together with a beautiful fac-simile of an illuminated head, or portrait, of _Gaietanus de Tienis_, who published a most elegantly printed work upon Aristotle's four books of Meteors, _printed by Maufer_, in 1476, folio; and of which the copy in the Salzburg library was adorned by the head (just mentioned) of the Editor. _Æd. Althorp._ vol. ii. p. 134. Among the books purchased, were two exquisite copies, filled with wood cuts, relating to the Æsopian Fables: a copy of one of which, entitled _Æsopus Moralisatus_, was, I think, sold at the sale of the Duke of Marlborough's books, in 1819, for somewhere about 13l. [88] In Hartmann Schedel's time, Salzburg--which was then considered as the CAPITAL OF BAVARIA--"was surrounded by great walls, and was adorned by many beautiful buildings of temples and monasteries." A view of Salzburg, which was formerly called JUVAVIA, is subjoined in the _Nuremberg Chronicle_, fol. CLIII. _edit._ 1493. Consult also the _Chronicon Gotvvicense_, 1732, folio, pt. ii. p. 760--for some particulars respecting the town taking its name from the river _Juvavia_ or _Igonta_. Salzburg was an Archbishopric founded by Charlemagne: see the _Script. Rer. German._ edited by _Nidanus et Struvius_, 1726 folio, vol. i. p. 525. [89] On the morning following my arrival at Salzburg, I purchased a card, and small chart of the adjacent country and mountains. Of the latter, the _Gross Klokner_, _Klein Klokner_, are each about 12000 feet above the level of the sea; The _Weisbachhorn_ is about 11000 feet of similar altitude; _Der Hohe Narr_ about the same height; and the _Hohe Warte_ about 10,000; while the _Ankogl_ and _Herzog Ernst_, are 9000 each. The lowest is the _Gaisberg_ of 4000 feet; but there is a regular gradation in height, from the latter, to the Gross Klokner, including about 25 mountains. [Illustration] LETTER VIII. SALZBURG. TO CHREMSMINSTER. THE LAKE GMUNDEN. THE MONASTERY OF CHREMSMINSTER. LINTZ. _Lintz; on the road to Vienna, Aug. 26, 1818._ In order that I may not be too much in arrear in my correspondence, I snatch an hour or two at this place, to tell you what have been my sights and occupations since I quitted the extraordinary spot whence I last addressed you. Learn therefore, at the outset, that I have been, if possible, more gratified than heretofore. I have shaped my course along devious roads, by the side of huge impending mountains; have skirted more than one lake of wide extent and enchanting transparency; have navigated the celebrated _Lake of Gmunden_ from one end to the other--the greater part of which is surrounded by rocky yet fertilized mountains of a prodigious height;--have entered one of the noblest and richest monasteries of Austria--and darted afterwards through a country, on every side pleasing by nature, and interesting from history. My only regret is, that all this has been accomplished with too much precipitancy; and that I have been compelled to make sketches in my mind, as it were, when the beauty of the objects demanded a finished picture. I left Salzburg on the afternoon after writing my last epistle; and left it with regret at not having been able to pay a visit to the salt mines of _Berchtesgaden_ and _Hallein_: but "non omnia possumus omnes." The first stage, to _Koppf_, was absolutely up hill, the whole way, a short German league and a half: probably about seven English miles. We were compelled to put a leader to our two horses, and even then we did little more than creep. But the views of the country we had left behind us, as we continued ascending, were glorious in the extreme. Each snow-capt mountain appeared to rise in altitude--as we continued to mount. Our views however were mere snatches. The sun was about to set in a bed of rain. Large black clouds arose; which, although they added to the grandeur of picturesque composition, prevented us from distinctly surveying the adjacent country. Masses of deep purple floated along the fir-clad hills: now partially illumined by the sun's expiring rays, and now left in deep shadow--to be succeeded by the darkness of night. The sun was quite set as we stopped to change horses at _Koppf_: and a sort of premature darkness came on:--which, however, was relieved for a short time by a sky of partial but unusual clearness of tint. The whole had a strange and magical effect. As the horses were being put to, I stepped across the road to examine the interior of a small church--where I observed, in the side aisle, a group of figures of the size of life--which, at that sombre hour, had a very extraordinary effect. I approached nearer, and quickly perceived that this group was intended to represent the _Agony in the Garden of Gethsemane_. Our Saviour, at a little distance, was upon his knees, praying; and the piety of some _religieuse_ (as I afterwards learnt) had caused a white handkerchief to be fixed between his hands. The disciples were represented asleep, upon the ground. On coming close to the figures (which were raised upon a platform, of half the height of a man) and removing the moss upon which they were recumbent, I found that they were mere _trunks_, without legs or feet: the moss having been artfully placed, so as to conceal these defects when the objects were seen at a distance. Of course it was impossible to refrain from a smile, on witnessing such a sight. The horses were harnessed in ten minutes; and, having no longer any occasion for a leader, we pursued our route with the usual number of two. The evening was really enchanting; and upon the summit of one of the loftiest of the hills--which rose perpendicularly as a bare sharp piece of rock--we discerned a pole, which we conjectured was fixed there for some particular purpose. The postilion told us that it was the stem of the largest fir-tree in the country, and that there were annual games celebrated around it--in the month of May, when its summit was crowned with a chaplet. Our route was now skirted on each side, alternately, by water and by mountain. The _Mande See_, _Aber See_, and _Aller See_, (three beautiful lakes) lay to the left; of which we caught, occasionally, from several commanding heights, most magnificent views--as the last light of day seemed to linger upon their surfaces. They are embosomed in scenery of the most beautiful description. When we reached _St. Gilgen_, or _Gilling_, we resolved upon passing the night there. It was quite dark, and rather late, when we entered this miserable village; but within half a league of it, we ran a very narrow chance of being overturned, and precipitated into a roaring, rapid stream, just below the road--along the banks of which we had been sometime directing our course. A fir-pole lay across the road, which was undiscernible from the darkness of the night; and the carriage, receiving a violent concussion, and losing its balance for a moment--leaning over the river--it was doubtful what would be the issue. Upon entering the archway of the inn, or rather public house--from the scarcity of candles, and the ignorance of rustic ostlers, the door of the carriage (it being accidentally open) was completely wrenched from the body. Never, since our night's lodging at _Saudrupt_,[90] had we taken up our quarters at so miserable an auberge. The old woman, our landlady, seemed almost to cast a suspicious eye upon us; but the valet in a moment disarmed her suspicions. It was raw, cold, and late; but the kitchen fire was yet in full force, and a few earthen-ware utensils seemed to contain something in the shape of eatables. You should know, that the kitchen fire-places, in Germany, are singularly situated; at least all those at the public inns where we have stopped. A platform, made of brick, of the height of about three feet, is raised in the centre of the floor. The fire is in the centre of the platform. You look up, and see directly the open sky through the chimney, which is of a yawning breadth below, but which narrows gradually towards the top. It was so cold, that I requested a chair to be placed upon the platform, and I sat upon it--close to the kitchen fire--receiving very essential benefit from the position. All the kitchen establishment was quickly put in requisition: and, surrounded by cook and scullion--pots, pans, and culinary vessels of every description--I sat like a monarch upon his throne: while Mr. Lewis was so amused at the novelty of the scene, that he transferred it to his sketch-book. It was midnight when we attacked our _potage_--in the only visitor's bed-room in the house. Two beds, close to each other, each on a sloping angle of nearly forty-five degrees, were to receive our wearied bodies. The _matériel_ of the beds was _straw_; but the sheets were white and well aired, and edged (I think) with a narrow lace; while an eider down quilt--like a super-incumbent bed--was placed upon the first quilt. It was scarcely day-light, when Mr. Lewis found himself upon the floor, awoke from sleep, having gradually slid down. By five o'clock, the smith's hammer was heard at work below--upon the door of the dismembered carriage--and by the time we had risen at eight o'clock, the valet reported to us that the job was just _then_ ... in the very state in which it was at its _commencement_! So much for the reputation of the company of white-smiths at _St. Gilgen_. We were glad to be off by times; but I must not quit this obscure and humble residence without doing the landlady the justice to say, that her larder and kitchen enabled us to make a very hearty breakfast. This, for the benefit of future travellers--benighted like ourselves. The morning lowered, and some soft rain fell as we started: but, by degrees, the clouds broke away, and we obtained a complete view of the enchanting country through which we passed--as we drove along by the banks of the _Aber_ lake, to _Ischel_. One tall, sharp, and spirally-terminating rock, in particular, kept constantly in view before us, on the right; of which the base and centre were wholly feathered with fir. It rose with an extraordinary degree of abruptness, and seemed to be twice as high as the spire of Strasbourg cathedral. To the left, ran sparkling rivulets, as branches of the three lakes just mentioned. An endless variety of picturesque beauty--of trees, rocks, greenswards, wooded heights, and glen-like passes--canopied by a sky of the deepest and most brilliant blue--were the objects upon which we feasted till we reached _Ischel_: where we changed horses. Here we observed several boats, of a peculiarly long and narrow form, laden with salt, making their way for the _Steyer_ and _Ens_ rivers, and from thence to the Danube. To describe what we saw, all the way till we reached the _Traun See_, or the LAKE OF GMUNDEN, would be only a repetition of the previous description. At _Inderlambach_, close to the lake in question, we stopped to dine. This is a considerable village, or even country town. On the heights are well-trimmed gravel walks, from which you catch a commanding view of the hither end of the lake; and of which the sight cheered us amazingly. We longed to be afloat. There is a great manufactory of salt carried on upon these heights--at the foot of which was said to be the best inn in the town. Thither we drove: and if high charges form the test of the excellence of an inn, there is good reason to designate this, at _Inderlambach_, as such. We snatched a hasty meal, (for which we had nearly fifteen florins to pay) being anxious to get the carriage and luggage aboard one of the larger boats, used in transporting travellers, before the sun was getting too low ... that we might see the wonders of the scenery of which we had heard so much. It was a bright, lovely afternoon; and about half-past six we were all, with bag and baggage, on board. Six men, with oars resembling spades in shape, were to row us; and a seventh took the helm. The water was as smooth as glass, and of a sea-green tint, which might have been occasioned by the reflection of the dark and lofty wood and mountainous scenery, by which the lake is surrounded. The rowers used their oars so gently, as hardly to make us sensible of their sounds. The boat glided softly along; and it was evident, from the varying forms of the scenery, that we were making considerable way. We had a voyage of at least nine English miles to accomplish, ere we reached the opposite extremity--called _Gmunden_; and where we were told that the inn would afford us every accommodation which we might wish. On reaching the first winding or turning of the lake, to the left, a most magnificent and even sublime object--like a mountain of rock--presented itself to the right. It rose perpendicularly--vast, craggy, and of a height, I should suppose, little short of 2000 feet. Its gray and battered sides--now lighted up by the varied tints of a setting sun--seemed to have been ploughed by many a rushing torrent, and covered by many a winter's snow. Meanwhile the lake was receiving, in the part nearest to us, a breadth of deep green shadow, as the sun became lower and lower. The last faint scream of the wild fowl gave indication that night was coming on; and the few small fishermen's huts, with which the banks were slightly studded, began to fade from the view. Yet the summit of the mountain of rock, which I have just mentioned, was glowing with an almost golden hue. I cannot attempt a more minute description of this enchanting scene. One thing struck me very forcibly. This enormous rocky elevation seemed to baffle all our attempts to _near_ it--and yet it appeared as if we were scarcely a quarter of a mile from it. This will give you some notion of its size and height. At length, the scenery of the lake began to change--into a more quiet and sober character.... We had now passed the rocky mountain, and on looking upon its summit, we observed that the golden glow of sunshine had subsided into a colour of pale pink, terminating in alternate tints of purple and slate. Almost the whole landscape had faded from the eye, when we reached the end of our voyage; having been more than two hours upon the lake. On disembarking, we made directly for the inn--where we found every thing even exceeding what we had been led to expect--and affording a very striking and comfortable contrast to the quarters of the preceding evening at St. Gilgen. Sofas, carpets, lustres, and two good bed-rooms--a set of china which might have pleased a German baron--all glittered before our eyes, and shewed us that, if we were not well satisfied, the fault would be our own. The front windows of the hotel commanded a direct and nearly uninterrupted length-view of the lake; and if the full moon had risen ... but one cannot have every thing one wants--even at the hotel of Gmunden. We ordered a good fire, and wax candles to be lighted; a chafing dish, filled with live charcoal caused a little cloud of steam to be emitted from a copper kettle--of which the exterior might have been _cleaned_ ... during the _last_ century. But we travelled with our own tea; and enjoyed a succession of cups which seemed to make us "young and lusty as eagles:" and which verified all the pleasing things said in behalf of this philosophical beverage by the incomparable Cowper. Mr. Lewis spent two hours in _penning in_ his drawings; and I brushed up my journal---opened my map--and catechised the landlord about the MONASTERY of CHREMSMINSTER, which it was resolved to visit on the following (Sunday) morning. Excellent beds (not "sloping in an angle of 45 degrees"--) procured us a comfortable night's rest. In the morning, we surveyed the lake, the village, and its immediate vicinity. We inspected two churches, and saw a group of women devoutly occupied in prayer by the side of a large tombstone--in a cemetery at a distance from any church. The tombstones in Germany are whimsical enough. Some look like iron cross-bows, others like crosses; some nearly resemble a gibbet; and others a star. They are usually very slender in their structure, and of a height scarcely exceeding four or five feet. By eleven in the morning, the postboy's bugle sounded for our departure. The carriage and horses were at the door: the postboy, arrayed in an entirely new scarlet jacket, with a black velvet collar edged with silver lace, the livery of Austria, was mounted upon a strong and lofty steed; and the travellers being comfortably seated, the whip sounded, and off we went, up hill, at a good round cantering pace. A large congregation, which was quitting a church in the vicinity of the inn, gazed at us, as we passed, with looks and gestures as if they had never seen two English travellers before. The stage from Gmunden to Chremsminster is very long and tedious; but by no means devoid of interest. We halted an hour to rest the horses, about half-way on the route; which I should think was full eight English miles from the place of starting. On leaving Gmunden, and gaining the height of the neighbouring hills, we looked behind, or rather to the right, upon the _back_ part of that chain of hills and rocks which encircle the lake over which we had passed the preceding evening. The sky was charged with large and heavy clouds; and a broad, deep, and as it were stormy, tint of dark purple ... mantled every mountain which we saw--with the exception of our old gigantic friend, of which the summit was buried in the clouds. At a given distance, you form a tolerably good notion of the altitude of mountains; and from this latter view of those in question, I should think that the highest may be about 3000 feet above the level of the lake. It was somewhere upon two o'clock when we caught the first glimpse of the spire and lofty walls of the MONASTERY OF CHREMSMINSTER. This monastery is hid by high ground,--till you get within a mile of the town of _Chrems_; so called, from a river, of the same name, which washes almost the walls of the monastery. I cannot dissemble the joy I felt on the first view of this striking and venerable edifice. It is situated on a considerable eminence--and seems to be built upon a foundation of rock. Its mosque-fashioned towers, the long range of its windows, and height of its walls, cannot fail to arrest the attention very forcibly. Just on the spot where we caught the first view of it, the road was not only very precipitous, but was under repair; which made it absolutely perilous. The skill of our postilion, however extricated us from all danger; and on making the descent, I opened my portmanteau in front of me--which was strapped to the back-seat of the carriage--pulled out the green silk purse which I had purchased at Dieppe, within a few hours of my landing in France--and introducing my hand into it, took from thence some dozen or twenty napoleons--observing at the same time, to Mr. Lewis, and pointing to the monastery--that "these pieces would probably be devoted to the purchasing of a few book-treasures from the library of the edifice in view." In five minutes we drove up to the principal, or rather only inn, which the town seemed to afford. The first thing I did, was, to bespeak an immediate dinner, and to send a messenger, with a note (written in Latin) to the Vice Principal or Librarian of the monastery--"requesting permission to inspect the library, being English travellers bound for Vienna." No answer was returned ... even on the conclusion of our dinner; when,--on calling a council, it was resolved that we should take the valet and a guide with us, and immediately assail the gates of the Monastery. I marched up the steep path which leads to these gates, with the most perfect confidence in the success of my visit. Vespers were just concluded; and three or four hundred at least of the population of Chrems were pouring forth from the church doors, down the path towards the town. On entering the quadrangle in which the church is situated, we were surprised at its extent, and the respectability of its architecture. We then made for the church--along the cloisters--and found it nearly deserted. A few straggling supplicants were however left behind--ardent in prayer, upon their knees: but the florid style of the architecture of the interior of this church immediately caught my attention and admiration. The sides are covered with large oil paintings, which look like copies of better performances; while, at each lower corner of these pictures, stands a large figure of a saint, boldly sculptured, as if to support the painting. Throwing your eye along this series of paintings and sculpture, on each side of the church, the whole has a grand and imposing effect--while the _subjects_ of some of the paintings, describing the tortures of the damned, or the occupations of the good, cannot fail, in the mind of an enthusiastic devotee, to produce a very powerful sensation. The altars here, as usual in Germany, and even at Lauffen and Koppf--are profusely ornamented. We had hardly retreated from the church--lost in the variety of reflections excited by the novelty of every surrounding object--when I perceived a Benedictin, with his black cap upon his head, walking with a hurried step towards us ... along the cloisters. As he approached, he pulled off his cap, and saluted us very graciously: pouring forth a number of sentences, in the Latin language, (for he could not speak a word of French) with a fluency and rapidity of utterance, of which, I could have no conception; and of which, necessarily, I could not comprehend one half. Assuming a more leisurely method of address, he asked me, what kind of books I was more particularly anxious to see: and on replying "those more especially which were printed in the fifteenth century--the "_Incunabula_"--he answered, "come with me; and, although the librarian be absent, I will do my utmost to assist you." So saying, we followed him into his cell, a mere cabin of a room: where I observed some respectably-looking vellum-clad folios, and where his bed occupied the farther part. He then retired for the key: returned in five seconds, and requested that we would follow him up stairs. We mounted two flights of a noble staircase; the landing-place of the _first_ of which communicated with a lofty and magnificent, arched corridor:--running along the whole side of the quadrangle. The library is situated at the very top of the building, and occupies (as I should apprehend) one half of the side of the quadrangle. It is a remarkably handsome and cheerful room, divided into three slightly indicated compartments; and the colour, both of the wainscot and of the backs of the books, is chiefly white. The first thing that struck me was, the almost unbounded and diversified view from thence. I ran to the windows--but the afternoon had become black and dismal, and the rain was descending fast on all sides; yet, in the haze of distance, I thought I could discern the chain of huge mountains near the lake of Gmunden. Their purple sides and craggy summits yet seemed to rise above the clouds, which were resting upon the intermediate country, and deluging it with rain. The Benedictin confirmed my suspicions as to the identity of the country before us, and then bade me follow, him quickly. I followed M. HARTENSCHNEIDER (for so the worthy Benedictin wrote his name) to the further division, or compartment of the library; and turning to the left, began an attack upon the _Fifteeners_--which were placed there, on the two lowest shelves. My guide would not allow of my taking down the books ... from sheer politeness. "They might prove burdensome"--as if _any thing_, in the shape of a book, could be considered a BURDEN! The first volume I opened, was one of the most beautiful copies imaginable--utterly beyond all competition, for purity and primitiveness of condition--of Schoiffher's edition of _St. Austin de Civitate Dei_, with the Commentary of Trivetus, of the date of 1473. That work is everywhere--in all forms, types, and conditions--upon the continent. The worthy M. Hartenschneider seemed to be marvellously pleased with the delight I expressed on the view of this magnificent volume. He then placed before me the _Catholicon_ of 1469, by G. Zainer: a cropt, but clean and desirable copy. Upon my telling him that I had not long ago seen a copy of it UPON VELLUM, in the Public Library at Munich, he seemed to be mute and pensive... and to sigh somewhat inwardly. Pausing awhile, he resumed, by telling me that the ONLY treasure they had possessed, in the shape of a VELLUM BOOK, was a copy of the same work of St. Austin, printed chiefly by _John de Spira_ (but finished by his brother _Vindelin_) of the date of 1470; but with which, and many other book-curiosities, the French general _Lecourbe_ chose to march away; in the year 1800. That cruel act of spoliation was commemorated, or revenged, by an angry Latin distich. I was also much gratified by a beautifully clean copy of the _Durandi Rationale_ by I. Zeiner, of the date of 1474: as well as with the same printer's _Aurea Biblia_, of the same date, which is indeed almost every where upon the Continent. But nothing came perfectly up to the copy of Schoiffher's edition of the _De Civ. Dei._ M. Hartenschneider added, that the Imperial Library at Vienna had possessed itself of their chief rarities in early typography: but he seemed to exult exceedingly on mentioning the beautiful and perfect state of their DELPHIN CLASSICS. "Do you by chance possess the _Statius_?--" observed I. "Come and see--" replied my guide: and forthwith he took me into a recess, or closet, where my eye was greeted with one of the most goodly book-sights imaginable. There they all stood--those Delphin Classics--in fair array and comeliest condition. I took down the Statius, and on returning it, exclaimed "Exemplar pulcherrimum et optime conservatum." "Pretiosissimumque," rejoined my cicerone. "And the _Prudentius_--good M. Hartenschneider--do you possess it?" "Etiam"--replied he. "And the _Catullus_, _Tibullus_, and _Propertius_?" They were there also: but one of the volumes, containing the Tibullus, was with a brother monk. That monk (thought I to myself) must have something of a tender heart. "But tell me, worthy and learned Sir, (continued I) why so particular about the _Statius_? Here are twenty golden pieces:" (they were the napoleons, taken from the forementioned silken purse[91])--"will these procure the copy in question?" "It is in vain you offer any thing: (replied M. Hartenschneider) we have refused this very copy even to Princes and Dukes." "Listen then to me:" resumed I: "It seems you want that great work, such an ornament to our own country, and so useful to every other--the _Monasticon Anglicanum of Sir William Dugdale_. Will you allow me to propose a fair good copy of that admirable performance, in exchange for your Statius?" "I can promise nothing--replied M. Hartenschneider--as that matter rests entirely with the superiors of the monastery; but what you say appears to be very reasonable; and, for myself, I should not hesitate one moment, in agreeing to the proposed exchange." My guide then gave me to understand that he was _Professor of History_; and that there were not fewer than one hundred monks upon the establishment. I was next intreated, together with my travelling friend and our valet, to stop and pass the night there. We were told that it was getting late and dark; and that there was only a cross road between Chrems and _Ens_, in the route to _Lintz_--to which latter place we were going. "You cannot reach Lintz (said our hospitable attendant) before midnight; but rain and darkness are not for men with nice sensibilities to encounter. You and your friend, and eke your servant, shall not lack a hospitable entertainment. Command therefore your travelling equipage to be brought hither. You see (added he smiling) we have room enough for all your train. I beseech you to tarry with us." This is almost a literal version of what M. Hartenschneider said--and he said it fluently, and even in an impassioned manner. I thanked him again and again; but declared it to be impossible to comply with his kind wishes. "The hospitality of your order (observed I to the Professor) is equal to its learning." M. Hartenschneider bowed: and then taking me by the arm, exclaimed, "well, since you cannot be prevailed upon to stay, you must make the most of your time. Come and see one or two of our more ancient MSS." He then placed before me an _Evangelistarium_ of the eighth century, which he said had belonged to Charlemagne, the founder of the monastery.[92] It was one of the most perfect pieces of calligraphy which I had ever seen; perhaps superior to that in the Public Library at Landshut. But this MS. is yet more precious, as containing, what is considered to be, a compact between Charlemagne and the first Abbot of the Monastery, executed by both parties. I looked at it with a curious and sceptical eye, and had scarcely the courage to _doubt_ its authenticity. The art which it exhibits, in the illuminations of the figures of the Evangelists, is sufficiently wretched--compared with the specimens of the same period in the celebrated MS. (also once belonging to Charlemagne) in the private library of the King at Paris.[93] I next saw a MS. of the _Sonnets of Petrarch_, in a small folio, or super royal octavo size, supposed to have been executed in the fifteenth century, about seventy years after the death of the poet. It is beautifully written in a neat roman letter, and evidently the performance of an Italian scribe; but it may as likely be a copy, made in the early part of the fifteenth century, of a MS. of the previous century. However, it is doubtless a precious MS. The ornaments are sparingly introduced, and feebly executed. On quitting these highly interesting treasures, M. H. and myself walked up and down the library for a few minutes, (the rain descending in torrents the whole time) and discoursed upon the great men of my own country. He mentioned his acquaintance with the works of Bacon, Locke, Swift, and Newton--and pronounced the name of the last ... with an effervescence of feeling and solemnity of utterance amounting to a sort of adoration. "Next to Newton," said he, "is your Bacon: nor is the interval between them _very_ great: but, in my estimation, Newton is more an angel than a mortal. He seemed to have been always communing with the Deity." "All this is excellent, Sir,--replied I: but you say not one word about our divine _Shakspeare_." "Follow me--rejoined he--and you shall see that I am not ignorant of that wonderful genius--and that I do not talk without book." Whereupon M.H. walked, or rather ran, rapidly to the other end of the library, and put into my hands _Baskerville's Edition_ of that poet,[94] of the date of 1768--which I frankly told him I had never before seen. This amused him a good deal; but he added, that the greater part of Shakspeare was incomprehensible to him, although he thoroughly understood _Swift_, and read him frequently. It was now high time to break off the conversation, interesting as it might be, and to think of our departure: for the afternoon was fast wearing away, and a starless, if not a tempestuous, night threatened to succeed. Charles Rohfritsch was despatched to the inn below--to order the horses, settle the reckoning, and to bring the carriage as near to the monastery as possible. Meanwhile Mr. L. and myself descended with M. Hartenschneider to his own room--where I saw, for the first time, the long-sought after work of the _Annales Hirsaugienses_ of _Trithemius_, _printed in the Monastery of St. Gall_ in 1690, 2 vols., folio, lying upon the Professor's table. M.H. told me that the copy belonged to the library we had just quitted. I had indeed written to Kransfelder, a bookseller at Augsbourg, just before leaving Munich, for _two_ copies of that rare and estimable work--which were inserted in his sale catalogue; and I hope to be lucky enough to secure both--for scarcely ten shillings of our money.[95] It now only remained to bid farewell to the most kind, active, and well-informed M. Hartenschneider--and to quit (probably for ever) the MONASTERY OF CHREMSMINSTER. Like the worthy Professor Veesenmeyer at Ulm, he "committed me to God's especial good providence--" and insisted upon accompanying me, uncovered, to the very outer gates of the monastery: promising, all the way, that, on receiving my proposals in writing, respecting the Statius, he would promote that object with all the influence he might possess.[96] Just as he had reached the further limits of the quadrangle, he met the librarian himself--and introduced me to him: but there was now only time to say "Vale!" We shook hands--for the first ... and in all probability ... the last time. Every thing was in readiness--on reaching the bottom of the hill. A pair of small, and apparently young and mettlesome horses, were put to the carriage: the postilion was mounted; and nothing remained but to take our seats, and bid adieu to _Chrems_ and its Monastery. The horses evinced the fleetness of rein deer at starting; and on enquiring about their age and habits, I learnt that they were scarcely _three_ years old--had been just taken from the field--and had been but _once_ before in harness. This intelligence rather alarmed us. However, we continued to push vigorously forward, along a very hilly road, in which no difference whatever was made between ascents and descents. It was a good long sixteen mile stage; and darkness and a drizzling rain overtook us ere we had got over half of it. There were no lights to the carriage, and the road was the most devious I had ever travelled. The horses continued to fly like the wind, and the charioteer began to express his fatigue in holding them in. At length we saw the light of _Ens_, to the right--the first post town on the high road from Lintz to Vienna. This led us to expect to reach the main road quickly. We passed over a long wooden bridge--under which the river Ens, here broad and rapid, runs to empty itself into the Danube: and... nearer the hour of eleven than ten, we drove to the principal inn in the Place. It was fair time: and the town of LINTZ was glittering with lights, and animated by an unusual stir of population. The centre of the _Place_ or Square, where the inn is situated, was entirely filled by booths; and it was with difficulty we could gain admission within the inn, or secure rooms when admitted. However, we had no reason to complain, for the chambermaid (an exceedingly mirthful and active old woman) assured us that Lord and Lady Castlereagh on their route to Vienna in 1815, had occupied the very beds which she had destined for us. These beds were upon the second floor, in a good large room, warmed by a central stove of earthenware tiles--the usual fireplace in Germany. The first floor of the inn was wholly occupied by travellers, merchants, dealers, and adventurers of every description--the noise of whose vociferations, and the tramp of whose movements, were audible even till long after midnight. I am tarrying in a very large, very populous, and excellently well built town. LINTZ, or LINZ, has a population of at least 20,000 souls: and boasts, with justice, not only of its beautiful public buildings, but of its manufactories of stuffs, silks, and printed calicoes. The _Place_, before this inn, affords evidence of the splendour of these wares; and the interiors of several booths are in a perfect blaze--from the highly ornamented gold gauze caps worn by the upper classes of the middling people, even more brilliant than what was observed at Augsbourg. I was asked equal to four guineas of our money for one of these caps, in my reconnoissance before breakfast this morning--nor, as I afterwards learnt, was the demand exorbitant. I must bid you farewell in haste. I start for Vienna within twenty minutes from this time, and it is now nearly-mid-day. But ere I reach the capital of Austria, I hope to pay a string of MONASTIC VISITS:--beginning with that of _St. Florian_, about a dozen miles from this place, just before you reach Ens, the next post town; so that, ere I again address you (which cannot be until I reach Vienna,) I shall have made rather a rambling and romantic tour. "Omne ignotum pro magnifico"--yet, if I mistake not; (from all that I can collect here) _experience_ will confirm what hope and ignorance suggest. [90] Vol. ii. p. 352-3. [91] See p. 217 ante. [92] It should seem, from the pages of PEZ and NIDANUS, that Charlemagne was either the founder, or the patron, or endower, of almost every monastery in Germany. Stengelius, however, gives a a very romantic origin to the foundation of Chremsminster. "The eldest son of Tassilo, a Duke or Elector of Bavaria, went out a hunting in the winter; when, having been separated from his companions, in a large wood, he met a wild boar of an enormous size, near a fountain and pool of water. Notwithstanding the fearful odds between them, Tassilo gallantly received the animal upon the point of his hunting spear, and dispatched him with a tremendous wound: not however without a fatal result to himself. Rage, agony, and over exertion... proved fatal to the conqueror: and when, excited by the barking of the dogs, his father and the troop of huntsmen came up to see what it might be, they witnessed the spectacle of the boar and the young Tassilo lying DEAD by the side of each other. The father built the MONASTERY of CHREMSMINSTER upon the fatal spot--to the memory of his beloved but unfortunate son. He endowed it with large possessions, and his endowments were confirmed by Pope Adrian and the Emperor Charlemagne--in the year 777. The history of the monastery is lost in darkness, till the year 1046, when Engelbert, Bishop of Passau, consecrated it anew; and in 1165, Diepold, another Bishop of Passau, added greatly to its possessions; but he was, in other respects, as well as Manegold in 1206, a very violent and mischievous character. Bishop Ulric, in 1216, was a great benefactor to it; but I do not perceive when the present building was erected: although it is possible there may be portions of it as old as the thirteenth century. See _Pez: Script. Rer. Austriac._, vol. i. col. 1305, &c.: _vol. ii._ col. 67, &c. At the time of publishing the _Monasteriologia of Stengelius_, 1638, (where there is a bird's-eye view of the monastery, as it now generally appears) Wolffradt (or Wolfardt) was the Abbot--who, in the author's opinion, "had no superior among his predecessors." I go a great way in thinking with Stengelius; for this worthy Abbot built the Monks a "good supper-room, two dormitories, a sort of hospital for the sick, and a LIBRARY, with an abundant stock of new books. Also a sacristy, furnished with most costly robes, &c. _Monasteriologia_; sign. A. It was doubtless the BIBLIOTHECA WOLFRADTIANA in which I tarried--as above described--with equal pleasure and profit. [93] See vol. ii. p. 199. [94] This I presume to be the "spurious" Birmingham edition, which is noticed by Steevens in the _Edit. Shakspeare_, 1813. 8vo. vol. ii. p. 151. [95] They were both secured. One copy is now in the ALTHORP LIBRARY, and the other in that of Mr. Heber. [96] On the very night of my arrival at Lintz, late as it was, I wrote a letter to the Abbot, or head of the monastery, addressed thus--as the Professor had written it down: "_Ad Reverendissimum Dominum Anselmum Mayerhoffer inclyti Monasterii Cremifanensis Abbatem vigilantissimum Cremifanum_." This was enclosed in a letter to the Professor himself with the following direction: "_Ad Rev. Dm. Udalricum Hartenschneider Professum Monasterij Cremifanensis et Historiæ ibidem Professorem publicum. Cremifanum_:" the Professor having put into my hands the following written memorandum: "Pro commutandis--quos designasti in Bibliotheca nostra, libris--primo Abbatem adire, aut litteris saltem interrogare necesse est: quas, si tibi placuerit, ad me dirigere poteris." [Autograph] This he wrote with extreme rapidity. In my letter, I repeated the offer about the Monasticon; with the addition of about a dozen napoleons for the early printed books above mentioned; requesting to have an answer, poste restante, at Vienna. No answer has since reached me. The Abbot should seem to have preferred Statius to Dugdale. [But his Statius NOW has declined wofully in pecuniary worth: while the Dugdale, in its newly edited form, has risen threefold.] LETTER IX. THE MONASTERIES OF ST. FLORIAN, MÖLK, AND GÖTTWIC. _Vienna; Hotel of the Emperor of Hungary, Aug. 31, 1818._ MY DEAR FRIEND; Give me your heartiest congratulations; for I have reached, and am well lodged at, the extreme limit of my "BIBLIOGRAPHICAL, ANTIQUARIAN, AND PICTURESQUE TOUR." Behold me, therefore, at VIENNA, the capital of Austria: once the abode of mighty monarchs and renowned chieftains: and the scene probably of more political vicissitudes than any other capital in Europe. The ferocious Turk, the subtle Italian, and the impetuous Frenchman, have each claimed Vienna as their place of residence by right of conquest; and its ramparts have been probably battered by more bullets and balls than were ever discharged at any other fortified metropolis. At present, however, my theme must be entirely monastic. Prepare, therefore, to receive an account of some MONASTIC VISITS, which have perfectly won my heart over to the Institutions of ST. BENEDICT and ST. AUGUSTIN. Indeed I seem to have been mingling with a new set of human beings, and a new order of things; though there was much that put me in mind of the general character of my ever-cherished University of Oxford. Not that there is _any one_ college, whether at Oxford or at Cambridge, which in point of architectural magnificence, can vie with some of those which I am about to describe. My last letter, as you may remember, left us upon the point of starting from Lintz, for the monastery of ST. FLORIAN. That monastery is situated within about three miles of _Ens_, the next post town from Lintz. The road thither was lined, on each side, with the plum and the pear tree--in their alternate tints of saffron and purple--but far from being ripe. The sight, altogether, was as pleasing as it was novel: and especially were my spirits gladdened, on thinking of the fortunate escape from the perils that had seemed to have awaited us in our route from Chremsminster the preceding evening. On turning out of the main road, about a dozen miles from Lintz, we began to be sensible of a gentle ascent,--along a pleasant, undulating road, skirted by meadows, copses, and corn-fields. In ten minutes, the valet shouted out--"_Voilà le Monastère de St. Florian!_" It was situated upon an eminence, of scarcely half the height of Chremsminster; but, from the abruptness of the ascent, as you enter the village, and make towards the monastery, it appears, on an immediate approach, to be of a very considerable elevation. It looked nobly, as we neared it. The walls were massive, and seemed to be embedded in a foundation of granite. Some pleasing little cultivated spots, like private gardens, were between the outer walls and the main body of the building. It rained heavily as we rolled under the archway; when an old man and an old woman demanded, rather with astonishment than severity, what was the object of our visit? Having received a satisfactory answer, the gates were opened, and we stopped between two magnificent flights of steps, leading on each side to the cloisters. Several young monks, excited by the noise of the carriage, came trooping towards the top of the stairs, looking down upon us, and retreating, with the nimbleness and apparent timidity of deer. Their white streamers, or long lappets, suspended from the back of the black gown, (the designation of the _Augustine_ order) had a very singular appearance. Having received a letter of recommendation to the librarian, M. KLEIN, I delivered it to the porter--and in a few seconds observed two short monks uncovered, advancing towards me. M. Klein spoke French--after a certain fashion--which however made us understand one another well enough; and on walking along the cloisters, he took me by the arm to conduct me to the Abbot. "But you have doubtless _dined_?" observed he,--turning sharply upon me. It was only between one and two o'clock; and therefore I thought I might be pardoned, even by the severest of their own order, for answering in the _negative_. My guide then whispered to his attendant (who quickly disappeared) and carried me directly to the Abbot. Such a visit was worth paying. I entered with great solemnity; squeezing my travelling cap into a variety of forms, as I made obeisance,--on observing a venerable man, nearer fourscore than seventy, sitting, with a black cap quite at the back part of his head, and surrounded by half a dozen young monks, who were standing and waiting upon him with coffee (after dinner) which was placed upon the table before him. He was the Principal. The old gentleman's countenance was wan, and rather severely indented, but lighted up by a dark and intelligent pair of eyes. His shoulders were shrouded in a large gray fur tippet; and, on receiving me, he demonstrated every mark of attention--by giving his unfinished cup of coffee to one of his attendants, and, pulling off his cap, endeavouring to rise. I advanced and begged there might be no further movement. As he spoke French, we quickly understood each other. He bade me see every thing that was worth seeing; and, on his renewing the _dinner_ question, and receiving an answer in the negative, he commanded that a meal of some sort should be forthwith got ready. In this, however, he had been anticipated by the librarian. I made my retreating bow, and followed my guide who, by this time, had assumed quite a pleasant air of familiarity with me. I accompanied him to the Library. It is divided into three rooms; of which the largest, at the further end, is the most characteristic. The central room is small, and devoted to MSS. none as I learnt, either very old, very curious, or very valuable. The view from this suite of apartments must, on a fine day, be lovely. Bad as was the weather, when I looked from the windows, I observed, to the left, some gently sloping and sweetly wooded pleasure grounds, with the town of _Ens_, in the centre, at the distance of about three miles. To the right, were more undulating hills, with rich meadows in the foreground; while, immediately below, was the ornamented garden of the monastery. The prospect _within_ doors was not quite of so gratifying a description. It seemed to be the mere shadow of a library. Of old books, indeed, I saw nothing worth noticing--except a white and crackling, but cropt, copy of _Ratdolt's Appian_ of 1478, (always a beautiful book) and a _Latin Version of Josephus_, printed at Venice in 1480 by _Maufer_, a citizen of Rouen. This latter was really a very fine book. There was also _Ratdolt's Euclid_ of 1485--which indeed is every where abroad--but which generally has variations in the marginal diagrams. Of _Bibles_, either Latin or German, I saw nothing more ancient than the edition by Sorg, in the _German_ language of the date of 1477. I paused an instant over the _Tyturell_ of 1477, (the only really scarce book in the collection) and threw a gilded bait before the librarian, respecting the acquisition of it;--but M. Klein quite _screamed_ aloud at the proposition--protesting that "not a single leaf from a single book should be parted with!" "You are quite right," added I. "My guide eyed me as if he could have said, "How much at variance are your thoughts and words!" And yet I spake very sincerely. Mr. Klein then placed a clean, but cropt, copy of the _first Aldine Pindar_ before me; adding, that he understood it to be rare. "It is most rare," rejoined I:--but it is yet "rarer than most rare" when found UPON VELLUM!--as it is to be seen in Lord Spencer's library." He seemed absolutely astonished at this piece of intelligence--and talked about its pecuniary value. "No money can purchase it. It is beyond all price"--rejoined I. Whereupon my guide was struck with still deeper astonishment. There were all the _Polyglott Bibles_, with the exception of the _Complutensian_; which appears to be uncommon in the principal libraries upon the continent. _Walton's Polyglott_ was the Royal copy; which led to a slight discussion respecting the Royal and Republican copies. M. Klein received most implicitly all my bibliographical doctrine upon the subject, and expressed a great desire to read Dr. Adam Clarke's Essay upon the same. When I spoke of the small number of copies upon LARGE PAPER, he appeared to marvel more than ever--and declared "how happy the sight of such a copy would make him, from his great respect for the Editor!" There was a poor sprinkle of _English books_; among which however, I noticed Shakspeare, Milton, Swift, and Thomson; I had declared myself sufficiently satisfied with the inspection of the library, when dinner was announced; but could not reconcile it to myself to depart, without asking "whether they had the _Tewrdanckh_?" "Yes, and UPON VELLUM, too!" was the Librarian's reply. It was a good sound copy. The dinner was simple and nourishing. The wine was what they call the white wine of Austria: rather thin and acid. It still continued to rain. Our friends told us that, from the windows of the room in which we were eating, they could, in fair weather; discern the snow-capt mountains of the Tyrol:--that, from one side of their monastery they could look upon green fields, pleasure gardens, and hanging woods, and from the other, upon magnificent ranges of hills terminated by mountains covered with snow. They seemed to be proud of their situation, as they had good reason to be. I found them exceedingly chatty, pleasant, and even facetious. I broached the subject of politics--but in a very guarded and general manner. The lively Librarian, however, thought proper to observe--"that the English were doing in _India_ what Bonaparte had been doing in _Europe_." I told him that such a doctrine was a more frightful heresy than any which had ever crept into his own church: at which he laughed heartily, and begged we would not spare either the _bouillé_ or the wine. We were scarcely twenty minutes at our meal, being desirous of seeing the CHURCH, the PICTURE GALLERY, and the SALOON--belonging to the monastery. It was not much after three o'clock, and yet it was unusually dark for the hour of the day. However, we followed our guides along a magnificent corridor--desirous of seeing the pictures first. If the number of paintings, and of apartments alone, constitute a good collection of pictures, this of Saint Florian is doubtless a very fair specimen of a picture gallery. There are three rooms and a corridor (or entrance passage) filled with paintings, of which three fourths at least are palpable copies. The _subjects_ of some of the paintings were not exactly accordant with monastic gravity; among these I regret that I am compelled to include a copy of a Magdalen from Rubens--and a Satyr and Sleeping Nymph, apparently by Lucas Giordano. Nevertheless the collection is worth a second and a third examination; which, if time and circumstances had allowed, we should in all probability have given it. A series of subjects, fifteen in number, illustrative of the LIFE OF ST. FLORIAN,[97] (the great fire-extinguishing Saint,--to whom the Monastery is dedicated, and who was born at _Ens_, in the neighbourhood) cuts a most distinguished figure in this collection. There is a good, and I think genuine, head of an old woman by Rubens, which I seemed to stumble upon as if by accident, and which was viewed by my guides with a sort of apathy. Mr. Lewis was half lost in extacies before a pretty little sketch by Paolo Veronese; when, on my observing to him that the time was running away fast, M. Klein spoke aloud in the English language--"_Mister Louise_, (repeating my words) _teime fleis_." He laughed heartily upon uttering it, and seemed to enjoy the joke full as much as my companion, to whom the words were addressed. There were several specimens of the old German masters, but I suspect most of them were copies. The day seemed to be growing darker and darker, although it was only somewhere between three and four o'clock. We descended quickly to see the church, where I found Charles (the valet) and several other spectators. We passed through a small sacristy or vestry, in the way to it. This room was fitted up with several small confessionals, of the prettiest forms and workmanship imaginable: having, in front, two twisted and slender columns, of an ebony tint: the whole--exceedingly inviting to confession. Here the Dean met us; a grave, sober, sensible man, with whom I conversed in Latin. We entered the church, on the tip-toe of expectation: nor were we disappointed. It is at once spacious and magnificent; but a little too profuse in architectural ornament. It consists of a nave and transepts, surmounted by a dome, with a choir of very limited dimensions. The choir is adorned, on each side, just above the several stalls, by an exceedingly rich architrave, running the whole length, in a mixed roman and gothic style. The altar, as usual, is a falling off. The transepts are too short, and the dome is too small. The nave is a sort of elongated parallelogram. It is adorned on each side by pillars of the Corinthian order, and terminated by an _Organ_ ... of the most gorgeous and imposing appearance. The pipes have completely the appearance of polished silver, and the wood work is painted white, richly relieved by gold. For size and splendor united, I had never seen any thing like it. The whole was perfectly magical. On entering, the Dean, M. Klein, and three or four more Benedictins, made slight prostrations on one knee, before the altar; and, just as they rose, to our astonishment and admiration, the organ burst forth with a power of intonation (every stop being opened) such as I had never heard exceeded. As there were only a few present, the sounds were necessarily increased, by being reverberated from every part of the building: and for a moment it seemed as if the very dome would have been unroofed, and the sides burst asunder. We looked up; then at each other: lost in surprise, delight, and admiration. We could not hear a word that was spoken; when, in some few succeeding seconds, the diapason stop only was opened ... and how sweet and touching was the melody which it imparted! "Oh Dieu! (exclaimed our valet) que cela est ravissant, et même pénétrant." This was true enough. A solemn stave or two of a hymn (during which a few other pipes were opened) was then performed by the organist ... and the effect was, as if these notes had been chanted by an invisible choir of angels. The darkness of the heavens added much to the solemnity of the whole. Silence ensuing, we were asked how we liked the church, the organ, and the organist? Of course there could be but one answer to make. The pulpit--situated at an angle where the choir and transept meet, and opposite to the place where we entered--was constructed of the black marble of Austria, ornamented with gold: the whole in sober good taste, and admirably appropriate. We left this beautiful interior, to snatch a hasty view of the dormitories and saloon, and to pay our farewell respects to the Principal. The architect of this church was a Florentine, and it was built something more than a century ago. It is doubtless in too florid a style. Instead of calling the bed-chambers by the homely name of "dormitories," they should be designated (some at least), as state bed rooms. At each corner of several of the beds was a carved figure, in gilt--serving as a leg. The beds are generally capacious, without canopies; but their covertures--in crimson, blue, or yellow silk--interspersed with spots of gold or silver--gave indication, in their faded state, of their original costliness and splendor. The rooms are generally large: but I hurried through them, as every thing--from the gloomy state of the afternoon, and more especially from the absence of almost every piece of furniture--had a sombre and melancholy air. Nothing is more impressive than the traces of departed grandeur. They had once (as I learnt) carousals and rejoicings in this monastery;--and the banquet below made sweet and sound the slumbers above. But matters have recently taken a different and less auspicious turn. The building stands, and will long stand--unless assailed by the musquet and cannon--a proud monument of wealth and of art: while the revenues for its support ... are wasting every year! But I hope my intelligence is incorrect. The highest gratification was yet in store for me: in respect to an architectural treat. In our way to the Saloon, I noticed, over the door of a passage, a small whole length of a man, in a formal peruke and dress, walking with a cane in his hand. A noble building or two appeared in the background. "Who might this be?" "That, Sir, (replied the Dean) is the portrait of the architect of THIS MONASTERY and of MÖLK. He was born, and lived, in an obscure village in the neighbourhood; and rose to unrivalled eminence from the pure strength of native genius and prudent conduct." I looked at the portrait with increased admiration. "Might I have a copy of it--for the purpose of getting it engraved?" "There can surely be no objection,"--replied the Dean. But alas, my friend, I fear it will never be my lot to possess this portrait--in _any_ form or condition. If my admiration of this architect increased as I continued to gaze upon his portrait, to what a pitch was it raised on entering the _Saloon_! I believe that I may safely say I never before witnessed such a banquetting room. It could not be less than sixty feet long, by forty feet wide and forty high;--and almost entirely composed of Salzburg marble,[98] which is of a deep red tint, but mellow and beautiful. The columns, in exceedingly bold alto-relievo, spring from a dado about the height of a man's chest, and which is surmounted by a bold and beautiful architrave. These columns, of the Ionic and Corinthian orders, judiciously intermixed, rise to a fine bold height: the whole being terminated by a vaulted ceiling of a beautiful and light construction, and elaborately and richly ornamented. I never witnessed a finer proportioned or a more appropriately ornamented room. It is, of its kind, as perfect as the Town Hall at Augsbourg;[99] and suitable for an imperial coronation. To a question respecting the antiquity of the monastery,[100] J M. Klein replied, that their _crypt_ was considered to be of the eleventh century. I had not a moment's leisure to examine it, but have some doubts of the accuracy of such a date. The Dean, M. Klein, and several monks followed us down stairs, where the carriage was drawn up to receive us--and helping us into it, they wished us a hearty farewell. Assuredly I am not likely to forget THE MONASTERY OF ST. FLORIAN. We were not long in reaching _Ens_, the first post town on the high road from Lintz to Vienna. On approaching it, our valet bade us notice the various signs of _reparation_ of which the outer walls and the fronts of many houses gave evidence. Nearly half of the town, in short, (as he informed us) had been destroyed by fire in Bonaparte's advance upon Vienna. The cannon balls had done much, but the flames had done more. We slept at the next post town, _Strengberg_, but could not help continuing to express our surprise and admiration of the fruit trees (the pear and plum) which lined each side of the road. We had determined upon dining at Mölk the next day. The early morning was somewhat inauspicious; but as the day advanced, it grew bright and cheerful. Some delightful glimpses of the Danube, to the left, from the more elevated parts of the road, accompanied us the whole way; till we caught the first view, beneath a bright blue sky, of the towering church and MONASTERY OF MÖLK.[101] Conceive what you please, and yet you shall not conceive the situation of this monastery. Less elevated above the road than Chremsminster, but of a more commanding style of architecture, and of considerably greater extent, it strikes you--as the Danube winds round and washes its rocky base--as one of the noblest edifices in the world. The wooded heights of the opposite side of the Danube crown the view of this magnificent edifice, in a manner hardly to be surpassed. There is also a beautiful play of architectural lines and ornament in the front of the building, indicative of a pure Italian taste, and giving to the edifice, if not the air of towering grandeur, at least of dignified splendour. I send you a small bird's-eye view of it--necessarily furnishing a very inadequate representation--for which I am indebted to Professor Pallas, the Sub-Principal. [Illustration] As usual, I ordered a late dinner, intending to pay my respects to the Principal, and obtain permission to inspect the library. My late monastic visits had inspired me with confidence; and I marched up the steep sides of the hill, upon which the monastery is built, quite assured of the success of the visit I was about to pay. You must now accompany the bibliographer to the monastery. In five minutes from entering the outer gate of the first quadrangle--looking towards Vienna, and which is the more ancient part of the building--I was in conversation with the Vice Principal and Librarian, each of us speaking Latin. I delivered the letter which I had received at Salzburg, and proceeded to the library. In proceeding with the Librarian along the first corridor, I passed a portly figure, with an expressive countenance, dressed precisely like the Duke of Norfolk,[102] in black waistcoat, breeches, and stockings, with a gray coat. He might seem to be a sort of small paper copy of that well-known personage, for he resembled him in countenance as well as in dress. On meeting, he saluted me graciously: and he had no sooner passed, than my guide whispered in my ear, "THAT is the famous bibliographer, the ABBÉ STRATTMAN, late principal librarian to the Emperor." I was struck at this intelligence; and wished to run back after the Abbé,--but, in a minute, found myself within the library. I first went into a long, narrow, room--devoted, the greater part, to MSS.:--and at the hither end of which (that is, the end where I entered) were two figures--as large as, and painted after, the life. They were cut out in wood, or thick pasteboard; and were stuck in the centre of the space between the walls. One was an old gentleman, with a pair of bands, and a lady, his wife, opposite to him. Each was sitting upon a chair. A dog (if I remember rightly) was between them. The effect was at first rather _startling_; for these good folks, although they had been sitting for the best part of a century, looked like life, and as if they were going to rise up, and interrogate you for impertinently intruding upon their privacy. On nearing them, I found that the old gentleman had been a great pedagogue, and a great benefactor to the library: in short, the very MSS. by which we were surrounded were _solid_ proofs of his liberality. I was urgent and particular about the _contents_ of these MSS.; but my guide (otherwise a communicative and well-informed man) answered my questions in a manner so general, as to lead me to conclude that they had never been sufficiently examined. There might be at least four thousand volumes in this long and narrow room. From thence we proceeded, across a passage, to a small room--filled with common useful books, for the young men of which the monastic society is now composed; and who I learnt were about one hundred and twenty in number. There were, however, at one end of this room, some coins and medals. I was curious about ascertaining whether they had any _Greek gold coins_, but was answered that they had none. This room is divided into two, by a partition something like the modern fashion of dividing our drawing rooms. The whole is profusely ornamented with paintings executed upon the walls; rather elegantly than otherwise. The view from this library is really enchanting--and put every thing seen, from a similar situation at Landshut, and almost even at Chremsminster, out of my recollection. You look down upon the Danube, catching a fine sweep of the river, as it widens in its course towards Vienna. A man might sit, read, and gaze--in such a situation--till he fancied he had scarcely one earthly want! I now descended a small stair-case, which brought me directly into the large library--forming the right wing of the building, looking up the Danube towards Lintz. I had scarcely uttered three notes of admiration, when the ABBÉ STRATTMAN entered; and to my surprise and satisfaction, addressed me by name. We immediately commenced an ardent unintermitting conversation in the French language, which the Abbé speaks fluently and correctly. We darted at once into the lore of bibliography of the fifteenth century; when the Abbé descanted largely upon the wonders I should see at Vienna:--especially the Sweynheyms and Pannartz' UPON VELLUM! "Here (continued he) there is absolutely nothing worthy of your inspection. We have here no edit. prin. of _Horace_, or _Virgil_, or _Terence_, or _Lucretius_: a copy of the _Decretals of Pope Boniface_, of the date of 1465, is our earliest and only VELLUM treasure of the XVth century. But you will doubtless take the _Monastery of Göttwic_ in your way?" I replied that I was wholly ignorant of the existence of such a monastery. "Then see it--(said, he) and see it carefully; for the library contains _Incunabula_ of the most curious and scarce kind. Besides, its situation is the noblest in Austria." You will give me credit for not waiting for a _second_ importunity to see such a place, before I answered--"I will most assuredly visit the monastery of Göttwic." I now took a leisurely survey of the library; which is, beyond all doubt, the finest room of its kind which I have seen upon the Continent:--not for its size, but for its style of architecture, and the materials of which it is composed. I was told that it was "the Imperial Library in miniature:"--but with this difference, let me here add, in favour of Mölk--that it looks over a magnificently-wooded country, with the Danube rolling its rapid course at its base. The wainscot and shelves are walnut tree, of different shades, inlaid, or dovetailed, surmounted by gilt ornaments. The pilasters have Corinthian capitals of gilt; and the bolder or projecting parts of a gallery, which surrounds the room, are covered with the same metal. Every thing is in harmony. This library may be about a hundred feet in length, by forty in width. It is sufficiently well furnished with books, of the ordinary useful class, and was once, I suspect, much richer in the bibliographical lore of the fifteenth century. The Abbé Strattman bade me examine a _MS. of Horace_, of the twelfth century, which he said had been inspected by Mitscherlich.[103] It seemed to be of the period adjudged to it. The Vice-Principal, M. PALLAS, now made his appearance. He talked French readily, and we all four commenced a very interesting conversation, "Did any books ever travel out of this library?"--said I. "Surely there must be many which are rather objects of curiosity than of utility: rarely consulted, no doubt; but which, by being exchanged for others of a more modern and useful description, would contribute more effectually to the purposes of public education, in an establishment of such magnitude?" These questions I submitted with great deference, and without the least hesitation, to the Vice Principal; who replied in such a manner as to induce me immediately to ascend the staircase, and commence a reconnaissance among the books placed above the gallery. The result of twenty minutes examination was, if not absolutely of the _most_ gratifying kind, at least sufficient to induce me to offer _twenty louis d'or_ for some thirty volumes, chiefly thin quartos, containing many Greek grammatical and philosophical tracts, of which I had never before seen copies. Some scarce and curious theological Latin tracts were also in this number. I turned the books upon their fore-edges, leaving their ends outwards, in order to indicate those which had been selected. M. Pallas told me that he could say nothing definitive in reply,[104] for that the matter must be submitted to the Prelate, or head of the monastery, who, at that time, was at Vienna, perhaps at the point of death. From the library we went to the church. This latter is situated between the two wings: the wings themselves forming the Saloon and the library. As we were about to leave the library, the Abbé observed--"Here, we have food for the _mind_: in the opposite quarter we dine--which is food for the _body_:[105] between both, is the church, which contains food for the _soul_." On entering the corridor, I looked up and saw the following inscription (from 1 _Mac._ c. xii. v. 9.) over the library door: "_Habentes solatio sanctos libros qui sunt in manibus nostris_." My next gratification was, a view of the portrait of BERTHOLDUS DIETMAYR--the founder, or rather the restorer, both of the library and of the monastery--possessing a countenance full of intelligence and expression. Beneath the portrait, which is scarcely half the size of life, is the following distich: _Bertholdi Dietmayr Quidquid Mortale, Tabella, Ingentemque animum_ BIBLIOTHECA, _refert._ "There," exclaimed the Abbé Strattman--"there you have the portrait of a _truly_ great man: one of the three select and privy counsellors of the Emperor Charles VI. Dietmayr was a man of a truly lofty soul, of a refined taste, and of unbounded wealth and liberality of spirit. Even longer than this edifice shall last, will the celebrity of its founder endure." My heart overflowed with admiration as I heard the words of the Abbé, gazing, at the same time, intently upon the portrait of the Prelate Dietmayr. Such men keep the balance of this world even. On reaching the last descending step, just before entering the church, the Vice Principal bade me look upwards and view the cork-screw stair-case. I did so: and to view and admire was one and the same operation of the mind. It was the most perfect and extraordinary thing of the kind which I had ever seen--the consummation (as I was told) of that particular species of art. The church is the very perfection of ecclesiastical Roman architecture: that of Chremsminster, although fine, being much inferior to it in loftiness and richness of decoration. The windows are fixed so as to throw their concentrated light beneath a dome, of no ordinary height, and of no ordinary elegance of decoration; but this dome is suffering from damp, and the paintings upon the ceiling will, unless repaired, be effaced in the course of a few years. The church is in the shape of a cross; and at the end of each of the transepts, is a rich altar, with statuary, in the style of art usual about a century ago. The pews--made of dark mahogany or walnut tree, much after the English fashion, but lower and more tasteful--are placed on each side of the nave, on entering; with ample space between them. They are exclusively appropriated to the tenants of the monastery. At the end of the nave, you look to the left, opposite,--and observe, placed in a recess--a PULPIT ... which, from top to bottom, is completely covered with gold. And yet, there is nothing gaudy, or tasteless, or glaringly obtrusive, in this extraordinary clerical rostrum. The whole is in the most perfect taste; and perhaps more judgment was required to manage such an ornament, or appendage,--consistently with the splendid style of decoration exacted by the founder--(for it was expressly the Prelate Dietmayr's wish that it _should_ be so adorned) than may, on first consideration, be supposed. In fact, the whole church is in a blaze of gold; and I was told that the gilding alone cost upwards of ninety thousand florins. Upon the whole, I understood that the church of this monastery was considered as the most beautiful in Austria; and I can easily believe it to be so. The time flew away so quickly that there was no opportunity of seeing the Saloon. Indeed, I was informed that it was occupied by the students--an additional reason why I _ought_ to have seen it. "But have you no old paintings, Mr. Vice Principal--no Burgmairs, Cranachs, or Albert Durers?" said I to M. Pallas. "Ha! (observed he in reply,) you like old pictures, then, as well as old books. Come with me, and you shall be satisfied." So saying, the Abbé Strattman[106] left us, and I followed the Vice Principal--into a small, wainscoted room, of which he touched the springs of some of the compartments, and anon there was exhibited to my view a series of sacred subjects, relating to the Life of Christ, executed by the first and last named masters: exceedingly fresh, vigorously painted, and one or two of them very impressive, but bordering upon the grotesque. I am not sure that I saw any thing more striking of the kind even in the extraordinary collection at Augsbourg. From this room I was conducted into the Prelate's apartment, where I observed a bed--in an arched recess--which might be called a bed of state. "Our Prelate has left his apartment for the last time; he will never sleep in this bed again"--observed M. Pallas, fixing himself at the foot of it, and directing his eyes towards the pillow. I saw what it was to be beloved and respected; for the Vice Principal took the end of his gown to wipe away a little _dust_ (as he was pleased to call it--but I suspect it was a starting tear) which had fallen into his eye. I was then shewn a set of china, manufactured at Vienna--upon some of the pieces of which were painted views of the monastery. This had been presented to the Prelate; and I was then, as a final exhortation, requested to view the country around me. Need I again remark, that this country was enchantingly fine? On returning to the inn, and dining, we lingered longer than we were wont to do over our dessert and white wine, when the valet came to announce to us that from thence to _St. Pölten_ was a long stage; and that if we wished to reach the latter before dark, we had not ten minutes to spare. This hint was sufficient: and the ten minutes had scarcely elapsed when we were on the high road to St. Pölten. It was indeed almost with the last glimmer of daylight that we entered this town, yet I could observe, on descending the hill by which we entered it, a stone crucifix, with the usual accompanying group. I resolved to give it a careful examination on the morrow. The inn at St. Pölten (I think it was the Dolphin) surprised us by its cheerfulness and neatness. The rooms were papered so as to represent gothic interiors, or ornamented gardens, or shady bowers. Every thing was--almost--as an Englishman could wish it to be. Having learnt that the MONASTERY OF GÖTTWIC was a digression of only some twelve or fourteen miles, I resolved to set off to visit it immediately after an early breakfast. We had scarcely left the town, when we observed a group of rustics, with a crucifix carried in front--indicating that they were about to visit some consecrated spot, for the purpose of fulfilling a vow or performing an annual pilgrimage. I stopped the carriage, to take a survey of so novel a scene; but I confess that there was nothing in it which induced me to wish to be one of the party. If I mistake not, this was the first pilgrimage or procession, of the kind, which I had seen in Austria, or even in Bavaria. It was a sorry cavalcade. Some of the men, and even women, were without shoes and stockings; and they were scattered about the road in a very loose, straggling manner. Many of the women wore a piece of linen, or muslin, half way up their faces, over the mouth; and although the road was not very smooth, both men and women appeared to be in excellent spirits, and to move briskly along--occasionally singing, and looking up to the crucifix--which a stout young man carried at the head of them. They were moving in the direction of the Monastery of Göttwic. It was cold and cloudy at starting; but on leaving the main road, and turning to the left, the horizon cleared up--and it was evident that a fine day was in store for us. Our expectations were raised in proportion to the increasing beauty of the day. The road, though a cross one, was good; winding through a pleasant country, and affording an early glimpse of the monastery in question--at the distance of at least ten miles--and situated upon a lofty eminence. The first view of it was grand and imposing, and stimulated us to urge our horses to a speedier course. The country continued to improve. Some vineyards were beginning to shew the early blush of harvest; and woods of fir, and little meandring streams running between picturesque inequalities of ground, gave an additional interest to every additional mile of the route. At length we caught a glimpse of a crowd of people, halting, in all directions. Some appeared to be sitting, others standing, more lying; and a good number were engaged in devotion before a statue. As we approached them, we observed the statue to be that of St. Francis; around which this numerous group of pilgrims appeared to have marshalled themselves--making a HALT in their pilgrimage (as we afterwards learnt) to the monastery of Göttwic. The day continued to become more and more brilliant, and the scenery to keep pace with the weather. It was evident that we were nearing the monastery very rapidly. On catching the first distinct view of it, my companion could not restrain his admiration. At this moment, from the steepness of the ascent, I thought it prudent to descend, and to walk to the monastery. The view from thence was at once commanding and enchanting. The Danube was the grand feature in the landscape; while, near its very borders, at the distance perhaps of three English miles, stood the post town of _Chrems_. The opposite heights of the Danube were well covered with wood. The sun now shone in his meridian splendour, and every feature of the country seemed to be in a glow with his beams. I next turned my thoughts to gain entrance within the monastery, and by the aid of my valet it was not long before that wished for object was accomplished. The interior is large and handsome, but of less architectural splendor than Mölk or even St. Florian. The librarian, Odilo Klama, was from home. Not a creature was to be found; and I was pacing the cloisters with a dejected air, when my servant announced to me that the Vice Principal would receive me, and conduct me to the Head or President. This was comforting intelligence. I revived in an instant; and following, along one corridor, and up divers stair-cases, I seemed to be gaining the summit of the building, when a yet more spacious corridor brought me to the door of the President's apartments: catching views, on my way thither, of increasing extent and magnificence. But all consideration of exterior objects was quickly lost on my reception at head quarters. The Principal, whose name is ALTMANN, was attired in a sort of half-dignity dress; a gold chain and cross hung upon his breast, and a black silk cap covered his head. A gown, and what seemed to be a cassock, covered his body. He had the complete air of a gentleman, and might have turned his fiftieth year. His countenance bespoke equal intelligence and benevolence:--but alas! not a word of French could he speak--and Latin was therefore necessarily resorted to by both parties. I entreated him to forgive all defects of composition and of pronunciation; at which he smiled graciously. The Vice Principal then bowed to the Abbot and retreated; but not before I had observed them to whisper apart--and to make gesticulations which I augured to portend something in the shape of providing refreshment, if not dinner. My suspicion was quickly confirmed; for, on the Vice Principal quitting the apartment, the Abbot observed to me--"you will necessarily partake of our dinner--which is usually at _one_ o'clock; but which I have postponed till _three_, in order that I may conduct you over the monastery, and shew you what is worthy of observation. You have made a long journey hither, and must not be disappointed." The manner in which this was spoken was as courteous as the purport of the speech was hospitable. "Be pleased to be covered (continued the Abbot) and I will conduct you forthwith to the Library: although I regret to add that our Librarian Odilo is just now from home--having gone, for the day, upon a botanical excursion towards Chrems--as it is now holiday time." In our way to the library, I asked the Principal respecting the revenues of the establishment and its present condition--whether it were flourishing or otherwise--adding, that Chremsminster appeared to me to be in a very flourishing state." "They are much wealthier (observed the Principal) at Chremsminster than we are here. Establishments like this, situated near a metropolis, are generally more _severely_ visited than are those in a retired and remote part of the kingdom. Our very situation is inviting to a foe, from its commanding the adjacent country. Look at the prospect around you. It is unbounded. On yon opposite wooded heights, (on the other side of the Danube) we all saw, from these very windows, the fire and smoke of the advanced guard of the French army, in contest with the Austrians, upon Bonaparte's first advance towards Vienna. The French Emperor himself took possession of this monastery. He slept here, and we entertained him the next day with the best _dejeuné à la fourchette_ which we could afford. He seemed well satisfied with his reception; but I own that I was glad when he left us. Strangers to arms in this tranquil retreat, and visited only, as you may now visit us, for the purpose of peaceful hospitality, it agitated us extremely to come in contact with warriors and chieftains. The preceding was not delivered in one uninterrupted flow of language; but I only string it together as answers to various questions put by myself. "Observe yonder"--continued the Abbot--"do you notice an old castle in the distance, to the left, situated almost upon the very banks of the Danube?" "I observe it well," replied I. "That castle, (answered he) so tradition reports, once held your Richard the First, when he was detained a prisoner by Leopold Marquis of Austria, on his return from the Holy-Land." The more the Abbot spoke, and the more I continued to gaze around, the more I fancied myself treading upon faëry ground, and that the scene in which I was engaged partook of the illusion of romance. "Our funds (continued my intelligent guide, as he placed his hand upon my arm, and arrested our progress towards the library) need be much more abundant than they really are. We have great burdens to discharge. All our food is brought from a considerable distance, and we are absolutely dependant upon our neighbours for water, as there are neither wells nor springs in the soil." "I wonder (replied I) why such a spot was chosen--except for its insulated and commanding situation--as water is the first requisite in every monastic establishment?" "Do you then overlook the _Danube_?"--resumed he--"We get our fish from thence; and, upon the whole, feel our wants less than it might be supposed." In our way to the Library, I observed a series of oil paintings along the corridor--which represented the history of the founder, and of the foundation, of the monastery.[107] The artist's name was, if I remember rightly, Helgendoeffer--or something like it. Many of the subjects were curious, and none of them absolutely ill executed. I observed the devil, or some imp, introduced in more than one picture; and remarked upon it to my guide. He said--"where will you find truth unmixed with fiction?" My observation was adroitly parried; and we now found ourselves close to the library door; where three or four Benedictins, (for I should have told you that this famous monastery is of the order of _St. Benedict_) professors on the establishment, were apparently waiting to receive us. They first saluted the Abbot very respectfully, and then myself--with a degree of cheerfulness amounting almost to familiarity. In a remote and strange place, of such a character, nothing is more encouraging than such a reception. Two of our newly joined associates could luckily speak the French language, which rendered my intercourse with the Principal yet more pleasing and satisfactory to myself. The library door was now opened, and I found myself within a long and spacious room--of which the book-shelves were composed of walnut tree--but of which the architectural ornaments were scarcely to be endured, after having so recently seen those in the library of Mölk. However, it may be fairly said that the Library was worthy of the Monastery: well stored with books and MSS., and probably the richest in bibliographical lore in Austria, after that at Vienna. We now entered the saloon, for dinner. It was a larger light, and lofty room. The ceiling was covered with paintings of allegorical subjects, in fresco, descriptive of the advantages of piety and learning. Among the various groups, I thought I could discern--as I could only take a hasty survey during my meal--the apotheosis of the founder of the monastery. Perhaps I rather wished to see it there, than that it was absolutely depicted. However, we sat down, at the high table--precisely as you may remember it in the halls at Oxford--to a plentiful and elegant repast. The Principal did me the honour of placing me at his right hand. Grace was no sooner said, than Mr. Lewis made his appearance, and seemed to view the scene before him with mingled delight and astonishment. He had, in fact, just completed his sketch of the monastery, and was well satisfied at seeing me in such quarters, and so occupied. The brethren were also well pleased to receive him, but first begged to have a glance at the drawing--with which they were highly gratified. My companion having joined the festive board, the conversation, and the cups of Rhenish wine, seemed equally to circulate without restraint. We were cheerful, even to loud mirth; and the smallness of the party, compared with the size of the hall, caused the sounds of our voices to be reverberated from every quarter. Meantime, the sun threw his radiant beams through a window of noble dimensions, quite across the saloon--so as to keep us in shadow, and illuminate the other parts of the room. Thus we were cool, but the day without had begun to be sultry. Behind me, or rather between the Abbot and myself, stood a grave, sedate, and inflexible-looking attendant--of large, square dimensions--habited in a black gown, which scarcely reached the skirts of his coat. He spake not; he moved not; save when he saw my glass emptied, which without any previous notice or permission, he made a scrupulous point of filling ... even to the very brim!... with the most highly flavoured Rhenish wine which I had yet tasted in Germany. Our glasses being of the most capacious dimensions, it behoved me to cast an attentive eye upon this replenishing process; and I told the worthy master of the table that we should be quickly revelling in our cups. He assured me that the wine, although good, was weak; but begged that I would consider myself at liberty to act as I pleased. In due time, the cloth was cleared; and a dessert, consisting chiefly of delicious peaches, succeeded. A new order of bottles was introduced; tall, square, and capacious; which were said to contain wine of the same quality, but of a more delicate flavour. It proved indeed to be most exquisite. The past labours of the day, together with the growing heat, had given a relish to every thing which I tasted; and, in the full flow of my spirits, I proposed--a sentiment, which I trusted would be considered as perfectly orthodox--"Long life, and happy times to the present members, and increasing prosperity to, the monastery of Göttwic." It was received and drank with enthusiasm. The Abbot then proceeded to give me an account of a visit paid him by Lord Minto, some years ago, when the latter was ambassador at Vienna; and he spoke of that nobleman's intelligent conversation, and amiable manners, in a way which did him great credit. "Come, Sir;" said he: "you shall not find me ungrateful. I propose drinking prosperity and long life to every representative of the British nation who is resident at Vienna. May the union between your country and ours become indissoluble." I then requested that we might withdraw; as the hours were flying away, and as we purposed sleeping within one stage of Vienna on that same evening. "Your wishes shall be mine," answered the Abbot. Whereupon he rose--with all the company--and stepping some few paces backwards, placed his hands across his breast upon the gold cross; half closed his eyes; and said grace--briefly and softly; in a manner the most impressive which I had ever witnessed. We then quickly left the noble room in which we had been banquetting, and prepared to visit the church and what might be called the state apartments, which we had not before seen. After the rooms at St. Florian, there was not much particularly to admire in those of Göttwic: except that they appeared to be better lighted, and most of them commanded truly enchanting views of the Danube and of the surrounding country. In one room, of smaller dimensions, ornamented chiefly in white and gold (if I remember rightly) a _Collection of Prints_ was kept; but those which I saw were not very remarkable for their antiquity, or for their beauty of subject or of impression. The sun was now getting low, and we had a stage of at least fourteen miles to accomplish ere we could think of retiring to rest. "Show us now, worthy Sir, your crypt and church; and then, with pain be it pronounced, we must bid you farewell. Within little more than two hours, darkness will have covered the earth." Such was my remark to the Abbot; who replied: "Say not so: we cannot part with you yet. At any rate you must not go without a testimony of the respect we entertain for the object of your visit. Those who love books, will not object to increase their own stock by a copy of our CHRONICON GOTWICENSE--commenced by one of my learned predecessors, but alas! never completed. Come with me to my room, before we descend to the church, and receive the work in question." Upon which, the amiable Head of the monastery set off, at rather a hurried pace, with myself by the side of him, along several corridors--towards his own apartment, to present me with this Chronicle. I received it with every demonstration of respect--and entreated the Abbot to inscribe a "_dono dedit_" in the fly leaf, which would render it yet more valuable in my estimation.[108] He cheerfully complied with this request. The courtesy, the frankness, the downright heartiness of feeling with which all this was done--together with the value of the present--rendered it one of the most delightful moments of my existence. I instinctively caught the Abbot's arm, pressed his hand with a cordial warmth between both of mine--and pausing one little moment, exclaimed "_Dies hic omninò commemoratione dignus!_" A sort of sympathetic shouting succeeded; for, by this time, the whole of our party had reached the Abbot's rooms. I now requested, to be immediately taken to the church; and within five minutes we were in the crypt. It scarcely merits one word of description on the score of antiquity; and may be, at the farthest, somewhere about three centuries old. The church is small and quite unpretending, as a piece of architecture. On quitting the church, and passing through the last court, or smaller quadrangle, we came to the outer walls: and leaving them, we discerned--below--the horses, carriage, and valet ... waiting to receive us. Our amiable Host and his Benedictin brethren determined to walk a little way down the hill, to see us fairly seated and ready to start. I entreated and remonstrated that this might not be; but in vain. On reaching the carriage, we all shook hands very cordially together, but certainly I pressed those of the Abbot more earnestly than the rest. We then saluted by uncovering; and, stepping into the carriage, I held aloft the first volume of the GÖTTWIC CHRONICLE--exclaiming ... "_Valete, Domini eruditissimi: dies hic commemoratione dignus_:" to which the Abbot replied, with peculiarly emphatic sonorousness of voice, "_Vale: Deus te, omnesque tibi charissimos, conservet_." They then stopped for a moment ... as the horses began to be put in motion ... and retracing their steps up the hill, towards the outer gate of the monastery, disappeared. I thought--but it might not be so--that I discerned the Abbot, at the distance of some two hundred yards, yet lingering alone--with his right arm raised, and shaking it as the last and most affectionate token of farewell. The evening was serene and mild; and the road, although a cross way, was perfectly sound--winding through a country of fertility and picturesque beauty. We saw few vineyards: but those which met our eyes showed the grape to be in its full purple tint, if not beginning to ripen. I had resolved upon stopping to sleep at _Sirghartskirchen_ within two stages of Vienna--thus avoiding the post town of _Perschling_, which is situated in the direct road to Vienna from _St. Pölten_--which latter place, as you may remember, we had left in the morning. Before the darker shades of evening began to prevail, we turned round to catch a farewell glance of the hospitable monastery which we had left behind--and were lucky in viewing it, (scarcely less than seven or eight miles in our rear) just as the outline of its pinnacles could be discerned against a clear, and yet almost brilliant, sky. It was quite dark, and nearer upon eleven than ten o'clock, when we entered the insignificant post town of _Sirghartskirchen_--where we stretched our limbs rather than reposed; and after a hasty, but not very ill provided breakfast, the next morning, we pushed on for _Burkersdorf_, the last post town on that side of Vienna. It may be about nine English miles from Burkersdorf to the capital; of which the greater part is rather agreeable than otherwise. It was here, as in approaching Strasbourg, that I turned my eyes in all directions to catch an early glimpse of the tower of St. Stephen's Cathedral, but in vain. At length, to the right, we saw the magnificent chateau of _Schönbrunn_. The road now became flat and sandy, and the plains in the vicinity of the capital destitute of trees. "Voilà la Cathedrale!" shouted the valet. It was to the left, or rather a little in front: of a tapering, spire-like form: but, seeing only a small portion of it--the lower part being concealed by the intervening rising ground--I could form no judgment of its height. We now neared the suburbs, which are very extensive, and swarming with population. I learnt that they entirely surrounded the capital, in an equal state of populousness. The barriers were now approached: and all the fears, which my accidental travelling acquaintance at Augsbourg had put into my head, began to revive and to take possession of me. But what has an honest man to fear? "Search closely (observed I to the principal examining officer) for I suspect that there is something contraband at the bottom of the trunk. Do you forbid the importation of an old Greek manual of devotion?"--said I, as I saw him about to lay his hand upon the precious Aldine volume, of which such frequent mention has been already made. The officer did not vouchsafe even to open the leaves--treating it, questionless, with a most sovereign contempt; but crying, "bah!--vous pouvez bien passer," he replaced the things which he had very slightly discomposed, and added that he wished all contraband articles to consist of similar materials. We parted with mutual smiles; but I thought there lingered something like a feeling of reproach, in the last quiver or turn of his lip, at my not having slipt two or three florins into his hand--which was broad and brawny enough to have grasped threescore or a hundred. "I will remember you on my return,"--exclaimed I, as the carriage drove off. He gave me a most sceptical shake of the head, as he retreated into his little tenement, like a mastiff into his kennel. The whole of VIENNA, as it now seemed--with its cathedral, churches, palaces, and ramparts--was before us. As we approached the chief entrance, or gateway, I recognised the _Imperial Library_; although it was only a back view of it. In truth, it appeared to be just as I remembered it in the vignette-frontispiece of Denis's folio catalogue of the Latin Theological MSS. contained in the same library. My memory proved to be faithful; for we were assured that the building in view _was_ the library in question. It was our intention to take up our quarters at the principal inn, called the _Empress of Austria_; and, with this view, we drove up to the door of that hotel: but a tall, full-dressed man, with a broad sash across his body, and a silver-tipped staff in his right hand, marched pompously up to the door of the carriage, took off his hat, and informed us with great solemnity that "the hotel was entirely filled, and that his master could not have the honour of entertaining us." On receiving this intelligence, we were comforted by the assurance, on the part of the post-boy and valet, that the second hotel, called the _Crown of Hungary_,--and situated in the _Himelfort Gasse_, or _Heaven-gate Street_--was in every respect as desirable as that which we were compelled to quit. Accordingly we alighted at the door of the _Hungarische Krone_--equally marvelling, all the way thither, at the enormous size of the houses, and at the narrowness of the streets. But it is time to terminate this epistle. Yet I must not fail informing you, that every thing strikes me as approximating very much to my own native country. The countenances, the dresses, the manners of the inhabitants, are very nearly English. My apartments are gay as well as comfortable. A green-morocco sofa, beneath a large and curiously cut looking-glass--with chairs having velvet seats, and wainscot and ceiling very elegantly painted and papered--all remind me that I am in a respectable hotel. A strange sight occupied my attention the very first morning after my arrival. As the day broke fully into my room--it might be between five and six o'clock--I heard a great buzzing of voices in the street. I rose, and looking out of window, saw, from one end of the street to the other, a countless multitude of women--sitting, in measured ranks, with pots of cream and butter before them. It was in fact the chief market day for fruit, cream, and butter; and the _Himelfort Gasse_ is the principal mart for the sale of these articles. The weather has recently become milder, and I feel therefore in better trim for the attack upon the IMPERIAL LIBRARY, where I deliver my credentials, or introductory letters, to-morrow. God bless you. [97] St. FLORIAN was a soldier and sufferer in the time of the Emperors Diocletian and Maximinian. He perished in the tenth and last persecution of the Christian Church by the Romans. The judge, who condemned him to death, was Aquilinus. After being importuned to renounce the Christian religion, and to embrace the Pagan creed, as the only condition of his being rescued from an immediate and cruel death, St. Florian firmly resisted all entreaties; and shewed a calmness, and even joyfulness of spirits, in proportion to the stripes inflicted upon him previous to execution. He was condemned to be thrown into the river, from a bridge, with a stone fastened round his neck. The soldiers at first hesitated about carrying the judgment of Aquilinus into execution. A pause of an hour ensued: which was employed by St. Florian in prayer and ejaculation! A furious young man then rushed forward, and precipitated the martyr into the river: "Fluvius autem suscipiens martyrem Christi, expavit, et elevatis undis suis, in quodam eminentiori loco in saxo corpus ejus deposuit. Tunc annuente favore divino, adveniens aquila, expansis alis suis in modum crucis, eum protegebat." _Acta Sanctorum; Mens. Maii_, vol. i. p. 463. St. Florian is a popular saint both in Bavaria and Austria. He is usually represented in armour, pouring water from a bucket to extinguish a house, or a city, in flames, which is represented below. Raderus, in his _Bavaria Sacra_, vol. i. p. 8, is very particular about this monastery, and gives a list of the pictures above noticed, on the authority of Sebastianus ab Adelzhausen, the head of the monastery at that time; namely in 1615. He also adorns his pages with a copper cut of the martyr about to be precipitated into the river, from the bank--with his hands tied behind him, without any stone about his neck. But the painting, as well as the text of the Acta Sanctorum, describes the precipitation as from a bridge. The form of the Invocation to the Saint is, "O MARTYR and SAINT, FLORIAN, keep us, we beseech thee, by night and by day, from all harm by FIRE, or from other casualties of this life." [98] "Nostris vero temporibus Reverendissimi Præpositi studio augustum sanc templum raro marmore affatim emicans, paucisque inuidens assurexit." This is the language of the _Germania Austriaca, seu Topographia Omnium Germaniæ Provinciarum_, 1701, folio, p. 16: when speaking of THE MONASTERY of ST. FLORIAN. [99] See p. 78, ante. [100] It may be only sufficient to carry it as far back as the twelfth century. What precedes that period is, as usual, obscure and unsatisfactory. The monastery was originally of the _Benedictin_ order; but it was changed to the _Augustine_ order by Engelbert. After this latter, Altman reformed and put it upon a most respectable footing--in 1080. He was, however, a severe disciplinarian. Perhaps the crypt mentioned by M. Klein might be of the latter end of the XIIth century; but no visible portion of the superincumbent building can be older than the XVIth century. [101] The history of this monastery is sufficiently fertile in marvellous events; but my business is to be equally brief and sober in the account of it. In the _Scriptores Rerum Austriacarum_ of _Pez_, vol. i. col. 162-309, there is a chronicle of the monastery, from the year of its foundation to 1564, begun to be written by an anonymous author in 1132, and continued to the latter period by other coeval writers--all monks of the monastery. It is printed by Pez for the first time--and he calls it "an ancient and genuine chronicle." The word Mölk, or Mölck,--or, as it appears in the first map in the _Germania Austriaca, seu Topographia Omnium Germaniæ Provinciarum_, 1701, fol. Melck--was formerly written "Medilicense, Medlicense, Medlicum, Medlich, and Medelick, or Mellicense." This anonymous chronicle, which concludes at col. 290, is followed by "a short chtonicle of Conrad de Wizenberg," and "an anonymous history of the Foundation of the Monastery," compared with six other MSS. of the same kind in the library at Mölk. The whole is concluded by "an ancient Necrology of the Monastery," commenced in the XIIth century, from a vellum MS. of the same date. In the _Monasteriologia of Stengelius_, we have a list of the Heads or Primates of Mölk, beginning with Sigiboldus, in 1089, (who was the first that succeeded Leopold, the founder) down to Valentinus, in 1638; who was living when the author published his work. There is also a copper-plate print of a bird's eye view of the monastery, in its ancient state, previously to the restoration of it, in its present form, by DIETMAYR. [102] [The late Duke.] [103] I do not however find it in the Notitia Literaria prefixed to the edition of Horace, published by Mitscherlich in 1800: see vol. i. p. xxvi. where he notices the MSS. of the poet which are deposited in the libraries of Germany. [104] It was not till my arrival at Manheim, on my return to Paris, that I received the "definitive reply" of the worthy Sub-Principal--which was after the following manner. "Monsieur--La lettre du 21 Septembre, que vous m'avez faite l'honneur de m'écrire, je ne l'ai reçue que depuis peu, c'est-à-dire, depuis le retour de mon voyage. Les scrupules que vous faites touchant l'échange des livres, ont été levés par vous-même dans l'instant que vous en avez faites la proposition. Mais, malheureusement, la lettre qui devait apporter la confirmation du Prélat, n'a apportée que la triste nouvelle de sa mort. Vous sentez bien, que dès ce moment il ne sauroit plus être question de rien. Je ne doute pas, que quoique aucun livre ancien ne soit jusqu'à ce moment sorti de la Bibliothèque du Couvent, le Prélat n'eut fait une exception honorable en égard a l'illustre personnage auquel ces livres ont été destines et à la collection unique d'un art, a fait naitre toutes les bibliothèques, &c. J'ai l'honneur, &c. votre trés humble et très obeisant serviteur," [Autograph] [105] In an octavo volume published by a Dr. Cadet, who was a surgeon in Bonaparte's army in the campaign in Austria, in 1809, and who entitles his work--_Voyage en Autriche, en Moravie, et en Bavière_--published at Paris in 1818--we are favoured with a slight but spirited account of the monastery of Mölk--of the magnificence of its structure, and of the views seen from thence: but, above all, of the PRODUCE OF ITS CELLARS. The French Generals were lodged there, in their route to Vienna; and the Doctor, after telling us of the extent of the vaults, and that a carriage might be turned with ease in some of them, adds, "in order to have an idea of the abundance which reigns there, it may be sufficient only to observe, that, for four successive days, during the march of our troops through Mölk, towards Vienna, there were delivered to them not less than from 50 to 60,000 pints of wine per day--and yet scarcely one half of the stock was exhausted! The monastery, however, only contains twelve Réligieux. The interior of the church is covered with such a profusion of gilt and rich ornaments, that when the sun shines full upon it, it is difficult to view it without being dazzled." Page 79. The old monastery of Mölk successfully stood a siege of three months, against the Hungarians, in the year 1619. See _Germ. Austriaca_, &c. p. 18. [106] [The Abbé Strattman SURVIVED the above interview only about _five years_. I hope and trust that the worthy Vice Principal is as well NOW, as he was about three years ago, when my excellent friend Mr. Lodge, the Librarian of the University of Cambridge, read to him an off-hand German version of the whole of this account of my visit to his Monastery.] [107] This history has come down to us from well authenticated materials; however, in the course of its transmission, it may have been partially coloured with fables and absurdities. The Founder of the Monastery was ALTMANN, Bishop of Passau; who died in the year 1091, about twenty years after the foundation of the building. The two ancient biographies of the Founder, each by a Monk or Principal of the monastery, are introduced into the collection of Austrian historians by _Pez_; vol. i. col. 112-162. Stengelius has a bird's eye view of the monastery as it appeared in 1638, and before the principal suite of apartments was built. But it is yet in an unfinished state; as the view of it from the copper-plate engraving, at page 248 ante, represents it with the _intended_ additions and improvements. These latter, in all probability, will never be carried into effect. This monastery enjoyed, of old, great privileges and revenues. It had twenty-two parish churches--four towns--several villages, &c. subject to its ecclesiastical jurisdiction; and these parishes, together with the monastery itself, were not under the visitation of the Diocesan (of Passau) but of the Pope himself. Stengelius (_Monasteriologia_, sign. C) speaks of the magnificent views seen from the summit of the monastery, on a clear day; observing, however, (even in his time) that it was without springs or wells, and that it received the rain water in leaden cisterns. "Cæterùm (adds he) am[oen]issimum et plané aspectu jucundissimum habet situm." Towards the middle of the seventeenth century, this monastery appears to have taken the noble form under which it is at present beheld. It has not however escaped from more than _one_ severe visitation by the Turks. [108] On my arrival in England, I was of course equally anxious and happy to place the CHRONICON GÖTWICENSE in the library at Althorp. But I have not, in the text above, done full justice to the liberality of the present Abbot of the monastery. He gave me, in addition, a copy--of perhaps a still scarcer work--entitled "_Notitia Austriæ Antiquæ et Mediæ seu tam Norici Veteris quam Pagi et Marchæ_, &c." by MAGNUS KLEIN, Abbot of the monastery, and of which the first volume only was published "typis Monasterii Tegernseensis," in 1781, 4to. This appears to be a very learned and curious work. And here ... let me be allowed for the sake of all lovers of autographs of good and great men--to close this note with a fac-simile of the hand writing (in the "dono dedit"--as above mentioned) of the amiable and erudite donor of these acceptable volumes. It is faithfully thus:--the _original_ scription will only, I trust, perish with the book: [Autograph] LETTER X. IMPERIAL LIBRARY. ILLUMINATED MANUSCRIPTS AND EARLY PRINTED BOOKS. VIENNA; _Hotel of the Crown of Hungary, Sept. 9, 1818_. It gave me the sincerest pleasure, my dear friend, to receive your letter... only a very few hours after the transmission of my last. At such a distance from those we love and esteem, you can readily imagine the sort of _comfort_ which such communications impart. I was indeed rejoiced to hear of the health and welfare of your family, and of that of our friend * *, who is indeed not only a thorough-bred _Rorburgher_, but a truly excellent and amiable man. The account of the last anniversary-meeting of the Club has, however, been a little painful to me; inasmuch as it proves that a sort of _heresy_ has crept into the Society--which your Vice-President, on his return, will labour as effectually as he can to eradicate.[109] I had anticipated your wishes. You tell me, "send all you can collect about the IMPERIAL LIBRARY of Vienna; its MSS. and printed books: its treasures in the shape of _Fifteeners_ and _Sixteeners_: in short, be copious (say you) in your description." The present letter will at least convince you that I have not been sparing in the account solicited; and, in truth, I am well pleased to postpone a description of the buildings, and usual sights and diversions of this metropolis, until I shall have passed a few more days here, and had fuller opportunities of making myself acquainted with details. Compared with every other architectural interior which I have yet seen, this LIBRARY is beyond doubt the most magnificent in its structure. But if my admiration be thus great of the building, and of the _books_, it is at least equally so of _those_ who have the _management_ of them. You must know that I arrived here at a very unfortunate moment for bibliographical research. The holidays of the librarians commence at the latter end of August, and continue 'till the end of September. I had no sooner delivered my letter of introduction to the well known Mons. ADAM DE BARTSCH--an Aulic Counsellor, and chief Director of the Library--than he stepped backward with a thoughtful and even anxious brow. "What is the matter, Sir, am I likely to be intrusive?" "My good friend"--replied he--taking my arm with as pleasant an air of familiarity as if I had been an old acquaintance--"you have visited us at a most unlucky moment: but let me turn the matter over in my mind, and you shall have my determination on the morrow." That "determination" was as agreeable as it was unexpected; and really on my part--without the least affectation--unmerited. "I have been talking the matter over with my brethren and coadjutors in the library-department, (said M. Bartsch) and we have agreed--considering the great distance and expense of your journey--to give you an extra week's research among our books. We will postpone our regular trip to _Baden_,--whither the court, the noblesse, and our principal citizens at present resort--in order that you may have an opportunity of perfecting your enquiries. You will of course make the most of your time." I thanked M. Bartsch heartily and unfeignedly for his extreme civility and kindness, and told him that he should not find me either slothful or ungrateful. In person M. Bartsch is shorter than myself; but very much stouter. He is known in the graphic world chiefly by his _Le Peintre Graveur_; a very skilful, and indeed an invaluable production, in sixteen or eighteen octavo volumes--illustrated with some curious fac-similes. He is himself an artist of no ordinary ability; and his engravings, especially after some of Rubens's pictures, are quite admirable. Few men have done so much at his time of life, and borne the effect of so much strenuous toil, so well as himself. He is yet gay in spirit, vigorous in intellect, and sound in judgment; and the simplicity of his character and manners (for in truth we are become quite intimate) is most winning.[110] Messrs. PAYNE and KOPITAR are the Librarians who more immediately attend to the examination of the books. The former is an Abbé--somewhat stricken in years, and of the most pleasing and simple manners. I saw little of him, as he was anxious for the breezes of Baden; but I saw enough to regret that he would not meet his brother librarians at the hotel of the _Crown of Hungary_, where I had prepared the best fare in my power to entertain them.[111] M. Kopitar is an invaluable labourer in this bibliographical vineyard. I had formerly seen him while he was in England; when he came with Mr. Henry Foss to St. James's Place, to examine the _Aldine volumes_, and especially those printed upon vellum. He himself reminded me of the chary manner in which I seemed to allow him to handle those precious tomes. "You would scarcely permit me (said he smilingly) to hold them half a minute in my hands: but I will not treat you after the same fashion. You shall handle _our_ vellum books, whether in ms. or in print, as long and as attentively as you please." I felt the rebuke as it became a _preu_ chevalier in bibliography to feel it. "I am indebted to you, M. Kopitar, (said I, in reply) in more senses than _one_--- on this my visit to your Imperial Library." "But (observed he quickly) you only did what you _ought_ to have done." All power of rejoinder was here taken away. M. Kopitar is a thoroughly good scholar, and is conversant in the Polish, German, Hungarian, and Italian languages. He is now expressly employed upon the _Manuscripts_; but he told me (almost with a sigh!) that he had become so fond of the _Fifteeners_, that he reluctantly complied with the commands of his superiors in entering on the ms. department. Before I lay my _Catalogue Raisonné_ of such books as I have examined, before you, it is right and fitting that I make some mention of the REPOSITORY in which these books are placed. In regard to the dimensions of the library, and the general leading facts connected with the erection of the building, as well as the number of the books, my authority is perhaps the best that can be adduced: namely, that of Mons. de Bartsch himself. Know then, my good friend, that the Imperial Library of Vienna is built over a succession of arched vaults, which are made to contain the carriages of the Emperor. You ascend a broad staircase, to the left, which is lined with fragments of Greek and Roman antiquities. Almost the first room which you enter, is the Reading Room. This may hold about thirty students comfortably, but I think I saw more than forty on my first entrance: of whom several, with the invincible phlegm of their country, were content to stand--leaning against the wall, with their books in their hands. This room is questionless too small for the object to which it is applied; and as it is the fashion, in this part of the world, seldom or never to open the windows, the effect of such an atmosphere of hydrogen is most revolting to sensitive nerves. When the door was opened ... which at once gave me the complete length view of the GRAND LIBRARY ... I was struck with astonishment! Such another sight is surely no where to be seen.[112] The airiness, the height, the splendour, the decorative minutiæ of the whole--to say nothing of the interminable rows of volumes of all sizes, and in all colours of morocco binding--put every thing else out of my recollection. The floor is of red and white marble, diamond-wise. I walked along it, with M. Bartsch on my right hand and M. Kopitar on my left, as if fearful to scratch its polished surface:--first gazing upon the paintings of the vaulted roof, and then upon the statues and globes, alternately, below--while it seemed as if the power of expressing the extent of my admiration, had been taken from me. At length I reached the central compartment of this wonderful room, which is crowned with a sort of oval and very lofty cupola, covered with a profusion of fresco paintings. In the centre, below, stands a whole-length statue, in white marble, of CHARLES VI., under whose truly imperial patronage this library was built. Around him are sixteen whole length statues of certain Austrian Marshals, also in white marble; while the books, or rather folios, (almost wholly bound in red morocco) which line the sides of the whole of this transept division of the room, were pointed out to me as having belonged to the celebrated hero, PRINCE EUGENE. Illustrious man!--thought I to myself--it is a taste like THIS which will perpetuate thy name, and extol thy virtues, even when the memory of thy prowess in arms shall have faded away! "See yonder"--observed M. Bartsch--"there are, I know not how many, atlas folios of that Prince's collection of PRINTS. It is thought to be unrivalled." "But where (replied I) is the _statue_ of this heroic collector, to whom your library is probably indebted for its choicest treasures? Tell me, who are these marshals that seem to have no business in such a sanctuary of the Muses--while I look in vain for the illustrious Eugene?" There was more force in this remark than I could have possibly imagined--for my guide was silent as to the names of these Austrian marshals, and seemed to admit, that PRINCE EUGENE... _ought_ to have been there. "But is it _too late_ to erect his statue? Cannot he displace one of these nameless marshals, who are in attitude as if practising the third step of the _Minuet de la Cour_?" "Doucement, doucement, mon ami ... (replied M.B.) il faut considérer un peu...." "Well, well--be it so: let me now continue my general observation of the locale of this magical collection." M.B. readily allowed me; and seemed silently to enjoy the gratification which I felt and expressed. I then walked leisurely to the very extremity of the room; continuing to throw a rapid, but not uninterested glance upon all the accessories of gilding, carved work, paintings, and statuary, with which the whole seemed to be in a perfect blaze. I paced the library in various directions; and found, at every turn or fresh point of view, a new subject of surprise and admiration. There is a noble gallery, made of walnut tree, ornamented with gilding and constructed in a manner at once light and substantial, which runs from one extremity of the interior to the other. It is a master-piece of art in its way. Upon the whole, there is no furnishing you with any very correct notion of this really matchless public library. At the further end of the room, to the left, is a small door; which, upon opening, brings you into the interior of a moderately sized, plain room, where the _Fifteeners_ are lodged. The very first view of these ancient tomes caused a certain palpitation of the heart. But neither this sort of book-jewel room, nor the large library just described--leading to it--are visited without the special license of the Curators: a plan, which as it respects the latter room, is, I submit, exceedingly absurd; for, what makes a noble book-room look more characteristic and inviting, than its being _well filled with students_? Besides, on the score of health and comfort--at least in the summer months--such a plan is almost absolutely requisite. The MANUSCRIPTS are contained in a room, to the right, as you enter: connected with the small room where M. Bartsch, as commander-in-chief, regularly takes his station--from thence issuing such orders to his officers as best contribute to the well-being of the establishment. The MS. room is sufficiently large and commodious, but without any architectural pretensions. It may be about forty feet long. Here I was first shewn, among the principal curiosities, a _Senatus consultum de Bacchanalibus coercendis_: a sort of police ordonnance, on a metal plate--supposed to have been hung up in some of the public offices at Rome nearly 200 years before the birth of Christ. It is doubtless a great curiosity, and invaluable as an historical document--as far as it goes. Here is a _map_, upon vellum, of the _Itinerary_ of _Theodosius the Great_, of the fourth century; very curious, as exhibiting a representation of the then known world, in which the most extraordinary ignorance of the relative position of countries prevails. I understood that both _Pompeii_ and _Herculaneum_ were marked on this map. One of the most singular curiosities, of the antiquarian kind, is a long leather roll of _Mexican hieroglyphics_, which was presented to the Emperor Charles V., by Ferdinand Cortez. There are copies of these hieroglyphics, taken from a copper plate; but the solution of them, like most of those from Egypt, will always be perhaps a point of dispute with the learned. But the objects more particularly congenial with _my_ pursuits, were, as you will naturally guess, connected rather with _vellum MSS._ of the _Scriptures_ and _Classics_: and especially did I make an instant and earnest enquiry about the famous fragment of the BOOK OF GENESIS, of the fourth century, of which I had before read so much in Lambecius, and concerning which my imagination was, strangely enough, wrought up to a most extraordinary pitch. "Place before me that fragment, good M. Kopitar," said I eagerly--"and you shall for ever have my best thanks." "_That_, and every thing else (replied he) is much at your service: fix only your hours of attendance, and our treasures are ready for your free examination." This was as it should be. I enter therefore at once, my good friend, upon the task of giving you a Catalogue Raisonné of those MSS. which it was my good fortune to examine in the nine or ten days conceded to me for that purpose; and during which I seemed to receive more than ordinary attention and kindness from the principal librarians. FRAGMENT OF THE BOOK OF GENESIS--undoubtedly of the end of the fourth century, at earliest. This fragment is a collection of twenty-four leaves, in a folio form, measuring twelve inches by ten, of a small portion of the Book of Genesis, written in large Greek capital letters of gold and silver, now much faded, upon a purple ground. Every page of these twenty-four leaves is embellished with a painting, or illumination, coloured after nature, purposely executed _below_ the text, so that it is a running _graphic_ illustration--as we should say--of the subject above. There is too small a portion of the TEXT to be of much critical importance, but I believe this Greek text to be the _oldest extant_ of sacred writ: and therefore I rejoiced on viewing this venerable and precious relic of scriptural antiquity. Lambecius and Mabillon have given fac-similes of it; and I think Montfaucon also--in his _Palæographia Græca_. At the end of this fragment, are four pages of the _Gospel of St. Luke_--or, rather, figures of the four Evangelists; which are also engraved by Lambecius, and, from him, by Nesselius and Kollarius.[113] SACRAMENTARIUM, SEU MISSA PAPÆ GREGORII, an oblong large octavo, or small folio form. I own I have doubts about calling this volume a contemporaneous production; that is to say, of the latter end of the sixth century. The exterior, which, on the score of art, is more precious than the interior, is doubtless however of a very early period. It consists of an ivory figure of St. Jerome, guarded by a brass frame. The character of the interior, as to its scription, does not appear to be older than the tenth century. GERMAN BIBLE of the EMPEROR WENCESLAUS, in six folio volumes. This too was another of the particularly curious MSS. which, since the account of it in my Decameron, I had much desired to see. It is, upon the whole, an imperial production: but as extraordinary, and even whimsical, as it is magnificent. Of these six volumes, only three are illuminated; and of the third, only two third parts are finished. The text is a large lower-case gothic letter, very nearly a quarter of an inch in height. The ornamental or border illuminations have more grace and beauty than the subjects represented; although, to the eye of an antiquarian virtuoso, the representations of the unfortunate monarch will be the most interesting. I should notice by the way, on the competent authority of M. Kopitar, that this German version of the Bible is one of the most ancient extant. These books have suffered, in the binding, from the trenchant tools of the artist. The gold in the illuminations is rather bright than refulgent. I now proceed with an account of some other MSS. appertaining to Scripture; and hasten to introduce to your notice a magnificent folio volume, entitled EVANGELISTARIUM, with a lion's head in the centre of the exterior binding, surrounded by golden rays, and having a lion's head in each corner of the square. The whole is within an arabesque border. There can be no doubt of the binding being of the time of Frederick III. of the middle of the fourteenth century; and it is at once splendid and tasteful. The book measures nearly fifteen inches by ten. The inside almost surpasses any thing of the kind I have seen. The vellum is smooth, thin, and white--and the colours are managed so as to have almost a faëry like effect. Each page is surrounded with a light blue frame, having twisted flowers for corner ornaments: the whole of a quiet, soft tint, not unlike what appears in the Bible of Wenceslaus. Every line is written in a tall, broad gothic letter--and every letter is _gold_. But the illuminations merit every commendation. They are of various kinds. Some are divided into twelve compartments: but the initial L, to the first page, _L_[_iber Generationis_] is the most tasteful, as well as elaborate thing I ever saw.[114] The figures of angels, on the side, and at bottom, have even the merit of Greek art. A large illumination of our Saviour, with the Virgin and Joseph below, closes the volume: which really can hardly be sufficiently admired. The date of the text is 1368. I shall now give you an account of a few MISSALS of a higher order on the score of art. And first, let me begin with a beautiful FLEMISH MISSAL, in 8vo.: in the most perfect state of preservation--and with the costliest embellishments--as well as with a good number of drollerries _dotted_ about the margins. The frame work, to the larger subjects, is composed of gothic architecture. I am not sure that I have seen any thing which equals the _drolleries_--for their variety, finish, and exquisite condition. The vellum is not to be surpassed. What gives this book an additional value is, that it was once the property of Charles V.: for, on the reverse of fol. 157, at bottom, is the following memorandum in his hand writing: _Afin que Ie Ioye de vous recommandé accepté bonne Dame cest mis sÿ en escript vostre vraÿ bon mestre._ CHARLES. A lovely bird, in the margin, is the last illumination. In the whole, there are 179 leaves. The next article is a LARGE MISSAL, in letters of gold and silver, upon black paper: a very extraordinary book--and, to me, unique. The first illumination shews the arms of Milan and Austria, quarterly, surrounded by an elaborate gold border. The text is in letters of silver--tall stout gothic letters--with the initial letters of gold. Some of the subjects are surrounded by gold borders, delightfully and gracefully disposed in circles and flowers. At the bottom of the page, which faces the descent of the Holy Ghost, is a fool upon horseback--very singular--and very spiritedly touched. The binding is of red velvet, with a representation of the cloven tongues at the day of Pentecost in silver-gilt. A third MISSAL, of the same beautiful character, is of an octavo form. The two first illuminations are not to be exceeded, of their kind. The borders, throughout, are arabesque, relieved by _cameo gris_,--with heads, historical subjects, and every thing to enchant the eye and warm the heart of a tasteful antiquary. The writing is a black, large, gothic letter, not unlike the larger gothic font used by Ratdolt. The vellum is beautiful. The binding is in the Grolier style. The last and not the least, in the estimation of a competent judge of MSS.,--is, a German version of the HORTULUS ANIMÆ of S. Brant. The volume in question is undoubtedly among the loveliest books in the Imperial Library. The character, or style of art, is not uncommon; but such a series of sweetly drawn, and highly finished subjects, is hardly any where to be seen--and certainly no where to be eclipsed. I should say the art was rather Parisian than Flemish. The first in the series, is the following; executed for me by M. Fendi. It occurs where the illuminations usually commence, at the foot of the first page of the first Psalm. Observe, I beseech you, how tranquilly the boat glides along, and how comfortable the party appears. It is a hot day, and they have cut down some branches from the trees to fasten in the sides of the boat--in order to screen them from the heat of the sun. The flagon of wine is half merged in the cooling stream--so that, when they drink, their thirst will be more effectually quenched. There are viands, in the basket, beside the rower; and the mingled sounds of the flageolets and guitar seem to steal upon your ear as you gaze at the happy party--and, perhaps, long to be one of them! [Illustration] A hundred similar sweet things catch the eye as one turns over the spotless leaves of this snow-white book. But the very impressive scene of Christ asleep, watched by angels--(with certain musical instruments in their hands, of which M. Kopitar could not tell me the names,) together with another illumination of Mary, and Joseph in the distance, can hardly be described with justice. The Apostles and Saints are large half lengths. St. Anthony, with the devil in the shape of a black pig beneath his garment, is cleverly managed; but the head is too large. Among the female figures, what think you of MARY MAGDALENE--as here represented? And where will you find female penance put to a severer trial? I apprehend the box, in front of her, to be a _pix_, containing the consecrated elements. [Illustration] I now proceed to give you some account of MSS. of a different character: _classical_, _historical_, and appertaining to _Romance_--which seemed to me to have more particular claims upon the attention of the curious. The famous Greek DIOSCORIDES shall lead the way. This celebrated MS. is a large, thick, imperial quarto; measuring nearly fifteen inches by twelve. The vellum is thin, and of a silky and beautiful texture. The colours in the earlier illuminations are thickly coated and glazed, but very much rubbed; and the faces are sometimes hardly distinguishable. The supposed portrait of Dioscorides (engraved--as well as a dozen other of these illuminations--in Lambecius, &c.) is the most perfect. The plants are on one side of the leaf, the text is on the other. The former are, upon the whole, delicately and naturally coloured. At the end, there is an ornithological treatise, which is very curious for the colouring of the birds. This latter treatise is written in a smaller Greek capital letter than the first; but M. Kopitar supposes it to be as ancient. We know from an indisputably coeval date, that this precious MS. was executed by order of the Empress Juliana Anicia in the year of Christ 505. There is a smaller MS. of Dioscorides, of a more recent date, in which the plants are coloured, and executed--one, two, or three, in number--upon the rectos of the leaves, with the text below, in two columns. Both the illuminations and the text are of inferior execution to those of the preceding MS. Montfaucon, who never saw the larger, makes much of the smaller MS.; which scarcely deserves comparison with it. PHILOSTRATUS; Lat. This is the MS. which belonged to Matthias Corvinus--and of which the illuminations are so beautiful, that Nesselius has thought it worth while to give a fac-simile of the first--from whence I gave a portion to the public in the Bibliog. Decameron.[115] I think that I may safely affirm, that the two illuminations, which face each other at the beginning, are the finest, in every respect, which I have seen of that period; but they have been sadly damaged. The two or three other illuminations, by different hands, are much inferior. The vellum and writing are equally charming. VALERIUS MAXIMUS. This copy has the name of _Sambucus_ at the bottom of the first illumination, and was doubtless formerly in the collection of Matthias Corvinus--the principal remains of whose magnificent library (although fewer than I had anticipated) are preserved in this collection. The illumination in the MS. just mentioned, is very elegant and pleasing; but the colours are rather too dark and heavy. The intended portrait of the Roman historian, with the arms and supporters below, are in excellent good taste. The initial letters and the vellum are quite delightful. The scription is very good. LIVIUS: in six folio volumes. We have here a beautiful and magnificent MS. in a fine state of preservation. There is only one illumination in each volume; but that "one" is perhaps the most perfect specimen which can be seen of that open, undulating, arabesque kind of border, which is rather common in print as well as in MS., towards the end of the fifteenth century. These six illuminations, for invention, delicacy, and brilliancy of finish, are infinitely beyond any thing of the kind which I have seen. The vellum is perfectly beautiful. To state which of these illuminations is the most attractive, would be a difficult task; but if you were at my elbow, I should direct your particular attention to that at the beginning of the IXth book of the IVth Decad--especially to the opposite ornament; where two green fishes unite round a circle of gold, with the title, in golden capitals, in the centre. O Matthias Corvinus, thou wert surely the EMPEROR of Book Collectors! BOOK OF BLAZONRY, or of ARMS. This is an enormous folio MS. full of heraldic embellishments relating to the HOUSE of Austria. Among these embellishments, the author of the text--who lived in the XVIth century, and who was a very careful compiler--has preserved a genuine, original portrait of LEOPOLD de SEMPACH, of the date of 1386. It is very rarely that you observe portraits of this character, or form, introduced into MSS. of so early a period. A nobler heraldic volume probably does not exist. It is bound in wood, covered with red velvet; and the edges are gilt, over coloured armorial ornaments. From _such_ a volume, the step is both natural and easy to ROMANCES. Sir TRISTAN shall lead the way. Here are _three_ MSS. of the feats of that Knight of the Round Table. The first is of the XIIIth century; written in three columns, on a small thick gothic letter. It has some small, and perfect illuminations. This MS. became the property of Prince Eugene. It was taken to Paris, but restored: and has yet the French imperial eagle stamped in red ink. It is indeed a "gloriously ponderous folio." A second MS. of the SAME ROMANCE is written in two columns, in a full short gothic letter. It is very large, and the vellum is very perfect. The illuminations, which are larger than those in the preceding MS. are evidently of the early part of the xvth century. This book also belonged to Prince Eugene. It is doubtless a precious volume. A third MS. executed in pale ink, in a kind of secretary gothic letter, is probably of the latter end of the XIVth century. The illuminations are only slightly tinted. BRUT D'ANGLETTERRE. I should apprehend this MS. to be of the early part of the XIVth century. It is executed in a secretary gothic letter, in double columns, and the ink is much faded in colour. It has but one illumination, which is at the beginning, and much faded. This was also Prince Eugene's copy; and was taken to Paris, but restored. The last, but perhaps the most valuable in general estimation, of the MSS. examined by me, was the AUTOGRAPH of the GERUSALEMME LIBERATA, or, as formerly called, CONQUISTATA,[116] of Tasso: upon which no accomplished Italian can look but with feelings almost approaching to rapture. The MS. is imperfect; beginning with the xxxth canto of the second book, and ending with the LXth canto of the twenty-third book. The preceding will probably give you some little satisfaction respecting the MSS. in this very precious collection. I proceed therefore immediately to an account of the PRINTED BOOKS; premising that, after the accounts of nearly similar volumes, described as being in the libraries previously visited, you must not expect me to expatiate quite so copiously as upon former occasions. I have divided the whole into four classes; namely, 1. THEOLOGY; 2. CLASSICS; 3. MISCELLANEOUS, LATIN; (including Lexicography) 4. ITALIAN; and 5. FRENCH and GERMAN, exclusively of Theology. I have also taken the pains of arranging each class in alphabetical order; so that you will consider what follows to be a very sober, and a sort of bibliopolistic, catalogue. THEOLOGY. AUGUSTINUS (Sts.) DE CIV. DEI. _Printed in the Soubiaco Monastery, 1467_. Folio. A fine large copy; but not equal to that in the Royal Library at Paris or in Lord Spencer's collection. I should think, however, that this may rank as the third copy for size and condition. ---- _Printed by Jenson._ 1475. Folio. A very beautiful book, printed upon white and delicate VELLUM. Many of the leaves have, however, a bad colour. I suspect this copy has been a good deal cropt in the binding. AUGUSTINI S. EPISTOLÆ. LIBRI XIII. CONFESSIONUM. 1475. Quarto. This volume is printed in long lines, in a very slender roman type, which I do not just now happen to remember to have seen before; and which _almost_ resembles the delicacy of the types of the first _Horace_, and the _Florus_ and _Lucan_--so often noticed: except that the letters are a little too round in form. The present is a clean, sound copy; unbound. BIBLIA LATINA. This is the _Mazarine_ Edition; supposed to be the first Bible ever printed. The present is far from being a fine copy; but valuable, from possessing the four leaves of a Rubric which I was taught to believe were peculiar to the copy at Munich.[117] BIBLIA LATINA; _Printed by Pfister_, folio, 3 volumes. I was told that the copy here was upon vellum; but inaccurately. The present was supplied by the late Mr. Edwards; but is not free from stain and writing. Yet, although nothing comparable with the copy in the Royal Library at Paris, or with that in St. James's Place, it is nevertheless a very desirable acquisition--and is quite perfect. ---- _Printed by Fust and Schoeffher._ 1462. Folio. 2 vols. UPON VELLUM. This was Colbert's copy, and is large, sound, and desirable. ---- _Printed by Mentelin._ Without Date. Perhaps the rarest of all Latin Bibles; of which, however, there is a copy in the royal library at Paris, and in the public libraries of Strasbourg and Munich. I should conjecture its date to be somewhere about 1466.[118] The present is a clean and sound, but much cropt copy. ---- _Printed by Sweynhyem and Pannartz._ Folio. 1471-2, 2 vols. A remarkably fine large copy, almost uncut: in modern russia binding. This must form a portion of the impression by the same printers, with the Commentary of De Lyra, in five folio volumes. BIBLIA LATINA; _Printed by Hailbrun_. 1476. Folio. Here are _two_ copies; of which one is UPON VELLUM, and the other upon paper: both beautiful--but the vellum copy is, I think, in every respect, as lovely a book as Lord Spencer's similar copy. It measures eleven inches one sixteenth by seven one eighth. It has, however, been bound in wretched taste, some fifty years ago, and is a good deal cropt in the binding. The paper copy, in 2 vols. is considerably larger. BIBLIA LATINA. _Printed by Jenson_. 1479. Folio. Here, again, are two copies; one upon paper, the other UPON VELLUM. Of these, the vellum copy is much damaged in the principal illumination, and is also cropt in the binding. The paper copy can hardly be surpassed, if equalled. BIBLIA ITALICA. MALHERBI. _Printed in the month of October,_ 1471. Folio. 2 vols. Perhaps one of the finest and largest copies in existence; measuring, sixteen inches five eighths by eleven. It is bound (if I remember rightly) in blue morocco. BIBLIA HEBRAICA. _Printed at Soncino_. 1488. Folio. FIRST EDITION OF THE HEBREW BIBLE. Of all earliest impressions of the sacred text, this is doubtless the MOST RARE. I am not sure that there are _two_ copies of it in England or in France. In our own country, the Bodleian library alone possesses it. This is a beautiful, clean copy, but cropt a little too much in the binding. It has had a journey to _Paris_, and gained a coat of blue morocco by the trip. The binder was Bozerain. This was the first time that I had seen a copy of the FIRST HEBREW BIBLE. There was only one _other_ feeling to be gratified:--that _such_ a copy were safely lodged in St. James's Place. BIBLIA POLONICA. 1563. Folio. The Abbé Strattman, at Mölk, had apprised me of the beauty and value of this copy--of one of the scarcest impressions of the sacred text. This copy was, in fact, a PRESENTATION COPY to the Emperor Maximilian II., from Prince Radzivil the Editor and Patron of the work. It is rather beautifully white, for the book--which is usually of a very sombre complexion. The leaves are rather tender. It is bound in red velvet; but it is a pity they do not keep it in a case--as the back is wearing away fast. Notwithstanding the Abbé Strattman concluded his account of this book with the exclamation of--"Il n'y en a pas comme celui-là," I must be allowed to say, that Lord Spencer may yet indulge in a strain of triumph... on the possession of the copy, of this same work, which I secured for him at Augsbourg;[119] and which is, to the full, as large, as sound, and in every respect as genuine a book. JERONIMI STI. EPISTOLÆ. _Printed by Sweynheym and Pannartz._ 1468. Folio. 2 vols. A magnificent and unique copy, UPON VELLUM. "There are ONLY SIX VELLUM Sweynheyms and Pannartz in the world,"--said the Abbé Strattman to me, in the library of the Monastery of Mölk. "Which be they?" replied I. "They are these"--answered he ... "the _Cæsar_, _Aulus Gellius_, and _Apuleius_--ach the edit. prin.--of the date of 1469: and the _Epistles of St Jerom_, of 1468--all which four books you will see at Vienna:--the _Livy_, which Mr. Edwards bought; and the _Pliny_ of 1470, which is in the library of Lord Spencer. These are the only known vellum Sweynheyms and Pannartz." I looked at the volumes under consideration, therefore, with the greater attention. They are doubtless noble productions; and this copy is, upon the whole, fine and genuine. It is not, however, so richly ornamented, nor is the vellum quite so white, as Lord Spencer's Pliny above mentioned. Yet it is bound in quiet old brown calf, having formerly belonged to Cardinal Bessarion, whose hand writing is on the fly leaf. It measures fifteen inches three eighths, by eleven one sixteenth. LACTANTII OPERA. _Printed in the Soubiaco Monastery._ 1465. Folio. Here are two copies of this earliest production of the Italian press. That which is in blue morocco binding, is infinitely the worse of the two. The other, in the original binding of wood, is, with the exception of Mr. Grenville's copy, the finest which I have ever seen. This however is slightly stained, by water, at top. ---- _Printed at Rostock._ 1476. Folio. A copy UPON VELLUM--which I had never seen before. The vellum is thin and beautiful, but this is not a _comfortable_ book in respect to binding. A few leaves at the beginning are stained. Upon the whole, however, it is a singularly rare and most desirable volume.[120] MISSALE MOZARABICUM. 1500. Folio. First Edition. A book of exceedingly great scarcity, and of which I have before endeavoured to give a pretty full and correct history.[121] The present is a beautiful clean copy, bound in blue morocco, apparently by De Seuil--from the red morocco lining within: but this copy is not so large as the one in St. James's Place. The MOZARABIC BREVIARY, its companion, which is bound in red morocco, has been cruelly cropt. MISSALE HERBIPOLENSE. Folio: with the date of 1479 in the prefatory admonition. This precious book is UPON VELLUM; and a more beautiful and desirable volume can hardly be found. There is a copper-plate of coat-armour, in outline, beneath the prefatory admonition; and M. Bartsch, who was by the side of me when I was examining the book, referred me to his _Peintre Graveur_, vol. x. p. 57. where this early copper-plate is noticed. PSALTERIUM. Latinè. _Printed by Fust and Schoeffher._ 1457. Folio. EDITIO PRINCEPS. If there be ONE book, more than another, which should induce an ardent bibliographer to make a pilgrimage to Vienna, THIS is assuredly the volume in question! And yet, although I could not refrain from doing, what a score of admiring votaries had probably done before me--namely, bestowing a sort of _oscular_ benediction upon the first leaf of the text--yet, I say, it may be questionable whether this copy be as large and fair as that in our Royal Collection!? Doubtless, however, this is a very fine and almost invaluable copy of the FIRST BOOK printed with metal types, with a date subjoined. You will give me credit for having asked for a sight of it, the _very first thing_ on my entrance into the room where it is kept. It is, however, preserved in rather a loose and shabby binding, and should certainly be protected by every effort of the bibliopegistic art. The truth is, as M. Kopitar told me, that every body--old and young, ignorant and learned--asks for a sight of this marvellous volume; and it is, in consequence, rarely kept in a state of quiescence one week throughout the year: excepting during the holidays. PSALTERIUM. Latinè. _Without Printer's name or Date._ _Folio._ This is doubtless a magnificent book, printed in the gothic letter, in red and black, with musical lines not filled up by notes. The text has services for certain Saints days. What rendered this volume particularly interesting to my eyes, was, that on the reverse of the first leaf, beneath two lines of printed text, (in the smaller of two sizes of gothic letter) and two lines of scored music in red, I observed an impression of the very same copper-plate of coat-armour, which I had noticed in the Wurtzburg Missal of 1482, at Oxford, described in the _Bibliographical Decameron_, vol. i. p. 30. Although M. Bartsch had noticed this copper-plate, in its outline character, in the above previously described Wurtzburg Missal, he seemed to be ignorant of its existence in this Psalter. The whole of this book is as fresh as if it had just come from the press. TESTAMENTUM NOV. Bohemicè. _Without Date._ Folio. This is probably one of the very rarest impressions of the sacred text, in the XVth century, which is known to exist. It is printed in the gothic type, in double columns, and a full page contains thirty-six lines. There are running titles. The text, at first glance, has much of the appearance of Bämler's printing at Augsbourg; but it is smaller, and more angular. Why should not the book have been printed in Bohemia? This is a very clean, desirable copy, in red morocco binding. TURRECREMATA I. DE. In LIBRUM PSALMORUM. _Printed at Crause in Suabia._ Folio. This, and the copy described as being in the Public Library at Munich, are supposed to be the only known copies of this impression. Below the colophon, in pencil, there is a date of 1475: but quære upon what authority? This copy is in most miserable condition; especially at the end. ANCIENT CLASSICAL AUTHORS. ÆSOPUS. Gr. Quarto. EDITIO PRINCEPS. A sound and perfect copy: ruled. ---- _Ital._ 1491. Quarto. In Italian poetry, by Manfred de Monteferrato. ---- 1492. Quarto. In Italian prose, by the same. Of these two versions, the Italian appears to be the same as that of the Verona impression of 1479: the cuts are precisely similar. The present is a very sound copy, but evidently cropt. APULEIUS. 1469. _Printed by Sweynheym and Pannartz._ Folio. Editio Princeps. This copy is UPON VELLUM. It is tall and large, but not so fine as is the following article: ---- _Printed by Jenson._ 1472. Folio. A fine sound copy; in red morocco binding. Formerly belonging to Prince Eugene. AULUS GELLIUS. 1469. Folio. Edit. Prin. This is without doubt one of the very finest VELLUM copies of an old and valuable Classic in existence. There are sometimes (as is always the case in the books from the earlier Roman press) brown and yellow pages; but, upon the whole, this is a wonderful and inestimable book. It is certainly unique, as being printed upon vellum. Note well: the _Jerom, Apuleius_, and _Aulus Gellius_--with one or two others, presently to be described--were Cardinal Bessarion's OWN COPIES; and were taken from the library of St. Mark at Venice, by the Austrians, in their memorable campaign in Italy. I own that there are hardly any volumes in the Imperial Library at Vienna which interested me so much as these VELLUM SWEYNHEYMS and PANNARTZ! AUSONIUS. 1472. Folio. Editio Princeps. The extreme rarity of this book is well known. The present copy is severely cropt at top and bottom, but has a good side marginal breadth. It has also been washed; but you are only conscious of it by the scent of soap. CÆSAR. 1469. _Printed by S. and Pannartz._ Folio. Edit. Princeps. A beautiful and unique copy--UPON VELLUM. This was formerly Prince Eugene's copy; and I suspect it to be the same which is described in the _Bibl. Hulziana_, vol. i. no. 3072--as it should seem to be quite settled that the printers, Sweynheym and Pannartz, printed only _one_ copy of their respective first editions upon vellum. It is however but too manifest that this precious volume has been cropt in binding--which is in red morocco. ---- 1472. _Printed by the same._ Folio. This also was Prince Eugene's copy; and is much larger and finer than the preceding--on the score of condition. CICERO DE OFFICIIS. 1465, Quarto. Here are _two_ copies: each UPON VELLUM. One, in blue morocco, is short and small; but in very pretty condition. The other is stained and written upon. It should be cast out. ---- 1466. Quarto. UPON VELLUM. A beautiful copy, which measures very nearly ten inches in height.[122] In all these copies, the title of the "Paradoxes" is printed. CICERONIS. EPIST. FAM. 1467. Folio. Editio Princeps. Cardinal Bessarion's own copy, and unquestionably THE FINEST THAT EXISTS. The leaves are white and thick, and crackle aloud as you turn them over. It is upon paper, which makes me think that there never was a copy upon vellum; for the Cardinal, who was a great patron of Sweynheym and Pannartz, the printers, would doubtless have possessed it in that condition. At the beginning, however, it is slightly stained, and at the end slightly wormed. Yet is this copy, in its primitive binding, finer than any which can well be imagined. The curious are aware that this is supposed to have been the _first book printed at Rome_; and that the blanks, left for the introduction of Greek characters, prove that the printers were not in possession of the latter when this book was published. The Cardinal has written two lines, partly in Greek and partly in Latin, on the fly leaf. This copy measures eleven inches three eighths by seven inches seven eighths. CICERO. RHETORICA VETUS. Printed by Jenson. When I had anticipated the beauty of a VELLUM COPY of this book (in the _Bibl. Spencer._ vol. i. p. 349--here close at hand) I had not of course formed the idea of seeing such a one HERE. This vellum copy is doubtless a lovely book; but the vellum is discoloured in many places, and I suspect the copy has been cut down a little. ---- ORATIONES. _Printed by S. and Pannartz._ 1471. Folio. A beautifully white and genuine copy; but the first few leaves are rather soiled, and it is slightly wormed towards the end. A _fairer_ Sweynheym and Pannartz is rarely seen. ---- OPERA OMNIA. 1498. Folio. 4 vols. A truly beautiful copy, bound in red morocco; but it is not free from occasional ms. annotations, in red ink, in the margins. It measures sixteen inches and three quarters in height, by ten inches and three quarters in width. A fine and perfect copy of this _First Edition of the Entire Works_ of Cicero, is obtained with great difficulty. A nobler monument of typographical splendour the early annals of the press cannot boast of. HOMERI OPERA OMNIA. Gr. 1488. Folio. Editio Princeps. A sound, clean copy, formerly Prince Eugene's; but not comparable with many copies which I have seen. BATRACHOMYOMACHIA. Gr. Without date or place. Quarto. Edit. Prin: executed in red and black lines, alternately. This is a sound, clean, and beautiful copy; perhaps a little cropt. In modern russia binding. JUVENALIS. Folio. _Printed by Ulric Han_, in his larger type. A cruelly cropt copy, with a suspiciously ornamented title page. This once belonged to Count Delci. JUVENALIS. _Printed by I. de Fivizano _. _Without date_. Folio. This is a very rare edition, and has been but recently acquired. It contains twenty-seven lines in a full page. There are neither numerals, signatures, nor catchwords. On the sixty-ninth and last leaf, is the colophon. A sound and desirable copy; though not free from soil. LUCIANI OPUSCULA QUÆDAM. Lat. _Printed by S. Bevilaquensis._ 1494. Quarto. This is really one of the most covetable little volumes in the world. It is a copy printed UPON VELLUM; with most beautiful illuminations, in the purest Italian taste. Look--if ever you visit the Imperial Library--at the last illumination, at the bottom of _o v_, recto. It is indescribably elegant. But the binder should have been hung in chains. He has cut the book to the very quick--so as almost to have entirely sliced away several of the border decorations. OVIDII FASTI. _Printed by Azoguidi._ 1471. Folio. This is the whole of what they possess of this wonderfully rare EDIT. PRIN. of Ovid, printed at Bologna by the above printer:--and of this small portion the first leaf is wanting. ----, OPERA OMNIA, _Printed by Sweynheym and Pannartz_. 1471. Folio. 2 vols. This is a clean, large copy; supplied from two old libraries. The volumes are equally large, but the first is in the finer condition. ----, EPISTOLÆ et FASTI. I know nothing of the printer of this edition, nor can I safely guess where it was printed. The Epistles begin on the recto of _aa ii_ to _gg v_; the Fasti on A i to VV ix, including some few other opuscula; of which my memorandum is misplaced. At the end, we read the word FINIS. PLINIUS SENIOR. _Printed by I. de Spira_. 1469. Folio. Editio Princeps. We have here the identical copy--printed UPON VELLUM--of which I remember to have heard it said, that the Abbé Strattman, when he was at the head of this library, declared, that whenever the French should approach Vienna, he would march off with _this_ book under _one_ arm, and with the FIRST Psalter under the other! This was heroically said; but whether such declaration was ever _acted_ upon, is a point upon which the bibliographical annals of that period are profoundly silent. To revert to this membranaceous treasure. It is in one volume, beautifully white and clean; but ("horresco referens;") it has been cruelly deprived of its legitimate dimensions. In other words, it is a palpably cropt copy. The very first glance of the illumination at the first page confirms this. In other respects, also, it can bear no comparison with the VELLUM copy in the Royal Library at Paris.[123] Yet is it a book ... for which I know more than _one_ Roxburgher who would promptly put pen to paper and draw a check for 300 guineas--to become its possessor. PLINIUS SENIOR. _Printed by Jenson._ 1472. Folio. Another early Pliny--UPON VELLUM: very fine, undoubtedly; but somewhat cropt, as the encroachment upon the arms, at the bottom of the first illuminated page, evidently proves. The initial letters are coloured in that sober style of decoration, which we frequently observe in the illuminated volumes of Sweynheym and Pannartz; but they generally appear to have received some injury. Upon the whole, I doubt if this copy be so fine as the similar copies, upon vellum, in the libraries of the Duke of Devonshire and the late Sir M. M. Sykes. This book is bound in the highly ornamented style of French binding of the XVIIth century; and it measures almost sixteen inches one eighth, by ten inches five eighths. PLINIUS. Italicè. _Printed by Jenson._ 1476. Folio. A fine, large, pure, crackling copy; in yellow morocco binding. It was Prince Eugene's copy; but is yet inferior, in magnitude, to the copy at Paris.[124] SILIUS ITALICUS. _Printed by Laver._ 1471. Folio. The largest, soundest, and cleanest copy of this very rare impression, which I remember to have seen:--with the exception, perhaps, of that in the Bodleian Library. SUETONIUS. _Printed by S. and Pannartz._ 1470. Folio. Second Edition. A fine, sound copy, yet somewhat cropt. The first page of the text has the usual border printed ornament of the time of printing the book. This was Prince Eugene's copy. SUIDAS, Gr. 1499. Folio. 2 vols. This editio princeps of Suidas is always, when in tolerable condition, a wonderfully striking book: a masterpiece of solid, laborious, and beautiful Greek printing. But the copy under consideration--which is in its pristine boards, covered with black leather--was LAMBECIUS'S OWN COPY, and has his autograph. It is, moreover, one of the largest, fairest, and most genuine copies ever opened. TACITUS. _Printed by I. de Spira._ Folio. Edit. Prin. This is the whitest and soundest copy, of this not very uncommon book, which I have seen. It has however lost something of its proper dimensions by the cropping of the binder. TERENTIUS. _Printed by Mentelin, without date._ Folio. Editio Princeps. Of exceedingly great rarity. The present copy, which is in boards--but which richly deserves a russia or morocco binding--is a very good, sound, and desirable copy. VALERIUS MAXIMUS. _Printed by Schoeffher._ 1472. Fol. UPON VELLUM; a charming, sound copy. This book is not very uncommon upon vellum. VIRGILIUS. _Printed by Mentelin._ _Without date._ Folio. Perhaps the rarest of all the early Mentelin classics; and probably the second edition of the author. The present is a beautiful, white, sound copy, and yet probably somewhat cropt. It is in red morocco binding. Next to the very extraordinary copy of this edition, in the possession of Mr. George Hibbert, I should say that _this_ was the finest I had ever seen. ---- _Printed by V. de Spira._ 1470. Folio. It is difficult to find a thoroughly beautiful copy of this very rare book. The present is tolerably fair and rather large, but I suspect washed. The beginning is brown, and the end very brown. ---- _Printed by the Same._ 1471. Folio. This copy is perhaps the most beautiful in the world of the edition in question. It has the old ms. signatures in the corner, which proves how important the preservation of these _witnesses_ is to the confirmation of the size and genuineness of a copy of an old book. No wonder the French got possession of this matchless volume on their memorable visit to Vienna in 1805 or 1809. It was bound in France, in red morocco, and is honestly bound. This is, in short, a perfect book. ---- _Printed by Jenson._ 1475. Folio. A very fine, crackling copy, in the old wooden binding; but the beginning and end are somewhat stained. MISCELLANEOUS LATIN.[125] ÆNEAS SYLVIUS DE DUOBUS AMANTIBUS. Without date. Quarto. This is the only copy which I have seen, of probably what may be considered the FIRST EDITION of this interesting work. It has twenty-three lines in a full page, and is printed in the large and early roman type of _Gering_, _Crantz_, and _Friburger_. Cæsar and Stoll doubtless reprinted this edition. In the whole, there are forty-four leaves. The present is a fair sound copy. ALEXANDER GALLUS: vulgò DE VILLA DEI: DOCTRINALE. _Without date._ Folio. There are few books which I had so much wished to see as the present. The bibliographers of the old school had a great notion of the typographical antiquity of this _work_ if not of _this edition_ of it: but I have very little hesitation, in the first place, of attributing it to the press of _Vindelin de Spira_--and, in the second place, of assigning no higher antiquity to it than that of the year 1471. It is however a book of some intrinsic curiosity, and of unquestionably great rarity. I saw it here for the first time. The present copy is a decidedly much-cropt folio; but in most excellent condition. AQUINAS THOMAS. SECUNDA SECONDÆ. _Printed by Schoeffher._ 1467. Folio. A fine, large copy, printed UPON VELLUM: the vellum is rather too yellow; but this is a magnificent book, and exceedingly rare in such a state. It is bound in red morocco. ---- OPUS QUARTISCRIPTUM. _Printed by Schoeffher._ 1469. Folio. We have here another magnificent specimen of the early Mentz press, struck off UPON VELLUM, and executed in the smallest gothic type of the printer. This is a gloriously genuine copy; having the old pieces of vellum pasted to the edges of the leaves, by way of facilitating the references to the body of the text. There is a duplicate copy of this edition, upon paper, wanting some of the earlier leaves, and which had formerly belonged to Prince Eugene. It is, in other respects, fair and desirable. ---- IN EVANG. MATTH. ET MARC. _Printed by Sweynheym and Pannartz._ 1470. Folio. A fine, large, white, and crackling copy; but somewhat cut; and not quite free from the usual foxy tint of the books executed by these earliest Roman printers. BARTHOLUS. LECTURA. _Printed by V. de Spira._.1471, Folio. One of the finest specimens imaginable of the press of V. de Spira. It is a thick folio, executed in double columns. The first page of this copy is elegantly illuminated with portraits, &c.; but the arms at bottom prove that some portion of the margin has been cut away--even of this magnificent copy. At the end--just before the date, and the four colophonic verses of the printer--we read: "_Finis primi ptis lecture dni Bartoli super ffto nouo_." BELLOVACENSIS (P.) SPECULUM HISTORIALE, Folio. The four volumes in ONE!--of eight inches in thickness, including the binding. The present copy of this extraordinary performance of Peter de Beauvais is as pure and white as possible. The type is a doubtful gothic letter: doubtful, as to the assigning to it its proper printer. CATHOLICON. 1460. Folio. 2 vols. A tolerably fair good copy; in red morocco binding. ---- 1469. _Printed by Gunther Zeiner._ 2 vols. Folio. This copy is UPON VELLUM, of a fair and sound quality. I suspect that it has been somewhat diminished in size, and may not be larger than the similar copy at Göttwic Monastery. In calf binding. DURANDUS. RAT. DIV. OFFIC. _Printed by Fust and Schoeffher._ 1459. Folio. This book, which is always UPON VELLUM, was the Duke de La Valliere's copy. It is the thinnest I ever saw, but it is quite perfect. The condition is throughout sound, and the margins appear to retain all their pristine amplitude. It is bound in morocco. FICHETI RHETORICA. _Printed by Gering_, &c. Quarto. This copy is UPON VELLUM, not indifferently illuminated: but it has been cruelly cropt. LUDOLPHUS. DE TERRA SANCTA and ITINERE IHEROSO-LOMITANO. _Without date or place._ Folio. I never saw this book, nor this work, before. The text describes a journey to Jerusalem, undertaken by Ludolphus, between the years 1336 and 1350. This preface is very interesting; but I have neither time nor space for extracts. At the end: "_Finit feliciter libellus de itinere ad terram sanctam, &_." This impression is printed in long lines, and contains thirty-six leaves.[126] MAMMOTRECTUS. _Printed by Schoeffher._ 1470. Folio. Here are two copies; of which one is UPON VELLUM--but the paper copy is not only a larger, but in every respect a fairer and more desirable, book. The vellum copy has quite a foggy aspect. NONIUS MARCELLUS. _Without name of printer or place._ 1471. Folio. This is the first edition of the work with a date, but the printer is unknown. It is executed in a superior style of typographical elegance; and the present is as fine and white a copy of it as can possibly be possessed. I think it even larger than the Göttwic copy. PETRARCHA. HISTORIA GRISELDIS. _Printed by G. Zeiner._ 1473. Folio. Whether _this_ edition of the HISTORY OF PATIENT GRISEL, or that printed by Zel, without date, be the earliest, I cannot pretend to say. This edition is printed in the roman type, and perhaps is among the very earliest specimens of the printer so executed. It is however a thin, round, and scraggy type. The book is doubtless of extreme rarity. This copy was formerly Prince Eugene's, and is bound in red morocco. PHALARIDIS EPISTOLÆ. Lat. 1471. Quarto. This is the first time (if I remember rightly) that the present edition has come under my notice. It is doubtless of excessive rarity. The type is a remarkably delicate, round, widely spread and roman letter. At the end is the colophon, in capital letters. PHALARIDIS EPISTOLÆ. _Printed by Ulric Han._ _Without date._ Folio. This is among the rarest editions of the Latin version of the Epistles of Phalaris. It is executed in the second, or ordinary roman type of Ulric Han. In the whole there are thirty leaves; and I know not why this impression may not be considered as the first, or at least the second, of the version in question. POGGII FACETIÆ. _Without name of Printer, Place, or Date._ Folio. It is for the first time that I examine the present edition, which I should not hesitate to pronounce the FIRST of the work in question. The types are those which were used in the _Eusebian Monastery_ at Rome. A full page has twenty-three lines. This is a sound, clean copy; in calf binding. PRISCIANUS. _Printed by V. de Spira._ 1470. Folio. Editio princeps. A beautiful, large, white, and crackling copy, in the original wooden binding. Is one word further necessary to say that a finer copy, upon paper, cannot exist? PRISCIANUS. _Printed by Ulric Han._ Folio. With the metrical version of _Dionysius de Situ Orbis_ at the end. This is a very rare book. The fount of Greek letters clearly denotes it to come from a press at Rome, and that press was assuredly Ulric Han's. This appears to have been Gaignat's copy, and is sound and desirable, but not so fine as the copy of this edition in the library of Göttwic Monastery. PTOLEMÆUS. Lat. _Printed at Bologna._ 1462. Folio. There can be no doubt of this date being falsely put for 1472 or even 1482. But this is a rare book to possess, with all the copper plates, which this copy has--and it is moreover a fine copy. PTOLEMÆUS. _Printed by Buckinck._ 1478. Folio. Another fine and perfect copy of a volume of considerable rarity, and interest to the curious in the history of early engraving. TURRECREMATA I. de. MEDITATIONES. _Printed by Ulric Han._ 1467. Folio. This wonderfully rare volume is justly shewn among the "great guns" of the Imperial Library. It was deposited here by the late Mr. Edwards; and is considered by some to be the _first book printed at Rome_, and is filled with strange wood-cuts.[127] The text is uniformly in the large gothic character of Ulric Han. The French were too sensible of the rarity and value of this precious book, to suffer it to remain upon the shelves of the Imperial library after their first triumphant visit to Vienna; and accordingly it was carried off, among other book trophies, to Paris--from whence it seems, naturally as it were, to have taken up its present position. This is a very fine copy; bound in blue morocco, with the cuts uncoloured. It measures thirteen inches and a quarter, by very nearly nine and a quarter: being, what may be fairly called, almost its pristine dimensions. Whenever you visit this library, ask to see, among the very first books deserving of minute inspection, this copy of the Meditations of John de Turrecremata: but, remember--_a yet finer_ copy is within three stones-throw of Buckingham Palace! VALTURIUS DE RE MILITARI. 1472. Folio. Edit. Prin. A fine, clean copy; in red morocco binding. Formerly, in the collection of Prince Eugene. Such a hero, however, should have possessed it UPON VELLUM!--although, of the two copies of this kind which I have seen, neither gave me the notion of a very fine book. BOOKS IN THE ITALIAN LANGUAGE. _Bella (La) Mono._ _Without name of Printer._ 1474. Quarto. This is the first time of my inspecting the present volume; of which the printer is not known--but, in all probability, the book was printed _at Venice_. It is executed in a round, tall, roman letter. This is a cropt and soiled, but upon the whole, a desirable copy: it is bound in red morocco, and was formerly Prince Eugene's. _Berlinghieri._ _Geografia._ _Without Place or Date._ Folio. Prima Edizione. It does the heart good to gaze upon such a copy of so estimable and magnificent a production as the present. This book belonged to Prince Eugene, and is bound in red morocco. It is quite perfect--with all the copper-plate maps. _Boccaccio._ _Il Decamerone._ _Printed by Zarotus._ 1476. Folio. This is an exceedingly rare edition of the Decameron. It is executed in the small and elegantly formed gothic type of the printer, with which the Latin Æsop, of the same date, in 4to, was printed. Notwithstanding this copy is of a very brown hue, and most cruelly cut down--as the illuminated first page but too decisively proves--it is yet a sound and desirable book. This is the only early edition, as far as I had an opportutunity of ascertaining, which they appear to possess of the Decameron of Boccaccio. Of the _Philocolo_, there is a folio edition of 1488; and of the _Nimphale_ there is a sound and clean copy of a dateless edition, in 4to., without name of place or printer, which ends thus--and which possibly may be among the very earliest impressions of that work: Finito il nimphale di fiesole che tracto damore. _Caterina da Bologna._ _Without Date or name of Printer._ Quarto. This is a very small quarto volume of great rarity; concluding with some poetry, and some particulars of the Life of the female Saint and author. It appears to have wholly escaped Brunet. Incomezao alcune cose d'la uita d'la sopra nominata beata Caterina. There are neither manuals, signatures, nor catchwords. This volume looks like a production of the _Bologna_ or _Mantua_ press. I never saw another copy of this curious little work. _Caterina da Siena Legendi di._ _Printed in the Monastery of St. James, at Florence._ 1477. Quarto. This is the edition which Brunet very properly pronounces to be "excessively rare." It is printed in double columns, in a small, close, and scratchy gothic type. On the 158th and last leaf, is the colophon. _Dante._ _Printed by Neumister._ 1472. Folio. PRIMA EDIZIONE. This copy is ruled, but short, and in a somewhat tender condition. Although not a first rate copy, it is nevertheless desirable; yet is this book but a secondary typographical performance. The paper is always coarse in texture, and sombre in tint. _Dante_. 1481. Folio. With the commentary of Landino. This is doubtless a precious copy, inasmuch as it contains TWENTY COPPER-PLATE IMPRESSIONS, and is withal in fair and sound condition. The fore-edge margin has been however somewhat deprived of its original dimensions. _Decor Puellarum. Printed by Jenson_. Quarto. With the false date of 1461 for 1471. This volume, which once gave rise to such elaborate bibliographical disquisition, now ceases to have any extraordinary claims upon the attention of the collector. It is nevertheless a _sine qua non_ in a library with any pretension to early typographical curiosities. The present copy is clean and tolerably large: bound by De Rome. _Fazio. Dita Mundi. Printed by L. Basiliensis_. 1474. Folio. Prima Edizione. Of unquestionably great rarity; and unknown to the earlier bibliographers. It is printed in double columns, with signatures, to _o_ in eighths: _o_ has only four leaves. This copy has the signatures considerably below the text, and they seem to have been a clumsy and _posterior_ piece of workmanship. It has been recently bound in russia. _Frezzi. Il Quadriregio_. 1481. Folio. Prima Edizione. I have before sufficiently expatiated upon the rarity of this impression. The present is a large copy, but too much beaten in the binding. The first leaf is much stained. A few of the others are also not free from the same defect. _Fulgosii Bapt. Anteros.: sive de Amore. Printed by L. Pachel. Milan_. 1496. On the reverse of the title, is a very singular wood-cut--where Death is sitting upon a coffin, and a blinded Cupid stands leaning against a tree before him: with a variety of other allegorical figures. The present is a beautiful copy, in red morocco binding. _Gloria Mulierum. Printed by Jenson_. Quarto. This is another of the early Jenson pieces which are coveted by the curious and of which a sufficiently particular account has been already given to the public[128] This copy is taller than that of the _Decor Puellarum_ (before described) but it is in too tender a condition. _Legende Di Sancti per Nicolao di Manerbi, Printed by Jenson. Without date_. Folio. It is just possible that you may not have forgotten a brief mention of a copy of this very rare book in the Mazarine Library at Paris,[129] That copy, although beautiful, was upon paper: the present is UPON VELLUM--illuminated, very delicately in the margins, with figures of divers Saints. I take the work to be an Italian version of the well known LEGENDA SANCTORUM. The book is doubtless among the most beautiful from the press of JENSON, who is noticed in the prefatory advertisement of Manerbi. _Luctus Christianorum. Printed by Jenson_. Quarto. Another of the early pieces of Jenson's press; and probably of the date of 1471. The present is a fair, nice copy; but has something of a foggy and suspicious aspect about it. I suspect it to have been washed. _Monte Sancto di Dio_. 1477. Folio. The chief value of this book consists in its having good impressions of the THREE COPPER PLATES. Of these, only _one_ is in the present copy, which represents the Devil eating his victims in the lake of Avernus, as given in the La Valliere copy. Yet the absence of the two remaining plates, as it happens, constitutes the chief attraction of this copy; for they are here supplied by two FAC-SIMILES, presented to the Library by Leopold Duke of Tuscany, of the most wonderfully perfect execution I ever saw. _Petrarcha. Sonetti e Trionfi. Printed by V. de Spira._ 1470. Folio. Prima Edizione. The last leaf of the table is unluckily manuscript; and the last leaf but one of the text is smaller than the rest--which appear to have been obtained, from another copy. In other respects, this is a large, sound, and desirable copy. It belonged to Prince Eugene. _Petrarcha. Sonetti e Trionfi. Printed by Zarotus._ 1473. Folio. This edition (if the present copy of it be perfect) has no prefix of table or biographical memorandum of Petrarch. A full page contains forty, and sometimes forty-two lines. On the recto of the last leaf is the colophon. This is a sound and clean, but apparently cropt copy; in old blue morocco binding. _Petrarcha Sonetti e Trionfi. Printed by Jenson._ 1473. Folio. A sound and desirable copy, in red morocco binding; formerly belonging to Prince Eugene. ----. _Comment. Borstii in Trionfi. Printed at Bologna._ 1475. Folio. Here are two copies of this beautifully printed, and by no means common, book. One of them belonged to Prince Eugene; and a glance upon the top corner ms. pagination evidently proves it to have been cropt. It is in red morocco binding. The other copy, bound in blue morocco, has the table inlaid; and is desirable--although inferior to the preceding. _Poggio. Historia Fiorentina. Printed by I. de Rossi._ (Jacobus Rubeus) 1476. Folio. First edition of the Italian version. This copy is really a great curiosity., The first seven books are printed _upon paper_ of a fine tone and texture, and the leaves are absolutely _uncut_: a few leaves at the beginning are soiled--especially the first; but the remainder are in delightful preservation, and shew what an old book _ought_ to be. The eighth book is entirely printed UPON VELLUM; and some of these vellum leaves are perfectly enchanting. They are of the same size with the paper, and _also uncut._ This volume has never been bound. I entreated M. Bartsch to have it handsomely bound, but not to touch the fore edges. He consented readily. _Regula Confitendi Peccata Sua._ 1473. Quarto. Of this book I never saw another copy. The author is PICENUS, and the work is written throughout in the Italian language. There are but seven leaves--executed in a letter which resembles the typographical productions of Bologna and Mantua. * * * * * GERMAN, FRENCH, AND SPANISH BOOKS. _Bone Vie (Livre De);_ qui est appelee Madenie. _Printed by A. Neyret at Chambery._ 1485. Folio. As far as signature 1 vj, the subject is prose: afterwards commences the poetry--"appelle la somme de la vision Iehan du pin." The colophon is on the reverse of the last leaf but one. A wood-cut is on the last leaf. This small folio volume is printed in a tall, close, and inelegant gothic type; reminding me much of the LIVRE DE CHASSE printed at the same place, in 1486, and now in Lord Spencer's library.[130] _Chevalier (Le) Delibre._ 1488. Quarto. This book is filled with some very neat wood cuts, and is printed in the gothic letter. The subject matter is poetical. No name appears, but I suspect this edition to have been, printed in the office of Verard. _Cité des Dames (Le Tresor de la)_--"sclon dame christine." Without Date. Folio. A fine, tall, clean copy; UPON VELLUM. The printer seems in all probability to have been _Verard_. In red morocco binding. _Coronica del Cid ruy Diaz._ _Printed at Seville._ _Without Date._ Quarto. The preceding title is beneath a neat wood-cut of a man on horseback, brandishing his sword; an old man, coming out of a gate, is beside him. The signatures from _a_ to _i vj_, are in eights. On _f ij_ is a singular wood-cut of a lion entering a room, where a man is apparently sleeping over a chess-board, while two men are rising from the table: this cut is rudely executed. On _i v_ is the colophon. This edition is executed in that peculiarly rich and handsome style of printing, in a bold gothic letter, which distinguishes the early annals of the Spanish press. The present beautifully clean copy belonged to PRINCE EUGENE; but it has been severely cropt. _Ein nuizlich büchlin_ das man nennet den Pilgrim das hat der würdig doctor keyserperg zü Augspurg geprediget. Such is the title of this singular tract, printed by _Lucas Zeisenmair_ at Augsbourg in 1498. Small 4to. It has many clever and curious wood-cuts; and I do not remember, in any part of Germany where I have travelled, to have seen another copy of it. _Fierbras._ _Printed by G. Le Roy._ 1486. Folio. This is a small folio, and the third edition of the work. This copy is quite perfect; containing the last leaf, on which is a large wood-cut. All the cuts here are coloured after the fashion of the old times. This sound and desirable copy, in red morocco binding, once graced the library of PRINCE EUGENE. _Iosephe._ _Printed by Verard._ 1492. Folio. "_Cy finist l'hystoire de Josephus de la bataille Judaique, &c_." This is a noble folio volume; printed in the large handsome type of Verard, abounding with wood cuts. It is in red morocco binding. _Jouvencel (Le)._ _Printed by Verard_, 1497. Folio. This is a fine copy, with coloured cuts, printed UPON VELLUM. It is badly bound. _Lancelot du Lac._ _Printed by Verard._ 1488. Folio. 2 vols. First Edition. A fine clean copy, but somewhat cropt. It once belonged to PRINCE EUGENE, and is bound in red morocco. ---- _Printed by the Same._ 1496. Folio. 3 vols. UPON VELLUM. In fine old red morocco binding, beautifully tooled. This copy measures fifteen inches six-eighths in height, by ten inches five-eighths in width. _Les Deux Amans._ _Printed by Verard._ 1493. Quarto. The title is beneath the large L, of which a fac-simile appears in the first vol. of my edition of our _Typographical Antiquities_. The work is old French poetry. Verard's device is on the last leaf. A copy of this book is, in all probability, in a certain black-letter French-metrical cabinet in Portland Place. _Maguelone (La Belle)._ _Printed by Trepperel._ 1492. Quarto. The preceding title is over Trepperel's device. The wood cuts in this edition have rather unusual merit; especially that on the reverse of Ciiii. A very desirable copy. _Marco Polo. Von Venedig des Grost Landtfarer. Germanicè._ _Printed by Creusner._ 1477. Folio. This is the FIRST EDITION of the Travels of MARCO POLO; and I am not sure whether the present copy be not considered unique.[131] A complete paginary and even lineal transcript of it was obtained for Mr. Marsden's forth-coming translation of the work, into our own language--under the superintendence of M. Kopitar. Its value, therefore, may be appreciated accordingly. _Regnars (Les)_ "trauersant les perilleuses voyes des folles frances du möde." _Printed by Verard._ _No Date._ 4to. This is a French metrical version from the German of Sebastian Brandt. The present edition is printed in the black letter, double columns, with wood cuts. This is a fair good copy, bound in red morocco, and formerly belonging to Prince Eugene. _Tewrdannckh._ 1517. Folio. The Emperor Maximilian's OWN COPY!--of course UPON VELLUM. The cuts are coloured. The Abbé Strattman had told me that I should necessarily find this to be the largest and completest copy in existence. It is very white and tall, measuring fifteen inches, by nine and three quarters; and perhaps the largest known. Yet I suspect, from the smooth glossy surface of the fore edge--in its recent and very common-place binding, in russia--that the side margin was once broader.[132] The cuts should not have been coloured, and the binding should haye been less vulgar: Here is ANOTHER COPY, not quite so large, with the cuts uncoloured.[133] _Tristran: chlr de la table ronde "nouellement Imprime a Paris_." Folio. _Printed by Verard._ Without Date. This is a fine sound copy, in old handsome calf binding. _Thucydide (L'hystoire de)._ _Printed by G. Gourmont._ Without Date. Folio. The translator was Claude de Seyssel, when Bishop of Marseilles, and the edition was printed at the command of Francis the First. It is executed in the small, neat, secretary gothic type of Gourmont; whose name is at the bottom of the title-page. This is a beautiful copy, struck off UPON VELLUM; but it is much cut in the fore edge, and much choked in the back of the binding, which is in red morocco. It belonged to PRINCE EUGENE. * * * * * Comparatively copious as may be the preceding list, I fear it will not satisfy you unless I make some mention of _Block Books_, and inform you whether, as you have long and justly supposed, there be not also a few _Cartons_ in the Imperial Library. These two points will occupy very little more of my time and attention. First then of _xylographical_ productions--or of books supposed to have been printed by means of wooden blocks. I shall begin with an unique article of this description. It is called _Liber Regum, seu Vita Davidis_: a folio, of twenty leaves: printed on one side only, but the leaves are here pasted together. Two leaves go to a signature, and the signatures run from A to K. Each page has two wood cuts, about twice as long as the text; or, rather, about one inch and three quarters of the text doubled. The text is evidently xylographic. The ink is of the usual pale, brown colour. This copy is coloured, of the time of the publication of the book. It is in every respect in a fine and perfect state of preservation. Here is the second, if not third edition, of the _Biblia Pauperum_; the second edition of the _Apocalypse_; the same of the _History of the Virgin_; and a coloured and cropt copy of _Hartlib's Book upon Chiromancy_: so much is it cropt, that the name of _Schopff_, the supposed printer, is half cut away. The preceding books are all clumsily bound in modern russia binding. As some compensation, however, there is a fine bound copy, in red morocco binding, of the Latin edition of the _Speculum Humanæ Salvationis_; and a very fine large copy, in blue morocco binding, of the first edition of the _Ars Memorandi per Figuras_; which latter had belonged to Prince Eugene. Of the CAXTONS, the list is more creditable; and indeed very much to be commended: for, out of our own country, I question whether the united strength of all the continental libraries could furnish a more copious supply of the productions of our venerable first printer. I send you the following account--just as the several articles happened to be taken down for my inspection. _Chaucer's Book of Fame_: a neat, clean, perfect copy: in modern russia binding. The _Mayster of Sentence_, &c. This is only a portion of a work, although it is perfect of itself, as to signatures and imprint. This copy, in modern russia binding, is much washed, and in a very tender state. _Game of Chess_; second edition. In very tender condition: bound in blue morocco, with pink lining. An exceedingly _doctored_ copy. _Iason_: a cropt, and rather dirty copy: which formerly belonged to Gulstone. It appears to be perfect; for Gulstone has observed in ms. "_This book has 148 leaves, as I told them carefully. 'Tis very scarce and valuable, and deserves an extraordinary good binding_." Below, is a note, in French; apparently by Count Reviczky. _Godfrey of Boulogne_: a perfect, large copy, in old red morocco (apparently Harleian) binding. On the fly leaf, Count Reviczky has written a notice of the date and name of the printer of the book. Opposite the autograph of _Ames_ (to whom this copy once belonged) the old price of 16_l._ 16_s._ is inserted. On the first page of the text, is the ancient autograph of _Henry Norreys_. This is doubtless the most desirable Caxtonian volume in the collection. This department of bibliography may be concluded by the mention of a sound and desirable copy of the first edition of _Littleton's Tenures_ by _Lettou_ and _Machlinia_, which had formerly belonged to Bayntun of Gray's Inn. This, and most of the preceding articles, from the early English press, were supplied to the Imperial library by the late Mr. Edwards. And now, my good friend, I hope to have fulfilled even your wishes respecting the earlier and more curious book-treasures in the Imperial Library. But I must candidly affirm, that, although _you_ may be satisfied, it is not so with myself. More frequent visits, and less intrusion upon the avocations of Messrs. BARTSCH and KOPITAR--who ought, during the whole time, to have been inhaling the breezes of Baden,--would doubtless have enabled me to render the preceding catalogue more copious and satisfactory; but, whatever be its defects, either on the score of omission or commission, it will at least have the merit of being the first, if not the only, communication of its kind, which has been transmitted for British perusal. To speak fairly, there is a prodigious quantity of lumber--in the shape of books printed in the fifteenth century--in this Imperial Library, which might be well disposed of for more precious literary productions. The MSS. are doubtless, generally speaking, of great value; yet very far indeed from being equal, either in number or in intrinsic worth, to those in the Royal Library at Paris. It is also to be deeply regretted, that, both of these MSS. and printed books--with the exception of the ponderous and digressive work of Lambecius upon the former,--there should be NO printed _catalogue raisonné_. But I will hope that the "Saturnia regna" are about to return; and that the love of bibliographical research, which now seems generally, to pervade, the principal librarians of the public collections upon the continent, will lead to the appearance of some solid and satisfactory performance upon the subjects of which this letter has treated. Fare you well. The post will depart in a few minutes, and I am peremptorily summoned to the operatical ballet of _Der Berggeist_. [109] [All this is profound matter, or secret history--(such as my friend Mr. D'Israeli dearly loves) for future writers to comment upon.] [110] [Mons. Bartsch did NOT LIVE to peruse this humble record of his worth. More of him in a subsequent note.] [111] [M. Payne now CEASES TO EXIST.] [112] My excellent friend M.A. DE BARTSCH has favoured me with the following particulars relating to the Imperial Library. The building was begun in 1723, and finished in 1735, by Joseph Emanuel, Baron de Fischer, Architect of the Court: the same who built the beautiful church of St. Charles Borromeo, in the suburbs. The Library is 246 German feet in length, by 62 in width: the oval dome, running at right angles, and forming something like transepts, is 93 feet long, and 93 feet high, by 57 wide. The fresco-paintings, with which the ceiling of the dome in particular is profusely covered, were executed by Daniel Gran. The number of the books is supposed to amount to 300,000 volumes: of which 8000 were printed in the XVth. century, and 750 are atlas folios filled with engravings. These 750 volumes contain about 180,000 prints; of which the pecuniary value, according to the computation of the day, cannot be less than 3,300,000 "florins argent de convention"--according to a valuation (says M. Bartsch) which I made last year. This may amount to £300,000. of our money. I apprehend there is nothing in Europe to be put in competition with such a collection. [113] The reader may not be displeased to consult, for one moment, the _Bibliog. Decameron_; vol. i. pp. xliii. iv. [114] [A sad tale is connected with the procuring of a copy, or fac-simile, of the initial letter in question. I was most anxious to possess a _coloured_ fac-simile of it; and had authorised M. Bartsch to obtain it at _almost_ any price. He stipulated (I think with M. Fendi) to obtain it for £10. sterling; and the fac-simile was executed in all respects worthy of the reputation of the artist, and to afford M. Bartsch the most unqualified satisfaction. It was dispatched to me by permission of the Ambassador, in the Messenger's bag of dispatches:--but it NEVER reached me. Meanwhile my worthy friend M. Bartsch became impatient and almost angry at the delay; and the artist naturally wondered at the tardiness of payment. Something like _suspicion_ had began to take possession of my friend's mind--when the fact was disclosed to him ... and his sorrow and vexation were unbounded. The money was duly remitted and received; but "the valuable consideration" was never enjoyed by the too enthusiastic traveller. This beautiful copy has doubtless perished from accident.] [115] Vol. ii. p. 458. [116] Tasso, in fact, retouched and almost remodelled his poem, under the title of _Jerusalem Conquered_, and published it under that of Jerusalem Delivered. See upon these alterations and corrections, Brunet, _Manuel du Libraire_, vol. iii. p. 298. edit. 1814; _Haym Bibl._ Ital. vol. ii. p. 28. edit. 1808; and particularly Ginguené _Hist. Lit. d'Italie,_ vol. v. p. 504. [117] See p. 139, ante. [118] Lord Spencer has now obtained a copy of it--as may be seen in _Ædes Althorpianæ_, vol. ii. pp. 39-40, where a facsimile of the type is given. [119] See pages 98, 103, 228, 239, ante. His Lordship's first copy of the POLISH PROTESTANT BIBLE had been obtained from three imperfect copies at VIENNA; for which I have understood that nearly a hundred guineas were paid. The Augsbourg copy now supplies the place of the previous one; which latter, I learn, is in the Bodleian library, at Oxford. [120] A particular account of this edition will be found in the _Bibl. Spencer._ vol. iv. page 522. [121] See the _Bibl. Spencer._; vol. i. page 135-144. [122] It is singular enough that the Curators of this Library, some twenty years ago, threw out PRINCE EUGENE'S copy of the above edition, as a duplicate--which happened to be somewhat larger and finer. This latter copy, bound in red morocco, with the arms of the Prince on the sides, now graces the shelves of Lord Spencer's Library. See _Bibl. Spenceriana_, vol. i. p. 305, 7. [123] See vol. ii. p. 120. [124] See vol. ii. p: 120. [125] Including LEXICOGRAPHY. [126] A copy of this edition (printed in all probability by Fyner of Eislingen) was sold at the sale of Mr. Hibbert's library for £8. 12s. [127] [Of which, specimens appear in the _Ædes Althorpianæ_, vol. ii. p. 273, &c. from the copy in Lord Spencer's collection--a copy, which may be pronounced to be the FINEST KNOWN copy in the world!] [128] _Bibl. Spenceriana_; vol. iv. p. 121. [129] Vol. ii. p. 191. [130] This book is fully described, with numerous fac-similes of the wood-cuts, in the Ædes' Althorpianæ, vol. ii. p. 204-213. [131] Since the above was written, Lord Spencer has obtained a very fine and perfect copy of it, through Messrs. Payne and Foss: which copy will be found fully described, with a fac-simile of a supposed whole-length portrait of MARCO POLO, in the _Ædes Althorpianæ_, vol. ii. p. 176. [132] I think I remember to have seen, at Messrs. Payne and Foss's, the finest copy of this book in England. It was upon vellum, in the original binding, and measured fourteen inches three quarters by nine and a half. Unluckily, it wanted the whole of the table at the end. See the _Bibliog. Decameron_, vol. i. p. 202. [Recently, my neighbour and especial good friend Sir F. Freeling, Bart. has fortunately come into the possession of a most beautifully fair and perfect copy of this resplendent volume.] [133] While upon the subject of this book, it may not be immaterial to add, that I saw the ORIGINAL PAINTINGS from which the large wood blocks were taken for the well known work entitled "the _Triumphs of the Emperor Maximilian_" in large folio. These paintings are in water colours, upon rolls of vellum, very fresh--and rather gaudily executed. They do not convey any high notion of art, and I own that I greatly prefer the blocks (of which I saw several) to the original paintings. These were the blocks which our friend Mr. Douce entreated Mr. Edwards to examine when he came to Vienna, and with these he printed the well-known edition of the Triumphs, of the date of 1794. LETTER XI. POPULATION. STREETS AND FOUNTAINS. CHURCHES. CONVENTS. PALACES. THEATRES. THE PRATER. THE EMPEROR'S PRIVATE LIBRARY. COLLECTION OF DUKE ALBERT. SUBURBS. MONASTERY OF CLOSTERNEUBURG. DEPARTURE FROM VIENNA. _Vienna, September_ 18, 1818. My dear friend; "Extremum hunc--mihi concede laborem." In other words, I shall trouble you for the last time with an epistle from the Austrian territories: at any rate, with the last communication from the capital of the empire. Since my preceding letter, I have stirred a good deal abroad: even from breakfast until a late dinner hour. By the aid of a bright sky, and a brighter moon, I have also visited public places of entertainment; for, having completed my researches at the library, I was resolved to devote the mornings to society and sights out of doors. I have also made a pleasant day's trip to the MONASTERY of CLOSTERNEUBURG--about nine English miles from hence; and have been led into temptation by the sight of some half dozen folios of a yet more exquisite condition than almost any thing previously beheld. I have even bought sundry tomes, of monks with long bushy beards, in a monastery in the suburbs, called the ROSSAU; and might, if I had pleased, have purchased their whole library--covered with the dust and cobwebs of at least a couple of centuries. As, in all previous letters, when arrived at a new capital, I must begin the present by giving you some account of the population, buildings, public sights, and national character of the place in which I have now tarried for the last three weeks; and which--as I think I observed at the conclusion of my _first_ letter from hence--was more characteristic of English fashions and appearances than any thing before witnessed by me ... even since my landing at Dieppe. The CITY of VIENNA may contain a population of 60,000 souls; but its SUBURBS, which are _thirty-three_ in number, and I believe the largest in Europe, contain full _three times_ that number of inhabitants.[134] This estimate has been furnished me by M. Bartsch, according to the census taken in 1815. Vienna itself contains 7150 houses; 123 palaces; and 29 Catholic parishes; 17 convents, of which three are filled by _Religieuses_; one Protestant church; one of the reformed persuasion; two churches of the united Greek faith, and one of the Greek, not united.[135] Of synagogues, I should think there must be a great number; for even _Judaism_ seems, in this city, to be a thriving and wealthy profession. Hebrew bibles and Hebrew almanacks are sufficiently common. I bought a recent impression of the former, in five crown octavo volumes, neatly bound in sheep skin, for about seven shillings of our money; and an atlas folio sheet of the latter for a penny. You meet with Jews every where: itinerant and stationary. The former, who seem to be half Jew and half Turk, are great frequenters of hotels, with boxes full of trinkets and caskets. One of this class has regularly paid me a visit every morning, pretending to have the genuine attar of roses and rich rubies to dispose of. But these were not to my taste. I learnt, however, that this man had recently married his daughter,--and boasted of having been able to give her a dowry equal to 10,000l. of our money. He is short of stature, with a strongly-expressive countenance, and a well-arranged turban--and laughs unceasingly at whatever he says himself, or is said of him. As Vienna may be called the key of Italy, on the land side--or, speaking less figuratively, the concentrating point where Greeks, Turks, Jews, and Italians meet for the arrangement of their mercantile affairs throughout the continent of Europe--it will necessarily follow that you see a great number of individuals belonging to the respective countries from whence they migrate. Accordingly, you are constantly struck with the number and variety of characters, of this class, which you meet from about the hour of three till five. Short clokes, edged with sable or ermine, and delicately trimmed mustachios, with the throat exposed, mark the courteous Greek and Albanian. Long robes, trimmed with tarnished silver or gold, with thickly folded girdles and turbans, and beards of unrestrained growth, point out the majestic Turk. The olive-tinted visage, with a full, keen, black eye, and a costume half Greek and half Turkish, distinguish the citizen of Venice or Verona. Most of these carry pipes, of a varying length, from which volumes of fragrant smoke occasionally issue; but the exercise of smoking is generally made subservient to that of talking: while the loud laugh, or reirated reply, or, emphatic asseveration, of certain individuals in the passing throng, adds much to the general interest of the scene. Smoking, however, is a most decidedly general characteristic of the place. Two shops out of six in some streets are filled with pipes, of which the _bowls_ exhibit specimens of the most curious and costly workmanship. The handles are generally short. A good Austrian thinks he can never pay too much for a good pipe; and the upper classes of society sometimes expend great sums in the acquisition of these objects of comfort or fashion. It was only the other evening, when, in company with my friends Messrs. G. and S., and Madame la Comtesse de------a gentleman drew forth from his pocket a short pipe, which screwed together in three divisions, and of which the upper part of the bowl--(made in the fashion of a black-a-moor's head) near the aperture--was composed of diamonds of great lustre and value. Upon enquiry, I found that this pipe was worth about 1000l. of our money!--and what surprised me yet more, was, the cool and unconcerned manner in which the owner pulled it out of a loose great-coat pocket--as if it had been a tobacco box not worth half a dozen kreutzers! Such is their love of smoking here, that, in one of their most frequented coffee-houses--where I went after dinner for a cup of coffee--the centre of the room was occupied by two billiard tables, which were surrounded by lookers on:--from the mouths of every one of whom, including even the players themselves, issued constant and pungent puffs of smoke, so as to fill the whole room with a dense cloud, which caused me instantly to retreat... as if grazed by a musket ball. Of female society I can absolutely say little or nothing. The upper circles of society are all broken up for the gaieties of Baden. Yet, at the opera, at the Prater, and in the streets, I should say that the general appearance and manners of the females are very interesting; strongly resembling, in the former respect, those of our own country. In the streets, and in the shops, the women wear their own hair, which is generally of a light brown colour, apparently well brushed and combed, platted and twisted into graceful forms. In complexion, they are generally fair, with blue eyes; and in stature they are usually short and stout. The men are, I think, every where good-natured, obliging, and extremely anxious to pay you every attention of which you stand in need. If I could but speak the language fluently, I should quickly fancy myself in England. The French language here is less useful than the Italian, in making yourself understood. So much for the living, or active life. Let me now direct your attention to inanimate objects; and these will readily strike you as relating to _Buildings_--in their varied characters of houses, churches and palaces. First, of the STREETS. I told you, a little before, that there are upwards of one hundred and twenty palaces, so called, in Vienna; but the truth is, almost every street may be said to be filled with palaces: so large and lofty are the houses of which they are usually composed. Sometimes a street, of a tolerable length, will contain only a dozen houses--as, for instance, that of the _Wallnerstrasse:_ at the further end of which, to the right, lives Mr.------ the second banker (Count Fries being the first) in Vienna. Some of the banking-houses have quite the air of noblemen's chateaux. It is true, that these houses, like our Inns of Court, are inhabited by different families; yet the external appearance, being uniform, and frequently highly decorated, have an exceedingly picturesque appearance. The architectural ornaments, over the doors and windows--so miserably wanting in our principal streets and squares, and of which the absence gives to Portland Place the look, at a distance, of a range of barracks--are here, yet more than at Augsbourg or Munich, boldly and sometimes beautifully managed. The _Palace of Prince Eugene_[136] in the street in which I reside, and which no Englishman ought to gaze at without emotions of pleasure--is highly illustrative of the justice of the foregoing remark. This palace is now converted into the _Mint_. The door-ways and window-frames are, generally, throughout the streets of Vienna, of a bold and pleasing architectural character. From one till three, the usual hour of dining, the streets of Vienna are stripped of their full complement of population; but from three till six; at the latter of which hours the plays and opera begin, there is a numerous and animated population. Notwithstanding the season of the year, the days have been sometimes even sultry; while over head has constantly appeared one of the bluest and brightest skies ever viewed by human eyes. Among the most pleasing accompaniments or characteristics of street scenery, at Vienna, are the FOUNTAINS. They are very different from those at Paris; exhibiting more representations of the human figure, and less water. In the _Place_, before mentioned, is probably the most lofty and elaborate of these sculptured accompaniments of a fountain: but, in a sort of square called the _New Market_, and through which I regularly passed in my way to the Imperial Library--there is a fountain of a particularly pleasing, and, to my eye, tasteful cast of character; executed, I think, by DONNER. A large circular cistern receives the water, which is constantly flowing into it, from some one or the other of the surrounding male and female figures, of the size of life. One of these male figures, naked, is leaning over the side of the cistern, about to strike a fish, or some aquatic monster, with a harpoon or dart--while one of his legs (I think it is the right) is thrown back with a strong muscular expression, resting upon the earth--as if to balance the figure, thus leaning forward--thereby giving it an exceedingly natural and characteristic air. Upon the whole, although I am not sure that any _one_ fountain, of the character just mentioned, may equal that in the High Street at Augsbourg, yet, taken collectively, I should say that Vienna has reason to claim its equality with any other city in Europe, on the score of this most picturesque, and frequently salutary, accompaniment of street scenery. In our own country, which has the amplest means of any other in the world, of carrying these objects of public taste into execution, there seems to be an infatuation--amounting to hopeless stupidity--respecting the uniform exclusion of them. While I am on these desultory topics, let me say a word or two respecting the _quoi vivre_ in this metropolis. There are few or no _restaurateurs_: at least, at this moment, only two of especial note.[137] I have dined at each--and very much prefer the vin du Pays, of the better sort [138]--which is red, and called _vin d'Offner_ (or some such name) to that at Paris. But the _meats_, are less choice and less curiously cooked; and I must say that the sense of smelling is not very acute with the Germans. The mutton can only be attacked by teeth of the firmest setting. The beef is always preferable in a stewed or boiled state; although at our Ambassador's table, the other day, I saw and partook of a roasted sirloin which would have done honour to either tavern in Bishopsgate-street. The veal is the _safest_ article to attack. The pastry is upon the whole relishing and good. The bread is in every respect the most nutritive and digestive which I have ever partaken of. The _fruit_, at this moment, is perfectly delicious, especially, the pears. Peaches and grapes are abundant in the streets, and exceedingly reasonable in price. Last Sunday, we dined at the palace of _Schönbrunn;_ or rather, in the suite of apartments, which were formerly servant's offices,--but which are now fitted up in a very tasteful and gay manner, for the reception of Sunday visitors: it being one of the principal fashionable places of resort on the Sabbath. We had a half boiled and half stewed fowl, beefsteak, and fritters, for dinner. The, beef was perfectly uneatable, as being entirely _gone_--but the other dishes were good and well served. The dessert made amends for all previous grievances. It consisted of peaches and grapes--just gathered from the imperial garden: the Emperor allowing his old servants (who are the owners of the taverns, and who gain a livelihood from Sunday visitors) to partake of this privilege. The choicest table at Paris or at London could not boast of finer specimens of the fruit in question. I may here add, that the _slaughter-houses_ are all in the suburbs--or, at any rate, without the ramparts. This is a good regulation; but it is horribly disgusting, at times, to observe carts going along, with the dead bodies of animals, hanging down the sides, with their heads cut off. Of all cities in Europe, Vienna is probably the most distinguished for the excellence of its CARRIAGES of every description--and especially for its _Hackney Coaches._ I grant you, that there is nothing here comparable with our London carriages, made on the nicest principles of art: whether for springs, shape, interior accommodations, or luxury; but I am certain that, for almost every species of carriage to be obtained at London, you may purchase them _here_ at half the price. Satin linings of yellow, pink, and blue, are very prevalent ... even in their hackney coaches. These latter, are, in truth, most admirable, and of all shapes: landau, barouche, phaeton, chariot, or roomy family coach. Glass of every description, at Vienna--from the lustre that illuminates the Imperial Palace to that which is used in the theatre--is excellent; so that you are sure to have plate glass in your fiacre. The coachmen drive swiftly, and delight in rectangular turns. They often come thundering down upon you unawares, and as the streets are generally very narrow, it is difficult to secure a retreat in good time. At the corners of the streets are large stone posts, to protect the houses from the otherwise constant attrition from the wheels. The streets are paved with large stones, and the noise of the wheels, arising from the rapidity of their motion,--re-echoed by the height of the houses, is no trifling trial to nervous strangers. Of the chief objects of architecture which decorate street scenery, there are none, to my old-fashioned eyes, more attractive and more thoroughly beautiful and interesting--from a thousand associations of ideas--than PLACES OF WORSHIP--and of course, among these, none stands so eminently conspicuous as the Mother-Church, or the CATHEDRAL, which, in this place, is dedicated to _St. Stephen_. The spire has been long distinguished for its elegance and height. Probably these are the most appropriate, if not the only, epithets of commendation which can be applied to it. After Strasbourg and Ulm, it appears a second-rate edifice. Not but what the spire may even vie with that of the former, and the nave may be yet larger than that of the latter: but, as a _whole_, it is much inferior to either--even allowing for the palpable falling off in the nave of Strasbourg cathedral. The spire, or tower--for it partakes of both characters--is indeed worthy of general admiration. It is oddly situated, being almost detached--and on the _south_ side of the building. Indeed the whole structure has a very strange, and I may add capricious, if not repulsive, appearance, as to its exterior. The western and eastern ends have nothing deserving of distinct notice or commendation. The former has a porch, which is called "_the Giant's porch_:" it should rather be designated as that of the _Dwarf_. It has no pretensions to size or striking character of any description. Some of the oldest parts of the cathedral appear to belong to the porch of the eastern end. As you walk round the church, you cannot fail to be struck with the great variety of ancient, and to an Englishman, whimsical looking mural monuments, in basso and alto relievos. Some of these are doubtless both interesting and curious. But the spire[140] is indeed an object deserving of particular admiration. It is next to that of Strasbourg in height; being 432 feet of Vienna measurement. It may be said to begin to taper from the first stage or floor; and is distinguished for its open and sometimes intricate fretwork. About two-thirds of its height, just above the clock, and where the more slender part of the spire commences, there is a gallery or platform, to which the French quickly ascended, on their possession of Vienna, to reconnoitre the surrounding country. The very summit of the spire is bent, or inclined to the north; so much so, as to give the notion that the cap or crown will fall in a short time. As to the period of the erection of this spire, it is supposed to have been about the middle, or latter end, of the fifteenth century. It has certainly much in common with the highly ornamental gothic style of building in our own country, about the reign of Henry the VIth. The coloured glazed tiles of the roof of the church are very disagreeable and _unharmonising_. These colours are chiefly green, red, and blue. Indeed the whole roof is exceedingly heavy and tasteless. I will now conduct you to the interior. On entering, from the south-east door, you observe, to the left, a small piece of white marble--which every one touches, with the finger or thumb charged with holy water, on entering or leaving the cathedral. Such have been the countless thousands of times that this piece of marble has been so touched, that, purely, from such friction, it has been worn nearly _half an inch_ below the general surrounding surface. I have great doubts, however, if this mysterious piece of masonry be as old as the walls of the church, (which may be of the fourteenth century) which they pretend to say it is. The first view of the interior of this cathedral, seen even at the most favourable moment--which is from about three till five o'clock--is far from prepossing. Indeed, after what I had seen at Rouen, Paris, Strasboug, Ulm, and Munich, it was a palpable disappointment. In the first place, there seems to be no grand leading feature of simplicity: add to which, darkness reigns every where. You look up, and discern no roof--not so much from its extreme height, as from the absolute want of windows. Every thing not only looks dreary, but is dingy and black--from the mere dirt and dust which seem to have covered the great pillars of the nave--and especially the figures and ornament upon it--for the last four centuries. This is the more to be regretted, as the larger pillars are highly ornamented; having human figures, of the size of life, beneath sharply pointed canopies, running up the shafts. The extreme length of the cathedral is 342 feet of Vienna measurement. The extreme width, between the tower and its opposite extremity--or the transepts--is _222_ feet. There are comparatively few chapels; only four--but many _Bethstücke_ or _Prie-Dieus_. Of the former, the chapels of _Savoy_ and _St. Eloy_ are the chief: but the large sacristy is more extensive than either. On my first entrance, whilst attentively examining the choir, I noticed--what was really a very provoking, but probably not a very uncommon sight,--a maid servant deliberately using a long broom in sweeping the pavement of the high altar, at the moment when several very respectable people, of both sexes, were kneeling upon the steps, occupied in prayer. But the devotion of the people is incessant--all the day long,--and in all parts of the cathedral. The little altars, or _Prie-Dieus,_ seem to be innumerable. Yonder kneels an emaciated figure, before a yet more emaciated crucifix. It is a female--bending down, as it were, to the very grave. She has hardly strength to hold together her clasped hands, or to raise her downcast eye. Yet she prays--earnestly, loudly, and from the heart. Near her, kneels a group of her own sex: young, active, and ardent--as she _once_ was; and even comely and beautiful ... as she _might_ have been. They evidently belong to the more respectable classes of society--and are kneeling before a framed and glazed picture of the Virgin and Child, of which the lower part is absolutely smothered with flowers. There is a natural, and as it were well-regulated, expression of piety among them, which bespeaks a genuineness of feeling and of devotion. Meanwhile, service is going on in all parts of the cathedral. They are singing here: they are praying there: and they are preaching in a third place. But during the whole time, I never heard one single note of the organ. I remember only the other Sunday morning--walking out beneath one of the brightest blue skies that ever shone upon man--and entering the cathedral about nine o'clock. A preacher was in the principal pulpit; while a tolerably numerous congregation was gathered around him. He preached, of course, in the German language, and used much action. As he became more and more animated, he necessarily became warmer, and pulled off a black cap--which, till then, he had kept upon his head: the zeal and piety of the congregation at the same time seeming to increase with the accelerated motions of the preacher. In other more retired parts, solitary devotees were seen--silent, and absorbed in prayer. Among these, I shall not easily forget the head and the physiognomical expression of one old man--who, having been supported by crutches, which lay by the side of him--appeared to have come for the last time to offer his orisons to heaven. The light shone full upon his bald head and elevated countenance; which latter indicated a genuineness of piety, and benevolence, of disposition, not to be soured... even by the most-bitter of worldly disappointments! It seemed as if the old man were taking leave of this life, in full confidence of the rewards which await the righteous beyond the grave. Not a creature was near him but myself;--when, on the completion of his devotions, finding that those who had attended him thither were not at hand to lead him away--he seemed to cast an asking eye of assistance upon me: nor did he look twice before that assistance was granted. I helped to raise him up; but, ere he could bring my hand in contact with his lips, to express his thankfulness--his friends ... apparently his daughter, and two grandchildren ... arrived--and receiving his benediction, quietly, steadily, and securely, led him forth from the cathedral. No pencil ... no pen ... can do justice to the entire effect of this touching picture. So much for the living. A word or two now for the dead. Of course this latter alludes to the MONUMENTS of the more distinguished characters once resident in and near the metropolis. Among these, doubtless the most elaborate is that of the _Emperor Frederick III_.--in the florid gothic style, surmounted by a tablet, filled with coat-armour, or heraldic shields. Some of the mural monuments are very curious, and among them are several of the early part of the sixteenth century--which represent the chins and even mouths of females, entirely covered by drapery: such as is even now to be seen ...and such as we saw on descending from the Vosges; But among these monuments--both for absolute and relative antiquity--none will appear to the curious eye of an antiquary so precious as that of the head of the ARCHITECT of THE CATHEDRAL, whose name was _Pilgram._ This head is twice seen--first, on the wall of the south side aisle, a good deal above the spectator's eye, and therefore in a foreshortened manner--as the following representation of it testifies;[141] [Illustration: S. Fresman.] The second representation of it is in one of the heads in the hexagonal pulpit--in the nave, and in which the preacher was holding forth as before mentioned. Some say that these heads represent one and the same person; but I was told that they were designated for those of the _master_ and _apprentice:_ the former being the apprentice, and the latter the master. The preceding may suffice for a description of this cathedral; in which, as I before observed, there is a palpable want of simplicity and of breadth of construction. The eye wanders over a large mass of building, without being able to rest upon any thing either striking from its magnificence, or delighting by its beauty and elaborate detail. The pillars which divide the nave from the side aisles, are however excluded from this censure. There is one thing--and a most lamentable instance of depraved taste it undoubtedly is--which I must not omit mentioning. It relates to the representation of our Saviour. Whether as a painting, or as a piece of sculpture, this sacred figure is generally made most repulsive--even, in the cathedral. It is meagre in form, wretched in physiognomical expression, and marked by disgusting appearances of blood about the forehead and throat. In the church of _St. Mary_, supposed to be the oldest in Vienna, as you enter the south door, to the left, there is a whole length standing figure of Christ--placed in an obscure niche--of which the part, immediately under the chin, is covered with red paint, in disgusting imitation of blood: as if the throat had been recently cut,--and patches of paint, to represent drops of blood, are also seen upon the feet! In regard to other churches, that of _St. Mary_, supposed to be, in part, as old as the XIIIth century, has one very great curiosity, decidedly worthy of notice. It is a group on the outside, as you enter a door in a passage or court--through which the whole population of Vienna should seem to pass in the course of the day. This group, or subject, represents our _Saviour's Agony in the garden of Gethsemane_: the favourite subject of representation throughout Austria. In the foreground, the figure of Christ, kneeling, is sufficiently conspicuous. Sometimes a handkerchief is placed between the hands, and sometimes not. His disciples are asleep by the side of him. In the middle ground, the soldiers, headed by Judas Iscariot, are leaping over the fence, and entering the garden to seize him: in the back ground, they are leading him away to Caiphas, and buffeting him in the route. These latter groups are necessarily diminutive. The whole is cut in stone--I should think about three centuries ago--and painted after the life. As the people are constantly passing along, you observe, every now and then, some devout citizen dropping upon his knee, and repeating a hurried prayer before the figure of Christ. The _Church of the Augustins_ is near at hand; and the contents of _that_ church are, to my taste and feelings, more precious than any of which Vienna may boast. I allude to the famous monument erected to the memory of the wife of the present venerable DUKE ALBERT OF SAXE TESCHEN. It is considered to be the chef d'oeuvre of CANOVA; and with justice. The church of the Augustins laying directly in my way to the Imperial Library, I think I may safely say that I used, two mornings out of three, to enter it--on purpose to renew my acquaintance with the monument in question. My admiration increased upon every such renewal. Take it, all in all, I can conceive nothing in art to go beyond it. It is alone worth a pilgrimage to Vienna: nor will I from henceforth pine about what has perished from the hand of Phidias or Praxiteles--it is sufficient that this monument remains... from the chisel of CANOVA. I will describe it briefly, and criticise it with the same freedom which I used towards the _Madonna_ of the same sculptor, in the collection of the Marquis de Sommariva at Paris.[142] At the time of my viewing it, a little after ten o'clock, the organ was generally playing--and a very fine chant was usually being performed: rather soft, tender, and impressive--than loud and overwhelming. I own that, by a thousand associations of ideas, (which it were difficult to describe) this coincidence helped to give a more solemn effect to the object before me. You enter a door, immediately opposite to it--and no man of taste can view it, unexpectedly, for the first time, without standing still ... the very moment it meets his eyes! This monument, which is raised about four feet above the pavement, and is encircled by small iron palisades--at a distance just sufficient to afford every opportunity of looking correctly at each part of it--consists of several figures, in procession, which are about to enter an opened door, at the base of a pyramid of gray marble. Over the door is a medallion, in profile, of the deceased... supported by an angel. To the right of the door is a huge lion couchant, asleep. You look into the entrance ... and see nothing ... but darkness: neither boundary nor termination being visible. To the right, a young man--resting his arm upon the lion's mane, is looking upwards, with an intensity of sorrowful expression. This figure is naked; and represents the protecting genius of the afflicted husband. To the left of the door, is the moving procession. One tall majestic female figure, with dishevelled hair, and a fillet of gold round her brow, is walking with a slow, measured step, embracing the urn which contains the ashes of the deceased. Her head is bending down, as if her tears were mingling with the contents of the urn. The drapery of this figure is most elaborate and profuse, and decorated with wreaths of flowers. Two children--symbolical, I suppose, of innocence and purity--walk by her side ... looking upwards, and scattering flowers. In the rear, appear three figures, which are intended to represent the charitable character of the deceased. Of these, two are eminently conspicuous ... namely, an old man leaning upon the arm of a young woman ... illustrative of the bounty and benevolence of the Duchess:--and intended to represent her liberality and kind-heartedness, equally in the protection of the old and feeble, as in that of the orphan and helpless young. The figures are united, as it were, by a youthful female, with a wreath of flowers; with which, indeed the ground is somewhat profusely strewn: so as, to an eye uninitiated in ancient costume, to give the subject rather a festive character. The whole is of the size of life.[143] Such is the mere dry descriptive detail of this master-piece of the art of CANOVA. I now come to a more close and critical survey of it; and will first observe upon what appear to me to be the (perhaps venial) defects of this magnificent monument. In the first place, I could have wished the medallion of the duchess and the supporting angel--_elsewhere_. It is a common-place, and indeed, here, an irrelevant ornament. The deceased has passed into eternity. The apparently interminable excavation into which the figures are about to move, helps to impress your mind with this idea. The duchess is to be thought of ... or seen, in the mind's eye... as an inhabitant of _another world_ ... and therefore not to be brought to your recollection by a common-place representation of her countenance in profile--as an inhabitant of _earth._ Besides, the chief female figure or mourner, about to enter the vault, is carrying her ashes in an urn: and I own it appears to me to be a little incongruous--or, at least, a little defective in that pure classical taste which the sculptor unquestionably possesses,--to put, what may be considered visible and invisible--or tangible and intangible--representations of the _same_ person before you at the _same_ time. If a representation of the figure of the duchess be necessary, it should not be in the form of a medallion. The pyramidal back-ground would doubtless have had a grander effect without it. The lion is also, to me, an objectionable subject. If allegory be necessary, it should be pure, and not mixed. If a _human figure_, at one end of the group, be considered a fit representation of benevolence ... the notion or idea meant to be conveyed by a _lion_, at the other end, should not be conveyed by the introduction of an animal. Nor is it at all obvious--supposing an animal to be necessary--to understand why a lion, who may be considered as placed there to guard the entrance of the pyramid, should be represented _asleep?_ If he be sympathising with the general sorrow, he should not be sleeping; for acute affliction rarely allows of slumber. If his mere object be to guard the entrance, by sleeping he shews himself to be unworthy of trust. In a word, allegory, always bad in itself, should not be _mixed_; and we naturally ask what business lions and human beings have together? Or, we suppose that the females in view have well strung nerves to walk thus leisurely with a huge lion--even sleeping--in front of them! The human figures are indeed delightful to contemplate. Perfect in form, in attitude, and expression, they proclaim the powers of a consummate master. A fastidious observer might indeed object to the bold, muscular strength of the old man--as exhibited in his legs and arms--and as indicative of the maturity, rather than of the approaching extinction, of life ... but what sculptor, in the representation of such subjects, can resist the temptation of displaying the biceps and gastrocnemian muscles? The countenances are all exquisite: all full of nature and taste... with as little introduction, as may be, of Grecian art. To my feelings, the figure of the young man--to the right of the lion--is the most exquisitely perfect. His countenance is indeed heavenly; and there is a play and harmony in the position and demarcation of his limbs, infinitely beyond any thing which I can presume to put in competition with it. In every point of view, in which I regarded this figure, it gained upon my admiration; and on leaving the church, for the last time, I said within myself--"if I have not seen the _Belvedere Apollo_, I have again and again viewed the monument to the memory of the _Duchess Albert of Saxe-Teschen_, by CANOVA... and I am satisfied to return to England in consequence." From churches we will walk together to CONVENTS. Here are only two about which I deem it necessary to give you any description; and these are, the _Convent of the Capuchins_, near the new Market Place, and that of the _Franciscans_, near the street in which I lodge. The former is tenanted by long-bearded monks. On knocking at the outer gate, the door was opened by an apparently middle-aged man, upon whose long silvery, and broad-spreading beard, the light seemed to dart down with a surprisingly, picturesque effect. Behind him was a dark cloister; or at least, a cloister very partially illumined--along which two younger monks were pacing in full costume. The person who opened the outward door proved to be the _porter_. He might, from personal respectability, and amplitude of beard, have been the _President_. On my servant's telling him our object was to view the IMPERIAL TOMBS, which are placed in a vault in this monastery, he disappeared; and we were addressed by a younger person, with a beard upon a comparatively diminutive scale, and with the top of his hair very curiously cut in a circular form. He professed his readiness to accompany us immediately into the receptacle of departed imperial grandeur. He spoke Latin with myself, and his vernacular tongue with the valet. I was soon satisfied with the sepulchral spectacle. As a whole, it has a poor and even disagreeable effect: if you except one or two tombs, such as those of _Francis I_. Emperor of the Romans, and _Maria Theresa_--which latter is the most elaborately ornamented of the whole: but it wants both space and light to be seen effectually, and is moreover I submit, in too florid a style of decoration. Like the generality of them, it is composed of bronze. The tombs of the earlier Emperors of Germany lie in a long and gloomy narrow recess--where little light penetrates, and where there is little space for an accurate examination. I should call them rather _coffin-shells_ than monuments. When I noticed the tomb of the Emperor Joseph II. to my guide, he seemed hardly to vouchsafe a glance at it ... adding, "yes, he is well known every where!" They rather consider him (from the wholesale manner in which the monasteries and convents were converted by him to civil purposes) as a sort of _softened-down Henry VIII_. Upon the whole, the living interested me more than the dead ... in this gloomy retirement ... notwithstanding these vaults are said to contain very little short of fourscore tombs of departed Emperors and Monarchs. The MONASTERY OF THE FRANCISCANS is really an object worth visiting ... if it be only to convince you of the comfort and happiness of ... _not_ being a _Franciscan monk._ I went thither several times, and sauntered in the cloisters of the quadrangle. An intelligent middle-aged woman--a sort of housekeeper of the establishment--who conversed with me pretty fluently in the French language, afforded me all the information which I was desirous of possessing. She said she had nothing to do with the kitchen, or dormitories of the monks. They cooked their own meat, and made their own beds. You see these monks constantly walking about the streets, and even entering the hotels. They live chiefly upon alms. They are usually bare-headed, and bare-footed--with the exception of sandals. Their dress is a thick brown cloak, with a cowl hanging behind in a peaked point: the whole made of the coarsest materials. They have no beards--and yet, altogether, they have a very squalid and dirty appearance. It was towards eight o'clock, when I walked for the first time, in the cloisters; and there viewed, amongst other mural decorations, an oil painting--in which several of their order are represented as undergoing martyrdom--by hanging, and severing their limbs. It was a horrid sight ... and yet the _living_ was not very attractive. Although placed in the very heart of the metropolis of their country, this Franciscan fraternity appears to be insensible of every comfort of society. To their palate, nothing seems to be so sweet as the tainted morsel upon the trencher--and to their ear, no sound more grateful than the melancholy echo, from the tread of their own cloister. Every thing, which so much pleased and gratified me in the great Austrian monasteries of CHREMSMINSTER, ST. FLORIAN, MÕLK, and GÕTTWIC, would, in such an atmosphere, and in such a tenement as the Franciscan monastery here, have been chilled, decomposed, and converted into the very reverse of all former and cheerful impressions. No walnut-tree shelved libraries: no tier upon tier of clasp and knob-bound folios: no saloon, where the sides are emblazoned by Salzburg marble; and no festive board, where the watchful seneschal never allows the elongated glass to remain five minutes unreplenished by Rhenish wine of the most exquisite flavour! None of these, nor of any thing even remotely approximating to them, were to be witnessed, or partaken of, in the dreary abode of monachism which I have just described. You will be glad to quit such a comfortless residence; and I am equally impatient with yourself to view more agreeable sights. Having visited the tombs of departed royalty, let us now enter the abodes--or rather PALACES--of _living_ imperial grandeur. I have already told you that Vienna, on the first glance of the houses, looks like a city of palaces; those buildings, which are professedly _palatial_, being indeed of a glorious extent and magnificence. And yet--it seems strange to make the remark ... will you believe me when I say, that, of the various palaces, or large mansions visited by me, that of the EMPEROR is the least imposing--as a whole? The front is very long and lofty; but it has a sort of architectural tameness about it, which gives it rather the air of the residence of the Lord Chamberlains than of their regal master. Yet the _Saloon_, in this palace, must not be passed over in silence. It merits indeed warm commendation. The roof, which is of an unusual height, is supported by pillars in imitation of polished marble ... but why are they not marble _itself_? The prevailing colour is white--perhaps to excess; but the number and quality of the looking glasses, lustres, and chandeliers, strike you as the most prominent features of this interior. I own that, for pure, solid taste, I greatly preferred the never-to-be-forgotten saloon in the monastery of St. Florian.[144] The rooms throughout the palaces are rather comfortable than gorgeous--if we except the music and ball rooms. Some scarlet velvet, of scarce and precious manufacture, struck me as exceedingly beautiful in one of the principal drawing rooms. I saw here a celebrated statue of a draped female, sitting, the workmanship of Canova. It is worthy of the chisel of the master. As to paintings, there are none worth description on the score of the old masters. Every thing of this kind seems to be concentrated in the palace of the Belvedere. To the BELVEDERE PALACE, therefore, let us go. I visited it with Mr. Lewis--taking our valet with us, immediately after breakfast--on one of the finest and clearest-skied September mornings that ever shone above the head of man. We had resolved to take the _Ambras_, or the LITTLE BELVEDERE, in our way; and to have a good, long, and uninterrupted view of the wonders of art--in a variety of departments. Both the little Belvedere and the large Belvedere rise gradually above the suburbs; and the latter may be about a mile and a half from the ramparts of the city. The _Ambras_ contains a quantity of ancient horse and foot armour; brought thither from a chateau of that name, near Inspruck, and built by the Emperor Charles V. Such a collection of old armour--which had once equally graced and protected the bodies of their wearers, among whom, the noblest names of which Germany can boast may be enrolled--was infinitely gratifying to me. The sides of the first room were quite embossed with suspended shields, cuirasses, and breast-plates. The floor was almost filled by champions on horseback--yet poising the spear, or holding it in the rest--yet _almost_ shaking their angry plumes, and pricking the fiery sides of their coursers. Here rode Maximilian--and there halted Charles his Son. Different suits of armour, belonging to the same character, are studiously shewn you by the guide: some of these are the foot, and some the horse, armour: some were worn in fight--yet giving evidence of the mark of the bullet and battle axe: others were the holiday suits of armour ... with which the knights marched in procession, or tilted at the tournament. The workmanship of the full-dress suits, in which a great deal of highly wrought gold ornament appears, is sometimes really exquisite. The second, or long room, is more particularly appropriated to the foot or infantry armour. In this studied display of much that is interesting from antiquity, and splendid from absolute beauty and costliness, I was particularly gratified by the sight of the armour which the Emperor Maximilian wore as a foot-captain. The lower part, to defend the thighs, consists of a puckered or plated steel-petticoat, sticking out at the bottom of the folds, considerably beyond the upper part. It is very simple, and of polished steel. A fine suit of armour--of black and gold--worn by an Archbishop of Salzburg in the middle of the fifteenth century, had particular claims upon my admiration. It was at once chaste and effective. The mace was by the side of it. This room is also ornamented by trophies taken from the Turks; such as bows, spears, battle-axes, and scymitars. In short, the whole is full of interest and splendor. I ought to have seen the ARSENAL--which I learn is of uncommon magnificence; and, although not so curious on the score of antiquity, is yet not destitute of relics of the old warriors of Germany. Among these, those which belonged to my old bibliomaniacal friend Corvinus, King of Hungary, cut a conspicuous and very respectable figure. I fear it will be now impracticable to see the Arsenal as it ought to be seen. It is now approaching mid-day, and we are walking towards the terrace in front of the GREAT BELVEDERE PALACE: built by the immortal EUGENE in the year 1724, as a summer residence. Probably no spot could have been selected with better judgment for the residence of a Prince--who wished to enjoy, almost at the same moment, the charms of the country with the magnificence of a city view... unclouded by the dense fumes which for ever envelope our metropolis. It is in truth a glorious situation. Walking along its wide and well cultivated terraces, you obtain the finest view imaginable of the city of Vienna. Indeed it may be called a picturesque view. The spire of the cathedral darts directly upwards, as it were, to the very heavens. The ground before you, and in the distance, is gently undulating; and the intermediate portion of the suburbs does not present any very offensive protrusions. More in the distance, the windings of the Danube are seen; with its various little islands, studded with hamlets and fishing huts, lighted up by a sun of unusual radiance. Indeed the sky, above the whole of this rich and civilized scene, was, at the time of our viewing it, almost of a dazzling hue: so deep and vivid a tint we had never before beheld. Behind the palace, in the distance, you observe a chain of mountains which extends into Hungary. As to the building itself, I must say that it is perfectly _palatial_; in its size, form, ornaments, and general effect. He must be fastidious indeed, who could desire a nobler residence for the most illustrious character in the kingdom! Among the treasures, which it contains, it is now high time to enter and to look about us. Yet what am I attempting?--to be your _cicerone_ ... in every apartment, covered with canvas or pannel, upon which colours of all hues, are seen from the bottom to the top of the palace!? It cannot be. My account, therefore, is necessarily a mere sketch. RUBENS, if any artist, seems here to "rule and reign without control!" Two large rooms are filled with his productions; besides several other pictures, by the same hand, which are placed in different apartments. Here it is that you see verified the truth of Sir Joshua's remark upon that wonderful artist: namely, that his genius seems to expand with the size of his canvas. His pencil absolutely riots here--in the most luxuriant manner--whether in the majesty of an altarpiece, in the gaiety of a festive scene [145], or in the sobriety of portrait-painting. His _Ignatius Loyola_ and _St. Francis Xavier_--of the former class--each seventeen feet high, by nearly thirteen wide--are stupendous productions ... in more senses than one. The latter is, indeed, in my humble judgment, the most marvellous specimen of the powers of the painter which I have ever seen... and you must remember that both England and France are not without some of his most celebrated productions--which I have frequently examined. In the _old German School_, the series is almost countless: and of the greatest possible degree of interest and curiosity. Here are to be seen _Wohlgemuths, Albert Durers,_ both the _Holbeins, Lucas Cranachs, Ambergaus,_ and _Burgmairs_ of all sizes and degrees of merit. Among these ancient specimens--which are placed in curious order, in the very upper suite of apartments, and of which the back-grounds of several, in one solid coat of gilt, lighten up the room like a golden sunset--you must not fail to pay particular attention to a singularly curious old subject--representing the _Life, Miracles, and Passion of our Saviour_, in a series of one hundred and fifty-eight pictures--of which the largest is nearly three feet square, and every other about fifteen inches by ten. These subjects are painted upon eighty-six small pieces of wood; of which seventy-two are contained in six folding cabinets, each cabinet holding twelve subjects. In regard to _Teniers, Gerard Dow, Mieris, Wouvermann,_ and _Cuyp_ ... you must look _at home_ for more exquisite specimens. This collection contains, in the whole, not fewer than FIFTEEN HUNDRED PAINTINGS: of which the greater portion consists of pictures of very large dimensions. I could have lived here for a month; but could only move along with the hurried step, and yet more hurrying eye, of an ordinary visitor[146]. About three English miles from the Great Belvedere--or rather about the same number of miles from Vienna, to the right, as you approach the Capital--is the famous palace of SCHÖNBRUNN. This is a sort of summer-residence of the Emperor; and it is here that his daughter, the ex-Empress of France, and the young Bonaparte usually reside. The latter never goes into Italy, when his mother, as Duchess of Parma, pays her annual visit to her principality. At this moment her Son is at Baden, with the court. It was in the Schönbrunn palace that his father, on the conquest of Vienna, used to take up his abode; rarely, venturing into the city. He was surely safe enough here; as every chamber and every court yard was filled by the élite of his guard--whether as officers or soldiers. It is a most magnificent pile of building: a truly imperial residence--but neither the furniture nor the objects of art, whether connected with sculpture or painting, are deserving of any thing in the shape of a _catalogue raisonné_. I saw the chamber where young Bonaparte frequently passes the day; and brandished his flag staff, and beat upon his drum. He is a soldier (as they tell me) every inch of him; and rides out, through the streets of Vienna, in a carriage of state drawn by four or six horses, receiving the _homages_ of the passing multitude. To return to the SCHÖNBRUNN PALACE. I have already told you that it is vast, and capable of accommodating the largest retinue of courtiers. It is of the _Gardens_ belonging to them, that I would now only wish to say a word. These gardens are really worthy of the residence to which they are attached. For what is called ornamental, formal, gardening--enriched by shrubs of rarity, and trees of magnificence--enlivened by fountains--adorned by sculpture--and diversified by vistos, lawns, and walks--interspersed with grottos and artificial ruins--you can conceive nothing upon a grander scale than these: while a menagerie in one place (where I saw a large but miserably wasted elephant)--a flower garden in another--a labyrinth in a third, and a solitude in a fourth place--each, in its turn; equally beguiles the hour and the walk. They are the most spacious gardens I ever witnessed. The preceding is all I can tell you, from actual observation, about the PALACES at Vienna. Those of the Noblesse, with the exception of that of Duke Albert, I have not visited; as I learn that the families are from home--and that the furniture is not arranged in the order in which one could wish it to be for the purpose of inspection or admiration. But I must not omit saying a word or two about the TREASURY--where the Court Jewels and Regalia are kept and where curious clocks and watches, of early Nuremburg manufacture, will not fail to strike and astonish the antiquary. But there are other objects, of a yet more powerful attraction: particularly a series of _crowns_ studded with gems and precious stones, from the time of Maximilian downwards. If I remember rightly, they shewed me here the crown which that famous Emperor himself wore. It is, comparatively, plain, ponderous, and massive. Among the more modern regal ornaments, I was shewn a precious diamond which fastened the cloak of the Emperor or Empress (I really forget which) on the day of coronation. It is large, oval-shaped, and, in particular points of view, seemed to flash a dazzling radiance throughout the room. It was therefore with a _refreshing_ sort of delight that I turned from "the wealth of either Ind" to feast upon a set of old china, upon which the drawings are said to have been furnished by the pencil of Raffaelle. I admit that this is a sort of _suspicious_ object of art: in other words, that, if all the old china, _said_ to be ornamented by the pencil of Raffaelle, were really the production of that great man, he could have done nothing else but paint upon baked earth from his cradle to his grave--and all the _oil paintings_ by him _must_ be spurious. The present, however, having been presented by the Pope, may be safely allowed to be genuine. In this suite of apartments--filled, from one extremity to the other, with all that is gay, and gorgeous, and precious, appertaining to royalty--I was particularly struck with the insignia of regality belonging to Bonaparte as King of Rome. It was a crown, sceptre, and robe--of which the two former were composed of metal, like brass--but of a form particularly chaste and elegant. There is great facility of access afforded for a sight of these valuable treasures, and I was surprised to find myself in a crowd of visitors at the outer door, who, upon gaining entrance, rushed forward in a sort of scrambling manner, and spread themselves in various directions about the apartment. Upon seeing one of the guides, I took him aside, and asked him in a quiet manner "what was done with all these treasures when the French visited their capital?" He replied quickly, and emphatically, "they were taken away, and safely lodged in the Emperor's Hungarian dominions." You may remember that the conclusion of my last letter left me just about to start to witness an entertainment called _Der Berggeist_, or the _Genius of the Mountain;_ and that, in the opening of this letter, I almost made boast of the gaiety of my evening amusements. In short, for a man fond of music--and in the country of GLUCK, MOZART and HAYDN--_not_ to visit the theatres, where a gratification of this sort, in all the perfection and variety of its powers, is held forth, might be considered a sort of heresy hardly to be pardoned. Accordingly, I have seen _Die Zauberflöte, Die Hochzeit des Figaro_, and _Don Giovanni:_ the two former quite enchantingly performed--but the latter greatly inferior to the representation of it at our own Opera House. The band, although less numerous than ours, seems to be perfect in every movement of the piece. You hear, throughout, a precision, clearness, and brilliancy of touch--together with a facility of execution, and fulness of instrumental tone--which almost impresses you with the conviction that the performers were _born_ musicians. The principal opera house, or rather that in which the principal singers are engaged, is near the palace, and is called _Im Theater nächst dem Kärnthnerthoc_. Here I saw the _Marriage of Figaro_ performed with great spirit and éclat. A young lady, a new performer of the name, of _Wranizth_, played Susannah in a style exquisitely naïve and effective. She was one of the most natural performers I ever saw; and her voice seemed to possess equal sweetness and compass. She is a rising favourite, and full of promise. Madame _Hönig_ played Mazelline rather heavily, and sung elaborately, but scientifically. The Germans are good natured creatures, and always prefer commendation to censure. Hence the plaudits with which these two rival syrens were received. The other, opera house, which is in the suburbs, and called _Schauspielhause_, is by much the larger and more commodious place of entertainment. I seized with avidity the first opportunity of seeing the _Zauberflöte_ here, and here also I saw Don Giovanni: the former as perfectly, in every respect, as the latter was inefficiently, performed. But here I saw the marvellous ballet, or afterpiece, called _Die Berggeist_; and I will tell you why I think it marvellous. It is entirely performed by children of all ages--from three to sixteen--with the exception of the venerable-bearded old gentleman, who is called the _Genius of the Mountain_. The author of the piece or ballet "von herrn Ballet-meister"--is _Friedrich Horschelt:_ who, if in such a department or vocation in society a man may be said (and why should he not?) to "deserve well of his country," is, I think, eminently entitled to that distinction. The truth is, that, all the little rogues (I do not speak literally) whom we saw before us upon the stage--and who amount to nearly one hundred and twenty in number--were absolutely beggar-children, and the offspring of beggars, or of the lowest possible classes in society. They earned a livelihood by the craft of asking alms. Mr. Horschelt conceived the plan of converting these hapless little vagabonds into members of some honest and useful calling. He saw an active little match girl trip across the street, and solicit alms in a very winning and even graceful manner--"that shall be my _columbine_," said he:--and she was so. A young lad of a sturdy form, and sluggish movement, is converted into a _clown_: a slim youth is made to personate _harlequin_--and thus he forms and puts into action the different characters of his entertainment... absolutely and exclusively out of the very lowest orders of society. To witness what these metamorphosed little creatures perform, is really to witness a miracle. Every thing they do is in consonance with a well-devised and well-executed plot. The whole is in harmony. They perform characters of different classes; sometimes allegorical, as præternatural beings--sometimes real, as rustics at one moment, and courtiers at another--but whether as fairies, or attendants upon goddesses--and whether the dance be formal or frolicksome--whether in groups of many, or in a pas de deux, or pas seul--they perform with surprising accuracy and effect. The principal performer, who had really been the little match girl above described, and who might have just turned her sixteenth year--would not have disgraced the boards of the Paris opera--at a moment, even, when Albert and Bigotini were engaged upon them. I never witnessed any thing more brilliant and more perfect than she was in all her evolutions and pirouettes. Nor are the lads behind hand in mettle and vigorous movement. One boy, about fourteen, almost divided the plaudits of the house with the fair nymph just mentioned--who, during the evening, had equally shone as a goddess, a queen, a fairy, and a columbine. The emperor of Austria, who is an excellent good man--and has really the moral welfare of his people at heart--was at first a little fearful about the _effect_ of this early metamorphosis of his subjects into actors and actresses; but he learnt, upon careful enquiry, that these children, when placed out in the world--as they generally are before seventeen, unless they absolutely prefer the profession in which they have been engaged--generally turn out to be worthy and good members of society. Their salaries are fixed and moderate, and thus superfluous wealth does not lead them into temptation. On the conclusion of the preceding piece, the stage was entirely filled by the whole juvenile _Corps Dramatique_--perhaps amounting to about one hundred and twenty in number. They were divided into classes, according to size, dress, and talent. After a succession of rapid evolutions, the whole group moved gently to the sound of soft music, while masses of purple tinted clouds descended, and alighted about them. Some were received into the clouds--which were then lifted up--and displayed groups of the smallest children upon their very summits, united by wreaths of roses; while the larger children remained below. The entire front of the stage, up to the very top, was occupied by the most extraordinary and most imposing sight I ever beheld--and as the clouds carried the whole of the children upwards, the curtain fell, and the piece concluded. On its conclusion, the audience were in a perfect frenzy of applause, and demanded the author to come forward and receive the meed of their admiration. He quickly obeyed their summons--and I was surprised, when I saw him, at the youthfulness of his appearance, the homeliness of his dress, and the simplicity of his manners. He thrice bowed to the audience, laying his hand the same number of times upon his heart. I am quite sure that, if he were to come to London, and institute the same kind of exhibition, he would entirely fill Drury Lane or Covent Garden--as I saw the _Schauspielhause_ filled--with parents and children from top to bottom. But a truce to _in-door_ recreations. You are longing, no doubt, to scent the evening breeze along the banks of the PRATER, or among the towering elms of the AUGARTEN--both public places of amusement within about a league of the ramparts of the city. It was the other Sunday evening when I visited the Prater, and when--as the weather happened to be very fine--it was considered to be full: but the absence of the court, and of the noblesse, necessarily gave a less joyous and splendid aspect to the carriages and their attendant liveries. In your way to this famous place of sabbath evening promenade, you pass a celebrated coffee house, in the suburbs, called the _Leopoldstadt_, which goes by the name of the _Greek coffee-house_--on account of its being almost entirely frequented by Greeks--so numerous at Vienna. Do not pass it, if you should ever come hither, without entering it--at least _once_. You would fancy yourself to be in Greece: so thoroughly characteristic are the countenances, dresses, and language of every one within. [Illustration: THE PRATER, VIENNA.] But yonder commences the procession ... of horse and foot: of cabriolets, family coaches, german waggons, cars, phaetons, and landaulets ... all moving in a measured manner, within their prescribed ranks, towards the PRATER. We must accompany them without loss of time. You now reach the Prater. It is an extensive flat, surrounded by branches of the Danube, and planted on each side with double rows of horse chesnut trees. The drive, in one straight line, is probably a league in length. It is divided by two roads, in one of which the company move _onward_, and in the other they _return_. Consequently, if you happen to find a hillock only a few feet high, you may, from thence, obtain a pretty good view of the interminable procession of the carriages before mentioned: one current of them, as it were, moving forward, and another rolling backward. But, hark!--the notes of a harp are heard to the left ... in a meadow, where the foot passengers often digress from the more formal tree-lined promenade. A press of ladies and gentlemen is quickly seen. You mingle involuntarily with them: and, looking forward, you observe a small stage erected, upon which a harper sits and two singers stand. The company now lie down upon the grass, or break into standing groups, or sit upon chairs hired for the occasion--to listen to the notes so boldly and so feelingly executed.[147] The clapping of hands, and exclamations of bravo! succeed: and the sounds of applause, however warmly bestowed, quickly die away in the open air. The performers bow: receive a few kreutschers ... retire; and are well satisfied. The sound of the trumpet is now heard behind you. Tilting feats are about to be performed: the coursers snort and are put in motion: their hides are bathed in sweat beneath their ponderous housings; and the blood, which flows freely from the pricks of their riders' spurs, shews you with what earnestness the whole affair is conducted. There, the ring is thrice carried off at the point of the lance. Feats of horsemanship follow in a covered building, to the right; and the juggler, conjurer, or magician, displays his dexterous feats, or exercises his potent spells ... in a little amphitheatre of trees, at a distance beyond. Here and there rise more stately edifices, as theatres ... from the doors of which a throng of heated spectators is pouring out, after having indulged their grief or joy at the Mary Stuart of Schiller, or the----of----.. In other directions, booths, stalls, and tables are fixed; where the hungry eat, the thirsty drink, and the merry-hearted indulge in potent libations. The waiters are in a constant state of locomotion. Rhenish wine sparkles here; confectionary glitters there; and fruit looks bright and tempting in a third place. No guest turns round to eye the company; because he is intent upon the luxuries which invite his immediate attention--or he is in close conversation with an intimate friend, or a beloved female. They talk and laugh,--and the present seems to be the happiest moment of their lives. All is gaiety and good humour. You return again to the foot-promenade, and look sharply about you, as you move onward, to catch the spark of beauty, or admire the costume of taste, or confess the power of expression. It is an Albanian female who walks yonder ... wondering, and asking questions, at every thing she sees. The proud Jewess, supported by her husband and father, moves in another direction. She is covered with brocade and flaunting ribbands; but she is abstracted from every thing around her ... because her eyes are cast downwards upon her stomacher, or sideways to obtain a glimse of what may be called her spangled epaulettes. Her eye is large and dark: her nose is aquiline: her complexion is of an olive brown: her stature is majestic, her dress is gorgeous, her gait is measured--and her demeanour is grave and composed. "She _must_ be very rich," you say--as she passes on. "She is _prodigiously_ rich," replies the friend, to whom you put the question:--for seven virgins, with nosegays of choicest flowers, held up her bridal train; and the like number of youths, with silver-hilted swords, and robes of ermine and satin, graced the same bridal ceremony. Her father thinks he can never do enough for her; and her husband, that he can never love her sufficiently. Whether she be happy or not, in consequence, we have no time to stop to enquire ... for, see yonder! three "turbaned Turks" make their advances. How gaily, how magnificently they are attired! What finely proportioned limbs--what beautifully formed features! They have been carousing, peradventure, with some young Greeks--who have just saluted them, en passant--at the famous coffee-house before-mentioned. Every thing around you is novel and striking; while the verdure of the trees and lawns is yet fresh, and the sun does not seem yet disposed to sink below the horizon. The carriages still move on, and return, in measured procession. Those who are within, look earnestly from the windows--to catch a glance of their passing friends. The fair hand is waved here; the curiously-painted fan is shaken there; and the repeated nod is seen in almost every other passing landaulet. Not a heart seems sad; not a brow appears to be clouded with care. Such--or something like the foregoing--is the scene which usually passes on a Sunday evening--perhaps six months out of the twelve--upon the famous PRATER at Vienna; while the tolling bell of St. Stephen's tower, about nine o'clock--and the groups of visitors hurrying back, to get home before the gates of the city are shut against them--usually conclude the scene just described. And now, my good friend, methinks I have given you a pretty fair account of the more prominent features of this city--in regard to its public sights; whether as connected with still or active life: as churches, palaces, or theatres. It remains, therefore, to return again, briefly, but yet willingly, to the subject of BOOKS; or rather, to the notice of two _Private Collections,_ especially deserving of description--and of which, the first is that of the EMPEROR HIMSELF. His Majesty's collection of Books and Prints is kept upon the second and third floors of a portion of the building connected with the great Imperial library. Mr. T. YOUNG is the librarian; and he also holds the honourable office of being Secretary of his Majesty's privy council. He is well deserving of both situations, for he fills them with ability and success. He has the perfect appearance of an Englishman, both in figure and face. As he speaks French readily and perfectly well, our interviews have been frequent, and our conversations such as have led me to think that we shall not easily forget each other. But for the library, of which he is the guardian. It is contained in three or four rooms of moderate dimensions, and has very much the appearance of an English Country Gentleman's collection of about 10,000 volumes. The bindings are generally in good taste: in full-gilt light and gray calf--with occasional folios and quartos resplendent in morocco and gold. I hardly know when I have seen a more cheerful and comfortable looking library; and was equally gratified to find such a copious sprinkling of publications from Old England. But my immediate, and indeed principal object, was, a list of a few of the _Rarities_ of the Emperor's private collection, as well in ms. as in print. Mr. Young placed before me much that was exquisite and interesting in the former, and splendid and creditable in the latter, department. He begged of me to judge with my own eyes, and determine for myself; and he would then supply me with a list of what he considered to be most valuable and splendid in the collection. Accordingly, what here ensues, must be considered as the united descriptions of my guide and myself:--Mr. Young having composed his memoranda in the Latin language. First, of the MANUSCRIPTS. The _Gospels;_ a vellum folio:--with illuminated capitals, and thirteen larger paintings, supposed to be of the thirteenth--but I suspect rather of the fourteenth--century. A _Breviary ... "for the use of Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy_" This vellum MS. is of the fifteenth century, and was executed for the distinguished character to whom it is expressly dedicated. This is really an elegant volume: written in the gothic character of the period, and sprinkled with marginal and capital initial decorations. Here are--as usual in works of this kind, executed for princes and great men--divers illuminations of figures of saints, of which there are three of larger size than the rest: and, of these three, one is eminently interesting, as exhibiting a small portrait of DUKE CHARLES himself, kneeling before his tutelary saint. Here is an exceedingly pretty octavo volume of _Hours,_ of the fifteenth century, fresh and sparkling in its illuminations, with marginal decorations of flowers, monsters, and capriccios. It is in the binding of the time--the wood, covered with gilt ornaments. _Office of the Virgin:_ a neat vellum MS. of the fourteenth century--with ornamented capital initials and margins, and about two dozen of larger illuminations. But the chief attraction of this MS. arises from the text having been written by four of the most celebrated Princesses of the House of Austria, whose names are inscribed in the first fly leaf. Here is a "_Boccace des Cas des Nobles_" by Laurent Premier Fait--which is indeed every where. Nor must a sprinkle of _Roman Classics_ be omitted to be noticed, however briefly. A _Celsus, Portions of Livy,_ the _Metamorphosis of Ovid_, _Seneca's Tragedies_, the _Æneid of Virgil_, and _Juvenal_: none, I think, of a later period than the beginning or middle of the fifteenth century--just before the invention of printing. Among the MSS. of a miscellaneous class, are two which I was well pleased to examine: namely, the _Funerailles des Reines de France_, in folio--adorned with eleven large illuminations of royal funerals--and a work entitled _Mayni Jasonis Juris consulti Eq. Rom. Cæs., &c, Epitalamion, in_ 4to. The latter MS. is, in short, an epithalamium upon the marriage of Maximilian the Great and Blanche Maria, composed by M. Jaso, who was a ducal senator, and attached to the embassy which returned with the destined bride for Maximilian. What is its _chief_ ornament, in my estimation, are two sweetly executed small portraits of the royal husband and his consort. I was earnest to have fac-similes of them; and Mr. Young gave me the strongest assurances that my wishes should be attended to.[148] Thus much; or perhaps thus little, for the MSS. Still more brief must be my account of the PRINTED BOOKS: and first for a fifteener or two. It is an edition of _Dio Chrysostom de Regno_, without date, or name of printer, in 4to.; but most decidedly executed (as I told Mr. Young) by _Valdarfer_. What renders this copy exceedingly precious is, that it is printed UPON VELLUM; and is, I think, the only known copy so executed. It is in beautiful condition. Here is a pretty volume of _Hours_, in Latin, with a French metrical version, printed in the fifteenth century, without date, and struck off UPON VELLUM. It has wood-cuts, which are coloured of the time. From a copy of ms. verses, at the beginning of the volume, we learn that "the author of this metrical version was _Peter Gringore,_ commonly called _Vaudemont_, herald at arms to the Duke of Lorraine; who dedicated and brought this very copy to _Renatus of Bourbon_." I was much struck with a magnificent folio _Missal_, printed at Venice by that skilful typographical artist _I.H. de Landoia,_ in 1488--UPON VELLUM: with the cuts coloured.[149] A few small vellum _Hours_ by _Vostre_ and Vivian are sufficiently pretty. In the class of books printed upon vellum, and continuing with the sixteenth century, I must not fail to commence with the notice of two copies of the _Tewrdannckh_, each of the date of 1517, and each UPON VELLUM. One is coloured, and the other not coloured. Mr. Young describes the former in the following animated language: "Exemplar omnibus numeris absolutum, optimeque servatum. Præstantissimum, rarissimumque tum typographicæ, tum xylographicæ artis, monumentum." _Lucani Pharsalia,_ 1811. Folio. Printed by Degen. A beautiful copy, of a magnificent book, UPON VELLUM; illustrated by ten copper plates. _M.C. Frontonis Opera: edidit Maius Mediol_. 1815. 4to. An unique copy; upon vellum. _Flore Medicale decrite par Chaumeton & peinte par Mme. E. Panckoucke & I.F. Turpin. Paris,_ 1814. Supposed to be unique, as a vellum copy; with the original drawings, and the cuts printed in bistre. Here is also a magnificent work, called "_Omaggio delle Provincie Venetæ_" upon the nuptials of the present Emperor and Empress of Austria. It consists of seventeen copper-plates, printed upon vellum, and preserved in two cases, covered with beautiful ornaments and figures, in worked gold and silver, &c. Of this magnificent production of art, there were two copies only printed upon vellum, and this is one of them. Up stairs, on the third floor, is kept his Majesty's COLLECTION of ENGRAVED PORTRAITS--which amount, as Mr. Young informed me, to not fewer than 120,000 in number. They commence with the earliest series, from the old German and Italian masters, and descend regularly to our own times. Of course such a collection contains very much that is exquisite and rare in the series of _British Portraits_. Mr. Young is an Italian by birth; but has been nurtured, from earliest youth, in the Austrian dominions. He is a man of strong cultivated parts, and so fond of the literature of the "_Zodiacus Vitæ_" of _Marcellus Palingenius_--translated by our _Barnabe Googe_: of the editions of which translation he was very desirous that I should procure him a copious and correct list. But it is the gentle and obliging manners--the frank and open-hearted conversation--and, above all, the high-minded devotedness to his Royal master and to his interests, that attach, and ever will attach, Mr. Young to me--by ties of no easily dissoluble nature. We have parted ... perhaps never to meet again; but he may rest assured that the recollection of his kindnesses ("Semper honos nomenque," &c.) will never be obliterated from my memory.[150] Scarcely a stone's throw from the Imperial Library, is the noble mansion of the venerable DUKE ALBERT of _Saxe-Teschen:_ the husband of the lady to whose memory Canova has erected the proudest trophy of his art. This amiable and accomplished nobleman has turned his eightieth year; and is most liberal and kind in the display of all the treasures which belong to him.[151] These "treasures" are of a first-rate character; both as to _Drawings_ and _Prints_. He has no rival in the _former_ department, and even surpasses the Emperor in the latter. I visited and examined his collection (necessarily in a superficial manner) twice; paying only particular attention to the drawings of the Italian school--including those of Claude Lorraine. I do not know what is in our _own_ royal collection, but I may safely say that our friend Mr. Ottley has some finer _Michel Angelos and Raffaelles_--and the Duke of Devonshire towers, beyond all competition, in the possession of _Claude Lorraines_. Yet you are to know that the drawings of Duke Albert amount to nearly 12,000 in number. They are admirably well arranged--in a large, light room--overlooking the ramparts. Having so recently examined the productions of the earlier masters in the German school, at Munich--but more particularly in Prince Eugene's collection of prints, in the Imperial Library here--I did not care to look after those specimens of the same masters which were in the port folios of the Duke Albert. The _Albert Durer_ drawings, however, excited my attention, and extorted the warmest commendation. It is quite delightful to learn (for so M. Bartsch told me--the Duke himself being just now at Baden) that this dignified and truly respectable old man, yet takes delight in the treasures of his own incomparable collection. "Whenever I visit him (said my "fidus Achates" M.B.) he begs me to take a chair and sit beside him; and is anxious to obtain intelligence of any thing curious, or rare, or beautiful, which may add to the worth of his collection." It is now high time, methinks, to take leave not only of public and private collections of books, but of almost every thing else in Vienna. Yet I must add a word connected with literature and the fine arts. As to the former, it seems to sleep soundly. Few or no literary societies are encouraged, few public discussions are tolerated, and the capital of the empire is without either _reviews_ or _institutions_--which can bear the least comparison with our own. The library of the University is said, however, to hold fourscore thousand volumes. Few critical works are published there; and for _one_ Greek or Roman classic put forth at Vienna, they have _half_ a _score_ at Leipsic, Franckfort, Leyden, and Strasbourg. But in Oriental literature, M. Hammer is a tower of strength, and justly considered to be the pride of his country. The Academy of Painting is here a mere shadow of a shade. In the fine arts, Munich is as six to one beyond Vienna. A torpidity, amounting to infatuation, seems to possess those public men who have influence both on the councils and prosperity of their country. When the impulse for talent, furnished by the antique gems belonging to the Imperial collection,[152] is considered, it is surprising how little has been accomplished at Vienna for the last century. M. Bartsch is, however, a proud exception to any reproach arising from the want of indigenous talent. His name and performances alone are a host against such captious imputations.[153] There wants only a few wiser heads, and more active spirits, in some of the upper circles of society, and Vienna might produce graphic works as splendid as they would be permanent. We will now leave the city for the country, or rather for the immediate neighbourhood of Vienna; and then, having, I think, sent you a good long Vienna despatch, must hasten to take leave--not only of yourself, but of this metropolis. Whether I shall again write to you before I cross the Rhine on my return home--is quite uncertain. Let me therefore make the most of the present: which indeed is of a most unconscionable length. Turn, for one moment, to the opening of it--and note, there, some mention made of certain monasteries--one of which is situated at CLOSTERNEUBURG, the other in the suburbs. I will first take you to the former--a pleasant drive of about nine miles from hence. Mr. Lewis, myself, and our attendant Rohfritsch, hired a pair of horses for the day; and an hour and a half brought us to a good inn, or Restaurateur's immediately opposite the monastery in question. In our route thither, the Danube continued in sight all the way--which rendered the drive very pleasant. The river may be the best part of a mile broad, near the monastery. The sight of the building in question was not very imposing, after those which I had seen in my route to Vienna. The monastery is, in fact, an incomplete edifice; but the foundations of the building are of an ancient date.[154] Having postponed our dinner to a comparatively late hour, I entered, as usual, upon the business of the monastic visit. The court-yard, or quadrangle, had a mean appearance; but I saw enough of architectural splendour to convince me that, if this monastery had been completed according to the original design, it would have ranked among the noblest in Austria. On obtaining admission, I enquired for the librarian, but was told that he had not yet (two o'clock) risen from dinner. I apologised for the intrusion, and begged respectfully to be allowed to wait till he should be disposed to leave the dining-room. The attendant, however, would admit of no such arrangement; for he instantly disappeared, and returned with a monk, habited in the _Augustine_ garb, with a grave aspect and measured step. He might be somewhere about forty years of age. As he did not understand a word of French, it became necessary again to brush up my Latin. He begged I would follow him up stairs, and in the way to the library, would not allow me to utter one word further in apology for my supposed rudeness in bringing him thus abruptly from his "symposium." A more good natured man seemingly never opened his lips. Having reached the library, the first thing he placed before me--as the boast and triumph of their establishment--was, a large paper copy (in quarto) of an edition of the _Hebrew Bible_, edited by I. Hahn, one of their fraternity, and published in 1806, 4 vols.[155] This was accomplished under the patronage of the Head of the Monastery, _Gaudentius Dunkler_: who was at the sole expense of the paper and of procuring new Hebrew types. I threw my eye over the dedication to the President, by Hahn, and saw the former with pleasure recognised as the MODERN XIMENES. Having thanked the librarian for a sight of these volumes--of which there is an impression in an octavo and cheap form, "for the use of youth"--I begged that I might have a sight of the _Incunabula Typographica_ of which I had heard a high character. He smiled, and said that a few minutes would suffice to undeceive me in this particular. Whereupon he placed before me ... such a set of genuine, unsoiled, uncropt, _undoctored_, ponderous folio tomes ... as verily caused my eyes to sparkle, and my heart to leap! They were, upon the whole---and for their number--_such_ copies as I had never before seen. You have here a very accurate account of them--taken, with the said copies "oculis subjectis." _St. Austin de Civitate Dei_, 1467. _Folio_. A very large and sound copy, in the original binding of wood; but not free from a good deal of ms. annotation. _Mentelin's German Bible_; somewhat cropt, and in its second binding, but sound and perfect. _Supposed first German Bible_: a large and fine copy, in its first binding of wood. _Apuleius_, 1469. Folio. The largest and finest copy which, I think, I ever beheld--with the exception of some slight worm holes at the end. _Livius_, 1470. Folio. 2 vols. _Printed by V. de Spira._ In the original binding. When I say that this copy appears to be full as fine as that in the collection of Mr. Grenville, I bestow upon it the highest possible commendation. _Plutarchi Vit. Parall._ 2 vol. Folio. In the well known peculiarly shaped letter R. This copy, in one magnificent folio volume, is the largest and finest I ever saw: but--eheu! a few leaves are wanting at the end. _Polybius. Lat._ 1473. Folio. The printers are Sweynheym and Pannartz. A large, fine copy; in the original binding of wood: but four leaves at the end, with a strong foxy tint at top, are worm-eaten in the middle. Let me pursue this _amusing_ strain; for I have rarely, within so small a space--in any monastic library I have hitherto visited--found such a sprinkling of classical volumes. _Plinius Senior_, 1472. Folio. Printed by Jenson. A prodigiously fine, large copy. A ms. note, prefixed, says: "_hunc librum comparuit Jacobus Pemperl pro viij t d. an [14]88," &c. Xenophontis Cyropædia_. Lat. _Curante Philelpho_. With the date of the translation, 1467. A very fine copy of a well printed book. _Mammotrectus_, 1470. Folio. Printed by Schoeffher. A fine, white, tall copy; in its original wooden binding. _Sti. Jeronimi Epistolæ_. 1470. Folio. Printed by Sweynheym and Pannartz. In one volume: for size and condition probably unrivalled. In its first binding of wood. _Gratiani Decretales_. 1472. Folio. Printed by Schoeffher. UPON VELLUM: in one enormous folio volume, and in an unrivalled state of perfection. Perhaps, upon the whole, the finest vellum Schoeffher in existence. It is in its original binding, but some of the leaves are loose. _Opus Consiliorum I. de Calderi_. 1472. Idem Opus: _Anthonii de Burtrio_. 1472. Folio. Each work printed by _Adam Rot, Metensis_: a rare printer, but of whose performances I have now seen a good number of specimens. These works are in one volume, and the present is a fine sound copy. _Petri Lombardi Quat. Lib. Sentent_. Folio. This book is without name of printer or date; but I should conjecture it to be executed in Eggesteyn's largest gothic character, and, from a ms. memorandum at the end, we are quite sure that the book was printed in 1471 at latest. The memorandum is as follows: "_Iste liber est magistri Leonardi Fruman de Hyersaw_, 1471." Such appeared to me to be the choicer, and more to be desiderated, volumes in the monastic library of Closterneuberg--which a visit of about a couple of hours only enabled me to examine. I say "_desiderated_"--my good friend--because, on returning home, I revolved within myself what might be done with propriety towards the _possession_ of them.[156] Having thanked the worthy librarian, and expressed the very great satisfaction afforded me by a sight of the books in question--which had fully answered the high character given of them--I returned to the auberge--dined with an increased appetite in consequence of such a sight--and, picking up a "white stone," as a lucky omen, being at the very extent of my _Bibliographical_, _Antiquarian_, and _Picturesque Tour_--returned to Vienna, to a late cup of tea; well satisfied, in every respect, with this most agreeable excursion. There now remains but one more subject to be noticed--and, then, farewell to this city--and hie for Manheim, Paris, and Old England! That one subject is again connected with old books and an old Monastery ... which indeed the opening of this letter leads you to anticipate. In that part of the vast suburbs of Vienna which faces the north, and which is called the ROSSAU--there stands a church and a _Capuchin convent_, of some two centuries antiquity: the latter, now far gone to decay both in the building and revenues. The outer gate of the convent was opened--as at the Capuchin convent which contains the imperial sepulchres--by a man with a long, bushy, and wiry beard ... who could not speak one word of French. I was alone, and a hackney coach had conveyed me thither. What was to be done. "_Bibliothecam hujusce Monasterii valdè videre cupio--licetne Domine?"_ The monk answered my interrogatory with a sonorous "_imo_:" and the gates closing upon us, I found myself in the cloisters--where my attendant left me, to seek the Principal and librarian. In two minutes, I observed a couple of portly Capuchins, pacing the pavement of the cloister, and approaching me with rather a hurried step. On meeting, they saluted me formally--and assuming a cheerful air, begged to conduct me to the library. We were quickly within a room, of very moderate dimensions, divided into two compartments, of which the shelves were literally thronged and crammed with books, lying in all directions, and completely covered with dust. It was impossible to make a selection from such an indigested farrago: but the backs happening to be lettered, this afforded me considerable facility. I was told that the "WHOLE LIBRARY WAS AT MY DISPOSAL!"--which intelligence surprised and somewhat staggered me. The monks seemed to enjoy my expression of astonishment. I went to work quickly; and after upwards of an hour's severe rummaging, among uninteresting folios and quartos of medicine, canon-law, scholastic metaphysics, and dry comments upon the decretals of Popes Boniface and Gratian--it was rather from courtesy, than complete satisfaction, that I pitched upon a few ... of a miscellaneous description--begging to have the account, for which the money should be immediately forthcoming. They replied that my wishes should be instantly attended to--but that it would be necessary to consult together to reconsider the prices--and that a porter should be at the hotel of the _Crown of Hungary_, with the volumes selected--to await my final decision. As a _book-bill_ sent from a monastery, and written in the Latin language, may be considered _unique_ in our country--and a curiosity among the _Roxburghers _--I venture to send you a transcript of it: premising, that I retained the books, and paid down the money: somewhere about _6l. 16s. 6d_. You will necessarily smile at the epithets bestowed upon your friend. Plurimum Reverende, ac Venerande Domine! Mitto cum hisce, quos tibi seligere placuit, libros, eosdemque hic breviter describo, addito pretio, quo nobis conventum est; et quidem ex catalogo desumptos: Florins. Missale Rom. pro Pataviensis Ecclæ ritu. 1494 5 Missa defunctorum. 1499 3 Val. Martialis Epigrammatum opus. 1475 25 Xenophontis Apologia Socratis 3 Epulario &c. 1 De Conceptu et triplici Mariæ V. Candore 1 ac demum Trithemii Annales Hirsaug. et Aristotelis opera Edit. Sylburgii 35 ----- 73 Quæ cuncta Tibi optime convenire, Teque valere perpetim precor et opto. P. JOAN. SARCANDER MRA. _Ord. Serv. B.M.V._ This is the last _bibliomaniacal_ transaction in which I am likely to be engaged at Vienna; for, within thirty-six hours from hence, the post horses will be in the archway of this hotel, with their heads turned towards Old England. In that direction my face will be also turned ... for the next month or five weeks to come; being resolved upon spending the best part of a fortnight of those five weeks, at _Ratisbon_, _Nuremberg_, and _Manheim_. You may therefore expect to hear from me again--certainly for the _last_ time--at Manheim, just before crossing the Rhine for Chalons sur Marne, Metz, and Paris. I shall necessarily have but little leisure on the road--for a journey of full 500 miles is to be encountered before I reach the hither bank of the Rhine at Manheim. Farewell then to VIENNA:--a long, and perhaps final farewell! If I have arrived at a moment when this capital is comparatively thinned of its population, and bereft of its courtly splendors--and if this city may be said to be _now_ dull, compared with what its _winter_ gaieties will render it--I shall nevertheless not have visited it IN VAIN. Books, whether as MSS. or printed volumes, have been inspected by me with an earnestness and profitable result--not exceeded by any previous similar application: while the company of men of worth, of talents, and of kindred tastes, has rendered my social happiness complete. The best of hearts, and the friendliest of dispositions, are surely to be found in the capital of Austria. Farewell. It is almost the hour of midnight--and not a single note of the harp or violin is to be heard in the streets. The moon shines softly and sweetly. God bless you. [134] In Hartman Schedel's time, these suburbs seem to have been equally distinguished. "Habet (says he, speaking of Vienna) SUBURBIA MAXIMA et AMBICIOSA." _Chron. Norimb._ 1493. fol. xcviii. rev. [135] Schedel's general description of the city of Vienna, which is equally brief and spirited, may deserve to be quoted. "VIENNA autem urbs magnifica ambitu murorum cingitur duorum millium passuum: habet fossa et vallo cincta: urbs autem fossatum magnum habet: undique aggerem prealtum: menia deinde spissa et sublimia frequentesque turres; et propugnacula ad bellum prompta. Ædes civium amplae et ornatae: structura solida et firma, altæ domorum facies magnificaeque visuntur. Unum id dedecori est, quod tecta plerumque ligna contegunt pauca lateres. Cetera edificia muro lapideo consistunt. Pictæ domus, et interius et exterius splendent. Ingressus cuiusque domum in ædes te principis venisse putabis." _Ibid._ This is not an exaggerated description. A little below, Schedel says "there is a monastery, called St. Jerome, (much after the fashion of our _Magdalen_) in which reformed Prostitutes are kept; and where, day and night, they sing hymns in the Teutonic dialect. If any of them are found relapsing into their former sinful ways, they are thrown headlong into the Danube." "But (adds he) they lead, on the contrary, a chaste and holy life." [136] I suspect that the houses opposite the Palace are of comparatively recent construction. In _Pfeffel's Viva et Accurata Delineatio_ of the palaces and public buildings of Vienna, 1725 (oblong folio,) the palace faces a wide place or square. Eighteen sculptured human figures, apparently of the size of life, there grace the topmost ballustrade in the copper-plate view of this truly magnificent residence. [137] [Recently however the number of _Restaurateurs_ has become considerable.] [138] In Hartmann Schedel's time, there appears to have been a very considerable traffic in wine at Vienna: "It is incredible (says he) what a brisk trade is stirring in the article of wine,[139] in this city. Twelve hundred horses are daily employed for the purposes of draught--either for the wine drank at Vienna, or sent up the Danube--against the stream--with amazing labour and difficulty. It is said that the wine cellars are frequently as deep _below_ the earth, as the houses are _above_ it." Schedel goes on to describe the general appearance of the streets, and the neatness of the interiors, of the houses: adding, "that the windows are generally filled with stained glass, having iron-gratings without, where numerous birds sing in cages. The winter (remarks he) sets in here very severely." _Chron. Norimb_. 1493, fol. xcix. [139] The vintage about Vienna should seem to have been equally abundant a century after the above was written. In the year 1590, when a severe shock of earthquake threatened destruction to the tower of the Cathedral--and it was absolutely necessary to set about immediate repairs--the _liquid_ which was applied to make the most astringent _mortar_, was WINE: "l'on se servit de _vin,_ qui fut alors en abondance, pour faire le _plâtre_ de cette batise." _Denkmahle der Baukunst und Bildneren des Mittelalters in dem Oesterreichischen Kaiserthume_. Germ. Fr. Part iii. p. 36. 1817-20. [140] There is a good sized (folded) view of the church, or rather chiefly of the south front of the spire, in the "_Vera et Accurata Delineatio Omnium Templorum et Cænobiorum_" of Vienna, published by Pfeffel in the year 1724, oblong folio. [141] This head has been published as the first plate in the third livraison of the ECCLESIASTICAL ANTIQUITIES of Vienna--accompanied by French and German letter-press. I have no hesitation in saying that, without the least national bias or individual partiality, the performance of Mr. Lewis--although much smaller, is by far the most _faithful_; nor is the engraving less superior, than the drawing, to the production of the Vienna artist. This latter is indeed faithless in design and coarse in execution. Beneath the head, in the original sculpture, and in the latter plate, we read the inscription M.A.P. 1313. It is no doubt an interesting specimen of sculpture of the period. [142] Vol. ii. p. 312-313. [143] There is a large print of it (which I saw at Vienna) in the line manner, but very indifferently executed. But of the last, detached group, above described, there is a very fine print in the line manner. [144] See p. 245 ante. [145] As in that of the _Feast of Venus in the island of Cythera_: about eleven feet by seven. There is also another, of himself, in the Garden of Love--with his two wives--in the peculiarly powerful and voluptuous style of his pencil. The picture is about four feet long. His portrait of one of his wives, of the size of life, habited only in an ermine cloak at the back (of which the print is well known) is an extraordinary production ... as to colour and effect. [146] I am not sure whether any publication, connected with this extraordinary collection, has appeared since _Chrétien de Mechel's Catalogue des Tableaux de la Galerie Impériale et Royale de Vienne_; 1784, 8vo.: which contains, at the end, four folded copper-plates of the front elevations and ground plans of the Great and Little Belvederes. He divides his work into the _Venetian, Roman, Florentine, Bolognese_, and _Ancient and Modern Flemish Schools_: according to the different chambers or apartments. This catalogue is a mere straight-forward performance; presenting a formal description of the pictures, as to size and subject, but rarely indulging in warmth of commendation, and never in curious and learned research. The preface, from which I have gleaned the particulars of the History of the Collection, is sufficiently interesting. My friend M. Bartsch, if leisure and encouragement were afforded him, might produce a magnificent and instructive work--devoted to this very extraordinary collection. (Upon whom, NOW, shall this task devolve?!) [147] See the OPPOSITE PLATE. [148] The truth is, not only fac-similes of these illuminations, but of the initial L, so warmly mentioned at page 292, were executed by M. Fendi, under the direction of my friend M. Bartsch, and dispatched to me from Vienna in the month of June 1820--but were lost on the road. [149] Lord Spencer has recently obtained a copy of this exquisitely printed book from the M'Carthy collection. See the _Ædes Althorpianæ;_ vol. ii. p. 192. [150] [I annex, with no common gratification, a fac-simile of the Autograph of this most worthy man, [Illustration]] [151] He has (_now_) been _dead_ several years. [152] ECKHEL'S work upon these gems, in 1788, folio, is well known. The apotheosis of Augustus, in this collection, is considered as an unrivalled specimen of art, upon sardonyx. I regretted much not to have seen these gems, but the floor of the room in which they are preserved was taken up, and the keeper from home. [153] It will be only necessary to mention--for the establishment of this fact--the ENGRAVED WORKS alone of M. Bartsch, from masters of every period, and of every school, amounting to 505 in number: an almost incredible effort, when we consider that their author has scarcely yet passed his grand climacteric. His _Peintre Graveur_ is a literary performance, in the graphic department, of really solid merit and utility. The record of the achievements of M. Bartsch has been perfected by the most affectionate and grateful of all hands--those of his son, _Frederic de Bartsch_--in an octavo volume, which bears the following title, and which has the portrait (but not a striking resemblance) of the father prefixed:--"_Catalogue des Estampes de_ J. ADAM de BARTSCH, _Chevalier de l'Ordre de Léopold, Conseiller aulique et Premier Garde de la Bibl. Imp. et Roy. de la Cour, Membre de l'Academie des Beaux Arts de Vienne_." 1818. 8vo. pp. 165. There is a modest and sensible preface by the son--in which we are informed that the catalogue was not originally compiled for the purpose of making it public. The following is a fac-simile of the Autograph of this celebrated graphical Critic and Artist. [Illustration] [154] The MONASTERY of CLOSTERNEUBURG, or Nevenburg, or Nuenburg, or Newburg, or Neunburg--is supposed to have been built by Leopold the Pious in the year 1114. It was of the order of St. Augustin. They possess (at the monastery, it should seem) a very valuable chronicle, of the XIIth century, upon vellum--devoted to the history of the establishment; but unluckily defective at the beginning and end. It is supposed to have been written by the head of the monastery, for the time being. It is continued by a contemporaneous hand, down to the middle of the fourteenth century. They preserve also, at Closterneuburg, a Necrology--of five hundred years--down to the year 1721. "Inter cæteros præstantes veteres codices manuscriptos, quos INSIGNIS BIBLIOTHECA CLAUSTRO-NEOBURGENSIS servat, est pervetus inclytæ ejusdem canoniæ Necrologium, ante annos quingentos in membranis elegantissimè manu exaratum, et a posteriorum temporum auctoribus continuatum." _Script. Rer. Austriacar. Cura Pez._ 1721. vol. 1. col. 435, 494. [155] The librarian, MAXIMILIAN FISCHER, informed me the quarto copies were rare, for that only 400 were printed. The octavo copies are not so, but they do not contain all the marginal references which are in the quarto impressions. [156] In fact, I wrote a letter to the librarian, the day after my visit, proposing to give 2000 florins in specie for the volumes above described. My request was answered by the following polite, and certainly most discreet and commendable reply: "D....Domine! Litteris a Te 15. Sept. scriptis et 16 Sept. a me receptis, de Tuo desiderio nonnullos bibliothecæ nostræ libros pro pecunia acquirendi, me certiorem reddidisti; ast mihi respondendum venit, quod tuis votis obtemperare non possim. Copia horum librorum ad cimelium bibliothecæ Claustroneoburgensis merito refertur, et maxima sunt in æstimatione apud omnes confratres meos; porro, lege civili cautum est, ne libri et res rariores Abbatiarum divenderentur. Si unum aliumve horum, ceu duplicatum, invenissem, pro æquissimo pretio in signum venerationis transmisissem. "Ad alia, si præstare possem, officia, me paratissimum invenies, simulque Te obsecro, me æstimatorem tui sincerrimum reputes, hinc me in ulteriorem recordationem commendo, ac dignum me æstimes quod nominare me possem, ... dominationis Tuæ _E Canonia Claustroneoburgensi_, addictissimum 17 _Septbr_ 1818. MAXIMILIANUM FISCHER. Can. reg. Bibliothec. et Archivar." _Supplement_. RATISBON, NUREMBERG, MANHEIM. _Supplement_. Having found it impracticable to write to my friend--on the route from Vienna to Paris, and from thence to London--the reader is here presented with a few SUPPLEMENTAL PARTICULARS with which that route furnished me; and which, I presume to think, will not be considered either misplaced or uninteresting. They are arranged quite in the manner of MEMORANDA, or heads: not unaccompanied with a regret that the limits of this work forbid a more extended detail. I shall immediately, therefore, conduct the reader from Vienna to RATISBON. I left VIENNA, with my travelling companion, within two days after writing the last letter, dated from that place--upon a beautiful September morning. But ere we had reached _St. Pölten_, the face of the heavens was changed, and heavy rain accompanied us till we got to Mölk, where we slept: not however before I had written a note to the worthy _Benedictine Fraternity_ at the monastery--professing my intention of breakfasting with them the next morning. This self-invitation was joyfully accepted, and the valet, who returned with the written answer, told me that it was a high day of feasting and merry-making at the monastery--and that he had left the worthy Monks in the plenitude of their social banquet. We were much gratified the next morning, not only by the choice and excellence of the breakfast, but by the friendliness of our reception. So simple are manners here, that, in going up the hill, towards the monastery, we met the worthy Vice Principal, Pallas, habited in his black gown--returning from a baker's shop, where he had been to bespeak the best bread. I was glad to renew my acquaintance with the Abbé Strattman, and again solicited permission for Mr. Lewis to take the portrait of so eminent a bibliographer. But in vain: the Abbé answering, with rather a melancholy and mysterious air, that "the world was lost to him, and himself to the world." We parted--with pain on both sides; and on the same evening slept, where we had stopt in our route to Vienna, at _Lintz_. The next morning (Sunday) we started betimes to breakfast at _Efferding_. Our route lay chiefly along the banks of the Danube ... under hanging woods on one side, with villages and villas on the other. The fog hung heavily about us; and we could catch but partial and unsatisfactory glimpses of that scenery, which, when lightened by a warm sunshine, must be perfectly romantic. At Efferding our carriage and luggage were examined, while we breakfasted. The day now brightened up, and nothing but sunshine and "the song of earliest birds" accompanied us to _Sigharding_,--the next post town. Hence to _Scharding_, where we dined, and to _Fürsternell_, where we supped and slept. The inn was crowded by country people below, but we got excellent quarters in the attics; and were regaled with peaches, after supper, which might have vied with those out of the Imperial garden at Vienna. We arose betimes, and breakfasted at _Vilshofen_--and having lost sight of the Danube, since we left Efferding, we were here glad to come again in view of it: and especially to find it accompany us a good hundred miles of our route, till we reached _Ratisbon_. _Straubing_, where we dined--and which is within two posts of Ratisbon--is a very considerable town. The Danube washes parts of its suburbs. As the day was uncommonly serene and mild, even to occasional sultriness, and as we were in excellent time for reaching Ratisbon that evening, we devoted an hour or two to rambling in this town. Mr. Lewis made sketches, and I strolled into churches, and made enquiries after booksellers shops, and possessors of old books: but with very little success. A fine hard road, as level as a bowling green, carries you within an hour to _Pfätter_--the post town between Straubing and Ratisbon--and almost twice that distance brings you to the latter place. It was dark when we entered Ratisbon, and having been recommended to the hotel of the _Agneau Blanc_ we drove thither, and alighted ... close to the very banks of the Danube--and heard the roar of its rapid stream, turning several mills, close as it were to our very ears. The master of the hotel, whose name is _Cramer_, and who talked French very readily, received us with peculiar courtesy; and, on demanding the best situated room in the house, we were conducted on the second floor, to the chamber which had been occupied, only two or three days before, by the Emperor of Austria himself, on his way to _Aix-la-Chapelle_. The next morning was a morning of wonder to us. Our sitting-room, which was a very lantern, from the number of windows, gave us a view of the rushing stream of the Danube, of a portion of the bridge over it, of some beautifully undulating and vine-covered hills, in the distance, on the opposite side--and, lower down the stream, of the town-walls and water-mills, of which latter we had heard the stunning sounds on our arrival.[157] The whole had a singularly novel and pleasing appearance. But if the sitting room was thus productive of gratification, the very first walk I took in the streets was productive of still greater. On leaving the inn, and turning to the left, up a narrow street, I came in view of a house ... upon the walls of which were painted, full three hundred years ago, the figures of _Goliath and David_. The former could be scarcely less than twenty feet high: the latter, who was probably about one-third of that height, was represented as if about to cast the stone from the sling. The costume of Goliath marked the period when he was thus represented;[158] and I must say, considering the time that has elapsed since that representation, that he is yet a fine, vigorous, and fresh-looking fellow. I continued onwards, now to the right, and afterwards to the left, without knowing a single step of the route. An old, but short square gothic tower--upon one of the four sides of which was a curious old clock, supported by human figures--immediately caught my attention. The _Town Hall_ was large and imposing; but the _Cathedral_, surrounded by booths--it being fair-time--was, of course, the great object of my attention. In short, I saw enough within an hour to convince me, that I was visiting a large, curious, and well-peopled town; replete with antiquities, and including several of the time of the Romans, to whom it was necessarily a very important station. Ratisbon is said to contain a population of about 20,000 souls. The Cathedral can boast of little antiquity. It is almost a building of yesterday; yet it is large, richly ornamented on the outside, especially on the west, between the towers--and is considered one of the noblest structures of the kind in Bavaria.[159] The interior wants that decisive effect which simplicity produces. It is too much broken into parts, and covered with monuments of a very heterogeneous description. Near it I traced the cloisters of an old convent or monastery of some kind, now demolished, which could not be less than five hundred years old. The streets of Ratisbon are generally picturesque, as well from their undulating forms, as from the antiquity of a great number of the houses. The modern parts of the town are handsome, and there is a pleasant inter-mixture of trees and grass plats in some of these more recent portions. There are some pleasing public walks, after the English fashion; and a public garden, where a colossal sphinx, erected by the late philosopher _Gleichen_, has a very imposing appearance. Here is also an obelisk erected to the memory of Gleichen himself, the founder of these gardens; and a monument to the memory of Keplar, the astronomer; which latter was luckily spared in the assault of this town by the French in 1809. But these are, comparatively, every day objects. A much more interesting source of observation, to my mind, were the very few existing relics of the once celebrated monastery of ST. EMMERAM--and a great portion of the remains of another old monastery, called ST. JAMES--which latter may indeed be designated the _College of the Jacobites_; as the few members who inhabit it were the followers of the house and fortunes of the Pretender, James Stuart. The monastery, or _Abbey of St. Emmeram_ was one of the most celebrated throughout Europe; and I suspect that its library, both of MSS. and printed books, was among the principal causes of its celebrity.[160] The intelligent and truly obliging Mr. A. Kraemer, librarian to the Prince of Tour and Taxis, accompanied me in my visit to the very few existing remains of St. Emmeram--which indeed are incorporated, as it were, with the church close to the palace or residence of the Prince. As I walked along the corridors of this latter building, after having examined the Prince's library, and taken notes of a few of the rarer or more beautiful books, I could look through the windows into the body of the church itself. It is difficult to describe this religious edifice, and still more so to know what portions belonged to the old monastery. I saw a stone chair--rude, massive, and almost shapeless--in which _Adam_ might have sat ... if dates are to be judged of by the barbarism of form. Something like a crypt, of which the further part was uncovered--reminded me of portions of the crypt at _Freysing_; and among the old monuments belonging to the abbey, was one of _Queen Hemma_, wife of Ludovic, King of Bavaria: a great benefactress, who was buried there in 876. The figure, which was whole-length, and of the size of life, was painted; and might be of the fourteenth century. There is another monument, of _Warmundus, Count of Wasserburg_, who was buried in 1001. These monuments have been lithographised, from the drawings of Quaglio, in the "_Denkmahle der Baukunst des Mittelalters im Koenigreiche Baiern_," 1816. Folio. Of all interesting objects of architectural antiquity in Ratisbon, none struck me so forcibly--and indeed none is in itself so curious and singular--as the MONASTERY OF ST. JAMES, before slightly alluded to. The front of that portion of it, connected with the church, should seem to be of an extremely remote antiquity. It is the ornaments, or style of architecture, which give it this character of antiquity. The ornaments, which are on each side of the door way, or porch, are quite extraordinary, and appear as if the building had been erected by Mexicans or Hindoos. Quaglio has made a drawing, and published a lithographic print of the whole of this entrance. I had conjectured the building to be of the twelfth century, and was pleased to have my conjecture confirmed by the assurance of one of the members of the college (either Mr. Richardson or Mr. Sharp) that the foundations of the building were laid in the middle of the XIIth century; and that, about twenty miles off, down the Danube, there was another monastery, now in ruins, called _Mosburg_, if I mistake not--which was built about the same period, and which exhibited precisely the same style of architecture. But if the entire college, with the church, cloisters, sitting rooms, and dormitories, was productive of so much gratification, the _contents_ of these rooms, including the _members_ themselves, were productive of yet greater. To begin with the Head, or President, DR. C. ARBUTHNOT: one of the finest and healthiest looking old gentlemen I ever beheld--in his eighty-second year. I should however premise, that the members of this college--only six or eight in number, and attached to the interests of the Stuarts--have been settled here almost from their infancy: some having arrived at seven, and others at twelve, years of age. Their method of speaking their _own_ language is very singular; and rather difficult of comprehension. Nor is the _French_, spoken by them, of much better pronunciation. Of manners the most simple, and apparently of principles the most pure, they seem to be strangers to those wants and wishes which frequently agitate a more numerous and polished establishment; and to move, as it were, from the cradle to the grave ... "The world forgetting, by the world forgot." As soon as the present Head ceases to exist,[161] the society is to be dissolved--and the building to be demolished.[162] I own that this intelligence, furnished me by one of the members, gave a melancholy and yet more interesting air to every object which I saw, and to every Member with whom I conversed. The society is of the Benedictine order, and there is a large whole length portrait, in the upper cloisters, or rather corridor, of ST. BENEDICT--with the emphatic inscription of "PATER MONACHORUM." The _library_ was carefully visited by me, and a great number of volumes inspected. The local is small and unpretending: a mere corridor, communicating with a tolerably good sized room, in the middle, at right angles. I saw a few _hiatuses_, which had been caused by disposing of the volumes, that had _filled_ them, to the cabinet in St. James's Place. In fact, Mr. Horn--so distinguished for his bibliographical _trouvailles_--had been either himself a _member_ of this College, or had had a _brother_, so circumstanced, who foraged for him. What remained was, comparatively, mere chaff: and yet I contrived to find a pretty ample sprinkling of Greek and Latin Philosophy, printed and published at Paris by _Gourmont_, _Colinæus_, and the _Stephens_, in the first half of the sixteenth century. There were also some most beautifully-conditioned Hebrew books, printed by the _Stephen family_;--and having turned the bottoms of those books outwards, which I thought it might be possible to purchase, I requested the librarian to consider of the matter; who, himself apparently consenting, informed me, on the following morning, that, on a consultation held with the other members, it was deemed advisable not to part with any more of their books. I do not suppose that the whole would bring 250l. beneath a well known hammer in Pall-Mall. The PUBLIC LIBRARY was also carefully visited. It is a strange, rambling, but not wholly uninteresting place--although the collection is rather barbarously miscellaneous. I saw more remains of Roman antiquities of the usual character of rings, spear-heads, lachrymatories, &c.--than of rare and curious old books: but, among the latter, I duly noticed _Mentelin's edition of the first German Bible_. No funds are applied to the increase of this collection; and the books, in an upper and lower room, seem to lie desolate and forlorn, as if rarely visited--and yet more rarely opened. Compared with the celebrated public libraries in France, Bavaria, and Austria, this of RATISBON is ... almost a reproach to the municipal authorities of the place. I cannot however take leave of the book-theme, or of Ratisbon--without mentioning, in terms of unfeigned sincerity, the obligations I was under to M. AUGUSTUS KRAEMER, the librarian of the Prince of Tour and Taxis; who not only satisfied, but even anticipated, my wishes, in every thing connected with antiquities. There is a friendliness of disposition, a mildness of manner, and pleasantness both of mien and of conversation, about this gentleman, which render his society extremely engaging. Upon the whole, although I absolutely gained nothing in the way of book-acquisitions, during my residence at Ratisbon, I have not passed three pleasanter days in any town in Bavaria than those which were spent here. It is a place richly deserving of the minute attention of the antiquary; and the country, on the opposite side of the Danube, presents some genuine features of picturesque beauty. Nor were the civility, good fare, and reasonable charges of the _Agneau Blanc_, among the most insignificant comforts attending our residence at Ratisbon. We left that town a little after mid-day, intending to sleep the same evening at NEUMARKT, within two stages of Nuremberg. About an English mile from Ratisbon, the road rises to a considerable elevation, whence you obtain a fine and interesting view of that city--with the Danube encircling its base like a belt. From this eminence I looked, for the last time, upon that magnificent river--which, with very few exceptions, had kept in view the whole way from Vienna: a distance of about two hundred and sixty English miles. I learnt that an aquatic excursion, from Ulm to Ratisbon, was one of the pleasantest schemes or parties of pleasure, imaginable--and that the English were extremely partial to it. Our faces were now resolutely turned towards Nuremberg; while a fine day, and a tolerably good road, made us insensible of any inconvenience which might otherwise have resulted from a journey of nine German miles. We reached _Neumarkt_ about night-fall, and got into very excellent quarters. The rooms of the inn which we occupied had been filled by the Duke of Wellington and Lord and Lady Castlereagh on their journey to Congress in the winter of 1814. The master of the inn related to us a singular anecdote respecting the Duke. On hearing of his arrival, the inhabitants of the place flocked round the inn, and the next morning the Duke found the _tops of his boots half cut away_--from the desire which the people expressed of having "some memorial of the great captain of the age."[163] No other, or more feasible plan presented itself, than that of making interest with his Grace's groom--when the boots were taken down to be cleaned on the morning following his arrival. Perhaps the Duke's _coat_, had it been seen, might have shared the same fate. The morning gave me an opportunity of examining the town of _Neumarkt_, which is surrounded by a wall, in the _inner_ side of which is a sort of covered corridor (now in a state of great decay) running entirely round the town. At different stations there are wooden steps for the purpose of ascent and descent. In a churchyard, I was startled by the representation of the _Agony in the Garden_ (so often mentioned in this Tour) which was executed in stone, and coloured after the life, and which had every appearance of _reality_. I stumbled upon it, unawares: and confess that I had never before witnessed so startling a representation of the subject. Having quitted Neumarkt, after breakfast, it remained only to change horses at _Feucht_, and afterwards to dine at Nuremberg. Of all cities which I had wished to see, before and since quitting England, NUREMBERG was that upon which my heart seemed to be the most fixed.[164] It had been the nursery of the Fine Arts in Bavaria; one of the favourite residences of Maximilian the Great; the seat of learning and the abode equally of commerce and of wealth during the sixteenth century. It was here too, that ALBERT DURER--perhaps the most extraordinary genius of his age--lived and died: and here I learnt that his tombstone, and the house in which he resided, were still to be seen. The first view of the spires and turretted walls of Nuremberg[165] filled me with a sensation which it is difficult to describe. Within about five English miles of it, just as we were about to run down the last descent, from the bottom of which it is perfectly level to the very gates of the city--we discovered a group of peasants, chiefly female, busied in carrying barrows, apparently of fire wood, towards the town. On passing them, the attention of Mr. Lewis was caught by one female countenance in particular--so distinguished by a sweetness and benevolence of expression--that we requested the postilion to stop, that we might learn some particulars respecting this young woman, and the mode of life which she followed. She was without stockings; of a strong muscular form, and her face was half buried beneath a large flapping straw hat. We learnt that her parents were engaged in making black lead pencils (a flourishing branch of commerce, at this moment, at Nuremberg) for the wholesale dealers; and they were so poor, that she was glad to get a _florin_ by conveying wood (as we then saw her) four miles to Nuremberg. It was market-day when we entered Nuremberg, about four o'clock. The inn to which we had been recommended, proved an excellent one: civility, cleanliness, good fare, and reasonable charges--these form the tests of the excellence of the _Cheval Rouge_ at Nuremberg. In our route thither, we passed the two churches of St. _Lawrence_ and St. _Sebald_, of which the former is the largest--and indeed principal place of worship in the town. We also passed through the market-place, wherein are several gothic buildings--more elaborate in ornament than graceful in form or curious from antiquity. The whole square, however, was extremely interesting, and full of population and bustle. The town indeed is computed to contain 30,000 inhabitants. We noticed, on the outsides of the houses, large paintings, as at Ratisbon, of gigantic figures: and every street seemed to promise fresh gratification, as we descended one and ascended another. My first object, on settling at the hotel, was to seek out the PUBLIC LIBRARY, and to obtain an inspection of some of those volumes which had exercised the pen of DE MURR, in his Latin _Memoirs of the Public Library of Nuremberg_. I was now also in the birthplace of PANZER--another, and infinitely more distinguished bibliographer,--whose _Typographical Annals of Europe_ will for ever render his memory as dear to other towns as to Nuremberg. In short, when I viewed the _Citadel_ of this place--and witnessed, in my perambulations about the town, so many curious specimens of gothic architecture, I could only express my surprise and regret that more substantial justice had not been rendered to so interesting a spot. I purchased every thing I could lay my hand upon, connected with the _published antiquities_ of the town; but that "every thing" was sufficiently scanty and unsatisfactory. Before, however, I make mention of the Public Library, it may be as well briefly to notice the two churches--- _St. Sebald_ and _St. Lawrence_. The former was within a stone's throw of our inn. Above the door of the western front, is a remarkably fine crucifix of wood--placed, however, in too deep a recess--said to be by _Veit Stoss_. The head is of a very fine form, and the countenance has an expression of the most acute and intense feeling. A crown of thorns is twisted round the brow. But this figure, as well as the whole of the outside and inside of the church, stands in great need of being repaired. The towers are low, with insignificant turrets: the latter evidently a later erection--probably at the commencement of the sixteenth century. The eastern extremity, as well indeed as the aisles, is surrounded by buttresses; and the sharp-pointed, or lancet windows, seem to bespeak the fourteenth, if not the thirteenth century. The great "wonder" of the interior, is the _Shrine of the Saint_,[166] (to whom the church is dedicated,) of which the greater part is silver. At the time of my viewing it, it was in a disjointed state--parts of it having been taken to pieces, for repair: but from Geisler's exquisite little engraving, I should pronounce it to be second to few specimens of similar art in Europe. The figures do not exceed two feet in height, and the extreme elevation of the shrine may be about eight feet. Nor has Geisler's almost equally exquisite little engraving of the richly carved gothic _font_ in this church, less claim upon the admiration of the connoisseur. The mother church, or Cathedral of _St. Lawrence_, is much larger, and portions of it may be of the latter end of the thirteenth century. The principal entrance presents us with an elaborate door-way--perhaps of the fourteenth century--with the sculpture divided into several compartments, as at Rouen, Strasbourg, and other earlier edifices. There is a poverty in the two towers, both from their size, and the meagerness of the windows; but the slim spires at the summit, are, doubtless, nearly of a coeval date with that which supports them. The bottom of the large circular, or marygold window, is injured in its effect by a gothic balustrade of a later period. The interior of this church has certainly nothing very commanding or striking, on the score of architectural grandeur or beauty; but there are some painted glass-windows--especially by _Volkmar_---which are deserving of particular attention. Nuremberg has one advantage over many populous towns; its public buildings are not choked up by narrow streets: and I hardly know an edifice of distinction, round which the spectator may not walk with perfect ease, and obtain a view of every portion which he is desirous of examining. _The Fraüenkerche_, or the _church of St. Mary_, in the market-place, has a very singular construction in its western front. A double arched door-way, terminated by an arch at the top, and surmounted by a curious triangular projection from the main building, has rather an odd, than a beautiful effect. Above, terminating in an apex--surmounted by a small turret, are five rows of gothic niches, of which the extremities, at each end, narrow--in the fashion of steps, gradually--from the topmost of which range or rows of niches, the turret rises perpendicularly. It is a small edifice, and has been recently doomed to make a very distinguished figure in the imposing lithographic print of Quaglio.[167] The interior of this church is not less singular, as may be seen in the print published about sixty years ago, and yet faithful to its present appearance. I know not how it was, but I omitted to notice the ci-devant church of _Ste. Claire_, where there is said to be the most ancient stained glass window which exists--that is, of the middle of the thirteenth century; nor did I obtain a sight of the seven pillars of _Adam Kraft_, designating the seven points or stations of the Passion of our Saviour. But in the _Rath-hauz Platz_, in the way to the public library, I used to look with delight--almost every morning of the four days which I spent at Nuremberg--at the fragments of gothic architecture, to the right and left, that presented themselves; and among these, none caught my eye and pleased my taste, so fully, as the little hexagonal gothic window, which has sculptured subjects beneath the mullions, and which was attached to the _Pfarrhof_, or clergyman's residence, of St. Sebald. If ever Mr. Blore's pencil should be exercised in this magical city for gothic art, I am quite persuaded that _this window_ will be one of the subjects upon which its powers will be most successfully employed. A little beyond, in a very handsome square, called St. Giles's Place, lived the famous ANTHONY KOBERGER; the first who introduced the art of printing into Nuremberg--and from whose press, more Bibles, Councils, Decretals, Chronicles, and scholastic works, have proceeded than probably from any other press in Europe. Koberger was a magnificent printer, using always a bold, rich, gothic letter--and his first book, _Comestorium Vitiorum_, bears the date of 1470.[168] They shew the house, in this square, which he is said to have occupied; but which I rather suspect was built by his nephew JOHN KOBERGER, who was the son of Sebaldus Koberger, and who carried on a yet more successful business than his uncle. Not fewer than seventeen presses were kept in constant employ by him, and he is said to have been engaged in a correspondence with almost every printer and bookseller in Europe. It was my good fortune to purchase an original bronze head of him, of _Messrs. Frauenholz_ and _Co_., one of the most respectable and substantial houses, in the print trade, upon the Continent. This head is struck upon a circular bronze of about seven inches in diameter, bearing the following incription: JOANNES KOBERGER ... SEIN. ALTR. xxxx: that is, John Koberger, in the fortieth year of his age. The head, singularly enough, is _laureated;_ and in the upper part of it are two capital letters, of which the top parts resemble a B or D--and F or E. It is a fine solid piece of workmanship, and is full of individuality of character. From an old ms. inscription at the back, the original should appear to have died in 1522. I was of course too much interested in the history of the Kobergers, not to ask permission, to examine the premises from which so much learning and piety had once issued to the public; and I could not help being struck with at least the _space_ which these premises occupied. At the end of a yard, was a small chapel, which formerly was, doubtless, the printing office or drying room of the Kobergers. The interior of the house was now so completely devoted to other uses, that one could identify nothing. The church of St. Giles, in this place, is scarcely little more than a century old; as a print of it, of the date of 1689, represents the building to be not yet complete. I shall now conduct the reader at once to the PUBLIC LIBRARY; premising, that it occupies the very situation which it has held since the first book was deposited in it. This is very rarely the case abroad. It is, in fact, a small gothic quadrangle, with the windows modernised; and was formerly a convent of _Dominicans_. M. RANNER, the public librarian, (with whom--as he was unable to speak French, and myself equally unable to speak his own language--I conversed in the Latin tongue) assured me that there was anciently a printing press here--conducted by the Dominicans--who were resolved to print no book but what was the production of one of their own order. I have great doubts about this fact, and expressed the same to M. Ranner; adding, that I had never seen a book so printed; The librarian, however, reiterated his assertion, and said that the monastery was built in the eleventh century. There is certainly no visible portion of it older than the beginning of the fifteenth century. The library itself is on the first floor, and fills two rooms, running parallel with each other; both of them sufficiently dismal and uninviting. It is said to contain 45,000 volumes; but I much question whether there be half that number. There are some precious MSS. of which M. Ranner has published a catalogue in two octavo volumes, in the Latin language, in a manner extremely creditable to himself, and such as to render De Murr's labour upon the same subjects almost useless. Among these MSS. I was shewn one in the Hebrew language--of the eleventh or twelfth century--with very singular marginal illuminations, as grotesques or capriccios; in which the figures, whether human beings, monsters, or animals, were made out by _lines composed of Hebrew characters_, considered to be a gloss upon the text. As to the _printed books_ of an early date, they are few and unimportant--if the _subject_ of them be exclusively considered. There is a woeful want of _classics_, and even of useful literary performances. Here, however, I saw the far-famed _I. de Turrecremata Meditationes_ of 1467, briefly described by De Murr; of which, I believe, only two other copies are known to exist--namely, one in the Imperial library at Vienna,[169] and the other in the collection of Earl Spencer. It is an exceedingly precious book to the typographical antiquary, inasmuch as it is supposed to be the first production of the press of _Ulric Han_. The copy in question has the plates coloured; and, singularly enough, is bound up in a wooden cover with _Honorius de Imagine Mundi_, printed by Koberger, and the _Hexameron_ of _Ambrosius_, printed by Schuzler in 1472. It is, however, a clean, sound copy; but cut down to the size of the volumes with which it is bound. Here is the _Boniface_ of 1465, by Fust, UPON VELLUM: with a large space on the rectos of the second and third leaves, purposely left for the insertion of ms. or some subsequent correction. The _Durandus of_ 1459 has the first capital letter stamped with red and blue, like the smaller capital initials in the Psalter of 1457. In this first capital initial, the blue is the outer portion of the letter. The _German Bible by Mentelin_ is perfect; but wretchedly cropt, and dirty even to dinginess. Here is a very fine large genuine copy of _Jenson's Quintilian_ of 1471. Of the _Epistles of St. Jerom_, here are the early editions by _Mentelin_ and _Sweynheym_ and _Pannartz_; the latter, of the date of 1470: a fine, large copy--but not free from ms. annotations. More precious, however, in the estimation of the critical bibliographer--than either, or the whole, of the preceding volumes--is the very rare edition of the _Decameron of Boccaccio_, of the date of 1472, printed at _Mantua, by A. de Michaelibus_.[170] Such a copy as that in the public library at Nuremberg, is in all probability unparalleled: it being, in every respect, what a perfect copy should be--white, large, and in its pristine binding. A singular coincidence took place, while I was examining this extraordinarily rare book. M. Lechner, the bookseller, of whom I shall have occasion to speak again, brought me a letter, directed to his own house, from Earl Spencer. In that letter, his lordship requested me to make a particular collation of the edition of Boccaccio--with which I was occupied at the _very moment of receiving it_. Of course, upon every account, that collation was made. Upon its completion, and asking M. Ranner whether any consideration would induce the curators of the library to part with this volume, the worthy librarian shouted aloud!... adding, that, "not many weeks before, an English gentleman had offered the sum of sixty louis d'or for it,--but not _twice_ that sum could be taken!... and in fact the book must never leave its present quarters--no ... not even for the noble collection in behalf of which I pleaded so earnestly." M. Ranner's manner was so positive, and his voice so sonorous,--that I dreaded the submission of any contre-projet ... and accordingly left him in the full and unmolested enjoyment of his beloved Decameron printed by _Adam de Michaelibus_. M. Ranner shewed me a sound, fair copy of the _first Florentine Homer_ of 1488; but cropt, with red edges to the leaves. But I was most pleased with a sort of cupboard, or closet-fashioned recess, filled with the first and subsequent editions of all the pieces written by _Melancthon_, I was told that there were more than eight hundred of such pieces. These, and a similar collection from the pens of _Luther_ and _Eckuis_ at Landshut,[171] would, as I conceive, be invaluable repertories for the _History of the Reformation upon the Continent_. Although I examined many shelves of books, for two successive days, in the Public Library of Nuremberg, I am not conscious of having found any thing more deserving of detail than what has been already submitted to the reader. Of all edifices, more especially deserving of being visited at Nuremberg, the CITADEL is doubtless the most curious and ancient, as well as the most remarkable. It rises to a considerable height, close upon the outer walls of the town, within about a stone's throw of the end of _Albrecht Durer Strasse_--or the street where ALBERT DURER lived--and whose house is not only yet in existence, but still the object of attraction and veneration with every visitor of taste, from whatever part of the world he may chance to come. The street running down, is the street called (as before observed) after Albert Durer's own name; and the _well_, seen about the middle of it, is a specimen of those wells--built of stone--which are very common in the streets of Nuremberg. The house of Albert Durer is now in a very wretched, and even unsafe condition. The upper part is supposed to have been his study. The interior is so altered from its original disposition, as to present little or nothing satisfactory to the antiquary. It would be difficult to say how many coats of whitewash have been bestowed upon the rooms, since the time when they were tenanted by the great character in question. Passing through this street, therefore, you turn to the right, and continue onwards, up a pretty smart ascent; when the entrance to the citadel, by the side of a low wall--in front of an old tower--presents itself to your attention. It was before breakfast that my companion and self visited this interesting interior, over every part of which we were conducted by a most loquacious _cicerone_, who spoke the French language very fluently, and who was pleased to express his extreme gratification upon finding that his visitors were _Englishmen_. The tower, of the exterior of which there is a very indifferent engraving in the _Singularia Norimbergensia_, and the adjoining chapel, may be each of the thirteenth century; but the tombstone of the founder of the monastery, upon the site of which the present Citadel was built, bears the date of 1296. This tombstone is very perfect; lying in a loose, unconnected manner, as you enter the chapel:--the chapel itself having a crypt-like appearance. This latter is very small. From the suite of apartments in the older parts of the Citadel, there is a most extensive and uninterrupted view of the surrounding country, which is rather flat. At the distance of about nine miles, the town of _Furth_ (Furta) looks as if it were within an hour's walk; and I should think that the height of the chambers, (from which we enjoyed this view,) to the level ground of the adjacent meadows, could be scarcely less than three hundred feet. In these chambers, there is a little world of curiosity for the antiquary: and yet it was but too palpable that very many of its more precious treasures had been transported to Munich. In the time of Maximilian II., when Nuremberg may be supposed to have been in the very height of its glory, this Citadel must have been worth a pilgrimage of many score miles to have visited. The ornaments which remain are chiefly pictures; of which several are exceedingly precious. Our guide hastened to show us the celebrated two Venuses of _Lucas Cranach_, which are most carefully preserved within folding doors. They are both whole lengths, of the size of life. One of them, which is evidently the inferior picture, is attended by a Cupid; the other is alone, having on a broad red velvet hat--but, in other respects, undraped. For this latter picture, we were told that two hundred louis d'or had been offered and refused--which they well might have been; for I consider it to be, not the only chef-d'oeuvre of L. Cranach, but in truth a very extraordinary performance. There is doubtless something of a poverty of drawing about it; but the colouring glows with a natural warmth which has been rarely surpassed even by Titian. It is one of the most elaborated pictures--yet producing a certain breadth of effect--which can be seen. The other Venus is perhaps more carefully painted--but the effect is cold and poor. Here is also, by the same artist, a masterly little head of _St. Hubert_; and, near it, a charming portrait of _Luther's wife_, by Hans Holbein; but the back-ground of the latter being red and comparatively recent, is certainly not by the same hand. The countenance is full of a sweet, natural expression; and if this portrait be a faithful one of the wife of Luther, we must give that great reformer credit for having had a good taste in the choice of a wife--as far as _beauty_ is concerned. Here are supposed portraits of _Charlemagne and Sigismund II.,_ by Albert Durer--which exhibit great freedom of handling, and may be considered magnificent specimens of that master's better manner of portrait painting. The heads are rather of colossal size. The draperies are most elaborately executed. I observed here, with singular satisfaction, _two_ of the well-known series of the TWELVE APOSTLES, supposed to be both painted and engraved by Albert Durer. They were _St. John_ and _St. Paul_; the drapery, especially of the latter, has very considerable merit. But probably the most interesting picture to the generality of visitors--and indeed it is one entitled to particular commendation by the most curious and critical--is, a large painting, by _Sandrart_, representing a fête given by the Austrian Ambassador, at Nuremberg, upon the conclusion of the treaty of peace at Westphalia, in 1649, after the well known thirty year's war. This picture is about fourteen feet long, by ten wide. The table, at which the guests are banquetting, is filled by all the great characters who were then assembled upon the occasion. An English knight of the garter is sufficiently conspicuous; his countenance in three quarters, being turned somewhat over his left shoulder. The great fault of this picture is, making the guests to partake of a banquet, and yet to turn all their faces _from it_--in order that the spectator may recognise their countenances. Those who sit at table, are about half the size of life. To the right of them, is a group as large as life, in which Sandrart has introduced himself, as if painting the picture. His countenance is charmingly coloured; but it is a pity that all propriety of perspective is so completely lost, by placing two such differently sized groups in the same chamber. This picture stands wofully in need of being repaired. It is considered--and apparently with justice--to be the CHEF D'OEUVRE of the master. I have hardly ever seen a picture, of its kind, more thoroughly interesting--both on the score of subject and execution; but it is surely due to the memory of an artist, like Sandrart,--who spent the greater part of a long life at Nuremberg, and established an academy of painting there--that this picture ... be at least _preserved_ ... if there be no means of engraving it. In these curious old chambers, it was to be expected that I should see some _Wohlegemuths_--as usual, with backgrounds in a blaze of gold, and figures with tortuous limbs, pinched-in waists, and caricatured countenances. In a room, pretty plentifully encumbered with rubbish, I saw a charming _Snyders;_ being a dead stag, suspended from a pole. There is here a portrait of _Albert Durer_, by himself; but said to be a copy. If so, it is a very fine copy. The original is supposed to be at Munich. There was nothing else that my visit enabled me to see, particularly deserving of being recorded; but, when I was told that it was in THIS CITADEL that the ancient Emperors of Germany used oftentimes to reside, and make carousal, and when I saw, _now_, scarcely any thing but dark passages, unfurnished galleries, naked halls, and untenanted chambers--I own that I could hardly refrain from uttering a sigh over the mutability of earthly fashions, and the transitoriness of worldly grandeur. With a rock for its base, and walls almost of adamant for its support--situated also upon an eminence which may be said to look frowningly down over a vast sweep of country--THE CITADEL OF NUREMBERG should seem to have bid defiance, in former times, to every assault of the most desperate and enterprising foe. It is now visited only by the casual traveller ... who is frequently startled at the echo of his own footsteps. While I am on the subject of ancient art--of which so many curious specimens are to be seen in this Citadel--it may not be irrelevant to conduct the reader at once to what is called the _Town Hall_--a very large structure--of which portions are devoted to the exhibition of old pictures. Many of these paintings are in a very suspicious state, from the operations of time and accident; but the great boast of the collection are the Triumphs of Maximilian I, executed by _Albert Durer_--which, however, have by no means escaped injury. I was accompanied in my visit to this interesting collection by Mr. Boerner, a partner in the house of Frauenholz and Co.--and had particular reason to be pleased by the friendliness of his attentions, and by the intelligence of his observations. A great number of these pictures (as I understood) belonged to Messrs. Frauenholz and Co.; and among them, a portrait by _Pens_, struck me as being singularly admirable and exquisite. The countenance, the dress, the attitude, the drawing and colouring, were as perfect as they well might be. But this collection has also suffered from the transportation of many of its treasures to Munich. The rooms, halls, and corridors of this Hôtel de Ville give you a good notion of municipal grandeur. Nuremberg was once the life and soul of _art_ as well as of _commerce_. The numismatic, or perhaps medallic, productions of her artists, in the XVIth century, might, many of them, vie with the choicest efforts of Greece. I purchased two silver medals, of the period just mentioned, which are absolutely perfect of their kind: one has, on the obverse, the profile of an old man with a flowing beard and short bonnet, with the circumscription of _Ætatis Suæ LXVI._; and, on the reverse, the words _De Coelo Victoria. Anno M.D. XLVI._ surrounding the arms of Bavaria. I presume the head to be a portrait of some ancient Bavarian General; and the inscription, on the reverse, to relate to some great victory, in honour of which the medal was struck. The piece is silver-gilt. The boldness of its relief can hardly be exceeded. The other medal represents the portrait of _Joh. Petreius Typographus, Anno Ætat. Suæ._ IIL. (48), _Anno_ 1545--executed with surprising delicacy, expression, and force. But evidences of the perfect state of art in ancient times, at Nuremberg, may be gathered from almost every street in which the curious visitor walks. On the first afternoon of my arrival here, I was driven, by a shower of rain, into a small shop--upon a board, on the exterior of which were placed culinary dishes. The mistress of the house had been cleaning them for the purpose of shewing them off to advantage on the Sunday. One of these dishes--which was brass, with ornaments in high relief--happened to be rather deep, but circular, and of small diameter. I observed a subject in relief, at the bottom, which looked very like art as old as the end of the fifteenth century--although a good deal worn away, from the regularity pf periodical rubbing. The subject represented the eating of the forbidden fruit. Adam, Eve, the Serpent, the trees, and the fruit--with labels, on which the old gothic German letter was sufficiently obvious--all told a tale which was irresistible to antiquarian feelings. Accordingly I proposed terms of purchase (one ducat) to the good owner of the dish:--who was at first exceedingly surprised at the offer ... wondering what could be seen so particularly desirable in such a homely piece of kitchen furniture ... but, in the end, she consented to the proposal with extraordinary cheerfulness. In another shop, on a succeeding day, I purchased two large brass dishes, of beautiful circular forms, with ornaments in bold relief--and brought the whole culinary cargo home with me. While upon the subject of _old art_--of which there are scarcely a hundred yards in the city of Nuremberg that do not display some memorial, however perishing--I must be allowed to make especial mention of the treasures of BARON DERSCHAU--a respectable old Prussian nobleman, who has recently removed into a capacious residence, of which the chambers in front contain divers old pictures; and one chamber in particular, backward, is filled with curiosities of a singular variety of description.[172] I had indeed heard frequent mention of this gentleman, both in Austria and Bavaria. His reception of me was most courteous, and his conversation communicative and instructive. He _did_, and did _not_, dispose of things. He _was_, and was _not_, a sort of gentleman-merchant. One drawer was filled with ivory handled dirks, hunting knives, and pipe-bowls; upon which the carver had exercised all his cunning skill. Another drawer contained implements of destruction in the shape of daggers, swords, pistols, and cutlasses: all curiously wrought. A set of _Missals_ occupied a third drawer: portfolios of drawings and _prints_, a fourth; and sundry _volumes_, of various and not uninteresting character, filled the shelves of a small, contiguous book-case. Every thing around me bore the aspect of _temptation_; when, calling upon my tutelary genius to defend me in such a crisis, I accepted the Baron's offer, and sat down by the side of him upon a sofa--which, from the singularity of its form and _matériel_, might formerly possibly have supported the limbs of Albert Durer himself. The Baron commenced the work of _incantation_ by informing me that he was once in possession of the _journal_, or day-book, of Albert Durer:--written in the German language--and replete with the most curious information respecting the manner of his own operations, and of those of his workmen. From this journal, it appeared that Albert Durer was in the habit of _drawing upon the blocks_, and that his men performed the remaining operation of _cutting away the wood_. I frankly confessed that I had long suspected this: and still suspect the same process to have been used in regard to the wood cuts supposed to have been executed by _Hans Holbein_. On my eagerly enquiring what had become of this precious journal, the Baron replied with a sigh--which seemed to come from the very bottom of his heart--that "it had perished in the flames of a house, in the neighbourhood of one of the battles fought between Bonaparte and the Prussians!!" The Baron is both a man of veracity and virtù. In confirmation of the latter, he gave all his very extraordinary collection of original blocks of wood, containing specimens of art of the most remote period of wood engraving, to the Royal University at Berlin--from which collection has been regularly published, those livraisons, of an atlas form, which contain impressions of the old blocks in question.[173] It is hardly possible for a graphic antiquary to possess a more completely characteristic and _beguiling_ publication than this. On expressing a desire to purchase any little curiosity or antiquity, in the shape of _book_ or _print_, for which the Baron had no immediate use, I was shewn several rarities of this kind; which I did not scruple to request might be laid aside for me--for the purpose of purchasing. Of these, in the book way, the principal were a _Compendium Morale_: a Latin folio, PRINTED UPON VELLUM, without date or name of printer--and so completely unknown to bibliographers, that Panzer, who had frequently had this very volume in his hands, was meditating the writing of a little treatise on it; and was interrupted only by death from carrying his design into execution. It is in the most perfect state of preservation. A volume of _Hours_, and a _Breviary of Cracow_, for the winter part, PRINTED UPON VELLUM--in the German language, exceedingly fair and beautiful. A TERENCE of 1496 (for 9 florins), and the first edition of _Erasmus's Greek Testament_, 1516, for 18 florins. The "_Compendium"_ was charged by the Baron at about 5_l_. sterling. These, with the Austrian historians, Pez, Schard, and Nidanus, formed a tolerably fair acquisition.[174] In the _print_ way, I was fortunate in purchasing a singularly ancient wood-cut of _St. Catherine_, in the peculiarly dotted manner of the fifteenth century. This wood-cut was said to be UNIQUE. At any rate it is very curious and rare; and on my return to England, M. Du Chesne, who is the active director in the department of the prints at Paris, prevailed upon me to part with my St. Catherine--at a price, which sufficiently shewed that he considered it to be no very indifferent object to the royal collection of France. This however was a perfectly secondary consideration. The print was left behind at Paris, as adding something to a collection of unrivalled value and extent, and where there were previously deposited two or three similar specimens of art. But the Baron laid the greatest stress upon a copper plate impression of a crucifixion, of the date of 1430: which undoubtedly had a very staggering aspect.[175] It is described in the subjoined note; and for reasons, therein detailed, I consider it to be much less valuable than the _St. Catherine_.[176] I also purchased of the Baron a few _Martin Schoens, Albert Durers_, and _Israel Van Mechlins_; and what I preferred to either, is a beautiful little illumination, cut out of an old choral book, or psalter, said, by the vendor, to be the production of _Weimplan_, an artist, at Ulm, of the latter end of the fifteenth century. On my return to England, I felt great pleasure in depositing this choice morceau of ancient art in the very extraordinary collection of my friend Mr. Ottley--at the same price for which I had obtained it--about five and twenty shillings. Upon the whole, I was well satisfied with the result of the "temptation" practised upon me at Baron Derschau's, and left the mansion with my purse lightened of about 340 florins. The Baron was anxious to press a choice _Aldus_ or two upon me; but the word "choice" is somewhat ambiguous: and what was considered to be so at _Nuremberg_, might receive a different construction in _London_. I was, however, anxious to achieve a much nobler feat than that of running away with undescribed printed volumes, or rare old prints--whether from copper or wood. It was at Nuremberg that the EBNER FAMILY had long resided: and where the _Codex Ebnerianus_--a Greek MS. of the New Testament, of the XIIth. century--had been so much celebrated by the elaborate disquisition of De Murr--which is accompanied by several copper plate fac-simile engravings of the style of art in the illuminations of the MS. in question. I had heard that the ancient splendors of the Ebner family had been long impaired; that their library had been partly dispersed; and that THIS VERY MS. was yet to be purchased. I resolved, therefore, to lose no opportunity of becoming possessed of it ... preparing myself to offer a very considerable sum, and trusting that the spirit of some private collector, or public body, in my own country, would not long allow it to be a burden on my hands. Accordingly, by the interposition and kind offices of M. Lechner, the bookseller, I learnt, not only in what quarter the MS. was yet preserved, but that its owners were willing to dispose of it for a valuable consideration. A day and hour were quickly appointed. The gentleman, entrusted with the MS.--M. Lechner as interpreter, my own valet, as interpreter between myself and M. Lechner, who could not speak French very fluently--all assembled at the _Cheval Rouge_: with the CODEX EBNERIANUS, bound in massive silver, lying upon the table between us. It is a small, thick quarto volume; written in the cursive Greek character, upon soft and fair coloured vellum, and adorned with numerous illuminations in a fine state of preservation. Its antiquity cannot surely be carried beyond the XIIth century. On the outside of one of the covers, is a silver crucifix. Upon the whole, this precious book, both from its interior and exterior attractions, operated upon me infinitely more powerfully than the ivory-handled knives, gilt-studded daggers, gorgeous scraps of painting, or antique-looking prints ... of the Baron Derschau. We soon commenced an earnest conversation; all four of us frequently being upon our legs, and speaking, at the same time. The price was quickly fixed by the owner of the MS.; but not so readily consented to by the proposed purchaser. It was 120 louis d'or. I adhered to the offer of 100: and we were each inflexible in our terms. I believe indeed, that if my 100 louis d'or could have been poured from a bag upon the table, as "argent-comptant," the owner of the MS. _could_ not have resisted the offer: but he seemed to think that, if paper currency, in the shape of a bill, were resorted to, it would not be prudent to adopt that plan unless the sum of 120l. were written upon the instrument. The conference ended by the MS. being carried back to be again deposited in the family where it had so long taken up its abode. It is, however, most gratifying for me to add, that its return to its ancient quarters was only temporary; and that it was destined to be taken from them, for ever, by British spirit and British liberality. When Mr. John Payne visited Germany, in the following year, I was anxious to give him some particulars about this MS. and was sanguine enough to think that a second attempt to carry it off could not fail to be successful. The house of Messrs. Payne and Foss, so long and justly respected throughout Europe, invested their young representative with ample powers for negotiation--and the _Codex Ebnerianus_, after having been purchased by the representative in question, for the sum first insisted upon by the owner--now reposes upon the richly furnished shelves of the BODLEIAN LIBRARY--where it is not likely to repose _in vain_; and from whence no efforts, by the most eminently successful bibliographical diplomatist in Europe, can dislodge it. I must now say a few words respecting the present state of the FINE ARTS at Nuremberg, and make mention of a few things connected with the vicinity of the town, ere I conduct the reader to Manheim: regretting, however, that I am necessitated to make that account so summary. I consider M. KLEIN to be among the very brightest ornaments of this place, as an artist. I had seen enough of his productions at Vienna, to convince me that his pencil possessed no ordinary powers. He is yet a young man; somewhere between thirty and forty, and leads occasionally a very romantic life--but admirably subservient to the purposes of his art. He puts a knapsack upon his back, filled with merely necessary articles of linen and materials for work--and then stops, draws, eats, drinks, and sleeps where it pleases him: wherever his eye is gratified by strong characteristics of nature--whether on cattle, peasants, soldiers, or Cossacks. Klein appears to have obtained his exquisite knowledge of animal painting from having been a pupil of GABLER--a professed studier of natural history, and painter of animals. The pupil was unluckily absent from Nuremberg, when I was there; but from many enquiries of his ultimate friends, I learnt that he was of a cheerful, social disposition--fond of good company, and was in particular a very active and efficient member of a _Society of Artists_, which has been recently established at Nuremberg. Klein himself, however, resides chiefly at Vienna--there not being sufficient patronage for him in his native city. His water-coloured drawings, in particular, are considered admirable; but he has lately commenced painting in oil--with considerable success. His _etchings_, of which he has published about one hundred, are in general masterly; but perhaps they are a little too metallic and severe. His observation of nature is at once acute and correct. In the neighbourhood of Nuremberg--that is to say, scarcely more than an English mile from thence--are the grave and tomb-stone of ALBERT DURER. Dr. Bright having printed that artist's epitaph at length[177]--and it being found in most biographical details relating to him--it need not be here repeated. The monument is simple and striking. In the churchyard, there is a representation of the Crucifixion, cut in stone. It was on a fine, calm evening, just after sunset, that I first visited the tombstone of Albert Durer; and shall always remember the sensations, with which that visit was attended, as among the most pleasing and impressive of my life. The silence of the spot,--its retirement from the city--the falling shadows of night, and the increasing solemnity of every monument of the dead--- together with the mysterious, and even awful effect, produced by the colossal crucifix... but yet perhaps, more than either, the recollection of the extraordinary talents of the artist, so quietly sleeping beneath my feet ... all conspired to produce a train of reflections which may be readily conceived, but not so readily described. If ever a man deserved to be considered as the glory of his age and nation, ALBERT DURER was surely that man. He was, in truth, the Shakspeare of his art--for the _period_. Notwithstanding I had made every enquiry among the principal booksellers, of _Antiquars_, [178] for rare and curious old volumes, I literally found nothing worth purchasing. The Baron Derschau was doubtless my best friend on this score. Yet I was told that, if I would put a pair of horses to my carriage, and drive, to _Furth_--a short two German mile stage from Nuremberg, and which indeed I had distinctly seen from the windows of the citadel--I should find there, at a certain Antiquar's, called HEERDEGEN, an endless, variety of what was precious and curious in the department of which I was in search. Accordingly, I put the wheels of my carriage in motion, within twenty-four hours of receiving the intelligence. The road to Furth is raised from the level of the surrounding country, and well paved in the centre. It is also lined by poplar trees, a great part of the way. I have reason to remember this visit for many a long day. Having drove to M. Heerdegen's door, I was received with sufficient courtesy; and was told to mount to the top of the house, where the more ancient books were kept, while he, M. Heerdegen, settled a little business below. That business consisted in selling so many old folios, by the pound weight, in great wooden scales;--the vendor, all the time, keeping up a cheerful and incessant conversation. The very _sight_ of this transaction was sufficient to produce an hysterical affection--and, instead of mounting upwards, I stood--stock still--wondering at such an act of barbarity! Having requested permission to open the volumes in question, and finding them to contain decretals, and glosses upon councils, I recovered myself by degrees ... and leisurely walked to the very topmost floor of the house. M. Heerdegen was not long after me. He is a most naïf character; and when he is pleased with a customer, he presents him with an india ink drawing of his own portrait. On receiving this testimony of his approbation, I did not fail to make my proper acknowledgements: but, with respect to the books with which I was to load my carriage, there was scarcely a shadow of hope, of even securing a dozen volumes worth transporting to the banks of the Rhine. However, after three hours pretty severe labour--having opened and rejected I know not how many books of Medicine, Civil and Canon Law, Scholastic Divinity, Commentaries upon Aristotle, and disputations connected with Duns Scotus, together with a great number of later impressions of the Latin Bible in the XVth century--I contrived to get a good _Latin Plutarch_, some pretty Aldine octavos, a few _Lochers_ and _Brandts_, a rare little German poetical tract, of four leaves, called the _Wittemberg Nightingale_, and an _Italian Bible_ printed by the _Giuntæ_, which had belonged to _Melancthon_, and contained his autograph:--all which, with some pieces by _Eckius_, _Schottus_, and _Erasmus_, to the amount of 4_l._ 4_s._ of English money, were conveyed with great pomp and ceremony below. However, I had not been long with M. Heerdegen, before a clergyman, of small stature and spare countenance, made his appearance and saluted me. He had seen the carriage pass, and learnt, on enquiry, that the traveller within it had come expressly to see M. Heerdegen. He introduced himself as the curate of the neighbouring church, of which M. Fronmüller was the rector or pastor: adding, that _his own_ church was the only place of Christian worship in the village. This intelligence surprised me; but the curate, whose name was _Link_, continued thus: "This town, Sir, consists of a population of ten thousand souls, of which four-fifths are _Jews;_ who are strictly forbidden to sleep within the walls of Nuremberg. It is only even by a sort of courtesy, or sufferance, that they are allowed to transact business there during the day time." M. Link then begged I would accompany him to his own church, and to the rector's house--taking his own house in the way. There was nothing particularly deserving of notice in the church, which has little claim to antiquity. It had, however, a good organ. The rector was old and infirm. I did not see him, but was well pleased with his library, which is at once scholar-like and professional. The library of the curate was also excellent of its kind, though limited, from the confined means of its owner. It is surprising upon what small stipends the Protestant clergy live abroad; and if I were to mention that of M. Link, I should only excite the scepticism of my readers. I was then conducted through the village--which abounded with dirty figures and dirty faces. The women and female children were particularly disgusting, from the little attention paid to cleanliness. The men and boys were employed in work, which accounted for their rough appearance. The place seems to swarm with population--and if a plague, or other epidemic disorder should prevail, I can hardly conceive a scene in which it is likely to make more dreadful havoc than at _Furth_. Although I had not obtained any thing _very special_ at this place, in the book way, I was yet glad to have visited it--were it only for the sake of adding one more original character to the _bibliopolistic fraternity_ upon the Continent. In spite of the very extraordinary _line_ of business which M. Heerdegen chooses to follow, I have reason to think that he "turns a good penny" in the course of the year; but own that it was with surprise I learnt that Mr. Bohn, the bookseller of Frith Street,[179] had preceded me in my visit--and found some historical folios which he thought well worth the expense of conveyance to England. It remains only to return for a few hours to Nuremberg, and then to conduct the reader to Manheim. One of the four days, during which I remained at Nuremberg, happened to be _Sunday_; and of all places upon the Continent, Sunday is, at Nuremberg, among the gayest and most attractive. The weather was fine, and the whole population was alternately within and without the city walls. Some Bavarian troops of cavalry were exercising near the public walks, and of course a great multitude was collected to witness their manoeuvres. On casting my eye over this concourse of people, attired in their best clothes, I was particularly struck with the head dresses of the women: composed chiefly of broad-stiffened riband, of different colours, which is made to stick out behind in a flat manner--not to be described except by the pencil of my graphic companion. The figure, seen in the frontispiece of the third volume of this work, is that of the _Fille de chambre_ at our hotel, who was habited in her Sunday attire; and it displays in particular the riband head-dress--which was of black water-tabby sarsenet. But as these ribands are of different colours, and many of them gay and gorgeous, their appearance, in the open air--and where a great number of people is collected, and in constant motion--is that, as it were, of so many moving suns. In general, the _Nurembergeoises_ have little pretensions to beauty: they are; however, active, civil, and intelligent. It is rarely one takes leave of an hotel with regret when every days journey brings us sensibly nearer home. But it is due to the kind treatment and comfortable lodgings, of which I partook at Nuremberg; to say, that no traveller can leave the _Cheval Rouge_ without at least wishing that all future inns which he visits may resemble it. We left Nuremberg after dinner, resolving to sleep at _Ansbach_; of which place the Margrave and Margravine were sufficiently distinguished in our own country. I had received a letter of introduction to Monsieur Le Comte de Drechsel, President de la Regence--and President of the corporation of Nuremberg--respecting the negotiation for the Boccaccio of 1472; from which, however, I augured no very favourable result. The first stage from Nuremberg is _Kloster Heilbronn_: where, on changing horses, the master of the inn pressed me hard to go and visit the old church, which gives the name to the village, and which was said to contain some curious old paintings by Albert Durer: but there was literally no time--and I began to be tired ... almost of Albert Durers! At Ansbach we drove to the _Crown_, a large and excellent inn. It was nightfall when we entered the town, but not so dark as to render the size and extent of the Margrave's palace invisible, nor so late as to render a visit to two booksellers, after a late cup of tea, impracticable. At one place, I found something in the shape of old books, but purchased nothing--except an edition of Boccaccio's Tales, in French, with the well known plates of Roman Le Hooge, 1701. 8vo. It was loosely bound in sorry calf, but a florin could not be considered too much for it, even in its sombre state. The other bookseller supplied, by the tender of his friendly offices, the deficiencies of his collection--which, in fact, consisted of nothing but a stock of modern publications. The next morning I visited the Comte Drechsel--having first written him a note, and gently touched upon the point at issue. He received me with courtesy; and I found him particularly intelligent--but guarded in every expression connected with any thing like the indulgence, even of a hope, of obtaining the precious volume in question. He would submit my proposition to the municipality. He understood English perfectly well, and spoke French fluently. I had received intimation of a collection of rare and curious old books, belonging to a Mr...., in the environs of Ansbach; who, having recently experienced some misfortunes, had meditated the sale of his library. The owner had a pretty country house, scarcely a stone's throw from the outskirts of the town, and I saw his wife and children--but no books. I learnt that these latter were conveyed to the town for the purpose of sale; and having seen a few of them, I left a commission for a copy of _Fust and Schoeffher's_ edition of Pope Boniface's Councils of 1465, UPON VELLUM. I have never heard of the result of the sale. From Ansbach to _Heilbronn_, which can be scarcely less than sixty English miles, few things struck me on the road more forcibly than the remains of a small old church and cloisters at _Feuchtwang_--where we stopped to change horses, the first stage after Ansbach. It rained heavily, and we had only time to run hastily through these very curious old relics, which, if appearances formed the test of truth, might, from the colour of the stone and the peculiarity of the structure, have been old enough to designate the first christian place of worship established in Germany. The whole, however, was upon a singularly small scale. I earnestly recommend every English antiquary to stop longer than we did at Feuchtwang. From thence to _Heilbronn_, we passed many a castle-crowned summit, of which the base and adjacent country were covered by apparently impenetrable forests of fir and elm; but regretted exceedingly that it was quite nightfall when we made the very steep and _nervous_ entrance into _Hall_--down a mountainous descent, which seemed to put the carriage on an inclined plane of forty-five degrees. We were compelled to have four horses, on making the opposite ascent; and were even preceded by boys, with links and torches, over a small bridge, under which runs a precipitous and roaring stream. Hall is a large, lively, and much frequented town. _Heilbronn_, or _Hailbrunn_, is a large consequential town; and parts of it are spacious, as well as curious from appearances of antiquity. The large square, where we changed horses, was sufficiently striking; and the Hotel de ville in particular was worthy of being copied by the pencil of my companion. But we were only passing travellers, anxious to reach Manheim and to cross the Rhine. The country about Heilbronn is picturesque and fertile, and I saw enough to convince me that two days residence there would not be considered as time thrown away. It is one of the principal towns in the kingdom of Wirtemberg, and situated not many leagues from the Black Forest, or _Schwartz Wald_, where wild boars and other wild animals abound, and where St. Hubert (for aught I know to the contrary) keeps his nocturnal revels in some hitherto unfrequented glen ... beneath the radiance of an unclouded moon. But if _Heilbronn_ be attractive, from the imposing appearance of the houses, _Heidelberg_ is infinitely more so; containing a population of nine thousand inhabitants. We reached this latter place at dinner time, on Sunday--but as it rained heavily for the last hour previous to our entrance, we could not take that survey of the adjacent country which we so much desired to do. Yet we saw sufficient to delight us infinitely: having travelled along the banks of the river _Neckhar_ for the last three or four miles, observing the beautifully wood-crowned hills on the opposite side. But it is the CASTLE, or OLD PALACE of HEIDELBERG--where the Grand Dukes of Baden, or old Electors Palatine, used to reside--and where the celebrated TUN, replenished with many a score hogshead of choice Rhenish wine--form the grand objects of attraction to the curious traveller. The palace is a striking edifice more extensive than any thing I had previously seen; but in the general form of its structure, so like _Holland House_ at Kensington, that I hesitated not one moment to assign the commencement of the sixteenth century, as the period of the building in question. The date of 1607,[180] cut in stone, over one of the principal doors, confirmed my conjecture. I now looked eagerly on all sides--observing what portions were more or less dilapidated, and wondering at the extent and magnificence of the building. Room after room, corridor succeeding corridor--saloons, galleries, banquetting apartments, each and all denuded of its once princely furniture--did not fail to strike my imagination most forcibly. Here was the _Hall of Chivalry_, which had been rent asunder by lightning: yonder, a range of statues of the old _Electors Counts Palatine_:--a tier of granite columns stood in another direction, which had equally defied the assaults of the foe and the ravages of time. In one part, looking down, I observed an old square tower, which had been precipitated in consequence (as I learnt) of an explosion of gunpowder. It was doubtless about a century older than the building from which I observed it. On an eminence, almost smothered with larch and lime, and nearly as much above ourselves as we were from the town, stand the ruins of another old castle ... the residence of the older Counts Palatine. The whole scene was full of enchantment to an antiquarian traveller; and I scarcely knew how to quit one portion of it for another. The terrace, at the back of the castle, forms a noble and commanding walk. Here, in former days, the counts and dukes of the empire, with all their trains of duchesses and damoiselles, used to parade in full pomp and magnificence, receiving the homage of their dependants, and the applause of the townsmen. From hence, indeed, they might have looked down, in the proud spirit of disdain, upon their vassal subjects:--or, in case of rebellion, have planted their cannon and pulverised their habitations in a little hour. It is hardly possible to conceive a more magnificent situation ... but now, all is silence and solitude. The wild boar intrudes with impunity into the gardens--and the fowls of heaven roost within those spacious chambers, which were once hung with rich arras, or covered with gorgeous tapestry. Scarcely three human beings ... who seem to sleep out their existence ... are now the tenants of THAT MANSION, where once scarcely fewer than one hundred noblemen with their attendants, found comfortable accommodations. A powerful, and yet not unpleasing melancholy, touches the heart ... as one moves leisurely along these speaking proofs of the mutability of earthly grandeur. No man visits this proud palace without visiting also the equally celebrated TUN--of which _Merian_, in his well known views, has supplied us with a print or two. It is placed in the lower regions of the palace, in a room by itself--except that, by the side of it, there stands a small cask which may hold a hogshead, and which is considered to be the _ne plus ultra_ of the art of cooperage. It is made in the neatest and closest- fitting manner imaginable, without either a nail, or piece of iron, or encircling hoop; and I believe it to be nearly as old as the _great Tun_. This latter monstrous animal, of his species, is supported by ribs--of rather a picturesque appearance--which run across the belly of the cask, at right angles with the staves. As a WINE CASK, it has long maintained its proud distinction of being the _largest in the world_. A stair-case is to the right of it, leading to a little square platform at the top; upon which frolicksome lads and lasses used, in former days, to dance, when the tub had been just filled with the produce of the passing year's vintage. The guide told us that one Elector or Grand Duke, I think it was CHARLES THEODORE, had immortalised himself, by having, during his regency, caused the great tun of Heidelberg to be fairly _twice emptied_;--"those (added he) were golden days, never to return. At present, and for a long time past, the cask is filled almost to the very top with _mere lees_." In an adjoining cellar, I was shewn a set of casks, standing perpendicularly, called the _Twelve Apostles_. The whole of this subterraneous abode had, I must confess, a great air of hospitality about it; but when I mentioned to the guide the enormous size of those casks used by our principal London brewers--compared with which, even the "GREAT TUN" was a mere TEA-CUP--he held up his hands, shook his head, and exclaimed with great self- satisfaction... "cela ne se peut pas être!" After I had dined, I called upon M. Schlosser, one of the professors of the University--for which this town is rather celebrated.[181] Attached to this University, is a famous _Library of MSS. and printed books_--but more especially of the former. It has been long known under the name of the _Palatine Library;_ and having been seized and transported to the Vatican, at the conclusion of the thirty years war, and from thence carried to Paris, was, in the year 1815, at the urgent intercession of the King of Prussia, restored to its ancient-resting-place. What "a day of joyance" was that when this restoration took place! M. Schlosser adverted to it with a satisfaction amounting... almost to rapture. That gentleman made me a present of the first part of his _Universal Biography_, published at _Franckfort on the Main_, the preceding year, in 8vo.--in the German language--with copious and erudite notes. He shewed me the earlier printed volumes of the Public Library; of which, having unluckily lost the few memoranda I had taken--but which I believe only included the notice of a _first Caesar_, _first Suetonius_, and _first Tacitus_--I am not able to give any particular details. M. Schlosser conversed a good deal, and very earnestly, about Lord Spencer's library--and its probable ultimate destination; seeming to dread its "_dispersion_" as a national calamity. It was late in the afternoon, when darkness was rather prematurely coming on--and the rain descending almost in torrents--that I left Heidelberg for MANHEIM--the _ultima Thule_ of my peregrinations on the German side of the Rhine. The road is nearly straight, in good order, and lined with poplar trees. People of all descriptions--on foot, in gigs, carriages, and upon horseback--were hastening home--as upon a Sunday evening with _us_:--anxious to escape the effects of a soaking rain. Unfavourable as the weather was, I could not help looking behind, occasionally, to catch glimpses of the magnificent palace of Heidelberg; which seemed to encrease, in size and elevation as we continued to leave it in the rear. The country, also, on the other side of the _Neckhar_, was mountainous, wooded, and picturesque: the commencement of that chain of hills, which, extending towards _Mayence_ and _Cologne_, form the favourite and well known scenery which Englishmen delight to visit. As my eye ran along this magnificent range, I could not but feel something approaching to deep regret ... that _other_ causes, besides those of the lateness of the season, operated in preventing me from pursuing my course in that direction. It was impossible ... however I might have wished to visit the cities where _Fust_ and _Schoeffher_ and _Ulric Zel_ are supposed to lie entombed, and where the FIRST PRODUCTIONS OF THE PRESS were made public--it was impossible for me to do otherwise than to make Manheim the _colophon_ of my bibliographical excursion. The glass had been _turned_ for some time past, and the sand was fast running out. It was rather late when we drove to the _Golden Fleece_ at Manheim, the best inn in the town--and situated in a square, which, when we visited it, was filled by booths: it being fair time. With difficulty we got comfortable lodgings, so extremely crowded was the inn. The court-yard was half choked up with huge casks of Rhenish wine, of different qualities; most of them destined for England--and all seemed to be agitation and bustle. The first night of my arrival was a night of mixed pleasure and pain, by the receipt of nearly a dozen letters from Vienna, Munich, Stuttgart, and London, collectively: the whole of which had been purposely directed to this place. The contents of the Stuttgart letter have been already detailed to the reader.[182] The first object of my visitation at Manheim, on the morrow, was the house of DOM. ARTARIA--known, throughout the whole of Germany, as the principal mercantile house for books, prints, and pictures.[183] With these objects of commerce, was united that of _banking_: forming altogether an establishment of equal prosperity and respectability. The house is situated in the principal square, at the corner of one of the streets running into it. It has a stone front, and the exterior is equally as attractive in appearance, as the interior is from substantial hospitality. The civility, the frankness, the open-heartedness of my reception here was, if possible, more warm and encouraging than in any previous place in Germany; and what rendered the whole perfectly delightful, was, the thorough English-like appearance of every thing about me. Books, prints, pictures--and household furniture of every description--bespoke the judicious and liberal taste of the owner of the mansion; while the large and regular supplies of letters and despatches, every morning, gave indication of a brisk and opulent commerce. It so happened that, the very first morning of my visit to M. Artaria, there arrived trucks, filled with boxes and bales of goods purchased at the Frankfort fair--which had not been long over. In some of these ponderous cases, were pictures of the old masters; in others, _prints_.. chiefly from Paris and London,[184] and principally from the house of Messrs. Longman and Co. in Paternoster row. Among these latter, was a fine set of the _Bibliotheca Topographica Britannica,_ in ten volumes, 4to. bound in russia--which had been bespoke of M. Artaria by some Bavarian Count: and which must have cost that Count very little short of 120 guineas. The shelves of the front repository were almost wholly filled with English books, in the choicest bindings; and dressed out to catch and captivate the susceptible _bibliomaniac_, in a manner the most adroit imaginable. To the left, on entrance, were two rooms filled with choice paintings; many of them just purchased at the Frankfort fair. Some delicious Flemish pictures, among which I particularly noticed a little _Paul Potter_--valued at five hundred guineas--and some equally attractive Italian performances, containing, among the rest, a most desirable and genuine portrait of _Giovanni Bellini_--valued at one hundred and fifty guineas--were some of the principal objects of my admiration. But, more interesting than either, in my humble judgment, and yet not divested of a certain vexatious feeling, arising from an ignorance of the original--was a portrait, painted in oil, of the size of life, quite in the manner of _Hans Holbein_ ... yet with infinitely more warmth and power of carnation-tint. It was alive--and looked you through, as you entered the room. Few galleries, of portraits contain a more perfect specimen of the painting of the times. For the original, I believe, M. Artaria asked three hundred guineas.[185] The purse and table of M. Artaria were as open and as richly furnished as were his repositories of books and pictures; and I was scolded because I had not made _his house_ my head quarters during my residence at Manheim. I dined with him, however, twice out of the four days of my stay; and was indifferent to plays and public places of resort, in the conversation and company which I found at his house. Yet it was during the circulation of his double-quart bottles of old Rhenish wine--distributed with a liberality not to be exceeded by the Benedictines at the monastery at Göttwic, and yet more exquisite and choice in its flavour--that the gallant host poured forth the liberal sentiments which animated a bosom... grateful to providence for the success that had crowned his steadily and well directed labours! I never saw a man upon whom good fortune sat more comfortably, or one whom it was so little likely to spoil. Half of my time was spent in the house of M. Artaria, because there I found the kind of society which I preferred--and which contained a mixture of the antiquary and collector, with the merchant and man of the world. After this, who shall say that a fac-simile of his Autograph (now that he is NO MORE!) can be unacceptable even to the most fastidious. [Illustration] Among the antiquaries, were Messrs. TRAITEUR and KOCH. The former had been public librarian at Munich; and related to me the singular anecdote of having picked up the _first Mentz Bible_, called the _Mazarine_, for a few francs at Nancy. M. Traiteur is yet enthusiastic in his love of books, and shewed me the relics of what might have been a curious library. He has a strange hypothesis, that the art of printing was invented at _Spire;_ on account of a medal having been struck there in 1471, commemorative of that event; which medal was found during the capture of that place about two centuries ago. He fixed a very high price--somewhere about forty pounds--upon the medal; which, however, I never saw. He hoped (and I hope so too, for his own sake) that the Prince Royal of Bavaria would offer him that sum for it, to enrich his collection at Munich. M. Traiteur talked largely of a German book in his possession, with the express date of 1460; but though I was constantly urging him to shew it to me, he was not able to put his hand upon it. I bought of him, however, about ten pounds worth of books, among which was the _Life of St. Goar _, printed by _Schoeffher_ in 1481, quarto--the date of which had been artfully altered to 1470--by scratching out the final xi. This was not the knavery of the vender. M. Traiteur _offered_ me the _Tewrdanckhs_ of 1517, upon paper, for ten pounds: a sum, much beyond what I considered to be its real worth--from the copy having been half bound, and a good deal cropt. He was incessant in his polite attentions to me. M. Koch had been, if he be not yet, a grocer; but was so fond of rare old books, that he scarcely ever visited his canisters and sugar-loaves. I bought some very curious little pieces of him, to the amount of ten or twelve guineas: among which, was the strange and excessively rare tract, in Latin and German, entitled _De Fide Concubinarum in Sacerdotes_, of which a very particular account appears in the _Bibliographical Decameron_, vol. i. p. 229, 235. His simplicity of manners and friendliness of disposition were equally attractive; and I believe if he had possessed the most precious Aldine Classics, upon vellum, I could have succeeded in tempting him to part with them. The town of Manheim is large, neat, and populous; containing 20,000 souls. The streets run generally at right angles, and are sufficiently airy and wide. But, compared with the domestic architecture of Augsburg, Munich, and Vienna, the houses are low, small, and unornamented. The whole place has much the appearance of a handsome provincial town in England. There are gardens and public walks; but the chief of these is connected with the old red-stone palace of the former Elector Palatine. The Rhine terminates these walks on one side; and when I visited them, which was twice during my stay, that river was running with a rapid and discoloured current. The Rhine is broad here; but its banks are tame. A mound is raised against it, in some parts, to prevent partial overflows, and a fine terrace crowns its summits. A bridge of boats, over which you pass into France, is immediately in view. Upon the whole, these gardens, which seem to be laid out in the English fashion, and which are occasionally varied by some pleasing serpentine walks, are left in a sad state of neglect. The breeze from the river plays freely along the osiers and willows, with which its banks are plentifully planted; and I generally felt refreshed by half an hour's walk upon the broad, dry, gravel terrace, which comes close up to the very windows of the palace. The palace itself is of an enormous size--but is now bereft of every insignia of royalty. It is chiefly (as I understood) a depôt for arms. I ought to mention, among the social gratifications, of which I partook at Manheim, that arising from the kind attentions of M. ACKERMANN; a gentleman, retired from business, and residing in the place or square:--devoting the evening of a bachelor's life to the amusement resulting from a small but well chosen collection of coins and medals. He shewed me several of surprising delicacy and finish ... more especially of the sixteenth century, executed at Nuremberg--and tempted me to become a purchaser of the _Gold Royal_ of our _Edward IV._, for which I offered him five louis. As he thought himself handsomely paid, he presented me, in addition, with a beautiful silver medal of the sixteenth century--struck at Nuremberg--of which particular mention has been made in a preceding, page.[186] One of my visits to M. Ackermann was diversified by the sight of a profusion of fine grapes, of both colours, which had been just gathered from his garden--within the suburbs of the town:--where, indeed, a number of finely trimmed gardens, belonging to the citizens of Manheim, are kept in the highest state of cultivation. The vintage had now set through-out Germany and France; and more delicious grapes than those presented to me by M.A., could seldom be partaken of. Yet I know not if they were quite equal to those of Ratisbon and Heilbrunn. Passing along a very extensive vineyard, we stopped--requesting the valet to alight, and try to procure us some of the tempting fruit in view ... in order to slake our thirst during a hot journey. In a second he disappeared, and in a minute reappeared--with a bunch of black grapes--so large, full, and weighty ... that I question if Van Huysum or De Heem ever sat down to such a model for the exercise of their unrivalled pencils. The juice of this bunch was as copious and delicious as the exterior was downy and inviting. We learnt, however, that these little acts of depredation were not always to be committed with impunity; for that, in the middle of extensive fields, when the grape was ripe enough to be gathered, watch-boxes were placed--and keepers within these boxes were armed with carbines, loaded with something more weighty than _powder_! It only remains to mention, that, having left particular directions with the house of M. Artaria, to forward all _the_ cases which had been consigned to me, at their own house, from Vienna and Nuremberg, to that of Messrs. Arch and Co., booksellers, Cornhill, I had nothing to do but renew my letter of credit, and pass over the Rhine into France. I started immediately after dinner, from M. Artaria's house; horses having been brought to the door. MANHEIM TO PARIS. About four o'clock we passed over the bridge of boats, across the Rhine, and changed horses at _Ogersheim_ and _Spire_, sleeping at _Germezsheim_. The Rhine flows along the meadows which skirt the town of Spire; and while the horses were changing, we took a stroll about the cathedral. It is large, but of a motley style of architecture--and, in part, of a Moorish cast of character. Nothing but desolation appears about its exterior. The roof is sunk, and threatens to fall in every moment. No service (I understood) was performed within--but in a contiguous garden were the remains of a much older edifice, of an ecclesiastical character. Around, however, were the traces of devastation and havoc--the greater part arising from the bullets and cannon balls of the recent campaigns. It was impossible, however, for a _typographical antiquary_ to pass through this town, without feeling some sensations approaching to a sort of pleasing melancholy: for HERE were born the TWO SPIRAS--or _John and Vindelin de Spira_--who introduced the art of printing into Venice. I do not suppose that there exists any relic of domestic architecture here old enough to have been contemporaneous with the period of their births. The journey to Paris, through the route we took, was such--till we reached _St. Avold_, about two hundred and fifty English miles from the capital--as is never likely to induce me to repeat the attempt. The continuation of the chain of mountains called the _Vosges_, running northerly from Strasbourg downwards--renders the road wearisome, and in parts scarcely passable--as the government has recently paid no attention to its reparation. _Landau_, _Weissenbourg_, and _Bitche_ are the principal fortified towns; the latter, indeed, boasts of a commanding fort--upon a very elevated piece of ground, ranked among the more successful efforts of Vauban. The German language continued chiefly to be spoken among the postilions and lower orders, till we left _Forbach_ for _St. Avold_. At _Landau_, about three hundred and sixty miles from Paris, I parted with my valet--- for Strasbourg; under the impression that he would be glad to resume his acquaintance with me, on any future occasion: at the same time he seemed to long to be taken with us to _London_--a city, of all others, he said, he was desirous of seeing. He had also half imbibed the notion that its streets were paved with gold. _Metz_ is a noble city: finely situated, strongly fortified, and thickly inhabited. The _Moselle_ encircles a portion of it in a very picturesque manner. The inn, called the _Cheval Blanc_, should rather be that of _Cheval Noir_--if it take its epithet from the colour of the interior--for a dirtier hotel can scarcely exist. It was a fine moonlight night when we left Metz, on a Sunday, resolving to sleep two stages on the road. The next day we dined at _Dombasle_, a stage beyond _Verdun_; and were within about seventy miles of _Chalons sur Marne_. The vintage and the fruits of Autumn were now rich and abundant on all sides. The fields were all purple, and the orchards all red and gold. Wine casks, stained with the gushing juice, met us between every stage; while on the right hand and left, we saw the women walking beneath their perpendicular baskets, laden with the most bountiful produce of the vineyard. Such a year of plenty had hardly been remembered within the oldest memory. Mean time, the song and the roundelay were heard from all quarters; and between _Dombasle_ and _Clermont_, as we ascended a wooded height, with the sun setting in a flame of gold, in front--we witnessed a rural sight, connected with the vintage, which was sufficient to realise all the beautiful paintings ever executed by _Watteau_ and _Angelis_. It was late when we reached _Chalons_. The next day, we started for _Rheims_, and stopped at _Sillery_ in our way--the last stage on that side of it. The day was really oppressive--although we were in the middle of October. At Sillery we drank some Champagne--for which it is famous--the produce of the same year's vintage. It had not been made a fortnight--and tasted rather sharp and strong. This, we were triumphantly told, was the sure test of its turning out excellent. We were infinitely delighted with Rheims, more especially with THE CATHEDRAL. The western porches--and particularly that on the north side--are not less beautifully, than they are elaborately, sculptured. The interior, immediately within the western porches--or rather on the reverse sides of them--presents sculpture of admirable workmanship:--of the fourteenth century. But the porches appeared much lower than I had imagined. In the nave is an isolated roman sculpture,[187] of the lower age, cut in a block of marble--and unconnectedly placed there. This has been engraved in the _Antiquité Expliquée_ of _Montfaucon_. At the further end of the choir, is an elaborately sculptured modern monument--containing many beautiful figures in white marble:--upon the whole, one of the most interesting which I had seen upon the Continent. The upper part of the exterior of the cathedral, on the south side, is very elegantly carved; but the towers are short, and under repair. The lower part of the south exterior of the cathedral is entirely marred, as to picturesque effect, by the recent buildings attached to it. Upon the whole, however, the Cathedral at Rheims is a very pure and interesting specimen of Gothic architecture. Nor must I omit an anecdote connected with its present state of preservation. That it escaped the ravages of the revolution, was owing, as I learnt, to the respect which was paid to the Curé of some neighbouring parish. He came down to the armed multitude, when they were ripe for every species of destruction. He told them--they might take his LIFE ... but entreated them to spare the MOTHER CHURCH. They spared both: but many marks of their devastation are yet seen; and pieces of old sculpture, dragged from their original places of destination, are stuck about in different parts, over shopkeepers' doors. I could have filled a caravan with several curious specimens of this kind:--which would have been joyfully viewed by many a Member of the Society of Antiquaries. The population of Rheims is estimated at about thirty thousand. It appears to be situated in a fertile and picturesque country. As the weather continued not only serene, but almost sultry--and as we began to be weary of packing and unpacking, and sleeping at so many different inns in the route--I resolved upon travelling all night, and pushing on at once for Paris: where our fatigue would have a temporary cessation. I left, therefore, this venerable city about six o'clock in the evening--intending to travel without intermission till I reached my old quarters at the _Hôtel des Colonies_, in the _Rue de Richelieu_. The road is paved in the middle, the whole way to Paris; but we were careful to avoid the centre. In other respects, this road is broad, and has a noble appearance. As we quitted Rheims, and were gaining the height of the first hill, on the Paris side, we turned round to take a farewell view of the venerable cathedral. It will be long ere I forget that view. The moon, now at full, was rising--in unclouded majesty--just above the summit of the old towers of the cathedral. Her orb was clear, pale, and soft; and yet completely irradiated. The towers and western front were in a cold, gray tint: the houses, of inferior dimensions, were shrunk to insignificancy. There was, therefore, nothing but a cloudless sky, a full moon, and the cathedral of Rheims:--objects, upon which the eye rests, and the imagination riots... as ours did ... till a turning of the road shut out the scenery from our view. It was considerably past midnight when I reached _Soissons_--the principal town between Rheims and Paris. I breakfasted at _Dammartin_. About mid-day I entered Paris, and found the hostess of the _Hôtel des Colonies_, (who had been apprised by letter of our intention of returning thither) perfectly disposed to give me a cordial reception, after an absence of about three months. Having settled my affairs, and enjoyed a short repose at Paris of a fortnight, I returned with my companion, by the diligence, to Calais; and landed at Dover within about six months, and a half of my departure from Brighton to Dieppe. Although my tour was carried on in the most favourable of seasons--and with every sort of comfort, and attention arising from letters of recommendation, and hospitable receptions in consequence--yet I had undergone, from a constant state of excitement and occupation, a great deal of bodily and mental fatigue; and I question if poor Park, ... had it pleased Providence to have allowed him to re-visit his native shore... would have retouched BRITISH EARTH with greater joy than I experienced, when, leaping from the plank, put out from the boat, I planted my foot upon the shingles at DOVER ... ... _reddens landes Domino_.[188] [157] The Emperor of Austria having stopped at this hotel, the landlord asked his permission to call it from henceforth by his _Majesty's name_; which was readily granted. There is an _Album_ here, in which travellers are requested to inscribe their names, and in which I saw the _imperial autograph_. [158] Especially in the striped broad shoes; which strongly resemble those in the series of wood-cuts descriptive of the triumphs of the Emperor Maximilian. [159] There is a lithographic print of it recently published, from the drawing of Quaglio--of the same folio size with the similar prints of Ulm and Nuremburg. The date of the _towers_ of the Cathedral of Ratisbon may be ascertained with the greatest satisfaction. From the _Nuremberg Chronicle_ of 1493 folio xcviii, recto, it appears that when the author (Hartmann Schedel) wrote the text of that book, "the edifice was yet incomplete." This incomplete state, alludes, as I suspect, to the towers; for in the wood-cut, attached to the description, there is a crane fixed upon the top of _one_ of the towers, and a stone being drawn up by it--this tower being one story shorter than the other. Schedel is warm in commendation of the numerous religious establishments, which, in his time, distinguished the city of Ratisbon. Of that of St. Emmeran, the following note supplies some account. [160] Lord Spencer possesses some few early Classics from this monastic library, which was broken up about twenty years ago. His Lordship's copy of the _Pliny of_ 1469, folio, from the same library, is, in all probability, the finest which exists. The MONASTERY OF ST. EMMERAM was doubtless among the "most celebrated throughout Europe." In Hartmann Schedel's time, it was "an ample monastery of the order of St. Benedict." In the _Acta Sanctorum, mense Septembris, vol. vi. Sep_. 22, p. 469, the writer of the life of St. Emmeram supposes the monastery to have been built towards the end of the VIIth century. It was at first situated _without_ the walls,--but was afterwards (A.D. 920) included within the walls. Hansizius, a Jesuit, wrote a work in 1755, concerning the origin and constitution of the monastery--in which he says it was founded by Theodo in 688. The body of St. Emmeram was interred in the church of St. George, by Gaubaldus, in the VIIIth century, which church was reduced to ashes in 1642; but three years afterwards, they found the body of St. Emmeram, preserved in a double chest, or coffin, and afterwards exposed it, on Whitsunday, 1659, in a case of silver--to all the people. [161] He died in April, 1820. [162] [NOT so--as I understand. It is re-established in its previous form.] [163] So I heard him called everywhere--in Austria and Bavaria--by men of every degree and rank in society; and by _professional_ men as frequently as by others. I recollect when at Landshut, standing at the door of the hotel, and conversing with two gallant-looking Bavarian officers, who had spent half their lives in the service: one of them declaring that "he should like to have been _opposed_ to WELLINGTON--to have _died_ even in such opposition, if he could not have vanquished him." I asked him, why? "Because (said he) there is glory in such a contest--for he is, doubtless, the FIRST CAPTAIN OF THE AGE." [164] Dr. Bright, in _Travels in Lower Hungary_, p. 90-3, has an animated passage connected with this once flourishing, but now comparatively drooping, city. In the _Bibl. Spenceriana_, vol. iii. p. 261-3, will be found an extract or two, from Schedel's _Nuremberg Chronicle_, fol. c., &c. edit. 1493, which may serve to give a notion of the celebrity of Nuremberg about three centuries and a half ago. [165] Or rather, walls which have certain round towers, with a projecting top, at given intervals. These towers have a very strong and picturesque appearance; and are doubtless of the middle part of the fifteenth century. In Hartman Schedel's time, there were as many of them as there were days in the year. [166] [A large and most beautiful print of this interesting Shrine has been published since the above was written. It merits every commendation.] [167] This is a striking and interesting print--and published in England for 1_l._ 1_s._ The numerous figures introduced in it are habited in the costume of the seventeenth century. [168] The author of this work was _Franciscus de Retz_. As a first essay of printing, it is a noble performance. The reader may see the book pretty fully described in the _Bibl. Spenceriana_, vol. iii. p. 489. [169] See p. 320 ante. [170] See a copy of it described at Paris; vol. ii. p. 126. [171] See p. 182 ante. [172] [He is since DEAD.] [173] Only three livraisons of this work have, I believe, been yet published:--under the title of "_Gravures en Bois des anciens maîtres allemands tirées des Planches originales recueillies par_ IULIAN ALBERT DERSCHAU. _Publiées par Rodolphe Zecharie Becker_." The last, however, is of the date of 1816--and as the publisher has now come down to wood-blocks of the date of 1556, it may be submitted whether the work might not advantageously cease? Some of the blocks in this third part seem to be a yard square. [174] They are now in the library of Earl Spencer. [175] I will describe this singular specimen of old art as briefly and perspicuously as I am able. It consists of an impression, in pale black ink--resembling very much that of aquatint, of a subject cut upon copper, or brass, which is about seventeen inches in height (the top being a little cut away) and about ten inches six-eighths in width. The upper part of the impression is in the shape of an obtusely pointed, or perhaps rather semicircular, gothic window--and is filled by involutions of forms or patterns, with great freedom of play and grace of composition: resembling the stained glass in the upper parts of the more elaborated gothic windows of the beginning of the fifteenth century. Round the outer border of the subject, there are seven white circular holes, as if the metal from which the impression was taken, had been _nailed up_ against a wall--and these blank spots were the result of the aperture caused by the space formerly occupied by the nails. Below, is the subject of the crucifixion. The cross is ten inches high: the figure of Christ, without the glory, six inches: St. John is to the left, and the mother of Christ to the right of the cross; and each of these figures is about four inches high. The drawing and execution of these three figures, are barbarously puerile. To the left of St. John is a singular appearance of the _upper_ part of _another_ plate, running at right angles with the principal, and composed also in the form of the upper portion of a gothic window. To the right of the virgin, and of the plate, is the "staggering" date abovementioned. It is thus: M.cccc.xxx. This date is fixed upon the stem of a tree, of which both the stem and the branches above appear to have been _scraped_, in the copper, almost _white_--for the sake of introducing the inscription, or _date_. The date, moreover, has a very suspicious look, in regard to the execution of the letters of which it is composed. As to the _paper_, upon which the impression is taken, it has, doubtless, much of the look of old paper; but not of that particular kind, either in regard to _tone_ or _quality_, which we see in the prints of Mechlin, Schoen, or Albert Durer. But what gives a more "staggering aspect" to the whole affair is, that the worthy Derschau had _another_ copy of this _same_ impression, which he sold to Mr. John Payne, and which is now in the highly curious collection of Mr. Douce. This was fortunate, to say the least. The copy purchased by myself, is now in the collection of Earl Spencer. [176] I should add, that the _dotted_ manner of executing this old print, may be partly seen in that at page 280 of vol. iii. of the second edition of this work; but still more decidedly in the old prints pasted within the covers of the extraordinary copy of the _Mazarine Bible_, UPON VELLUM, once in the possession of Messrs. Nicol, booksellers to his late Majesty, and now in that of Henry Perkins, Esq. [177] _Travels in Lower Hungary_, 1818, 4to. p.93. [178] _Buchhandler_ is bookseller: and _Antiquar_ a dealer in old books. In Nuremberg, families exist for centuries in the same spot. I.A. ENDTER, one of the principal booksellers, resides in a house which his family have occupied since the year 1590. My intercourse was almost entirely with M. Lechner--one of the most obliging and respectable of his fraternity at Nuremberg. [179] [Now of Henrietta Street Covent Garden. As is a sturdy oak, of three centuries growth, compared with a sapling of the last season's transplanting, so is the business of Mr. Bohn, NOW, compared with what it was when the _above_ notice was written.] [180] It is either 1607, or 1609. [181] The reputation of the University of Heidelberg, which may contain 500 students, greatly depends upon that of the professors. The students are generally under twenty years of age. Their dress and general appearance is very picturesque. The shirt collar is open, the hair flowing, and a black velvet hat or cap, of small and square dimensions, placed on one side, gives them a very knowing air. One young man in particular, scarcely nineteen from his appearance, displayed the most beautiful countenance and figure which I had ever beheld. He seemed to be _Raphael_ or _Vandyke_ revived. [182] See note at page 49-51. [183] Since March 1819, called the firm of ARTARIA and FONTAINE. [184] Among the prints recently imported from the _latter_ place, was the whole length of the DUKE OF WELLINGTON, engraved by Bromley, from the painting of Sir Thomas Lawrence. I was surprised when M. Artaria told me that he had sold _fifty copies_ of this print--to his Bavarian and Austrian customers. In a large line engraving, of the Meeting of the Sovereigns and Prince Schwartzenberg, after the battle of Leipsic--from the painting of P. Krafft--and published by Artaria and Fontaine in January 1820--it is gratifying to read the name of our SCOTT--as that of the engraver of the piece--although it had been _previously_ placed in other hands. [185] [It was brought to England about three years ago, and is YET, I believe, a purchasable article in some Repository. It should at least be _seen_ by the whole tribe of COGNOSCENTI in Pall Mall.] [186] See page 439. [187] The town is said to abound with Roman antiquities; among which is a triumphal arch of the time of Augustus, and an arcade called the _Romulus_. It was at Rheims where the holy _ampoule_, or oil for consecrating the Kings of France was kept--who were usually crowned here. A Jacobin ruffian, of the name of _Ruht_, destroyed this ampoule during the revolution. This act was succeeded by his own self-destruction. [188] CHRISTMAS CAROL: printed by Wynkyn De Worde, 1521, 4to. see _Typog. Antiquities_, vol. ii. p. 251. THE END. PRINTED BY WILLIAM NICOL, AT THE Shakspeare Press, Cleveland Row, St. James's. 
46401	----	_The Story of Nuremberg_ _All rights reserved_ _First Edition, April 1899_ _Second Edition, September 1900_ _Third Edition, November 1901_ [Illustration: _Portrait of Albert Durer by himself, from the painting at Munich._] _The Story of_ Nuremberg _by Cecil Headlam with Illustrations by Miss H. M. James and with Woodcuts_ [Illustration] _London:_ _J. M. Dent & Co._ _Aldine House, 29 and 30 Bedford Street_ _Covent Garden W.C._ 1901 "Quaint old town of toil and traffic, Quaint old town of art and song."--LONGFELLOW. "Wenn einer Deutschland kennen Und Deutschland lieben soll, Wird man ihm Nürnberg nennen, Der edlen Künste voll. Dich, nimmer noch veraltet Du treue, fleiss'ge Stadt, Wo Dürer's Kraft gewaltet, Und Sachs gesungen hat." --MAX VON SCHENKENDORF. "Nihil magnificentius, nihil ornatius tota Europa reperias." --ÆNEAS SILVIUS. _To Maurice Hewlett in friendship and in admiration_ PREFACE I am painfully aware of the defects of this little book, and still more painfully unaware of its errors. The best excuse for the mistakes that have surely crept in is the vast scope and variety of my subject--the story of the old mediæval town which was for long the centre of German industry and thought. But, for a guide-book, accuracy is above all things desirable, and I shall therefore be deeply grateful to the courtesy of any of my readers, who, having discovered any error or omission, will kindly point it out to me. The sources from which I have drawn are far too numerous to acknowledge in detail. But in the matter of topography and architecture a more express note of indebtedness is due to the devoted labours of R. von Rettberg, A. von Essenwein, and Ernst Mummenhoff. Above all, I must pay my tribute of gratitude and acknowledgment to the enthusiastic erudition of Dr Emil Reicke,[1] whose mighty volume, _Geschichte der Reichsstadt Nürnberg_, is a mine of information from which I have freely quarried. Lastly, to those old chroniclers at whom I have sometimes laughed, but whose quaint phrases and legends may have saved these pages from too serious a dulness, I now hasten to make amends and to assure them that I am very conscious of my own inferiority as a storyteller. The object of this book will have been in great part achieved if it succeeds in reviving the memories and quickening the affections of old lovers of Nuremberg; if it awakens a desire in those who have not yet known and loved her, to visit the old "White City," and join the band of her worshippers. CONTENTS PAGE _The Origin of Nuremberg_ 1 CHAPTER II _The Development of Nuremberg_ 35 CHAPTER III _Nuremberg and the Reformation_ 55 CHAPTER IV _Nuremberg and the Thirty Years War_ 93 CHAPTER V _The Castle and the Walls_ 114 CHAPTER VI _The Council and the Council-House. Nuremberg Tortures_ 150 CHAPTER VII _Albert Durer and the Arts and Crafts of Nuremberg_ 171 CHAPTER VIII _Hans Sachs and the Meistersingers_ 215 CHAPTER IX _The Churches of Nuremberg_ 225 CHAPTER X _Old Houses, Bridges and Wells_ 267 CHAPTER XI _German Museum_ 275 CHAPTER XII _Arms of Nuremberg_ 289 CHAPTER XIII _Hotels, Itinerary, etc._ 294 ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE Frontispiece. _Portrait of Albert Durer, from the Painting by himself at Munich_ _The Heathen Tower_ 4 _Luginsland, Kaiserstallung, and Five-Cornered Tower_ 6 _Nürnberger Zeidler (Beefarmer) armed with crossbow_ 9 _Nassauer Haus_ 22 _The Pegnitz_ 27 _Oriel Window of the Parsonage_ 42 _Beautiful Well_ 57 _Frauen Thor_ 63 _Rothenburg_ 79 _Pellerhof_ 90 _The Castle from the Hallerthorbrücke_ 117 _Sinwel or Vestner Thurm_ 122 _The Walls and Ditch_ 139 _The Walls (Interior)_ 144 _The Rathaus. Old Window_ 155 _Henkersteg (Hangman's Tower)_ 165 _Albert Durer's House_ 173 _Albert Durer as a boy. From a drawing by himself at the age of thirteen_ 179 _St. Anthony, from the engraving by Albert Durer. Background of Nuremberg Scenery_ 189 _Sakramentshäuslein. Adam Krafft_ 203 _Nuremberg Spruchsprecher or State Poet_ 223 _Brautthüre, St. Sebalduskirche_ 232 _St. Lorenzkirche. From the river_ 241 _Hauptthor, St. Lorenzkirche_ 244 _St. Lorenzkirche. North side_ 246 _St. Lorenzkirche. Interior_ 251 _West Door, Frauenkirche_ 255 _House on the Pegnitz_ 268 _Fleischbrücke_ 271 _The Nuremberg Madonna_ 279 _The Seals of Nuremberg_ 291 _All the illustrations with the exception of the frontispiece, "St. Anthony" and "Albert Durer as a boy" have been drawn by Miss James, or cut in wood from the beautiful photographs by Captain Gladstone, R.N., to whose generosity the publishers are indebted for permission to reproduce the pictures in this volume._ The Story of Nuremberg CHAPTER I _Origin and Growth_ "In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg the ancient stands."--LONGFELLOW. Year by year, many a traveller on his way to Bayreuth, many a seeker after health at German baths, many an artist and lover of the old world, finds his way to Nuremberg. It is impossible to suppose that such any one is ever disappointed. For in spite of all changes, and in spite of the disfigurements of modern industry, Nuremberg is and will remain a mediæval city, a city of history and legend, a city of the soul. She is like Venice in this, as in not a little of her history, that she exercises an indefinable fascination over our hearts no less than over our intellects. The subtle flavour of mediæval towns may be likened to that of those rare old ports which are said to taste of the grave; a flavour indefinable, exquisite. Rothenburg has it: and it is with Rothenburg, that little gem of mediævalism, that Nuremberg is likely to be compared in the mind of the modern wanderer in Franconia. But though Rothenburg may surpass her greater neighbour in the perfect harmony and in the picturesqueness of her red-tiled houses and well-preserved fortifications, in interest at any rate she must yield to the heroine of this story. For, apart from the beauty which Nuremberg owes to the wonderful grouping of her red roofs and ancient castle, her coronet of antique towers, her Gothic churches and Renaissance buildings or brown riverside houses dipping into the mud-coloured Pegnitz, she rejoices in treasures of art and architecture and in the possession of a splendid history such as Rothenburg cannot boast. To those who know something of her story Nuremberg brings the subtle charm of association. Whilst appealing to our memories by the grandeur of her historic past, and to our imaginations by the work and tradition of her mighty dead, she appeals also to our senses with the rare magic of her _personal_ beauty, if one may so call it. In that triple appeal lies the fascination of Nuremberg. For this reason one may hope to add to the enjoyment of those who may spend or have spent a few days in the "quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song," by recounting the tale of her treasures, and by telling, however imperfectly, something of the story of her rise and fall, and of the artists whom she cradled. _Many shall go to and fro and their knowledge shall be increased._ Is not that the justification of a guide-book? * * * * * The facts as to the origin of Nuremberg are lost in the dim shadows of tradition. When the little town sprang up amid the forests and swamps which still marked the course of the Pegnitz, we know as little as we know the origin of the name Nürnberg. It is true that the Chronicles of later days are only too ready to furnish us with information; but the information is not always reliable. The Chronicles, like our own peerage, are apt to contain too vivid efforts of imaginative fiction. The Chroniclers, unharassed by facts or documents, with minds "not by geography prejudiced, or warped by history," cannot unfortunately always be believed. It is, for instance, quite possible that Attila, King of the Huns, passed and plundered Nuremberg, as they tell us. But there is no proof, no record of that visitation. Again, the inevitable legend of a visit from Charlemagne occurs. He, you may be sure, was lost in the woods whilst hunting near Nuremberg, and passed all night alone, unhurt by the wild beasts. As a token of gratitude for God's manifest favour he caused a chapel to be built on the spot. The chapel stands to this day--a twelfth-century building--but no matter! for did not Otho I., as our Chroniclers tell us, attend mass in St. Sebald's Church in 970, though St. Sebald's Church cannot have been built till a century later? The origin of the very name of Nuremberg is hidden in clouds of obscurity. In the earliest documents we find it spelt with the usual variations of early manuscripts--Nourenberg, Nuorimperc, Niurenberg, Nuremberc, etc. The origin of the place, we repeat, is equally obscure. Many attempts have been made to find history in the light of the derivations of the name. But when philology turns historian it is apt to play strange tricks. Nur ein Berg (only a castle), or Nero's Castle, or Norix Tower--what matter which is the right derivation, so long as we can base a possible theory on it? The Norixberg theory will serve to illustrate the incredible quantity of misplaced ingenuity which both of old times and in the present has been wasted in trying to explain the inexplicable. The Heidenthurm--the Heathen Tower of the Castle--is so called from some carvings on the exterior which were once regarded as idols. Wolckan maintains that it was an ancient temple of Diana. For those carvings, he says, represent the figures of dogs and of two male figures with clubs, who must be Hercules and his son _Noricus_. Hence Norixberg. After which it seems prosaic to have to assert that the "figures of dogs" are really lions, and the male figures are Saints or Kings of Israel, and certainly not heathen images. There is in point of fact no trace of Roman colonisation here. [Illustration: THE HEATHEN TOWER] Other ingenious historians, not content with imaginary details of heathen temples and sanctuaries, hint darkly of an ancient God--Nuoro by name--who, they say, was worshipped here and gave his name to the locality, but "of whom nothing else is known." Some chroniclers drag in the name of Drusus Nero (Neronesberg) and refine upon the point, debating whether we ought not rather to attribute this camp to Tiberius Claudius Nero; and others, again, suggest that _Noriker_, driven out by the Huns, settled in this favourable retreat in the heart of Germany, and laid the foundations of Nuremberg's greatness. All we can say is that these things were or were not: but they have no history. After all, why should they have any? But those who prefer precision to truth shall not go empty away. "The Imperial fortress of Nuremberg began to be built fourteen years before the birth of Christ, the 9th of April, on a Tuesday, at 8 o'clock in the morning; but the town only twenty-six years after Christ, on the 3rd of April, on a Tuesday, at 8.57 A.M." Thus spake the Astrologer Andreas Goldmeyer, in his "Earthly Jerusalem." And yet, as Sir Philip Sidney sings, some "dusty wits can scorn Astrology!" Be that as it may, the history of our town begins in the year 1050. It is most probable that the silence regarding the place--it is not mentioned among the places visited by Conrad II. in this neighbourhood--points to the fact that the castle did not exist in 1025, but was built between that year and 1050. That it existed then we know, for Henry III. dated a document from here in 1050, summoning a council of Bavarian nobles "in fundo suo Nourinberc." Of the growth of the place we shall speak more in detail in the chapter on the Castle and the Walls. Here it will suffice to note that the oldest portion, called in the fifteenth century Altnürnberg, consisted of the Fünfeckiger Thurm--the Five-cornered tower--the rooms attached and the Otmarkapelle. The latter was burnt [Illustration: LUGINSLAND, KAISERSTALLUNG, AND THE FIVE-CORNERED TOWER] down in 1420, rebuilt in 1428, and called the Walpurgiskapelle. These constituted the Burggräfliche Burg--the Burggraf's Castle. The rest of the castle was built on by Friedrich der Rotbart (Barbarossa), and called the Kaiserliche Burg. The old Five-cornered tower and the surrounding ground was the private property of the Burggraf, and he was appointed by the Emperor as imperial officer of the Kaiserliche Burg. Whether the Emperors claimed any rights of personal property over Nuremberg or merely treated it, at first, as imperial property, it is difficult to determine. The castle at any rate was probably built to secure whatever rights were claimed, and to serve generally as an imperial stronghold. An imperial representative, as we have seen, took up his residence there.[2] Gradually round the castle grew up the straggling streets of Nuremberg. Settlers built beneath the shadow of the Burg. The very names of the streets suggest the vicinity of a camp or fortress. Söldnerstrasse, Schmiedstrasse, and so forth, betray the military origin of the present busy commercial town. From one cause or another a mixture of races, of Germanic and non-Germanic, of Slavonic and Frankish elements, seems to have occurred amongst the inhabitants of the growing village, producing a special blend which in dialect, in customs, and in dress was soon noticed by the neighbours as unique, and stamping the art and development of Nuremberg with that peculiar character which has never left it. Various causes combined to promote the growth of the place. The temporary removal of the Mart from Fürth to Nuremberg under Henry III. doubtless gave a great impetus to the development of the latter town. Henry IV., indeed, gave back the rights of Mart, customs and coinage to Fürth. But it seems probable that these rights were not taken away again from Nuremberg. The possession of a Mart was, of course, of great importance to a town in those days, promoting industries and arts and settled occupations. The Nurembergers were ready to suck out the fullest advantage from their privilege. That mixture of races, to which we have referred, resulted in remarkable business energy--energy which soon found scope in the conduct of the business which the natural position of Nuremberg on the South and North, the East and Western trade routes, brought to her. It was not very long before she became the centre of the vast trade between the Levant and Western Europe, and the chief emporium for the produce of Italy--the _Handelsmetropole_ in fact of South Germany. Nothing in the middle ages was more conducive to the prosperity of a town than the reputation of having a holy man within its borders, or the possession of the miracle-working relics of a saint. Just as St. Elizabeth made Marburg so St. Sebaldus proved a very potent attraction to Nuremberg. We shall give some account of this saint when we visit the church that was dedicated to him. Here we need only remark that as early as 1070 and 1080 we hear of pilgrimages to Nuremberg in honour of her patron saint. Another factor in the growth of the place was the frequent visits which the Emperors began to pay to it. Lying as it did on their way from Bamberg and Forcheim to Regensburg the Kaisers readily availed themselves of the security offered by this impregnable fortress, and of the sport provided in the adjacent forest. For there was good hunting to be had in the forest which, seventy-two miles in extent, surrounded Nuremberg. And hunting, next to war, was then in most parts of Europe the most serious occupation of life. All the forest rights, we may mention, of woodcutting, hunting, charcoal burning and bee-farming belonged originally to the Empire. But these were gradually acquired by the Nuremberg Council (Rat), chiefly by purchase in the fifteenth century. In the castle the visitor may notice a list of all the Emperors--some thirty odd, all told--who have stayed there--a list that should now include the reigning Emperor. We find that Henry IV. frequently honoured Nuremberg with his presence. This is that [Illustration: NÜRNBERGER ZEIDLER (BEE-FARMER) ARMED WITH CROSS-BOW] Henry IV. whose scene at Canossa with the Pope--Kaiser of the Holy Roman Empire waiting three days in the snow to kiss the foot of excommunicative Gregory--has impressed itself on all memories. His last visit to Nuremberg was a sad one. His son rebelled against him, and the old king stopped at Nuremberg to collect his forces. In the war between father and son Nuremberg was loyal, and took the part of Henry IV. It was no nominal part, for in 1105 she had to stand a siege from the young Henry. For two months the town was held by the burghers and the castle by the Præfect Conrad. At the end of that time orders came from the old Kaiser that the town was to surrender. He had given up the struggle, and his undutiful son succeeded as Henry V. to the Holy Roman Empire, and Nuremberg with it. The mention of this siege gives us an indication of the growth of the town. The fact of the siege and the words of the chronicler, "The townsmen (oppidani) gave up the town under treaty," seem to point to the conclusion that Nuremberg was now no longer a mere fort (_castrum_), but that walls had sprung up round the busy mart and the shrine of St. Sebald, and that by this time Nuremberg had risen to the dignity of a "Stadt" or city state. Presently, indeed, we find her rejoicing in the title of "_Civitas_." The place, it is clear, was already of considerable military importance or it would not have been worth while to invest it. The growing volume of trade is further illustrated by a charter of Henry V. (1112) giving to the citizens of Worms _Zollfreiheit_ in various places subject to him, amongst which Frankfort, Goslar and Nuremberg are named as royal towns (_oppida regis_). We may note at this point, however, that the Chroniclers declare that the town fell into the hands of the enemy, through the treachery of the Jewish inhabitants and was plundered and burnt. By this destruction they account for the absence of all earlier records, and are left at liberty to evolve their theories as to the history of previous days. They add that when the town was rebuilt (1120) the Jews chose all the best sites for their houses, and retained them till they were driven out. The first statement was an easy invention. The second, very probably true in effect, points to the reason--commercial jealousy--but does not afford an excuse for the shortsighted and unchristian persecution of the Jews which disfigures the record of the acts of Nuremberg. With the death of Henry V., which occurred in 1125, the Frankish or Salic Imperial line ended. For the Empire, though elective, had always a tendency to become hereditary and go in lines. If the last Kaiser left a son not unfit, who so likely as the son to be elected? But now a member of another family had to be chosen. The German princes elected Count Lothar von Supplinburg, Duke of Saxony. This departure was not without influence on the fortunes of Nuremberg. The question arose whether Nuremberg had belonged to the late Imperial house as private or imperial property. Did it now belong to the heirs of that house or to the newly-elected Emperor? In fact, part of the possessions, which had passed from the Salian Franks to the heirs, Conrad and Frederick, Dukes of Swabia, of the house of Hohenstaufen, was now demanded back by Lothar as being imperial property. Nuremberg was numbered among these possessions and became the head-quarters of the war which followed between the Kaiser and the two brothers. In 1127 the town had to stand another siege--this time of ten weeks' duration--whilst the Hohenstaufen brothers held it against Lothar. The siege was raised; but three years later the brothers had to give in. The Burg and town of Nuremberg were then given by the Emperor to Henry the Proud of Bavaria, a member of the great Wittelsbach family. He kept them till 1138, when Conrad having been elected King of the Germans, they went back in the natural course of things to the Hohenstaufen, who came once more to look upon the flourishing town as their own private property. It was to the above-mentioned Kaiser Conrad that the chronicles attribute the foundation of the monastery of St. Ægidius, on the site of the chapel, St. Martin's, which Charlemagne was reputed to have built. To Conrad also, with less show of likelihood, they ascribe the widening of the city. Widened the city has been more than once, as we can tell by the remains of walls and towers.[3] But the earliest fragment of these now extant--the lower part of the White Tower--dates only from the thirteenth century. It seems to have been the policy of the Hohenstaufen Kaisers to favour Nuremberg. They often held their court here. The greatest of them--the greatest and wisest of the Kaisers since Charlemagne--Frederick I. Barbarossa, to wit, lived in the castle in 1166. It was he, in all probability, who built the Kaiserliche Burg, and erected, over the Margaretenkapelle, the Kaiserkapelle, a grander and more splendid chapel of marble, which was certainly completed in the twelfth century. Of the remarkable Double Chapel thus constructed we shall have more to say later on. Meanwhile we must content ourselves with calling attention to the very similar Double Chapel at Eger in Bohemia. It was through Barbarossa that Nuremberg became connected with another of the great ruling families of the world. "It was in those same years," says Carlyle,[4] "that a stout young fellow, Conrad by name, far off in the Southern part of Germany set out from the old Castle of Hohenzollern (the southern summit of that same huge old Hercynian wood, which is still called the Schwarzwald or Black Forest though now comparatively bare of trees) where he was but a junior and had small outlooks, upon a very great errand in the world.... His purpose was to find Barbarossa and seek fortune under him. To this Frederick Redbeard--a magnificent, magnanimous man, holding the reins of the world, not quite in the imaginary sense; scourging anarchy down and urging noble effort up, really on a grand scale--Conrad addressed himself; and he did it with success; which may be taken as a kind of testimonial to the worth of the young man. Details we have absolutely none; but there is no doubt that Conrad recommended himself to Kaiser Redbeard, nor any that the Kaiser was a judge of men.... One thing further is known, significant for his successes: Conrad found favour with 'the Heiress of the Vohburg Family,' desirable young heiress, and got her to wife. The Vohburg family, now much forgotten everywhere, and never heard of in England before, had long been of supreme importance, of immense possessions, and opulent in territories, and, we need not add, in honours and offices, in those Franconian Nürnberg regions; and was now gone to this one girl. I know not that she had much inheritance after all: the vast Vohburg properties lapsing all to the Kaiser, when the male heirs were out. But she had pretensions, tacit claims: in particular the Vohburgs had long been habitual or in effect hereditary Burggrafs of Nürnberg; and if Conrad had the talent for that office, he now in preference to others might have a chance for it. Sure enough, he got it; took root in it, he and his; and, in the course of centuries, branched up from it, high and wide, over the adjoining countries; waxing towards still higher destinies. That is the epitome of Conrad's history; history now become very great, but then no bigger than its neighbours and very meagrely recorded; of which the reflective reader is to make what he can.... "As to the Office, it was more important than perhaps the reader imagines. In a Diet of the Empire (1170) we find Conrad among the magnates of the country, denouncing Henry the Lion's high procedures and malpractices. Every Burggraf of Nürnberg is in virtue of his office 'Prince of the Empire'; if a man happened to have talent of his own and solid resources of his own (which are always on the growing hand with this family), here is a basis from which he may go far enough. Burggraf of Nürnberg: that means again Graf (judge, defender, manager, g'reeve) of the Kaiser's Burg or Castle,--in a word, Kaiser's Representative and _Alter Ego_,--in the old Imperial Free-Town of Nürnberg; with much adjacent very complex territory, also, to administer for the Kaiser. A flourishing extensive city, this old Nürnberg, with valuable adjacent territory, civic and imperial, intricately intermixed; full of commercial industries, opulences, not without democratic tendencies. Nay, it is almost, in some senses, the _London and Middlesex_ of the Germany that then was, if we will consider it! "This is a place to give a man chances, and try what stuff is in him. The office involves a talent for governing, as well as for judging: talent for fighting also, in cases of extremity, and, what is still better, a talent for avoiding to fight. None but a man of competent superior parts can do that function; I suppose no imbecile could have existed many months in it, in the old earnest times. Conrad and his succeeding Hohenzollerns proved very capable to do it, as would seem; and grew and spread in it, waxing bigger and bigger, from their first planting there by Kaiser Barbarossa, a successful judge of men." Nuremberg continued to receive marks of Imperial favour. The importance to which she had now grown is illustrated by the fact that Frederick II., son of Barbarossa, held a very brilliant _Reichstag_ here in 1219, and on this occasion gave to the town her first great Charter. The first provision of this Charter, by which the town is declared free of allegiance to anyone but the Emperor, is of special interest, seeing that it raises the question whether Nuremberg was really the private property of the Imperial family, or only owed allegiance to the Emperor as such. Probably Frederick did not intend to alienate Nuremberg from himself and his heirs as private individuals; but, regarding the empire as a permanent possession of his family, he intended by this clause to bind the burghers of Nuremberg more closely to his own personal service by freeing them from all feudal obligations to others. A few years later Frederick, in order to carry out his plans with regard to Italian lands, appointed his ten-year-old son as King of Rome and as his successor to the German Empire. Then leaving the young King in Germany under the guardianship of Bishop Engelbert of Cologne, he went to Italy, and was crowned Emperor by the Pope. Young Henry held his court in Nuremberg in 1225. In the castle, in November, a double festival was celebrated--the marriage of the young King with Margaret, daughter of Duke Leopold of Austria, and of the brother of the bride, Duke Henry of Austria, with Agnes, a daughter of the Landgraf Hermann von Thüringen. At this double wedding, as some chroniclers aver, or at the wedding of Rudolph von Hapsburg (1284), as is more probable, a terrible catastrophe occurred. For just as the numerous assembly of nobles and ladies had begun to dance in the hall, the platform erected for spectators fell in, and about seventy nobles, knights, and girls were crushed to death. It was certainly in the middle of this festival that the horrible news arrived that the Archbishop of Cologne, the young King's adviser, had been murdered, from motives of revenge, by his nephew, Duke of Isenburg. "Such deeds were then very frequent," says the Abbot Conrad von Lichtenau, "because the doers thereof hoped to obtain pardon by a pilgrimage to the Holy Land." Three days after his marriage the young King had to sit in judgment on the culprit at the Kaiserburg. Deeply moved, he asked the noble Gerlach von Büdingen for his opinion. Ought the murderer to be outlawed, there and then? Gerlach answered yes, for the crime was patent. Friedrich von Truhendingen opposed him violently, however, maintaining that the accused man ought to be first produced, as justice and custom demanded. Gerlach became enraged. The argument grew hot, and presently, in spite of the King's presence, the supporters of either opinion seized their arms and came to blows. A fearful crush occurred on the stairs, which gave way under the weight of struggling humanity, and some fifty people were killed upon the spot. But the sentence of outlawry got itself pronounced, and a decree of excommunication followed from the Church. This was but one example of the lawlessness of the times. Violence was not often so swiftly punished. Germany had fallen on evil days, and worse were in store for her. The absenteeism of her Emperors was producing its inevitable result. One after another, the Emperors "had squandered their talents and wasted the best strength of their country in pursuit of a fancy, and never learned by the experience of their predecessors to desist from the dangerous pursuit. Instead of turning their attention to the development of their country, to the curtailment of the powers of the nobility, to the establishment of their thrones on enduring foundations, they were bewitched with the dream of a Roman-imperial world-monarchy, which was impossible to be realised when every nation was asserting more and more its characteristic peculiarities and arriving at consciousness of national and independent life. The Emperors were always divided between distinct callings, as Kings of Germany and Emperors of Rome. The Italians hated them; the popes undermined their powers, and involved them in countless difficulties at home and in Italy, so that they could not establish their authority as emperors, and neglected to make good, or were impeded in attempting to make good, their position as kings in Germany. The bat in the fable was rejected by the birds because he was a beast, and by the beasts because he had wings as a bird."[5] So it came to pass that when the line of Hohenstaufen went miserably out on the death of the ill-fated Conradin (1268), Germany was already involved in times of huge anarchy; "was rocking down," as Carlyle puts it, "towards one saw not what--an anarchic Republic of Princes, perhaps, and of free barons fast verging towards robbery? Sovereignty of multiplex princes, with a peerage of intermediate robber barons? Things are verging that way. Such princes, big and little, each wrenching off for himself what lay loosest and handiest to him, found it a stirring game, and not so much amiss." Towns like Nuremberg, on the other hand, found it very much amiss. Fortunately many of them were rich and strong, and took the task of preserving peace and order to some extent into their own hands. During the period of the Interregnum, as it was called (1254-1273), "die herrenlose, die schreckliche Zeit" of disturbance and lawlessness, when the electors--the bishops and princes of the land--could only agree in giving the crown to foreigners who would leave them alone and unhindered in their efforts to enlarge their powers and territories by fair or foul means, some curious transactions took place with regard to Nuremberg. There exists a document by which, in 1266, Conradin pledged to his uncle, Duke Ludwig of Bavaria, a number of possessions to raise money in order to pay back the loan which his former guardian had advanced to him, and which was used to acquire the town and castle of Nuremberg. The transaction is obscure. Possibly after the death of Conradin's father, Conrad IV., Nuremberg was claimed by his executors as private property. In that case we may hazard the conjecture that the town resisted the claim, and that an appeal to arms was made. The money referred to may have been spent in conducting a siege. This much is known for certain from a contemporary document, that when, in 1269, Duke Ludwig and his brother Henry, as heirs of Conradin, divided the Hohenstaufen inheritance between them, they took equal rights over Nuremberg. That may have been, however, merely a paper phrase. Imperial and private rights were apt to get confused in the minds of the Hohenstaufen. Nuremberg, at any rate, continues always to act as if she were a free town of the Empire. She was acutely conscious of the dignity of her charter. The great object for which the European towns, and Nuremberg among them, were all this time struggling was a charter of incorporation and a qualified privilege of internal self-government. Emperors and princes might try to get hold of a rich city like Nuremberg, and treat it as their private property, but, once she had won her charter, she was determined to remain a Reichstadt, and to enjoy all the privileges and liberties of a free city. One interesting and important result this period of lawlessness had. The towns began to band themselves together in leagues--Der Rheinische Städtebund, 1254, was the first of these--for the purpose of defence against the plunder and rapine of the robber-knights, who had formerly been held in check to some degree by the sword and authority of the Emperors, but who now swooped down from their fortresses as they pleased on the merchants travelling from town to town, and robbed them or levied on them heavy tolls. Nuremberg joined this league: and it is in a document (1256) welcoming the entrance of Regensburg (Ratisbon) into the league that we first find mention of the Rat or Council of burghers joined to the chief magistrate as an institution representative of the community. Since the Charter of 1219, almost the whole administration of justice--government, police and finance--had been centred no longer in the Burggraf, but in the chief magistrate (Schuldheiss) of the town. But, by the same charter, Nuremberg was now to be taxed as a community. From the natural necessity and apprehensions of the situation, the burghers felt the need of a representative body to sit with and to advise the magistrate, who was, originally at any rate, a King's man and officer of the Burggraf. So it came to pass that the bench of judges who assisted the Schuldheiss in his judicial work, a bench composed of the most powerful and influential citizens, gradually acquired the further function of an advising and governing body, and finally became independent of the magistrate. Little by little, by one charter after another, by gradual and persistent effort, the Rat gained the position of landlords and _Territoriiherren_. But, as the Council gained power, the great families began to arrogate to themselves the sole right of sitting on it. A close aristocracy of wealth grew up more and more jealous of their fancied rights. Such was the origin of the constitution of Nuremberg--a constitution which in later times offers a striking resemblance to that of Venice. At last the Interregnum came to an end. It was mainly through Burggraf Frederick III. of Nuremberg that Rudolph von Hapsburg succeeded to the Empire. For this and other service the Burggraviate was made hereditary in his family. Under Rudolph the strong and just, who, after the demoralising period of anarchy, worked wonders in the way of tightening, whether with gloved hand or mailed fist, the bonds of imperial unity, a brilliant gathering of princes assembled at Nuremberg for the Reichstag in 1274. The chronicles are full of stories to illustrate the character of their modern Solomon on this occasion. The following example will suffice:-- A merchant complained that he had given his host a purse of 200 silver marks to keep, but the host denied having received them. The Emperor thereupon summoned the landlord and several citizens. They all came, naturally enough, in their best clothes. The landlord, in particular, wore a costly cap, which, as he stood before the Emperor, he twisted nervously in his hand. Rudolph took it from him and, putting it on, exclaimed that it would become even an Emperor. Then he went into the next room--apparently forgetting all about the cap. The landlord meanwhile was detained. The Emperor sent the cap to the landlord's wife, with a request in her husband's name that she should give the bearer that sack of money she knew about. The ruse succeeded, and whilst the landlord was emphatically asserting his innocence to the Emperor, the sack of money was produced to confound him. The wretch had to atone for his crime by the payment of a heavy fine. One other record of Kaiser Rudolph's presence at Nuremberg we have. It is illustrative of the violence of those times. In 1289 a grand tournament was held in honour of the King. In the course of it Krafft von Hohenlohe had the misfortune to run his spear through the neck of Duke Ludwig von Baiern, and the latter died of the wound. In consequence of this mischance such strife arose between the followers of the Duke and those of the Kaiser that the Council had to take measures for the defence of the town. They barred the streets with chains and garrisoned the Rathaus as well as the towers and walls. Luckily the quarrel was smoothed over and no further disturbance took place. [Illustration: NASSAUER HAUS] A few years later Graf Adolph von Nassau succeeded Rudolph. Once in 1293 and twice in 1294 he held his court in Nuremberg and ratified all the privileges of the town. To him and to his race legend ascribes a great share in the building of the Lorenzkirche. "But," says Dr Reicke, "there is as little ground for this assertion as for the unfounded belief that the Schlüsselfelderische Stiftungshaus, so called because it belonged to the institution founded by Hans Karl Schlüsselfelder who died in 1709, and now known as the Nassauerhaus, was once in the possession of the Counts of Nassau." This house which stands at the corner of the Carolinenstrasse was built, according to Essenheim, at the beginning of the fifteenth century. According to the earliest existing records it belonged, with the house to the west of it, to a branch of the Haller family, long since extinct. The figure on the well at the east end of this house, which represents King Adolph of Nassau, belongs to the year 1824. To-day the crypt of the house has been turned into a Weinhaus, and there, in a vaulted cellar wreathed with yew, the diligent oenophilist will be rewarded by the discovery of some rare vintages. The new King Albert held his court at Nuremberg in 1298. His arrival brought many days of splendour and festivity to the town. For the King had his wife Elizabeth crowned by the Archbishop Wigbold of Cologne in St. Sebalduskirche. Six thousand guests assembled on this occasion. There was no accommodation in the houses for so vast a gathering of strangers, many of whom, in spite of the wintry weather, had to camp out under canvas in the streets. It was about this time that one of the fearful periodical persecutions of the Jews--persecutions as unchristian as uneconomical--broke out over all Franconia. It was said that in Rothenburg the Jews had pounded the Host in a mortar and that blood had flowed from it. On the strength of this fabulous sacrilege a fanatic, called Rindfleisch, led a "crusade" against the unfortunate people. In Würtzburg the Jews were burnt and massacred in crowds and utterly extirpated. Many from the surrounding country sought refuge in Nuremberg, where they were hospitably received by their fellow-believers and were at first protected by the Rat. Rindfleisch and his bands of murderous fanatics were then at a safe distance. But, as these drew near, the hatred of the Jews, which had long smouldered among the people, broke out into flame. The Jewish quarter was then in the centre of the town, a very advantageous position. Their houses reached from the market where their synagogue stood, on the site of the present Frauenkirche, to the Zotenberg, the present Dötschmannsplatz. Rich as a community, though they counted, then as ever, both the greatest and the least among their number, they were envied for their possessions and hated as people of a foreign faith. Nuremberg, like all the neighbouring towns except Regensburg, became the scene of murder and brutality. A hundred thousand Jews were the victims of a fearful death. The persecution continued till King Albert, in spite of the unpopularity of the proceeding, came to Franconia and put a stop to it, punishing the instigators and laying a heavy fine upon the towns. In 1308 Albert was murdered by his nephew, John of Swabia--Parracida. The story of this murder is introduced, it will be remembered, at the end of Schiller's _Wilhelm Tell_. After seven months' interval, Henry VII., Count of Luxembourg, was elected king. He, in the following year, held his court in Nuremberg, before departing to be crowned Emperor at Rome, in the midst of battle and strife with the Guelphs. Dating from Pisa, 1313, Henry granted Nuremberg a very important charter. Here are some of its provisions:-- (1) The Imperial magistrate at Nuremberg shall protect the imperial or principal roads and have the right of way. (2) Once a year the Magistrate shall pledge himself before the Council to exercise impartial justice towards rich and poor, to judge and to arrange all matters with the counsel of the Schöpfen (Bench of judges). (3) The Burgomeister and judges are given complete control over the markets, trade, and means of preserving order. (4) The Burg is not to be separated from the town. Generally, one may say, this Charter confirms and extends the self-governing privileges of the town. The magistrate is still an imperial officer, but his position is in acknowledged dependence on the Council, into whose hands the regulation of trade and the preservation of order are entrusted. Moreover, in another provision, the citizens are clearly protected against trial by outside authorities, and against arbitrary imprisonment. Scarcely had he marked his appreciation of Nuremberg in this way, when Henry was poisoned whilst besieging Siena. On his death, discord broke out in Germany. We will avoid, as far as possible, stepping on to the quaking bog of Reich's history. Suffice it to say that one party elected Frederick, the beautiful son of Albert, and grandson of Rudolph von Hapsburg. The other and stronger party chose Ludwig von Baiern, of the Wittelsbach family. Nuremberg stood by Ludwig. A long war ensued, till the great battle of Mühldorf ended the struggle. Ludwig's victory was in great part attributable to the timely arrival of the Nuremberg cavalry, under Burggraf Frederick IV. "To us this is the interesting point: At one turn of the battle, tenth hour of it now ending, and the tug of war still desperate, there arose a cry of joy over all the Austrian ranks: 'Help coming! Help!'--and Friedrich noticed a body of horse in Austrian cognisance (such the cunning of a certain man), coming in upon his rear. Austrians and Friedrich never doubted but it was brother Leopold just getting on the ground; and rushed forward doubly fierce; and were doubly astonished when it plunged in upon them, sharp-edged, as Burggraf Friedrich of Nürnberg,--and quite ruined Austrian Friedrich! Austrian Friedrich fought personally like a lion at bay; but it availed nothing. Rindsmaul (not lovely of lip, _Cowmouth_ so-called) disarmed him: 'I will not surrender except to a Prince!'--so Burggraf Friedrich was got to take surrender of him; and the fight, and whole controversy with it was completely won."--_Carlyle._ It was after this battle that the Kaiser, when eggs were found to be the only available provision in a country eaten to the bone, distributed them with the legendary phrase that still lives on the lips of every German child-- "Jedem Mann ein Ey Dem frommen Schweppermann zwey." "To every man one egg and to the excellent Schweppermann two." Schweppermann was one of his generals, and it seems probable that he was a Nuremberg citizen. The story of how Ludwig shared his kingdom with his noble prisoner and united with him in such cordial affection that they ate at the same table and slept in the same bed, forms one of the best known and most romantic episodes in German history. Nuremberg, who had helped Ludwig with money and men, reaped her full reward. Ludwig showed great affection for her, staying continually within her walls (1320-1347), residing usually not in the castle, but with some distinguished citizen. Hence, and because the city stood by him throughout his quarrel with the Pope, he gave her many charters, confirming and increasing the rights and privileges of the burghers. He gave her permission, for instance, to hold a fair fourteen days after Easter for a month, and to issue her own decrees regarding it. From this arose the practice of the Easter Fair which still takes place. He granted her, also, freedom of customs in Munich, thus helping her trade. She already enjoyed a mutual Zollfreiheit with Berne and Heilbronn. All this amounts to evidence of the steadily increasing trade of Nuremberg. Already, in the beginning of the fourteenth century, her trade with Italy was considerable, in spite of the robber-knights and imperial requisitions. No paper privileges were, indeed, of much value, however often renewed, unless supported by power to resist the robber-knights who, from their castles, descended on the rich caravans of the peaceful merchants. That trade flourished now as it did, shows that the knights did not have matters all their own way. If the Emperors did little to preserve order in the empire, the towns were now fortunately strong enough and independent enough to protect themselves. When the knights proved too troublesome, the [Illustration: THE PEGNITZ] citizens attacked their fortresses and burned them, and hanged the robbers from their own towers. There is, for instance, a document extant (1325) in which Ludwig grants immunity to the citizens of Nuremberg for having destroyed the castle "Zu dem Turm," which belonged to one Conrad Schenk von Reicheneck, a robber-knight, and promises the castle shall never be rebuilt. Nor did the towns despise the advantages of combination. In 1340 we find Nuremberg entering into a league, for mutual protection and the maintenance of peace, with the Dukes of Bavaria, with Würzburg, Rothenburg, etc., and a number of spiritual and temporal lords. But if Nuremberg waxed in power and independence under the favour of Ludwig, the Burggraf also had claims on the King. To him therefore was given the office of Chief-Magistrate (Schuldheiss) and certain revenues from the town. This was not at all to the taste of the burghers. They grew restive under the Burggraf's abuse of justice, and finally managed to buy back the office from him through the agency of their rich citizen Conrad Gross, with whom the King often stayed. Conrad Gross was an early specimen of that fine type of merchant princes who contributed so much in later days to the glory of Nuremberg. Barter--trade in kind--was now giving place to trade done with money drawn from the German mines. The merchant prince began to raise his head. Whereas the trader had hitherto been despised as a shopkeeper by the free-knights, the merchant, who could indulge in luxury of dress and household furniture, now began to look down on the knights as impecunious robbers. The time was at hand when the Italian Æneas Sylvius could write:-- "When one comes from Lower Franconia and perceives this glorious city, its splendour seems truly magnificent. When one enters it, one's original impression is confirmed by the beauty of the streets and the fitness of the houses. The churches of St. Sebald and St. Laurence are worthy of worship as well as admiration. The Imperial castle proudly dominates the town, and the burghers' dwellings seem to have been built for princes. In truth, the kings of Scotland would gladly be housed so luxuriously as the ordinary citizen of Nuremberg." It was Conrad Gross who, "longing to change his worldly goods for heavenly ones," founded, in 1333, the "_New Hospital of the Holy Ghost_." Within the church is the tomb of the founder. Additions were made to the hospital and church at the end of the fifteenth century. What is called the south building was erected on two arches over the water. In the courtyard of the hospital is a little chapel of the Holy Sepulchre, founded by George Ketzel in 1459. The church itself was restored in the seventeenth century, from which period dates the stucco work of the chancel. These things the visitor will see and appraise for himself. Meantime the following beautiful legend concerning the founder is worth recording:-- A man of the family of Heinzen, afterwards called "Great" (Gross), fell asleep one day in his garden beneath the shade of a lime tree. He dreamed that he found a large treasure there, but had no spade with which to dig for it. To mark the place, therefore, he took a handful of leaves and laid them on the spot where the treasure was buried. When he awoke and walked round the garden, he came to a spot where it seemed that someone had purposely scattered lime leaves on the ground. Then he remembered his dream, and, since he thought the dream had not come to him without some reason, he called his men to help him, and vowed that if he found anything he would help the poor and sick with it. And indeed he found so great a treasure of silver and gold that he became very rich, and founded therewith the Hospital of the Holy Ghost. Ludwig had been a good friend to Nuremberg, and therefore when Karl IV.,[6] the enemy of Ludwig and friend of the Pope, succeeded him, the new Kaiser was regarded with some apprehension. Karl, however, was very gracious to Nuremberg, and gave her new privileges, for he was eager to secure the loyalty of her citizens. He confirmed the rich burghers in their offices, and succeeded in winning over the patricians to his side. But it was at this time that a desire for a more democratic form of government began to manifest itself throughout the towns of Germany. The lower classes showed signs of restiveness, and evinced a desire to have a voice in the counsels of their town. The patrician families had engrossed all the rights. The proceedings of the Council were secret, and no account of the money which passed through their hands was forthcoming. The administration of justice rested entirely with them. Complaints were loud that the rights of the poor and the artisans did not receive proper attention. The pride of the hereditary patrician Councillors had become notorious. The sturdy independent craftsmen began to murmur against this state of affairs. They felt they were entitled to a place in the government of the town, which they supported by their industry and, in war, with their arms. They were ready at last to take steps to secure that place. When their demands were refused by the patricians, bloodshed and strife resulted. In Rothenburg, Regensburg, and Munich the patricians were successful in retaining the Council in their own hands. And so it was with Nuremberg. But of the details of the great revolution which broke out there at the beginning of Karl's reign little is known. The artisans, it seems, were staunch and faithful to the memory of Ludwig. He had, says one of the chroniclers, won their adherence by his popular manners and by giving them the right of having their own drinking clubs. The change of policy on the side of the Council who embraced the cause of the Luxembourg (Caroline) party enabled the artisans, who were loyal to the Bavarian (Wittelsbach) family, to make a bid for a share in the government of their town. The Council, with promises of redress of grievances, tried to stem the revolt. But it was too late. In alarm they called in the aid of Karl, and Karl sent a peace-maker who came and went in vain. Some of the Council then fled the town. The chroniclers go so far as to say that a surprise of the Council--a regular coup d'état--was planned for a particular day, but that the Council was warned in time. Though the Rathaus was stormed and the gates of the town occupied, "the birds had flown." They had escaped from the town by all sorts of curious devices. This story may have sprung from the unchastened imagination of the chroniclers, but we know as an historical fact that on June 4, 1348, the rebels opened the gates to soldiers of Ludwig, Markgraf of Brandenburg, eldest son of the late Emperor. He was excommunicated (for Karl was the Papal nominee) as his father had been. The city when it received him shared in his excommunication. The clergy tried to escape from the tainted city, but the people, having shut the gates, compelled them to read mass. A copy of a certificate from the Bishop of Clure to the clergy, testifying that they had only held mass under compulsion, is still extant. The rebels, then, were for the moment successful: the old Council was abolished and a new one chosen, which was composed mainly of artisans, but did not exclude all the old Councillors. Their chief work of innovation was to allow the artisans to form Guilds. On the whole the new Council was not a success. Prosperity is a cynical but convincing test of a government. Confusion and disorder obtained, and commerce was affected by the lack of police and the little real power of the Council. The finances of the town suffered accordingly. The partisans of the old _régime_ refused to contribute. It was therefore a good thing for Nuremberg when, in 1349, the opposition of the Wittelsbach party broke down, and terms were made which left Karl master of the situation. Nuremberg passed into his hands, and he proceeded to restore the _status quo ante_ there. A new Council[7] was elected, and the ringleaders of the conspiracy were banished with their families. CHAPTER II _Development of Nuremberg_ "Nürnberg's Hand Geht durch alle Land." --_Old Proverb._ Karl IV. proceeded to confirm the privileges of the town for a cash consideration. That was the way of mediæval monarchs. We have seen that the finances of Nuremberg were not at this moment in a very flourishing condition. There is little doubt that the heavy payment she was called upon to make to the King was one of the chief causes which led to the great persecution of the Jews which soon broke out. The Jews are first mentioned in Nuremberg in 1288. They were then personally free. They could hold land and live after their own laws. Medicine was their chief profession; for money-lending--at first without interest--was originally the business of the monasteries. It was one of the most unfortunate results of the Crusades that they stirred up feeling against the Jews. Persecutions began, and a change took place in the personal position of the Jews. They had now to wear a special dress and to cut their beards, whilst the Christians luxuriated in beards as long as they could possibly grow them. When the Christians were no longer allowed to take interest for money lent, the Jews stepped in, being under their own laws, as money-lenders. In many places they were forbidden to follow any other profession than that of usury. By a charter of the Hohenstaufen another important change was wrought in their condition. They were made directly subject to the King and Empire (Königliche Kammerknechte). For this protection they had to pay a tax direct to the Imperial treasury. Their riches grew in spite of all sorts of commercial disabilities, and with them grew the value of this tax. One good result of this was that it interested the King in their favour. He did not care to see his golden geese slain, and their property confiscated by the towns. In Nuremberg it was possible for the Jews to become citizens on the payment of a certain sum of money. In 1338, it appears from an old Burgher list, there were 212 Jewish citizens. Ten years later, when the Black Death was devastating Europe, it was said that the Jews had poisoned the wells and purposely propagated the plague in order to annihilate the Christians. They were accused of all sorts of sacrilege and unnatural crimes. A frightful persecution broke out. All along the Rhine thousands of them were burnt at the stake. The Austrian poet Helbing echoed the public sentiment, during a later persecution, when he exclaimed, "There are too many Jews in our country. It is a shame and a sin to tolerate them. If I were King, if I could lay my hand on you, Jews, I tell you in truth I would have you all burnt." And this is the opinion of the humanist, Conrad Celtes, in his praise of Nuremberg:-- "Exscindenda protecto gens aut ad Caucasum et ultra Sauromatas perpetuo exilio releganda, quæ, per universum orbem in se totiens iram numinum concitat, humani generis societatem violans et conturbans." At Nuremberg there were other reasons for the outbreak. In old days the Jews had been told to build their houses in the modern Dötschmannsplatz. Their synagogue stood on the site of the present Frauenkirche. Hence the space between the Rathaus and the Fleischbrücke was all the market-room the Christians had. The increasing numbers and prosperity of the Jews, in this, the best site of the town, was very distressing to observe. So it came to pass that in 1349, on the strength of a document signed by Karl, in which he undertakes to ask no questions if anything should happen to the Jews at the hands of the people or the Council, the Christians pulled down the Jewish houses, and made the two large market-places, called to-day the Hauptmarkt and the Obstmarkt. Between these they built, to the glory of God, the beautiful Frauenkirche. As for the Jews, "_The Jews were burnt on St. Nicholas' Eve_, 1349," is the laconic report of Ulman Stromer, chronicler.[8] The modern Maxfeld is supposed to have been the scene of this atrocity. Such is the origin of those picturesque market-places, where to-day beneath the shadow of St. Sebald's shrine, St. Mary's church and the stately Rathaus, the Beautiful Fountain pours its silvery waters, and the peasants sell the produce of the country, sitting at their stalls beneath huge umbrellas, or leading the patient oxen which have drawn their carts to the city. We have mentioned above the grievances of the artisans at this period. It must not be supposed that they were altogether down-trodden and miserable. Pecuniarily they must have been comparatively well off. For from this time, up to the middle of the Thirty Years War, the Nuremberg workmen flourished in reputation and execution. Their numbers were large; their work was distinguished for its beauty and durability. Their metal work in particular was famous; and they maintained its excellence for a long while, fostered by the system of masters and apprentices, which in this case led to a real desire to reach or improve upon a high standard of sound and artistic work. Even to-day you can hardly walk ten yards in Nuremberg without coming upon some perfect piece of ironwork, such as the railings round the wells or in front of the Frauenkirche. In the German Museum[9] there are two rooms full of locks and hinges, which, if once seen and studied by the modern manufacturer of inferior wares, should almost certainly make him cease from his evil ways. Or, if the reader wish for an example of the wide gulf which separates the good from the indifferent, let him secure a genuine specimen of those old waterpots (_Butte_), in which women so picturesquely carry water on their backs from the wells, and compare it with a modern imitation. These old workmen took a pride in their work. They were not, however, for that reason contemptuous of a little relaxation. They had their general holidays. We know Victor Hugo's description of All Fools' Day in _Notre Dame de Paris_. And here, in Nuremberg, we find the butchers and cutlers asking and obtaining from Karl the right to hold a carnival, and to dance in silks and velvets like the great families. This right was afterwards extended to all the trades. _Schembartläufer_ the carnival was called. Every year the dance took place. By degrees the great people began to take part in it. The good burghers were very fond of dancing, as we shall have further occasion to notice. In time all sorts of rites and ceremonies grew up round the celebration of this holiday, which not even the presence of the enemy or the plague could induce the artisans to omit. Like Don't-care Hippocleides, they _would_ dance. Masks were worn, spears and crackers carried, and a special costume designed for each year. Popular songs and pasquinades were sung and published. Personalities of course were rife. In 1523, for instance, a man appeared dressed in "Indulgences." Not a little rough buffoonery of one sort or another found place. To conclude the proceedings, a so-called "Hell," made of fireworks, was let off in front of the Rathaus. And so to bed, as Pepys would have written. The influence of the Reformers proved fatal to indulgence in this sort of wild hilarity. The celebration of the carnival was finally forbidden in 1539, much to the annoyance of the people. In 1349 Karl issued from Nuremberg the declaration of public peace (he was always an eager promoter of Landfrieden--public peaces) for Franconia--to last for two years. In this arrangement Nuremberg was accorded the same standing as other Imperial cities and received, under Karl, equal political rights with the princely and other communities. A board of representatives of each town or district was to sit periodically at Nuremberg and see to it that the peace was kept. Whilst the King tried to preserve order in this way, peace leagues were also common in these times of feuds. So we find Nuremberg joining the league of the Swabian towns. It was at Nuremberg that Karl, when he returned from being crowned at Rome (1356), held a famous Reichstag and issued the Golden Bull, so-called from the golden seal, or _bulla_, appended to the deed, which determined the method of electing the emperors and reduced the number of electors to seven. The place where the first twenty-three articles of this important law were published is still known as the house "_Zum Goldenen Schild_," in the Schildgasse. The old custom by which the newly chosen Kaiser held his first Reichstag at Nuremberg was made law by the Golden Bull--a law in later times frequently ignored. By the Golden Bull, also, towns were forbidden to league together, which was a very burdensome provision secured by the influence of the princes, but, luckily for the towns, not able to be enforced. The Golden Bull, acknowledging, as it did, the power and increasing the territorial rights of the great princes, and rousing the envy of those who were not made electors, held in it the seeds of the dissolution of the Empire. It encouraged, in effect, all the petty princes to exceed their powers and to encroach on the rights of the towns. The Nuremberg Burggraf was no exception to this rule. From this time forward he is continually coming into conflict with the town. The quarrel began over the _Geleitsrecht_, right of convoy and customs. The Emperor in 1357 gave to the Burggraf certain rights of way which enabled him to exact toll from the merchants on their way to Frankfort. Now this was a direct infringement of the charter given them a few years before forbidding all unjust or unusual taxes. They appealed on the strength of this and the Kaiser revoked the right. But the question crops up again and again. A little later we find the Kaiser, in recognition of his indebtedness to the Burggraf for past services, giving him the office of Chief Magistrate of the town together with large revenues therefrom. The town, anxious to have the magistracy under its own control, wished to buy it from the Burggraf. The Kaiser, with a view to sharing the proceeds, raised the price at which it was to be sold, so that in 1385 the town had to redeem the magistracy and taxes for the exorbitant sum of 8000 gulden. Karl, as far as one can make out, tried to hunt with the hounds and run with the hare, first helping the town and then the Burggraf, partly because he was indebted to both for their aid, and partly because the issue of a new charter was a proceeding which brought cash into the Imperial treasury. For directly or indirectly charters were always paid for. This accounts to some extent for the mass of contradictory decrees which survive to perplex the modern historian. Such a little compliment as the following, for instance, which we find at the end of a charter dated 1366, had doubtless its origin in a cash transaction:-- "The Emperor is accustomed to live and to hold his court in his Imperial town of Nuremberg, as being the most distinguished and best situated town of the Empire here in the land." The relations between the Burggraf and the town continued to be so strained that they almost came to blows in 1367 over the building of a wall. This wall was run up in forty days by the citizens, completely cutting off the approach from the castle to the town, and thus protecting the town from all hostile attacks of the Burggraf. The quarrel thereby occasioned dragged on for ten years before it was settled by an Imperial decree. Much to the chagrin of the Burggraf, the Kaiser, in deciding the dispute, unexpectedly favoured the town. We can hardly be surprised that the Burggraf, still smarting from this humiliation, was inclined to interpret as an act of aggression the building by the citizens of the tower "Luginsland" (1377),[10] which, besides commanding, as its name implied, a wide view of the surrounding country, would serve also as a watch-tower whence the actions of the Burggraf might be observed and forestalled. "Man pawet in darümb das man darauf ins marggrafen purk möcht gesehen," says one chronicler. Before all this, the future King Wenzel had been born in Nuremberg and baptised in St. Sebalduskirche. The chronicles say that at the baptism of the Imperial child--with whose birth Karl was so pleased that he remitted the Imperial taxes of the town for a year--the font was not clean, and that, as the baptismal water was being warmed in the Parsonage, a fire broke out and the whole of the choir adjoining it was burnt down. Only the beautiful (fourteenth century) oriel window remained uninjured by the flames.[11] The present parsonage was built by Pfinzing, the author of the _Theuerdank_, of whom more anon. [Illustration: ORIEL WINDOW OF THE PARSONAGE] On the day of the baptism it is recorded that the Emperor displayed to the people from the gallery over the door of the church the Imperial insignia and relics which he had brought from Prague to the new Frauenkirche. This Wenzel, or Wenceslas, of whom we have spoken, succeeded his father when he was but seventeen. Half-idiot, half-maniac, addicted to drunkenness and hunting, he was not the man to restore order in an Empire which had already fallen into a state of chaos. He was one of the worst Kaisers and the least victorious on record. He would attend to nothing in the Reich, "the Prague white beer and girls of various complexions being much preferable," as he was heard to say. The result was that his reign was a period of feuds, the golden era of free or robber knights. Club-law, or Faustrecht, as it was called--the right of private warfare--was the order of the day. The history of Nuremberg resolves itself into the police-news of the period, the record of the sallies and outrages of such knights as Ekkelein von Gailingen, whose headquarters were at Windsheim, some thirty miles off, and who was the Götz von Berlichingen of the fourteenth century. The old castles which the traveller sees from time to time on the banks of the Rhine, or on the ravines and large brooks which flow into it, were then no picturesque ruins, rendered interesting by the stories which were told about their former inhabitants, but constituted the real and apparently impregnable strongholds of this robber-chivalry. On the east wall of the castle, near the Five-cornered Tower, they will show you to this day two hoof-shaped marks, which are said to be the impressions left there by the hoofs of Ekkelein (or Eppelein) von Gailingen's gallant steed. For this freebooter, Ekkelein, who had long been feared, admired, and even credited with magical powers, was at length captured by the Nuremberg burgher-soldiers and condemned to death. Shut up in the castle, he pined in the dungeon until the day arrived on which he was to expiate his crimes with his life. When he was brought out into the yard for execution, he begged, as a last request, that he might be allowed to say farewell to his favourite horse and his servant Jäckel. The beautiful charger, neighing with pleasure, was brought. Ekkelein put his arm round its neck and embraced it lovingly. "If only, before I die, I might once more feel myself on his back!" So natural and so harmless did the request seem that his wish was granted. His groom placed the saddle and bridle on the horse, who, when his master mounted, shook his mane for joy. At first the faithful creature moved gently and proudly in the circle of the guard, looking round him and snorting. When Ekkelein patted his powerful, smooth neck, the muscles of the noble animal grew larger and the veins of his flanks swelled at the touch of the master's hand. He spurned the ground, raised his fore-feet and threw himself forward into a thundering gallop. Lightly and gently the spur of the rider touched his sides: he rushed furiously round the court. Guards and jailors shrank back before the stones which his hoofs threw high into the air. But the gate was secure and escape not to be thought of. Then, whoever is able to read the eyes of dumb beasts might have seen flaming in those of Ekkelein's charger a lament like this: "How, my noble master? Shalt thou die here? Shall thy knightly blood flow ignominiously in this miserable place! Shall I never again carry thee into the battle, or bear thee through the defiles and the forests, and never more eat golden oats out of thy brave hand! O my master, save thyself! Trust in me and my strength and the impossible shall become possible." The horse raised himself. The knight struck both spurs into his sides, held breath and, stooping low, embraced with both arms the neck of the faithful steed, from whose hoofs showered sparks of fire. Before the burghers could stay them, before the guards could lift a finger, before breath could be drawn, the desperate spring was made and man and horse were over the parapet which overhung the moat 100 feet below. They leaped not--as it appeared to the incredulous eyes that peeped at them from the top of the battlements--to their destruction; for, after a huge splash and struggle in the waters of the fosse, horse and rider rose again to the surface, and, long before the drawbridge could be let down and his captors could pursue him, Ekkelein was away in the deep forest, galloping on his brave steed, well on the road to the impregnable castle of Gailingen. The dent made by the horse's hoofs in the stones below is there to this day. Can we wonder if the story went round that it was his Satanic majesty who had presented the bold knight with this wondrous steed, the better to facilitate the various little errands with which he had entrusted him? Fortunately for the burgesses of Nuremberg not every free-knight could rely on such diabolic means of succour, so that they were able to defend themselves with energy and success against the noble and aggressive freebooters. The Council saw to it that the fortifications were continually strengthened and they did not despise the aid of the newly-introduced blunderbuss.[12] Indeed, even in the field the burgesses and their mercenaries showed themselves a match for the free-knights. So confident was Nuremberg in her own resources that at first she refused to join the great league of all the Rhenish towns founded in 1381, but three years later she came in. Though the great princes of the Empire were very jealous of such leagues, the Kaiser managed to patch up a union, with himself at the head, between this league and the princes, and called it the "Heidelberg Union" for the maintenance of peace. However a year or two later the Dukes of Bavaria, jealous as ever of the towns, broke loose, and seized the Archbishop Pilgrim von Salzburg, a friend of the towns, and some Nuremberg merchants. The Kaiser, instead of taking strong measures at once, pursued his usual policy of shilly-shally. But in January 1388 a strong army of the League started from Augsburg, ravaging all Bavaria with fire and sword. To this army Nuremberg contributed some mounted mercenaries, and at the same time marched an army of her own--8000 strong, a very large army for those days--against Hilpoltstein, but without success. The war resolved itself into a struggle between the interests of the princes and of the towns. The towns failed to hold together, and paid the penalty in failure. They had commenced hostilities vigorously, but Nuremberg set the example of wavering. In a year or so she made peace on no very favourable terms, consenting to pay heavy indemnities. Still, the general result of the war, though the towns were not successful, was not to lower the status of the towns. So far as Nuremberg was concerned the administration of the war had been carried on by a Committee of the Rat--the Kriegsrat, which henceforth became permanent. As to the expenses, they were in part defrayed by a wholesale seizure of Jews and confiscation of their property. This disgraceful proceeding was done by the League in general (1385, and again in 1390), and countenanced by the Kaiser. Here is a characteristic story of that very feckless Kaiser, which will show how fit he was to govern the German Empire. Wenzel, the story runs, demanded from the Nuremberg Council the key of the _Stadtthor_. The Council, though very loth to do so, gave him the key, on condition that he would grant them a request in return. The Kaiser consented. When he graciously inquired what it was they demanded, the Burgomeister asked for the key back again! The Kaiser was so enraged that he slapped the Burgomeister on the cheek, and rode off in a royal huff to Rothenburg. In revenge, on St. Margaret's Day, when the consecration of the _Schlosskapelle_ was celebrated, he allowed his followers to plunder the booths of the fair held round about the castle. Wenzel, in fact, let things go their own gait in the Empire. Knights plundered and traders quarrelled as they would. The Kaiser indulged in bouts of drinking, in long hunting forays, and in insane fits of rage. At last the princes began to dispense with his presence. They called a Reichstag at Frankfort and sent to him demanding a regent. Then Wenzel roused himself, returned to Nuremberg, and proclaimed a public peace (1397). A crusade against the turbulent knights in the valley of the Pegnitz was undertaken and proved successful. Their castles were taken and Wenzel forbade them to be rebuilt. This was but a momentary outburst of energy on his part. He soon resumed his old indifference. In 1400 the discontent of the princes came to a head. Wenzel was deposed: Ruprecht von der Pfalz was chosen King and, after some cautious hesitation, was finally accepted by the towns. In a charter confirming her privileges Ruprecht granted to Nuremberg the care of the Reichsburg at all times, and made the town independent of the Burggraf in the time of feud,--excused them, that is, from assisting him in his little wars. Nuremberg gave Ruprecht active support in the proceedings against Wenzel; her chief exploit being the capture of Rothenburg after a siege of five weeks. When Ruprecht died (1410) Jobst and Sigismund were competitors for the Kaisership, Wenzel too striking in with claims for reinstatement. _Both_ the former were elected, so that Germany rejoiced in as many Kaisers as Christianity had Popes. Happily Jobst died in three months, and Sigismund, chiefly through the faithful and unwearied diligence of Burggraf Frederick VI. of Nuremberg, became Kaiser, "an always hoping, never resting, unsuccessful, vain and empty Kaiser. Specious, speculative, given to eloquence, diplomacy, and the windy instead of the solid arts: always short of money for one thing." This last fault affected Nuremberg in more than one way. In the first place it necessitated the borrowing of heavy loans from her. Throughout the fourteenth century and onwards the Kaisers asked and received very large loans (pleasantly so-called) from Nuremberg. Wenzel, Ruprecht and Sigismund demanded ever larger and increasingly frequent donations. Sometimes, but not very often, the citizens were rewarded by the concession of a charter or the ratification of some procedure on their part. But the price was, of course, out of all proportion to the value of the thing purchased. As an example of these dealings we may instance the "loan" exacted by Sigismund in 1430, which amounted to 9000 gulden, besides other requisitions in the same year. One sees, at any rate, that Nuremberg must have been sufficiently full-blooded to endure being bled in this manner. But it was this same impecuniosity on the part of the Kaiser which led him to sell outright, for a total sum of 400,000 gulden, the Electorate of Brandenburg, with its land, titles and sovereign electorship and all to Burggraf Frederick, who already held it in pawn. This step was, in its immediate results at least, distinctly advantageous to Nuremberg. Clever and energetic, the Burggraf set about suppressing the robber-knights and establishing order. Burggraf Frederick on his first coming to Brandenburg found but a cool reception as Statthalter. He came as a representative of law and rule; and there had been many noble gentlemen of the Turpin profession helping themselves by a ruleless life of late. Industry was at a low ebb, violence was rife; plunder and disorder everywhere; trade wrecked, private feuds abounding; too much the habit of baronial gentlemen to live by the saddle, as they termed it; that is by highway robbery in modern phrase. At first the Burggraf tried gentle methods, but when he found the noble lords scoffed at him, calling him a "Nürnberger Tand" (Nuremberg Toy), and continued their plunderings and other contumacies, then with the aid of his Frankish men-at-arms, neighbouring potentates and artillery--one huge gun, a twenty-four pounder, called Lazy Peg (_Faule Grete_), is mentioned--he set to work, and in a remarkably short period established comparative peace and order.[13] That was a piece of work highly acceptable, we may be sure, to the merchants of Nuremberg. Were they not concerned in bringing fish and wool from the North, to exchange them in Italy and Venice for the silks and spices of the East? In 1414 we catch a glimpse of the sombre figure of John Huss, the reformer, the Bohemian successor of Wiclif, passing through Nuremberg. The people here seem to have sympathised with his views. He explained his position to the clergy and council, and they invited him to return to them if he fared successfully at Kostnitz. But there he met his martyrdom. His supporters, the down-trodden peasantry of Bohemia, thereupon rose in a revolt, which Empire for a long while utterly failed to suppress. Nuremberg had exhibited no great enthusiasm against heretics. Though, in 1399, she had burnt six women and a man for heresy, yet she had given Huss a warm welcome. But the devastation wrought by the Hussite army alienated all sympathy, and on the suppression of the "heretics," Nuremberg joined in the universal rejoicings of all steady-going merchants. She had taken occasional part in the Hussite wars; but chiefly through paying money instead of sending a proper contingent of men--a fact which illustrates the narrow, selfish and lazy policy of the town communities where the Empire was concerned. It was impossible for the Emperor to keep order with insufficient means of police. For the Emperor got not a foot of German territory with his Imperial crown. He was merely the feudal head, and as such found it very hard to get troops or money from the German people. Most of the members of the Empire--petty princes and Imperial towns alike--were concerned chiefly not with the ordering of the Empire but with becoming sovereign in their own territories. There was very little feeling of Imperial unity. If the Empire did not do its duty by the towns, the towns did very little for the Empire, beyond supplying money. The Nurembergers were energetic enough when it came to fortifying their town on the approach of the victorious Hussites (1430). The grim heretics advanced ravaging and destroying the country, depopulating the towns. Night and day, men, women and children worked at the walls, striving to render the place impregnable. But the danger passed away. Thanks to the Markgraf Frederick, who bought them off very cheaply, the Hussites returned, for the time, in peace to their homes. Sigismund succeeded in being crowned at Rome in 1433, and on this occasion he knighted Sebald Behaim, of the great Nuremberg family of that name, and gave to Nuremberg a charter confirming her privileges and giving her the right to keep the Imperial jewels, insignia, and sacred relics for ever. These were brought with great pomp and rejoicing to the Church of the Holy Spirit (_Neuenspital_) and there they were kept and jealously guarded till 1796. They were shown with much ceremony once a year to the people. This occasion was a very popular festival down to the Reformation days. But in 1523 the relics were shown for the last time. Frederick the Third we shall only mention for the sake of the picturesque ceremonial which occurred when he held his first Reichstag at Nuremberg, at Easter 1442. The Kaiser rode in at the Spittlerthor. In the middle of the street where he had to pass St. Jakobskirche a table was spread on which, besides a crucifix, were placed the heads of St. Sebald and St. Cyprian. The Kaiser dismounted, took the cross from the Abbot of St. Ægidius and kissed it. Thereupon one of the holy skulls was placed on the Kaiser's head, whilst the priests and choristers in surplices and birettas sang responses. The Kaiser and his retinue and all the priesthood then made a solemn procession to the Sebalduskirche. Here the Kaiser worshipped on his knees before the altar. The priest read the special collect over him, and, taking a handful of flax and tow, lighted it and, as it burnt, exclaimed in a loud voice, "Most illustrious Kaiser, _sic transit gloria mundi_." Then the chorus of priests burst out into the strains of the _Te Deum_, and the Kaiser went his way in the world--a compromising Emperor who slept through a long reign to the no small detriment of Germany. We must not think of the Nurembergers as altogether given up to trade and merchandise. They were capable of being stirred up into the deepest religious enthusiasm. I know not what reception they gave to the Cardinal Nicholas of Cusa, who (1451) came preaching through Germany, and passed through Nuremberg selling "Indulgences" like a cheap-jack, lowering his price from time to time to get rid of his stock. But the monk, Capistranus, a great preacher, who came in the following year, created so tremendous a sensation by his eloquence and by miracles which he wrought that the people, we are told, flocked in crowds, laden with their new-fashioned pointed shoes, their _Schlitten_ (sledges--harmless enough one would have thought--but they were regarded as extravagant luxuries), and thousands of dice and cards, and burnt them all in the market-place. Next year they were stirred again by the terrible news that the Turks had taken Constantinople. Eleven hundred burghers seized their arms and went as Crusaders to help the Hungarians in Belgrade against the infidel Turk.[14] But they did not do great deeds. Scarce a third of them returned at Christmastide. The rest had died of hardship or of disease. This gave the Council a distaste for Crusades. They took to discouraging the preachers who came to beat up recruits against Hussites or Turks. The town, it was found, had to support the widows and children of the dead Crusaders. The preachings of the firebrand Johannes Capistranus had another evil result. The Jews since the persecution in 1349 had not been much molested, though continually squeezed for money by both Kaiser and Council. But the increase in their numbers, the riches they had accumulated through usury, and the eloquence of this monk all tended to rouse religious hatred. "The hatred against the Jews is so general in Germany," writes Froissart in 1497, "that the calmest people are beside themselves when the conversation turns on their usury. I should not be surprised if on a sudden a bloody persecution broke out against them all over the country. They have already been forcibly expelled from many towns." After many half resolves, the Council determined to ask Maximilian to drive these "sucking leeches" from the town. Reluctantly he consented. "Their numbers have increased too much. Under pretext of loans they have given themselves up to a dangerous and detestable traffic of usury. Many honourable citizens, deceived by their devices, are so deeply in debt that they see their private honour and their very means of existence threatened. For these reasons the Jews are invited to quit the town altogether within a period fixed by the Council. They are permitted to take with them their moveable property, but henceforth none of them shall have the right to reside in Nuremberg."[15] On the 10th of March 1499, driven from their homes amid the curses of the Christians, the Jews left Nuremberg with groans and lamentations, never to dwell there again till 1850. Maximilian sold their houses to the Council. Their churchyard was built over, their tombstones used for building the Corn Exchange--(die Waage). But no persecution, no repression, no laws forbidding commercial transactions between Christian and Jew, could ever subdue that despised but indomitable race. Most of them found refuge in Frankfort; but some years later, with the encouragement of the Markgrafs of Brandenburg, many of them settled at Fürth, which speedily became a serious commercial rival to Nuremberg, and remains to this day as prosperous as her neighbour. One curious and interesting result this expulsion had. In order to supply the place of the money-lenders the Emperor ordered a Leihaus or State Pawnshop to be built, where money was to be advanced at a moderate percentage on property to people in difficulties. It was to be run at cost price, or, if there were any surplus, it was to go to the State. This was an imitation of the Italian system (Monte di Pietà) already in vogue at Augsburg--a system not without interest to the Englishman of to-day. During the Thirty Years War, the Jews in Fürth, oppressed by the Imperial troops, asked to be received back into Nuremberg. Some of the Council were ready to comply, on the receipt of a large payment, but the majority refused to have the "damaging rascals" within their walls. So long did the hostility towards the Jews survive here that it was not till 1800 that the regulation was done away with by which, in order to stop a day in Nuremberg, a Jew had to pay a personal tax of 45 kreuzer, and, in addition, had to be accompanied by a guard, for he was not allowed to walk in the streets alone. This guard was usually an old woman, who followed her Jew everywhere for the consideration of 15 kreuzer. CHAPTER III _Nuremberg and the Reformation_ "Trading Staple of the German World in old days, Toyshop of the German World in these new, Albert Dürer's and Hans Sachs' City."--CARLYLE. We have watched the dawning sun of Nuremberg's greatness rise over the forest till now it has reached the _Mittags_-quarter. We have seen, to change the metaphor, the little foundling of the swamps grow year by year till at last she has arrived at the full strength and beauty of womanhood. For it was under Maximilian that Nuremberg reached her prime: it was under him and his successors that the greatest of her sons flourished. She was lavish as a princess in the adornment of her person. Once in 1447, and again in 1491, for instance, we find her voting some 500 florins to gild the Beautiful Fountain (Schöner Brunnen), which had been placed in the Hauptmarkt 1385.[16] She was already adorned with those churches which in her old age are still her brightest jewels. Once completed, these churches were not regarded merely as houses of prayer, but rather as the books of God, where the divine history of the Redemption might be read and illustrated. The Christian fervour of the artists led them to give their best and sincerest work to the decoration of them. So that in the course of time the churches came to represent for the people museums constantly open, historic galleries of sacred art, to which one masterpiece after another was added. "From daily admiration of them an æsthetic sense was formed in the minds of the young, and thanks to them the artists found repeated opportunities for exercising their art. Orders from private individuals or public bodies abounded. Every well-to-do family, every corporation was eager to do honour to God by the presentation of some gift to his holy dwelling-place: some offered a picture, a statue, a window, or an altar-piece; the portraits of the families themselves,[17] as portraits of the donors, were placed at the feet of the saints. When the artists represented themselves in paint, bronze, wood, or stone, they gave themselves the humble attitude of suppliants: in those of their compositions which contain numerous personages they always choose the humblest place for themselves; often, like Adam Krafft in the tabernacle in the Church of St. Lorenz, they appear in their working clothes, tools in hand, in the attitude of servants."[18] Whilst such men as Adam Krafft and Peter Vischer were giving their life-work to the beautifying of the churches, sculpture and painting also were turned to the adornment of domestic and public life. The mansions of the merchant princes still bear witness to the wealth of the burgesses, and to the vigour of the artistic impulse of this period. Every house, apart from architectural splendour, was decorated with a painting, whether of some symbol or the patron saint of the family. The very aspect of the streets spoke to the importance of the rôle which art played in the life of the town. The influence of the town reacted no less surely on the art of the period. Albert Durer, for instance, in spite of his wide experience always speaks in his art, like his master Wolgemut, in the Nuremberg dialect. The intense patriotism and the deep religious feeling which formed so intimate a part of the lives of the citizens are reproduced in their art and literature, [Illustration: SCHÖNER BRUNNEN] giving the greatest examples of them the added charm of locality. Their love of science was no less genuine than their love of art. In June 1471, a few weeks after the birth of Albert Durer, Johannes Muller, (surnamed Regiomontanus in allusion to Königsberg, his native village) the great mathematical genius, "the wonder of his generation," took up his abode at Nuremberg, making her the true home of physical and mathematical science and contributing mightily to her reputation as "the capital of German art, the most precious jewel of the Empire, the meeting-place of art and industry." "I have chosen Nuremberg for my place of residence," he writes, "because there I find without difficulty all the peculiar instruments necessary for astronomy, and there it is easiest for me to keep in touch with the learned of all countries, for Nuremberg, thanks to the perpetual journeyings of her merchants, may be counted the centre of Europe." Inspired with the eager desire to know everything, so characteristic of his age, he was equally desirous to impart his knowledge. We may trace to his influence Durer's book on geometry and his beautiful chart of the heavens. Muller introduced popular science lectures, and organised the manufacture of astronomical and nautical instruments. His most famous pupil was Martin Behaim the constructor of the first globe and the adventurous navigator, whose monument (1890) may be seen in the Theresien Platz. Behaim in 1492 indicated on his terrestrial globe the precise route followed six years later by Vasco da Gama when he doubled the Cape of Good Hope. It was Behaim, too, who suggested to Magellan the first idea of the strait which bears his name. Behaim's famous globe is kept in the Behaim House, which is in the Ægiden Platz, next to the house of Koberger, the printer, and opposite the statue of Melanchthon (by Burgschmiet, 1826). Maximilian, "the last of the knights," had taken a considerable part in the government before he succeeded his father in 1493. The Nurembergers, who always had an eye for a strong man, had already shown their loyalty to him. He had stayed amongst them at the house of Christopher Scheurl (father of the famous Dr Scheurl), and whilst there would seem to have amused himself light-heartedly enough. When about to depart, we are told, he invited twenty great ladies to dinner; after dinner, when they were all in a good humour, the Margraf Frederick asked Maximilian in the name of the ladies to stay a little longer and to dance with them. _They_, it is said, had taken away his boots and spurs, so he had no choice. Then the whole company adjourned to the Council House, several other young ladies were invited, and Maximilian stayed dancing all through the afternoon and night and arrived a day late at Neumarkt where the Count of the Palatinate had been expecting him all the preceding day. As Emperor, Maximilian stayed at the Kaiserburg. A brilliant assembly attended his first Reichstag. Masques, dances, tourneys and so forth are recorded with gusto by the chroniclers. The Emperor, they say, entertained all the ladies of the town at dinner and provided them with two hundred and forty sorts of dishes. No wonder he was popular! Nuremberg was not allowed to be content with supplying Maximilian with partners in the ball-room. In 1499 she had to support him in his disastrous war with Switzerland. The Nuremberg contingent was under Willibald Pirkheimer and Wolf Pömer. Beautifully dressed in red and white uniforms these soldiers earned the reputation of cowardice and treachery. Such imputations were, let it be confessed, not unfrequently cast upon Nuremberg courage; but on this occasion the Emperor took their part and refuted the charge. Nuremberg knew at any rate how to fight her own battles. Throughout this period we find her engaged in continual quarrels with the Markgrafs of Brandenburg. The Burggraf Frederick once made Elector, had parted with the Burggrafship, sold it, all but the title, to the burghers in 1427. But principalities and territories were retained in that quarter, and about these, and their feudal rights and boundaries and tolls, endless trouble arose. Some fifty years later actual furious war resulted between the Elector Albert Achilles and the jealous citizens--a war in "which eight victories are counted on Albert's part--furious successful skirmishes they call them; in one of which Albert plunged in alone, his Ritters being rather shy, and laid about him hugely, hanging by a standard he had taken, till his life was nearly beaten out. Eight victories, and also one defeat wherein Albert got captured and had to ransom himself. The captor was one Kunz of Kauffungen, the Nürnberg hired General at the time, a man known to some readers for his stealing of the Saxon princes (Prinzenraut, they call it), a feat which cost Kunz his head."[19] Such quarrels continued, for the Markgrafs did not relinquish their efforts to extend their powers. Details it would be wearisome to give, but they illustrate the general family tendency of the Hohenzollern. It is characteristic that they were generally successful in their claims (all cases, it was now decided, arising from Nuremberg property outside the walls were to be tried by the Landgericht, of which the Markgraf was president), and based on this success still greater claims in the future. The memoirs of Götz von Berlichingen furnish us with an interesting account of the Battle of the Forest of Nuremberg (1502), which affords a good example of the sort of thing continually occurring in those days. Towards the end of May it was rumoured in the town that warlike preparations were being made in Ansbach, the headquarters of the Markgraf. The feelings of the citizens were still further roused by the fact that the Markgraf had taken under his protection an enemy of Nuremberg. The day of the Affalterbacher Fair was at hand. The prospect seemed so threatening that the Council sent a specially large contingent--2000 men, with a "Wagenburg" and cannon under the command of the Magistrate Hans von Weichsdorf, Wolf Haller, and Wolf Pömer--to escort their citizens who went to attend the fair. An accidental explosion of powder when they were starting seemed ominous. At home they kept a small force under Ulman Stromer, who drew up between the Frauen- and Spitler-Thor. On the day of the fair, the Markgraf appeared with a large force of knights, Swiss and local soldiery. Amongst them was Götz von Berlichingen, who was only twenty-two years of age. The following manoeuvers then took place. In the morning some sixty horsemen were seen driving off the cattle about a quarter of a mile south of Nuremberg. Ulman Stromer thereupon marched out and took up a strong position, under protection of his guns, and drove the horsemen back into the woods, "for they did not find it very amusing: it is not everybody who likes to hear the cannon roar," says Götz. The retreat of the enemy enticed Ulman Stromer to follow them with his carts and cannon into the wood. Suddenly he came upon the Markgraf Casimir with his main army. Though outnumbered, the Nurembergers did not lose their courage, but fired with such effect that the riff-raff of the enemy [Illustration: FRAUEN THOR] cleared off, leaving the knights and Switzers to do battle. Under cover of a strong fire, "so that nothing could be seen for smoke," Stromer tried to form a "Wagenburg" (waggon fortress), by having the carts driven round so as to form a circle about the men and guns, hoping to be able to wait in this extemporised fort till reinforcements should arrive from Affalterbach. Götz boasts that it was he who prevented this manoeuvre from being executed. For he killed one of the drivers, and so interrupted the completion of the circle. The Brandenburgers were thus enabled to rush in, and compelled the citizens to take to flight. At this juncture the reinforcements came up, but it was too late. A general rush for safety to the town took place. On the bridge over the moat there was so great a crush of refugees that many were forced over into the water. Luckily the cannon on the Frauen Thor kept the Markgraf at a safe distance. Within the town a terrible panic had occurred. Götz, indeed, says that the place could easily have been taken--a statement not very easy to believe. At any rate, the Markgraf did not attempt it, but marched back to Schwabach to hold a service of thanksgiving, whilst the Nurembergers revenged themselves on the peasants whom they had taken prisoner. Intense indignation was felt and expressed against the Markgraf: prisoners were torn to pieces in the streets. At last a curious peace was arranged, to begin on July 1st, but not before. Each side tried to damage the other as much as possible before that day came, and the Council, in order to get in a good final blow, burned the Markgraf's castle of Schönberg at the last moment. A peace thus inaugurated did not, as may be imagined, produce any lasting good feeling between the two parties. In the very next year fresh trouble arose over one Heinz Baum, a Nuremberg citizen who had come down in the world and been put into prison by his creditors. As soon as he was released, he left the town, threw up his citizenship, and, after writing various threatening letters to the Council, he surprised Hans Tucher, a Nuremberg patrician, when riding out to his country seat, and kept him prisoner till he was ransomed. With the Markgraf's secret support, Baum proceeded to seize and keep in the stocks till ransom was paid all the citizens he could lay his hands on. Though the Emperor outlawed him, he pursued his way unhindered, protected by the Markgraf, till 1512, when Nuremberg bought off his chief supporter, and Heinz Baum retired to Bamberg, where he died poor but unpunished. The importance of Nuremberg was still further enhanced by the part she took in the war of the Bavarian Succession. In 1503 George the Rich of Bavaria had died without male issue. According to the feudal right, his lands ought to have gone to the male heir, but, hating as he did his natural successors, his cousins Albrecht of Bavaria and Wolfgang, he had made his daughter his sole heiress, and married her to her cousin Ruprecht (third son of the powerful Philip, Elector of the Palatinate), whom he adopted as his son and made governor of a great part of the country. On the death of Duke George, Ruprecht succeeded, but Albrecht and Wolfgang raised such strenuous protest that the Emperor, after repeated attempts to arrange a compromise, was obliged to outlaw Ruprecht and all his supporters, his father the Elector Philip included. War was the inevitable result. The Emperor and other princes, amongst whom was the Markgraf of Brandenburg, gave their support to Albrecht, who promised them a share in what was conquered. Many of Philip's possessions were close to Nuremberg. Albrecht was therefore able to entice her to fight for him, promising her in return for her aid 40,000 gulden, with all the Palatinate towns and the value of all George's towns that she might manage to take. With the aid of three special cannon, called the Owl, the Falcon, and the Fishermaid, capable of shooting balls of 263 pounds weight, the Nuremberg army captured a considerable number of Palatinate towns. But even after the deaths first of Ruprecht and then of his brave widow, who had carried on the struggle like another Margaret of Anjou, the war still dragged on on behalf of their little sons, and the Palatinate party were actually getting a little the best of it when, at a Reichstag in Cologne, Maximilian at length arranged a successful compromise. Nuremberg was allowed to keep what she had taken, and now had more land than any other free town in the Empire. It was a doubtful blessing. She was involved in constant wars to keep it, in further quarrels with the Markgraf over the rights of _Fraisgericht_,--of jurisdiction in matters of life and death in the newly acquired towns, and she had to pay largely increased contributions to the Empire. Altogether she was impoverished rather than benefited by her new property. We have now to trace the story of the celebrated feud with Götz von Berlichingen--the warrior knight, the chivalrous and charitable, the brave, free-booting noble, Götz of the Iron Hand. Such is the character Goethe gave him when he centred in him, as the heroic champion of the privileges of the Free Knights, the interest of his Shakesperian drama. Truth, however, compels us to declare, that though men like Götz or Franz von Sickingen, the Robin Hoods of Germany, had the qualities of a certain rough justice and courage, they were, for the rest, wholly undeniable brigands. The love of destruction, disorder, and rapine, and the hatred of authority were their chief motives. They used their rights as pretexts for violence and devoted themselves to brigandage as to a legitimate vocation and organised industry. They were, indeed, little better than leaders of bands of robbers, the wolves of civilisation. "One day," says Götz, "as I was on the point of making an attack, I perceived a pack of wolves descending on a flock of sheep. This incident seemed to me a good omen. We were going to begin the fight. A shepherd was near us, guarding his sheep, when, as if to give us the signal, five wolves threw themselves simultaneously on the flock. I saw it and noted it gladly. I wished them success and ourselves too, saying, 'Good luck, dear comrades, success to you everywhere!' I took it as a very good augury that we had begun the attack together!" It was in 1495 that Maximilian, ever anxious to promote peace and order within the borders of his Empire, abrogated by edict the right of private war under the penalty of the ban of the Empire--a penalty which involved the dooms of outlawry and excommunication. Thus the "last of the Knights" gave the death-blow to the chivalry of the Middle Ages. Hitherto every German noble holding fief directly from the Emperor had been on his own property a petty monarch, as it were, subordinate to the Imperial authority alone. These proud military barons,--an ever-increasing host of petty lords, since the rule of inheritance in Germany was division among the male heirs--esteemed above all other privileges the right of making war on each other, or on the towns, with no other ceremony than that of three days' notice in writing (Fehdebrief). The evils and dangers of this privilege are clear, but they were left untouched by the Golden Bull. With the advance of civilisation, which was ever opposed to the feudal system, this Faustrecht had come to be regarded as intolerable by such princes, bishops and free towns as suffered from the consequent disorder of the country and the marauding expeditions of the free-knights. For the residence of every baron had become, as we have seen, a fortress from which, as his passions or avarice dictated, a band of marauders sallied forth to back his quarrel or to collect an extorted revenue from the merchants who presumed to pass through his domain. Princes and bishops, abbots and wealthy merchants of the towns banded together, therefore, to enforce the new ordinance and to suppress the petty feudatories, who, like Götz, struggled to maintain their privilege and independence. Under Sigismund various efforts had been made to suppress the harrying of the knights and many robber-nests on solitary rocks were taken. When taken the robbers, especially those of the lower class, were made short work of and dealt with in various ways--ways best illustrated by a visit to the torture chambers of the castle. There was one Hans Schuttensamen, for instance, on whose head the Council put a price. A citizen of Bamberg came forward and claimed the reward, saying he had shot him. After he had received the money his story was found to be a stretch of the imagination and he was burnt accordingly. Ten years later (1474) the robber also got burnt. So bitterly were these knights hated and feared that even the great tourneys, such as the one recorded in 1446,[20] when all the neighbouring nobles came in from the surrounding country and tilted and displayed their skill and valour in the market-place, were very unpopular with the peace-loving burghers. Nuremberg, then, joined the Swabian League to suppress such knights as chose still to indulge in the forbidden Club Law or Faustrecht. It was not long before she came into direct collision with Götz von Berlichingen of the Iron Hand. Götz, who had a fine gift for chastising the gutter-blooded citizens of a free town, had long been anxious to try conclusions with the men of Nuremberg. He carried out his intention on a very futile pretext. The Nurembergers, it seems, had pursued and fought in the adjacent woods some unknown knights, who had refused, when challenged, to give their names as honest knights and fled. Now, some years after, Hans von Geislingen, brother of one George, who was the Squire of Eustace of Lichtenstein and was killed on this occasion, demanded blood-money for his brother, and on being refused, he seized some Nuremberg citizens and merchants' caravans. He was outlawed, but this did not prevent Götz von Berlichingen from helping him. George, he declared, had been his page (a statement that had the defect of being untrue), and he demanded a large sum of money in compensation. When this was refused Götz did not send an _Absagebrief_, or letter of notice of war, but merely a note saying that he was considering, with his friends, how to get compensation. His bitterness was further increased by the action of the Council, who shortly afterwards decapitated Sebastian von Seckendorf, a knight who had long been a source of annoyance, and whom they had at last been successful in catching. Suddenly, and without warning, Götz and his friends swooped down on a party of fifty-five Nuremberg merchants who were travelling back from the fair at Leipzig, under the escort of the Bishop of Bamberg. These he plundered and took prisoners as they were crossing the Rednitz, near Forcheim. Götz did not treat his prisoners too gently, but used the art of torture to persuade them to offer huge ransoms. The news of this seizure caused consternation and surprise in Nuremberg. Götz's letter of notice came only nine days later to the Council. Spies were sent out to discover his whereabouts: the town was prepared for a siege, and 800 mercenary soldiers were hired. Götz was outlawed. But the Council were accused of being slack to avenge, what they called "a handful of small merchants, not of patrician families," and Maximilian was not willing to be plunged into an Imperial war "to recover a merchant's sack of pepper." What he did do was to attempt to bring about one of his favourite compromises. The Markgraf was appointed to arbitrate, and his award was that Nuremberg should pay a certain sum. As is not unusual in the case of arbitrations, the money was not paid. Götz, laughing at the sentence of outlawry that had been passed upon him, protected by the princes who resented peace and order in an Empire, continued to ravage, burn and pillage, until the Swabian League was renewed, at the end of 1512, to keep the "eternal peace," at which Maximilian aimed. Nuremberg once more joined the League, on Maximilian's injunction, though she distrusted the alliance with the Markgraf thereby involved. The League, however, decided in January 1513 to take strong measures to repress the outlawed nobles and to destroy the castles of the robber-knights. But the Emperor objected, and said that he wanted to arrive at a peaceful compromise with Götz. The Nurembergers replied that they would be content if the latter paid over a sum of money sufficient to compensate the merchants for the losses they had suffered. At the same time they took prisoner a robber-knight who was a friend of the Markgraf, and to procure his release the Markgraf promised to arrange peace for them with Hans von Geislingen. This he succeeded in doing. Götz, however, remained at war, proud and obstinate in spite of all mediation. Again and again the League threatened war, the Emperor temporised, and Götz plundered, until at last Maximilian got it arranged that Götz should pay 14000 florins damages. These were subscribed chiefly by his supporters, such as the Bishop of Würzburg, who also persuaded him to cease from his career of robbery. Maximilian died in 1519. He had shown himself a good friend to the Nuremberg artists. No doubt his patronage and his keen interest in art and literature had been partly responsible for the good work of this period. He was himself an author, for he had a considerable share in the _Weisskunig_ and the _Theuerdank_--the latter, a poem which describes allegorically the private life and ideals of the Emperor, being chiefly executed by Melchior Pfinzing, his secretary, the Provost of St. Sebald's and builder of the Parsonage. Of the artists, he frequently employed Peter Vischer and Veit Stoss, whilst he showed the greatest appreciation of Albert Durer, to whom he gave a pension of 100 florins. When at Nuremberg in 1512 Maximilian with the aid of Willibald Pirkheimer and others, planned a colossal _Holzschnittwerk_, or wood-cut picture, "The Triumph," in which he himself was, as usual in the works of art he inspired, to be idealised as the greatest of princes. Durer was to draw part of it. Ninety-two blocks did Durer design for the _Triumphal Arch_ in the course of the next two years. Amongst other works for this patron we may mention _The Triumphal Car_, the _Crucifixion_, and the ornamental borders of the famous _Book of Hours_. Finally when Maximilian held the diet at Augsburg in 1518, Durer, who was one of the commissioners sent by the town of Nuremberg, drew the Emperor's portrait from the life, "in the little room upstairs in the palace." From this sketch he painted the picture now at Vienna, another version of which is in the German Museum at Nuremberg. Durer was as good a courtier as artist. Melanchthon tells us how Maximilian was endeavouring to draw a design which he wished Durer to carry out, but kept breaking the charcoal in doing so. Durer took the charcoal and, without breaking it, easily finished the drawing. Maximilian, somewhat vexed, asked how this was, to which the artist replied, "I should not like your Majesty to be able to draw as well as I. It is my province to draw and yours to rule." _Aliud est plectrum, aliud sceptrum._ The hand that wields the sceptre is too strong for the brush. Maximilian was, in many aspects of his character, a typical product of the Renaissance. Nuremberg had felt the full force of the revival of learning, the new stimulus in art and literature which was being brought to the West from Constantinople by the Jews and Greeks who had been driven out by the Turks. Not a few of the knights and pilgrims, too, must have passed through Nuremberg on their return from the Crusades, and her growing commerce with the East and West and Italy would tend to keep her in touch with the developments which were taking place in the world of ideas, and which were tending inevitably towards the Reformation. She had been among the first to welcome and to practise the new "German art" of printing. Between 1470, when Johann Sensenschmidt had brought Gutenberg's invention to Nuremberg, and the end of the century, twenty-five printers received the rights of citizenship. Johannes Regiomontanus printed here in 1472 his _Kalendarium Novum_. But Anthoni Koberger was the most celebrated man in the trade. Over two hundred different works, mostly in large folio, were issued from his twenty-four printing presses before 1500. The "prince of booksellers," as one of his contemporaries calls him, he had agents in every country, and sixteen depôts in the principal towns in Christendom. The first work of art which left his presses was a magnificent illustrated Bible, published in 1483, and printed from blocks he had obtained from Henry Quentel of Cologne. But, besides the Bible and theology, the press poured forth a stream of literature of every kind, spreading new ideas with unexampled rapidity, and giving expression to thoughtful criticism or popular satire of established abuses. Under such influences as these it was felt that a new era of progress was at hand. Nuremberg, stimulated by the education of self-government and of commercial intercourse, did not fail to produce such independent humanists as Conrad Celtes, Dr Scheurl, Lazarus Spengler, Albert Durer, Willibald Pirkheimer, who could write as well as read, and preach as well as applaud the doctrines of necessary reform. She was, in fact, one of the first towns to express sympathy with Martin Luther, when he nailed his ninety-five theses on the church door of Wittenberg, in protest against what Erasmus had called "the crime of false pardons," the sale of Indulgences, to which Leo X. had resorted in order to raise money for a little war. Luther came to Nuremberg in the course of the next year (1518) and stayed in the Augustinerkloster. His friend Leirck, we are told, had to buy him a new cowl, in order that he might appear in fitting costume before the Cardinal Cajetan at Augsburg, where he was summoned to answer for his heresies. None the less the Cardinal received at Nuremberg a great welcome next year, and Luther's followers continued at present to perform the rites and cling to the old forms of the Church. Reform, not revolution, was what they still hoped for. But the stream of events carried them rapidly with it. Willibald Pirkheimer, thanks to a satire against Eck, the bitter opponent of Luther, was included in 1519 in the Papal Bull, by which Luther was excommunicated. The Council, annoyed by the excommunication of Pirkheimer and Lazarus Spengler (Clerk of the Council), refused to interfere with the printing and publishing of Luther's works, and gradually passed over to his side. To show how little they respected this decree of excommunication, they actually sent Spengler to represent the town at the Diet of Worms. For Charles V. held his first Reichstag (1521) at Worms, and not at Nuremberg, because of an outbreak of plague there. (Outbreaks of plague were not uncommon at Nuremberg, nor were they surprising. For all refuse was always thrown into the Pegnitz on the understanding that "the river would eat up all the dirt.") It was at this Diet of Worms that Luther made his Confession of Faith, and fought single-handed against Pope and Emperor the great battle for the right of freedom of conscience. When, as the result, the ban of the Empire had been passed upon him and all his works, and the report was abroad that violent hands had been laid on him, Albert Durer, who had followed him from the first, wrote in his diary, expressing at the same time the opinion of the nation; "Whether he lives or whether he has been murdered, I know not; but he has suffered for the Christian faith and has been punished by the unchristian Papacy." That, too, was the opinion of all the more important men in Nuremberg. Cautious in expressing their feelings at first, after a time the people boldly showed their dislike of monasteries and their approval of the new movement. "Wake up! Now may the dawn be seen; And singing in a thicket green I hear a tuneful nightingale," wrote Hans Sachs, in a poem which had no small influence in forwarding the reformation movement. So, in many of his later prose dialogues, he upholds liberty of conscience and freedom of opinion in religious matters. The Council, in deference to the Emperor, made a bare pretence of stopping the publication of Lutheran writings. So half-hearted were they that the Papal Legate demanded that stronger measures should be taken, and that Lutheran preachers should be imprisoned. But the Council pursued its policy of keeping the peace between both parties, taking a middle course and siding with neither reactionary nor revolutionary. That policy could not be pursued for long. The Council had to yield, not unwillingly, to public opinion. At a meeting of representatives of the towns at Rothenburg, held there in 1524 because forbidden by Imperial edict to meet at Spires and to discuss religious matters, Nuremberg was very bold and "gave three brave Christian reasons" why they should not obey this edict. She organised a further meeting of the towns at Ulm, and for herself began to determine on a new form of worship. The Sacrament was now administered in both kinds, and Mass was read in German, with Lutheran omissions, by the Prior of the Augustin Monastery. Both the Parish Churches followed his example. The Council excused themselves for allowing this by saying that they did it to avoid an uproar among the people. The Bishop of Bamberg held an inquiry, and summoned the officiating priests before him. They denied his power to judge them, and his sentence of excommunication was practically ignored. Other towns followed the example of Nuremberg, and imitated her Lutheran services. Meanwhile the dislike of the people for monasteries and nunneries broke out more vehemently. The air was full of satires and cartoons directed against nuns and monks. Hans Sachs was not silent on this point. At last the Council ordered these institutions to be handed over to the guidance of the Lutheran preachers. Charitas Pirkheimer, the virtuous and accomplished abbess of the _Klarakloster_, friend and correspondent of Durer and sister of Willibald, has left us in her memoirs a touching account of the manner in which she was torn from her beloved convent, over which no breath of scandal had ever passed, and which contained many of the daughters of the best families in Nuremberg. These memoirs are well worth looking at by those who care to see the other side of the question, and to make the acquaintance of a beautiful and fascinating character. Unfortunately we have no space in this little book to deal with them here. Shortly after this an organised discussion between the representatives of the old and new orders of religious belief was held before the Council. One by one, twelve points of doctrine were put to the heads of the Lutheran, Carmelite, Augustin and Dominican bodies, and each answered after his kind. The Catholic party finally claimed that the decision between them should be referred to the University; but Osiander, declaring that God's word was the only salvation, wound up the discussion with a bold and eloquent speech, and called upon the Council for an immediate decision. The Council gave their vote for the Lutheran case, and thus formally threw in their lot with the Reformation. The following year saw a whole series of decrees from the Council carrying out Lutheran principles. Thus, chiefly no doubt in deference to the popular demand--for these were the days of the terrible Peasant wars--the property of the priests was ordered to be taxed. There was little violence. The influence of the gentle Melanchthon, who came to Nuremberg in 1525, did much to smooth down any tendency to brutality, or harsh treatment of the monks and nuns. Even in the first flash of religious excitement education was not neglected. The educational movement inaugurated by Luther's letter to the towns asking them to found schools, met with eager support at Nuremberg. Through the agency of Hieronymus Paumgärtner and Spengler, Philip Melanchthon was induced to come and assist at the founding of a new gymnasium for secondary education. No expense was spared, and Melanchthon brought a brilliant staff of teachers with him. The institution was established in the buildings of the Ægidienkloster. But the school languished. Nuremberg, after all, was a town of shopkeepers, and, though some were ready to pay for masters, few were ready to pay, or spare the time, for their sons' higher education. The school was at last moved to Altdorf, and grew into the University there. The present gymnasium was refounded in 1633. Melanchthon's statue, mentioned above, stands in front of the building erected in 1711 on the site of the old monastery which together with the church was burnt down in 1699. Conrad III. is said to have built the church for the Benedictine Order in 1140. Three chapels remain--the Eucharius, the Wolfgang, and the Tetzel chapels, of which the first is the oldest, and affords an interesting example of the transition style (see p. 260). The Council all this time had a difficult part to play: it had to show itself both strong and conciliatory. When the Peasants' War broke out, Nuremberg, the capital of Franconia, was not unaffected by it though [Illustration: ROTHENBURG] she suffered less than her neighbours--Rothenburg for example. But the new-found spiritual freedom preached from Lutheran pulpits was likely to be misinterpreted by the lower classes in the town, as it had been by the peasants outside, and construed into temporal licence. The Council, therefore, whilst striving not to cause any irritation, had to take strong measures to repress the outbreaks which occurred within the walls, when the peasants, whom Götz von Berlichingen had joined, were ravaging and rioting through the country in their barbarous struggle for emancipation. First of all the Council very wisely expelled Thomas Münzer, the mad, well-meaning fanatic and agitator, and then promised the peasants to remain neutral, as long as they did not ravage her territory or tamper with her citizens. Still, for a few months, Nuremberg was in imminent danger. She might have fallen into the hands of the rebels at any moment in the May of this year (1525). The Council, realising the peril, remitted some of the tithes, as a sop to the peasants, and sent urgent appeals for aid to the Swabian League. But the thunder-cloud passed by without breaking over Nuremberg, and she, to her credit be it recorded, when the revolt was crushed, was not slow to speak on behalf of towns like Rothenburg which had taken the side of the peasants. The result of her intervention was to preserve for us the walls and fortifications of Rothenburg. The illustration shows the towers and gateways there which recall the White Tower and Lauferschlagthurm at Nuremberg. In the later developments of the Protestant revolution, we find Willibald Pirkheimer warmly supporting Luther with his pen, when Zwingle, denying the Real Presence, treated the Sacrament as symbolic, and was violently denounced by Luther for this view. Pirkheimer, however, was no blind follower of Luther. He, remembering his sister's case, thought the monasteries and convents too hardly treated, and he saw, what Luther failed to see, that the peasant risings were the inevitable results of such times of upheaval and repression. He grew soured and disappointed with Luther. Like Scheurl, and, as he says (1528)-- "Like Durer, I was at first a good Lutheran. We hoped things would be better than in the Roman Church, but the Lutherans are worse. The former were hypocrites: the latter openly live disgraceful lives. For Justification by Faith alone is not possible. Without works faith is dead. Luther, with his bold, petulant tongue, has either fallen under a delusion, or else is being led astray by the Evil One." However, in spite of splits, the wave of Protestantism was not diminishing. The answer to the Emperor's order that stringent measures should be taken against the Lutheran heresy, and that the Edict of Worms should be carried out, was, that the towns, under the leadership of Nuremberg, banded themselves together with the Lutheran princes, and at the Diet of Spires (1526) it was decreed that "Each State should, as regards the Diet of Worms, so live, rule, and bear itself as it thought it could answer to God and the Empire." From this decree, which was an acknowledgment of the temporary breakdown of Roman Catholicism, resulting from the Emperor's quarrel with the Pope, came the division of Germany into Catholic and Protestant States. Next year, when the Bishop of Bamberg commanded the priests of Nuremberg to observe the Roman Catholic ceremonies, the Council, whom he asked not to interfere with the carrying out of his order, were able to point to this Edict. In order, however, to be secure from the Swabian League, which was hostile to the new teaching, Nuremberg, Augsburg, Ulm, and other towns, bound themselves together and protested against any interference, on the part of the League, in religious matters. But in 1529 the Emperor had settled his quarrel with the Pope and returned to his loyalty to Rome. Taking advantage of this, the Papal party succeeded in passing a decree in the Reichstag confirming the Edict of Worms. The Lutheran princes protested against the decree, and so earned the name of "Protestants." The Protestant communities assembled in Nuremberg, and sent a representative to the Emperor, who was in Italy, to complain. The Emperor, however, took a firm tone with them and declared the dispensation of Spires at an end. Philip von Hessen and other zealous leaders were now very eager to make a firm stand and to form a Protestant union against this fresh attempt to suppress the new teaching. But the Lutherans could not bring themselves to work with the Zwinglians. The influence of Luther and Osiander was sufficient to deter Nuremberg from joining in such a scheme. Wisely or not, she refused to belong to any union which might bring her into conflict with the head of the Empire. But, though she said she would not take up arms, she knew her own mind in religious matters. At a Reichstag held at Augsburg (1530) the Emperor was to be present. Owing to the exertions of the Nuremberg Council, the Evangelical party united to send the celebrated "Confession," or statement of Lutheran doctrines, which was drawn up by Luther and Melanchthon, signed by Nuremberg and Reutlingen, and read to Charles. The representatives of Nuremberg also took with them a confession of faith, drawn up under the direction of the Council by Nuremberg theologians. A peaceful solution of the question was what they aimed at: a recognition of religious freedom brought about by argument, not by arms. For this reason, and because she had a great distrust of the Protestant princes ("The princes are princes," it was said, "and if anything happens they will withdraw their heads out of the noose and leave the towns in the lurch") Nuremberg would not join "the league of Schmalkalden," formed by the Protestant princes to defend themselves from that crushing of the Lutheran heresy by the Imperial power, which the Diet now threatened. This league, in spite of Luther's protest against opposition to the civil power, would have led at once to war, had not a Turkish invasion of Austria diverted Charles' attention. Something like a religious truce was proclaimed, and Nuremberg sent a double contingent of men to help Charles. It was, perhaps, in recognition of this proof of loyalty that Charles, on his way to Regensburg in 1541, held the Reichstag at Nuremberg for the first time. The town on this occasion was in a great state of festivity. The roads were strewn with sand; festoons and hangings brightened the streets which were lined by 5000 armed citizens. Bells were rung and cannon fired as Charles, clothed in black, with a felt hat on his head, rode into the town, beneath a magnificent red velvet canopy held by eight members of the Council in turn. He passed beneath a triumphal arch which had been erected near Neudörfer's house, in the Burgstrasse. In the Rathaus a solemn act of homage was performed, and the Emperor confirmed all the privileges of the town. Costly gifts were lavished on him; fireworks were let off from the bastion then being built (see p. 115). The Council, in fact, though they would concede nothing, even at the Emperor's request, on the religious question, showed themselves loyal and conciliatory. The bells of the principal churches were ordered to be rung at noon, to remind all good Christians to pray for protection against the Turks, the arch-enemies of Christianity. This ringing, called _Betläuten_, still takes place. The Civil War, which was the inevitable result of the formation of the Schmalkalden League, had only been postponed. The Emperor and the Catholic princes tried to reduce the Protestant princes to obedience, with the aid of Spanish soldiery, soon after the death of Luther. Though Charles had said he was going to attack the princes and not the towns, the northern towns promised help to the princes. Nuremberg, however, determined to obey the Emperor; she strove, in fact, to pursue, so far as possible, her usual policy of inactive neutrality. Money was paid to the Emperor: but, when urgent appeals for help came from the princes, the Council sent them privately a sum of money, but would take no further step for the Evangelical cause at present. The sympathy of the majority was, indeed, with the League, but they shrank from risking all the great wealth and privileges of the town for the common welfare and for the freedom of religious belief. _Nürnberg trage auf beiden achseln_ was the bitter sneer of the day. The temper of her citizens was sorely tried when the Emperor's ill-behaved Spanish troops were quartered on them. Still, money was supplied loyally enough to the Imperial treasury. In religious matters they remained steadfast, politely but firmly forbidding the Emperor's Confessor to read Mass to the nuns in the Katharinenkirche. The result of Charles' campaigns against the princes was to leave him apparently more powerful than any Emperor since Charlemagne. We can hardly wonder if, in the Reichstag of 1547, he tried to get himself recognised as supreme head of the Empire, not only in political, but also in religious matters. A year later he appointed a Commission which published the "Interim," establishing a half-and-half religion for all not of the Roman Catholic faith. It was called the strait-waistcoat of German Protestantism. Papacy was thereby almost reintroduced. The work of Luther seemed entirely undone. This attempt at repressing Evangelical teaching roused the Nurembergers. Sermons thundered from the pulpit, and the Council was severely criticised. None the less they accepted the "Interim." Osiander resigned his post and shook the dust of Nuremberg from off his feet. Others followed his example. But, in spite of protest, the Catholic reaction was, for the moment, successful. It could not last. The Spanish yoke was in itself intolerable. In 1552 the revolt of the princes, in alliance even with France, began. The Council pursued its old policy of neutrality--a policy destined this time not to pay. Money was contributed to the princes: devotion to the Emperor was expressed. So they thought they were safe. But the Markgraf of Brandenburg, Albert Alcibiades, who had declared for the Protestant cause, held only to the princes' manifesto, that those who were not for them were against them. He turned his eyes on his old enemy, and seized the merchant-trains that were leaving the city in fancied security. Then, suddenly in May, he appeared with a strong force before Lichtenau--a castle and mart belonging to Nuremberg. The place fell into his hands, was burnt and razed to the ground. Next day he sent a message, bearing the Bourbon arms, to express his surprise that he had received no help from Nuremberg. In the name of the King of France and of the allied princes who "purposed to bring back and keep liberty in the dear Fatherland, and to establish a right and true Christian religion," he demanded whether the town intended to join the league against the Emperor or not. She referred to her dealings with the princes. But the Markgraf, ignoring this subterfuge, moved on the city, and the Council, seeing that he was set on war, determined to stand a siege, and strained every nerve to strengthen the fortifications. The princes, indeed, remonstrated with the Markgraf; but in vain. He advanced, ravaging the villages, taking castles, burning and plundering all he could lay his hands on in his drunken and murderous march. When he arrived beneath the walls of Nuremberg, a truce of eight days was arranged till the Markgraf could hear from Francis I. of France. Meanwhile he busied himself with throwing up entrenchments. But before the eight days had expired, he opened fire on the city. Some cannon-shots struck the Ægidienskirche, in which a service was being held. One house in the Ægidiensplatz still bears the marks of shot that struck it on this occasion, says Dr Reicke. Meanwhile Nuremberg was not slow to defend herself. Her citizens returned the fire with energy, and made some successful sallies. Gold they seem to have used as well as steel; for the Markgraf, after one or two experiments, declared that he would hold no more parleyings with the Nurembergers, for that they had tried to corrupt one of his commanders. The position of Nuremberg was now very serious. No help was to be expected from any quarter. When, therefore, the towns of Franconia and Swabia came forward at last to act as intermediaries, she welcomed them with every feeling of relief, and was easily persuaded to join, nominally, at any rate, the league against the Emperor. The Markgraf's _casus belli_ was now gone; but his demands knew no bounds. He insisted on a huge indemnity and the right to garrison the town. In face of this, continued resistance was the only course for Nuremberg. The siege began again with renewed vigour. The Markgraf, who boasted, between his curses, that murder and burning were his favourite pastimes, now thoroughly enjoyed himself. He destroyed, in this war, 3 monasteries, 2 small towns, 170 villages, 19 castles, 75 estates, 28 mills, and 3000 acres of wood. The position of Nuremberg thus became more and more difficult. Her trade and buildings were suffering severely: the forest was being burnt down. The lukewarmness with which she had espoused their cause made it not worth while for the princes to relieve her. The Markgraf, on the other hand, had received numerous reinforcements, and had won over the neighbouring towns to his side. At last, therefore, Nuremberg yielded on these terms (June 9, 1552):-- (1) She was to join the League on the same terms as Augsburg and the other towns. (2) She was to demand no compensation for injuries inflicted. (3) She was to pay a large indemnity in cash and war material. (4) The Markgraf was to give back all the castles, etc., which he had taken. (5) Matters in dispute between the two parties were to be decided by a commission of princes. So, for a moment, ended this disastrous war, only to break out again with variations in the following year, until the Emperor, who had entered into treaty with the League, declared the Markgraf outlawed and bade the four Rhenish electors to carry out the sentence. For the Markgraf had refused to enter into this treaty, which, seeing that the money and lands he had won in the name of religion and liberty were not guaranteed to him by it, he denounced as a betrayal of the German nation and carried on the war on his own account. His power was broken at last in a battle with the allies near Schwarzach. Nuremberg paid a _douceur_ to the Emperor and was excused from her obligations to the Markgraf, whose lands were sequestered. It is amusing to find that, in spite of this, the Markgraf's rightful heir, George Frederick, succeeded him and actually obtained through the Emperor compensation from the allies for the damage done to his property. Hence arose a fresh series of quarrels with Nuremberg. The hatred of Nuremberg for the Elector Albert is expressed in the unsparing satire of Hans Sachs, in which the full bitterness of ruthless patriotism finds vent. This poem is of so violent a nature that the Council suppressed it, but a copy is still preserved in the library. It was written in 1557 after the Markgraf's death, and describes the descent into hell of this "blütiger Kriegsfürst." A spirit appears to Hans and bids him accompany him for the purpose of seeing how the soul of a bloodthirsty warrior goes to--heaven, "Ich will dir zeigen ein Kriegsfürsten Den allezeit hart nach blut ward dürsten Welcher schier das ganze Deutschland Mit Krieg erweckt--hat durch sein hand Wollauf rund kom bald mit dar Schan wie sein sel gen Himmel far," and shows the reception the Markgraf gets there from the soldiers he has not paid, the citizens and peasants, with their wives and children, whom he has robbed and ruined, and the wretched men whom he has forced to murder the helpless and innocent. The result of the treaty we have mentioned above was that the "Interim" was revoked. Religion was declared free. Three years later came the peace of Augsburg, with its legal recognition of the Protestant States and its system of toleration--_cujus regio, ejus religio_--not of the sort to avert the evils of the Thirty Years War. [Illustration: PELLERHOF] Nuremberg was now at last at peace and kept on good terms with the new Emperor. But the Hapsburg emperors seldom visited her. In 1570, however, the Emperor Maximilian II. was welcomed with such pomp and jubilation as had greeted Charles V. On this occasion the records mention the novelty of an elephant bearing a gold and grey canopy with a Moorish _mahout_. Again we are told that when the Emperor Matthias, then King of Bohemia, stayed in the town in 1612, on his way to be crowned King of Rome, he was lodged, not in the Castle but in the Ægidienplatz. The house of Martin Peller was intended for his residence, but to this the King's chamberlain objected on the ground that the Queen did not care for that style of architecture and decoration. This house, on the north side of the Ægidienplatz, is a very fine specimen of rich Florentine, Renaissance building. It is interesting to observe how the façade has been adapted to the old German high-pitched roof. It was built in 1605 by Jakob Wolff, and is now used for the art and furniture show-rooms of Herr J. A. Eysser. Within will be found a grand hall, court and staircase, carved and decorated in the same rich style, and upstairs a beautifully panelled room. The policy of the town during this period was purely defensive. The wars with the Markgraf had cost Nuremberg dear, and she now set herself to recover from their disastrous effects. Her history for the next few years is a record of peace and of commercial and architectural activity. The great new building of the Rathaus was begun in the year 1622 by Jakob Wolff, the younger. The outbreak of the Thirty Years War prevented it from ever being really completed. With regard to religious matters peace was preserved outwardly. Whilst the struggles between the Catholics and Protestants and Lutherans and Calvinists and various other sects were being stubbornly fought out elsewhere, the Nuremberg Council was content to forbid the propagation of false doctrines by word or writing. _Cujus regio, ejus religio_. They rejected the _Konkordienformal_ drawn up at Magdeburg and directed against Melanchthon and his followers. And in 1573 they, in conjunction with the Markgraf, published a sort of Confession of Faith, consisting of various Lutheran and other theological works, which was signed by the clergy and accepted as a sort of rule for the churches. It was called the Nuremberg Konkordienbuch--_Libri Normales_--and every priest was required to swear to conform to it. Perhaps one of the most important occurrences for Nuremberg, in connection with these theological matters, was the founding of the University of Altdorf (south-west of Nuremberg). Joachim Camerarius, we are told, suggested to Joachim Haller, the superintendent of the Nuremberg schools, that he should form a new school on the pattern of the monastic schools in Saxony, at which youths were prepared for the University. This school was to be outside the town, so that there should be no distractions to interfere with the work of the students. The Council approved of the scheme. The school was founded and endowed, and Melanchthon's institution at St. Ægidien's was moved there. In 1622 the Emperor raised it to the rank of a University. Among the most famous of its _alumni_ was Goethe's grandfather. Leibnitz received his degree as doctor-of-law, and Oberst von Pappenheim and the great Wallenstein matriculated there. But whilst Pappenheim became rector for a short period, Wallenstein, by reason of his wild excesses, was requested to leave after a residence of five months. The University, however, after a chequered career, fell at last on evil days: the new University of Erlangen proved too powerful a rival on her borders, and in 1809 the old University of Altdorf was by royal order abolished. CHAPTER IV _Nuremberg and the Thirty Years War_ Wallenstein--Gustavus Adolphus--Kaspar Hauser. The Catholic Reaction was now in full swing. With the determination of Catholicism to regain her ancient dominion came the Thirty Years War, the last and cruellest of the religious wars, which deprived Germany of, some say, half her population, and turned a comparatively rich and prosperous country into a barren desert. The violence of Duke Maximilian of Bavaria towards the town of Donauwörth (1607), "which had been put under Ban of the Empire for some fault on the part of the populace against a flaring Mass-procession which had no business to be there," filled the free-towns and Protestant communities with dark forebodings of approaching disturbance. An Evangelical League, "The Union," was formed by the towns and princes for the purposes of self-defence against any attacks on religious freedom. Nuremberg joined it in 1610. This step was, of course, distasteful to the Emperor, but Nuremberg was left no choice in the matter. For the bishops of Bamberg and Eichstätt had forced the Nuremberg Evangelical subjects, living in their dioceses, to revert to the old religion. The Catholic communities formed a counter-league. Only a signal was wanted to make the opposing parties draw swords; and in 1618 the Bohemian resistance to the suppression of the Evangelical religion gave the signal for that bloody war, in which Nuremberg was to endure her full share of suffering. But, first, for a long time she endeavoured to pursue her old policy of neutrality, keeping peace with both parties and remaining subject to the Emperor. Meantime, as one after another of the Catholic generals passed through, men were quartered on Nuremberg in ceaseless relays, and she was bled of money and provisions. The treasury was depleted; trade disorganised; and the peasantry suffered cruelly. In 1629 Ferdinand II. thought the time had come to strike a determined blow for Catholicism, and he published an Edict of Restitution, giving back to the Roman Catholics all the ecclesiastical property and institutions which had been handed over to the Evangelists by the Treaty of Passau and the Peace of Augsburg. This brought matters to a crisis. But even yet Nuremberg did not follow the example of Magdeburg and make a firm stand against religious aggressions. Even when Gustavus Adolphus, the Protestant champion, the Lion of the North, had landed on the Pomeranian coast, and made secret proposals of union with her, she turned a deaf ear to him, and received, with princely honours, Wallenstein, Duke of Friedland, the Catholic General, when on his way to Memmingen. But at a convention of the Evangelical communities at Leipzig, called together by the Elector of Saxony, she did sign a complaint to the Emperor with regard to religious oppression, and also an agreement of the communities to help each other in case of need, and to prevent the unbearable quartering of troops and other exactions of the Emperor. Then in 1631 came the fall of Magdeburg. The subsequent horrors of that two-days' sack struck terror into the hearts of Protestant Germany. Nuremberg gave in at once to the demands of the Emperor. She denounced the Leipzig Convention, dismissed her soldiers, and paid the money required of her. In spite of these concessions, she had reason to fear that the freedom of the town would be forfeited. Tilly's defeat at Breitenfeld, however, prevented the Emperor from carrying out his expressed intention. Inspired by that victory of the Swedes, the Council plucked up courage to refuse almost all Imperial contributions. If they had consulted the wishes of the citizens, they would have joined Gustavus Adolphus forthwith. They still hankered after neutrality, however, and even when Gustavus Adolphus informed them that he would treat neutrals as enemies, they would only promise to be true to the Evangelical faith. The Swedish King continued to press them, and, still in the hope of being able to keep in favour with the Emperor, they sent a sum of money. But Gustavus Adolphus demanded their full and open support. They were still torn between the fear of offending the Emperor and the desire of securing Gustavus' aid. A sharp and menacing letter arrived. At last it was decided to send envoys to Würtzburg with instructions to draw up a treaty, if there was no help for it. The result was that Nuremberg and Bayreuth drew up a treaty with Gustavus Adolphus (October 1631), in which money was promised, and it was arranged that a special alliance should be concluded in two months' time. They agreed to put their resources at his disposal, and to stand by him to the last, whilst he on his side promised to succour them in all danger, and to relieve them if besieged. In November they renounced their allegiance to the Emperor, and lost not a moment in arming themselves. It was not too soon, for the cloud of war which had long been hanging over Franconia broke at last. Tilly took Rothenburg on October 30th, and on the 8th of November Lichtenau surrendered. Negotiations with him were opened by Nuremberg, to gain time, but, when he found how strongly fortified and garrisoned the town was, he drew off. He returned next year, but attempted nothing, for Gustavus Adolphus was now drawing near, to whom Nuremberg, after much shilly-shallying, was persuaded, by dint of threats, to send 1500 men with arms and ammunition. In March 1632, the King, leaving his army near Fürth, entered the town by the Spittlerthor amidst the heart-felt enthusiasm of the people, who had never approved of the pusillanimous policy of the Council. The Defender of the Protestants received a splendid and affecting welcome. The Patricians rode out to meet him before the gates. They presented him with four cannons and, amongst other works of art, two silver globes supported by figures of Atlas and Hercules respectively, which are still to be seen in the Museum at Stockholm. "Tears of joy streamed down the cheeks of bearded men as they welcomed the deliverer from the north, whose ready jest and beaming smile would have gone straight to the popular heart even if his deserts had been less. The picture of Gustavus was soon in every house, and a learned citizen set to work at once to compose a pedigree by which he proved to his own satisfaction that the Swedish King was descended from the old hereditary Burggrafs of the town."[21] The same day, with further reinforcements from Nuremberg, he went on his way south to deliver Donauwörth. Three months later Wallenstein, breaking up from Bohemia, directed his whole force upon Nuremberg, which thus became the chief scene in that drama immortalised by Schiller in his trilogy of plays. For no sooner did Gustavus hear that Wallenstein with the Imperial army was marching against her than, mindful of his pledge and eager not to sacrifice so valued an ally, he summoned all his reinforcements and set out to the relief of Nuremberg. Thus beneath her walls the Protestant King and the inscrutable Catholic general were to be brought face to face at last. The citizens had for some time past been anxiously increasing their fortifications, storing provisions, and enlisting soldiers. Now, between June 21st and July 6th, under the direction of Hans Olph, the Swedish engineer, and with the aid of Gustavus' army, an entirely new ring of earthworks was constructed enclosing the suburbs. Men and women, soldiers, burghers and peasants, laboured night and day at these entrenchments, which were provided with many small bastions and redoubts, and defended by over 300 cannon. Round them was dug a moat eight feet deep and twelve feet wide. Very few traces of these fortifications, which were removed soon after 1806, can be found to-day. In the Swedish camp lay some 20,000 veterans, for whom 14,000 pounds of bread were supplied per diem. Within the city was a population of at least 65,000, of whom 8000 were fighting men, 3000 of these being armed citizens. Such were the resources with which Gustavus hoped to do battle with Wallenstein's gigantic army of 60,000 men and 13,000 horse. His preparations were not yet complete when Wallenstein appeared, July 1, at Schwabach. Had he consulted the wishes of Gustavus or listened to the advice of the Elector of Bavaria, Wallenstein would have attacked the Swedes at once. But, though superior in numbers, he would not pit his newly enrolled troops against the veterans of the Swedish King. He preferred to entrench himself in a strong position on the hills above Fürth, and to starve his enemy out. By the 6th of July he had completed a camp, which, if not so skilfully engineered as that of the Swedes, was, thanks to the natural advantages of the ground, almost impregnable. This vast camp, nearly eight miles round, stretched from the left banks of the Rednitz, from Stein, over the stream of the Biebert, and enclosed the villages of Zierndorf, Altenberg, Unterasbach, and Kreutles. Every house and village and advantage of the ground was turned to account and utilised for defence. The ruin of an old _Burgstall_--the _Alte Veste_--a castle which had been destroyed in 1388 during the great _Städtekrieg_ by the Nurembergers, formed the most important outwork. Here, where the hill is at its highest, was the northernmost point of the camp, and from this fortress on the steep, wooded ridge across four miles of clear plain, through which the little Rednitz winds its course, Wallenstein gazed sternly on the climbing roofs and splendid mansions, the gabled houses and innumerable turrets of the beleaguered city. To-day, a modern tower, some eighty feet high, rears its head above the woods that crown the hill, and the adjoining inn is a favourite place of resort with the inhabitants of Fürth and Nuremberg. But some few traces of the old fortress and of Wallenstein's entrenchments may yet be found, and he who loves "to summon up remembrance of things past" will find food enough for his imagination when he attempts to reconstruct the scene of that terrible encampment. For terrible it was both to besiegers and besieged. Gustavus was cut off from his base of supplies in the Upper Danube and Rhine by this great entrenched camp south-west of Nuremberg, and all the roads leading into Franconia were scoured by Wallenstein's light Croatian cavalry. Though provisions had at first been plentiful, the resources of the city were soon strained to the uttermost by the influx of peasants who had fled for refuge from the country. The mills and bakeries were unable to supply bread fast enough to the starving inhabitants, so that mobs fought outside the bakers' shops in their desperate haste for food. Famine laid hold of the city first, then of the Swedish, and finally of the Imperial camp. And in the path of famine followed, as ever, pestilence. Pestilence in July, in a mediæval city, crowded with grim soldiers, grown shrunken and meagre, with starving women and whitefaced children--it would require the pen of a Flaubert or a Zola to describe. Worse than all for Gustavus to bear, when want came to be felt in the army, there came the relaxation of that discipline on which he had prided himself. The citizens complained that his Swedish troops were behaving like Austrian banditti. Sending for the chief Germans in his service, the King rated them soundly in a famous oration. Never was his Majesty seen before in such a rage. "They are no Swedes who commit these crimes," he said truly enough, "but you Germans yourselves. You princes, counts, lords, and noblemen, are showing great disloyalty and wickedness on your own fatherland, which you are ruining. You colonels and officers, from the highest to the lowest, it is you who steal and rob everyone, without making any exceptions. "You plunder your own brothers in the faith. Had I known that you had been a people so wanting in natural affection for your country, I would never have saddled a horse for your sakes, much less imperilled my life and my crown and my brave Swedes and Finns. It is your inhumanity towards your mother-country that has tarnished the glory of my victorious subjects. My heart is filled with gall when I see anyone of you behaving thus villainously. For you cause men to say openly, 'The King, our friend, does us more harm than our enemies.' If you were real Christians you would consider what I am doing for you, how I am spending my life in your service. I came but to restore every man to his own, but this most accursed and devilish robbing of yours doth much abate my purpose. I have given up the treasures of my crown for your sake, and have not enriched myself so much as by one pair of boots since my coming to Germany, though I have had forty tons of gold passing through my hands. "Enter into your hearts, and think how sad you are making me, so that the tears stand in my eyes. You treat me ill with your evil discipline; I do not say with your evil fighting: for in that you have behaved like honourable gentlemen, and for that I am much obliged to you. Take my warning to heart, and we will soon show our enemies that we are honest men and honourable gentlemen." Again when informed that a soldier had stolen a cow, he turned a deaf ear to him as he pleaded for his life, for "My son," he said, "it is better that thou shouldst expiate thy offence by the sacrifice of life than that thy crime should draw down the vengeance of the Almighty upon me and thy gallant comrades; for though I consider every soldier in the light of a child, yet I am destined to perform the duties of a judge, no less than those of a parent." So for two weary months plague, famine and wounds did their fell work inside and out. The hospitals were full to overflowing. The graves could not be dug fast enough to hold the dead. The countless victims of hunger and pestilence lay for days in the trenches, poisoning the air. In the streets were strewn the half-decayed bodies of men and horses, eaten of pigs. But if the Protestants suffered so did the Imperialists. And always Wallenstein sat implacable on the height refusing to join battle, waiting grimly till starvation should have done its work and the sack of Magdeburg could be repeated. For Gustavus must either attack Wallenstein in his impregnable position or march away the city to its fate. The arrival of reinforcements, which increased the King's army to 50,000 men, determined him to make a general assault on the Alte Veste and the northern side of the camp. It will be clear to anyone who examines the ground that this was an almost impossible undertaking, the forlornest of forlorn hopes. What desperate courage could do was done. For ten hours the Swedes stormed undaunted against fearful odds and with fearful losses. Three times they got actual footing in the Burgstall itself; three times they were hurled back. At last Gustavus, who had had a piece of the sole of his right boot shot off, and had always been in the thickest part of the fight, dragging the cannon to points of vantage and aiming them with his own hands, was obliged to relinquish the desperate enterprise. "We have done a stupid thing to-day," was his comment. For the first time in his life, indeed, he was conquered, because he was not conqueror. But Wallenstein's claws were cut: he had suffered little less than Gustavus in the fight round the Alte Veste. Nuremberg was saved for the present, for Wallenstein was in no condition to prosecute a siege. After fifteen days, therefore (September 8), Gustavus, unable to stay for lack of supplies, and failing to entice the enemy into battle on the plain, marched away into Thuringia, and two months later, on the field of Lutzen, he fell in the moment of victory when he had defeated his old enemy. Before that, however, ten days after he had departed, and a week after Wallenstein had broken up his camp, Gustavus came back to Fürth and looked at what had been the enemy's position. It is said that he had breakfast on the round stone table still to be found at the Alte Veste, and known as the _Schweden Tisch_. Once more, in October, he returned, drove the Imperial troops out of the Nuremberg territory, and took his last farewell of the town. The Treaty of Westphalia brought the Thirty Years War to an end in 1648, but not before the interruption of commerce and the extraordinary exertions she had made had reduced the resources of Nuremberg to a very low ebb, and saddled her with a load of debt from which she never recovered. When at last peace was announced, the festivals with which she celebrated it reflected the last splendour of the once prosperous city. Karl Gustav, as representative of the crown of Sweden, gave a magnificent dinner--the "_Friedensmal_"--in the Rathaus to celebrate this occasion. The Council ordered a Neptune with nymphs and dolphins, designed by Christoph Ritter, and figures modelled by Georg Schweigger, to be placed in the middle of the market-place. It was, for some reason, placed in the Peünt-hof. It was sold in 1797 to Paul of Russia to raise money. Another incident which is recorded of these days of rejoicing is as follows: When peace was proclaimed with France, Octavio Piccolomini was staying in the Pellerhaus, and he gave a dance to the peasants. Now a rumour was circulated that all the boys who appeared on hobby-horses before his house on the following Sunday would get a silver coin. They assembled accordingly, and when he heard the reason of this extraordinary parade, he told them to come next Sunday, and then gave them each a four-cornered medal--still to be seen in numismatic collections--with a picture of a hobby-horse, and the date 1650 on it. Through the peace of Westphalia Nuremberg with the other free towns obtained full political equality with the princes of the Empire. Their representatives, who before only had a voice in the discussions, now enjoyed the full right of voting. But, in spite of this, the political importance of Nuremberg began to disappear. Her sovereignty, her right of peace and war, were recognised. But she became a quiet and obedient attendant of the Reichstag in Regensburg, paying her quota of men and money, and supporting the Hapsburg interests. Her energy, in fact, had been exhausted. The census of her citizens in 1622 amounted to 40,000; in 1806 to 25,000. With the decrease in her population, her prosperity decreased. The load of debt accumulated during the Thirty Years War weighed her down. Her trade, like that of Augsburg and all the other German towns, went from bad to worse. Dislocated during the war, it could not recover now. Chief among the causes of decay must be counted the circumnavigation of the Cape of Good Hope. Prior to that, all merchandise from the East was obliged to travel overland into Europe and came for distribution by way of Germany. Nuremberg then naturally became the chief entrepôt. Now she suffered, with Venice, from the discovery of this new channel of commerce. The Venetians had boasted that thanks to them Nuremberg had come from nothing to be the richest town in Germany. The Fondaco dei Tedeschi, the German quarter in Venice since the days of the Crusades, still bears witness to their connection with the German traders, and, in Nuremberg, winged lions on many of the houses still record the same fact. Other and more avoidable causes contributed to the decrease of Nuremberg trade. She adopted an exaggerated system of protection, and levied exorbitant taxes on goods brought into or through the country. In the old days every good thing had been said to come out of Nuremberg (Was gut sein sollte, wurde aus Nürnberg verschrieben); now the output of her manufactures was foolishly limited by rules. In some trades, for instance, only the son or the husband of a widow of a master might become a master craftsman. Hence many failed to find employment, and set up in the surrounding country as competitors. The selfish and misguided prejudices of the trades led also to the exclusion of the Protestant weavers who had been exiled from France or Flanders, and who, finding asylum elsewhere, soon became rivals of the shortsighted Nurembergers. The Council, too, suffered and aided the common degeneration. A narrow, effete, and selfish oligarchy, it became more tyrannical as it became more incompetent. The authors of libels and satires, criticising it, were rewarded with lifelong imprisonment. More and more the patrician families drew together and separated themselves from the common people. They clung closer to their exclusive privileges as they became less worthy of them. Endeavouring to become more like the landed nobility, they began to abandon business, and withdrew from the State the capital and brains which had formerly made it prosperous. They grew, indeed, in their false pride, so ashamed of trade that they said that no Nuremberg patrician had ever had to do with business! So a proud and poor nobility came to take the place of rich and patriotic merchant princes. Some even gave up their rights of citizenship and went to live on their property outside Nuremberg, thus still further weakening the Council and quarrelling with it over rights of taxation. From war, also, Nuremberg suffered. Besides her own private bickerings with the Markgraf, she felt the wars with France, the war of the Austrian succession, and suffered still more in the Seven Years War. In 1786 a fresh struggle arose between the Council and the town over a new tax which it was sought to impose without consultation. The citizens made a fruitless complaint to the Imperial Court. Then the Council appealed to the Diet, saying that the town was overtaxed. An inquiry into her finances showed that Nuremberg was heavily in debt and practically bankrupt. There had been a large yearly deficit since 1763. A commission to economise and to govern was appointed from both Councils, and in 1794 an arrangement was confirmed by the Emperor by which the larger Council was to consist of 250 members (70 of whom were to be patricians), chosen by the smaller Council. The citizens, however, were not contented, complaining that they were still not properly represented. Meanwhile an event had occurred which drove another nail into the coffin of the free Imperial city. In 1791, Charles Alexander, Markgraf of Brandenburg, Ansbach and Bayreuth, died childless, and the government of his principalities passed to Prussia, together with the old claims of the Franconian line of the Brandenburg house. A minister, Graf Karl August von Hardenberg, the famous chancellor, was appointed to rule these lands. In the name of the King of Prussia he asserted his right of supremacy over all the territory up to the gates of the town itself. The oldest claims of the _Burggräflichen_ times were reasserted by the Prussians. Nuremberg was powerless to resist. Even so her troubles were not yet ended. A Prussian army had occupied Fürth on July 4, 1796, and in August a vanguard of the French victorious army, which was swarming over South Germany, entered Nuremberg on the 9th of August. The scenes of the Thirty Years War were repeated. The country was ravaged, and the town called upon for contributions. It was impossible to comply at once with these demands. Eighteen citizens were therefore taken away to France as hostages. When, a few weeks later, the French army withdrew, after the Archduke Karl's victory, a fresh contribution was demanded. In despair the town almost unanimously decided to seek union with their old enemy, the King of Prussia. But he refused this Grecian gift, for the debt of the town was enormous. Then the Council turned to the Emperor and offered to accept an Imperial commission, which introduced some financial reforms. But the year 1800 brought more French troops into Nuremberg, who were a further strain upon her resources. Even after the Peace of Pressburg the long agony of the Imperial free city was continued, till in 1806 by a decree of Napoleon, in the 17th article of the Rheinbund Act, it was laid down that "the town and territory of Nuremberg be united to Bavaria with full sovereignty and possession." On the 6th of August 1806, Emperor Francis abdicated, and the Holy Roman Empire, "which was a grand object once, but had gone about in a superannuated and plainly crazy state for some centuries back, was at last put out of pain and allowed to cease from the world." Since then the story of Nuremberg is swallowed up in the history of United Germany. She has shared and still shares in the growing prosperity of the new Empire. The first railway in Germany was opened in 1835 between Nuremberg and Fürth. Her hops, her toys, her cakes, her railway-carriages, her lead-pencils, are they not known the world over? New buildings have sprung up on every side of her: the suburbs are themselves great manufacturing towns. The population has grown to 170,000. These are all things on which she may most sincerely be congratulated; but whatever her prosperity in the present or the future, her golden age, we feel, is in the past. She is Albert Durer's and Hans Sachs' city. * * * * * We began by hinting that the atmosphere of Nuremberg is mediæval, that of a city of legend. We will close this account of her history with the brief narration of her last, her nineteenth century myth. For we cannot pass over in silence the curious case of Kaspar Hauser. At a time when Europe was still dripping from the douche of sentimentality in which it had been bathed by the sorrows of Werther and the romanticism of Byron, Kaspar Hauser appeared suddenly in Nuremberg. His astonishing story achieved a European celebrity. The history of this impostor has recently been placed once more before the public by the Duchess of Cleveland,[22] with the object of clearing her father from imputations which would have been ridiculous if they had not been so impudent. Charity, and the facts of the case, enable us to add with regard to Kaspar himself, that if he was an impostor he was also half a lunatic; for we can trace in the records of his career, among other symptoms of a diseased brain, the mania of persecution, an over acute and perverted sense of smell, a restless love of notoriety, and an ineradicable habit of lying. On Easter Monday, May 1828, a lad of seventeen, dressed like a countryman, appeared outside the Neue Thor, and asked, in the low Bavarian dialect, his way to the Neue Thor Strasse. He had with him two letters in one envelope addressed to "The Captain of the 4th Squadron of the Schmolischer Regiment, Neue Thor Strasse, Nuremberg." They ran as follows, in handwriting exactly similar to Kaspar's:-- "HONORED SIR,--I send you a lad who wishes to serve his King truly; this lad was brought to me on Oct. 7, 1812. I am a poor day labourer, with ten children of my own; I have enough to do to get on at all. His mother asked me to bring up the boy. I asked her no questions, nor have I given notice to the county police that I had taken the boy. I thought I ought to take him as my son. I have brought him up as a good Christian, and since 1812 I have never let him go a step away from the house, so no one knows where he has been brought up, and he himself does not know the name of my house or of the place; you may ask him, but he can't tell you. I have taught him to read and to write; he can write as well as myself. When we ask him what he would like to be, he says a soldier, like his father. If he had parents (which he has not) he would have been a scholar: only show him a thing and he can do it. "Honoured Sir, you may question him, but he don't know where I live. I brought him away in the middle of the night; he can't find his way back." Dated, "From the Bavarian Frontier; place not named." The second letter ran thus:-- "The boy is baptized, his name is Kaspar; his other name you must give him. I ask you to bring him up. His father was a Schmolischer (trooper). When he is seventeen send him to Nuremberg to the 6th Schmolischer Regiment; that is where his father was. I beg you to bring him up till he is seventeen. He was born on April 30, 1812. I am so poor, I can't keep the boy; his father is dead." In answer to the Captain's questions the lad would only reply: "My foster-father bade me say, 'I don't know, your honour.'" The result was that he was placed in a prison cell in the castle. That was neither a fair nor a judicious proceeding. The garbled story of a wild man, a wronged man, quickly spread through the town. Feigning at first an intense fear and animal stupidity, it seems probable that Kaspar picked up from the visitors who discussed his history in his presence the suggestion of the marvellous tale which he presently told, and which made so tremendous a sensation. It was a tale demonstrably false on the face of it--of a life spent in close and solitary confinement in a cell, without knowledge of his kind or acquaintance with the outside world. Here is his story as he told it to the Nuremberg magistrates, and as it found acceptance in credulous quarters. "All his life," he said, "had been spent in a cell 6 or 7 feet long, 4 feet wide, and 5 feet high, and always in a sitting posture; the only change in which was that when awake he sat upright, but leant back on a truss of straw when he slept. There were two small windows, but they were both boarded up, and as it was always twilight he never knew the difference between day and night. Nor did he ever feel hot or cold. He saw no one, and no sound of any kind ever reached his ear. Each morning, when he awoke, he found a pitcher of water and a loaf of rye bread by his side. He was often thirsty, and when he had emptied his pitcher, he used to watch to see whether the water would come again, as he had no idea how it was brought there. Sometimes it tasted strangely and made him feel sleepy. He had toys to play with--two wooden horses and a wooden dog, and he spent his time in rolling them about, and dressing them up with ribbons. "One day a stool was placed across his knees, with a piece of paper upon it: an arm was stretched out over his shoulder, a pencil put into his hand, which was taken hold of, and guided over the paper. 'I never looked round to see whom the arm belonged to. Why should I? I had no conception of any other creature beside myself.' This proceeding was repeated seven or eight times: the arm was then withdrawn, but the stool and paper left behind. He tried to copy the letters he had been made to trace, and pleased with this new occupation, persevered till he had succeeded. Thus it was that he learned to write his name. About three days afterwards--as far as he could judge--the man came again and brought a little book (a prayer-book which was found on him). This was placed on his knees and his hand laid upon it; then, pointing to one of the wooden horses, the man kept on repeating the word 'Ross' (horse) till he had learned to say it after him. According to his own account, this was the first time in his life he had ever heard a sound of any kind, as the man came and went noiselessly. Then, in the same fashion, he was taught two sentences--'In the big village, where my father is, I shall get a fine horse.' 'I want to be a trooper as my father was'--which he repeated by rote, of course without understanding them. When his lesson was learnt the man went away, and he began playing with his toys, making so much noise that the man returned and gave him a smart blow with a stick, which hurt him very much. "'After that I was always quiet.' The last time the man came it was to take him away. His clothes had been changed while he slept; a pair of boots were now brought and put on; he was hoisted up on the man's shoulders, and carried up a steep incline into the open air. It was night-time and quite dark. He was laid down on the ground, and fell asleep at once. When he awoke, he was lifted upon his feet, and placed in front of the man, who, holding him under the arms, pushed forward his legs with his own, and showed him how to walk. But the pain and fatigue were very great, and he cried bitterly. The man said impatiently, 'Leave off crying at once, or you shall not get that horse;' and he thereupon obeyed. Then he was again lifted up and carried; again dropped asleep, and again he woke to find himself lying on the ground. This was repeated over and over again. There were the same painful attempts to walk; the same floods of tears, checked by the same threat; and then the same rest on the ground, with 'something soft' under his cheek. By degrees he began to walk alone, supported by the man's arm, though at first only six steps at a time. The sunshine and fresh air together dazzled and bewildered him, and he scarcely took note where they went. They never travelled on a beaten track, but generally on soft sand; never went up or down hill, or crossed a stream. Sometimes he attempted to look about him; then the man instantly desired him to hold his head down. His clothes were once more changed; but the man, even while dressing him, stood behind him, so that he might not see his face. The two sentences he had learned were again and again impressed on his memory as he went along, the man always adding impressively, 'Mind this well.' "He also said, 'When you are a trooper like your father, I will come and fetch you again.' "The journey cannot have been a long one, as he only took food once; he himself computed it had lasted a day and a night. "Finally the letter was put into his hands with the words: 'Go there--where the letter belongs;' and the man suddenly vanished from his side. He found himself alone in the street of Nuremberg--having never till then perceived that he had entered the town, or, in fact, seen it at all. He was quite dazed and helpless, but someone kindly came and took charge of him and his letter." ... So great was the interest caused by this story, which easily roused the sympathy of the illogical--people are always readier to sympathise than to inquire--that Kaspar was (July 1828) formally adopted by the town of Nuremberg. An annual sum of 300 florins was voted for his maintenance and education. He became the idol of society. It was openly hinted that he was the legitimate son of the reigning House of Baden, who stood in the way of the next in succession, and would have been long since in his grave had he not been rescued by a faithful retainer, who kept him in close confinement to conceal him from his pursuers. In the course of a year or so, however, the interest in him began to wane. His tutor, who had at first been delighted with him, was beginning to find him out. Kaspar, in fact, was both cunning and untruthful. One day a particularly gross instance of his deceitfulness came to his tutor's knowledge. The same morning Nuremberg was electrified by the news that Kaspar's life had been attempted in broad daylight, and actually under his tutor's roof. A man, he said, with a black handkerchief drawn across his face, had suddenly confronted him, and aimed at him a blow with a heavy woodman's knife, crying, "After all, you will have to die before you leave Nuremberg." The voice was the voice of the man who had brought him to the town. He described him accurately. But no such man could be traced. The wound was very slight. Almost certainly it was self-inflicted, with the object of stimulating the flagging public interest by a new and romantic incident. That at any rate was its effect. Pamphlets by the dozen appeared, and in 1832 President von Feuerbach published his "History of a Crime against a Human Soul," which moved all hearts by the pathos and eloquence with which it pleaded the cause of the mysteriously persecuted "Child of Europe." But the Nurembergers were no longer eager to continue their allowance to the boy, so Lord Stanhope, who had always befriended him, now came forward, and made himself responsible for his education and maintenance. The rest of Kaspar's life is somewhat dismal reading. He had to endure the process of being found out by successive people at successive places, for he had all the astuteness but also all the vanity of a lunatic. Once again, it appears, he attempted to reawaken the flagging interest of the public. At Ansbach he tried to repeat his Nuremberg success, and to confirm the existence of the mysterious persecutor who was supposed to haunt him. But this time he failed. Once more he got stabbed, but instead of a slight, he inflicted on himself a deadly wound. Now though he had taken much trouble to make the conditions of the affair as mysterious and misleading as possible, a long judicial investigation resulted in the irresistible conclusion that "no murder was committed." At Ansbach stands the tomb of the poor deluded and deluding "Child of Europe," a monument of folly not all his own. "Hic jacet CASPARUS HAUSER Ænigma sui temporis Ignota Nativitas Occulta Mors, 1833." CHAPTER V _The Castle, the Walls and Mediæval Fortifications_ "Aufwärts Ich mit dem Alten ging Nach einer königlichen Veste, Am Fels erbauet auf das Beste; Manch Thurm auf Felsvorsprüngen lag, Darin ein kaiserlich Gemach. Geziert nach meisterlichen Sinnen Die Fenster waren und die Zinnen; Darum ein Graben war gehauen In harten Fels." --HANS SACHS. Nuremberg is set upon a series of small slopes in the midst of an undulating, sandy plain, some 900 feet above the sea. Here and there on every side fringes and patches of the mighty forest which once covered it are still visible; but for the most part the plain is now freckled with picturesque villages, in which stand old turreted châteaux, with gabled fronts and latticed windows, or it is clothed with carefully cultivated crops or veiled from sight by the smoke which rises from the new-grown forest of factory chimneys. The railway sets us down outside the walls of the city. As we walk from the station towards the Frauen Thor, and stand beneath the crown of fortified walls three and a half miles in circumference, and gaze at the old grey towers and picturesque confusion of domes, pinnacles and spires, suddenly it seems as if our dream of a feudal city has been realised. There, before us, is one of the main entrances, still between massive gates and beneath archways flanked by stately towers. Still to reach it we must cross a moat fifty feet deep and a hundred feet wide. True, the swords of old days have been turned into pruning-hooks; the crenelles and embrasures which once bristled and blazed with cannon are now curtained with brambles and wallflowers, and festooned with virginia creepers; the galleries are no longer crowded with archers and cross-bowmen; the moat itself has blossomed into a garden, luxuriant with limes and acacias, elders, planes, chestnuts, poplars, walnut, willow and birch trees, or divided into carefully tilled little garden plots. True it is that outside the moat, beneath the smug grin of substantial modern houses, runs that mark of modernity, the electric tram. But let us for the moment forget these gratifying signs of modern prosperity and, turning to the left ere we enter the Frauen Thor, walk with our eyes on the towers which, with their steep-pitched roofs and myriad shapes and richly coloured tiles, mark the intervals in the red-bricked, stone-cased galleries and mighty bastions, till we come to the first beginnings of Nuremberg--the Castle. There, on the highest eminence of the town, stands that venerable fortress, crowning the red slope of tiles. Roofs piled on roofs, their pinnacles, turrets, points and angles heaped one above the other in a splendid confusion, climb the hill which culminates in the varied group of buildings on the Castle rock. We have passed the Spittler, Mohren, Haller and Neu Gates on our way, and we have crossed by the Hallerthorbrücke the Pegnitz where it flows into the town. Before us rise the bold scarps and salient angles of the bastions built by the Italian architect, Antonio Fazuni, called the Maltese (1538-43). Crossing the moat by a wooden bridge which curls round to the right, we enter the town by the Thiergärtnerthor. The right-hand corner house opposite us now is Albert Durer's house. We turn to the left and go along the Obere Schmiedgasse and the row of houses labelled Am Oelberg, till we arrive at the top of a steep hill (Burgstrasse). Above, on the left, is the Castle, and close at hand the "Mount of Olives" Sculpture (see p. 201). We may now either go through the Himmels Thor to the left, or keeping straight up under the old trees and passing the "Mount of Olives" on the left, approach the large deep-roofed building between two towers. This is the Kaiserstallung, as it is called, the Imperial stables, built originally for a granary. The towers are the Luginsland (Look in the land) on the east, and the Fünfeckiger Thurm, the Five-cornered tower, at the west end (on the left hand as we thus face it). The Luginsland was built by the townspeople in the hard winter of 1377. The mortar for building it, tradition says, had to be mixed with salt, so that it might be kept soft and be worked in spite of the severe cold. The chronicles state that one could see right into the Burggraf's Castle from this tower, and the town was therefore kept informed of any threatening movements on his part. To some extent that was very likely the object in view when the tower was built, but chiefly it must have been intended, as its name indicates, to afford a far look-out into the surrounding country. The granary or Kaiserstallung, as it was called later, was erected in 1494, and is referred to by Hans Behaim as lying between the Five-cornered and the Luginsland Towers. Inside the former there is a museum of curiosities (Hans Sachs' harp) and the famous collection of instruments of torture and the Maiden (Eiserne Jungfrau), to which we shall refer at greater length in the next chapter. The open space [Illustration: THE CASTLE FROM THE HALLERTHORBRÜCKE] adjoining it commands a splendid view to the north. There, too, on the parapet-wall, may be seen the hoof-marks of the horse of the robber-knight, Ekkelein von Gailingen, whose story we have already narrated (p. 43). Here for a moment let us pause, consider our position, and endeavour to make out from the conflicting theories of the archæologists something of the original arrangement of the castles and of the significance of the buildings and towers that yet remain. Stretching to the east of the rock on which the Castle stands is a wide plain, now the scene of busy industrial enterprise, but in old days no doubt a mere district of swamp and forest. Westwards the rock rises by three shelves to the summit. The entrance to the Castle, it is surmised, was originally on the east side, at the foot of the lower plateau and through a tower which no longer exists. Opposite this hypothetical gate-tower stood the Five-cornered tower. The lower part dates, we have seen, from no earlier than the eleventh century. It is referred to as Alt-Nürnberg (old Nuremberg) in the Middle Ages. The title of "Five-cornered" is really somewhat a misnomer, for an examination of the interior of the lower portion of the tower reveals the fact that it is quadrangular. The pentagonal appearance of the exterior is due to the fragment of a smaller tower which once leant against it, and probably formed the apex of a wing running out from the old castle of the Burggrafs. The Burggräfliche Burg stood below, according to Mummenhof, south-west and west of this point. It was burnt down in 1420, and the ruined remains of it are supposed to be traceable in the eminence, now overgrown by turf and trees, through which a sort of ravine, closed in on either side by built-up walls, has just brought us from the town to the Vestner Thor. The Burggrafs' Castle would appear to have been so situated as to protect the approach to the Imperial Castle (Kaiserburg). The exact extent of the former we cannot now determine. Meisterlin refers to it as _parvum fortalitium_--a little fort. We may, however, be certain that it reached from the Five-cornered tower to the Walpurgiskapelle. For this little chapel, east of the open space called the Freiung, is repeatedly spoken of as being on the property of the Burggrafs. Besides their castle proper, which was held at first as a fief of the Empire, and afterwards came to be regarded as their hereditary, independent property, the Burggrafs were also entrusted with the keeping of a tower which commanded the entrance to the Castle rock on the country side, perhaps near the site of the present Vestner Thor. The _custodia portæ_ may have been attached to the tower, the lower portion of which remains to this day, and is called the Bailiff's Dwelling (Burgamtmannswohnung). The exact relationship of the Burggraf to the town on the one hand, and to the Empire on the other, is, as we have already observed, somewhat obscure. Originally, it would appear, he was merely an Imperial officer, administering Imperial estates, and looking after Imperial interests. In later days he came to possess great power, but this was due not to his position as castellan or castle governor as such, but to the vast private property his position had enabled him to amass and to keep. As the scope and ambitions of the Burggrafs increased, and as the smallness of their castle at Nuremberg, and the constant friction with the townspeople, who were able to annoy them in many ways, became more irksome, they gave up living at Nuremberg, and finally were content to sell their rights and possessions there to the town. Besides the _custodia portæ_ of the Burggrafs, which together with their castle passed by purchase into the hands of the town (1427), there were various other similar guard towers, such as the one which formerly occupied the present site of the Luginsland, or the Hasenburg at the so-called Himmels Thor, or a third which once stood near the Deep Well on the second plateau of the Castle rock. But we do not know how many of these there were, or where they stood, much less at what date they were built. All we do know is that they, as well as the Burggrafs' possessions, were purchased in succession by the town, into whose hands by degrees came the whole property of the Castle rock. Above the ruins of the "little fort" of the Burggrafs rises the first plateau of the Castle rock. It is surrounded by a wall, strengthened on the south side (_l_) by a square tower against which leans the Walpurgiskapelle. The path to the Kaiserburg leads under the wall of the plateau, and is entirely commanded by it and by the quadrangular tower, the lower part of which alone remains and is known by the name of Burgamtmannswohnung (_r_). The path goes straight to this tower, and at the foot of it is the entrance to the first plateau. Then along the edge of this plateau the way winds southwards (_l_), entirely commanded again by the wall of the second plateau, at the foot of which there probably used to be a trench. Over this a bridge led to the gate of the second plateau. The trench has been long since filled in, but the huge round tower which guarded the gate still remains and is the Vestner Thurm (_r_).[23] The Vestner Thurm or Sinwel Thurm (sinwel = round), or, as it is called in a charter of the year 1313, the "Turm in der Mitte," is the only round tower of the Burg. It was built in the days of early Gothic, with a sloping base, and of roughly flattened stones with a smooth edge. It was partly restored and altered in 1561, when it was made a few feet higher and its round roof was added. It is worth paying the small gratuity required for ascending to the top. The view obtained of the city below is magnificent. The Vestner Thurm, like the whole Imperial castle, passed at length into the care of the town, which kept its Tower watch here as early as the fourteenth century.[24] [Illustration: VESTNER THURM] The well which supplied the second plateau with water, the "Deep Well," _Tiefer Brunnen_, as it is called, stands in the centre, surrounded by a wall. It is 335 feet deep, hewn out of the solid rock, and is said to have been wrought by the hands of prisoners, and to have been the labour of thirty years. So much we can easily believe as we lean over and count the six seconds that elapse between the time when an object is dropped from the top to the time when it strikes the water beneath. Passages lead from the water's edge to the Rathaus, by which prisoners came formerly to draw water, and to St. John's Churchyard and other points outside the town. The system of underground passages here and in the Castle was an important part of the defences, affording as it did a means of communication with the outer world and as a last extremity, in the case of a siege, a means of escape.[25] Meanwhile, leaving the Deep Well and passing some insignificant modern dwellings (_r_), and leaving beneath us on the left the Himmelsthor, let us approach the summit of the rock and the buildings of the Kaiserburg itself. As we advance to the gateway with the intention of ringing the bell for the castellan, we notice on the left the Double Chapel, attached to the Heidenthurm (Heathen Tower, see page 3), the lower part of which is encrusted with what were once supposed to be Pagan images. The Tower protrudes beyond the face of the third plateau, and its prominence may indicate the width of a trench, now filled in, which was once dug outside the enclosing wall of the summit of the rock. The whole of the south side of this plateau is taken up by the _Palas_ (the vast hall, two stories high, which, though it has been repeatedly rebuilt, may in its original structure be traced back as far as the twelfth century), and the _Kemnate_ or dwelling-rooms which seem to have been without any means of defence. This plateau, like the second, is supplied with a well. But the first object that strikes the eye on entering the court-yard is the ruined lime-tree, the branches of which once spread their broad and verdant shelter over the whole extent of the quadrangle. The Empress Kunigunde planted it, says the legend, some seven hundred years ago. For once, when King Henry was a-hunting, he came in the pursuit of a deer to the edge of a steep precipice, and this in the heat of the chase he did not perceive, but would have fallen headlong had not a lime-branch, at which he grasped in his extremity, stopped and saved him. And he, recognising the special protection of the Most High, broke off a twig of the lime-tree in remembrance of his wonderful preservation, and brought it to his anxious wife, who planted it at once with her own hands in the earth, and it soon grew into a beautiful tree. A modern staircase leads from the court to the rooms of the Castle. They have been much spoilt by being rebuilt in modern Gothic style by Voit (1856) and being furnished as a royal residence. Some objects of considerable interest, however, may still be seen here. In the great hall and in the bedrooms will be found some magnificent old stoves by Augustin Hirschvogel and others; whilst in the various rooms may be seen some fine stained glass and some heraldic paintings of Albert Durer's time. The single large spread-eagle on the ceiling of the writing-room (which was discovered in 1833 after two other ceilings had been removed) is especially remarkable. The windows command splendid views of the surrounding country. There are a few pictures in the hall of unequal interest. They are mostly copies of Italian painters; but we may mention the Venus and Cupid by Lucas Cranach, the Mocking of Christ by Hans Schäuffelein, Durer's favourite pupil, and others by artists of the old Nuremberg and Flemish schools. A narrow staircase leads from the dining-hall to the _Emperor's Chapel_ (Kaiser-kapelle). It was built in the twelfth century by one of the Hohenstaufen emperors, very likely by Frederick Barbarossa himself, when the growing favour with which Nuremberg was regarded gave rise to the need of a larger and more splendid building than the primitive _St. Margaret's Chapel_ and fort which already existed. A rebuilding and enlarging of the Imperial castle then took place, and the beautiful Emperor-Chapel was superimposed on the Margaret-Chapel, thus forming the two-storied or double chapel. Romanesque in style, it is comparatively uninjured, and resembles the Double Chapel of Eger, where the lower chapel is also attributed to Barbarossa. The two chapels are very different in character. The lower, which was used as a Gruftkapelle[26] or place of sepulture, is solemn and almost gloomy in effect; the upper, whilst harmonising with the lower, is in a much lighter and more charming style. The plan of the lower chapel is rectangular with an extension into the Heathen Tower in the shape of a rectangular choir, lighted by a romanesque window. The low, round vaulting of this, the St. Margaret's Chapel, rests on two low four-cornered pillars and on four columns, the capitals of which, hewn from great blocks, are richly sculptured, one with four eagles, two with foliage, and the fourth with masks. They were, according to the manner of construction customary at Nuremberg, set up unwrought and only carved afterwards, as may be seen from the capital of the south-west column, which is only decorated on the two inner sides, the other two being unfinished. From the walls spring heavy brackets to receive the plinths of the arches which support the cross-vaulting. The two low pillars mentioned above divide the main body of the chapel from an irregular intermediate building adjoining the Castle. Entrance to the upper, or Kaiser, Chapel is only possible from the lower rooms of the Castle, whence, above the flight of steps already referred to, a Gothic doorway now leads to the chapel, by way of a vestibule or entrance hall. This hall is situated exactly over the western irregular section of the lower chapel. The low stout pillars which support the vaulting correspond in their ornamentation with that of the lower chapel. On the hexagonal capitals of one we find four of the familiar mediæval masks, whilst on both of them the sculptured foliage and basket-work recall that of the Margaret Chapel. In the wall which separates the vestibule from the Castle a small connecting staircase leads up to a platform, which opens out in two arches towards the chapel and probably formed the Imperial oratory. It is in immediate connection with the upper rooms of the Castle by means of a Gothic door which has replaced a romanesque gateway. Thus the Emperor could easily reach his seat in the chapel from the Castle. Ascending three steps, one arrives through a broad archway at the raised choir, which also resembles the Margaret Chapel in its ornamentation. But the most striking and distinctive feature of the Kaiserkapelle, which gives it its characteristically light and graceful appearance, is the four slender columns of white marble, with richly decorated capitals and bases, which support the vaulting. One of the columns is built of two pieces. An unwrought ring covers the seam. Hence arose the legend that, at the time when the chapel was building, the Devil, who lusted after the soul of the Castle chaplain, wagered him that he would bring these four pillars from Milan sooner than the priest could read the Mass. The priest, who had a glib tongue, cheerfully undertook the wager. The Devil was quick, but the chaplain was quicker. The Devil had already brought three columns, and the fourth was close at hand, when the nimble priest said "Amen." So infuriated was the Devil at losing his wager that he flung down the pillar. It fell so heavily on the floor that it broke in two, and had to be bound together with the ring. The coloured stone head above the choir-arch is supposed to be a memorial of this castle chaplain, who so cleverly obtained cheap transport for the Church! Without taking this legend altogether _au pied de la lettre_, we may think it likely from the style and material that these pillars were brought from some Italian building. On the north-east wall of the chapel is an altarpiece with wings by Wolgemut--SS. Wenceslaus and Martin, and SS. Barbara and Elizabeth on the reverse. The carved figures in the centre of the altarpiece on the south-east wall are by Veit Stoss, and the wings are of the school of Wolgemut. On the south wall are two pictures by Burgkmair (?) and a relief after designs by Adam Krafft. On the west wall are a picture by Kulmbach and a remarkable relief by Krafft, and on the north wall two pictures by Strigel, and one by Holbein the elder. The quadrangular aperture,[27] which occupies the entire space between the four pillars and allows a full view of the lower chapel, was for a long time walled up. This was done after the chapel had been plastered over, probably towards the end of the fifteenth century. Ably restored in 1892 the chapel is now very much in its original state. The plaster, repeated layers of which had covered the capitals and ornaments with a thick crust, preventing their shape from being any longer recognisable, has been removed. The missing parts of the ornaments have been very skilfully replaced. The original red stone flooring was laid bare and the aperture reopened. There is some disagreement as to the purpose of this opening. We are usually told that it was made for a united church service of the Emperor and Castle retainers: the Emperor taking his seat in the upper, the retainers in the lower chapel. It may be so: but one would rather believe that it was intended to enable the Castle dignitaries, when the service was held in the upper chapel, still to obtain a view of the niches where the mortal remains of their ancestors rested, and to reflect upon the virtues and the end of their mighty dead, remembering the while that they too were mortal. * * * * * On leaving the Castle we find ourselves in the Burgstrasse, called in the old days Unter der Veste, which was probably the High Street of the old town. Off both sides of this street and of the Bergstrasse ran narrow crooked little alleys lined with wooden houses of which time and fire have left scarcely any trace. As you wander round the city tracing the line of the old walls, you are struck by the general air of splendour. Most of the houses are large and of a massive style of architecture, adorned with fanciful gables and bearing the impress of the period when every inhabitant was a merchant, and every merchant was lodged like a king. The houses of the merchant princes, richly carved both inside and out, tell of the wealth and splendour of Nuremberg in her proudest days. But you will also come upon a hundred crooked little streets and narrow alleys, which, though entrancingly picturesque, tell of yet other days and other conditions. They tell of those early mediæval days when the houses were almost all of wood and roofed with straw-thatching or wooden tiles; when the chimneys and bridges alike were built of wood. Only here and there a stone house roofed with brick could then be seen. The streets were narrow and crooked, and even in the fifteenth century mostly unpaved. In wet weather they were filled with unfathomable mud, and even though in the lower part of the town trenches were dug to drain the streets, they remained mere swamps and morasses. In dry weather the dust was even a worse plague than the mud. Pig-styes stood in front of the houses; and the streets were covered with heaps of filth and manure and with rotting corpses of animals, over which the pigs wandered at will. Street police in fact was practically non-existent. Mediævalism is undoubtedly better when survived. As to the original extent of the city walls there are many theories. Most likely they embraced a very small district. According to Mummenhoff the first town wall ran from the west side of the Castle in a southerly direction over the modern Weinmarkt. (To reach it go straight down the Albert Durer Strasse, starting from Durer's house.) Further on the wall struck eastwards (_l_) to the river, either leaving the swampy meadowland near the river free, or, as others hold, coming right down to the river banks. Then, leaving the river again near the Spitalplatz, it stretched northward, apparently from the Malerthor which was then in existence, to the Romer Tower in the Tetzelgasse.[28] This tower was probably not actually part of the wall but a fortified house, such as may be seen in many German and Italian towns, built by the dwellers in it for their own especial protection. A noble family of the name of Romer lived there in early times and gave their name to the house. But popular tradition has forgotten this fact and asserts that the tower dates back from Roman times. From this spot the wall made a distinct bend to the east, ran over the Ægidien hill through the Wolfsgasse, where we may perhaps still recognise in one of the houses an old tower of the wall, and so on to the Fröschturm, or Frog's Tower near the Maxthor of to-day. A glance at the map will show us that Nuremberg, as we know it, is divided into two almost equal divisions. They are called after the names of the principal churches the St. Lorenz, and the St. Sebald-quarter. The original wall which we have just described included, it will be seen, only a small portion of the northern or St. Sebald division. With the growth of the town an extension of the walls and an increase of fortification followed as a matter of course. It became necessary to carry the wall over the Pegnitz in order to protect the Lorenzkirche and the suburb which was springing up around it. The precise date of this extension of the fortifications cannot be fixed. The chronicles attribute it to the twelfth century, in the reign of the first Hohenstaufen, Konrad III. No trace of a twelfth-century wall remains; but the chroniclers may, for all that, have been not very wide of the mark. The mud and wood which supplied the material of the wall may have given place to stone in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. However that may be, it will be remembered that the lower part of the White Tower, which is the oldest fragment of building we can certainly point to dates from the thirteenth century. All other portions of the second wall clearly indicate the fourteenth century, or later, as the time of their origin. What, then, was the course along which ran this second line of fortifications? Assuming that the reader has accompanied us on our short circuit of the imaginary first town wall--(there is no better way of acquainting oneself with the topography of the place and of coming upon the most picturesque bits of old Nuremberg than to work round the three lines of fortifications sketched here)--we will start again from the Maxthor, the nineteenth-century gateway on the north side of the town. From the Froschturm, which is near at hand, the wall ran alongside of the seven rows of houses (Zeilen) which were built by the Council in 1488 (on the old moat which had been filled in) for the immigrating Swabian weavers; and then from the Webersplatz by the Landauerkloster (used at the present time as a polytechnic school) straight down to the Lauferschlagturm. This tower, also called the inner Lauferturm, dates in its present form from the fifteenth century and in part from the sixteenth century. It derives its name from the striking clock which was put up in 1478, at a period when clocks with bells to mark the hours were still rare. Proceeding past the Lauferschlagturm we can trace clearly enough the shooting-trench, which was assigned to the cross-bowmen in 1485 and runs on to the former foundry of the coppersmiths "Auf dem Sand." Presently before reaching the Pegnitz the wall made a sharp turn to the west: it is uncertain whether the present Neuegasse (which we must follow) ran inside or outside of it; at any rate the Mohler or Mahler Thor (Müllerthor) stood at the spot where the Heugässchen and Neuegasse run into the Spitalplatz. Leaving the Mohlerthor the wall crossed the Spitalplatz (_l_) and ran in a straight line, strongly protected by towers, across the two arms of the Pegnitz which encircle the Schütt Island. In the northern arm of the river, near the Synagogue (_l_), you may still distinguish a bit of ruined wall overgrown by alders, rising out of the water. This is the remains of the pier which once buttressed the town-wall against the current of the Pegnitz. On the island there are still two towers, the larger of the two being the Schuldturm or Debtor's Tower for men (Männereisen) which bears the date 1323. Originally a corresponding tower for female debtors stood on the south bank of the river. But this, together with the connecting walls and the arch over the Pegnitz, was demolished in 1812. The bridge, which joined the two debtors' towers, was called the Schuldbrücke, and the whole probably resembled the Henkersteg group at which we shall presently arrive. At any rate it is recorded that towards the end of the fifteenth century "they built dwellings for the townspeople on the old arch by the Debtors' Towers, through which the Pegnitz formerly flowed into the town." We have now reached the South or Lorenz-quarter of the town. From the river the wall ran straight on along the Nonnen-gasse to the inner Frauenthor, which was destroyed in 1499. Cross the Lorenzer Platz and go down the Theatergasse opposite. Behind the theatre there is still a piece of open ditch--the old Lorenzer shooting-trench, and near the old _inner_ Frauenthor is the entrance to the Herrenkeller, which goes under the Königstrasse to beneath the Great Hall. The old moat was converted into this cellar, which is 447 feet long, and supported by twenty-six pillars. Over it the architect Hans Behaim erected the Neue Kornhaus and the Great Hall or Grosse Wage, a deep-roofed building, also called the Mauthaus, because it is now used as a Custom House. Going straight on down the north side of this hall we come to the Frauengässlein, a fascinating old street, which stretches behind the old arsenals (_r_) (now used as storehouses for hops) to the Färbergasse, and marks the further course of the walls, which, from the arsenals to the White Tower (Weissturm) is easily traced. For a considerable part of the old moat (Färbergraben) and a piece of the old wall, with its large curved blocks of sandstone black with age, are still visible. At the end of the Frauengasse turn first to the right and then to the left into the Breitegasse, when the White Tower will confront you. The lower portion of the White Tower, or inner Spittlerthurm as it used to be called (a name, like that of the modern Spittlerthor, derived from the St. Elizabethspital), is, as we have noted, thirteenth-century work. The tower was renovated in the fifteenth century and fitted, like the Lauferschlagturm, with a chiming clock. The outer gate (Vorthor) is still preserved. Keeping on the inside of the White Tower cross the Ludwig Strasse and go down the Waisen Strasse, which brings you to the Brewery. Keep on down the same street with first the Brewery and then the Unschlitthaus on the right till you reach the river. Beyond the White Tower the moat was long ago filled up, but the section of it opposite the Unschlittplatz remained open for a longer period than the rest, and was called the Klettengraben, because of the burdocks which took root there. Hereabouts, on a part of the moat, the Waizenbräuhaus was built in 1671, which is now the famous Freiherrlich von Tuchersche Brewery. Here, too, the Unschlitthaus was built at the end of the fifteenth century as a granary. It has since been turned into a school. We have now reached one of the most charming and picturesque bits of Nuremberg. Once more we have to cross the Pegnitz, whose banks are overhung by quaint old houses. Their projecting roofs and high gables, their varied chimneys and overhanging balconies from which trail rich masses of creepers, make an entrancing foreground to the towers and the arches of the Henkersteg. The wall was carried on arches over the southern arm of the Pegnitz to the point of the Saumarkt (or Trödelmarkt) island which here divides the river, and thence in like manner over the northern arm. The latter portion of it alone survives and comprises a large tower on the north bank called the Wasserthurm, which was intended to break the force of the stream; a bridge supported by two arches over the stream, which was the Henkersteg, the habitation of the hangman or _Löb_ as he was called, of whom and of whose duties we shall have to speak in the next chapter; and on the island itself a smaller tower, which formed the point of support for the original, southern pair of arches, which joined the Unschlitthaus, but were so badly damaged in 1595 by a high flood that they were demolished and replaced by a wooden, and later by an iron bridge. After the great Wasserthurm, all trace of the old wall is lost. Probably it stretched in a straight line across the Weintraubengässlein, along the back of the houses of the Karlstrasse, and across the Irrergasse to the Lammsgasse. Mummenhoff fancies that he can recognise one of the towers of it in an exceptionally high house on the north side of this latter street. There too stood the _inner_ Neuthor. The houses at the back of Albrecht-Dürerstrasse show pretty clearly the further course of the wall until at the Thiergärtnerthurm it finally joined the fortifications of the Castle. Thus we have completed the second circuit of the old Imperial town as it was in the thirteenth and most of the first half of the fourteenth centuries. It was then a city of no mean size for the middle ages, but it was far from having attained its full development. New monasteries and churches and new suburbs sprang up outside the new line of fortification. As usually happens, the majority of the dwellers outside the walls were of the lower class: but, besides their houses, there were, especially towards the east, splendid gardens and properties belonging to the patrician families and also several large buildings, including the Katherine and Clara Convents, the Mary Hospital, and the Carthusian Monastery (now part of the German Museum). Buildings of this kind, close to and outside of the gates of the old town, would, if they fell into the hands of an enemy, be a continual menace to the peace and safety of the burghers. Hardly, therefore, was the second line of fortifications completed when it became necessary to protect the new suburbs with wall and ditch like the old town. It may be noted that even when the new enceinte, that is the _third_ or outer town wall, was finished, the second wall was still carefully preserved as a second line of defence. This was directly contrary to the advice of Macchiavelli "not to establish within the circuit of a city fortifications which may serve as a retreat to troops who have been driven back from the first line of entrenchments ... for there is no greater danger for a fortress than rear-fortifications whither troops can retire in case of a reverse; for once a soldier knows that he has a secure retreat after he has abandoned the first post, he does, in fact, abandon it and so causes the loss of the entire fortress." The Nurembergers, however, never favoured any policy that could even remotely suggest that of burning their boats. For a long time they kept their second line of defence. Thus in 1509 it came to the notice of the authorities that "the inner moat near the arsenals and granaries were filled up with dirt and rubbish, which at some future time might do harm to the town, and the neighbours were forbidden to empty any more rubbish into the moat, and the town architect was ordered to see to it that what had been thrown into it was either levelled or taken out and that the parapet was renewed." Similarly and in the same year the inhabitants of the neighbourhood of St. Katherinagraben (the present Peter Vischerstrasse) were refused leave to build a bridge over the existing moat. That part of the town which lay between the second and third lines of fortification continued for a long time to retain something of a suburban character. People of small fortunes who came to settle in Nuremberg were at first admitted only into the district outside the older wall and were only allowed to move into the inner town after they had been domiciled in the outer town for several years. The suburban character of the outer town was and is still in some degree apparent also from the large open spaces there and, especially on the eastern side, from the extensive farms and gardens belonging to the richer citizens, such as the Holzschuhers, the Volkamers and the Tuchers. Somewhere in the second half of the fourteenth century, then, in the reign of Karl IV., they began to build the outer enceinte, which, although destroyed at many places and broken through by modern gates and entrances,[29] is still fairly well preserved, and secures to Nuremberg the reputation of presenting most faithfully of all the larger German towns the characteristics of a mediæval town. The fortifications seem to have been thrown up somewhat carelessly at first, but dread of the Hussites soon inspired the citizens to make themselves as secure as possible. In times of war and rumours of war all the peasants within a radius of two miles of the town were called upon to help in the construction of barriers and ramparts. The whole circle of walls, towers, and ditches was practically finished by 1452, when with pardonable pride Tucher wrote, "In this year was completed the ditch round the town. It took twenty-six years to build, and it will cost an enemy a good deal of trouble to cross it." Part of the ditch had been made and perhaps revetted as early as 1407, but it was not till twenty years later that it began to be dug to the enormous breadth and depth which it boasts to-day. The size of it was always a source of pride to the Nurembergers, and it was perhaps due to this reason that up till as recently as 1869 it was left perfectly intact. On the average it is about 100 feet broad. It was always intended to be a dry ditch, and, so far from there being any arrangements for flooding it, precautions were taken to carry the little Fischbach, which formerly entered the town near the modern Sternthor, across the ditch in a trough. The construction of the ditch was provided for by an order of the Council in 1427, to the effect that all householders, whether male or female, must work at the ditch one day in the year with their children of over twelve years of age, and with all their servants, male or female. Those who were not able to work had to pay a substitute. Subsequently this order was changed to the effect that every one who could or would not work must pay ten pfennige (one penny). There were no exemptions from this liturgy, whether in favour of councillor, official, or lady. The order remained ten years in force, though the amount of the payment was gradually reduced. Whilst the enceinte was in course of erection the Burggraf Frederic VI. sold (1428) to the town the ruins of his castle. Steps were immediately taken therefore to fortify the whole of the Castle grounds with ditch and large revetted circular bastions. Paul Stromer was the director of the works. At this time we first find distinct mention of the Vestner Thor, and the Vestnerthorbrücke. The other main gates, the Neue Thor, the Spittler Thor, the Frauen Thor, and the Laufer Thor had begun to be built about 1380. [Illustration: WALLS AND DITCH] The Wührderthürlein and the Hallerthürlein were constructed probably about the same time as the Vestnerthor--_i.e._ circ. 1430. It was against the gates that the main attacks of the enemy were usually delivered, and they were therefore provided with the most elaborate means of defence. Each principal gate in fact was an individual castle, a separate keep: for it was defended by one of those huge round towers which still help to give to Nuremberg its characteristic appearance. The Laufer, Spittel, and Frauen towers, and the tower near the new gate were built in the above order in their present cylindrical shape (1555-1559) by the architect George Unger, on the site of four quadrilateral towers that already existed. The towers are about 60 yards in diameter. They are furnished on the ground story with one or two gun-casemates, which would command the parapet wall if that were taken. Above, beneath the flat roof, is fixed a platform blinded with wood relieved by embrasures capable of receiving a considerable number of cannon. Guns indeed were in position here as recently as 1796, when together with all the contents of the arsenal they were removed by the Austrians. At the time of the construction of these and the other lofty towers it was still thought that the raising of batteries as much as possible would increase their effect. In practice the plunging fire from platforms at the height of some eighty feet above the level of the parapets of the town wall can hardly have been capable of producing any great effect, more especially if the besieging force succeeded in establishing itself on the crest of the counterscarp of the ditches, since from that point the swell of the bastions masked the towers. But there was another use for these lofty towers. The fact is that the Nuremberg engineers, at the time that they were built, had not yet adopted a complete system of flank-works, and not having as yet applied with all its consequences the axiom that _that which defends should itself be defended_, they wanted to see and command their external defences from within the body of the place, as, a century before, the baron could see from the top of his donjon whatever was going on round the walls of his castle, and send up his support to any point of attack. The great round towers of Nuremberg are more properly, in fact, detached keeps than portions of a combined system, rather observatories than effective defences.[30] They were perhaps the last of their kind. Tradition has quite incorrectly ascribed them to Albert Durer. Not only were they built thirty years after his death, but they are in principle entirely opposed to the views expounded in his book on the "Fortification of Towns." This book, which appeared in 1527, broke completely with the old mediæval art of fortification (the theory of which may be said roughly to have consisted in an extensive use of towers), and recommended the construction of such bastions as the Köcherts-zwinger, or that in the neighbourhood of the Laufer Thor (1527) which form the starting-point of modern fortification. The round towers, however, were not the sole defences of the gates. Outside each one of them was a kind of fence of pointed beams after the manner of a chevaux-de-frise, whilst outside the ditch and close to the bridge stood a barrier, by the side of which was a guard-house. Though it was not till 1598 that all the main gates were fitted with drawbridges, the wooden bridges that served before that could doubtless easily be destroyed in cases of emergency. Double-folding doors and portcullises protected the gateways themselves. Once past there, the enemy was far from being in the town, for the road led through extensive advanced works, presenting, as in the case of the Laufer Thor outwork, a regular _place d'armes_. Further, the road was so engineered as not to lead in a straight line from the outer main gates to the inner ones, but rather so as to pursue a circuitous course. Thus the enemy in passing through from the one to the other were exposed as long as possible to the shots and projectiles of the defenders, who were stationed all round the walls and towers flanking the advanced tambour. This arrangement may be traced very clearly at the Frauen Thor to-day. The position of the round tower, it will be observed, was an excellent one for commanding the road from the outer to the inner gate. The entrance and exit of the Pegnitz were two weak spots, calling equally with the gates for special measures of defence. They were completely barred by "Schossgatter" as they were termed--strong oak piles covered with iron--set beneath the arches that spanned the river. Strong iron chains were stretched in front of them, forming a boom to prevent the approach of boats. The tower at the exit of the Pegnitz was erected, we know, in 1422. It is mentioned by sixteenth-century chroniclers as the Schlayerturm, and, though it has lost its former height, it serves to-day in conjunction with the adjoining building over the water as a jail. The most vulnerable points were thus provided for. The rest of the enceinte consisted of the ditch and walls and towers. There were two lines of walls and towers enclosing a space which in peace-time served as a game-park. Celtes in his poem in praise of Nuremberg boasts of the rich turf growing there, upon which grazed splendid herds of deer. The Tiergärtner Thor, however, did not derive its name from this game-park (Tiergärten), but from another earlier one belonging to the Burggrafs. The interior line of walls was the first to be built. It was made about three feet thick and twenty-two feet high. Originally there were no buttresses to it (as one may gather from the short length of old wall, north of the Spittler Thor, where the inside of the wall is plain), but afterwards buttresses were added along the whole of it, at a distance of eighteen feet or so from centre to centre. About four feet broad, they projected some two feet beyond the actual wall. They are joined by circular arches, the coins of which are walled up. The blinded galleries thus formed are still frequently used as workshops. [Illustration: INTERIOR OF THE WALLS] The top of the wall is about three yards broad, thanks to a coping stone which projects on each side. Along the outer edge of the coping stone runs a crenelated wall, only a foot and a half thick. Seeing that it was already at the time of construction exposed to artillery, the thinness of this wall is somewhat surprising. Probably the Nurembergers knew that the neighbouring nobility could not afford a heavy and expensive siege-train. A roof, composed, according to the poet Celtes, of tiles partly glazed, was erected over the crenelated wall and thus formed a covered way. The crenelles were furnished with hanging shutters, which had a hole pierced in them and were adapted therefore either to the fire of small pieces or of arquebuses. At intervals of every 120 or 150 feet the interior wall is broken by quadrilateral towers. Some eighty-three of these, including the gate towers, can still be traced. What the number was originally we do not know. It is the sort of subject on which chroniclers have no manner of conscience. The Hartmann Schedel Chronicle, for instance, gives Nuremberg 365 towers in all. The fact that there are 365 days in the year is of course sufficient proof of this assertion! The towers, which rise two or even three stories above the wall, communicated on both sides with the covered way. They are now used as dwelling-houses. On some of them there can still be seen, projecting near the roof, two little machicoulis turrets, which served as guard-rooms for observing the enemy, and also, by overhanging the base of the tower, enabled the garrison to hurl down on their assailants at the foot of the wall a hurricane of projectiles of every sort. Like the wall the towers are built almost entirely of sandstone, but on the side facing the town they are usually faced with brick. The shapes of the roofs vary from flat to pointed, but the towers themselves are simple and almost austere in form in comparison with those generally found in North Germany, where fantasy runs riot in red brick. The Nuremberg towers were obviously intended in the first place for use rather than for ornament. Parallel with the interior town wall there ran an exterior lower one, which, together with the former, enclosed a space, to which we have already referred, varying from fifty to twenty feet in breadth. We know very little about the _original_ height and form of this exterior wall. It suffered many changes and can no longer be traced in its original shape. Experts hold diametrically opposite views both as to the use and the height of it. But that is the way of experts. We shall probably not be far wrong in concluding that this wall was originally a mere crenelated crowning[31] of the escarp of the ditch; that catapults were worked from the space enclosed by the two walls; and that the chief object of the outer wall and the enclosure was to prevent the enemy from working at the main, or inner, wall and towers with his rams and moveable turrets. Later, when the use and effectiveness of artillery developed and guns supplanted catapults in vigour as well as in fact, some time at the end of the fifteenth or the beginning of the sixteenth century, we may suppose that this old crenelated wall was removed, and the escarp wall of the ditch was raised and strengthened and provided with embrasures for large cannon, and rounded off on the outside so as to neutralise the effect of shot striking the face of the walls. In this form the exterior wall is well preserved, and can be seen at many places in the course of a walk round the outside of the town. At many points in the circumference, but chiefly where the fortifications are accessible (_e.g._ near the Frauen Thor) the parapets of this curtain-wall present a somewhat remarkable arrangement. The parapets, pierced with embrasures for cannon, are surmounted by timber hoards or filled in with brick and mortar, like the old English half-timbered houses. In these hoards (wooden galleries roofed in with tiles) arquebusiers and even archers, who were still employed at that period, might be placed. Pieces in battery were covered by these hoards just in the same way as pieces in the "'tween decks" of a man-of-war. The crenelles of the hoards were closed by shutters opening on the inside, in such a way as to present an obstacle to the balls or arrows fired by the assailants placed on the top of the glacis. The outer, like the inner wall was provided with towers. These were thicker in construction but lower and less numerous than the interior ones. They were placed at intervals of 200 to 250 feet and amounted in all to forty or thereabouts. The chief purpose of them was to flank and command the ditch and thus to prevent the enemy from building a dam across it. With this object they projected some distance into the ditch. Simultaneously with the alterations of the exterior wall small bastion-like towers were also constructed, chiefly at places where the wall formed an angle, and where the enemy could not therefore advance in line. From these towers a searching fire could be maintained in all directions, sweeping both the ditch and the ground in front. The strong, low, semi-circular tower at the Haller Thor is supposed to be the oldest work of this description. Lastly, in the second half of the sixteenth century, the large bastions which bring us in touch with modern ideas of fortification were built. We may instance the bastion adjoining the Neue Thor, called the Doktors Zwinger because the doctors had their summer garden there. And in 1613 the Vöhrderthor-Zwinger was added to the old town-wall. It was designed by Meinhard von Schönberg, and built by Jakob Wolf, the younger. But in 1871 this magnificent structure, with the armorial devices which decorated the four corners of it, was enclosed in the Vestner Thor Zwinger. An account of the fortifications of Nuremberg would be incomplete if no mention were made of the _Landwehr_--a continuous line of defence which was thrown up at some little distance from the town about the middle of the fifteenth century, in the time of the first Marggravian war. The _Landwehr_ was a ditch with an earthen parapet strengthened by stockades, barricaded at the crossings of the roads with obstacles and moveable barriers, and defended by blockhouses in which guards were always kept. The main object of this fortification was to afford shelter to the country people, and to secure them and their goods and cattle from the raids of the enemy. Only the merest fragment of the "Land-ditch" remains, viz., the Landgraben, running through the Lichtenhof meadow. It will be gathered from these dry details that the chief note struck by the fortifications of Nuremberg is that of picturesque variety. The defences have been built at different times and form no stereotyped pattern. Walls, towers, and bastions of varying types and shapes, suggesting the ideas of different ages, succeed each other in pleasant confusion. The walls themselves, now high, now low, now with, now without roofing, here crenelated with narrow loopholes and arrow-slits, there fitted with broad embrasures for heavy guns, seem to be typical of the place and to suggest to us the recollection of her chequered career. At the end of our long perambulations of the walls it will be a grateful relief to sit for a while at one of the _Restaurations_ or restaurants on the walls. There, beneath the shade of acacias in the daytime, or in the evening by the white light of the incandescent gas, you may sit and watch the groups of men, women, and children all drinking from their tall glasses of beer, and you may listen to the whirr and ting-tang of the electric cars, where the challenge of the sentinel or the cry of the night-watchman was once the most frequent sound. Or, if you have grown tired of the Horn- and the Schloss-zwinger, cross the ditch on the west side of the town and make your way to the Rosenau, in the Fürtherstrasse. The Rosenau is a garden of trees and roses not lacking in chairs and tables, in bowers, benches, and a band. There, too, you will see the good burgher with his family drinking beer, eating sausages, and smoking contentedly. CHAPTER VI _The Council and the Council House--Nuremberg Tortures_ Da ist in dieser Stadt Ein weiser, fürsichtiger Rath, Der so fürsichtiglich regiert Und alle Ding fein ordinirt. --HANS SACHS, _Lobspruch der Stadt Nürnberg_. We have seen how in gradual and piecemeal fashion the Council, as representative of Nuremberg, acquired the character of an imperial state on an equality with the reigning princes and territorial lords. The special mark of sovereign power, the higher jurisdiction, was accorded in perpetuity to the Nuremberg Council through an edict of Frederick III., 1459. The Council was composed originally of such burghers as the community saw fit to elect. But gradually it came about that only the moneyed classes, large merchants, large land-owners, and court-officials admitted to the citizenship took part in the election, and that, within this circle again, those who had already held office formed themselves into a specially privileged group. So there resulted in Nuremberg, as everywhere else, the formation of a special town-aristocracy of those families eligible to the Council, which in Nuremberg particularly, where the original suffrage soon had to give place to the Council's right of self-election, developed into the most pronounced exclusiveness. The final result was the separation of the citizens into the governing families and into the remaining classes cut off from any influence upon the town government, and represented in general by the Trades Guilds. This antithesis, which existed in all towns, led everywhere, in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, to violent conflicts; in our town, to the riots of 1348, to which we have already referred. The families eligible to the Council composed the _Patriciate_, the origin of which can no longer be traced in detail. The Patricians were not, as often in other towns, burghers of long standing, for in the fourteenth century and later, even up to the beginning of the sixteenth century, it happened that foreign families settling here were at once accepted as eligible to the Council. This is a circumstance which does not at all correspond to the usual conception of the burgher exclusiveness in the Middle Ages; but on the contrary it betrays a certain liberality. The Patricians appear with others of the nobility as witnesses to documents, and are not infrequently given precedence over the territorial nobility. They carried shield, helmet, and seal; their hatchments hung in the churches, they held fiefs from the princes, and were eligible to church dignities. The Patriciate, however, did not by any means occupy itself wholly with military service and knightly exercises. Many of them carried on wholesale businesses and manufacturing trades. This occurred pretty generally throughout the Middle Ages, as also in the sixteenth century, though their descendants denied that they were ever connected with trade. As the burghers were in general capable of bearing arms, the governing families especially kept themselves in military practice. They led the armed burghers or the mercenaries in the wars of their country, and many of them obtained in the service of the Emperor, or elsewhere, the dignity of knighthood. As early as the fifteenth century the Patrician families claimed the rights of knighthood and heraldry like territorial nobles. Probably the tourney held in 1446, on the occasion of a Patrician wedding, and represented in life-size stucco-work on the ceiling of the upper corridor in the Town Hall, by Hans Kuhn, 1621, was intended as a manifesto to this effect. At any rate it is recorded that this tourney vexed the nobles very sorely, "as they opined, it did not become the Nuremberg families to tilt in noble conflict or to indulge in such knightly pastime; it was indeed generally held that this tourney had had no little influence in bringing about the great Margravian War which soon followed." In the year 1481, and again in 1485, in the Heidelberg and Heilbronn tournament regulations, the Town Patriciate's right of tourney was formally contested. Though we do not know how their prerogative arose, we certainly find that by 1521 the number of actual Patrician families was limited to forty-three, whilst, by the end of the century, only twenty-eight are left eligible for the Council. They formed a close and very exclusive corporation, clinging very tightly to their fabricated privileges. "Anno 1521," runs an old statute, "it was declared and set down by the Elders of the Town of Nuremberg which families have always from time immemorial danced and may still dance in the Town Hall." We cannot deny that the short-sighted policy so often pursued by Nuremberg to her own undoing was due to the narrow and selfish oligarchy thus formed. But if we blame them for the decay we must also give them full meed of praise for the ripening of the prosperity of Nuremberg. The truth seems to be that the government of oligarchies of this nature, formed, not of all the wealthy families, but of a Patrician order of certain families, is, owing to the varied interests of the remaining society over whom they rule, peculiarly difficult to overthrow. Moreover, it is at first likely to lead on the State to success and prosperity: for at first the prominence of particular families represents the triumph of the fittest, the rise of those best able to govern, to conduct commerce, to encourage industry and art. But when in the course of nature these families begin to decay and cling all the more obstinately to their rights, it is then that the weakness of the position appears and the State is involved in the ruin of its most degenerate members. It is noticeable that many of the early measures of the Council bore a decidedly socialistic character. We may instance the establishment of public baths, and the storing up of corn against the time of famine, besides the foundation of a great town brewery, which is the origin of the famous Tucher brewery of to-day, and the keeping of public stallions to improve the breed of horses, a measure that resulted in Nuremberg becoming famous for its chargers. On the other hand, as an instance of the jealous tyranny of the Council, we may quote the case of Christoph Scheurl. When he, the "Oracle of the Republic" as he was called, threatened to appeal to the Imperial Chamber against a sentence of the Council they replied by torturing him in the cruellest fashion for three weeks. The public attitude of the Councillors being of this somewhat grandmotherly kind, it is not surprising that they left the young members of their families very little liberty in placing their affections. Love affairs and marriage for love were in fact not regarded with favour. Girls were betrothed by their parents at eight years of age and married at fourteen, often to old men of sixty or seventy. A couple were very seldom permitted to initiate for themselves an affair of the heart. So when Leonhard Groland, against good manners and tradition, had begun a love affair with Catherine, daughter of Hans Hardörfer, and this was discovered, the precocious lover was punished with two months' imprisonment and banished for five years from the town. When a father did allow his son to choose his own wife he very seldom allowed him to woo her. They tell us how when the young Paul Tucher said that he would like to marry Ursula, daughter of the late Albrecht Scheurl, his father did the wooing for him, and went to Andreas Imhof, her guardian, and these two "with unshaken calm and dignified respectability" arranged the dowry and settlements. The public betrothal took place first in the Rathaus and then in the house of the bride. The wedding, after many formalities, took place not in the church, but before the portal of the church,[32] and only after the marriage service was completed did the bridal pair enter the church to partake of the holy sacrament. After the service the bridal party danced in the morning and then, after dinner at the bride's home (where it was customary for the pair to reside for a year), another dance took place in the evening; in the case of members of the Patriciate, in the Rathaus. These proceedings were regulated by laws by which the Council continually strove to repress the tendency to luxury and extravagance which always accompanies commercial prosperity. * * * * * The _Rathaus_, the heart of the old trading Republic, fronts the chancel end of the Sebald-kirche, a position architecturally unfortunate. The original Councilhouse, which was shared by the Council with the Clothiers Guild, stood in the present Tuchgasse. But in 1332 the Council bought from the Heilsbronn Monastery a house on the site of the present Rathaus, and here they built themselves a new Council-house into which they first moved in 1340. In its oldest form the Rathaus consisted only of a large hall, large enough to hold with comfort and dignity the numerous assembly that might gather there on the occasion of a Reichstag. All that now remains intact of this hall is the outer architecture on the east side. The oldest portions of the Rathaus are to be seen from the interior quadrangle and from the Rathausgasse, the street at the back. [Illustration: RATHAUS (WINDOW)] In 1514 new rooms were added. They are mostly by Hans Behaim and are very good specimens of late Gothic. In 1520 the Rathaus Hall was renovated and altered and the side walls were painted after Durer's designs, by Georg Pencz and other pupils of the master. The hall was again restored and adorned with new pictures in 1613. Two years later the great chandelier, by Hans Wilhelm Behaim, was placed there. Two copies of it were added in 1874. The Rathaus took almost its present form in 1616. The architect, Eucharius Karl Holzschuher, adapted, so far as possible, the old Rathaus to the new Italian style of building which now enclosed it. The outbreak of the Thirty Years War, however, prevented the completion of his plan. The north-east portion of the Rathaus has indeed only recently been finished after the designs of Dr A. von Essenwein. The imposing Renaissance façade confronting St. Sebald's is nearly 300 feet long and consists of two stories containing thirty-six windows apiece. Three Doric portals form the entrances, and are ornamented with sculptures of reclining figures--Justice holding the scales and Truth with a mirror, Julius Cæsar and Alexander, Ninus and Cyrus--by Leonhard Kern. The sculptor received the moderate wage of 100 gulden per figure. Entering the first court by the central portal, we see in front on the right the charming old Gothic gallery, supported by three pillars. In the centre of the court is a bronze fountain by Pankraz Labenwolf (1556); in the second court is the Apollo fountain of Hans Vischer.[33] The principal[34] staircase (_r_ of central entrance) leads to the Great Hall or Council Chamber already referred to (1332). The arched wooden ceiling dates from 1521. The hall is 130 feet long and 40 feet wide and contains the chandeliers and the paintings after Durer's designs mentioned above. The latter, on the north wall, have been much spoiled by the effects of time and of incompetent restoration. The first of them represents the Triumphal Car of Maximilian I. drawn by twelve horses. Victory holds a laurel wreath over the Emperor, who is attended by the various Virtues. Behind the car follows an animated procession of Nuremberg town musicians. The second design is on the well-worn subject of Calumny--Midas with his long ears sitting in judgment on Innocence who is accused by Calumny, Fraud, Envy, and so forth, whilst in the background appear Punishment, Penitence, and Truth. On the right of the judge (our left) who sits between Ignorance and Suspicion, are the words: _Nemo unquam sententiam ferat priusquam cuncta ad amussim perpenderit_, on the left the same sentiment in German: Ein Richter soll kein Urtheil geben Er soll die Sach erforschen eben. Over the little door is written "Eins manns red ist eine halbe red. Man soll die Teyl verhören bed." (One man's rede is but half the rede. The other side should be heard.) The frescoes (now scarcely visible) between the windows are by Gabriel Weyer (1619?). As both _Bædeker_ and _Murray_ state that "among them is a representation of the _guillotine_, which is thus proved to be two centuries older than the French Revolution," it may be worth while to remark that nothing of the sort is proved. The falling-axe, _fall-beil_, the Italian _caraletto_ here represented, was of course much used at this time, as the engravings of Lucas Cranach, Georg Pencz and others and as our own Halifax Gibbet and Morton's Maiden show. But the guillotine, properly so-called, was a revived and modified form of this. The instrument then took its name from the inventor of these modifications, M. Guillotin, a philanthropic French physician, who designed "to reduce the pain of death to a shiver" by this machine; "Qui simplement nous tuera Et que l'on nommera, Guillotine." as the royalist song first phrased it. The bronze railing, by Peter Vischer, which once separated the lower from the upper half of the hall has now disappeared. The small hall on the second floor is used now as the city court. It has recently been repaired and contains, besides portraits of modern Nuremberg worthies, some pompous allegorical paintings by Paul Juvenell (1579-1643). In the Rathaus as in the Castle and Museum some very fine specimens of old German stoves are to be seen. The stucco-relief on the ceiling of the corridor on this floor we have already mentioned more than once.[35] The Municipal Art Gallery (gratuity) on the third floor contains an interesting collection of paintings that deal with the history of Nuremberg. The most remarkable historically is the _Banquet held in the Rathaus_ on the occasion of the Peace of Westphalia (1649), by Joachim von Sandrart (1606-1688). Thirty of the forty-seven figures at the table in this piece are portraits from life. * * * * * The power over life and death was given, as we have said, to the Council along with the other rights of the _Schuldheiss_ in 1459 by Frederick III. Till then the Emperor had reserved to himself the power to give to any individual he chose this right, "Ban über das Blut in der Stadt zu richten." It was an evil thing now to fall into the hands of the Council. Prisoners even during their detention before trial were made to suffer more severely than the worst modern convicts. The accused were put into the _Loch_, the hole which formed a part of the cellar of the old Rathaus, where there are twelve underground cells, each about two yards square, and two yards high. Entering the Rathaus by the portal nearest to the Schöner Brunnen we turn to the right, ascend a flight of steps and ring the bell for the Hausmeister,[36] who will guide us with lanterns to those gloomy caverns which like the Piombi of Venice cry shame on the inhumanity of man. We follow our guide down a narrow stone staircase to the dungeons cold and dark as the grave. Over the various entrances were symbolic figures of animals: the two last being ornamented with a red cock and a black cock. No one seems able to say what these strange hieroglyphics denote. The cells were never cleaned, but were warmed by a brazier in the winter. Two of them are furnished with stocks; in each there is an angular wooden couch; in some, when the sight has got gradually accustomed to the darkness, we become aware of a ghastly cleft in the floor. Flaubert, Poe, Scott, and Victor Hugo never fail to make my blood run cold with their descriptions of tortures, but the pages of "Salammbo," of the "Pit and the Pendulum," of "Old Mortality," or "Les Misérables" have no such terrors for my imagination as the actual sight of these deep and horrid dungeons wherein so many hundreds, innocent and guilty alike, have been incarcerated and suffered, with no Anne of Geierstein to deliver them. Presently we pass on to a room of still more horrible interest--the torture-chamber where the judges (Die Blutrichtern) sat, whilst their wretched victim, far removed from human aid and human sympathy, was "examined" till a confession was wrung from him. This vaulted room in the _Loch_ was called the "Chapel." Over it is written "Folterkammer, 1511" (Torture Chamber). On the wall was inscribed the jingling verse-- "_Ad mala patrata hæc sunt atra theatra parata_." Revolting as the idea of torture is to us, it would not be fair to concentrate our indignation on the Nurembergers, as we are tempted to do, when we see these things and still more when, in the Castle, we visit the stupendous collection of torture-instruments, those melancholy monuments of human error. For torture as a system of trial, as the great alternative to the ordeal, has received the sanction of the wisest lawgivers throughout far the greater portion of the world's history. It is, indeed, only quite recently that we have in practice acknowledged Quintilian's objection to torture--that under it one man's constancy makes falsehood easy to him whilst another's weakness makes falsehood necessary. History, too, has shown us the evil effects of this system upon the judge, who became inevitably eager to convince himself of the guilt of the poor wretch whom he had already caused to suffer. How completely the prisoner thus became a quarry to be hunted to the death is shown by the jocular remark of Farinacci, a celebrated authority in criminal law, that the torture of sleeplessness invented by Marsigli was most excellent, for out of a hundred martyrs exposed to it not two could endure it without becoming confessors as well. This form of torture was practised in England even without the continental limit of time. But on the whole, torture in England fell short of the best continental standard. Still, it remains true to say that human ingenuity could not invent suffering more terrible than was constantly and legally employed in _every_ civilised community. Satan himself, one writer exclaims, would be unable to increase its refinements. A visit to the Tower of London will prove that Nuremberg was not a solitary and disgraceful exception to the manners of her day. The robber-barons, who flourished under King Stephen in England used the same methods as their German brethren to extract ransoms from the rich merchants they captured, using knotted ropes twisted round the head, crucet-houses, or chests filled with sharp stones in which the victim was crushed, sachentages, or frames with a sharp iron collar preventing the wearer from sitting, lying, or sleeping. A visit to the Castle of Nuremberg shows us that the rich merchants were ready to use similar arguments to the robber-barons. When the prisoner had been brought into the torture chamber and the professional gentlemen (the Hangman and the Secretary) had decided how much the patient could bear, operations began. A circular opening on the inside of the room above the entrance marks the place behind which sat the person who took down the prisoner's confession. Innumerable devices and instruments had been invented, as we see in the Castle, by using which separately and in combination the confession was extorted. Burning candles held under the arms were found very effective and the favourite Spanish methods, the Strappado (suspension by the arms behind the back with weights to the feet), pouring water down the throat and applying fire to the soles of the feet were in frequent use. We find many varieties of the "little ease" or rack in the Castle. The severity of the instrument is attested by the signature of our Guy Fawkes before and after being submitted to that ordeal. But even less attractive than this must have been the _peine forte et dure_. John Gow, it will be remembered, in "The Pirate," stands mute even when his thumbs were squeezed by two men with a whipcord till it broke, and again when it was doubled and trebled so that the operators could pull with their whole strength. But his fortitude gave way and he confessed when he had seen the preparations for pressing him to death with the _peine forte et dure_, a board loaded with heavy weights. A peculiar atrocity marked the torture system of Scotland. Torture retained its place in that kingdom's laws as long as she preserved the right of self-legislation. Her system could not surpass, but it serves to illustrate the fiendish barbarities of the Nuremberg questions. Readers of Sir Walter Scott will remember his description of the "boot"--an iron frame in which the leg was inserted and broken by iron wedges driven in with a hammer. The penni-winkis, thumb-screws, and caschielawis, iron frames for the leg heated from time to time over a brazier, were also favourite instruments both there and here. It is not surprising that such persuasion usually succeeded in producing a confession from the prisoners, whether true or not, of their own or of other people's guilt. They were not infrequently compelled to confess to crimes which they had never committed[37] and were hanged for murdering persons who afterwards were found to be alive and well. Real criminals, however, often refused to speak; for habitual and professional malefactors used to torture each other regularly in order to be hardened when brought to justice. But in that case their wives and children often proved less reticent. Confession having been secured the Council appointed a day of judgment for the _armen_, "poor fellow," as they termed him. If when he came before them he still persisted in his confession he was condemned. But condemnation depended on the confession of the criminal, and the Church had long maintained that confessions obtained under torture were invalid. If, therefore, when brought before the Council he recanted he was tortured again, and as often as he retracted this process was repeated until a confession apart from torture was obtained. The humane intervention of the Church thus resulted in a redoublement of cruelty. Even after condemnation, if the convict told the clergyman, who came to prepare him for death, that he was really not guilty but had confessed only because of the torture, the Council on hearing of it had to begin all over again. This became such a nuisance that they warned the clergy not to talk to the condemned too much about temporal matters! After sentence had been passed by the Council a public trial of an entirely formal character was held, very wearisome to the condemned wretch, who probably knew that it was so empty a form that it was held even if the prisoner had already succumbed to the torture or committed suicide in the cells. In Nuremberg, as elsewhere, various methods of punishment were employed. Much ingenuity and some humour were displayed in making "the punishment fit the crime." The shrew was tamed, as in England, by the application of the _Brank_ or scold's bridle--an iron framework placed over the head in such a way that a plate covered with spikes, which was attached to it, fitted into the mouth. Thieves, like English authors, had their ears cut off. This operation was performed on the Fleischbrücke. The tongues of blasphemers were torn out, and if the banished returned to the city their eyes were gouged out. The latter treatment was often applied in the East to junior princes not required to be heirs. But there the removal of the eyeball gave way, in later times, to the drawing of a red-hot sword blade across the eyeball. In Italy the use of a heated metal basin (bacinare) was preferred. Whilst, in England, we punished drunkenness, as lately as 1872, with confinement in the stocks, the use of the ordinary Nuremberg punishment--"The Drunkard's Cloak"--a barrel worn after the manner of a cloak--was almost confined to Newcastle. The ancient Moslem punishment for wine-drinkers--the pouring of melted lead down the offender's throat--does not appear to have been in vogue. Other devices shown in the Five-Cornered Tower are the Spanish horse, which suggests the modern American method of "riding on a rail," the finger-cramp for bad musicians, pipes for excessive smokers, faces to be worn by husband-beaters, ducking-stools and the wheel, last used in 1788, and the cradle, last used in 1803. Even the sentence of death was variously performed. Robbers were hanged; murderers beheaded; worse criminals were torn asunder by horses or broken on the wheel. Sinners against the Church were exposed barefooted and bareheaded and hanged before the church doors; sinners against morality were branded. Jews--if it was a question of hanging them--were always hung from the end of the gallows' beam, so that they and the Christians might swing from a different place. Boiling oil does not seem to have been indulged in, though it was used in France for mere counterfeiters, and in England for poisoners. The Bishop of Rochester's cook for instance was treated in this manner in 1630. Terrible as these atrocities were, they are also terribly recent. The last burning at the stake in Germany took place in Berlin, 1786, and in the same year at Vienna occurred the last case of breaking on the wheel. The victim was tortured with red-hot pincers as he walked to the place of execution. And in England the execution of the rebels after the "45" was carried out in exact accordance with the statute of treason of Edward III., 1351, by which the unhappy victim of justice must be drawn to the gallows and not walk; be cut down alive and his entrails be then torn out and burnt before his face. Women in Nuremberg, as in France and England, were not exposed on gibbets in chains but were buried alive, till 1515, when at the hangman's request they were drowned instead. In 1580 they took to being decapitated. Women who had murdered their husbands were bound to a cart on the way to execution, bared to the waist and tortured with red-hot tongs. The condemned criminal usually walked from the [Illustration: HENKERSTEG (HANGMAN'S TOWER)] Rathaus over the Barfüsserbrücke to the Frauenthor, where the gallows stood. On the way priests confessed him; pious people prayed for him and supported him with draughts of wine. It is satisfactory to learn that the feeling of the people was usually in favour of the "poor" thing. Fellow-feeling made them wondrous kind, so that if the hangman bungled his business and failed to kill his subject outright the mob might prove dangerous. But the executioners, who lived in the picturesque Henkersteg, were usually masters of their art.[38] They tell us of one great artist who in 1501 killed two robbers almost at a blow. He placed them back to back, two or three yards apart, and took his stand between them. He beheaded the first one, who was kneeling, then with the same sweep, swinging round in a circle, he whipped off the other's head. Clearly he was not devoid of professional pride, and worthy was he to be compared with the executioner in Anne of Geierstein who boasted that "Tristrem of the Hospital and his famous assistants André and Trois Eschelles are novices compared with me in the use of the noble and knightly sword," and who claimed "if one of my profession shall do his grim office on nine men of noble birth with the same weapon and with a single blow to each patient, hath he not a right to his freedom from taxes and his nobility by patent?" The day-book of the Nuremberg executioner, 1573-1617, shows that no less than 361 were executed, and 345 were beaten with rods and had their ears and fingers cut off in that period. Besides these there were doubtless many dungeon executions and much cellar practice as well. There were also the victims of the Secret Tribunal, the Vehme-Gericht. After leaving the torture-chamber we pass the entrance to a passage, inaccessible now by reason of the masses of fallen stone, which leads beyond the town to a distance of nearly two miles, and emerges (it is said) in the forest near Dutzendteich. It was used to despatch envoys, and as a means of access to, and escape for, the Senate in troublous times. The passage which we follow was constructed about 1543. It runs beneath the streets towards the Castle, making a circuitous course and passing under the Albrecht Dürer Platz. It varies in height from 3 to 7 feet, and, as it nears the Castle, is hewn out of the living rock. Presently we pass on the right the passage which leads down to the Deep Well (see Chap. V.); and then at last we emerge first into the Thiergärtnerthorthurm and then on to the Castle bastion--the Schlosszwinger. This bastion is now a well-kept garden, and the empty, spreading embrasures for guns are now covered with creepers. Our guide leads us out into the Burgstrasse. A few years ago it was possible to descend again into the passages, traverse the inner side of the town-wall and pass into the Castle dungeon--the secret prison of the Vehme-Gericht. Underground passages led thither both from their own tribunal--a hall now used as a warehouse in the Pannier-Gasse--and from the private residences of the Senators. There, too, was that deep and dismal abyss[39] which was wont to receive the mangled remains of the prisoners, mostly of rank, who had been condemned to "kiss the maiden"--_die verfluchte Jungfer_. He upon whom doom had been passed was forced, after a night spent in her presence, into the embraces of the famous female figure, which stands to-day with Sphinx-like placidity in the Castle. Gradually by cunningly-contrived machinery the Maiden grasped the unhappy man with iron arms and pressed him crushingly to her bosom. But from her body and from her face sharp spikes sank as gradually into his eyes and flesh, piercing him through and through. At last the arms relaxed from their cruel embrace, but only to precipitate him, a mass of ghastly laceration, into the pit below, where the body was received upon sharply-pointed bars of steel placed vertically at the bottom, and was cut to pieces by wheels armed with knives which soon completed this inhuman work of secret destruction. This subsequent cutting into a thousand pieces may be compared with the Chinese _Ling-chee_, and the _Bodoveresta_ prescribed by Zoroaster for incompetent physicians. Besides its horrid appeal to the imagination, it was doubtless useful in concealing the identity of a prisoner secretly condemned and secretly executed. There are various parallels to the Nuremberg Maiden. A similar instrument was invented by Nabis, a Spartan tyrant, who named it the Apega, after his wife. But the famous Morton's Maiden in the Museum of Antiquities in Edinburgh is simply a beheading machine, something after the manner of a guillotine. Tradition says that the Regent, Earl of Morton, introduced it into Scotland and was the first to suffer by it. This is a story as old as the Bull of Phalaris. But it is not likely that Morton introduced it and he was certainly not the first to suffer by it. Similarly the rack was called Exeter's Daughter because the Duke of Exeter is said to have introduced it into England. So, too, the Scavenger's Daughter in the Tower of London took its name from Sir William Skevington, a lieutenant of the Tower under Henry VIII., who revived the use of an iron hoop, in which the prisoner was bent heels to hams and chest to knees, and was thus crushed together unmercifully. In all these cases, it will be observed, the instrument took its title of Maiden or Daughter from the grim contrast that would strike the popular mind between the soft embraces of a girl and the cruel greeting of the machine. It was the sweetest maiden he ever kissed, said the Marquis and Earl of Argyle when he suffered death by Morton's Maiden. So in the navy the gun to which a sailor was lashed before being flogged was termed the Gunner's Daughter.[40] So, too, in the days of the French Revolution, as Dickens tells us, the figure of the sharp female figure called La Guillotine was the popular theme for jests: it was the best cure for headache, it infallibly prevented the hair from turning grey, it imparted a peculiar delicacy to the complexion, it was the National Razor which shaved close; who kissed La Guillotine looked through the little window and sneezed into the sack. In Nuremberg this grim jest was translated into literal earnest. But it must have been difficult for the sufferer to appreciate the hideous humour of the thing. Not long ago there was an exhibition of torture instruments in London. The Nuremberg Maiden was represented, and round her neck hung a placard with the legend: "Maiden: Nuremberg." A cockney, the story runs, read out this inscription to his companion: "Syme old gyme," was the comment; "Myde in Germany." And it was. CHAPTER VII _Albert Durer and the Arts and Crafts of Nuremberg. (Michel Wolgemut, Peter Vischer, Veit Stoss, Adam Krafft, etc.)_ "Wie friedsam treuer Sitten Ertrost in that und Werk Liegt nicht in Deutschlands Mitten Mein liebes Nüremberg." --WAGNER, _Die Meistersinger_. "Here, when Art was still Religion, with a simple, reverent hart, Lived and laboured Albrecht Dürer, the evangelist of Art; Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land. Emigravit is the inscription on the tomb-stone where he lies; Dead he is not--but departed,--for the artist never dies." --LONGFELLOW. At Nuremberg, as elsewhere, in the Middle Ages, every trade formed a close corporation, the rules and ordinances of which were subject to the Council alone. These unions, besides enjoying a monopoly of their particular trade, aimed at producing good work after their kind, and at "living together peacefully and amicably, according to the Christian law of brotherly love." Wages and prices were fixed, the relations of masters and subordinates were regulated by the corporations. Equality as well as fraternity was aimed at. Each master was allowed only a certain number of apprentices and workmen, who might not work at night, on Sundays, or on Feast days. Occasionally, in the case of artists whose work was in very great repute and demand, the Council relaxed this rule. By special privilege Adam Krafft was allowed to increase his establishment of workers. The trade-corporations paid great attention to the quality of the goods produced. They were always anxious that only products which were "in the eyes of all good, irreproachable, and without flaw," should be delivered. To guarantee their quality and soundness goods were carefully inspected before being put on sale: shoes or works of art, bread or beef--all alike came under the eye of inspectors appointed by the respective associations. Punishment for infringement of the rules was severe. Two men were burnt alive at Nuremberg in 1456 for having sold adulterated wine. The modern publican would doubtless be surprised at such treatment. The youth who was destined for a certain trade had to be apprenticed to some master of that trade, "who," say the rules of the time, "must maintain his apprentice night and day in his house, give him bread and attention (and in some cases even clothes), and keep him under lock and key." The master, who was responsible for his apprentice's work, had also to teach him his trade, and to see that he was brought up in the fear of God, and that he attended church. When the apprenticeship (Lehrjahre) expired the young worker set out on his travels (Wanderjahre) for one, three, or even five years, visiting foreign countries, and learning all he could of his trade. Then he returned and occupied himself, whilst working for a master, in endeavouring to produce a piece of work--his masterpiece--which should entitle him to be admitted to the rank of master. [Illustration: ALBERT DURER'S HOUSE] That this system had faults, economically, is undeniable. That it produced good work and engendered in the craftsmen a personal interest and pride in their work, is equally certain. Among the craftsmen of Nuremberg in her golden age were Albert Durer, Peter Vischer, Adam Krafft, Veit Stoss, and a host of others eminent in their line. It was under the conditions we have sketched that they learned and laboured. * * * * * Among the most treasured of Nuremberg's relics is the low-ceilinged, gabled house near the Thiergärtnerthor, in which _Albert Durer_ lived and died, in the street now called after his name. The works of art which he presented to the town, or with which he adorned its churches, have unfortunately, with but few exceptions, been sold to the stranger. It is in Vienna and Munich, in Dresden and Berlin, in Florence, in Prague, or the British Museum, that we find splendid collections of Durer's works. Not at Nuremberg. But here at any rate we can see the house in which he toiled--no genius ever took more pains--and the surroundings which impressed his mind and influenced his inspiration. If, in the past, Nuremberg has been only too anxious to turn his works into cash, to-day she guards Albert Durer's house with a care and reverence little short of religious. She has sold, in the days of her poverty and foolishness, the master's pictures and drawings, which are his own best monument; but she has set up a noble monument to his memory (by Rauch, 1840) in the Durer Platz, and his house is opened to the public (on payment of 50 pfennige) between the hours of 8 A.M. and 1 P.M., and 2 and 6 P.M. on week days. The Albert-Durer-Haus Society has done admirable work in restoring and preserving the house in its original state with the aid of Professor Wanderer's architectural and antiquarian skill. Reproductions of Durer's works are also kept here. The most superficial acquaintance with Durer's drawings will have prepared us for the sight of his simple, unpretentious house and its contents. In his "Birth of the Virgin" he gives us a picture of the German home of his day, where there were few superfluous knick-knacks, but everything which served for daily use was well and strongly made and of good design. Ceilings, windows, doors and door-handles, chests, locks, candlesticks, banisters, waterpots, the very cooking utensils, all betray the fine taste and skilled labour, the personal interest of the man who made them. So in Durer's house, as it is preserved to-day, we can still see and admire the careful simplicity of domestic furniture, which distinguishes that in the "Birth of the Virgin." The carved coffers, the solid tables, the spacious window-seats, the well-fitting cabinets let into the walls, the carefully wrought metal-work we see there are not luxurious; their merit is quite other than that. In workmanship as in design, how utterly do they put to shame the contents of the ordinary "luxuriously furnished apartments" of the present day! _Simplex munditiis_ is the note struck here. The artists of those days gave themselves no airs: they were content to regard themselves merely as successful workmen. The same hands that carved the most splendid cathedral stalls were ready to lavish equal care on the most insignificant domestic utensil: whilst the simplest artisan was filled with the ambition to turn out work truly artistic. He aimed at perfection, sharing in his master's toil and triumphs, and hoping, no doubt, to produce some day a masterpiece himself. And what manner of man was he who lived in this house that nestles beneath the ancient castle? In the first place a singularly loveable man, a man of sweet and gentle spirit, whose life was one of high ideals and noble endeavour.[41] In the second place an artist who, both for his achievements and for his influence on art, stands in the very front rank of artists, and of German artists is _facile princeps_. At whatever point we may study Durer and his works we are never conscious of disappointment. As painter, as author, as engraver or simple citizen, the more we know of him the more we are morally and intellectually satisfied. Fortunately, through his letters and writings, his journals and autobiographical memoirs we know a good deal about his personal history and education. Durer's grandfather came of a farmer race in the village of Eytas in Hungary. Durer, it has been plausibly suggested, is a Nuremberg rendering of the Hungarian word Ajtó = door = Eytas. The Open Door, Azure, in his canting coat of arms seems to confirm this. The grandfather turned goldsmith, and his eldest son, Albrecht Durer the elder, came to Nuremberg in 1455 and settled in the Burgstrasse (No. 27). He became one of the leading goldsmiths of the town: married and had eighteen children, of whom only three, boys, grew up. Albrecht, or as we call him Albert Durer, was the eldest of these. He was born May 21, 1471, in his father's house, and Anthoni Koberger, the printer and bookseller, the Stein of those days, stood godfather to him. The maintenance of so large a family involved the father, skilful artist as he was, in unremitting toil. "My dear father," writes Durer, "passed his life in the midst of great toil, and difficult and arduous labour, having only what he earned by his handiwork to support himself, his wife and his family. His possessions were few and in his life he experienced many tribulations, struggles and reverses of all sorts: but all who knew him had a good word to say of him, for he clung to the conduct of a good and honourable Christian. He was a patient and gentle man, at peace with all men and full of gratitude to God." The portrait he has left of his father (at Munich) corresponds exactly to the character he has thus described. It is the trustful, strenuous face of a worn but strong old man, who seems to accept without regret, in the glad possession of a conscience free from all reproach, a life deprived of all comfort and worldly pleasure. He took great pains to bring up his children in the way they should go. "My father took much trouble over our education. He brought us up to the glory of God: his chief desire was to keep his children under severe discipline, so that they might be acceptable to God and to man. Every day he urged us to love God and to show a sincere affection for our neighbours." Of his mother, Albert Durer writes, "It was her constant custom to go much to church. She never failed to reprove me every time that I did wrong. She kept us, my brothers and me, with great care from all sin, and on my coming in or my going out, it was her habit to say 'Christ bless thee.' I cannot praise enough her good works, the kindness and charity she showed to all, nor can I speak enough of the good fame that was hers." His father, who was delighted with Albert's industry, took him from school as soon as he had learned to read and write and apprenticed him to a goldsmith. "But my taste drew me towards painting rather than towards goldsmithry. I explained this to my father, but he was not satisfied, for he regretted the time I had lost." [Illustration: ALBERT DURER AS A BOY. FROM A DRAWING BY HIMSELF AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN] Benvenuto Cellini has told us how his father, in like fashion, was eager that he should practise the "accursed art" of music. Durer's father, however, soon gave in and in 1486 apprenticed the boy to Michel Wolgemut. That extraordinarily beautiful, and, for a boy of that age, marvellously executed portrait of himself at the age of thirteen (now at Vienna) must have shown the father something of the power that lay undeveloped in his son. So "it was arranged that I should serve him for three years. During that time God gave me great industry so that I learnt many things; but I had to suffer much at the hands of the other apprentices." * * * * * Painting was already in vogue at Nuremberg in the fourteenth century, but it was never much encouraged. One of the reasons may perhaps have been that there was little opportunity for fresco painting here, as in Italy; for the Gothic style of architecture offers no large surfaces that seem to demand the relief of colour and drawing. Painting was regarded at first merely as an assistant of architecture, glass-blowing and sculpture, for the purposes of decoration and ornament, and painters therefore always continued to be treated as mere artisans of one craft or another. "Here I am a master," writes Durer from Italy, "at home a Parasite." But, however regarded, the art of painting had attained to the dignity of a separate existence when, in the fourteenth century, it was called in to supply the place of sculpture and to furnish altar-pieces and memorial pictures attached to monuments. These latter, "epitaphs," are highly characteristic of northern art, and no better examples of them are to be found than in the great churches of Nuremberg. Many of them, in their original positions, can be seen in the Churches of St. Lorenz and St. Sebald, executed for the great burgher families--Imhoffs, Tuchers, Holzschuhers, etc.--on the death of one of their number. An early example is that of Paul Stromer (1406) in St. Lorenzkirche. The oldest Nuremberg picture is said to be an altarpiece in St. Jakobskirche. A great advance on this awkward work is the celebrated Imhoff'sche Altar-piece in the Lorenzkirche (1418-22). Of the same period, but more full of colour and movement, are the pictures of the Deokarus Altar in the same church, of the Altar of the Sacristy in St. Jakobskirche, and notably of the Tuchersche Altar in the Frauenkirche (1440). The figures in this picture are more severe and also more vigorous than the graceful, soft, full figures of the Imhoff'sche Altar-piece. The names of the painters of these works are unknown. Berthold, who was commissioned by the Council in 1423 to paint the interior of the Rathaus, is the only early painter of note whose name has survived. To him some of the earliest epitaphs are safely to be attributed. So far no outside influence had affected the work of the Nuremberg painters. They were content to supply their pictures with plain gold backgrounds and to subordinate the composition of them to the requirements of the folding divisions of the altar-pieces, carved in stone or wood. The grouping is therefore often crowded and the drawing and arrangement of the limbs and figures frequently approaches the grotesque. But presently, and probably through the agency of Martin Schongauer, the famous engraver and painter of Colmar, the influence of the Flemish School began to make itself felt. The introduction of landscape backgrounds and a great improvement in drawing and composition are noticeable, and may be traced in the Löffelholz Altar-piece in St. Sebald's (1453). In these respects and in the smooth and brilliant colouring, not quite perfectly harmonised, _Michel Wolgemut's_ (1434-1519) earliest works show the influence of the Flemish School in full vigour. It was in 1473 that he married the widow of Hans Pleydenwurf, a painter of some reputation, and in his house, beneath the old Castle, proceeded to carry on the firm of Wolgemut and Pleydenwurf. From this workshop all the principal paintings of that period would seem to have issued. It is extremely difficult to determine how far the pictures that have hitherto passed under the name of Michel Wolgemut are really his. The master has certainly failed as a rule to stamp his own personality on his works. This is no doubt due in great part to the fact that he left much of each picture to be done by his pupils and assistants. The "firm" took a frankly business view of their handiwork. The amount of personal attention Michel Wolgemut gave to a picture probably varied with the price paid for it. It is unfortunate that Durer in many cases followed the same custom. He found that his careful and elaborate style of painting was simply beggaring him, and he frequently therefore allowed his paintings to be finished by his assistants. Some common characteristics of the Pleydenwurf-Wolgemut School soon impress themselves on us as we study their works in the German Museum, or the Churches of St. Lorenz, St. Sebald, St. John, and St. Jakob. The drapery is stiffly drawn but the colouring remarkably clear and brilliant. The modelling of the limbs, not founded on Durer's close studies of the nude, still leaves much to be desired. The female type is at first sight graceful, but on closer acquaintance we find it soulless and unsatisfying. The prominent cheekbones, straight noses, mild expression of almond-shaped eyes, thin lips and lifeless mouths produce an impression very different from that caused by the almost painful intensity of Durer's portraits. As the fifteenth century draws to a close an increasing severity of design and hardness of expression becomes noticeable. It is not altogether fanciful, I think, to attribute this in part to the stern independent spirit of the Reformation and in part to the prevalence of engraving. For Wolgemut, with Wilhelm Pleydenwurf, paid much attention to woodcarving,[42] and aided doubtless by their youthful apprentice, Albert Durer, illustrated the _Schatzbehalter_ (1491) and the _Hartmann-Schedel Chronicle_ (1493), published by Koberger. The influence of this style of work is perhaps traceable in the flatness and severe modelling of the hands, feet, and faces, and in the stiff movement of the figures in Wolgemut's pictures. Wolgemut is seen to best advantage in his single figures of saints, as in his Peringsdörffer masterpiece, from the Augustinerkirche, now in the German Museum, the only painting of importance known to have been produced in his studio during Durer's apprenticeship. But even in his best pieces we see little more than the fine feeling of a skilful workman. We look in vain for inspiration, in vain for imagination, we listen in vain for any echo from that world of Perfect Beauty which Durer and the greatest artists have known in part and striven to express. And yet, somehow, his best works do appeal to us and stir our hearts. What the secret of that appeal may be is a question which will doubtless find various answers. _Quot homines tot sententiæ._ For me it is that Wolgemut speaks in the naïve, straightforward tones of the Middle Ages, and decks the actors of the Sacred Story in the clothes and colours of his own time and his own surroundings. The atmosphere of his pictures is laden with subtle associations. If there was no note of poetry in Wolgemut, still, round the landscapes in his pictures, there hovers a tone like the echo of some old folk-song that has been sung and yet lingers in the air. * * * * * _Albert Durer_ always entertained the highest respect for his master, and in 1516 painted the immortal portrait of him in his eighty-second year, now in Munich. When in 1490 his apprenticeship was completed Durer set out on his Wanderjahre, to learn what he could of men and things, and, more especially, of his own trade. Martin Schongauer was dead, but under that master's brothers Durer studied and helped to support himself by his art at Colmar and at Basle. Various wood-blocks executed by him at the latter place are preserved there. Whether he also visited Venice now or not is a moot point. Here or elsewhere, at any rate, he came under the influence of the Bellini, of Mantegna, and more particularly of Jacopo dei Barbari--the painter and engraver to whom he owed the incentive to study the proportions of the human body--a study which henceforth became the most absorbing interest of his life. "I was four years absent from Nuremberg," he records, "and then my father recalled me.... After my return Hans Frey came to an understanding with my father. He gave me his daughter Agnes and with her 200 florins, and we were married." Durer, who writes so lovingly of his parents, never mentions his wife with any affection: a fact which to some extent confirms her reputation as a Xantippe. She, too, in her way, it is suggested, practised the art of _cross-hatching_. Pirkheimer, writing after the artist's death, says that by her avariciousness and quarrelling nature she brought him to the grave before his day. She was probably a woman of a practical and prosaic turn, to whom the dreamy, poetic, imaginative nature of the artist-student, her husband, was intolerably irritating. Yet as we look at his portraits of himself--and no man except Rembrandt has painted himself so often--it is difficult to understand how anyone could have been angry with Albert Durer. Never did the face of man bear a more sweet, benign, and trustful expression. In those portraits we see something of the beauty, of the strength, of the weakness of the man so beloved in his generation. His fondness for fine clothes and his legitimate pride in his personal beauty reveal themselves in the rich vestments he wears and the wealth of silken curls, so carefully waved, so wondrously painted, falling proudly over his free neck. Joachim Camerarius, the first rector of the Melanchthon Gymnasium in Nuremberg, tells a pleasant story of how the aged Giovanni Bellini once asked Durer to present him with one of the brushes with which he drew hairs. "Durer immediately produced several ordinary brushes such as Bellini himself used, and begged him to take the best, or all if he would. Bellini said 'No, I don't mean these. I mean the ones with which you draw several hairs with one stroke. They must be more spread out and more divided; otherwise in a long sweep such regularity of curvature and distance could not be preserved.' 'I use no other than these,' Albrecht replies, 'and, to prove it, you may watch me.' Then taking up one of the same brushes, he drew some very long, wavy tresses, such as women generally wear, in the most regular order and symmetry. Bellini looked on wondering, and afterwards admitted that no human being could have convinced him by report of the truth of that which he had seen with his own eyes." "Nature had given him a body," says the same writer, "noble in build and structure, consonant with the beautiful mind it contained. His head was expressive, the eyes flashing, the nose nobly formed, and what the Greeks called [Greek: tetragônon] (Roman). His neck was long, and his chest broad; his thighs muscular, and legs powerful." And most noteworthy of all are his exquisitely beautiful hands and fingers, which strike us equally in the portrait of the boy of thirteen, and in the Munich portrait which forms our frontispiece. No one who studies the latter picture can fail to notice how closely the countenance of Durer approaches the ideal type of Jesus Christ in art. The artist, indeed, was conscious of this himself, for his own representations of Christ bear a resemblance to his own features. On his marriage Durer did not proceed to live in the house of his parents-in-law as was customary, but, for some reason, took up his abode in his father's house. It was his ambition to excel as a painter, but it is as an engraver that he won his hold on the world--and still retains it. Copperplate engraving had been practised as early as the first quarter of the fifteenth century. It had been developed out of the goldsmith's art, and perfected by the masters E. S. and Martin Schongauer. There was a great demand for engravings. Accordingly, with a view to earning the much needed money for his family, Durer at first devoted himself to this art. We can trace clearly enough the progress of the artist as he endeavoured to produce not merely the simple representation of a subject, but by the aid of landscape backgrounds, a picture, an artistic whole on the copper. For this purpose he turned to account his early studies of Nuremberg scenery and his charming drawings of Nuremberg, the Pegnitz, and the houses to which he was ever devoted. Piracy of his works soon followed on and proved his popularity. Literary piracy, it will be seen, if not yet respectable, is at any rate of some antiquity. Meantime he was busy painting the portraits of members of patrician families, of his father, of himself. For these we must not seek in Nuremberg, but an example of his painting at this period (_circa_ 1500), is to be found in the Pietà, now in the German Museum. In painting, it was Durer's rule to deal only with sacred subjects or portraits. The much damaged and inferior work, "Hercules with the Stymphalian Birds," in the same museum forms an interesting exception to this rule. But in his engravings Durer did not confine himself to any one subject: sacred and secular history, mythology, animals, satire, humour, architecture, land and water scapes, portraits, all formed material for his receptive and strenuous mind. His humour may be studied in his designs for Maximilian's "Book of Hours," and there, too, his mordant satire lashes the faults of vain women and the _gaucheries_ of proud and foolish peasants. We have already had occasion to refer to the circle in which Durer moved in these days; but special mention should here be made of Willibald Pirkheimer, his great friend and patron, the most generous Mæcenas of sciences and art in Nuremberg. Scholar and statesman, writer, orator, and soldier, his house and splendid library in the Herrenmarkt was the centre of intellectual activity in Germany, and the chief meeting-place of the Humanists. Maximilian I., Conrad Celtes, Eobanus Hesse, Luther and Melanchthon, and especially Ulrich von Hutten and Durer were among his most favoured and frequent guests. He was a constant correspondent [Illustration: ST. ANTHONY, FROM THE ENGRAVING BY ALBERT DURER. BACKGROUND OF NUREMBERG SCENERY] also of Reuchlin and Erasmus. A martyr to gout, he was naturally choleric, but he had the humour to write a poem in praise of gout. His quick temper and vehement opinions led to his quarrelling in time with every friend except the gentle Durer. Coarse and caustic was his wit: and it is only under his influence that Durer ever shows these qualities. Pirkheimer was, in fact, a great man, a very great man, in his day; but he lives now through his friendship with Durer, and through the portrait, that marvellous engraving so full of character, which Durer published in 1524. Besides copper-engraving and painting Durer also turned his attention to wood-engraving, and by his admirable work and designs began to give it its place among the pictorial arts. One of his earliest woodcuts is entitled _The Men's Bath_. It represents a group of nude male figures in one of those open-air public baths in the Pegnitz, which are still used in Nuremberg, and of which an old writer says: "A solicitude particularly attentive to the needs of the working classes and to the health and well-being of artisans, servants and the poor, has established baths in the towns and villages: it is a habit very praiseworthy and profitable to the health to take a bath at least once a fortnight." There were a dozen such public baths at Nuremberg, often visited by Durer no doubt in his pursuit of the study of the nude. He continued to pour forth works drawn from mythology and church history, until in 1498 he produced that "great trumpet-call of the Reformation," the famous series of wood-cut illustrations to the _Apocalypse_. In this series, so full of artistic skill and imagination, Durer not only reveals to us the aspirations of his own mind, but he also expresses the thoughts and emotions of the age in which he lived. The Apocalypse, in which under the veil of religious symbolism are made to appear the terrible judgments of the Lord and the peace of his saints, was followed by that sweet and tender poem, _The Life of Mary_, and by the _Great_ and the _Little Passion_, two sublime tragedies that leave nothing to be desired in truth of expression and vigour of design. Durer put his whole soul into these religious works--the same deeply penitent, simply trusting soul which he reveals to us in his prayers, his diaries, and his books. How real his subjects were to him, how homely his religion, is indicated by the inevitable manner in which he transfers the scenes of Holy Writ to the ordinary surroundings of his daily life in Nuremberg. Deeply imbued with the religious spirit, he tells this pictorial history of the Christian faith as one to whom it was indeed a living reality and a very intimate part of his life. But before this immortal series was finished various important events occurred in the life of the artist. In 1502 his father died. "O all you who are my friends," writes Albert, in words that remind us of St. Augustine, "I pray you for the love of God, when you read the account of my good father's death, remember his soul, and say for him a _Pater_ and an _Ave_. Do so too for your own salvation, that we may all obtain the grace of truly serving God, and that it may be granted to us to lead a holy life and to make a good end. No, it is not possible that he who has lived a good life should leave this world with regret or fear, for God is full of mercy." In the following year were produced the tender _Virgin and Child_, and in 1504 the _Adam and Eve_, in which the fruits of his study of the nude were given to the world in ideal figures of man before the Fall. Next year another break occurred in Durer's career. Whether, as Vasari says, to secure himself against the piracy of his engravings, or merely in search of fresh knowledge, towards which "his lofty mind was ever striving," Durer paid another visit to Venice in 1505. Here he painted for the German colony, as an altar-piece in the Church of St. Bartolommeo, the _Madonna del Rosario_, now at Prague. This picture contains portraits of Maximilian, Julius II., Durer, Pirkheimer, and several German merchants. So great was the admiration roused by it that the Doge visited the artist and endeavours were made to induce him to live permanently in Venice. But in 1507, in spite of all temptations, he returned to his native town and proceeded to execute many commissions. In 1508 he obtained an injunction from the Council to prevent the fraudulent copying of his prints. In the same year a Nuremberg worthy, Matthäus Landauer, added a chapel to the almshouses (Zwölfbrüderhaus or Landauerkloster) he had founded in 1501. The chapel was dedicated to All Saints, and Durer was invited to paint an altar-piece for it, representing "The Adoration of the Trinity by all Saints." The result, the Allerheiligenbild, is one of the artist's noblest and most famous compositions, but it too has left Nuremberg. For in 1585 the Rat sold it to Emperor Rudolph II., replacing it by a copy for which they retained the original frame. In 1509 Durer bought the Durer-haus and took his aged mother to live with him there. He also bought his father's house in the Burgstrasse off his brother. This in itself shows that the stories of his poverty have been much exaggerated. On his death he left 6858 gulden--a very good fortune in those days. His connection with Maximilian, to which we have already referred,[43] no doubt brought him something, though he had difficulty in procuring the payment of the pension allowed him by the Emperor. The Council, in 1510, at last gave a sign that they were aware of the presence of a great artist in their city by ordering Durer to paint the portraits of Charlemagne and Sigismund, to be displayed at the festival when the Imperial insignia and sacred relics--many of which were introduced into the pictures--were shown to the people. These portraits, into the former of which Durer introduced the features of Stabius, Maximilian's poet-laureate, are now in the German Museum, much restored and over-daubed with repaintings. The illness and death of his mother in 1514 caused Albert Durer very great grief. Most touching is his description of that event. "Just a year after she had fallen ill, my mother died in a Christian manner, after having received full absolution. Before dying she gave me her blessing, and with many pious words invoked upon me the peace of God, recommending me above all to keep myself from all sin. She had much fear of death, but, she said, she had no fear of appearing before the Lord. She suffered when she died, and I observed that she saw before her something which terrified her, for she asked for holy water, although she had not uttered a word for a long time. At last her eyes grew fixed and I saw Death deal her two great blows to the heart. Then she closed her eyes and mouth and died suffering. I betook myself to reciting prayers at her side, and experienced such paroxysms of anguish as I cannot express to you. May God have mercy on my mother! It was always her greatest joy to speak to us of God, and she saw with gladness everything that could increase the glory of the Lord. She was sixty-three years of age when she died, and I had her interred honourably according to my means. May our Lord give me grace to die a holy death even as she died! May God with all the heavenly host, my father, my mother, my relatives and my friends, be present at my end! May God Almighty grant us the life everlasting! Amen. And after my mother was dead her face became more beautiful than it had been during her life." Sorrow is the source of most great works of art. In his sorrow Durer produced his three most famous, best-wrought engravings, works full of imagination and of thought, works in which, expressed in exquisite draughtsmanship, lies his whole philosophy. Through _St. Jerome in his Library_, _The Knight_, _Death and the Devil_, and _Melencolia_, Durer has more than elsewhere revealed himself to us and shown us his outlook upon things, his manner of regarding the world, his criticism of life. On the death of Maximilian Durer travelled to the Court of Charles V. in order to get his pension confirmed. He succeeded in his object, and, after travelling through the Netherlands, where he was accorded a great reception, he returned to Nuremberg in 1521, having refused the pressing invitation of the Council of Antwerp that he should take up his residence in their city. When he returned he received another commission from the Rat--to design decorative paintings for the great hall of the Council-house. But Durer's health was broken and his prolific imagination was flagging. He seems to have taken little interest in this commission. He chose the time-worn subject of the _Calumny_ of Apelles for one design, and used his unfinished sketch of Maximilian's _Triumphal Car_ for the other. The painting was carried out by Georg Pencz and others of his pupils. Durer's last great imaginative effort was the painting of the Four Preachers, two large upright panels with figures of St. Peter and St. John on the one, and St. Mark and St. Paul on the other. These, as his final message to his native town, he presented in 1526 to his _gunstigen und gnädigen Herren_, the Council of Nuremberg. Painter, designer, engraver, mathematician, Durer was also an author. The year before he died, he published his "Instructions how to Use the Compass" and "Instructions how to Fortify Towns, Castles, and Villages," and after his death appeared the four books of his life-long work on "The Human Proportions." His life had been passed in a strenuous endeavour to perfect his art: he died amid a universal chorus of regret, on April 6th, 1528. His grave is in St. John's Churchyard (No. 649). A plain bronze plate on the headstone bears his well-known monogram and the following inscription:-- ME(ister) AL(brecht) DU(rer) QUICQUID ALBERTI DVRERI MORTALE FUIT, SVB HOC CONDITUR TUMULO. EMIGRAVIT, VIII, IDUS APRILE, M., D. XXVIII. "I can truthfully say," wrote Durer to the Council, "that in the thirty years I have stayed at home, I have not received from people in this town work worth 500 gulden--truly an absurd and trifling sum--and not a fifth part of that has been profit." After his death his fellow-citizens became more fully alive to the value of his works, and the worthy shopkeepers began those transactions which gradually stripped Nuremberg of almost all the master's drawings and paintings. I borrow the following account from Mr Lionel Cust's excellent monograph on "The Paintings and Drawings of Albert Durer":-- "The greater part of his drawings, which were made for his own use, appear to have passed into the possession of his life-long friend, Pirkheimer, perhaps handed over by Durer's widow to redeem the many financial obligations under which Durer lay to his friend. The sketch-books used by Durer in the Netherlands seem to have passed into the possession of the Pfinzing family, and were dispersed by their next owner. At Pirkheimer's death the whole of his collections, including the paintings and drawings by Durer, became the property of the Imhoff family, the bankers and usurers of Nuremberg. The Imhoffs, as befits a good, steady, money-making firm, seem to have regarded Durer's works as a marketable commodity. At the end of the sixteenth century, when the Emperor Rudolph II. was forming his great collection of works of art and curiosities, the Imhoffs, knowing his intense admiration for the works of Durer, pressed upon him the collection of paintings and drawings which they possessed. The Town Council of Nuremberg seem to have followed suit with the paintings which were immediately under their control, if not actually in their possession. In a short time Rudolph became possessed of the bulk of Durer's paintings and drawings at Prague or Vienna. Several of the paintings remain in the Imperial collection to this day, and a large portion of the drawings now forms the nucleus of what is known as the 'Albertina' collection at Vienna. Another portion of the Imhoff collection found its way through a collector in the Netherlands, perhaps through one of the Austrian governors, into that of Sir Hans Sloane, and is now in the print-room at the British Museum. These two collections, together with the great collection, which official industry and acumen have brought together at Berlin, are the best field for the study of Durer's work as a draughtsman, although in some of the smaller public or private collections some of the most remarkable examples are to be found. "The good citizens of Nuremberg continued their work of converting Durer's works into hard cash whenever the opportunity occurred. In 1585 the Town Council persuaded or compelled the governors of the Landauer almshouses to sell to the Emperor Rudolph their great painting of _All Saints_, replacing it by a copy which, by way of carrying out the deception, was inserted in the original frame designed by Durer. The _Adam and Eve_ also appear to have passed into the same Imperial hands. In 1627 the Council sold to the Elector Maximilian of Bavaria the two great panels of the _Four Preachers_, Durer's last gift to his native town, and replaced them by copies. The long inscriptions from the Bible were cut off from the original panels and added on below the copies. A few years before, in 1613, they had presented the same Elector with the beautiful Baumgärtner altar-piece, which was torn from its place in St. Catherine's Church at Nuremberg. The two _Descents from the Cross_ followed in the same channel: and the Praun collection at Nuremberg yielded up the portrait of Wolgemut and the portrait of Hans Durer. Worst of all, the portrait of their beloved and honoured citizen, the world-famous portrait of Durer by himself, which had become actually the property of the Town Council, was lent by them to a local painter to copy; this ingenious craftsman sawed the panel in half, and glued his copy on to the back, on which were the town seal and other marks of ownership, and sold the original to King Ludwig of Bavaria. The worthy magistrates never discovered the fraud, or pretended not to, and this copy hangs to-day at Nuremberg a monument of dishonour and fraud. Gradually Nuremberg divested itself of every work by Durer which it could, and rejoiced in its copies and its cash. Ludwig I. of Bavaria took pity on its denuded condition, and gave back to it as a gift the _Descent from the Cross_, known as the Peller altar-piece, and also apparently returned from Schleissheim the _Hercules and the Stymphalian Birds_. With the overdaubed paintings of Charlemagne and Sigismund, these appear to be the only authenticated paintings by Durer in his native town at the present day. Three hundred years after Durer's death, a statue was erected to him in Nuremberg, and his house is now preserved and shown as a national relic. Yet little more than fifty years after the erection of this statue, in 1884, the citizens allowed the famous 'Holzschuher' portrait, the last great work by Durer which the town possessed, to be sold by the family, to whom it still belonged, to the Munich Gallery. Truly a prophet hath little honour in his own country!" Of the pupils and assistants of Durer who carried on his tradition we may mention Hans Schäuflein, Albert Altdorfer, Hans Baldung, Georg Pencz, the two Behaims and the two Sebalds, and Hans von Kulmbach. We meet with many examples of their work in the churches and in the German Museum. * * * * * As we turn our steps from Durer's house and wander through the Durer-platz to St. Sebald's we come upon the oldest restaurant in Nuremberg, where the devout tourist should not fail to drink _ein Glas Bier_ to the memory of Hans Sachs, Pirkheimer, and Durer, who sat here, drank and talked in days gone by. The _Bratwurstglöcklein_ is a little beerhouse clinging to the north wall of St. Moritz Chapel, and owes its name, I suppose, to the custom of ringing a small bell when the sausage was ready. As to the curious position of this little restaurant we may remark that the practice of bargaining in the sacred precincts was very prevalent at one time, and little booths were frequently built on to the churches. It is only quite recently that the booths attached to the Frauenkirche were broken up. * * * * * North of the Rathaus runs the Theresien Strasse. No. 7 is the house of Adam Krafft, the greatest of Nuremberg sculptors (1430-1507). The house belonged originally to the Pfinzing family, and is of interest in itself for its architectural features. The figure of St. Moritz on the fountain in the courtyard is by Peter Vischer. Here Adam Krafft, the pious and modest stone-mason, worked at his art to the glory of God. We know next to nothing of the man beyond what we can learn from his handiwork. There is fortunately little reason for believing the legend that he died in great poverty. A friend we know he was of Lindenast and Vischer, with whom, so great was his industry and eagerness to improve in art, he used to practise drawing on holidays, even in his old age; and it is recorded that he made his wife call herself Eva because he was Adam. That quaint humour of his is revealed in the pleasing relief over the gateway of the "Waage" or old weighing-house in the Winklerstrasse. If we would see the counterfeit presentment of the man himself, we must pay a visit to St. Lorenzkirche, and there, on the pedestal of his masterpiece the figure of the master appears with the tools and in the costume of his craft, kneeling in company with his assistants and supporting their beautiful creation. A simple man, of calm, unruffled temper and fervent faith he must have been, thoroughly representative of the best German spirit of his day. No German artist has portrayed the scenes of Christ's passion with greater depth of genuine feeling. Happily many of his principal works are at Nuremberg. Probably the earliest examples of Nuremberg sculpture are the figures of Adam and Eve and the prophets round the portal of St. Lorenzkirche. They date from the fourteenth century. In point of style and execution it is a far cry from these stern and angular figures to the almost supernatural grace and lightness of Krafft's Pix within the cathedral. Well did legend pay him the pretty compliment of saying that he knew the art of _founding_ stone like bronze. Tender and graceful as the artist here shows himself, the strength and vigour of his reliefs are equally remarkable. His treatment of the folds of garments seems to reflect the influence of the Netherland school, and to point to a dangerous striving after the effects of painting. For his subjects Krafft rarely went outside the New Testament, which he interpreted in the terms of Nuremberg life and dress. His figures, like those in the works of his contemporaries at Nuremberg, are in most cases short, not to say dumpy, and reflect, no doubt, the ordinary type of human form around him. But always the homely Nuremberg costumes in which they are clad seem to bring the scenes portrayed nearer to our hearts; and thereby when a Mary draws to her breast the head of her crucified Son, or a Magdalene at the feet of Jesus waters His feet with her tears, we are impressed the more vividly with sympathy for their sorrow. One of his earliest works, if, as I think, it is indeed by him, is the Last Judgment over the Schauthüre, on the south-east side of St. Sebaldskirche. His earliest works of unquestioned authority are the Seven Stations of the Cross on the Burgschmietsstrasse. These are a series of bas-reliefs on seven pillars, each representing a scene in the passion of our Lord. Starting from the house of the founder they mark the way to St. John's churchyard. Some of them are much defaced by time and some have been carefully copied by Burgschmiet,[44] but here and there we can still recognise the vigorous touch of Adam Krafft, and they still keep green the memory of their pious founder. Martin Ketzel, somewhere about the year 1470, had undertaken a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Struck by the fact that the distance between Pilate's house and Golgotha was exactly that between his own house and St. John's Churchyard, he returned home with various measurements, determined to erect at certain intermediate stations some pieces of sculpture commemorative of our Saviour's passion. To his dismay when he arrived he discovered that he had lost his precious measurements. There was nothing for it but to return to Jerusalem and take the measurements afresh. For he could trust no one to perform so important a task for him. This time he was more successful, and Adam Krafft was commissioned to provide the reliefs. Starting from Pilate's house, which was represented by Ketzel's own house--Thiergärtnerthorplatz (opposite Durer's house--it is adorned by the statue of an armed knight) the pillars were placed at intervals, marking the spots corresponding to those where Christ was said to have rested on the real Dolorous Way to Mount Calvary. Calvary itself is represented at St. John's. Each pillar bears an inscription:-- 1. Hir begegnet Christus seiner wirdigen lieben Muter die vor grossem hertzenleit anmechtig ward. 200 Srytt von Pilatus haws. 2. Hir ward Symon gezwungen Cristo sein krewtz helfen tragen. 295 Sryt von Pilatus haws. 3. Hir sprach Christus Jr Döchter von Jherusalem nit weint über mich, sünder uber euch und ewvre kinder. 380 Srytt von Pilatus haws. 4. Hier hat Christus sein heiligs Angesicht der heiligen Fraw Veronica auf iren Slayr gedruckt vor irem Haws. 500 Sryt von Pilatus Haws. 5. Hier tregt Christus das Creuz und wird von den Juden ser hart geslagen. 780 Srytt von Pilatus Haws. 6. Hier felt Cristus vor grosser unmacht auf die Erden bei 1000 Srytt von Pilatus haws. Then on a small eminence by the gate of the Cemetery we behold the last sad scenes of Calvary reproduced. It is a noble group which moves us alike by the pathos and dignity of its treatment and by the beauty of the inscription. 7. Hir legt Cristus tot vor seiner gebenedeyten wirdigen Muter die in mit grosem Herzenleyt und bitterlichen smertz claget und beweynt. In the Holzschuher Chapel near at hand is Krafft's last work (1507) the Burial of Christ. In this piece, which lacks the fervent feeling of his earlier representations of Christ's passion and was probably chiefly executed by his assistants, the figure of Joseph of Arimathea is a portrait of Adam Krafft. Krafft in his prime (1492) had dealt with the same subject in the Sebald-Schreyer-tomb on the outer wall of the Choir of St. Sebaldskirche, facing the Rathaus. The "Burial" in St. John's Church seems cold and hard compared with the pathos and beauty of this masterpiece, so finely composed and exquisitely wrought. Other works of Adam Krafft's which well repay study are:-- 1496. Bearing the Cross, St. Sebaldskirche. 1501. The Last Supper, Mount of Olives and Betrayal, behind the High Altar, St. Sebaldskirche. 1504. The Annunciation, on the house at the corner of Winklerstrasse and Schulgässchen. 1499. The Crowning of Mary (Pergenstorfer Relief) in the Frauenkirche. 1499. Madonna with Child, on the corner-house, Wunderburggässlein. 1501. Crowning of Mary, in the Tetzellchapel of the Ægidien Church. But most important of all stands in the St. Lorenzkirche the wonderful Pix, Ciborium, Weibrodgehäuse, or Sakramentshäuslein, wherein were deposited the elements of the Eucharist, previous to consecration. This "miracle of German art" (1496-1500) was made on commission for Hans Imhoff, a member of the great family of merchant princes, who died in 1499, a year before it was finished, though long after it was due to be delivered. His heirs, however, recognised the merit of the master who, inspired by friendly rivalry with Vischer's Sebaldusgrab, completed at last so great a work of art. They gave to Krafft 70 gulden more than the 700 gulden he asked, and to his wife a mantle worth 6 gulden. [Illustration: SAKRAMENTSHÄUSLEIN. (ADAM KRAFFT)] Nuremberg, so rich in legend, tells a story of the origin of the Pix. A servant of Hans Imhoff was accused of having stolen a goblet and, in terror of being tortured, confessed the theft. He suffered death accordingly. But a little while afterwards the goblet was found, full of wine, beneath a bed, where it had been placed, it was surmised, by some guest who had been drinking too freely. As an atonement for his hastiness Hans Imhoff dedicated this offering to the Lord. Similar, but inferior _Weihbrodgehäusen_ by Adam Krafft are to be seen at Schwabach and at Heilsbronn. That by the Master of Weingarten at Ulm rivals though it can scarcely surpass the St. Lorenzkirche masterpiece. The life-size kneeling figures of the master, in the middle with cap, apron and mallet, and two assistants, the one with a measure and the other with a chisel, support the balcony which runs round the Ciborium. The pillars of the balustrade are adorned with eight figures of saints, including St. Lorenz (with gridiron) and St. Sebald. On the pillars of the Ciborium itself (beneath which are small angels and escutcheons), are the statues of Moses, John, Mary, and James the Less. Above the receptacle rises a spire like a bishop's crosier, representing perhaps the crook of the Good Shepherd. It is ornamented with statuettes of saints, and as the Holy Sacrament was instituted to commemorate the death of the Redeemer the artist has added reliefs representing episodes of the Passion, which with the Resurrection complete for all believers the fruits of the Holy Supper. 1. Christ comforting the Women. 2. The Holy Supper. 3. The Mount of Olives. Above these again are four patriarchs and eight angels holding signs of the passion, which interpreted as instruments of torture may have given rise to the story of the origin of the Pix. Then-- 4. Christ before Pilate. 5. The Crown of Thorns. 6. The Crucifixion. SS. Mary and John and a kneeling figure (the Church?). On the pillars above stand the four Evangelists(?) and above all the figure of the risen Saviour, the right hand stretched out in benediction, the left holding the banner of victory. But apart from the details of the carving, it is the grace of the fretted Gothic pinnacle of finest filigree stonework that seizes our attention. Tapering, or rather mounting airily on high it carries the eye up to the spandril of the vaulting of the choir, soaring like the notes of a flute-like voice, and embodying, as it were, the utterance of some deeply spiritual aspiration. The delicate elaboration of this wonderful stonework seems to have overcome all terrestial heaviness. Higher still and higher, it springs from the earth like Shelley's skylark, but it fades not from view. For when, some sixty feet from the ground, the bend of the vaulting checks its further growth, it bows its beautiful head and like a lily on its stalk or snowdrop on its stem terminates in a pendant flower. It is indeed a miracle of rare device. So slender and graceful is it and withal so clear-cut that the triumph of the artist over his material seems almost unearthly, whilst the spring and proportion of the whole and the sharpness of the carving redeem him from the imputation of making an inappropriate use of stone. In this, as in the Schreyertomb, it is usual to trace the influence of Durer on the sculptor. To me it seems more probable that Adam Krafft's style with its excessive minuteness influenced Albert Durer and was in turn influenced by Martin Schongauer. * * * * * Wood-carving (as a visit to the Museum will demonstrate) flourished exceedingly at Nuremberg. There were indeed so many carvers there towards the end of the fifteenth century that it is difficult to understand how they all gained a livelihood. The greatest artist among them, if we except the unknown master of the Nuremberg Madonna in the Museum, was certainly Veit Stoss. Born in 1440 he was of abstemious and frugal habits and lived till 1533. In 1477 he gave up his rights of citizenship, went to Poland, and at Cracow made a great reputation by the high altar and choir-stalls he carved for the Church of St. Mary there. Like Durer he was very versatile--a carver in wood and stone, painter, engraver, mechanician, and architect. But unlike most of the great artists of this period, his character was stained by a considerable crime. On returning to Nuremberg in 1496 he was nick-named the Pole and was presently condemned on a charge of forging a signature to a document which was to substantiate his claim against a Nuremberg merchant, whom he accused of having cheated him out of a sum of money. He was sentenced to be branded on both cheeks--a gentle punishment, seeing that a forger was liable to lose both eyes. The Council also compelled him to swear that he would never leave Nuremberg, but, when he found that no one would work with him, he fled. But later, the Council pardoned him and received him back. They seem to have appreciated his artistic gifts as much as Maximilian. Stoss worked very diligently at Nuremberg and received orders even from Transylvania and Portugal. Whatever his character--and it is fair to add that on the count of forgery he always maintained that he was unjustly accused--his art will always bring him praise. Of his numberless altar-pieces, crucifixes and Madonnas, the very beautiful wood gilt crucifix and the much-admired Angels' Greeting, both in the Lorenzkirche, are the most famous. His earliest work in Nuremberg is a painted carving of the Madonna and Child on the north wall of the Frauenkirche, executed for the old Welser Altar (1504). Veit Stoss, it is pointed out in his later work, exhibits the increasing influence of Albert Durer, but nowhere more unmistakably than in the "Englischer Gruss" (1518)--the Angelic Greeting, which hangs from the roof of the Lorenzkirche, a work of tender piety, in which the delicacy of the figures is very noticeable. Formerly the Greeting hung in the choir suspended by a costly chain. But owing to the torrent of coarse abuse which Osiander, the great preacher and reformer, hurled against it, it was wrapped up in a green sack, on which were set the Tucher arms. Later on, the chain was replaced by a rope. Then the Greeting was moved about from church to church till at last it returned to St. Lawrence's. But it was insecurely hung, and in 1817 it fell from a height of 50 feet and was broken to pieces. It was very skilfully put together again by the brothers Rotermundt. But the huge crown which originally surmounted it was not restored. Celebrated as this carving is, and beautiful as are many of the individual figures and details in the medallions, the Angelic Greeting as a whole is, I confess, too florid and too heavy for my taste. So that, rather than be dishonest in my enthusiasms, I will only add (without superciliousness) that for those who like this sort of thing, this is the sort of thing they like. The praying Mary, who holds in her left hand a book, her right hand being laid upon her breast, and an angel with the staff of the Annunciation, stand alone, over life-size, in the centre of a rose-wreath frame. Over the wreath is carved God the Father, sitting between two angels, with crown and sceptre, blessing the figures beneath. Other angels hovering about Mary make heavenly music. Under the wreath, Eve's serpent (with the apple), is being conquered by the Ave with which the Angel of Annunciation greets Mary. On the wreath itself, seven round medallions in low relief represent the seven joys of Mary:--the Annunciation, Visitation, Birth of Christ, (_cf._ the Rosenkranz-tafel in the Museum), Adoration of the Wise Men, Resurrection of Christ, Pouring out of the Holy Spirit, and Crowning of Mary. * * * * * Krafft and Stoss worked in the Gothic style, but Peter Vischer (1455-1529), the bronze founder, except in his early works, of which there are no examples in Nuremberg, shows the influence of the Italian Renaissance. Perhaps this had come to him through Jacopo dei Barbari, whose influence on Durer we have noted. However that may be, Peter Vischer remains a truly original artist. And yet, the son of a coppersmith, he ever continued to regard himself as a simple artisan. With a workman's cap, and a large leather apron round his waist, with hammer and chisel in hand, the signs of his calling, he has portrayed himself to us in his most beautiful work of art--the shrine of St. Sebald. There, in a niche facing the altar, stands, thick-set and full-bearded, the modest, pious labourer, whose reputation had spread beyond the limits of Germany, and whose bronze work, if we may believe the chronicler, once "filled Poland, Bohemia, Hungary, and the palaces of princes throughout the Holy Roman Empire." Seldom did prince or potentate come to Nuremberg without paying a visit to Vischer's workshop. Adam Krafft and Sebastien Lindenast, the coppersmith who made works of art of copper "as if they had been of gold or silver," and who is responsible for the copper figures which adorn the Frauenkirche clock, were his two bosom friends. They seemed, we are told, to have but one heart. All three were equally simple, disinterested, and ever eager to learn. "They were like brothers: every Friday, even in their old age, they met and studied together like apprentices, as the designs which they executed at their meetings prove. Then they separated in friendly wise, but without having eaten or drunk together." The masterpiece[45] of Peter Vischer is without doubt the shrine of St. Sebald, the highest expression of German art in this kind. Imagination, which is so much lacking in most German art, is found here in plenty, and in a still higher degree the artist displays his sense of form and his careful attention to detail. To find any work of the fifteenth century which can vie with this in richness of fancy and in depth of feeling, as well as in successful handling of bronze, we must go I think to Ghibellino Ghiberti's gates of the Baptistry at Florence. The criticism, however, which must be passed on the Sebaldusgrab is that the parts are very much greater than the whole; but the beauty and finish of the details are so great that once we are within range of their influence we forget and forgive any fault that may have caught our eye in the proportionment of the complete structure. It was in 1507 that Vischer received the commission to make this superb receptacle for the bones of St. Sebald. For twelve years he with his five sons laboured, though their labour was often interrupted by want of funds. Private subscriptions failed to supply the cost even of the 15,700 pounds--about 7 tons--of metal used. At last when, in 1519, Anton Tucher in moving words had told the citizens in St. Sebald's Church that they ought to subscribe the 800 gulden still wanting "for the glory of God and His Holy Saint," the money was forthcoming, and the monument was completed. The iron railings which surround it were made by George Heuss, who was also responsible for the clockwork at the Frauenkirche and the mechanism for drawing water at the deep well on the Paniersberg. Round the base of the shrine runs the following inscription:--"Peter Vischer Bürger in Nürnberg machet dieses Werk, mit seinen Söhnen, ward vollbracht im Jahr, 1519. Ist allein Gott dem allmächtigen zu lob und St. Sebald dem Himmelsfürsten zu ehren, mit Hülf andächtiger Leut von dem Almosen bezahlt." That is the keynote of this wonderful structure. Through years of difficulty and distress the pious artist had toiled and struggled on with the help of pious persons, paid by their voluntary contributions, to complete a work "to the praise of God Almighty alone and the honour of St. Sebald." No words, one feels, can add to the simple dignity and faith of that inscription. It supplies us with the motive of the work, and it supplies us also with the interpretation of the various groups and statues which form the shrine. To the glory of God,--we are shown how all the world, all nature and her products, all paganism with its heroic deeds and natural virtues, the Old Dispensation with its prophets and the New with its apostles and saints, pay homage to the Infant Christ, who enthroned on the summit holds in his hands the terrestrial globe. To the honour of St. Sebald,--the miniature Gothic chapel of bronze, under the richly fretted canopy some fifteen feet high, contains the oaken coffer encased with silver in which the bones of St. Sebald lie; and below this sarcophagus, which dates from 1397, are admirable bas-reliefs representing scenes and miracles from the life of the Saint.[46] At the feet of the eight slender pillars which support the canopy are all sorts of strange figures and creatures suggestive of the world of pagan mythology, gods of the forest and of the sea, nymphs of the water and the wood. Between them are some lions couchant, which recall to the memory Wolgemut's Peringsdörffer Altar-piece. At the four corners are candlesticks held by most graceful and seductive winged mermaids. But the most famous and the most beautiful figures are those of the Twelve Apostles, which stand, each about two feet, on high brackets and in niches on the pillars of the canopy. Clad in graceful, flowing robes, their expression and whole attitude expressive both of vigour and of tranquil dignity, these statues are wholly admirable. I know no sculpture or painting which conveys to a higher degree the sense of the intellectual and moral beauty and strength which centred in these first followers of Christ. That characteristic pervades them all, but the unity of suggestion is conveyed through a variety of individualities and of actions. Each apostle stands forth distinct in the vigour of his own inspired personality. Those at the east end of the monument are St. Peter and St. Andrew; on the north, or right side as we face these, are SS. Simon, Bartholomew, Thomas, and Matthew; on the south, or left, SS. John, James, Philip, and Paul; and on the west SS. Thaddæus and Matthias. The apostles are surmounted by the forms of the Fathers of the Church, or rather perhaps of the twelve minor prophets. Beneath the apostles, on the substructure in a niche facing west, is a fine statue of St. Sebald, and at the corresponding place on the other end of the monument is the excellent statue of P. Vischer himself, to which we have referred. Right at the bottom, at the foot of the four corner pillars, are the nude figures of Nimrod with his bow and quiver, of Samson with the slaughtered lion and jawbone of an ass, Perseus with sword and shield and in company of a mouse, and innumerable other little animals; Hercules with a club. Between these heroes, in the centre of either side, are female figures representing the four chief manly Virtues--Strength in a coat of mail with a lion, Temperance with vessel and globe, Truth with mirror and book, and Justice with sword and balance. In all, besides the apostles and prophets, there are seventy-two figures, in the presentation of which amidst flowers and foliage the exuberant fancy of the artist has run riot. But all are subordinated to the two central ideas which animate the whole, and all are executed with a delicacy and finish little short of marvellous. The whole fabric rests on twelve large snails with four dolphins at the corners. Peter Vischer died in 1529 and was buried in the Rochus Churchyard. His sons and Pankraz Labenwolf proved worthy successors in his art. Labenwolf was responsible for the Gänsemännchen fountain in the Gänsemarkt, the fountain in the Court of the Rathaus and perhaps for the St. Wenzel in the Landauerbrüderhaus. After Peter Vischer's death his sons received an order to complete for the Great Hall of the Rathaus a very beautiful bronze railing, which their father had begun in 1513 for the family of Fugger in Augsburg, who, however, had withdrawn their commission. This railing, which divided the Great Hall, was a work of very great artistic excellence. But it was taken away in 1806 by the Bavarian Government, _and sold for the weight of the metal_. It was probably melted down by the purchaser for the sake of the bronze. Anyhow all trace of this beautiful work of art has disappeared. We have now dealt with the most famous of the Nuremberg craftsmen. It would be wearisome to do more than mention a few of the leading names amongst those who excelled in other branches of art. A host of locksmiths, glasscutters, potters and stovemakers, bookbinders and carvers turned out in the golden age of Nuremberg work which has never received its artist's name, but which continues to delight us. The painted glass, which in spite of much modern restoration is one of Nuremberg's most priceless possessions, is often by unknown hands. But we can name such artists as Schapfer and Helmbach and later Veit, Augustin and Sebald Hirschvogel, Guttenberger, Juvenell, Amnon, Kirnberger and Springlin. Especially is it the case with the early glass in the smaller churches that we must label it _Pictor Ignotus_. The principal churches contain painted glass windows which surpass even those of Ulm and Cologne. In St. Lorenzkirche there is the Tucher window (1457) by Springlin; whilst the Volkamer window (1493), representing the family and patron saint of the donor and the genealogical tree of Jesus Christ, is justly claimed to be, for richness and depth of colouring and for elaboration of design, one of the noblest windows in the world. It can only be doubtfully attributed to Veit Hirschvogel. To him, however, belongs the credit of the Maximilian window in St. Sebald's (1514), and the Margrave's window (1527), designed by Kulmbach, in the same church. There, too, is a window by Kirnberger and the Bishop of Bamberg's window (1493), which may perhaps be by Katzheimer of Bamberg. There were at one time fifty masters in the goldsmith trade, whose delicate work, excellent in execution and varied in design, was renowned throughout Europe. The fact that in 1552 nine hundred pounds' weight of silver and silver-gilt ornaments was taken from the churches and sold by order of the Council, will show how rich Nuremberg was in this respect. But we can do here no more than mention the names of Ludwig Krug and Wenzel Jamnitzer and Augustin Hirschvogel, goldsmiths and painters on enamel. Of armourers and metal-workers there were Hans Grünewalt, who died in 1503, and his son-in-law Wilhelm von Worms, whilst Martin Harscher (1523) and Kaspar Endterlein (1633) were chief among the makers of waterpots and candelabra. Sebald Behaim, the great gunsmith; Hieronymus Gärtner, the architect; Jakob Püllman, the clockmaker and locksmith, also claim mention. Nuremberg was the home of invention as well as of industry. Christopher Denner invented the clarionet in 1690, and Lobsinger the air-gun in 1550. Cannon were first cast here about the year 1350, and in 1500 Peter Henlein made the first watches, which, from their shape, were called Nuremberg eggs. Specimens may be seen in the Castle and in the Museum. Erasmus Ebner discovered the particular alloy of metals which we call brass, the brass of earlier times being apparently of different combination, and one Rudolph invented a machine for drawing wire in 1360. About the same time the first paper-mill in Germany, if not in Europe, was established at Nuremberg; and here at the latter end of the fourteenth century playing-cards, though not invented, were certainly printed. Last, but not least, the honey cakes, which still introduce the German child to the name of Nürnberg, were famous as our Banbury cakes, and much appreciated by princes in the Middle Ages. It will be seen that the proverb-- "Nürnberg Tand geht durch alle Land," was no empty boast, and we can now understand the force of the rhyme-- "Hätt' ich Venedigs Macht, Augsburger Pracht, Nürnberger Witz,[47] Strassburger Geschütz Und Ulmer Geld So wär ich der Reichste in der Welt" CHAPTER VIII _The Meistersingers and Hans Sachs_ "Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler poet, laureate of the gentle craft, Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed.... Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's regard; But thy painter Albrecht Durer and Hans Sachs thy cobbler-bard." --LONGFELLOW. "Heil Sachs! Hans Sachs! Heil Nürnbergs theurem Sachs!" --WAGNER, _Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg_. It is impossible to be in Nuremberg many hours without becoming conscious of the fact that there once lived and died here a poet, who is still, as Wagner calls him, the "darling of Nuremberg." His name is heard and his portrait seen on every side. In the Spital-Platz stands the monument erected to his memory in 1874 (Johann Krausser). His house in the Hans Sachsgässlein,[48] much restored and rebuilt since he lived there, is marked by a tablet. Who then was this great man? A cobbler--and more than a cobbler, a poet. Hans Sachs, the son of a master-tailor, was born 5th November 1494, and died January 20, 1576. Apprenticed to a shoemaker he yet always found time, he tells us, to practise the lovely art of poetry. His first teacher was Lienhard Nunnenbeck. But it was during his five years of travel (Wanderjahre), in which he visited the greater part of Germany, that he formed his determination "to devote himself to German poetry all his life long." In 1516 he returned from his travels to Nuremberg, made his "Master piece," and became a "Master Singer." We have already seen how ardently he supported the Lutheran teaching, and we have referred to his poem (1523) "Die Wittenbergische Nachtigall."[49] His object was always both to amuse and to instruct. Even his light poems usually end with a moral. He strove to make the new teaching popular by versifying and translating passages from the Old and New Testaments. He was apt, however, to be too vehement in the expression of his convictions. So violent was he against Roman Catholicism that in 1527 the Council, anxious as ever to preserve peace and quiet, forbade him to write any more books or rhymes on that subject. Hans Sachs was twice married. His first wife died in 1560, and the following year he married the beautiful widow, Barbara Harscherin, whose beauty and worth he praises in one of his most pleasing poems, "Der Künstliche Frauenlob," written after the manner of the Minnesingers:-- "Wohlauf Herz, Sinn, Muth, und Vernunft Helft mir auch jetzt und in Zukunft, Zu loben sie, so fein und zart, Ihre Sitt', Gestalt und gute Art, Auf dass mit Lobe ich bekröne Die tugendreich', erwälhte Schöne, Dass ich ausbreite mit Begierde Wohl ihres Frauenwesens Zierde. Vor allen Frauen und Jungfrauen, Die je ich thät mit Augen schauen Hin und wieder in manchem Land, Ward keine mir wie die meine bekannt An Leibe nicht, nicht an Gemüthe, Die Gott mir ewiglich behüte...." We have mentioned both Meistersingers and Minnesingers. It may perhaps not be superfluous to add a word or two on the difference between these. The Minnesingers flourished in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. They were mostly of noble birth, and, in an age when poetry and chivalry kissed each other, they exclusively cultivated the poetic art, living in kings' palaces, or wandering from court to court, and composing and singing pure and beautiful little love poems, in which the meadows and flowers sparkle, as it were, in the sunlight of their song. Best known of these minstrels is Walter von der Vogelweide. He, during his wanderings, visited and sang in this old town at the Court of Frederick II., himself a Minnesinger. Heinrich von Meissen, surnamed Frauenlob, also visited Nuremberg, but he was the last of the Minnesingers, and was buried at Mainz, 1318. After his time the practice of German poetry devolved almost exclusively on the burgher and artisan class. Close societies were formed: the rules of poetry and singing were taught in their schools. Versecraft became one of the Incorporated Trades. The Sängerzünfte, or Singers' Guilds, flourished chiefly at Augsburg, and on the Rhine at Strasburg, Mainz, and Worms. The Meistersingers, ever anxious, but all unable to clothe themselves with the fallen mantle of ancient glory, speak of the "Twelve old Masters" (including Tannhäuser, Walter von der Vogelweide, Wolfran, etc.), as having lived together and formed the first society of Meistersingers, under Otto I. The truth is that these Twelve Masters were Minnesingers, and did not live together. Longfellow's phrase, "Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters," cannot, therefore, be correctly applied to Hans Sachs. The Incorporated Poets, we must confess, though they derived many of their rules and metres from the Minnesingers, managed to degrade the old German Minnesinging to a close, artificial, and philistine art. The final pitch of absurdity was reached, when in 1646 was published Harsdörfer's "Nuremberg Funnel, for pouring in the art of German poetry and rhyme, without the aid of the Latin tongue, in six lessons." Succeeding ages have thanked Harsdörfer for that phrase. "Nürnberger Trichter" has passed into a proverb. The first celebrated master-singer of Nuremberg was Hans Folz (1470), whom Hans Sachs called a "durchleutig deutschen Poeten" (noble German poet). It is to be noted that the poems of the Meistersingers were always sung to music, and often had to be written to a particular tune. Hence the stringent rules made for their formation: hence, too, when prizes were given for the fewest mistakes in mere technique, the great attention paid to form and metre, and the gradual elimination of true passion and poetry. Nuremberg had always fostered music. The art of lute-making, as of organ-building, had found a home there. Borkhardt, the famous inventor of musical instruments, built the St. Sebald's organ about this time. Conrad Gerler's instruments, too, were much sought after. In 1460, for instance, we find Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, sending for three lutes for the players at his Court. An extremely good and interesting collection of old musical instruments will be found in the _German Museum_. In this connection should also be noted there a picture of the Meistersingers' singing school.[50] The reputation of the Nuremberg school of poetry and singing was greatly enhanced by Hans Sachs. Remarkable for his own personality and literary fertility, he was also famous for reducing all the rules of the Meistersingers to writing, in a code which lasted till 1735. But, in spite of his attention to rules, he, at any rate, showed some poetic and original talent. It is for this reason that Wagner makes him, in "Die Meistersinger," recognise the real poetry in Walter, though the latter's impassioned song does not conform with all the artificial rules of the Guild, mere paper rules which added nothing to the sound or rhythm of the words. For, as all the world knows, Hans Sachs has achieved a second lease of life on men's lips, through the genius of Richard Wagner, dramatist, poet, satirist, and wonderful musician, who, in this opera, laughs at the conceit of the Incorporated Poets in assigning an extravagant antiquity to their Guilds, and at their pedantic sacrifice of matter to form. No more vivid and humorous picture of mediæval German life and of the people of quaint old Nuremberg has ever been drawn. Though "Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg" was not published till 1867, Wagner had already as early as 1851 sketched out the plan of an opera which was to display the triumph of genius and genuine passion over pedantry and conventionalism in art. The passage[51] from "Eine Mittheilung an meine Freunde" is worth quoting here. "Immediately after the completion of this work" (Tannhäuser), he writes, "I was permitted to visit some baths in Bohemia to restore my strength. Here, as always, when I have been able to withdraw from the atmosphere of the foot-lights and my duties in the theatre, I soon found myself in a light and joyous humour. For the first time, and with artistic significance, a gaiety peculiar to my character declared itself. Capriciously, and yet not without some premeditation, I had determined a little time previously to write as my next work a comic opera. I call to mind that I had been influenced in arriving at this decision by the well-meant advice of good friends, who wished to see an opera of a 'lighter kind' composed by me, because this, they said, would open the German theatres to my work, and so bring about that success, the invincible want of which had undoubtedly begun to threaten my worldly circumstances with serious embarrassment. As, with the Athenians, a gay satirical piece followed on a tragedy, so suddenly there appeared to me, on that holiday journey, the picture of a comic play, which might suitably be attached as a satirical sequel to my 'Battle of the Bards at Wartburg.' This was 'Die Meistersinger zu Nürnberg,' with Hans Sachs at their head. Hans Sachs I conceived as embodying the last appearance of the artistically productive folk's-spirit, and as such I opposed him to the vulgar narrow-mindedness of the master-singers, whose very droll, rule-of-thumb pedantry I personified in the character of the 'Marker.' This Marker, as is well-known (or as is perhaps not known to our critics), was the overseer appointed by the Singers' Guild to 'mark' with strokes the faults against the rules committed by the performers, especially if they were candidates for admission to the Guild. Whoever received a certain number of strokes had _versungen_--failed in his singing." (The singer sat in a chair before the assembly: the marker was ensconced behind curtains, and gave his attention chiefly to marking mistakes in singing, in Biblical history, in Lutheran German, in rhymes, music and syllables.) "Now the eldest of the Guild offered the hand of his young daughter to that master who should win the prize at an approaching public singing-competition. The marker, who has already been wooing the maiden, finds a rival in the person of a young knight, who, fired by reading the 'Book of Heroes' and the old Minnesingers, leaves the poor and decaying castle of his ancestors to learn in Nuremberg the art of the master-singers. He announces his candidature for admission to the Guild, being inspired thereto by a sudden passion for the Prize-Maiden, 'whom only a Master of the Guild may win.' He submits himself for examination, and sings an enthusiastic song in praise of women, which, however, provokes such incessant disapprobation on the part of the marker that ere his song is half-sung he has 'failed in his singing.' Sachs, who is pleased with the youth and wishes him well, baffles a desperate attempt to carry off the maiden, and thereby finds an opportunity of deeply annoying the marker. The latter, who, with a view to humbling him, has already been turning rudely on Sachs about a pair of shoes not yet finished, plants himself at night before the maiden's window, in order to make trial of the song with which he hopes to win her by singing it as a serenade. By so doing he hopes to secure her voice in his favour at the adjudication of the prize. Sachs, whose cobbler's shop is opposite the house thus serenaded, begins singing loudly as soon as the marker strikes up, because, as he informs the infuriated lover, this is necessary if he must keep awake to work so late: that the work is pressing nobody knows better than the marker himself, who has dunned him so mercilessly for the shoes! At last he promises the poor wretch to stop singing on condition that whatever faults he may find, in his judgment, in the marker's song, he may be allowed to mark according to his shoemaker's art--namely, with a blow of the hammer upon the shoe stretched on the last. Then the marker sings: Sachs strikes on the last again and again. The marker jumps up indignantly. Sachs asks him nonchalantly whether his song is finished. 'Not nearly,' he cries. Then Sachs laughingly holds up the shoes outside his shop, and declares that they are now quite finished, thanks to the 'marker's strokes.' With the rest of his song, which in desperation he screams out without a pause, the marker fails lamentably before the lady, who appears at the window violently shaking her head. Disconsolate, he asks Sachs next day for a new song for his wooing. Sachs gives him a poem by the young knight, pretending not to know its source: only he warns him to secure an appropriate tune to which it may be sung. The conceited marker thinks he has nothing to fear in that respect, and sings the song before the public assembly of masters and people to a quite inappropriate tune, which so disfigures it that he once more and this time decisively fails altogether. In his mortification he accuses Sachs of having cheated him by providing so base a song. But Sachs declares the song is a very good one, only it must be sung to a suitable tune. It is then agreed that whoever knows the right tune shall be the victor. The young knight does this and wins the bride: but rejects with disdain the admission to the Guild now offered to him. Sachs humorously defends the Master-Singers' Guild, and closes with the rhyme-- "Though should depart The pride of Holy Rome, Still thrives at home Our sacred German art." The "Marker," thus pourtrayed in The Meistersingers, is Sigs Beckmesser, who is one of those whom Hans Sachs mentions as having taught him. There is nothing remarkable in Hans Sachs being a shoemaker as well as a Meistersinger, for the Guild was chiefly composed of weavers and shoemakers. What is remarkable is that he was something of a poet as well as a Meistersinger. The Guild had to get special leave from the Council each year to maintain their singing schools. This leave was sometimes refused, on the ground that the Masters sang lascivious songs, and bawled them rather than sang. Their meetings occurred principally in the Church of St. Catherine, after afternoon service on Sundays--usually once a month. Public performances took place thrice a year, at Christmas, Easter and Pentecost. The public were invited to these great assemblies by placards representing a rose-garden and David playing the harp before our Lord on the Cross. This placard also announced the subjects chosen and the forms of songs allowed on the occasion. As an author, Hans Sachs was astonishingly prolific. Besides his songs, he wrote fables, eighteen books of proverbs, comedies, tragedies and farces (in which he himself acted). Altogether, the number of his works reached the huge total of 6205. Some of his plays--and some were in seven acts--were acted in the Marthakirche and some in the Rathaus. From Sachs' time the drama began to make headway in Germany; but it was not till after his death that it received its first great stimulus, when the English strolling players began to come through Germany, acting Shakespeare's plays among others no doubt, and the more blood-curdling scenes from Ford and Webster. In 1628 the Council provided for such performances by building the Fencing School, "for fencing and comedies" on the Schütt, next to the Wildbad. [Illustration: Nürnberger Spruchsprecher] Sachs was above all things a popular poet. He reflects both the good and the bad side of the people he represents. At his best we find in him that mixture of religious gravity with fresh and pungent humour which is so characteristic of the German spirit of those days. The narrative poem "Der Schneider mit dem Panier" is a good example of this, and is free from that coarseness which too often disfigures his writings. Nor must we forget to mention the long poem, "Ein Lobspruch der Stadt Nürnberg," a descriptive eulogy of his native town. His narrative style is plain and straightforward, his manner pleasingly naive, though often both prolix and prosaic, his humour original and unaffected, if too frequently rough and Rabelaisian. But we can forgive him much for his robust good sense and shrewd irony. The first line of one of his poems-- "In dem Zwanzigsten Kapitel" (of the Bible) will show how prosaic he can be: his well-known couplet on himself-- "Hans Sachs war ein Schuh- Macher und Poet dazu," is a fair example of the roughness of his versification. Hans Sachs is buried in St. John's Churchyard, and what is shown as his grave is numbered 503. But whether that is actually his grave seems to be somewhat uncertain. On the whole, literature was far behind art in Nuremberg. But we must not pass over the institution of the _Spruchsprecher_, the poet laureate of the town. He was a speciality of Nuremberg, and had to deal in rhyme with the occasion of all weddings and festivals, when called upon. He rejoiced in a special dress, and was invented, it seems, about the middle of the fifteenth century. One other Nuremberg poet is worth mentioning--Johann Konrad Grübel, "the Nuremberg Philistine," as Goethe called him in compliment. A comic, dialect poet of the people, he was first-rate of his kind. He died in 1809, and a statue of him by Professor Wanderer adorns a little fountain near the house of Hans Sachs. CHAPTER IX _The Churches of Nuremberg_ Der Kirchen act sind in dem Ort Darin man predigt Gottes Wort. --HANS SACHS. Nuremberg is rich in churches, those sermons in stones so much more eloquent than any words that ever fell from the lips of the preachers. The Gothic style has been finely called the true architectural expression of Christianity. In her churches Nuremberg possesses some of the finest specimens of the pure German Gothic style. They exhibit, it is true, the common failing of German architecture. Exquisite, though sometimes extravagant, in detail, they fall far below the masterpieces of the French architects in the proportionment of the whole. St. Sebald, the patron saint of Nuremberg, affords one more proof of the fact that a prophet is not without honour save in his own country. It is, indeed, not even known what his country was. His history and even his name are so unfamiliar to any but Nurembergers that it will be of interest if I add here the record of his life from the account written by an eleventh-century (?) monk.[52] Born at the beginning of the eighth (?) century, Sebald was the son of a Christian king: but as to whether his father was King of the Danes, Britons or Irish or a petty chief on the Danube biographers differ. Sebald's parents had long been childless, but at last when all hope seemed gone, God heard the prayers of his servants and gave them a son. Sebald was born. The boy grew up waxing in years and virtue, learning the lesson of the love and fear of the Lord, obedience to his parents and charity to all men. At the age of fifteen he was sent to Paris to study theology, in which he quickly eclipsed all the scholars of his own age and many of riper years. He returned to his home full of wisdom and honours and was betrothed to a beautiful and virtuous maiden. But before the marriage was consummated he fled from the things of this world, and, leaving his wife, his father and mother and his inheritance, he chose the chaste and solitary life of a hermit. Within the lonely recesses of a dense wood he passed his days in prayer and fasting and his nights in self-inflicted chastisement. Fifteen years passed and then the hermit made his way to Rome, whence Pope Gregory the Second despatched him in company with SS. Willibald and Wunibald to go forth and preach the gospel, succour the feeble, confirm the good, and correct errors of doctrine. Together the holy men pursued their way, praising the Lord with cheerful heart, until at length it came to pass that weary with journeying and exhausted by storm and wind, they grew faint with hunger, and his two companions called upon Sebald to provide them with food. Then, having comforted them with doctrine, he departed from them a little way, and when he had poured out his soul in prayer, lo! there came an angel from heaven bringing to them bread that had been baked under the ashes. And when they were now come to the parts about Vincentia (Vicenza) Sebald, moved by the Holy Spirit, would go no further, but abode as a hermit in the wood. His fame spread abroad. From far and near, even from Milan and Pavia, people flocked to hear from his lips the wonderful works of God. But, amongst those who came, came also an unbeliever who scoffed and blasphemed at the prophet and his message. Then Sebald prayed to God that a sign might be given, and immediately in the sight of all, the earth opened and the scoffer sank up to his neck. Then the hermit prayed with a loud voice and interceded for him, so that he was delivered,[53] and he and many of the unbelievers embraced the true faith. Sebald now left Italy and came to Ratisbon (Regensburg), bringing the gospel into the wilds of Germany. At Ratisbon, after crossing the Danube in a miraculous manner, he stayed for a short time and mended, by the power of prayer, a vessel which his host had borrowed and broken. At last he came to Nuremberg and settled there in the forest, in the heart of the Franconian people, teaching them the word of God and working miracles. On one occasion, we are told, he sought shelter in the house of a poor but churlish mechanic. It was winter: the snow lay on the ground and the wind howled over the frozen marshes of the Pegnitz. But the signs of charity did not shine brightly in the host. Sebald called upon the man's wife to bring more wood for the fire so that he might warm his body: for he was chilled to the bone. But though he repeated his request the niggard host forbade his wife to obey. At length the Saint cried out to her to bring the cluster of icicles which hung from the roof and to put them on the fire if she could not or would not bring the faggots. The woman, pitying him, obeyed, and in answer to the prayer of Sebald, a flame shot up from the ice and the whole bundle was quickly ablaze. When he saw this miracle the chilly host gave the hermit a warmer welcome (frigidus hospes ad ipsum factus est liberalis). Perhaps, it has been suggested, we may see in this pretty story an allegory of how Sebald quickened the flame of divine love within the icy Franconian natures, which it seemed as impossible to warm with grace as the winter's ice. Sebald's host now, to make amends, sallied forth and bought some fish in the market, contrary to the regulations of the authorities, and, being caught, was blinded. But the holy hermit restored to him the light of his eyes. Sebald clearly foretold the date of his death: the place of his burial was appointed by a miracle. At length, says the chronicler Lambert Schagnaburgensis, full of good works, he fell on sleep in the town of Nuremberg. The bier of the Saint was drawn by untamed oxen. And they, when they had reached the spot chosen for his resting-place, refused though goaded to the utmost to move any further. Thus was the site of the church afterwards built to the patron saint of Nuremberg determined. Those who ministered to him swung incense over the dead body of the old hermit and lit candles above it. Now there was a woman, a sinner, whom Sebald had turned to the love of the true God. In memory of her sins and in expiation she wore about her arm a hoop of iron. And she came to see the dead hermit. It chanced that one of the candles above his head was crooked, and she stretched forth her arm and set it straight. At that moment the iron band burst. So she knew that the saint, when he entered into the presence of God, had not forgotten the poor woman whom he had converted on earth and that God had heard her prayer, and that her sins, which were many, were forgiven, as the broken ring signified. Many other miracles were attributed to the ashes and relics of the saint which lie in the beautiful shrine in St. Sebalduskirche.[54] We have spoken at length of this exquisite work of art (p. 208), to which, says Eobanus Hessus in his poem on Nuremberg, no words can do justice and with which not even the greatest artists of past ages could have found fault. "Musa nec ulla queat tanto satis esse labori Nec verbis æquare opus immortale futurum; Quod neque Praxiteles, nec Myron, nec Polycletus, Nemo Cares, nemo Scopas reprehendere posset." The east end of _St. Sebalduskirche_ faces the Rathaus: but the western is the oldest portion of it. Here the St. Peter's or Löffelholz Chapel, as it was called later, after the Nuremberg family of that name, with its crypt and choir (Engelschörlein), and the _lower_ part of the two towers[55] date from the beginning of the thirteenth century. They belong, in their original state, to the Romanesque style of architecture; whilst the nave affords a beautiful example of the transition to Gothic forms and the magnificent east choir is in the purest German Gothic. We may conjecture that the church was originally a basilica with a Romanesque east choir, flanked by two small adjoining aisles, corresponding to the west choir which is still preserved, and with a nave in the shape of a cross. Then, about 1309, they began to build broader and higher aisles in place of the low and narrow ones, and, in so doing, half concealed the old round-arched windows. But the most important alteration must have been when they pulled down the old east choir and began to build (1361) the Gothic choir, which together with the rest of the church has been recently and carefully restored. Twenty-two pillars 80 feet high support the vaulting. The two simple, slender towers at the west end, some 260 feet high, were apparently completed towards the end of the fifteenth century. According to tradition, the southernmost of these is built on piles--a tradition that reminds us of the swamps and marshes that once stood here, in the days when the narrow circumference of the first town wall did not cross if indeed it reached the river (see Ch. V.). In the base of each tower is a Romanesque doorway: over the southern one, in the tympanum, a high relief in stone represents the Trial of St. Helena. On the north side of the north tower is a low relief of the Crucifixion, a memorial to Burkhard Semler, 1463. Beneath the towers is the crypt in which was once the tomb of Konrad von Neumarkt, the founder of the Convent of St. Catherine. This, the oldest Nuremberg tomb, is now in the German Museum. The colossal bronze crucifix outside the west end, against the middle window of the St. Peter Chapel, was presented by the Starck family in 1482. It is attributed to H. Vischer, father of Peter Vischer, and has some merits as a work of art, though the figure is that of a Hercules rather than of a Christ. It was repaired in 1625, on which occasion the Nurembergers incurred the nickname of Herrgottschwärzer, or Blackeners of God. For, the story runs, the Cross was made of silver, and the Council ordered it to be coloured black in order to protect it from the roving bands of soldiers who passed through the town in the Thirty Years War. [Illustration: BRAUTTHÜRE, ST. SEBALDUSKIRCHE] On the north side of the church the beautiful Brautthüre (1380?) or Bride's Door (see p. 154) is especially worthy of attention. Very richly and daintily carved, the outer and inner arches form a porch which was meant to protect the bridal pair from the inclemency of the weather when they stood here for the first part of the marriage service. On either side of the pointed arch are the figures of the Madonna and Child and of St. Sebald with his pilgrim's staff and a model of the Sebalduskirche in his hands. The ten intercolumniated statues on the inside walls of the porch represent the five wise and the five foolish virgins (at present being restored). Within the entrance appear Adam and Eve with a half-length Christ above them, and the snake and apple-tree of Eden. On the buttresses of the east choir are some sculptures in half-relief, representing the Passion, and at the east end, facing the Rathaus, is the Schreyer Monument (Schreyer's Begräbnuss), a high relief by Adam Krafft (1492). Nobly conceived and nobly executed, these representations of the Passion and Burial of Christ are among the most noteworthy of the master's works. Especially beautiful in grouping and in feeling is the Grablegung--the Laying in the Grave. Sebald Schreyer, who died in 1520, was a keen patron of art and, as churchwarden of St. Sebald's, devoted to the interests of his church. In recognition of his services, and as he was the last of his family, the rule which had lately come into force that all citizens except the clergy must be buried in St. John's Churchyard, was set aside in his case, and he was buried in the east choir of the church to which he had devoted his life and fortune. For the Begräbnuss of Adam Krafft and Vischer's Sebaldusgrab owed their existence chiefly to Schreyer's care and encouragement. The animals on the capitals of the door of the south aisle are full of characteristic humour. One may trace here some of that mockery of the monks in which the mediæval masons not infrequently indulged, and of which there is a famous example at Strasburg. St. Peter with his key and a crowned Saint with a sword are on either side of the door itself. A partly gilded Last Judgment occupies the space above the arch. It will be found interesting to compare the numerous figures of it with those on the main entrance of the Lorenzkirche, to which they are strikingly akin. Above the door called the Schautthüre (show-door) on the S.E. side of the church, near the guard-house, is a Last Judgment (1485), probably by Adam Krafft (see p. 200). It is a fine and interesting work. At the top, beneath four hovering angels and between twelve Apostles, Christ sits on a rainbow to judge the world. The earth is his footstool. Mary and John Baptist (the figures remind us of those in the Rosenkranztafel in the Museum) intercede for the poor souls who are rising from their graves. On one side they are conducted (with crowns of glory on their heads) by an Angel to the gates of Paradise, over which waves the triumphant banner of Christ. On the other side the Devil, who is also similar to the Devil in the Rosenkranz, with the head of a cock, drags his prey into the jaws of hell. The figures are all strong and full of animation. In the midst of the group of those rising from the dead, between the kneeling figure of the founder, Hartmann Schedel, and his arms, is a Latin inscription which gives us to understand that Hartmann Schedel, to whose memory this relief was erected, died Dec. 4, 1485. For admittance to the church we must knock at the Anschreibethüre, the portal on the N.W. side.[56] This Anschreibethüre--so called because it was customary to enter the names of the dead on a register kept here for that purpose--was renewed in 1345. It is adorned on either side with the figures of Gabriel and Mary (Annunciation), and above with a relief of the Death, Burial (the unbelieving Jews falling prostrate before the coffin) and Crowning of Mary. Note the figures of female saints on the capitals. On entering, our first impression is one of disappointment. A vile whitewash disfigures the walls, whilst the fact that the church has not been designed by one hand as a complete whole deprives us of that satisfied sense of perfect proportion for which we are forever hoping but so often in vain. But as we grow more familiar with the details of this church the feeling of disappointment vanishes and we are left grateful if not completely satisfied. On our right is the St. Peter's or Löffelholz Chapel, and we notice that this, which forms the western end of the church, has been altered from a Romanesque into a polygonal apse. The pointed cells of the vaulting make up five-eighths of an octopartite compartment. Thus the old double-apse arrangement of Romanesque buildings is retained at St. Sebald's; but the west end is in the transitional, the east in the pure German Gothic style. By introducing this pointed vaulting into the older Romanesque shell of the St. Peter's Chapel, the Engelschor above it, or Angels' Choir as it is called, has been concealed from view. But we can easily see where it springs from the apex of the great arch which forms the entrance to the Chapel. The lofty central nave is, as we have already said, a good example of the transition to Gothic architecture in German churches, when the horizontal lines of the Romanesque style were giving place to the upright and upward tendency of the Gothic. The sexpartite vaulting, the broad but pointed arches, the substitution of rolls for the flat and square-edged vaulting ribs, the clustering of the shafts and the flanking by shafts of pointed windows are all eloquent of this tendency. The pillars, too, begin to be prolonged in extent and diminished in thickness, and the line is no longer interrupted by the rectangular effect of square capitals. The varied patterns (flowers, pearl strings, etc.) of the capitals here should be noted. The walls beneath the clerestory are relieved by a triforium, which had no place in the conceptions of the original Romanesque architects. There is here no gallery set apart for the young men, as there frequently is in the triforium of an early German church. This triforium consists only of a row of low, pointed openings supported by short pillars, variously ornamented. The east choir (1361-1377) is a building of the same period as the Frauenkirche. Compared with the rest of the church its dimensions are a good deal exaggerated. Nor is it placed symmetrically as regards the axis of the older part; for it inclines considerably to the north. Regarded in itself, however, it must be admitted to be a splendid building, the lofty and airy effect of which is greatly enhanced by the single row of tall windows. The light streams in through beautiful stained glass. The windows, however, are really too tall in proportion to their breadth (50 feet by 8). The mullions, too, nearly 40 feet in height, are more interesting as triumphs of masonic skill than admirable as features of architectural design. Contenting ourselves with these general observations as to the building itself, we will here add a list of the principal objects of art which will catch the attention of the visitor to the church. In the Löffelholz Chapel stands conspicuous the highly decorated bronze font wherein the Emperor Wenzel was baptized (1361, see p. 42). At the base are statuettes of the four Evangelists. It is said to be the oldest existing product of the Nuremberg foundries. The altar-piece in memory of Kunigunde Wilhelm Löffelholz (1453) is by an unknown painter. Scenes from the life of St. Catherine are depicted on a plain gold background. It is the earliest Nuremberg work to show any trace of the Netherland influence: but, unfortunately, it has been painted over at least once. There are three other pictures in this chapel, of an earlier date, by unknown artists. The two-winged Haller Altar-piece (N. near the Anschreibethüre) may very likely be an early work of the Master of the High Altar-piece in the Frauenkirche. The background is of gold: the subject is Christ on the Cross between Mary and John; on the wings, the Mount of Olives and SS. Catherine and Barbara. In this picture the cramping of the figures and the crude drawing of the hands and feet are noticeable, but in the modelling of the heads there is much that is very noble and very beautiful. On the pillar next to (S.) the Haller Altar is a relief, "Carrying the Cross," by Adam Krafft, 1496. Later and more vigorous works by the same master are the Last Supper, Mount of Olives and Betrayal (1501), reliefs 5 feet high by 5 feet broad on the E. wall of the Choir. The Betrayal is distinctly the best composed and most telling of the three. The Last Supper, the arrangement of which is somewhat crowded and confused, has the interest of exhibiting in the Apostles portraits of some members of the Council. The Apostle with the goblet is said to be Paul Volkamer (the founder) and he with the small cap Adam Krafft himself, or, it may be, Veit Stoss, to whom the sculptures, on the strength of the monogram V.S. on them, are now usually attributed. We need not stay long over the Tucher Altar with its ever-burning lamp, founded by the first baron Tucher, 1326, and its seventeenth-century altar-piece, or the painting by Joh. Franz Ermel (1663) of the Resurrection, over the Muffels Altar next the Schauthüre, or the new pulpit (1859) by Heideloff and Rotermundt. The choir-stalls and the Pix (N.), with its old sculptures, dating from the second half of the fourteenth century, are worth examining, as also are the numerous reliefs on the pillars of the choir. The Crowning of Mary on the first choir pillar on the north side is attributed to V. Stoss. On a column to the right of the pulpit hangs a copy of Durer's _Interment of Christ_, with the armorial bearings of the Holzschuhers, and opposite, beneath a copy of Rubens' Day of Judgment, is another painting by Durer, little worthy of him, in which figure the Imhoff family, Willibald Pirkheimer and the artist himself (on the right). The Carrying of the Cross (Tucherische Kreuztragung), on the column next to the Sebaldusgrab, can only doubtfully be attributed to Wolgemut (1485). The Madonna and Child on the next column was cast by Peter Vischer's son. The great Crucifix, with SS. Mary and John, of the High Altar was executed by Veit Stoss in 1526, when he was now in his eightieth year. The head of the Christ is a masterpiece of expression. The lower part of the High Altar is modern, and was carved by Rotermundt after the designs of C. Heideloff (1821). In the choir also (N. wall), we find a good example of the work of Hans von Kulmbach, who passed from the school of Jacopo dei Barbari (Jakob Walch) to that of Durer. The Tucherische Tafel (1513) shows the influence of the latter in a very marked manner: Durer may, in fact, have supplied the designs for it. In the centre of the triptych is Mary enthroned, crowned by two angels. The holy Child on her knee is trying to seize an apple from the Mother's left hand: but both Mother and Child are looking out of the picture. The five Bellinesque angels, who, clad in brightly coloured garments, and playing various musical instruments, stand at Mary's feet, are altogether charming. On either side of the throne are SS. Catherine and Barbara, whilst on the right wing are SS. Peter and Lawrence, presenting the founder, Provost Lorenz Tucher, to Mary, and on the left are St. John Baptist and St. Jerome. A mountain scene forms the background of the picture, which for all that it owes much to Durer owes much also to the individuality of Kulmbach. Near this is a commemorative escutcheon of the Tucher family, by Holbein, and below it a small wood carving, said to be by Albert Durer. The Adam and Eve in Paradise over the Schauthüre is by Joh. Creuzfelder (1603), and was placed there by members of the Behaim family. One of the chief features of interest in the Sebalduskirche is the stained glass. The Tucher and Schürstab windows, according to Rettberg, contain some late fourteenth-century glass, but would seem to have been much restored. The Fürer window was first set up in 1325 (Christ before Pilate). In the Bishop of Bamberg window (Wolf Katzheimer, 1493?) are the portraits of Kaiser Heinrich, Kunigunde, Otto, Peter, Paul and Georg, and in the corners four Bishops, and over all four Gothic canopies. The Maximilian window is by Veit Hirschvogel (1514). The Emperors Maximilian and Charles V. stand on a ground of white tracery, with their consorts, patron saints, and arms. The Margrave's Window is by the same artist, after the designs of Hans von Kulmbach. It was only completed after Hirschvogel's death (1527), and has quite recently been restored. The single figures of the Margrave Friedrich von Ansbach and Baireuth, and of his wife and eight sons, are on a white ground. SS. Mary and John the Evangelist above, and the Margrave's arms on the sides. In the foreground, an inscription and an architectural substructure in the shape of a temple, according to the fashion of stained glass at this period. * * * * * Finer, better designed and considerably larger than St. Sebald's is the _Church of St. Lawrence_. It is one of the best examples of pure German Gothic. Outside and inside, in form and in detail, it exhibits both the beauties and the defects of the German style when pointed architecture was developed according to the taste and feelings of the Germans, uninfluenced by French inspiration. With regard to detail, amid so much that is admirable, now and again the besetting sin of German art makes itself felt--that lack of self-restraint, that prodigality and extravagance, one may almost call it, of ornament, by which the effect of gorgeous richness is obtained indeed, but at the sacrifice of distinctness. Even in the beautiful windows this is the case. The multiplicity and intersection of the lines tend to blur the "dry light" of the dry beauty of a perfect design. With regard to form, viewed from the exterior, two features strike the eye and remain in the memory. On the one hand, the enormously high and grossly ugly roof of the choir which overwhelms the building produces the ludicrous effect of a camel's hump. It is unrelieved by pinnacles or even by the flying buttresses which seem to lift the soaring Gothic naves of France into a world beyond our ken. Once again, as in St. Sebald's, the notes of symmetry and proportion are lacking. Some flying buttresses do indeed figure in the nave where the side-aisles are not, as in the choir, of the same height as the central nave. These buttresses, however, are decidedly clumsy. On the other hand, the richly decorated western front, with its towers, rose window, open parapet and light gallery connecting the towers, is a pure and pleasing specimen of German art. According to tradition the St. Lorenzkirche stands on the site of an older, Romanesque chapel which bore the name of "zum heiligen Grab" (Holy Sepulchre) and was erected for the spiritual needs of the inhabitants when houses first began to be built on this side of the Pegnitz. [Illustration: ST. LORENZKIRCHE, FROM THE RIVER] As it now stands the church dates almost entirely from the latter part of the middle ages. Begun in 1278 it was not completed till 1477. Of the two towers (250 feet in height) that to the north was built in 1283, the other about 1400. The square portion of each and the elevation of the gable between them are crowned by a light and beautiful open parapet. The north tower, with its roof of gilded metal, was burned down some thirty years ago, but has been carefully rebuilt. The towers terminate in octagonal storeys and spires. At the top of the square portions are wide openings, divided by many mullions, suggesting the gridiron on which St. Lawrence was broiled. Why the church was dedicated to this Spanish saint I have not been able to discover. The stately portal (25 feet wide and 42 feet high), and the rose window (33 feet in diameter), recently much restored, belong to the fourteenth century. During the fifteenth century the church was repeatedly enlarged, and, in 1439, the foundation-stone of the lofty choir was laid. The plans were designed by Konrad Roritzer, who came here from Rothenburg. At the laying of the foundation-stone a miracle occurred. The pulley which was to raise the stone broke. The workmen then broke the stone, so heavy was it and impossible to raise. And when they had done so, they found inside a hewn cross. Probably, says the sceptical German historian, this was all arranged in order to stir the enthusiasm and to promote the generosity of the people on behalf of the new church. The figures of Adam and Eve and of the prophets, etc. on the _Hauptthor_, the Grand Portal, are the earliest specimens we have of Nuremberg sculpture. They date from the fourteenth century. The reliefs of the scenes from the Life of Christ and the Last Judgment are later, like the reliefs on St. Sebald's and the Bride's Door. [Illustration: HAUPTTHOR (ST. LORENZKIRCHE)] A central pillar divides the Hauptthor into two halves, and bears a Madonna and Child. The arches above the two doors, which are separated by this pillar, contain high reliefs of the Birth of the Saviour and Adoration of the Magi (left), and The Slaughter of the Innocents and Flight into Egypt, and the Presentation in the Temple (right). In the spandrels of these arches are four prophets. In the upper half of the great arch are represented the Crucifixion, and on the right side Christ before Pilate and Christ bearing the Cross; on the left the Burial and Resurrection of Christ. These scenes correspond to those depicted on the sides of the entrance hall. The remaining space in the tympanum of the arch deals with the Last Judgment. Two angels blowing the last trump, and two others (restored) holding the instruments of the passion, surround the Judge, whose feet are set upon the Sun and Moon, and He judges the just and the unjust. At His side SS. Mary and John kneel and intercede. The inner curve of the arch contains the twelve Apostles and the outer the twelve Prophets. Below are the above-mentioned life-size statues of Adam and Eve, next to whom two other figures stand, the Scripture in their hands, expounding, one may fancy, to the parents of mankind the story of the Redemption, which the reliefs of the gateway have thus told in stone. Similar in workmanship to the figures of this portal is the statue of Christ, with flowing beard and folded hands, which is near the door on the south-west side. This in its turn will remind us of a statue of Christ, with hands pointing to the wound in His side, in the St. Jakobskirche. The Brautthüre or Bridal Door on the north side of the church was built in 1520, but it shows little trace of the Renaissance spirit. (Recently restored.) Of the fine though crumbling old piece of sculpture--Gethsemane--near this door, I can find no history at all. High up on the roof of the choir outside rises a pole with a hat upon it. Two choir-boys (the story runs) who were playing marbles in the church fell to quarrelling, and one of them who held the two marbles in his hand, maintained his rights with the exclamation, "Devil take me!" Thereupon the Devil immediately appeared and wrung the boy's neck. At the corner of the St. Lawrence schoolhouse, on the pedestal of St. Lawrence, you may see carved in the stone the head as it was twisted on the trunk. The hat on the pole on the choir is that of the unfortunate chorister. [Illustration: ST. LORENZKIRCHE (N.)] Entering the church by the north-west door, near the Tugendbrunnen (see Ch. X.), we notice that the nave is twice as high and broad as the aisles which are thus subordinated to it. But, as in St. Sebald's, the three aisles of the choir are of equal height. Here there are two stories of windows, instead of a single row of tall ones. Two visits should be paid to St. Lawrence's in order to see the full effects of this church--one in the morning when the sun is shining through the windows of the polygonal east end, and one in the afternoon when the light streams through the glorious rose window in the west. Plain, slender pillars carry the vaulting of the choir with its flat spidery network. A gallery which runs round the whole choir is reached by a staircase next the sacristy (_s_). The sacristy should be looked into both for the sake of its own beauty and for the sake of the choral books, illuminated by Jakob Elssner(?) (d. 1546), and a baptismal basin by Endterlein (d. 1633).[57] The east end of the choir contains splendid windows (see p. 213). The subject of the first, on the north side, behind the altar of St. John, is the wanderings of the children of Israel; of the second the Passion, of the third the Transfiguration, of the fourth the donor, Emperor Frederic III. and his consort, of the fifth, Saints and Fathers of the Church. But far the finest and most famous of the windows is the sixth, the Volkamer window. It is a "Jesse" window, displaying the genealogical tree of Christ, and, below, the founder and his family. The seventh, or Schlüssfelder window, represents the holy mill and the four Evangelists with the four Apostles, after Durer, beneath. All these belong to the last half of the fifteenth century; but the eighth is a modern one (1881), commemorating the re-establishment of the German Empire. The Tucher window next the sacristy was painted by Springlin, 1451, and contains beautiful red glass in the early Renaissance style. Another noticeable window is that on the south side, exhibiting the arms of the Schmidmayer family. The designs are attributed to Durer. Near this stands one of the old carved chairs, in which the Masters of the Guilds once sat in turn to receive alms. Of the chief treasures of the St. Lorenzkirche we have already dealt sufficiently with two--the Pix or Ciborium, the Weihbrodgehäuse or Sacramentshaüslein or whatever name we choose to give to Adam Krafft's masterpiece[58]-- "A piece of sculpture rare, Like a foamy sheet of fountains rising thro' the painted air," and the Angels' Greeting, and the still finer wood-gilt crucifix of the High Altar, by Veit Stoss.[59] The six angels in bronze bearing the candles are by Burgschmiet (b. 1796). Anton Tucher dedicated the Angels' Greeting and also the great bronze chandelier, which may contain the handiwork of both Veit Stoss and Peter Vischer. The handsome modern pulpit is by Rotermundt and Heideloff (1839). There is also in the choir some beautiful tapestry (1375?) with figures of the twelve apostles who stand in a scroll-work of wise sayings for our instruction, such as Pis. maister. deiner. zung. dez. ist. dir. not. oder. si. werdint. dir. den. ewigen. dot., and so forth. The Church of St. Lawrence is rich in examples of the memorial tablets or epitaphs on which the skill of the early painters was chiefly exercised. The altar-pieces and epitaphs founded in memory of some member or another of the great burgher families form a complete gallery of early Nuremberg art and provide moreover a perfect feast for the enthusiastic herald. We have already spoken of the general tendencies of the Nuremberg artists in the seventh chapter of this little book. Perhaps, therefore, the most interesting way to treat of the pictures in St. Lawrence's will be to mention them in chronological order. 1. Epitaph of Paul Stromer, 1406--next the Rochus Altar, on west wall of the Sacristy. The Redeemer throned on the clouds, surrounded by angels bearing the instruments of the Passion. SS. Mary and John kneel in intercession before Him, and underneath is the family of the founder. The drawing throughout is strong but severe, and there is considerable harshness in the contours. 2. Epitaph of Frau Kunigunde Kunz Rymensnyderin, 1409. Body of Christ supported by SS. Mary and John. Figures of the founders on either side of the napkin. 3. Wolfgang's Altar (1416?). Resurrection of Christ. SS. Conrad and Wolfgang on the inside of the wings (No. 17, north wall). 4. _The celebrated Imhoff Altar-piece_ in the Imhoff Gallery (north transept). This picture, dedicated by Kunz Imhoff, was painted 1418-22, and is counted the finest achievement of mediæval painting in Nuremberg. In the centre Christ is crowning Mary; on the wings two apostles, at whose feet kneel the founder and his three first wives. The burial of Christ, with SS. Mary and John, which formed originally the reverse of this altar-piece, is now in the German Museum (No. 87). A deep love of nature, which reveals itself in the vigorous, homely conception of the forms, is here combined with that spiritual reverence of treatment which inspired the first works of Christian art. In the earnest faces of SS. Peter and Paul we see not merely a reproduction of the traditional types, but faces full of character and originality. They have been carefully thought out as well as carefully carried out. There is individuality again in the sympathetic, the winsome beauty of the countenance of Mary; whilst the countenance of Christ seems to tell us both of the thoughtful earnestness and the gentle dignity of the Saviour. Notwithstanding their slimness, the figures in the picture are somewhat crowded. The shoulders and necks are powerful, and the hands evince remarkable carefulness in execution. The folds of the drapery, in spite of the simplicity and clearness of them, are by no means monotonous in design. The harmony of colours (green, red, and blue, on a gold background) is strong and happily attuned. The artist is unknown, but, whoever he was, he had looked upon Nature with loving eyes and worshipped her; and this love of Nature, purified by his deep religious feeling, he had brought to the service of his living faith. Frequently we shall observe in the old Nuremberg artists that this mixture of naivete and reverence in the conception of religious subjects produces too commonplace a representation of them. But here the result is not commonplace, only just towards Nature. The picture, says Dr Janitschek,[60] is like the most beautiful bloom of a period just drawing to a close and already bearing in itself flowers of a more dazzling development. The Imhoff picture (see below, No. 9) shows similar handling and similar freedom from Flemish influence in the full, soft beauty of the forms. And yet the mastery of Nature displayed in the portraits of the founders reveals to us an artist who was following the same paths as those of the Flemish painters. 5. Epitaph of Agnes Hans Glockengiesserin, 1433. The death of Mary as she knelt in prayer, and portrait of founder. A picture full of tender feeling (No. 11, south side). 6. Theokars Altar (Deocarus Altar, No. 19, north side) 1437, founded by Andreas Volkamer. Christ between six apostles, and below, St. Deocarus between the other six apostles, carved in wood. Below a life-sized painting of the saint. The wings of the picture, which represent the Transfiguration, the Miraculous Draught of Fishes, the Last Supper, and the Resurrection, and four scenes from the life of St. Deocarus (kneeling before a chapel, healing a blind man, confessing Charlemagne, and on his death-bed), should be compared with the Haller altar-piece of St. Sebald's and the High altar-piece of the Frauenkirche. Though very nearly contemporary with the latter works, this painting is representative of the old school. It exhibits, indeed, great dramatic spirit, though the movements are often awkward, and the [Illustration: ST. LORENZKIRCHE (INTERIOR)] colouring lacks the strength and brilliancy of the Frauenkirche picture. 7 and 8. A saint in armour, and a suffering Christ with gold background and the Saints Henry, Kunigunde, and Lawrence (with the gridiron), are also probably of the same date. 9. Margaret and Anton Imhoff memorial (1446) (numbered 16, on the north wall of the church). Madonna and Child and four angels, and the founder's family--the father with eight sons, and the mother with four daughters. The further development of the Nuremberg school of painting, as I have sketched it above (pp. 181-4), may be observed in the following memorial pictures in this church:-- H. Gärtner epitaph, 1462, Madonna and Child, SS. Bartholomew and Barbara (south, near doorway). Erhard Schon epitaph, 1464, St. Wolfgang and other saints. Friedrich Schon epitaph, 1464, Birth of Christ, Aaron, Moses, etc. Hans Lechner epitaph, 1466, Death of Mary (south). Hans Meyer epitaph, 1473, St. Gregory (No. 13, north side). Berthold Kraft epitaph, 1475, St. Dionisius (opposite Rochus Altar, south). Hans Schmidmayer epitaph, 1476, Adoration of the Magi (over stairs leading to Schmidmayer oratory, south). Leonhard Spengler epitaph, 1488, Christ between SS. Philip and James (No. 15, north side). Stör Family epitaph, 1479, Christ treading Blood, and Four Evangelists, etc. (north-west). The Rochus Altar, triptych with scenes from the life of St. Rochus, dedicated by six Imhoff brothers, 1499 (No. 7, west of Sacristy), and the Krellsche Altar, 1483, which may perhaps be by Wolgemut. It is beneath the Frederick window in the choir, and contains a Madonna and Child and various saints, apostles, etc. The background of this picture represents the town of Nuremberg as it was before the last extension of the walls. (Chap. V.) By Wolgemut and his school there are several characteristic pictures, of which I may mention here the Burial of Christ (No. 2), the Ascension (No. 3), and the Praying Priests (No. 4). The right wing of the St. Catherine altar-piece (No. 8) is by Wolgemut, and the two pictures of St. Vitus, with his parents and denouncing the idol, are signed by R. F., a painter whose touch is visible in part of the Peringsdörffer masterpiece (see p. 287). The Adoration of the Magi (No. 20) is a fine picture: the Angels bringing the child Jesus to the Virgin (No. 1) bears Durer's monogram. Lastly, the wings of the Nikolaus (No. 6) and of the Annen--or Marien--Altar are by Hans von Kulmbach, 1520(?) (next to the Passion window in the choir). FRAUENKIRCHE _(Marienkirche, Marienhall)_ The Frauenkirche, which occupies the east end of the Haupt Markt, was built, as we have seen (p. 37), under somewhat discreditable circumstances on the site of the old Jewish Synagogue (1355-1361). The brothers Georg and Friedrich Ruprecht are mentioned as the architects, and the sculptor, Sebald Schonhofer, is responsible for the rich ornamentation of the vestibule. This vestibule (restored with the rest of the church some twenty years ago) is unique of its kind. It is conjectured that this part of the church was intended to serve as a kind of treasure-house for the Imperial Crown jewels and relics, which in the year 1361 were certainly shown, as an object of veneration, from the gallery above the main entrance of the church. [Illustration: WEST DOOR, FRAUENKIRCHE] The plan of the west gate is borrowed in the main from the St. Lorenz portal. There the life and work of Christ, here the life and work of Mary are set forth. Many of the figures strongly recall those of the St. Lorenz statues. At the corners of the vestibule are statues of Karl IV. and his consort, and SS. Lorenz and Sebald. Above the rich and massive portal with its fine iron railings is the Chapel of St. Michael, whereon is to be seen an extraordinary old clock known to young and old in Nuremberg by the name of "Männleinlaufen." The chronicles relate that Karl IV., in memory of the "Golden Bull" (p. 39), which was drawn up in Nuremberg in 1356, and recorded what honours and reverences the electors of the Empire were to pay to the Emperor, caused an ingenious clockwork to be mounted over the portal of the church. The mechanism was so contrived that the seven electors passed at noon before the Emperor, who sat upon a throne and received their reverent homage as they passed. The clock was renewed in 1509 by Georg Heuss (even since then it has twice been restored), and the figures were cast by the coppersmith, Sebastian Lindenast. Still, at the stroke of noon, much as in the old mediæval days, the heralds blow their trumpets, the Emperor raises his sceptre, and out from their gloomy chamber the electors file forth and bow low in reverence to the dead representative of an empire which has ceased to exist. And they revive in our hearts something of the child-like pleasure which the Middle Ages took in these elaborate toys.[61] But a sturdy English Protestant who lived in Nuremberg some forty years ago, took another view of the matter. "It is generally said to represent the Pope," he writes, "who, seated in a comfortable sort of arm-chair, was formerly accustomed at a certain hour to raise his sceptre and summon the representative figures of the twelve apostles, who accordingly used to make their appearance and do obeisance. That time, however, seems to be gone by. The latter after a while became tired of the ceremony, refused their mechanical homage, and St. Peter himself, it is said, setting the irreverent example, they began to reject the uniformity required in their evolutions." The clock was at that time out of repair. The subject of clocks leads me to mention what is perhaps not generally known, that as Nuremberg was the inventor of the watch (Nuremberg Eggs, shown in the Museum and the Castle), so also she invented a system of time peculiar to herself. To-day we have the Central Europe system (our 12-hour system), and the Italian or 24-hour system. But at the close of the Middle Ages the Nurembergers, the great clockmakers, had a third plan of dividing the day, called the Nuremberg great hour (Grosse Uhr), for which Regiomontanus drew out elaborate tables. Briefly the plan was this. At the equinox the night was assumed to begin directly after sunset, and day began twelve hours after sunset. This arbitrary "dawn" (_Garaus_) was sounded by the clock. To this day it is announced by ringing of bells from the principal churches. With the progress of the year, as the days after the equinox lengthened or decreased, time was added to or subtracted from the night or day. For instance, on the shortest day there would be 16 hours night and 8 hours day, and on the longest day 16 hours day and 8 hours night. Again, when the sun set at 6, the "Great Clock would strike 8 at 2 A.M., because 8 hours had passed since sunset. Seasons of the year were, in common parlance, denoted in accordance with this system. "At the time of year when the day strikes 13" would fix a date. The system, it will be seen, was almost as involved as the sentences of a modern German historian. But with all its drawbacks it lasted on, along with the Central Europe system, till 1806. Owing to the great elaboration of machinery required, the hours were usually struck by bell-ringers. But the clock of the Frauenkirche, owing to the additional mechanism needed for its toy-work, probably had to be fitted with the "little hour" from the first. Besides some old painted glass in the nave (coats of arms of Nuremberg patricians) and some carvings by Veit Stoss, the only works of art in the Frauenkirche that need detain us are the Pergenstorfer tomb (1499), at the end of the north wall of the nave, by Adam Krafft, and close to it the side altar-piece[62] (1440), which was originally the Tuchersche High Altar in the Church of the Carthusian Monastery. We have already had occasion to note more than once how the early Nuremberg painters, before Wolgemut, were struggling to achieve the simple portrayal of Nature and to combine it with the expression of their deep religious emotion. The picture before us is a very good example of this simple and yet sympathetic realism. Let us add that this quality, or combination of qualities, is not borrowed. For the Nuremberg School of Painting remains distinct and peculiar, with very little trace of foreign influence, long after the school of Van Eyck had made itself felt in the regions of the Lower and the Upper Rhine. In the centre of the picture are the Crucifixion (SS. Mary and John by the Cross, and at the feet of Mary a skull), the Annunciation and Resurrection; on the wings the Birth of Christ and Apostles. There is a rare conjunction of dignity and life and truth to Nature in these pieces--an individuality too. The Mary is portrayed in the same spiritual mood as that of the Imhoff Altar-piece, but generally the figures are more full of vigour and the countenances more full of expression than in that picture. In depicting the body of Christ, which is carefully proportioned and in which the muscle-play is planned with evident care, the artist, we can see, has wrestled with Nature, and not failed altogether in his attempt to gain the mastery over her. The figures of the Apostles are sturdy, thick-set, and in their faces is an expression of concentrated power. The drapery falls in broad, well-arranged masses. The colouring is deep and clear, and the rich harmony of strong red, blue and yellow (gold background) is happily supplemented by a luscious green. ST. ÆGIDIENKIRCHE The Church of St. Ægidius, or St. Giles[63] (Ægidienplatz) was founded originally by Conrad III., it is said, for some Scotch benedictine monks. But, with the exception of the side chapels, which still remain and are in the highest degree interesting, it was burnt down in 1696, and rebuilt 1711-18 in the debased, and to Nuremberg utterly inappropriate, style of that period. The High Altar-piece is a _Pietà_ by Vandyck (nineteenth-century angels above). Behind this are two bronze reliefs, one, the beautiful "Entombment," is by Peter Vischer the younger, the other by his brother Hans. The eighteenth-century paintings on the ceiling are by J. D. Preisler. But apart from the Vandyck, the Ægidien Church is well worth a visit for the sake of the Eucharius, the Tetzel and the Wolfgang's Chapels. The first of these is much the oldest (1140), and is in the late romanesque or transitional style. The Roman vaulting, such as we have seen in the chapels at the Castle, is combined with a mixture of round and pointed arches. The pillars are slender, with broad capitals. The capitals of the centre pillars distinctly suggest Byzantine influence. The two altars here are by Veit Stoss. The St. Wolfgang's Chapel dates from the end of the fourteenth century. There are here two pictures (1462 and 1463) and a piece of sculpture (1446), Grablegung Christi, by Hans Decker, which cannot by any stretch of the imagination be called a spirited work. The chapel is disfigured by a hideous gallery which has been run round it, but the roof is, as they say, _sehr interessant_. The Tetzel Chapel (1345) contains a Coronation of Mary, by Adam Krafft, unfortunately much damaged. In the centre Mary is being crowned by two angels. On either side of her are noble figures of God the Father and Christ. Beneath Mary is a group of angels, and beneath God and Christ stand many suppliants. An older and very interesting stone-relief is to be seen on the south-west wall. Some old glass and over seventy coats of arms of the Tetzel family are also placed in this chapel. There are many other churches in Nuremberg, and several of them have a distinctive charm of their own. But I must content myself with a bare sketch of the chief treasures they possess. Only let me add that any lover of Nuremberg who has time to spare will be rewarded by the discovery of many characteristic details in the minor churches. The richest in works of art is the ST. JAKOBSKIRCHE. Chief among these is a Pietà, by the unknown master of the Madonna in the Museum (see p. 278), and the old glass of the windows. The high altarpiece has the distinction of being the earliest specimen of Nuremberg painting. There are, besides, various early reliefs and carvings by Veit Stoss. The church itself, which was restored in 1824, belongs in its present form to the beginning of the fifteenth century. It was, however, in existence in the twelfth century, for the Emperor Otto presented it and all its property in 1209 to the "Hospital der heiligen Maria der Deutschherrren zu Jerusalem," an order which had long had a firm foothold in Nuremberg, and came, there is evidence to show, continually into conflict with the Council. After the Jakobskirche was handed over to the Protestants in 1634 by Gustavus Adolphus, the Deutschherren held their Roman Catholic services in the Elizabethkapelle, which was completed in its present shape, as the ELIZABETHKIRCHE with its mighty Italian dome in 1885. THE MARTHAKIRCHE (1365), right of the Königstrasse as you come from the Frauen Thor, contains little of interest. Like the chapel "Zum Heiligen Kreuz," north-west of the town on the road to St. John's Churchyard, it was founded as the chapel of a pilgrims' hospital, wherein "all poor strange persons, whencesoever they come, are to be harboured for one or two days and provided with food and drink free of charge." Almost facing it is the KLARAKIRCHE (1430). Here there are some good windows and an altar by Veit Stoss (?), also an OElberg, an early Mount of Olives by Adam Krafft. Opposite St. Sebald's, on the north side, lies the ST. MORITZKAPELLE. Built originally on the present Hauptmarkt, it was removed in 1313 to a site upon what was then St. Sebald's Churchyard. It was restored by Heideloff in 1829 and used, till 1882, as a gallery for some of the pictures now in the German Museum. In the Spital Platz is THE HOSPITAL AND SPITAL KIRCHE (HEILIGGEIST KIRCHE), founded by Konrad Gross, which we have already mentioned (p. 30). In the courtyard of the hospital may be seen the chapel founded by Georg Ketzel after the great epidemic in 1437. It is built in imitation of the chapel of the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem. East of the Spital Kirche stands the handsome MOORISH SYNAGOGUE by Wolf. Since Nuremberg was from early days both pious and comparatively secure, she was naturally one of the first places in Germany where the mendicant friars settled and founded monasteries. The earliest of these was the Augustiner Kloster (beginning of the thirteenth century). The Franciscan Monastery, or Barfüsser Kloster, was built somewhere about 1210, where now the house of the Museum Club and the buildings of the Industrial Museum stand. The Dominican Monastery, built a little later, is now used as the Public Library and Record Office (No. 4 Burgstrasse, Mon. Wed. Fri., 9-12 A.M.). Thanks chiefly to the efforts of Hieronymus Paumgärtner and Erasmus Ebner the Council formed a fine collection from the treasures--mainly manuscript--of the libraries of the various monasteries. This was placed together with the library, which the Council had itself been founding for over a hundred years, first of all in the Monastery of St. Giles, and then in 1538 in its present home. Among the MSS. are a fragment of Durer's work on the "Proportions of the Human Figure," some poems of Hans Sachs, and autograph letters of Gustavus Adolphus, Melanchthon, Luther, Lazarus Spengler, Regiomontanus, etc., besides an amusing one from Ulrich von Hutten, the Knight and Reformer, who herein congratulates an abbot on having renounced celibacy and taken unto himself a wife. But the most valuable MS. is the almost unique Hebrew _Machsor_ (1331) written on vellum. Its 1100 pages comprise a full collection of Jewish prayers, hymns, and ceremonies up to the thirteenth century. Amongst other drawings, portraits, prints, and curiosities in the library are a black silk cap worn by Luther and a drinking cup given by him to his friend Dr Justus Jonas. The portraits of the two friends adorn the cup, together with the following inscription:-- _Dat vitrum vitreo Jonæ vitrum ipse Lutherus_ _Ut vitro fragili similem se noscat uterque._ Then, beautifully written and illuminated, there is a breviary (1350?) of an English Queen with the inscription:-- La Liver du Roy de France Charles Done a Madame la Roigne D'engleterre. Among the early printed books is a copy of the "Rationale Durandi" (1459, Mainz), of "Boccaccio" (1472, Mantoni), and of the "Florentine Homer" (1488). Matthäus Landauer's Almshouse--Landauer'sche Zwölfbrüderhaus (east end of Ægidien Platz) has frequently been mentioned. The almshouse has now been turned into a school of technical design, but the chapel (1502) will repay a visit. The roof, supported by two spiral columns, has the cone-shaped pendants of the contemporary English style, very exceptional in Germany. It was for this church that Durer painted his All Saints' picture, now at Vienna. There were many foundations, in the old days, for the relief of the sick and needy. Amongst others were two houses for waifs and strays, founded no one knows by whom. They were transferred later to the Barfüsser Kloster. In connection with this institution a charming annual procession takes place. One charitable lady, Elizabetha Krauss, left in 1639 a sum of money to provide the children with a good dinner on St. John's Day. In grateful memory the children always go on that occasion to the St. Rochus Churchyard. On their way they must pass the corner house near the Karlsbrücke. On that house is the statue of a youth, busily engaged in pounding with pestle and mortar. People say this figure represents the apprentice of an apothecary who once lived there. And because the apprentice ran away from his work to gaze at the procession of children, who clad in red and white, and, roses themselves, crowned with garlands of roses were wending their way hand in hand to the tomb of their benefactress, his master grew so angry that he killed the lad. It is in the churchyard of ST. ROCHUS that Peter Vischer (90) lies buried (Rothenburger Strasse). In the church itself are some paintings after Durer, some altar-pieces by Veit Stoss (?), and some glass by Veit Hirschvogel. But the chief burial-place of Nuremberg from the sixteenth century, and one of the most peculiar and impressive spots of the town, is the _Churchyard of St. John_. For this has been the burial-place of the Nuremberg patricians from generation unto generation, ever since in 1517 the Council decreed that everybody, with the exception of the clergy, must be buried in St. John's Churchyard, and no longer in the churches within the town. Such a wise measure of compulsory extramural interment must have been almost without parallel at that time. The route to this churchyard the reader already knows, for it lies along Burgschmietstrasse, along that road to Calvary marked by Ketzel's pious Stations of the Cross (see p. 200). A low walk and pillared gateway, over whose broken pediment the willow bends mournfully, mark this place of tombs. The churchyard is sprinkled with trees: to the south, the shadows of a thicker fringe of branches deepen the natural solemnity of the place. It is here that the mighty dead of the White City are sleeping the sleep that knows no waking; but, as we seek the graves of Durer, Sachs, or Pirkheimer, we pass along the rows of flat tombstones quietly, with hushed voices and reverent steps, as if dreading to disturb even the silence of their inviolable repose.[64] On every side of us are emblems of the past glory and pride of Nuremberg. There are no headstones to the tombs, but every slab, in high relief of imperishable bronze fashioned by the skill of the most distinguished artists,[65] bears the coats-of-arms and devices of the civic noble who moulders beneath. What pomp of funeral processions must have ascended the steep from the city, year by year, through that gateway, to convey another, and yet another, wealthy burgher from the busy scenes of commerce and office, to the silent abodes of the dead! Poets and artists, too, as well as patricians, lie here; and the indistinguishable dust of the famous and infamous, of rich and poor, known and unknown, old and young mingles in this still churchyard of St. John. "Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust." We feel the pathos, the pity of it, as we stand here and read the message of the tombstones; but even more clearly does St. John's Churchyard suggest that other mood:-- "Hark! how the sacred calm that breathes around Bids ev'ry fierce tumultuous passion cease; In still small accents whispering from the ground A grateful earnest of eternal peace." CHAPTER X _The Houses, Wells, and Bridges_ Every other house in Nuremberg, whether in the narrow and crooked side streets, or in the busy thoroughfares, is, as it were, a leaf from some mediæval chronicle. Here, in the Hirschelgasse or the Ægidien Platz, we read the story of some rich merchant prince, returning from Venice or from Palestine, eager to spend some of the fruits of his emprise in the decoration of his house, according to the style of the country which had fascinated him in his travels. There, in the Tetzel-or the Schild-Gasse, we read in the overhanging upper stories the desire of the architect in this crowded mediæval city to utilise every foot of available space, and the device is revealed to us which he adopted when the Council forbade the projection of the ground floor into the street. And those statues of Saints and Madonnas, which still stand in their niches at the corners of so many houses, those reliefs by Adam Krafft or other artists, which adorn the mansions of the great with the story of Christ and His followers, are they not eloquent, in the very lack of variety displayed in the choice of subjects, of the simple child-like faith of the Middle Ages, ever ready to hear once more the story of the Redeemer's suffering for the sake of man who had sinned? From the varying height, breadth, and styles of the houses the streets of Nuremberg gain the mediæval charm of irregularity. There is the usual happy [Illustration: HOUSE ON THE PEGNITZ] avoidance of the straight lines which render modern towns so unattractive. The general character of the red-tiled houses here is lofty, with high-peaked gables and frequently with oriel windows. The ornamentation is lavish and smacks of the Renaissance. Especially is this noticeable in the courts within. For even where the front of a house may seem narrow and almost insignificant, on entering it you frequently find a large quadrangle, with open winding staircases and broad, projecting balconies, highly ornamented, which carry back to the street behind. I mention here a few of the more notable houses, to some of which reference has already been made. Albrecht Dürer Haus, corner of Albrecht Dürer Strasse. Albrecht Dürer Birthplace, 20 Winklerstrasse. Anton Koberger Haus, Ægidien Platz. Opposite the statue of Melanchthon. Martin Behaim Haus, next door to the above. Here the famous globe of the navigator is kept. Peller (now Fuchs) Haus, Ægidien Platz. Recently restored. Willibald Pirkheimer, 35 Ægidien Platz. Hans Sachs Haus, Hans Sachs Gasse. Hieronymus Paumgärtner Haus, 23 Theresien Strasse. The relief, St. George and the dragon, is probably an early work by Adam Krafft. Krafft (formerly Pfinzing) Haus, 7 Theresien Strasse. Fembo Haus, Burgstrasse. (Opposite the Library.) Scheurl Haus, Burgstrasse. This house contains the room in which Maximilian I. stayed, carefully preserved. Topler, now Petersen Haus, Panierplatz. Tucher Haus, 9 Hirschelgasse. Rupprecht Haus, next to the above. Volkamer Haus, 19 Hauptmarkt. Grundherr (Zum goldenen Schild) Haus, Schildgasse. Where the Golden Bull was drawn up. Nassauer Haus, corner of Karolinenstrasse. Peter Vischer Haus, Peter Vischer Strasse. Palm Haus, 29 Winklerstrasse. This is the house of the bookseller Palm, who was shot by Bonaparte for publishing a pamphlet against him. Imhoff Haus, Tucherstrasse. Ketzel Haus (Pilatushaus), Thiergärtnerthorplatz. Glossner Haus, Adlerstrasse. Grundherr Haus, 1585 (now the Bairischer Hof Karlsstrasse). * * * * * "Manch edles Brünnlein strömt darin Aus goldnen Röhren schnell dahin." So wrote Hans Sachs in his poem in praise of his native town. And indeed the wells and fountains here are as characteristic though not of course so beautiful as the well-heads of Venice. Far the most important of them is the so-called Beautiful Fountain (Der Schöne Brunnen) in the corner of the Haupt Markt, near the Rathaus. It is in the shape of an octagonal Gothic spire. The construction of it is usually spoken of as contemporaneous with that of the Frauenkirche and the design is likewise attributed to Sebald Schonhofer. But recent researches have shown that it was not built till the years 1385-1396, and that one Heinrich der Palier, or der Parlierer, as he is commonly named in the City Accounts, had the building of it. No doubt he was very much under the influence of Schonhofer, and very likely he may have been his pupil. So much may be gathered from the similarity of the ornamentation on the Frauenkirche and the Beautiful Fountain. In old days, as we have seen, the well was richly painted and gilded. But this is no longer the case. It was carefully restored in great part in 1824 and again at this moment further restoration is in contemplation. The iron railing which surrounds the fountain was made by Paul Köhn (1586). Curious funnels on levers are used for drawing the water, and they remind one irresistibly of that _reductio ad absurdum_ of the Meistersingers' Guilds, Harsdörfer's "Nuremberg funnel" for pouring in poetry (p. 218). [Illustration: FLEISCHBRÜCKE] The Beautiful Fountain is a niched and tabernacled monument of stone, over 60 feet high, tapering at intervals to a pinnacle. The niches in the pillars of the lower compartment contain statues of the seven Electors and of nine heroes, the Christian Charlemagne, Godfrey of Bouillon and Cloris, the Jewish Judas Maccabæus, Joshua and David, and the Pagan Julius Cæsar, Alexander the Great and Hector. Above, in the second division, are Moses and the seven Prophets. The water of this well has the reputation of being remarkably good. Formerly, even more than at present, the Beautiful Fountain was the very centre of Nuremberg life. At the well, as in the days of Abraham, lovers met and the gossips talked, waiting their turn to fill their long, copper pitchers. To-day, too, the Beautiful Fountain is a household word, and parents explain to their too inquisitive children, when they ask how their new baby brother arrived--"Es ist ein Geschenk von dem Schönen Brunnen!" Of the other fountains we may enumerate the "Gänsemännchen" in the Obstmarkt and the dainty well in the Town Hall courtyard by Pankraz Labenwolf (1553). The son-in-law of Labenwolf, Benedict Wurzelbauer designed the Tugend Brunnen, or Virtue Fountain, which stands at the north-west corner of the St. Lorenzkirche. This was in 1589 when German art was already becoming decadent and mannered. Then in 1687, to celebrate the victory over the Turks at Siklos the "Wasserspeier" was erected in the Maxplatz. It was copied by Bromig from Bernini's original at Rome. Lastly in the Plärrer, opposite the Spittler Thor, is the "Kunstbrunnen"--which commemorates the opening of the first railway in Germany, between Nuremberg and Fürth. The bridges, of which over a dozen span the Pegnitz in its course through the town, must once have added greatly to the picturesqueness of the place. But the Pegnitz is liable to sudden and violent spates which have continually swept away the old bridges. The modern ones cannot boast of any great inherent beauty. The Fleischbrücke, indeed, was built by Peter Carl it is said on the model of the Rialto. But it requires a kindly imagination or a bad memory to admit any comparison between the two. Over a gateway near this bridge will be found the figure of a large bull, with the inscription-- "Omnia habent ortus suaque incrementa, sed, ecce! Quem cernis numquam bos fuit hic vitulus." Town mottoes of this kind were common enough in the old days. A quaint example is that which was inscribed over an entrance of the city of Arras in Belgium. Originally it ran--_Les François prendront Arras, lorsque ce chat prendra le rat_. When the French had taken the town in 1640 they erased the letter _p_ in _prendront_ and thus cunningly caused the inscription to read in their favour. CHAPTER XI _German Museum_ (Entrance in the Vordere Karthäusergasse. Open 10-1 A.M. and 2-4.30 P.M. summer, 2-4 P.M. winter. Fee, 1 mark. Free Sundays, and in winter also on Wednesdays. Sticks, etc., must be left in the entrance hall (10 pfennige). Full catalogue (German) 50 pfennige. Certain sections of the Museum, including the collections of prints, seals, medals, tapestry, records and the Library, are reserved for the use of students and artists. The visitor who wishes to study any of these magnificent collections must apply to the director of the particular department.) The Museum, which owes its inception to the generosity of Freiherr Hans von Aufsess, and its development to the imperial and municipal co-operation of united Germany, has found a home in the old Carthusian Monastery and Church. It was in 1380 that Marquard Mendel, a scion of a rich and distinguished Nuremberg patrician family, founded a monastery for the most severe of the ecclesiastical orders on a spot outside the then town-wall. The foundation stone of the Carthusian Church, was laid in the presence of King Wenzel in the following year. The pious founder took the vows of the order he had thus encouraged, and he lived in a cell of the monastery. The services in the church were so popular that to accommodate the crowds of people who thronged there Konrad Mendel, brother of Marquard, founded an additional chapel--the Mendel Chapel, in 1387. It is now used as a fire-station. Opposite this chapel Konrad also founded an almshouse for twelve destitute citizens. It is still marked by the statue of one of the former inmates. The prior and most of the monks adopted the Evangelical creed in 1525 and the rich monastery became the property of the town. Both the church and the monastery were for a long while used for very profane purposes until at last in 1856 they were utilised as a storehouse for the Museum. Then in 1873 the old Augustinian Monastery was removed and re-erected as an additional part of the Museum. So vast and varied is the collection of interesting objects here and so careful and elaborate is the German catalogue that it is at once impossible and unnecessary for me to give an exhaustive account. The following notes are intended to serve rather as an index than as a complete guide to the treasures of the Museum; but they make more particular mention of things that may prove interesting to those who care for the "Story of Nuremberg." The various sections of the Museum though called after their original architectural purpose--Saal, Halle, Kreuzgang, Kirche, Lichthofgang, etc., are usually numbered consecutively as if they were all rooms of the same type. The entrance hall leads into the cloisters of the old monastery (walls decorated with Nuremberg heraldry). The first portion of the cloister contains an historical collection of monuments (mostly casts) arranged chronologically. ROOM 1 (on left). Ceiling ornamented with the arms of the towns which under the old Empire belonged to princes and bishops. Weapons and implements of the stone age. ROOM 2. Bronze weapons and implements. Coins. ROOMS 3-7. Roman antiquities found in Germany and German antiquities from fourth to tenth centuries. The exquisite German gold and metal-work of the Charlemagne period seems to foreshadow the work of the great Nuremberg goldsmiths. ROOM 8. Latest acquisitions of the Museum. ROOMS 10-13. A very fine collection of characteristic stoves and tiles. The latter, used for covering the walls and floors, took the place of mosaics and are ornamented with leaf-work, stars, rosettes, coats-of-arms or grotesques. The tiles of the stoves, which should be compared with those in the Castle and the Rathaus, were made, in the fifteenth century, to represent chiefly mythological subjects, whilst the seventeenth-century ones betray, as we should expect, Italian influence. A green stove with concave plates (Room 12) and an eighteenth-century rococco specimen (Room 13), from the house of the Löffelholz family are remarkable. ROOMS 14, 15. contain some beautiful examples of the locksmith's art; locks, keys, hinges, knockers, and knocker plates, exquisite in workmanship and in design. We have here a real lesson in ironwork, a perfect education in hinges. ROOM 16. is the Wilhelms-halle, so-called after Emperor Wilhelm I. It contains a window given by him in 1860, when he was still only King of Prussia. Passing by this and the Hohenzollern-halle opposite and going down the Ludwigsgang, built by the aid of Ludwig of Bavaria (1870) we come to the Reichs-hof, a court (left) in which stands a gigantic cast of the Roland in the market-place of Bremen. Rooms 18-25 are called the Victoria and Friedrich Wilhelm buildings. (More tombs and casts.) On the right of the corridor (Room 26) there now begins a very interesting collection of stained glass which is arranged chronologically. (Twelfth to sixteenth-century glass here.) ROOMS 27, 28. The old Refectory of the monks serves now as the home for a collection of German and Italian pottery, majolica and faience, porcelain, glass and stoneware. (German faience, first half of sixteenth century. Augustin Hirschvogel and Nuremberg work, Room 27, cabinets 9 and 16.) Pewter work, end of sixteenth century, by Kaspar Endterlein (Room 28, cabinets 4, 5). English Wedgewood (cabinet 6). ROOM 29 (Cloister). Bronze epitaphs from Nuremberg tombstones (_cf._ St. John's Churchyard). ROOM 32 (Kirche) is the old monastic church. It is filled with mediæval church utensils (ninth to fifteenth century), amongst which we may mention the silver casket in which the Imperial insignia used (p. 51) to be hung in the Spital-kirche, and with 150 original examples of plastic work, carvings and sculptures (thirteenth to sixteenth century). The majority of these have no great artistic merit though they have great interest for the student of German art. They represent the period when painting was not yet regarded as a separate art but as the accessory, the handmaiden of sculpture. In the beginning images of Madonnas and Saints were carved and painted; then, first of all on the wings of altar-pieces, and afterwards throughout, the painter took the place of the carver or sculptor. The process is clearly demonstrated in this collection. I can only call attention to the following:--Cabinet 6, six apostles in a sitting posture, excellent examples of Nuremberg plastic work (burnt clay) at the end of the fourteenth century. Over the north-west door St. Anna, Madonna and Child, by Michel Wolgemut (1510?). The Nuremberg landscape background is noteworthy. The picture has the appearance of having been recently retouched. Various works of the Nuremberg School and the Pacher School of carving (late fifteenth century), are ranged along the south and north walls. The large fresco Visit of Emperor Otho III. to the tomb of Charlemagne, is by W. von Kaulbach, and was bequeathed by that painter to the Museum. But the gem of the whole collection is the NUREMBERG MADONNA. It stands at the back of an early sixteenth-century altar-piece of the Swabian School, facing the tombstone (1592) of Georg Ludwig von Seinsheim. No second glance is required to assure us that we have here not only the _chef d'æuvre_ of [Illustration: NUREMBERG MADONNA] Nuremberg carving, but also one of the works of art of all time. And yet the name of the master is unknown, and the very date of the work is a matter of dispute. Clearly the beautiful female figure of this sorrowing Mary, this praying Madonna, as she is called (trauende, betende Maria), once formed one of a group, and stood facing St. John at the foot of the Cross, gazing upwards in that bitter grief which is beyond the expression and abandonment of tears. Who can that artist have been who could select that pose of the head, that poise of the limbs, who could carve those robes, which in purity and flow have never been surpassed in German art, and who could express in the suppliant hands such poignant emotion? _Man weiss nicht!_ And whose touch was so delicate, that with his chisel he could stamp on the upturned face those mingled feelings of sorrow so supreme, yearning so intense, love so human, hope so divine? For all this we can read there still, even through the grey-green coat of paint which certainly had no place in the original intentions of the artist. _Man weiss nicht!_ But this much one may hazard--that it was some German artist, touched by the spirit of the Italian Renaissance till he rose to heights of artistic performance elsewhere never attained by him, and scarcely ever approached by his fellows.[67] At the end of the choir is the High Altar-piece from Hersbruck, with figures of Mary and the four Fathers of the Church, from the workshop of Wolgemut, who painted the wings once attached to it. This is a good example of Nuremberg work of the kind, with its good and bad points, towards the end of the fifteenth century. On the reverse of this altar-piece is a sadly-faded church banner, richly painted. Figures of Christ, SS. Peter, and Sebald, in a rich Renaissance border, attributed to Albert Durer. ROOM 33 (Kapelle) is the old Sacristy on the north side of the church. There are several interesting carvings here, chief of which is the ROSARY (Rosenkranztafel), Judgment-scene, and crowning of Mary, attributed to Veit Stoss. Amongst other important works attributed to, or actually by him, is the frame of Durer's great Allerheiligen picture (see p. 193). There is also here the original wood model of Labenwolf's familiar "Gooseman" fountain, and a picture of a meeting of the Meistersingers (with Hans Sachs). Winding steps lead up from this chapel to the Volkamer Chapel above. ROOM 34 is the chapel on the south side of the church. Church utensils, etc., and in the choir arch an iron painted chandelier, dedicated by the son of Martin Behaim, the navigator, in memory of his father. ROOM 35. Mediæval furniture, household articles, beds, and doors with splendid ironwork and hinges. Turn (left) down corridor 26 till you come to (right) ROOM 36. The coloured portal is a remarkable piece of late romanesque work, and was once the doorway of the Refectory of the monastery at Heilsbronn. More stoves and furniture. ROOMS 37-45. Carved woodwork. Room 45, cabinets and tapestry. Goldsmiths' works. Magnificent bedstead of ebony and alabaster (Nuremberg). Turn (left) down corridors 46-48. Historical collection of tombs and stained glass continued. ROOMS 49-51, and 52 (above). Guns and weapons from eleventh century. Chased armour. ROOM 53 (above). Costumes. Heraldic ceiling. Hence down the open spiral staircase, past the bear-pit, to ROOM 54. Cannons, fourteenth to nineteenth century. ROOM 55. Torture instruments and guillotine (end of eighteenth century). From this point a small staircase in the corner of the cloisters (Room 55) leads to Room 56, containing some interesting examples of early book-bindings. Passing through this room, and turning to the left, we arrive at ROOMS 57-58, where we have before our eyes the development of manuscripts, engraving and printing from the beginning of the eighth century. The first room contains many documents and charters, manuscripts, autographs, and illuminations. Besides these there are many sketches, architectural drawings and designs, chiefly heraldic, for works of art. Here, too, is a noticeable collection of wood-engravings, including many fine leaves by Durer (Apocalypse, Passions, Life of Mary), Lucas Cranach, Hans Burgkmair, Grien, Schäuffelein, etc., and of copper-engravings[68] by Durer, Lucas van Leyden, Aldegrever, Altdorfer, Augustin Hirschvogel, etc. In the next room we enter the region of printed books, and find a well-arranged and delightful collection. In case i., among other examples of the early "Block books" (books printed wholly from carved blocks of wood, from which undoubtedly the idea of moveable type arose), we note the _Ars Moriendi_ and the _Kalendar of Ludwig von Basel_ (1460?). Of Block books at Nuremberg, we may note that Hans Sporer produced here an edition of the _Endkrist_ (1472), of the _Ars Moriendi_, 1473, and of the _Biblia Pauperum_ (1475). The first two books to be printed from moveable type were two Latin Bibles (_circ._ 1453). Of these, one is known as the thirty-six line, or Bamberg Bible. It was printed by Gutenberg, and is represented in the Museum by two leaves only (case i.). The other is known as the Forty-two line, or Mazarine Bible. It was printed by Gutenberg, in partnership with Fust and Schöffer, and is represented here by one leaf (case ii.). One leaf, too, is all there is here to tell of the 1457 _Psalter_, with the wonderful capital letters printed by Fust and Schöffer. The extraordinary beauty and perfection of printing in its infancy can never fail to arrest attention. The explanation is obvious. It was not till the scribes, with whom printers had at first to compete in the multiplication of books, had ceased to exist that printers could afford to be careless in their work and indifferent in their choice of types. Then there are the three books ascribed to Gutenberg's press about the year 1460-- (1) The _Tractatus racionis et conscientiæ_ of Matthæus de Cracovia; (2) The _Summa de articulis fidei_ of Thomas Aquinas; and (3) The _Catholicon_. The _Catholicon_ type appears again in the Latin-German dictionary known as the _Vocabularius ex quo_, the second edition of which, published by Nikolaus Bechtermünze at Eltvil, is here represented. Copies of the first fourteen German Bibles (1466, etc.), with the exception of the second and seventh, will be found in the various cases (iv., v., vii., ix., etc.), and the original editions of Luther's Bible (1523-4) and other writings of his in case xxii. The first German Bible to be printed in Nuremberg (actually the fourth German Bible) was published by Frisner and Sensenschmid, 1473(?), case vii. Illustrations, it will be observed, are introduced into the large initial letters. It was Johann Sensenschmid ("the type-cutter") who, with the aid of Heinrich Keffer of Mainz, a pupil of Gutenberg, first introduced the art of printing into the town (Franciscus de Retza, _Comestorium vitiorium_, 1470, case vii.). Then in 1471 Johann Müller, or Regiomontanus, as he called himself, came with the object of establishing a private printing press, in order to issue his own works here. He printed his German and Latin Calendar from blocks, and various mathematical works from moveable types. But Anton Koberger[69] (1473-1513) was the greatest printer of Nuremberg. To the zeal with which he produced woodcut illustrations for his great works, the _Schatzbehalter_ and the _Hartmann Schedels Weltchronik_ (cases xiii., xiv.), the growth of the Nuremberg school of engraving is due. Another famous Nuremberg printer closely connected in business with Koberger[70] was Friedrich Creussner, who printed the first German edition of "Marcho Polo, das puch von mangerley wunder der landt vnd lewt" in 1477 (case xii.). In case xix. we find a unique copy of Hans Schmuttermeyer von Nürnberg, _Fialenbüchlein_, and also the _Nürnberger Heiligtumsbüchlein_, published by Hans Mair, 1493. The _Quatuor libri amorum_ of Conrad Celtes, poet and humanist, was published at Nuremberg, 1502, with woodcuts after Durer (case xxi.). Durer's writings on the _Proportions of the Human Frame_, on _Perspective_, _Measurements_ and _Fortification_ figure in case xxiii., in which also the large coloured woodcuts of the "_Abbildung der dreiundzwanzig vom schwäbischen Bunde im Jahre 1523 verbrannten fränkischen Raubschlösser_," published at Nuremberg by Hans Wandereisen, are conspicuous. To Nuremberg also was vouchsafed the honour of publishing Melchior Pfinzing's _Theuerdank_ (1517),[71] although it would appear to have been printed by Hans Schönsperger at Augsburg from the handsome type (scarcely improved by the tremendous flourishes) specially cut by Jost Dienecker of Antwerp. It was adorned with over a hundred illustrations--hunting scenes and knightly conflicts--by Hans Schäuffelein, Burgkmair and others. A copy of the second, 1519, edition may be seen in case xxii. After the death of Koberger, illustrated books in Nuremberg came chiefly from the presses of Jobst Gutknecht and Peypus. Other printers here were:-- Conrad Zeninger, 1480-1482. Fratres Vitæ Communis, 1479-1491. Georg Stuchs, 1484-1515. Johann Petrejus, 1526-1550. Alexander Kaufmann (Greek types). Konrad Bauer, 1601. _Polyglot Bible._ Leonhard Heussler, 1596. Joachim Lochner's _Chronicle_. Endter, 1668. Fugger's _Österreichischer Ehrenspiegel_ (case xxviii.). In this case also is Grimmelshausen's _Simplicissimus_ (Nuremberg, 1685). In the next case (xxix.) is a copy of the pamphlet "_Deutschland in seiner tiefen Erniederung_," 1806, which occasioned the execution of the publisher Palm (see p. 269), "who fell a victim to the tyranny of Napoleon." Near this case are two old printing presses, and in case xxx. are the bust, some manuscripts, and the collected works of Hans Sachs the cobbler-poet. ROOM 59. Ship models, etc. ROOM 60 (gallery of the Church). Old weights and scales. ROOM 61. Scientific instruments, dials, early watches and watch-cocks. Durer's Reissfeder. Regiomontanus' astronomical instruments. ROOMS 62-66. Old drugs and drug-stores, etc. The old apothecary's shop, decorated with crocodiles and so forth, suggests the familiar scene in Romeo and Juliet. ROOMS 67-68. Technical models, globes, maps, etc. ROOM 70. Banners of old Nuremberg guilds, signs of inns, trade-marks, etc. ROOM 70A. Early Nuremberg toys, dolls' houses, etc. We now come to the PICTURE GALLERY, which, if not of great size or of first-rate importance, is eminently interesting to those who care to study the development of Nuremberg art. The pictures are unfortunately numbered and arranged in a somewhat eccentric fashion. In the small room on the right, as we enter Room 71, are some early pictures which would seem to be the forerunners of the system of epitaphs which obtained so largely in the later Middle Ages. Besides these there are two Byzantine pictures. The first two sections of Room 71 are taken up with some examples of the Rhenish and old Netherland School up to the end of the sixteenth century. To Meister Wilhelm of Cologne is attributed the charming Madonna with the pea-blossom (No. 7). Of the same school are Nos. 9, 10, and 17. Stephan Lockner, Nos. 11, 12, 13, 14, 15. Rogier van der Weyden (copy), No. 20. Hugo van der Goes. Cardinal Bourbon. No. 19. The "Master of the Life of Mary." Nos. 24, 25, 26. Jan Scorel. Two portraits. Nos. 50, 51. The "Master of the Death of Mary." Nos. 63, 64, 65. Bartholomew Bruyns. No. 72. With the third section of this room begins the collection of Franconian and Nuremberg paintings. As I have already on more than one occasion sketched the characteristics of this school, it would be superfluous to add anything here. But perhaps one may be allowed to express the conviction that no one who studies these pictures will fail to be impressed by the comparative merits of Wolgemut, or go away without ranking the master of Durer higher in his estimation than he was wont to do before he came. The scenes from the Passion (No. 87), 1400, may be taken to represent the beginnings of the Franconian School of painting. No. 96 is the reverse of that Imhoff altar-piece in the Lorenzkirche with which we have already dealt at some length (p. 249). No. 95--from the Frauenkirche--is an important picture of the same date (1430-40). The workshop of Pleydenwurff and Wolgemut is very well represented here. The admirable portrait of Kanonikus Schönborn (101), whose figure appears again in the Crucifixion (100) painted for him by the master, and SS. Thomas Aquinas and Dominicus (102, 103) are good examples of Hans Pleydenwurff at his best. Of the numerous pictures by Michel Wolgemut it will suffice to mention in particular the two portraits of old men so full of individuality (Hans Perckmeister and another, 119, 119A), and the Hallersche Epitaph (115), besides his masterpiece, the PERINGSDÖRFFER ALTAR-PIECE (107-110, Room 73; 113 and 114, Room 71, SS. Cosmos Damian, Magdalena, and Lucia). We have seen how Wolgemut usually allowed his assistants to help him in his pictures. The Peringsdörffer masterpiece (1488) was no exception; but in this at any rate the master's own share was very considerable. The outer sides of the altar contain four pairs of Saints, male and female, standing on Gothic brackets--SS. Catherine and Barbara, Rosalia and Margaret, George and Sebald, John the Baptist and Nicholas. Here we have the most animated of Wolgemut's female figures, the most vigorous and life-like of his men. The most notable faces,--finer even than that of the St. Sebald who stands like some great architect holding the model of his Church, or of the St. Nicholas, with his refined and critical countenance, are those of SS. John and George. The former turns upon us his keen and spiritual gaze, so that his great brown eyes seem to pierce the veil that bounds our earthly vision and to penetrate into the hidden depths of futurity; whilst the latter stands rigid, his every feature--powerful nose, firmly closed mouth, thin but not sunken cheeks--eloquent of a bold and earnest resolution. Incidents from the life of St. Vitus (Veit) and other saints form the subjects of the inner sides of the picture. Here again there is an inequality both of style and of excellence. The simple countenance of Mary, who holds on her knee a very animated Child, represents a type halfway between that of Rogier and that of Schongauer. The St. Luke, the character of whose head is well worked out, is attractive through his expression of earnestness. But there is far more dramatic power and "soul" in the scene from the legend of St. Bernard, according to which Christ came down from the Cross to his ardent worshipper. There the countenance of St. Bernard is made to exhibit a depth of feeling rarely to be found in Wolgemut; as if the artist's imagination had indeed been lit by something of the glow of the Saint's adoration. The St. Christopher, who is walking through the stream with the Christ-child on his shoulder, is rough to the point of ugliness, whilst in the landscape, which is beautifully executed, there is a most intimate charm. In the martyrdom of St. Sebastian, the Saint wears that almost inane expression which often does duty, however unintentionally, for the look of deep suffering in Wolgemut's work. The guard, however, are pleasingly and vividly portrayed. Evidently they are akin to the rabble which is found in the scenes of the Passion in Schongauer's works. But it is when we come to the scenes from the legend of St. Vitus that we seem to trace only the faintest signs of Wolgemut's style. The composition here bears only a distant resemblance to his, and in the execution the assistant employed must surely have been he who painted the scene of St. Vitus denouncing the idols in the Lorenzkirche (see p. 254), and whose initials are R. F. The pictures by Albrecht Durer in the Museum we have already mentioned (pp. 188, 193-9). (1) Hercules and the Stymphalian Birds, 205 Room 72 (2) Kaiser Maximilian, 209 " " (3) Pietà--Mourning over Christ's Body, 206 " 73 (4) Charlemagne, 207 " " (5) Kaiser Sigismund, 208 " " Besides these originals there are several copies of the master's works, including the excellent copies of the Four Apostles (283, 284) by Johann Georg Fischer. The original inscriptions are retained. The Allerheiligen or Trinity picture, No. 210, is a bad copy in a worse frame. Among other works by contemporaries or followers of Durer are:-- Bartholomew Zeitblom of Ulm, {145 Room 73 {178 " 73 Bernhard Strigel, {179, 181 " 71 {185, 186 " 72 Martin Schwarz of Rothenburg, 130, 133 " 71 Hans Holbein the Elder, {164, 167 " 71 {162, 163 " 72 Hans Friess of Freiburg, Room 71, 71 Hans Leonhard Schäuffelein, { 221, 223, 225 } " 73 { 226, etc. } Hans von Kulmbach, { 212 " 71 { 213, 214, 216 " 73 Albrecht Altdorfer, 245, 248 " 71, 72 Mathias Grünewald, 253 " 71 Hans Baldung Grien, 194-196 " 72 Lucas Cranach, { 259 " 72 { 262 Martin Schaffner, 191, 192 " 72 Hans Burgkmair, {171 " 72 {168-170 " 73 Georg Pencz, 272, 273 " 74 In the following rooms the decline of German art is historically well represented. But in room 78, which is devoted mainly to painters of the Dutch School of the seventeenth century, mention should be made of the interior by Peter de Hooch (330) and an early portrait of Rembrandt by himself (325) and his powerful St. Paul (326). Johann Kupetzky is also well represented (371-378). ROOMS 81, 82. Models of cannons and weapons. ROOM 83. A collection of musical instruments: some very rare and costly, but mostly of recent date. There are few from mediæval times. Engravings and miniatures will tell us most about these. But the history of the development of the lute and violin, the clarionet and the piano, can here be traced. Of the early Nuremberg makers, whose instruments are preserved, the chief are-- Conrad Gerler and Melchior Neuziedler (lutes and violins). Hans Meuschen (wind instruments). Sigmund Schnitzer (whistles). Pachelbel (organs). The Bavarian Industrial Museum (Königstrasse) contains a collection of patterns and samples, ancient and modern, and a good technical library. CHAPTER XII _The Arms of Nuremberg_ "Da sass ein Vogel wunderschön, Wie ein Adler war er anzusehn Kohlschwarz, der hatt' allda gehecket. Seine linke Seit' war ihm bedecket Mit lichten Rosen, roth und weiss, Fein abgetheilt mit allem Fleiss." ... HANS SACHS. Nuremberg is a happy hunting ground for the herald. The hatchments in the churches and the houses, and the arms in the stained glass windows are very noteworthy. The arms of the city may be seen carved over the north and south main entrances to the Rathaus. You will also find them roughly painted on a little money-box in Albert Durer's house. Durer, as was natural in an engraver, was fond of heraldic drawing. His engravings of the "Armorial Bearings of the Durer Family," and of "The Coat of Arms, with a Cock," and of the "Arms of Nuremberg," are good examples of his work in this _genre_, whilst his last piece of pure etching was "The Great Cannon," with the arms of Nuremberg upon it. I take the following account of the seals and arms of Nuremberg from Dr Reicke and Mummenhoff. It was one of the privileges of the Council to have a seal of its own. Both Mayor and Council had their own seals. The Mayor's seal, known to have existed from A.D. 1225 onwards, was of red wax bearing the Imperial Eagle originally looking to [Illustration: SEALS OF NUREMBURG] the sinister but afterwards to the dexter, with the legend _Sigillum Sculteti de Nuremberg_ (seal of the Mayor of Nuremberg) which subsequently became _Sigillum Judicii de Nurenberch_ (seal of the Court of Nuremberg). The Council's seal (which first appears on documents of 1243) bore an eagle closely feathered up to the neck, with a human head surrounded by flowing locks and wearing a crown. This town-seal usually bears the legend _Sigillum Universitatis civium de Nurenberch_ (_i.e._ seal of the community of the citizens of Nuremberg) or even _civitatis Norimbergue_ (of the city of Nuremberg). Somewhat later than the middle of the fourteenth century it had a black letter N for counter-seal, and bore the following legend in abbreviated writing, _Sigillum secretum Nurembergense_, _i.e._ Nuremberg secret _or_ privy seal. A little later it bore for its counter-seal the proper arms of the city, of which we must shortly speak. Towards the end of the fourteenth century (in 1386) a smaller privy seal appears, similar in form, and bearing the legend _Secretum civium de Nuremberch_. This was always used as a privy seal for letters of importance. Before this seal came into use the city seal was used for all purposes, and even appended (for greater security) to private documents such as contracts of sale, entailing deeds, testaments and jointures. At a later date this seal was chiefly appended to testaments. The seals, both of the Mayor and of the Council, though not arms, were used as such; however, their real character was well understood. Even in 1477 the Council decreed that the window which the city proposed to place in the choir of St. Lawrence's Church should be adorned "with the arms of the Council and the privy and common arms of the city." Here a distinction is expressly made between the seal and the arms. However, the proper arms of the town were--Bendy of six Gules and Argent impaling Or an Imperial eagle dimidiated, sable. The dexter side of the shield is often incorrectly represented as Gules, three bendlets argent. It is also wrong to describe it (as many writers have done), as Barry of six, gules and argent. Meisterlin applies to the dexter side the term Field of Swabia, which we only mention here because it is still occasionally employed. He gives the same name to the district in which Nuremberg lies (apparently by confusion with the "Gau" of Sualafeld). Nuremberg has accordingly nothing to do with Swabia, as was probably inferred centuries ago. The origin of the arms is obscure. It is however worth mentioning that the Burggraves of Nuremberg bore this "Field of Swabia" as a bordure on their arms. These arms, as we said before, have been used since the second half of the fourteenth century as the counter-seal of the city seal above mentioned, as also on stamped parchment and stamped paper (only introduced towards the end of the seventeenth century), on coins struck at Nuremberg, on public buildings, etc. The human head on the eagle of the privy seal, afterwards called the "Eagle-Maiden," is explained by Mummenhoff as the face of an emperor with long flowing locks and the Imperial crown on his head. It retains this character throughout the Middle Ages both on the seal, and also when the seal was used as a coat-of-arms. Mummenhoff instances in particular the fine eagle on the town side of the upper story of the Thiergärtner-Gate-Tower. With Albert Durer, however, begins the quite unhistorical transfiguration of this eagle. The emperor's face was no longer understood and was mistaken for a female face; and thus in course of time a series of unjustifiable embellishments produced a coat-of-arms bearing a maiden, described by even a modern historian as an "Eagle-Maiden." In quite recent times a mural crown has been set upon her head. We will pass over the jesting explanations formerly given for this seeming Eagle-Maiden, which would be untenable, were they even serious. We need only mention that when the arms are set out in colours the eagle is Or and the field Azure (and very often Vert). These three coats-of-arms (counting the seals as coats) arranged in different ways were employed on public monuments, buildings and coins, and afterwards on all publications, commissions, ordinances, etc., issued by the Council. Usually the simple eagle is at the top, the so-called Eagle-Maiden below on the right, and the Bends impaling the dimidiated eagle on the left. Frequently, especially on the coins, only the eagle-maiden and the dimidiated eagle appear. Sometimes also we find the Imperial eagle without the shield surmounting the two lower coats, and, as it were, protecting them with its wings. The double-headed crowned eagle also frequently occurs, for example on the old Fünferhaus (now the Post-Office) with the date 1521. Here it appears alone, whereas on the Tugendbrunnen it is associated with the eagle-maiden and the impaled dimidiated eagle. It was also employed on the eastern part of the city wall, both on the bastion near the Wöhrderthürlein (pulled down in 1871) and on the line of wall. A really handsome example of this double-headed eagle is to be seen on the entrance to the new Rathaus building from the Fünferplatz. This eagle dates from the seventeenth century and was formerly placed on the arsenal, and consequently bears the inscription:-- "Einst Wächter von Nürnbergs Waffen und Wehr Jetzt Hüter von Nürnbergs Wohlstand und Ehr." "Once guard over Nuremberg's weapons and steel Now keeper of Nuremberg's honour and weal." According to Lochner it appears to have been left to the taste of the artist whether in such combinations this the real Imperial eagle, or the one-headed, uncrowned eagle of the Mayor should be used. CHAPTER XIII _Itinerary, Places of Resort, Hotels_ The following scheme may perhaps prove of use to those who have but a day or two to spend in Nuremberg and wish to glance at the chief places of interest:-- (1) Walk round the walls and visit the Castle (Ch. V.). (2) Going from the Frauenthor down the Königstrasse see St. Lorenzkirche (Ch. IX.), the Nassauer Haus (p. 22), and Tugendbrunnen (p. 273). Then crossing the Pegnitz by the Fleisch--or the Museums-brücke, arrive at the Haupt Markt and the Beautiful Fountain (p. 270). Visit the Frauenkirche (Ch. IX.) (r.), the Rathaus (Ch. VI.) and St. Sebalds, (Ch. IX.) and look at the Parsonage Window (p. 42), St. Moritzkirche (Ch. IX.) and the Bratwürstglöcklein (p. 198). (3) Albert Durer's House and Monument (Ch. VII.). St. Ægidienkirche (Ch. IX.) and the Pellerhaus (p. 90). St. John's Churchyard and the Adam Krafft Stations (Ch. IX. and VII.). (4) German Museum (Ch. XI.), Library (Ch. IX.). WALKS OR DRIVES FROM THE TOWN. (1) To the Alte Veste. (Wallenstein's Camp, see Ch. IV.). (2) Castle of Lichtenhof. (Once the residence of Gustavus Adolphus.) (3) Dutzendteich. (4) Schmausenbuch. HOTELS. There are several first-class hotels in Nuremberg. The Württemberger Hof has the advantage of being very close to the station and just outside the old walls of the town. The management is excellent and I have met with every comfort and courtesy there. Of the hotels within the walls the Strauss ranks for comfort and cuisine among the best hotels in Europe, whilst of the others the Bairischer Hof, the Goldner Adler and the Wittelsbacher are recommended. [Illustration: NUREMBERG] INDEX _Note_.--For particular Houses, Streets, Churches, etc., see under general heading--Houses, Streets, Churches, etc. A ALTDORF, 78, 91, 92. ALTDORFER, Albert, 198, 288. ALTNÜRNBERG, 5, 119. ALTE, VESTE, 98 _ff_. ANGELIC GREETING, The (Stoss), 207, 247. ANSCHREIBETHÜRE, 234. ARMS, 291. ART and Artists, 55-59, 171 _ff_. ARTISANS, 31, 33, 37, 171. ASTROLOGERS, 5. B BARBARI, Jacopo dei, 185, 208, 238. BASTIONS, 84, 115, 142, 147, 168. BATHS, Public, 153, 191. BATTLE of Mühldorf, 25. BAYREUTH, 1, 95. BEHAIM, Sebald, 50. ---- Martin, 59. ---- Hans, 116, 133, 155. ---- Hans, Wilhelm, 155. BELLINI, 185-6. BERLICHINGEN, _see_ Götz von. BERTHOLD, 182. BETLÄUTEN. 85. BOOKS, 73-75, 263, 264, 281-284. BORKHARDT, 218. BRANDENBURG, Markgraf of, 48, 61-7, 71, 86 _ff_, 105. BRATWURSTGLÖCKLEIN, 198. BRAUTTHÜRE, 154, 232, 245. BREWERY, 134, 153. BRIDGES, (Brücke)-- ---- Barfüsser, 167, 273, 274. ---- Fleisch, 163, 274. ---- Hallerthor, 115. ---- Schuld, 133. ---- Vestner Thor, 138. BRUNNEN (Wells)-- ---- Apollo, 156. ---- Gänsemännchen, 212, 273. ---- Grübel, 224. ---- Kuntsbrunnen, 273. ---- Labenwolf, 156. ---- Schöner, 37, 55, 270-3. ---- Tiefer, 121, 123, 168. ---- Tugend, 246, 273, 293. ---- Wasserspeier, 273. BURG, 3, 5-7, 13, 24, 30, 43, 115-129, 138, 159, 168. BURGAMTMANNSWOHNUNG, 120, 121. BURGGRAF, 6, 14, 15, 20, 24, 25, 29, 40-2, 47-9, 61, 86, 105, 119-121, 138, 143. BURGKMAIR, 128, 288. BURGOMEISTER, 24, 33, 47, 122. BURGSCHMIET, 59, 200, 248. C CAMERARIUS, Joachim, 91, 186. CARLYLE, Thomas, 14, 18, 25, 49, 55, 61. CARNIVAL, 38. CASTLE, _see_ Burg. CELTES, Conrad, 36, 74, 143, 144, 188, 230, 283. CHARLEMAGNE, 3, 13. CHARTERS, 11, 15, 19, 24, 26, 41, 47, 50, 122. CHRONICLE, H. Schedel, 145, 184, 283. CHRONICLERS, 2, 12, 21, 37, 42, 145, 228. CHURCHES AND CHAPELS, 55 _ff_, 225-266. ---- Augustiner, 184, 276. ---- S. Ægidien, with Eucharius, Wolfgang, and Tetzel Chapels, 5, 78, 87, 259, 260. ---- S. Catherine, 85, 222. ---- S. Elizabeth, 261. ---- Frauen, with Michael Chapel, 23, 37, 42, 182, 199, 202, 206, 236, 250, 254-9. ---- Heiliggeistspital, 30, 51, 262 ---- Holzschuher Chapel, 202. ---- S. Jakobs, 51, 182, 183, 245, 261. ---- S. John's Church, 183, 202. ---- S. John's Churchyard, 123, 196, 200, 202, 224, 233, 265, 266. ---- Kaiserkapelle, 13, 124-129. ---- S. Katharinen, 85, 222. ---- Karthäuser, 275. ---- S. Klara, 262. ---- Landauer, 264. ---- S. Lorenz, 22, 30, 56, 181-183, 199, 200, 203, 206, 213, 233, 239-254, 255. ---- Margaretenkapelle, 13, 124, 129. ---- S. Martha, 222, 261. ---- S. Martin, 13. ---- S. Moritz, 198, 262. ---- Otmarkapelle, 5. ---- S. Rochus, 212, 264, 265. ---- S. Sebald, with S. Peter's or Löffelholz Chapel, 3, 23, 30, 42, 51, 154, 181, 183, 198, 200, 202, 209, 213, 218, 225-239, 250. ---- Synagogue, 23, 36, 132, 262. ---- Walpurgiskapelle, 5, 120, 121. ---- Zum Heiligen Kreuz, 261. CLOCK, 132, 134, 208, 209, 256-8. CONVENT, _see_ Kloster. COUNCIL, _see_ Rat. COUNCILHOUSE, _see_ Rathaus. COURTSHIP, System of, 153. CRANACH, Lucas, 125, 157, 288. CRENELLES, 145-146. CRUSADES, 35, 52, 73. D DIET of Worms, 75, 82, 83. ---- of Spires, 82, 83. DITCH, Chap. v. DOUBLE CHAPEL, 13, 124-129. DURER, Albert, 56, 59, 72-77, 142, 155, 156, 175-198, 205, 237-239, 247, 254, 263, 266, 280, 283, 287, 290, 292. DURER'S House, _see_ Haus. DUTZENDTEICH, 168. E EBNER, 214, 263. EDUCATION, 78. EGER, Double Chapel, 13, 126. EGGS (Watches), 214, 257. EKKELEIN VON GAILINGEN, 43 _ff_, 119. EMPERORS, _see_ Kaiser. ENDTERLEIN, K., 213, 246. EPITAPHS, 181, 182, 248-254, 266, 285. ERASMUS, 74, 188. ERLANGEN, University, 92. ESSENWEIN, A. von, 156. F FAIR (Easter), 26. FAZUNI, 115. FISCHBACH, 138. FIVE-CORNERED TOWER, 5, 6, 43, 116, 119, 120, 160 _ff_. FORTIFICATIONS, 115-149. FOUNTAINS, _see_ Brunnen. FREIUNG, 120, 121. FRIEDENSMAL, 102. FÜRTH, 7, 53, 96, 98, 101, 105, 106. G GAILINGEN, Ekkelein von, 43 _ff_, 119. GÄNSEMÄNNCHEN, 212, 273. GATES, _see_ Thor. GERMAN MUSEUM, _see_ Museum. GLASS, 181, 212, 213, 239, 258, 277. GOLDEN BULL, 31, 39, 69, 256. GOLDMEYER, A., 5. GÖTZ VON BERLICHINGEN, 43, 61 _ff_, 67-72, 81. GROSS, Conrad, 29, 30. GRÜBEL, J. K., 224, 266. GUILDS, 31, 33, 151, 171 _ff_, 217-222. GUILLOTINE, 157, 169. GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS, 94-101, 263. GUTENBERG, 73, 283. H HALLER Altar piece, 236 _ff_, 250. HANGMAN, 161 _ff_. HAUS, 269 _ff_. ---- Durer, 116, 173, 175, 176, 193, 198, 269 ---- Ketzel, or Pilatus, 201. ---- Krafft, 199. ---- Maut, 133. HAUS, Nassauer, 22. ---- Palm, 269. ---- Peller, 90, 102, 269. ---- Pirkheimer, 188. ---- Sachs, 215. ---- Unschlitt, 134. ---- Waizenbräu, 134. ---- Zum Goldenen Schild, 39. ---- Zwölfbrüder, 132, 193, 212. HAUSER, Kaspar, 107-113. HEATHEN TOWER (Heidenthurm), _see under_ Thurm. HENKERSTEG, 133-135, 165. HENLEIN, P., 214. HERALDRY, 152, 248, 258, 260, 276, 290. HESSE, Eobanus, 188, 229. HEUSS, Georg, 209, 256. HIRSCHVOGEL, 125, 213, 239, 265, 278. HOARDS, 146. HOHENSTAUFEN, 12, 13, 18, 36, 125. HOHENZOLLERN, 14, 15, 61. HOLBEIN, 128, 239, 288. HOLZSCHUHER, 137, 181, 238. ---- E. K., 155. HOTELS, 295. HOUSES, 267-270, and _see under_ Haus. HUSS, John, 49. HUSSITES, 50, 137. HUTTEN, Ulrich von, 188, 263. I IMHOFF, 154, 181, 196, 203. ---- Altarpiece, 182, 249-251, 286. INDULGENCES, 39, 52, 74. J JAMNITZER, W., 213, 266. JEWS, 12, 23, 35-37, 46, 52-54, 164. JEWISH MACHSOR, 263. JUNGFRAU, _see_ Maiden. JUVENELL, P., 158, 213. K KAISER-- ---- Otho L, 3. ---- Conrad II., 5. ---- Henry III., 5, 7. ---- Frederick Barbarossa, 6, 13-15, 125. KAISER, Henry IV., 7-11. ---- Henry V., 11, 12. ---- Lothar, 12. ---- Conrad (Hohenstaufen), 13. ---- Frederick II., 15. ---- Henry VI., 16. ---- Conradin, 18. ---- Rudolph von Hapsburg, 20, 21. ---- Adolph von Nassau, 22. ---- Albert, 23, 24. ---- Henry VII., 24. ---- Ludwig von Baiern, 25-30 ---- Karl IV., 31 _ff_, 256. ---- Wenzel, 42-8, 275. ---- Ruprecht, 47. ---- Sigismund, 48-50, 122. ---- Frederick III., 51, 150. ---- Maximilian I., 53, 60-73, 188, 193. ---- Charles V., 75-89, 195. ---- Maximilian II., 90. ---- Ferdinand II., 94. ---- Francis, 106. KAISERSTALLUNG, 6, 116. KATZHEIMER, 2, 3, 239. KERN, Leonhard, 156. KETZEL, Georg, 30, 262. ---- Martin, 201. KIRNBERGER, 213. KLOSTER, 76, 77. ---- St. Ægidius, 13, 78, 259, 263. ---- Augustinen, 74, 262. ---- Dominican, 263. ---- Franciscan (Barfüsser), 262, 264. ---- Karthäuser, 136, 258, 275. ---- Katherinen, 136, 231. ---- Klara, 77, 136. ---- Landauer, 132, 193, 212, 264. KOBERGER, A., 59, 74, 177, 184, 283. KRAFFT, Adam, 56, 116, 128, 172, 175, 199-205, 207, 208, 233, 237, 247, 258, 260, 262, 267. KUHN, 69, 152. KULMBACH, Haus von, 128, 198, 213, 238, 239, 254, 288. KUNIGUNDE, Empress, 124. L LABENWOLF, Pankraz, 156, 212, 273. LANDAUER, Matthäus, 193. LANDGRABEN, 148. LANDWEHR, 147. LEAGUES, of Towns, etc., 19, 29, 39, 46, 71, 82, 84, 86-88, 93. LEGENDS, 3, 21, 22, 25, 30, 42, 43 _ff_, 102, 124, 127, 203, 226-228, 232, 243, 245, 264. LEIHAUS, 53. LINDENAST, Sebastian, 199, 208, 256. LOCH, 158. LÖFFELHOLZ, Altarpiece, 182, 236. ---- Chapel, 230, 235, 236. LONGFELLOW, 1, 2, 171, 215, 217, 247. LUGINSLAND, 6, 41, 116. LUTHER, 74-85, 188, 263. M MACCHIAVELLI, 136. MACHICOULIS TURRETS, 145. MACHSOR, 263. MADONNA, The Nuremberg, 206, 261, 278 _ff_. MAIDEN, The Nuremberg, 116, 168-170. ---- Morton's, 157, 169. MANTENGNA, 185. MARKET PLACES-- ---- Hauptmarkt, 37, 55, 215, 254, 270. ---- Obstmarkt, 37, 273. ---- Sau- or Trödel-markt, 134. ---- Gänsemarkt, 212. ---- Weinmarkt, 130. MARKGRAFS of Brandenburg, 48, 50, 53, 61-7, 71, 86 _ff_, 105. MART, 7, 26. MEISSEN, Heinrich von, 217. MEISTERSINGERS, 216, 222. MELANCHTHON, 59, 73, 78, 91, 188, 263. MENDEL, 275. MINNESINGERS, 216-220. MOAT, Chap. v. MONASTERY, _see_ Kloster. MONUMENTS-- ---- Behaim, 59. ---- Durer, 175. ---- Grübel, 224. ---- Kunstbrunnen, 273. ---- Melanchthon, 59. ---- Sachs, 215. ---- Wasserspeier, 273. ---- Motto, 157, 274. MOUNT OF OLIVES, 116. MÜHLDORF, Battle of, 25. MULLER, Johannes (Regiomontanus), 59, 74, 257, 263, 283. MUSEUMS-- ---- Bavarian Industrial, 263, 289 ---- Five-Cornered Tower, _see_ F ---- German, 38, 45, 73, 136, 183, 184, 188, 194, 198, 200, 214, 218, 231, 234, 249, 275-288. MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS, 218, 288. N NASSAUERHAUS, 22. NEUMARKT, K: von, 231. NUREMBERG, charm of, 1; origin of, 2 _ff_; name, 3; Altnürnberg, 5; mixture of races at, 7; mart established at, 7; siege of, 11; charter, 11; burning of, 12; second siege, 12; Hohenstaufen, 13; Hohenzollern, 14; Reichstag and charter, 15; catastrophe at a royal wedding, 16; lawlessness, 17; third siege, 19; joins league, 19; Rudolf von Hapsburg at, 21; massacre of Jews, 23; charter, 24; supports Ludwig, 25; revolution, 31; council, 33, 150 _ff_; persecution of Jews, 35; joins Swabian League, 39; Golden Bull issued from, 39; quarrels with the Burggraff, 40; Heidelberg union, 46; supports Ruprecht, 47; loans exacted by Sigismund, 48; Hussites, 49; Frederick III. at, 51; religious feeling and expulsion of Jews, 52-54; "Capital of German art" under Maximilian, 55 _ff_; quarrels with the Burggraff, 61; Götz von Berlichingen, 62, 67-72; War of Bavarian Succession, 66; Renaissance, 73; Luther and the Reformation at, 74 _ff_; peasants' war, 78; school founded at, 78; war with Elector Albert, 86; founds University of Altdorf, 91; Catholic reaction, 85, 93 _ff_; Wallenstein and Gustavus Adolphus, 94 _ff_; celebrates treaty of Westphalia, 102; decline of, 103-106; Kaspar Hauser, 106-113; general view and topography of, 114; castle, walls and fortification, 115-130; tortures, 159-170; art and artists, 171-214; Meistersingers of, 215-224; churches of, 225-266; arms, 290 _ff_. NUREMBERG Chronicle, 184. ---- Carnival, 38. ---- Eggs, 214, 257. ---- Grosse Uhr, 257. ---- Konkordienbuch, 91. ---- Lebkuchen, 214. ---- Madonna, 206, 261, 278 _ff_. ---- Maiden, 116, 168-170. NUREMBERG, School of Painting, 181-185, 248-254, 258. ---- Spruchsprecher, 223. ---- Trichter, or Funnel, 218, 270. O OLIVES, Mount of, 116. OSIANDER, 77, 83, 86, 207. P PAINTERS and Painting, 55-57, 125, 128, 156-158, 181-185, 195, 248-254, 258, 278, 285-289. PALM, 269, 284. PANIERSBERG, 209. PARSONAGE WINDOW, 42. PASSAGES, 123, 167-169. PATRICIANS, 151-153. PAUMGÄRTNER, H., 78, 263. PEGNITZ, 2, 75, 115, 131-134, 143, 188, 191, 273, 274. PELLER Altarpiece, 198. PELLERHOF, 90, 102. PENCZ (Georg), 155, 157, 195, 198, 288. PERGENSTORFER Relief, 242, 258. PERINGSDÖRFFER Altarpiece, 184, 210, 254, 286, 287. PFINZING, M., 42, 72, 283. PICCOLOMINI, Octavio, 102. PIRKHEIMER, Charitas, 77. ---- Willibald, 60, 72, 74, 75, 77, 81, 186, 188, 193, 196, 198, 238, 266, 269. PIX (Krafft's), 200, 203-205, 247. PLATZ, Ægidien, 59, 87, 90, 259, 264, 269. ---- Albrecht Dürer, 168, 175. ---- Dötschmanns, 23, 36. ---- Lorenzer, 133. ---- Max, 37, 273. PLATZ, Spital, 130, 132, 215, 262. ---- Theresien, 59, 130. ---- Thiergärtnerthor, 201. ---- Unschlitt, 134, 135. ---- Webers, 132. PLEYDENWURF, Hans, 183, 286. POETS, 224. POPE, Gregory, II. ---- Leo X., 74, 82. PRINTING, 73-75, 263, 264, 281-284. PROTESTANTS, 83 _ff_. R RAT (Council), 8, 20, 23, 31-33, 46, 75-87, 95, 104, 150 _ff_, 171, 172, 193, 195, 197, 212, 222, 263, 291. RATHAUS, 60, 69, 84, 91, 102, 123, 152, 154, 182, 195, 222, 293. REFORMATION, 73 _ff_, 184, 191. REGIOMONTANUS, _see_ Muller. REICHSTAG, 15, 20, 60, 75, 83-85. REMBRANDT, 288. RENAISSANCE, 73. RESTAURANTS, 22, 148, 198. ROBBER Knights, 19, 28, 43, 47, 49, 68-72. ROSENAU, 149. ROSENKRANZTAFEL, 234, 280. ROTERMUNDT, 207, 237, 238, 248. ROTHENBURG, 1, 23, 29, 31, 48, 76, 81, 96. S SACHS, Hans, 76, 89, 114, 116, 150, 198, 215-225, 263, 266, 270, 290. SAKRAMENTSHÄUSLEIN, 203-205, 247. SANDRART, J. Von, 158. SCHATZBEHALTER, 184, 283. SCHÄUFFELEIN, Hans, 125, 198, 288. SCHAUTTHÜRE, 200, 233, 239. SCHEDEL, Hartmann, Chronicle, 145, 184, 234, 283. SCHEMBARTLÄUFER, 38. SCHEURL, Dr., 60, 74, 153. SCHILLER, 97. SCHONGAUER, M., 182, 185, 187, 285, 287. SCHONHOFER, 254, 270. SCHOOL, 78, 132, 134. SCHREYER Tomb, 202, 233. SCHÜTT Island, 132, 223. SCHWEIGGER, Georg, 102, 266. SCHWEPPERMANN, 25. SEALS, 291. SEBALD, S., 8, 51, 225-230. SEBALDUSGRAB, 208-212, 229, 233. SECRET Passages, 123, 167-169. ---- Tribunal, 167-168. SENSENSCHMIDT, Johann, 73, 283. SPENGLER, Lazarus, 74, 75, 78, 263, 266. SPIRES, Diet of, 82, 83. SPRINGLEN, 213, 247. STATIONS (Krafft's), 200-202. STOSS, Veit, 72, 128, 175, 206-208, 237, 238, 247, 248, 258, 260-262, 265, 266, 280. STOVES, 125, 158, 277. STREETS (Strasse)-- ---- Albrecht Dürer, 130, 135, 269. ---- Am Oelberg, 116. ---- Berg, 129. ---- Breitegasse, 134. ---- Burg, 84, 116, 129, 168, 177, 193. ---- Burgschmiets, 200, 265. ---- Carolinen, 22. ---- Dielingasse, 69. ---- Färbergasse, 133. ---- Frauengässlein, 133. ---- Fürther, 149. ---- Hans Sachs, 130, 215. ---- Heugässchen, 132. ---- Hirschel, 267. ---- Irrergasse, 135. ---- Karl, 135. ---- Königs, 133, 261, 289. ---- Lammsgasse, 135. ---- Ludwig, 134. ---- Neue, 130, 132. ---- Nonnen, 133. ---- Obere Schmiedgasse, 116. ---- Panier, 168. ---- Peter Vischer, 137. ---- Rathaus, 155. ---- Rothenburger, 265. ---- Schildgasse, 39, 267. ---- Schmied, 7. ---- Söldner, 7. ---- Tetzel, 130, 267. ---- Theater, 133. ---- Theresien, 199. ---- Tucher, 130. ---- Waisen, 134. ---- Weintraubengässlein, 135. ---- Winkler, 199, 202, 269. ---- Wolfs, 131. ---- Wunderburg, 202. ---- Zeilen, 132. STRIGEL, 128. STROMER, P., 182, 248. ---- Ulman, 37, 62. SWEDISH CAMP, 97. SYLVIUS, Æneas, 29. SYNAGOGUE, 23, 36, 132, 262. T THEUERDANK, 42, 72. 283. THOR, Frauen, 62, 65, 114, 115, 133, 138, 143, 146, 167. ---- Haller, 115, 147. ---- Hallerthürlein, 141. ---- Himmels, 116, 121. ---- Laufer, 138, 142, 143. ---- Maler, 130, 132. ---- Marien, 137. ---- Max, 131, 132, 137. ---- Morhen, 115, 137. ---- Neu, 107, 115, 138, 147. ---- Spittler, 51, 62, 96, 115, 134, 138, 144. ---- Stadt, 47. ---- Stern, 137, 138. ---- Thiergärtner, 116, 143, 175. ---- Vestner, 119, 138. ---- Walch, 146. ---- Wühderthürlein, 141. THURM (Tower), Frauen, 141. ---- Frosch, 131, 132. ---- Fünfeckiger (Five-Cornered), 5, 6, 43, 116, 119, 120, 160 _ff_. ---- Heiden (Heathen), 3, 4, 124. ---- Laufer, 141. ---- Lauferschlag, 81, 132. ---- Luginsland, 6, 41, 116. ---- Romer, 130. ---- Schlayer, 143. ---- Schuld, 133. ---- Spittel, 141. ---- Thiergärtner, 135, 168, 292. ---- Vestner, 121, 122. ---- Wasser, 135. ---- Weiss (White), 13, 81, 131, 133, 134. TILLY, 95, 96. TORTURE, 69, 71, 116, 153, 158-170. TOURNEYS, 60, 69, 152. TOWER, _see_ Thurm. ---- Hangman's, _see_ Henkersteg. TOWERS, 145-147. TUCHER, 134, 137, 153, 154, 181, 209, 248. TUCHER Altarpiece, 182, 258. ---- Lamp, etc., 237, 238. ---- Window, 213, 239, 247. U UNGER, Georg, 141, 157. V VANDYCK, 259. VEHMEGERICHT, 167, 168. VENICE, 1, 20, 103, 159, 185, 193. VISCHER, Peter, etc., 56, 72, 156, 175, 199, 208-212, 233, 248, 259, 265, 281. VOGELWEIDE, W. von der, 217. VOLKAMER, 69, 137, 237. ---- Altar, 250. ---- Window, 213, 247. W WAAGE, 53, 133, 199. WAGNER, 171, 215, 219-221. WALCH, _see_ Barbari. WALLENSTEIN, 92, 94, 97-101. WALLENSTEIN'S Camp, 98. WALLS, 130 _ff_. WATCHES, 214, 257. WELLS, _see_ Brunnen. WEYER, Gabriel, 157. WINDOWS, 42, 212, 213, 239, 246, 247. WITTELSBACH, Family of, 13, 25, 32, 33 WOLFF, Jakob, 90. ---- the younger, 91, 147. WOLGEMUT, M., 56, 128, 181-5, 210, 238, 254, 278, 280, 285-7. WORMS, Diet Of, 75, 82, 83. WURZELBAUER, 273. Z ZWINGER, 84, 115, 142, 147, 149, 168. ZWINGLE, 81. PRINTED BY TURNBULL AND SPEARS, EDINBURGH FOOTNOTES: [1] Kustos an der Stadtbibliothek und am städtischen Archiv in Nürnberg [2] Note that the Prussian Imperial House in 1866 stipulated for the possession of the Kaiserburg, as it was called later, on the ground that it was once the residence of their ancestors. [3] See Ch. V. [4] "Hist. Frederick the Great," vol. i., bk. ii., ch. v. [5] Baring Gould, _Germany_. [6] "This Karl IV. is the Kaiser who discovered the Well of Karlsbad known to tourists of this day: and made the Golden Bull, which I forbid all Englishmen to take for an agricultural prize animal, the thing being far other, as is known to several.--_Carlyle._ [7] The new Council was to consist of eight artisans and thirty-four patricians. The artisans, however, only attended on special occasions. They had no real power. The Guilds were suppressed, and even such Unions as had existed before the Revolution were put under the control of the Council, who kept in their own hands the decision of even the smallest matters, which were wont to be decided in other towns by the Guilds. Members of the Council had to be fathers of families. Of the thirty-four patrician members twenty-six were eligible for the office of Burgomeister. Two by two, one old and the other young, they held office by turn for four weeks. One of the duties of the younger was to be present at the function of torturing prisoners. The elder had to perform the office of asking the opinion of the house. From the thirteen older men seven were chosen as a secret committee. From this committee three were chosen, and from this triumvirate two were chosen, the chief of whom was the first person in the town. There was another, or Great, Council which varied in numbers, and was elected by the smaller Council from the patrician and leading and even from the lower houses. Members were elected for life, and had no powers of importance. They were consulted on questions of war, and when the smaller Council was elected. Then they assembled in the Rathaus Hall, and chose two out of the old Committee of seven. The smaller Council (with the eight artisans) then nominated three out of the eight who made up the original thirty-four. These five nominees then chose the small Council for the ensuing year. None of these electors might elect two years running, and no two might be of the same family. Those who were not re-elected to the Council became ordinary citizens again. Re-election was not usual. [8] Ulman Stromer, the oldest of the Nuremberg chroniclers, died on April 1407. He was the first man to set up a paper mill (1390, at the entrance of the Pegnitz into the town, the first of the kind in Germany). [9] Rooms 14 and 15. [10] See pp. 6 and 116. [11] Facing the north side of St. Sebalduskirche. [12] In the Germanische Museum there is a very interesting and instructive collection of arms and weapons of all sorts. Rooms 49-52 and 80 and 81. Note that the rich towns were able to afford the latest and best artillery and guns, whilst the knights had to be content with old-fashioned arms as a rule. [13] From Carlyle. [14] See Theodor Körner's well-known play on this subject. [15] Wurtel, _Histor. Nachrichten von der Judengemeinde der Reichstadt Nürnberg_. [16] See pp. 37 and 270. [17] See, for instance, the pictures in St. Lorenzkirche. [18] Janssen. [19] Carlyle. [20] Berthold Volkamer, who took part in it, had the great hall in his house in the Dielingasse decorated with a representation of this tournament painted on linen. The Council, in 1624, had the life-size stucco-relief on the ceiling of the upper corridor of the Rathaus, executed by Heinrich and Hans Kuhn, based on this. [21] Gardiner, "Thirty Years War." [22] "The Story of Kaspar Hauser." Macmillan, 1893. [23] Immediately after passing the arch labelled Vestnerthor, turn to the left. The open space of the plateau called the Freiung commands a very fine view of the city. [24] It was by the following charter of 1422 that King Sigmund gave the Reichsburg over to the Council:-- "We hereby order and command the Burgomaster, Council, and citizens, as they are true and faithful subjects of us and of the Empire, that now and henceforth they shall build and fortify with gates, doors, walls, moats, and other buildings, this same fortress of us and the Empire, with its accessories within and without, and look after them without let or hindrance. Further, it is our will and pleasure as King of Rome that this same fortress of us and of the Empire, shall in no way be separated or divided from the town of Nuremberg. And when we ourselves or our successors are not residing in person at N., no one else shall inhabit the said castle, and we hereby decree that no one else shall command it save only the Council of the town of N., who shall keep it faithfully for our successors and the Empire, as the Emperor Charles our father of holy memory and likewise King Ruprecht of good memory wrote and ordered to our fore-fathers in the kingdom." [25] The original entrance to these passages cannot be determined now as the principal tower which might have been the last place of refuge and the extremest point of defence no longer exists. To-day the entrance is to be found in the Tower at the most westerly corner of the Castle grounds. We shall come to the subject of the subterranean passages in the next chapter. [26] The skeletons of (probably) two twelfth-century Burggrafs were discovered here in the course of the recent excavations. We know also that a few members, male and female, of Patrician families were buried here in the sixteenth century. [27] That at Eger is octagonal. [28] We shall do well enough if we work down Winklerstrasse, and then strike across (_l_) the Haupt Markt, pass through Hans Sachs Gasse, across the Spital Platz, up the Neue Gasse, crossing Tucher Strasse and the top of Theresien Platz. After which, short turns first to the left and then to the right bring us into Tetzel Gasse. [29] The Max-, Mohren-, Stern-, and Marien-gates are all quite modern. [30] See "Military Architecture," M. Viollet-Le-Duc. [31] A bit of this crenelation may be seen to the east of the Walch Thor. [32] The Brautthüre of St. Sebald's will occur to the reader in this connection. [33] 1532. After a drawing by Jacopo de' Barbari. [34] Ring the bell for the Hausmeister who lives to the right of the door of the Great Hall. [35] Note, pp. 69, 152. [36] The fee for showing the dungeons and the secret passages is a matter for arrangement before starting. [37] _Cf._ Arabian Nights. _Twenty-Ninth Night._ [38] See Sir R. Burton's note on the Thirty-First Night, _Arabian Nights_, 1. 293. [39] The Iron Maiden is shown now in the Five-Cornered Tower. This is not, of course, its original position. Nor is it profitable to inquire how far the instruments shown are the actual original ones; for the collection of Torture Instruments, Rings, Pictures, Books, etc.; which used to be shown at Nuremberg, are now the property of the Earl of Shrewsbury. [40] _Cf._ Plautus, _Captivi_, 888. Boius est, Boiam terit. [41] It is interesting to note that most of the Nuremberg artists were essentially good men who drew their inspiration from religion--a fact that may afford food for reflection to those who nowadays declare so loudly that art has nothing to do with morals, that they incline to fall into the opposite error and suppose that it has everything to do with immorality. [42] "It appears to have been the ancient practice of those masters, who furnished designs for the wood-engravers to work from, carefully to avoid all cross-hatchings, which, it is probable, were considered as beyond the power of the Xylographist to represent. Wolgemut perceived that, though difficult, this was not impossible; and in the cuts of the Nuremberg Chronicle, the execution of which, besides furnishing the designs, he doubtless superintended, a successful attempt was first made to imitate the bold hatchings of a pen-drawing, crossing each other, as occasion prompted the designer, in various directions. To him belongs the praise of having been the first who duly appreciated the powers of this art, and it is more than probable that he proved with his own hand, to the subordinate artists employed under him, the practicability of that style of workmanship which he acquired."--Ottley, "History of Engraving." It should, however, be added that cross-hatching appears in Reuwick's illustrations to Breydenbach's "Pilgrimage" (1486). [43] See p. 72. [44] The originals of those which have been replaced are in the German Museum. [45] Some smaller bronze pieces by or attributed to him will be found in the German Museum. These and his other works and those of his sons are fully discussed in my monograph "Peter Vischer." [46] For the life and miracles of St. Sebald see Ch. IX. [47] Witz = skill in art. [48] Running east from the south-east corner of the Hauptmarkt. The house was called "Zum güldenen Bären" later. [49] P. 76. [50] Museum, room 33. [51] "Schriften und Dichtungen," vol. iv. p., 349 ff. [52] Cf. Acta St. Sebaldi, ab auctore incerto incertæ ætatis. [53] See the beautiful relief on the Sebaldusgrab (p. 210). [54] The feast of St. Sebald was celebrated August 19th. The following verses from the mass sung in the Cathedral on that day in honour of the Saint may be of interest. Hic de Francis genitus Propinquos postergat, Quamvis natus inclytus, Ne in nefas vergat. Merito Vincentiam Eremum elegit, Vincat ut malitiam Se Deo subegit. Paucos contubernio Eremo assumit, Vivit soli Domino Abs quo nil præsumit. Visitat miraculis Hunc Deus frequenter Notum fecit patulis Factis pertinenter. Famem patientibus Fert refectionem, Sitim sustinentibus Miram potionem. Aquam vertit in vinum Diu duraturum Panem opus alivinum Præstat opportunum. Mortuus deducitur Rudibus jumentis Nurnberg perducitur Divinis fomentis. Stant in loco humili Nec abinde cedant, Donec loci populi Locum sacrum edunt. Transferri se coeperat, Nil per hoc secutum, A Scotis redierat Corpus revolutum. Ad locum divinitus Primum vehebatur, Factum illud coelitus Cunctis propalatur. Illudentis facies In plaga notatur Mulieris species Passa commutatur. Or as Conrad Celtes has it in his hymn to the saint:-- Cumque jam longo fueras labore Fessus, et sedes meritus beatas Te senem nostras Deus impetrabat Linquere terras, Spiritus sanctos ubi liquit artus, Mox boves corpus tulerant agrestes Qua tuas sanctas modo personamus, Carmine laudes. Ergo jam coelo merito locatus Hanc velis urbem, mediis arenis Conditam, sanctis precibus juvare Sedulus orans. etc. [55] They and much of the rest of the church are now in course of restoration. [56] The Kirchner lives at No. 6 Burgstrasse. [57] These will be shown you if you ask for them. [58] See pp. 203-5. There is also a relief by Adam Krafft near the south-east door. [59] See p. 207. [60] Geschichte von Deutschen Malerei. [61] The clockworks at Prague, Strasburg and Wells tell the same tale. [62] Recently renovated. [63] The Kirchner (L. Burkman) lives in the far corner of the Gymnasium Hof, right of the church, in the house with a double flight of steps in front of it. [64] Durer's grave, No. 649 (see p. 196). W. Pirkheimer, 1414; Hans Sachs, 503; Veit Stoss, 268; Lazarus Spengler, 1320; Wenzel Jamnitzer, 664; Konrad Grübel, 200. [65] The best of these epitaphia, or grave-plates, are by Georg Schweigger, _e.g._ No. 1484. [66] All things have their origin and increase, but lo! the bull you see never was a calf. [67] I am inclined now to agree with those who attribute it to Peter Vischer's son and namesake. See my monograph on Peter Vischer, or Dr Seeger's P. Vischer der Jungere. [68] To view a further collection apply to the Director. [69] See pp. 59, 74. [70] He occasionally used Koberger's type. "The Poggius of 1475 by Creussner and the Boethius of 1473 by Koberger are in the same type. Most of the early Nuremberg types are readily distinguished by the capital N, in which the cross stroke slants the wrong way."--Early Printed Books. E. Gordon Duff. [71] See pp. 42, 72. * * * * * Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: Sakramentshaüslein=> Sakramentshäuslein {pg xii} Haupt Thor=> Hauptthor {pg xii} Schlusselfelderische, Schlusselfelder=> Schlüsselfelderische, Schlüsselfelder {pg 22} Goethe's _Wilhelm Tell_=> Schiller's _Wilhelm Tell_ {pg 24} Vasco di Gama=> Vasco da Gama {pg 59} called _Betlaüten_=> called _Betläuten_ {pg 85} Waizenbraühaus=> Waizenbräuhaus {pg 134} Tannhaüser=> Tannhäuser {pg 217} Karthaüsergasse=> Karthäusergasse {pg 275} BETLAÜTEN. 85.=> BETLÄUTEN. 85. {pg 297} BRATWURSTGLÖCKLSIN, 198.=> BRATWURSTGLÖCKLEIN, 198. {pg 297} Karthaüser, 136, 258, 275.=> Karthäuser, 136, 258, 275. {pg 299} Waizenbraü, 134.=> Waizenbräu, 134. {pg 303} St gidius=> St. Ægidius {pg 299} Grubel, 224.=> Grübel, 224. {pg 300} Heidleberg union, 46;=> Heidelberg union, 46; {pg 300}